The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  Diane did a few pogos, and punched the air a few times to the insistent and snarling beat. There was a tap on her shoulder and she turned around to find Tim Reilly’s solemn face regarding her. “Hey, Joanna Rotten. Maybe you can help me research, huh? We don’t need your old man to figure this one out.” He offered her a copy of Missing Time by Budd Hopkins.

  She took the paperback, but didn’t open it, still bouncing to the music. She leaned a kiss onto his mouth, and then stepped away, teasingly. “I know. I guess it’s just the principle of the thing.”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s like a surgeon refusing to take out his daughter’s appendix!” said Tim, nodding with understanding.

  Diane looked at the garish cover of the book and grimaced. “No actually it’s more like an M.D. refusing to do chiropractics, but you’ve got the right idea.”

  “The rotten, selfish bastard!” said Tim, smiling.

  “The cowardly, self-righteous asshole!” cried out Diane, punching the air. “Hey, boyfriend. Wanna slam-dance?”

  “I can think of a more appealing body contact,” Tim said, turning his Irish good looks back to his desk of research. “Seriously, Di. We’ve got to wade through this ourselves. Your father won’t help us, the people I’ve called won’t help us—and the authorities I’ve talked to look at me like I’ve just stepped off a UFO! No, maybe once we’ve read all this documentation, and taken that hypnosis session I set up with that shrink later in the week, we’ll be able to figure out what happened to us.”

  “You talked to that Joe Camden guy, the UFO specialist?”

  “Jake Camden. And he’s not returning the calls. I’ve left a bunch of messages for him at his paper, and got a killer phone bill for my trouble. Fuck him. I think we can probably get more reputable help than a reporter from the National Intruder.”

  “I’ll say. Boy, though. My father just about shit when I mentioned his name.”

  “I’ll bet he did. After that grade-Z film came out last year. Jeez. Close Encounters of the Sleazy Kind. But is he sure that it was Camden who created that character?”

  “Well, no, but he’s just assuming ... Still, it wasn’t close enough for a libel suit. Daddy’s just going to strangle the guy if they should ever meet.”

  A year or two before, a film entitled UFO Investigator had been released by a Roger Corman-like low-budget film company. It had been supposedly based on The National Intruder Books of UFOs, and the credits had listed Jacob Camden as special consultant. In this film—remarkable for its soft-core depiction of weird sex between humans and alien beings from flying saucers—a UFO debunker named Titus Wound was featured prominently, shown as a fool of the first water. The sort of character who refuses to believe there’s a monster on the space ship, and gets his brains sucked out in the second reel. The character had clearly been based on Dr. Everett Scarborough—particularly on his flamboyant stage and TV presence—and Daddy had been furious that his serious scientific work had been degraded so. Later, he allowed that the publicity hadn’t hurt at the bookstore, but still, his pride had been tweaked. He’d always been irked by Jake Camden’s mere mention of him in his trashy rag. But now, he really wouldn’t mind if Camden was found wearing iron underwear on the wrong side of a lake.

  “Well, the guy’s had experience, and if nothing else, maybe he can put us into touch with someone who can really help us.”

  “What about this guy?” Diane tapped the cover of the book under the author’s name.

  “I called, but there’s such a backlog, we won’t be able to talk to anyone associated with his group for a while. But I must say, one of Hopkins’s associates did recommend a reputable

  psychologist in Kansas City, and that’s where we’re going for hypnotic therapy! So we haven’t exactly struck out.”

  Diane tossed the paperback back on the stack, went over to the bed in the middle of the room and flopped down, covering her blonde head in an almost protective fashion. “No, no, I guess not.”

  “Hey, babe,” said Tim softly, sitting by her and stroking her back. “We just have to have patience.”

  “I know, Tim,” she said, moodily. “I just want to know what happened to us. These books—I just know there’s nothing there that’s comparable to our experience. I know...” She looked off dreamily at the mandala poster. “I know that something truly wonderful and unique happened to us!”

  Tim scratched his stubbly face. “Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s kinda exciting. All the alien-abduction stuff in that lot—it’s either horror-story material or it’s clearly the work of kooks and mental cases. We’re not crazy, Diane. We’re a couple of the saner people I know.” He smiled and touched her pert nose. “Well, I am, anyway.”

  “Turkey.”

  He went over to the record player and turned down the music a bit. “Right. That’s the weird thing about this whole business. We both see a UFO, we both have a missing-time experience—and yet, we both feel pretty good about it. I know with your Dad and everything, you’re pretty tied up inside ... But shit, I feel like I’ve had a weekend of primo drugs, rolfing and immersion tanks, topped off with some shiatsu massage for good measure. I feel like I had some kind of Maslovian peak-experience that night—but I don’t recall it, I’m just feeling the afterglow of a massive charge of cosmic consciousness.” His eyes fairly glowed with enthusiasm as he turned back to look at her. “And I’d like to do it again!”

  Diane said nothing. She felt much the same way, but there was more of the sour feeling now. She’d thought about this all day yesterday, and she knew exactly what the cause of her problem was. She wanted to share this with her father; she wanted him to join her in this search. Deep inside, she felt that Everett Scarborough revealed a deep psychological need in his ranting on this whole business. Somehow, he desired to touch something deep and meaningful and cosmic in the universe, yet he hid this yearning with his polemics of logic, his stone-hearted slavery to science. He was a tight-ass because he was afraid to let go, afraid to surrender himself to an existence of love and joy, for fear of being hurt again so bitterly. Diane wanted somehow to reach him. And in his rejection of her plea for help, she knew that he wasn’t merely rejecting her—he was rejecting something potentially wonderful and spiritual in the empty shell of his hang-ups.

  Tim went back to her. “Hey! Don’t you feel the same way, Diane? You were pretty excited just after it happened!”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess,” she said, not looking at him. “And I’m going to move heaven and earth to find out what happened to us, Tim. I just have to get through my disappointment with Daddy.”

  Tim shook his head. “Sounds to me like you just set yourself up, Diane. Daddy shoots you down, and damn if you don’t just dust yourself off, and sit right back in the shooting gallery. Hurt me, Dad, you cry. If you don’t love me, at least show me some kind of feeling, even if it’s pain! God, what a primo dunderhead old Doc Scarborough is!”

  Diane shot off the bed, furious. “Don’t you dare call him that, Tim. Everett Scarborough is a great man! He just has a few ... well, emotional problems sometimes!”

  “Yeah. Like a hole where there should be a heart!”

  She grabbed a copper vase that held a dead flower and threw it, splashing smelly water allover everything. “Shut up! Shut up, Tim! My father loves me!” Tears were leaking down her cheeks and her voice started cracking. “He loves me very much.”

  “Hey! I’m just trying to humor your mood, Diane! Don’t get violent, huh? I love a feisty lady, but really!”

  Diane collapsed on the bed, sobbing. It was all breaking out now, all of her disappointment she’d felt this weekend, linked with the heartache she’d known as a child. She didn’t know how to hold it in anymore, so she just let it out into one of Tim’s prized down-filled pillows. It just poured out in sobs and tears and hiccups.

  “Hey!” Tim said, leaning over, touching her, comforting her. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m kinda a baboon sometimes too, Di. Sorry to step on a tender toe.”
/>   She turned over and regarded him. He was a handsome guy, no question—that showed easily through the scraggly haircut, old jeans, and tie-dyed neo-sixties look. The way he dressed was a big problem with her father, who had encouraged her early pretty look. Daddy always dressed tastefully and neatly. The sixties revolution had affected him only in his anger—his politics were always liberal, but Ivy League look-down-your-nose liberal. Tim’s wild ideas were hard enough to take—the knowledge that more than just the ideas were getting into his daughter doubtless was what swayed him to his very negative opinion of the young man. But of course Dad wouldn’t be able to see what she saw: namely, the qualities in Timothy Reilly that were far beyond neatness and taste in clothes, or his radical ideas on politics, religion, philosophy, and drugs.

  And to top it all off, he was as intelligent as she was—if not more so.

  “I guess he deserves it sometimes,” she said softly. “The way he’s treated you, the way he acts.”

  “Yeah, but he’s your old man. You love him and he’s earned your love. He’s a good guy. Salt of the earth and all that, Di. I just get rocked off at the way he treats you sometimes, I guess. But maybe I can understand that too.” He touched her fine long hair, then traced a tingle along the line of her jaw. “You’re a provocative individual.” He tilted her chin up and touched his lips to her, a whisper of the erotic in the momentary touch. A breath of yesterday’s Old Spice mixed with marijuana and Pepsodent lingered from the kiss.

  “I am, am I?” She laughed, reached down, and cupped the basket of his jeans. “What makes you think that?”

  She could feel the electricity snap through him, arching up into a flash in his eyes. Almost instantly, his crotch lost any softness, and the muscles in his face tensed. “Experience,” he rasped.

  She chuckled throatily, teased the tight denim bulge a moment with her fingertips and then moved away from him, getting up and sitting on the edge of the bed. “You know, it’s too bad I have this awful headache. I’m feeling terribly randy.”

  “Um—can I get you an aspirin?” he said. He moved behind her and kissed the nape of her neck. The stubble of his beard sent chills down her spine.

  “No. Perhaps some other kind of oral medication.”

  “Can you be more specific?” He traced the outline of her side with the fingers of his left hand.

  “Gee—the word escapes me. It was just on the tip of your tongue!”

  He laughed. “Say no more, madam. We have a fine selection of cunnilingus in today. We have a wonderful slab of hard cold tongue, a gourmet’s delight in hot spicy tongue, and the merest slice of tender, juicy soft tongue. What is your pleasure?” He reached around and put his hand on her left breast.

  “Oh ... wrap it all up and put it in the freezer for later. I think I need the main course ... now!”

  “Ah, but of course, madam. The man-sized Kansas City prime. Aha! I believe it has just been cut and dressed. Shall I unwrap it for your inspection?”

  “Sure. And then you know just where you can put it.” Chuckling, he sprang from the bed, and kicked off his Keds.

  “We certainly can butcher the fine art of seduction, can’t we, Diane?” he said, struggling with his jeans.

  She propped herself up on the pillows and slid her tongue across her lips, giving him her half-closed bedroom-eyes look in reply. He moaned a bit, and managed to get his trousers off. In a moment, he was on her, fumbling with her blouse, kissing her lips, her neck, and the tops of her breasts.

  In a short time, he had her out of her red-striped top (she hadn’t put on a bra today, so there was no awkwardness about unhooking and pulling it over her head). Her bright, firm breasts were soon under his hands and his mouth, being licked and kissed and otherwise exquisitely physically adored. Tim had this rare and exciting quality of being wanton, yet at the same time delicate. Other men might have mauled her breasts being so mannish and rough, and yet somehow Tim’s touch hovered at just the right spot between the barbaric and the erotic. Sometimes, when he was in this kind of mood, she felt like she was being raped by the most exciting lover in the world, totally out of control and yet enjoying it.

  As he sucked on her nipples, his left hand busied itself with the button and fly of her jeans. Soon, she was only wearing her black silk panties. Tim grunted with pleasure at their touch. He’d given them to her—his sensibilities were such that he adored silk, and while his wardrobe consisted mostly of denim and cotton, he made sure that his girlfriend had a full complement of sexy teddies, garters, chemises, camisoles, and such. No time for extra sauce now—he’d settle for his staple. His breaths coming quicker now, he played connect-a-dot between her breasts and her crotch with wet, lingering, exciting kisses. She watched this march of the lips down her narrow stomach, his head bobbing and weaving between her erect nipples. Spider-webs of pleasure shot along her skin at his touch, and when he reached her panties, she thought she might very well explode then and there.

  But before she had the chance to push herself insistently into his face, he stopped and lifted his head, smiling.

  “Oh, yeah. Right. The main course. I forgot.”

  She felt liquid inside, hot and wet, and she could only nod. Other times, they could do foreplay for an hour before they got to the fucking. So tender and rough, so exquisite. ... Now, she just wanted his comforting fullness inside her, pushing and thrusting her over the edge into the minutes of oblivion that he’d shown her she could achieve.

  He rolled off the bed, and pulled off his jockey shorts, his penis jerking up like a salute. A dribble of moisture sparkled at its head. She reached over and touched the shaft, softly but firmly. Tim flinched, caught his breath and closed his eyes. “Whoooo,” he said, “Whooooooo.” Like a cat being petted, he stayed still and let her fingers coax his cock into full hardness—and then let them drift down playfully, teasing his balls.

  “Diane,” he whispered, getting back on the bed. “Diane.”

  Her mouth was dry, but her pussy sure wasn’t. She could feel it dripping juice down to the crack of her ass. She opened her legs for him, and helped him guide the perpendicular part of him toward the gaping heat.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Ring,” said the phone.

  They froze with astonishment, Tim just short of penetration. He looked at Diane with a “tell-me-this-isn’t-happening” expression. As for her, her ardor evaporated like dew in the desert. All she could think was that maybe it was her father, calling to apologize, calling to tell her that he was on the next plane, that he was going to take care of everything, that he believed her now and was terribly sorry to ever, ever doubt her.

  “Oh, hell with the thing,” Tim said, moving down.

  But Diane pulled herself up, and Tim missed his shot, painfully stabbing the hard mattress instead. Lithely, she pulled herself away from him, hopped off the bed, and went to the phone on the desk.

  “Di ... ane!” he said, groaning with the pain and disappointment, but mostly with the outrageous humor of his predicament.

  “I’m sorry, love. You know how important this phone call could be!” she said, reaching over for the receiver.

  “Yeah,” he said, face in a pillow muffling his voice. “Yeah. I know.”

  She picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey! Hello! Have I reached the Reilly residence? I’m returning a very vital call!”

  Her heart sank. No, it wasn’t her father ... The scratchy voice on the phone was a far cry from Daddy’s baritone splendor.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Great. I wouldn’t be talking to Diane Scarborough, would I?”

  She was surprised. “Why, yes you are!” In the buff, yet, she thought.

  “Well, it’s my lucky day, I guess, since I need to speak to both of you about this incredible event you recently experienced. But let me explain—my name is Jake Camden, and it would be a great pleasure to help you both out as much as I can!�
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  At first she was nonplussed. The name struck an off-key chord in her mind. Jake Camden, one of Daddy’s adversaries. But then she remembered how much she and Tim needed assistance from experts in this business——and how little help they were getting from Everett Scarborough.

  “Oh! Mr. Camden! Of course! We didn’t think you were going to call back.”

  “Yeah, I’m real sorry—but I was away for Friday and the weekend, and things have been pretty hectic around here. Listen, Ms. Scarborough—do I have this correct? You say you and your boyfriend—this Timothy Reilly fellow—were abducted by beings from a flying saucer?”

  She looked over at Tim, who was sitting up in bed now, still looking a little chagrined over the interruption, the sheet wrapped around his midsection, reaching out for the phone and mouthing the words, “Let me talk to him!”

  She pulled away from Tim, dragging the phone toward the window and shaking her head. “That’s right, Mr. Camden. Or it would seem that way.”

  She gave a very brief description of their experience.

  “Yow! That sounds pretty intense. Are you all right? Any marks or psychological trauma? Oh, and please, call me Jake.”

  “No, no pain or marks or anything. Just curiosity, I guess. Intense curiosity ... um ... Jake. And I guess what we could really use is some kind of help. Someone who believes us, who can help us discover what happened. Someone who’s dealt with this kind of thing before.”

  “Well, I’ve dealt with plenty of UFO abductions, Diane. I know my stuff. Yours sounds quite different. No feelings of fear or dread associated with the experience, huh? Hmm. This could be a breakthrough for the whole field. But I’ve gotta be candid, Diane. Aren’t you the daughter of Dr. Everett Scarborough?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, pardon my intrusion into intimate family matters ... but even if he’s a debunker, he’s a top investigator. I take it you’re afraid to tell him about what happened.”

  “No, Jake. I told him. He refuses to get involved. He rejects even the possibility that this could have happened to me. I personally asked my father for help, and he rejected me.”