It helped perhaps that it was now the 1990s, close to the zero-hour of A.D. 2000. Millennial paranoia had fueled the interest in the book, since it was the story of how beings from another planet landed to bring peace and prosperity to mankind after a terrible conflict with fascist governments and naysayers. The credulous called Schroeder a “visionary”; his detractors called him an “opportunistic rabble-rouser.” In actuality, as far as Camden could judge from his experience with the man, Maximillian Schroeder was a painfully earnest individual with some severe psychological dysfunctions that somehow had not turned him into a psycho or sociopath but had led to fame and increased fortune instead. He was a real nice guy, if a little weird at times and Camden truly liked him, if for no other reason than he put up with Camden’s bullshit.
“I don’t understand. I thought that Scarborough was in a lot of trouble with the authorities,” said Schroeder. “How could you get involved?”
“Genius, pure genius.” Camden briefly outlined his involvement, careful not to give any really important details. “The poor guy is as framed as the Mona Lisa, Max.”
Schroeder shook his head. “I suppose I’m feeling a little sorry for Scarborough, but frankly, what does all this have to do with me?”
Camden laughed. “Not a whole hell of a lot, actually. I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to let you in on some of the details. There’s some kind of heavy-duty conspiracy going down in the government—I mean, bigger than the MJ-12 documents, bigger than just about anything that’s come down the UFO pike.”
“But Jake—flying saucer enthusiasts have always assumed that there’s been some sort of U.S. government cover-up. This cover-up, indeed, has apparently spread throughout the world. Every UFO group in every world claims that authorities suppress the true evidence. This is a tradition.”
“Come on, Max. You’ve been screaming along with all the rest of them. I’ve heard you talk on the subject!”
“True.”
“Then you do think there’s a conspiracy going down.”
“Oh, certainly. But I don’t think it’s all that important. When the Others wish to make themselves fully known to the world at large, there is absolutely nothing that anyone will be able to do to stop them.”
“Others smothers, Max. Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, away from the aerie-faerie stuff. You pay your taxes, you have a right to know why the CIA, the Air Force, the NSA, and what-the-hell-have-you is preventing the message from going out. Maybe your aliens have sent a message to the world at large—and the boys in D.C. are stonewalling it.”
“I shall make a sizable donation to the Scarborough defense fund when the man is apprehended. Is that what you’re collecting for?”
“No. No, Max, I’m just trying to pay you off with some interesting information for the stuff you’re going to give me?”
Schroeder shook his head, a little baffled. ‘’I’m sorry, Jake. But I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you see what I have on my hands, Max? I’ve got the greatest story of the decade ...”
“Which will be printed in newspapers. So, what do you want, a little touch of vitriol from me? ‘I always knew that, deep down, Scarborough was nothing more than an outlaw!” said Maximillian with a satisfied “Tsk, tsk.”
“No, Max. There’s going to be book offers! There’s going to be a possibility for movie offers—based on the book by yours truly. We’re talking not merely journalistic vindication for Jake Camden here, we’re talking financial security. I guess that doesn’t mean much to a guy like you, Max, who’s had plenty of money all his life—but for me, it’s a dream, an incredible opportunity. ‘ ,
“Yes. I see now. But how can I help?”
“Simple. I worked through the Intruder shysters from Jump City last time I wrote a book and got totally screwed for my good faith. I need a good agent. Maybe a word in the ear of your publishers. Who knows? I hear you’ve got a production company now. Maybe you’d like to option the film rights. I need to get this ball rolling now, Max. Whaddya say? For old time’s sake.”
Schroeder looked down at his coffee. Seeing it was empty, he poured himself another cup. “It’s decaf, you know. I had to give up the other stuff. The caffeine was wrecking my nerves.”
“Max, don’t leave me hanging like this. I spill my guts to you, and you dick me around?”
Schroeder smiled gently. “Jake, you’re talking a great deal of blue sky. You have no manuscript ... You don’t even have an article finished.”
“I’ve started it ... It’s going to run first in the Intruder as a series.”
“Ooohh. Not good for your credibility.”
“I swear all the facts are going to be straight, Max. It’s going to be a great series. It’s going to be in the Intruder only because I need some quick money.”
“As usual. I still don’t believe you’ve paid back the several hundred dollars you’ve palmed off me at various conventions, have you?”
Camden got up and started to pace the room frantically, hands thrust into his pockets.
“I swear to God, you’ll have the money back, and more! Max, please!”
Schroeder laughed. “Jake, of course I’ll help you! Calm down. If all you want are good agents who sell UFO books, that’s no trouble at all.”
Relief flooded through Camden. He went to Schroeder and put a hand on his slight shoulder, patting him gratefully. “You won’t be sorry, Max. I swear you won’t. Look, I’ll put you in the acknowledgments. Shit, maybe I’ll dedicate the book to you. God knows, I have you in the text as the prominent authority on human-alien contact in the world.”
Schroeder shook his head sadly. “This is not what I want, or what the Others particularly want, Jake. I’m afraid that you, in all your aggressive glory, are exactly what they fear so much in the human genotype. But the time of their coming draws near.”
“Well, just tell them to wait until a couple years after my book and movie come out, so that I can be rich as well as peaceful! ‘ ,
Schroeder sighed, as though in pity. “Jake, you’ve read my books, haven’t you?”
“You bet. Stole a hell of a lot of ideas for stories from them, too, and thanks very much!”
“Yes, I suppose ideas are in the public domain. And I suppose that newspapers like yours do their share to disseminate important concepts. Still and all, when you listen to me speak at the conference, don’t you think: My goodness, maybe I should think about who I am in the greater scope of the universe.
Do you think that the money I had truly satisfied me, Jake? Do you think that material things are what truly matters?”
“Hell yes!”
“Well then, take my word. They don’t. I have received so much more from my involvement with them than I can fully express.” Schroeder’s blue-grey eyes turned away, growing reflective. He was in his early forties, and yet no trace of wrinkles had yet touched his face, no sign of skin hardening or drying marred his features. Yet somehow, he did not look young at all. In fact, thought Camden, he looked old. “I have received a peace, Jake. Like the Bible says, ‘a peace that passeth understanding.’ What will be, will be. I am only a vessel to work out the will of much greater powers than myself.”
Camden got kind of spooked when Schroeder got like this. He’d seen it before, when the man would hold workshops at the UFO conferences: Merging with the Aliens. All sorts of spiritual mumbo jumbo, sure; but trembling at the center of it was a hypnotic frisson that made Camden decidedly uneasy. Camden liked the hard nuts-and-bolts part of the UFO business; chasing ghost lights, the imagination involved, the excitement of just maybe meeting with multi-eyed critters from light-years away. But all this spiritualist, channeling sort of bullshit kind of got to him. This showed in his stories; his “Shirley MacLaine” sort of puff-pieces were written with a decided tongue-in-cheek. And he was sure, in his columns on the subject, to make certain his audience knew his disdain. Nonetheless, it was just this “Elvis-is-Jesus” type of spi
rituality about some of the saucer business that people gobbled up. This was part of the reason that Maximillian Schroeder’s books were so popular. They had a kind of exciting, pop, East-meets-West feeling to them, a Werner Erhard and Alan Watts take a trip on a flying saucer sense. People who got caught up in their mystic spell seemed to be able to look up at the stars and be connected in some way to the “cosmic mystery,” as Schroeder called it. There were already small groups of “Otherness people” beginning to meet in churches and libraries to discuss the books, as well as their own experiences with the Others. Could a regular religion be far away? This was something that bothered Camden a lot about Schroeder, this evangelical, spooky aspect.
Still and all, he was a damned nice guy. And he was going to help him, right?
“So what are you saying, Max? You help me, and I gotta preach the will of the Others.”
“No, no, of course not, Jake. I’m just pointing something out to you. Jake, sometimes I see in you a man hell-bent on his own destruction. I’ve seen you late at nights at the conventions, Jake. Drunk, your nose running from cocaine, a girl on your arm—maybe two girls. I wonder sometimes if too much money might light both those ends of your candle with a blowtorch.”
“Hey! I can handle myself. Besides, I’ve given up the white stuff, and I can handle the liquor. Basically, I’m a reporter, Max. I want a story. This is a great story, which might just lead me to other great stories. That’s my true habit pal. So cut me a break, huh?”
“Sorry, Jake. Perhaps I do preach a little too much. I apologize. I am merely concerned.”
They chatted a little about mutual acquaintances, about the success of Schroeder’s film, about his new novel he was working on, entitled Redemption.
“Well, speaking of that book, it is getting on, and I should get back to my word processor.” Schroeder got up, got a piece of paper, wrote down some names and numbers, and handed the note to Camden. His literary agent, his publisher, his Hollywood agent.
“Thanks, Max. You’re terrific,” said Camden on his way out.
“Glad to help you out, Jake. Oh, one thing, though. You know, I don’t want to exclude the possibility that Great Light—that’s my production company—might not want first refusal on an option.”
Jake grinned. “You old devil. Now you’re talking my language. Sure, pal. You’re scratching my back; I suppose I should scratch yours. I send you the articles as they come out, and tell the agent to give you first refusal.”
“That’s not quite what I mean, Jake. Things move very quickly in this business. This Scarborough business is ongoing. Much of it, I presume, is not in newspapers. I would like you to check in with me regularly, and keep me abreast of events. Would that be too difficult? You have my private number, I know ... You arranged this meeting on it.”
“You want me to tell you what’s happening with Scarborough huh?”
“He is the hero of the unfolding tale, is he not?”
“Sure, Max. Sure, no problem.”
“Would every other day be too difficult?”
“Gee, Max, sounds like you are optioning the story for your production company.”
Schroeder thought about that for a moment, tongue poking out the side of his cheek. “Perhaps that would not be a bad idea. A small advance, put toward the welfare of a friend ...”
“You option me now, Max, and I’ll call you every day! I’ll arrange a personal interview with Scarborough!”
“Yes, yes, you do need money, as you said. The interview, of course, won’t be necessary. As a matter of fact, perhaps it would be best if Scarborough was not even aware of my involvement. We, after all, do not have a particularly pleasant relationship.”
“No problem. Geez, and this will get me the agents right away. Max, you’re the greatest.”
“Maybe I’m just gullible.”
“I promise you, pal, you won’t be sorry.”
“I sincerely hope not. And Jake—every other day will do just fine. I’ll look forward to your call the day after tomorrow.”
“You bet!”
They shook hands on it and Schroeder let him out.
Camden practically sailed down the sidewalk, avoiding the piles of garbage awaiting collection. He’d gotten far more than he’d dreamed. He was right—this was a hot story. Otherwise, why would a guy like Schroeder want to snap up the movie rights? Shit, if he’d been a publisher, he probably would have bought the book.
Camden turned onto Lexington, headed for the subway, and his hotel. Mission more than accomplished! Yes indeedy!
He was halfway down the block, when he noticed the headline of the new edition of the New York Post.
“SUBWAY VICTIM IDENTIFIED! Fugitive Scarborough Implicated by FBI.”
Shit, thought Camden. Shit and double shit.
He bought a paper.
Chapter 12
The man sat on the cement bench, watching a fountain spurt in the middle of a concrete park, steeling himself for what he knew was ahead. Pigeons cooed and strutted along by an overflowing trash bin, pecking at moldy pieces of bread. There was the smell of sauerkraut in the air; a man sold hot dogs on the comer. Above, towered a colossus of tower and steel, dwarfing the human beings below, extraordinary in its own right, yet commonplace here in Manhattan, a tree in a forest.
The air tasted of the Hudson River, and of death.
This wouldn’t be difficult, Everett Scarborough thought, trying not to nervously fidget in his shadowed place. face buried in a copy of the New York Daily News.
It was after noon. One of them would be coming out for lunch any time now. One the publishers of Quigley Books. He knew them all, and any of them would do. He would simply follow them, get them alone, stick this gun he had in his pocket in the small of their backs and suggest they take a walk.
Then he would get the truth.
Then he would find out where Diane was, and maybe something about what the hell was going on!
He watched the revolving doors carefully. Any moment ... Any moment now ... His hand was clammy on the cold metal of the gun in his pocket. It was the CIA man’s gun, the one he’d shot. He’d sworn he’d use it only in self-defense, keeping it locked in his glove compartment.
Now, though, he just didn’t care. He wanted to hurt somebody. Kill them. Get to the bottom of this. Find out about Quigley Publishers. Surely, it was a front for the CIA, the government ... Maybe it was the headquarters of these Publishers and Editors that he’d heard so much about. He had to find out in whatever way he could, even if it meant violence. How long could he run? Not long, surely. They wouldn’t expect this. No. They wouldn’t expect him to take the tiger by the scruff of the neck and give it a good shake.
They wouldn’t have expected him to barge into Donald Montcalm’s office up there on the 33rd floor, either; they wouldn’t have expected Everett Scarborough, wielding a deadly automatic to pull an Executioner-stunt like that. Or better: like the Immolator. Yes, Eric MacKenzie’s men’s action-adventure hero. Scarborough could almost visualize himself firebombing the offices. Assistants and art directors running for fire exits, hair aflame; editors and publishers crashing though plate-glass windows, flailing in the sky as they plummeted to their deaths. Ah yes, every wounded author’s dream, that. “Kill the fucking bastards!” as the Immolator would say. “Burn the villains!”
A trip up on an elevator would have been foolish. A word to the police or the grey suits, and that would be all she wrote they’d have him all sewn up. But last night, in the heat of his anxiety, grief, and fear—last night, that was exactly what he was planning on doing. This modification—catching one of them outside—had come later.
He turned his eyes back down to read the Pete Hamill column again. It was close to the top of the newsprint, and he could keep that revolving door of the Broadway address in sight.
One of the assholes would be coming out soon. Maybe two—he could accommodate two. Large parties he’d already nixed. No, one or two would do just fine.
Last night, after the shooting, he’d lost himself in the Times Square crowd, escaping the shuddering glare of the rescue trucks, the police cars, the memory of those squealing subway brakes, the screams of the bystanders, that cold grip on his shoulder. He’d found himself in front of a 42nd Street movie theater, one of the sleazy sort that showed triple feature horror or Kung-Fu films. He’d paid the six bucks they wanted and sat through half of The Laughing Dead. The movie’s zombies, decapitations, and general gory mayhem did little to help relieve his tension, but it was a good place to hide while the heat blew over. When he couldn’t take anymore, he left and walked all the way over to Grand Central. There he caught a train downtown, where he found a cheap residential hotel near Chinatown called the Apex that had a half shorted-out sign marked Vacancies on his smudged window. The sallow clerk took cash, asked for no names, and made no other kind of inquiry, which was fine by Scarborough.
His first reaction had been the desire to run; to get to his car, to leave Manhattan. Return to the comforting, anonymous road. The stay in that ammonia-laced theater gave him time to reconsider. No, he decided. He had to go to Quigley. The grey suits had tipped their hand. One of the strings that had tugged upon the Amazing Dancing Scarborough Puppet had been Cindy. Surely it had been her bosses pulling her strings.
The night had been restless. He’d gotten little sleep, tossing and turning in the threadbare sheets, the smell of mildew ripe in his nostrils. The man who’d warned him off, who seemed to be following him. Who was he? The program search looped in his brain, exhausting possibilities, keeping him awake. But then, almost at dawn, he’d fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep—a sleep that he hadn’t awoken from until ten o’clock.
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 50
