The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “Oh, I’d love that, Dad. I have an appointment during the day, but if you come later in the afternoon ... I’ll have everything all cleared up!”

  “That would be splendid, hon. Now, would you like to talk to Mac? Maybe you can give him directions. I—“

  There was a sudden disturbance at the other end of the line. Scarborough could hear a door opening, then the sounds of steps and voices, and a muffled “Shhhh! I’m on the phone,” from Diane.

  “Hey!” said a distant voice. “It wouldn’t be that distinguished, brilliant father of yours! Tell him he’s got a wonderful, classy daughter.”

  Scarborough felt as though someone had shoved a railroad tie directly into his solar plexus. He recognized the way that voice squeaked over the occasional vowels, and slurred on the odd consonant. He’d heard that voice on television and had talked to it on the phone. He’d even participated on an interview show with that voice once—a show that had erupted into a red-faced yelling match between the pro-and anti-UFO camps. And he’d heard that voice on “Entertainment Tonight,” denying that the UFO debunker character in a certain sleazy movie was based on Dr. Everett Scarborough.

  It was Jake Camden’s voice.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” said Diane a little stiffly. “Tim and a friend came in. I have to go now, but I’ll call later with directions. Okay? Dad, are you still there?”

  Scarborough managed to get the words around the hurt. “Diane,” he said. “Diane, that’s Jake Camden… He’s there!”

  A long awkward silence. “Um ... well, yes ... He wanted to get our story and he’s been helping us investigate. But we still need you and—“

  He felt a swelling of emotion, he felt on the verge of tears, and the only way he knew that he could stem that emotion, those tears, was anger. “God damn you, Diane! God damn you to hell! How could you do this to me?”

  “Dad! Dad, we needed somebody! And don’t worry, Dad, this is all going to be confidential!”

  “Diane, you and your no-account bedmate have got the brains of a peanut to share between you. Camden’s about as trustworthy as a snake!”

  “Look, let’s not argue, Dad. What’s done is done. Come on down, and we’ll talk about it,” Diane said in a tense, weary voice.

  Another male voice spoke in the background. “Boy, he doesn’t have a bug up his ass; he’s got an ant colony!”

  “Tim!”

  “Diane, we’ll call Thursday, okay. Maybe this trip down isn’t such a good idea. Good-bye.”

  “Dad, I—“

  Scarborough slammed the phone down. He looked up at the startled expression on Mac’s face.

  “Mac,” he said, “You know, if I ever do meet an ET, the little fucker’s gonna have a lot to answer for.”

  Chapter 21

  Neither of them were able to rouse themselves very early, so they got a late start for Johnson County, not leaving until almost ten in the morning.

  The country ham, eggs, and biscuits churned uneasily in Scarborough’s stomach, as they sloshed about in Mac’s grim coffee. A Thermos of the stuff sat between them, but Scarborough ignored it, keeping his eyes either dead-ahead, or on the map as the Bronco bucked up the highway.

  Uncharacteristically, Mac didn’t say much. He knew his friend well enough not to bring up the subject of Diane. Scarborough suspected that he, too, was pretty horrified at the idea of Jake Camden getting into the Kansas UFO picture. There was no question about what Camden wanted. A banner headline reading “Debunker’s Daughter Romances UFO Pilot!” or some such nonsense. For Diane to call in a sleazoid like Camden was probably the stupidest thing she’d ever done, and she’d done some crazy things.

  The day was a springtime dream: light cumulus lacing a vault of purest blue sky, sunlight accentuating the golds and greens and flower-colors of the Iowa fields. Through the open window, Scarborough caught the scents of young corn and wheat and honeysuckle in the mild air, and, of course, manure. By the time they made a turn off the highway—about one in the afternoon, Scarborough felt a little better.

  The highly detailed map took them past a small town named Tipville, and then out into deep farm countryside. Ludlow was little more than two parallel cow paths, fringed with overgrowth and undergrowth. About five miles in, the fields looked totally neglected—as though they’d been on fallow-duty for a long, long time.

  “There it is,” said Mac, pointing to a tilting mailbox, labeled with the appropriate address. “Remember all this?”

  “I sure don’t remember the barbed wire!” said Scarborough, as the Bronco stopped. A fence of rusty, nasty eight-foot-high barbed wire stretched to either side, presumably to the limits of the farm’s acreage. A narrow lane snaked through a copse of trees toward the farmhouse, then out of sight over a ridge. Between them and it, stood a gate, holding a sign that read, in crude hand-painted letters: No Trespassing. A metal chain was wrapped around the braces of the gate, and locked with a padlock.

  Mac regarded the gate for a moment, then turned to Scarborough. “I got a handyman’s box in the back.”

  Scarborough smiled for the first time all day. “Well, we have come an awfully long way today to be turned back by a silly little hardware-store toy.”

  “We’ll make financial reparations to Mr. Higsdon,” said Mac, coming out of the back of the car with a hacksaw.

  Mac made short work of the lock, and soon the Bronco was chugging up the hill. From the crest, Scarborough could see the farmhouse, two barns, and several sheds in a complex at least half a mile distant.

  “Looks bigger than I remember,” said Scarborough, scratching his head.

  Mac pulled out a set of binoculars from the dash. “Yep. And I don’t see much going on either—no animals or anything. There’s an old Volkswagen van, of all things, sitting by the farmhouse. I guess we should go knock on the door, huh?”

  “That’s what we’re here for.”

  The absence of animals and activity in the fenced-in areas was rather eerie, thought Scarborough, as the Bronco eased up behind the VW. In fact, there were no farmhouse sounds or smells at all—no clucks and scratchings of chickens, no smell of hay and pig manure. A lonely tractor sitting by a silo was the only sign of farm machinery. In fact, if the buildings themselves were not so clearly well maintained and recently painted, Scarborough would have called the place a ghost farm.

  They disembarked from the Bronco, and went to the front entrance of the farmhouse. Mac opened the screen door, and knocked hard against the wood. The knocks echoed through the house hollowly. Mac knocked again, but there was no answer.

  Mac tried the door, but it was apparently locked from behind with a deadbolt; Mac’s credit card proved a fruitless tool. Scarborough went to one of the side windows and tried to peer past the blinds, but everything seemed thoroughly wrapped in darkness.

  “Let’s go try one of the barns,” said Mac, gesturing toward the nearest of the hunkering, red-sided, blue-shingle-topped buildings. “Maybe there’s someone working out there.”

  On their way over, they noticed something quite unusual for a farm. In the back of the farmhouse but before the barn was a basketball court. But the basketball backboards held hoops without nets, and the asphalt was not white—lined.

  “Look at these marks here,” said Mac, examining long scuff marks. “I’ve seen marks like these, back in ‘Nam. Looks like choppers have landed here.”

  “So?” Curious, true, but no reason to get excited. “I hear they’ve been using helicopters lately for crop dusting.”

  “Yeah.” Mac beckoned him to follow. At the barn, he stopped and tried the door. It was not locked. Mac turned the knob and peered in. “Yo! Hey, Ev, come have a look in here!”

  Scarborough expected the usual hay, chicken-wire and dank loft in one big room, reeking of animals and moldy vegetation. Instead, the door pushed open on what appeared to be an office reception area with a linoleum floor and unadorned drywall.

  “Decidedly odd,” said Scarborough. “Let’s go throug
h and see what’s in the rest of the place.”

  They passed through the opposite door, and found themselves in a hallway that led to a series of larger rooms, empty but for workbenches and evidence of some kind of electrical work. The most unusual aspect in the rooms was the wealth of industrial-duty, three-holed electrical sockets in each, and the low-hanging banks of fluorescent lights.

  Scarborough shook his head. “Unless I miss my guess totally, these rooms must have been used as some sort of laboratories.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. What do you think—a farm-animal experimental station? Doesn’t look like good ole Charlie Higsdon lives here anymore though, does it?”

  “Maybe we should have called first,” said Scarborough doubtfully.

  “Uh uh,” said Mac, scratching. “I got this hunch, Ev. This stuff means something.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, I guess we’ll find that out when—“

  Suddenly, from outside, came the sound of a rifle shot, and the squeal of a ricocheting bullet. “Get the hell outta here, buster!” came a cry. “You don’t belong here!”

  “Wait a minute! You got the wrong guy,” answered a voice.

  “Your ass is over the fence. You’re a goddamn trespasser and I’m within my legal rights to shoot you! Now get out, or I’m gonna do it!”

  Scarborough and MacKenzie raced outside the barn to see what was going on.

  Parked behind the Bronco was a Lincoln Continental. Standing beside the Bronco was an unkempt-looking man, wearing a floppy golf hat and a Hawaiian shirt. “I’m not the trespasser! The guys in this four-by-four are and—“

  The rifle cracked. The man in the golf hat grimaced and raced back to the blue Lincoln, opening a door and using it as a shield. “Can’t we negotiate or something? I’ll help you bring these hooligans to justice, and you answer some simple questions!”

  The man with the rifle weaved a bit, his aim unsteady. He looked as though he’d just climbed out of bed after a long drunk, his flannel shirt wrinkled, his faded jeans stained. He squeezed off another round, and the bullet smashed through the Lincoln’s windshield, spider-webbing the whole right side.

  “Holy shit! This is a rental car, man! And I waived the insurance!”

  “Tough luck, bozo. Now vamoose!”

  Mac had given Scarborough a significant look, and was creeping up behind the man with the rifle. Scarborough followed, ready to bolt and run for cover at the slightest provocation, but he was also fascinated with the violent scene unfolding. He recognized the man in the golf cap now, with his faintly sunken cheeks and protruding ears and sharp nose.

  It was none other than Jake Camden.

  Scarborough half wished that the guy with the rifle would shoot the little weasel. How the hell had he gotten up here?

  Camden seemed so rattled at being fired upon that he didn’t notice the two men sneaking up behind his attacker. With a curse, he jumped into the Lincoln and started the motor. The next bullet tore off the side mirror. “Shit!” cried Camden. “Stop that!”

  The man with the rifle chuckled and lifted his weapon again. But by then, Mac was close enough to pounce. He jumped on the man from behind, his two-hundred thirty muscular pounds pushing the slighter man down to the ground. The rifle skittered off over the gravel.

  “What the—” said the man. The two struggled on the ground.

  “Get the rifle!” barked Mac, clearly surprised at the struggle the man was putting up. Scarborough gingerly dodged the rolling pair, and picked up the rifle, a battered Winchester breech-loader. Fists flailed beside him. Then there was a solid thunk and a moan, and the flannel-shirted man wilted into unconsciousness.

  Mac stood up. “We probably broke the law here, but I don’t like to see the likes of this dork firing weapons.” He wrinkled his nose. “Whew. Smells like he’s been living in these clothes for some time, and showering in cheap whiskey.”

  Meantime, the Lincoln’s motor had stopped, and Camden had hopped out, all smiles. “Wow! Hey, thanks, fellas. This guy’s a maniac! Good thing I distracted him, heh?” He trotted forward, a hand held out. “Doc Scarborough. Good to see you again. We’ve got a lot to talk about! I just missed you at the Iowa City house, so I followed you up here. Whew, what the hell is goin’ on, anyway?”

  Scarborough just glared at the proffered hand, refusing to shake it.

  “Who’s this, Ev? He seems to know you.”

  “It’s Camden. Diane must have given him your address,” said Scarborough wearily.

  “What a great lady, I’m telling you!” Camden interjected, “I told her, soon as you and I talked, everything would be fixed up. She’s extremely bummed out that you’re upset with her, Doc. So I had some time on my hands, and thought I’d hop up here and make it all better!”

  “You just wanted to see what I was investigating, Camden. You’re just looking for a story.”

  “Well, hey. If something pops up, I won’t kick it out of bed.” He stepped over to MacKenzie, and offered to shake hands with him. “And you must be the great writer, Eric MacKenzie. We’re all writers here—we got to stick together!”

  Mac stared knives at the reporter, who immediately lowered his hand. “So, what’s the scoop, anyway? Diane said something about you opening an old Blue Book case? What gives? You can trust me!”

  “About as far as Mac here can throw you. Mac, why don’t we just check the distance of trust out!”

  Camden backed away, holding up his palms. “Wait a minute, guys. Do I sense hostility? Yes, I definitely do. Now, maybe I can sort of understand why the Doc is a mite peeved at me, but I’m here to make it all better. And Captain MacKenzie—well, we’ve got no quarrel. Besides, you know, I could well have information that can help you in this investigation.” He looked around, as though making sure no one else was listening and then leaned over toward them confidentially. “Yeah. As it happens, I’ve been doing some digging up here myself, and I can tell you some mighty peculiar stories.”

  Mac turned to Scarborough. “I’ll leave it up to you, Ev. You give me the word, though—” He cocked the Winchester. “—And we’ll have ‘im out of here soon enough.”

  “Now, now, now,” said Camden, still smiling. “I’m sure that the Doc here knows there’s stuff to gain by keeping me around. Besides, I think he’d much rather have me reporting on moldy old Blue Book cases than his daughter’s run-in with a UFO.”

  “You slimy turd!” said Mac, lifting the rifle. “Get out!”

  “Not that I’d actually mention her real name!” said Camden, still staying cool.

  “Let him stay,” said Scarborough. “We’re wading in deep shit here, banging up a private citizen like this and trespassing. I’ve got the feeling that Mr. Camden just might be able to help us out in this particular situation, Mac, in case we have some problem with the law.”

  “You know it, Doc! I know every trick in the book!”

  “I bet you do.” He turned and saw that the front door of the farmhouse hung open. “Come on. Let’s get our unconscious host in the house and nurse him back to health. He might be more willing to answer questions without a gun in his hands.”

  The farmhouse proved to be empty of furniture and fittings, except for an apartment-sized area in the back. With spartan furnishing, it was clearly where the man with the gun lived, sleeping on little more than a mattress on the floor and apparently living mostly on bottles of Old Grandad whiskey. The empties choked the trash bin.

  Mac propped the unconscious man in a chair by a dining-room table filled with old newspapers, magazines, and an old Sylvania black-and-white television set. He poured some of the Old Grandad into a metal cup he found by the sink, and then splashed some tap water into the man’s stubbly, sallow face.

  The man spluttered awake. Mac poured some whiskey down his throat, and the man calmed down immediately.

  “Sorry to take you out that way, Mister,” said Mac, turning on an affable but authoritarian charm. “We just didn
’t want you to murder anyone.”

  The man blinked, looked around at Scarborough and Camden, and then back at MacKenzie. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I guess we’re trespassers, Mister. And we’re sorry to disturb you. We’ve just got a few questions, and then we’ll be on our way.” He pulled out a couple of twenty-dollar bills, which he placed on the dining room table. “We hope this will pay for any harm done.”

  The man just stared blearily at the money.

  “First of all, I’m Mac and this here’s Ev and Jake. Now, what’s your name?”

  The man shrugged. “Clyde. Clyde Evans. I’m the caretaker here. Lot of good I’ve done ... ‘Sposed to keep out trespassers.”

  “Well, now, there’s no reason that anybody but us has to know we’ve been here, right?” Mac put another twenty on the pile.

  Clyde Evans licked cracked lips. “No. Guess not.”

  “Good,” said Scarborough, taking up the inquisition from there. He used his friendliest, most persuasive tone. “Mr. Evans, have you ever heard of Charles Higsdon?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, let’s just say that he used to live here on this farm about twenty years ago. We visited him here then, helping him out—let’s just say with a little problem.”

  “Yeah! Flying saucers spooking the pigs!” said Camden, grinning.

  Evans grunted. “Flying saucers, huh? You guys flying-saucer people?”

  “In a way,” said Scarborough. “We’re just making a harmless routine investigation, Clyde. You say you’re the caretaker here. Who pays you to watch this place?”

  “Lawyer in town. Name of Brookings.”

  “Does he own this land?”

  “Hell if I know. And I ain’t seen no flying saucers either.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Couple years, maybe.”

  “Has it always been like this ... empty?”

  “Yep.”