The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “My God!” said Marsha. “What went on between you two?”

  Camden chuckled. “Vitriol like you would not believe. Well, this is okay by me. We go to Prescott, right, Marsha?”

  “It does rather make sense, doesn’t it,” said Marsha Manning, thinking things through. “Maybe the aliens made a mistake. Or maybe we were supposed to conclude that they wanted us to go to Prescott! To see this Davis character! It’s a possibility, Ev. You must admit, it’s a possibility!”

  “I really don’t think so. But since I have no alternative suggestion, then you two are free to do what you like.” He shook his head, doubt beginning to grow in him again. “Besides, we really can’t be sure they are aliens anyway, can we?”

  “Nope,” said Camden. “We can’t be sure of anything. But I tell you, I’m just not going to sit around in the middle of nowhere with my finger up my nose.”

  “Right,” said Scarborough. “After years of work on the National Intruder, just an intruding kind of guy!”

  “If Jake knows Mr. Davis, and he really believes that the man will help us, then I say we should go to him!” said Marsha.

  Scarborough folded his arms. He could not help but fume. This was really the last straw. To be dragged through hell, to have his soul torn apart... and then to have to ask for succor and assistance from Lowell Davis.

  And, truth to tell, he rather reveled in the fragment of stubbornness that glowed in his breast.

  “My God,” said Marsha. “Everett, you’re sulking!” She laughed, half with exasperation, half with love. “I can’t believe it. After all you’ve been through, eating a little crow can’t be that bad!”

  “It’s bad enough.”

  “Look. Fine, I’ll drive.” Camden maneuvered into the driver’s seat, clipped on his seat belt, examined the control, “I know where Davis’ house is, anyway. Might need a little help with a map...”

  Marsha tapped the voluminous glove box. “Our hosts appear to have left us well equipped with maps and guides. There will probably even be something in here about Prescott, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “I don’t suppose they left anything to read, did they?” said Scarborough, grumpily. It really was all too much; he had to admit this indignity was small compared to the calamities he’d been through; but it was just the jarring, irrational, and somehow ludicrous synchronicity of the absurdity.

  Of all people! Lowell Edmund Davis!

  Marsha opened the box and peered in. “My goodness! As a matter of fact, they did! And would you believe it? Science fiction novels by guess who?”

  Scarborough wasn’t in the mood to be teased; no, not at all. As Camden started the RV back up, Scarborough harrumphed back to the bunk section.

  He needed a nap anyway.

  He’d just sleep through this indignity!

  Chapter 8

  Prescott, Arizona, is in the north-central section of Arizona about 120 miles Nevada-wards from Phoenix. Well out of the so-called Sun Valley, Prescott is lifted up on the slope of gently higher elevation that changes the Arizona climate entirely. Stands of saguaro cactus and low desert scrub give way to mountains filled with pine. Prescott itself borders on the huge Prescott National Forest and is surrounded by mountains.

  A mile high, it is closer to the rustic Western feel than the traditional Southwestern Mexican aura of lower Arizona. The settlers who built Prescott in the nineteenth century, and then rebuilt it after a devastating fire in 1900, modeled their buildings after the architecture of New England and the Midwest rather than the Spanish-Indian adobe or the more northern Navaho pueblo influence.

  It is a consummately Western town, however, with remnants of a notorious “Whiskey Row,” which still serves drinks to customers. Established after the 1863 separation of the Arizona Territory from New Mexico, and called Fort Whipple, Prescott was the base of operations for Governor John Goodwin and a party of appointed officials from Washington. They wished to avoid the southern towns of Tucson and Tubac that were filled with sympathizers to the Confederacy, which the Union was presently fighting. Alas, they had to contend with hostile Tonto Apache and Yavapai Indians during the 1860s and 1870s. The outpost was slowly built from the wood of the neighboring forests. A Capitol and a Governor’s mansion were constructed. The settlers named the town after William Hickling Prescott, a noted historian. Soon, more settlers came and the place began to expand.

  With the declining threat of Indians, and improved mining technology and agricultural methods, along with its excellent position along trade routes, Prescott grew and prospered. It not only harbored an indigent population, but during the summer, its summer homes burgeoned with vacationers and dwellers from southern Arizona escaping the heat.

  All in all, what with Prescott’s pleasant climate, its nearness to wilderness yet closeness to community activities, and quite a few people of artistic temperament, Everett Scarborough was not at all surprised that Lowell Davis lived in the city. In fact, as the Winnebago tooled through Prescott Valley, along Gurley Street past the Doric-columned courthouse surrounded by elm trees, and then past the Sharlot Hall Museum, he was surprised at the old-time traditional homey feel of the place. No, as a writer himself, Scarborough could understand the attractions that a place like this would hold to a writer.

  And then, of course, it was also close to Sedona, with its magnificent colored sandstone canyons and buttes—and its reputation for being home for the more mystical UFO aficionados. There were regular sightings of lights in the sky and—who knows—regular reports of “strange people amongst us.”

  Indeed, as they drove on up a hill toward a scattering of suburban houses, the sun bright and pleasant, a pine-scented wind whispering through the open windows of the RV, Scarborough had to admit that he was very taken with Prescott himself.

  That still didn’t mean, however, that he had any intention of getting out and letting Lowell Edmund Davis know that he was anywhere close by!

  “That’s it!” said Camden. “That’s the place!”

  The reporter pointed up the road to a house at the top of a hill. The nearest home, Marsha Manning noted, was about a quarter-mile distant, and the trees in between well insulated the homes from each other. The road was gravel and rustic, and the numerous tires of the Winnebago crunched along, the engine roaring and the shifts cranking to take the slope.

  A nice place, thought Marsha as the trees gave way to reveal a sprawling ranch house surrounded by a wooden fence. A really nice place.

  There was a red Jeep Eagle in the driveway, outside the garage. The house itself was traditional enough in its Western way, except for two principal features: At both ends of its long expanse were platforms. On one of these stood a satellite dish, a quite large one. On the other was a kind of closed-in gazebo-type affair with a tube sticking out of a slot: a large reflecting telescope.

  “This guy is really serious!” Marsha said to Camden.

  “That’s one of the reasons he lives here,” he replied. “Sky is clear and the elevation is just about right. But Davis is single and he doesn’t like being too secluded, which he would be way up in the mountains. He’s got a social life, and he likes to bring women he meets at science fiction conventions to stay with him weekends, and they like to go into town.”

  Camden lumbered the Winnebago up, parking it on the wide expanse of apron beside the Jeep, with an uncharacteristic thoughtfulness that ensured that Davis’s car still had access to the driveway.

  “What, is Prescott some sort of science fiction enclave?”

  “No, not really. I think Alan Dean Foster lives somewhere around here and Davis knows him, but that’s about all.”

  Marsha unhooked her seat belt and was just about to open the side door when the front door of the house opened and a man peered out uncertainly.

  “Good thing I called first,” said Jake. “Guy would have freaked if he saw a Winnebago pull up to his house unannounced.”

  “You’re sure this is okay, though,” said Marsha. “He doesn�
��t mind?”

  “Naw! Like I say, Davis and I always got along pretty good.”

  “But he knows you’re in trouble?”

  “Yeah, I told him I was on the lam. He’s intrigued. I don’t think he realizes that harboring us could get him into trouble—but, hey, we’ll make sure he knows that before we stick around too long!” Camden pushed open the door and waved to the man in the doorway.

  Marsha was a bit stunned. Jake’s conscience was about as malleable as warm Jell-O. This didn’t sound like Jake Camden at all. He was being considerate?

  “Hello, Davey!” he crowed. “Did I forget to warn you that we were traveling around in a palace?”

  The man, previously frowning, beamed with a smile.

  “Jake Camden! You always travel in the absolutely strangest, possibly sleaziest fashion—but this...” He walked down, eyeing the expanse, the enormity of this mammoth land-boat before him. “This is still quite a surprise!”

  Lowell Edmund Davis was a man in his early forties with a threading of grey through his brown hair. He wore glasses, but didn’t look particularly comfortable in them. Wide green eyes blinked at the spectacle before him. He had a faintly chubby face below beard, and his body was solid, muscular, though a little fleshy as if he were a man who worked out, but had a taste for beer or sweets. The eyes, though, were quite friendly and they absolutely shone when they spotted Marsha, who was just getting out of the vehicle.

  “Can’t say that Jake Camden doesn’t travel in style!” boasted Camden, puffing out his chest and Hawaiian shirt proudly. He fairly bounced down off the Winnebago seat, skipping up to Davis. They pumped hands happily, but Davis, still smiling, couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Marsha. And in turn, a little thrill traveled down Marsha’s spine—you know, this guy wasn’t half-bad looking, and he had a certain charm in his half-formal, half-flakey manner.

  “Jake, you do constantly astonish me! I must say, you have taken a step up in woman companions.” He separated himself from Camden, and stepped over toward Marsha, hand extended, all smiles. “Lowell Davis. Call me Ed if you like!”

  His hand was smooth, a writer’s hand; but the grip was firm and had a hard masculinity to it. This guy exercised; this guy worked out. His eyes traveled down Marsha’s short-sleeve red blouse and tight jeans with uncompromised, but somehow polite appreciation.

  “Hi, Ed. I’m Marsha.”

  “She’s not my old lady, unfortunately. We’re just on the lam together, that’s all.”

  “Oh! How fascinating! So then, I hope you can stay! I haven’t had guests for a while, and you’re welcome to put up here, if you like. Do you have some things to bring in?”

  “We can’t stay long, I’m sorry. You’ll understand when we explain.”

  “Are you hungry then? I have a very well-stocked pantry, and I’m a gourmet cook to boot!” said Davis with a tilt to his head, seemingly unable to keep his eyes off of Marsha.

  “That’s right, Marsha. This man can cook up a storm! He made a soufflé for me last time that was just fantastic.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ve time for a soufflé this time, if you’re only going to stay a short spell. However, I have the ingredients for a very proper supper—and a very pleasant and varied wine cellar, sure to suit your palate, Marsha.”

  “You specialize in female palates?” said Marsha, amused at this civilized but outrageously flirtatious man.

  “If I were a painter, I would use a female palette, Marsha! Alas, I am but a lowly worker with words and I could hardly do justice to a woman of your vigorous beauty!”

  “Watch him, there, Marsha. This man is a regular Twilight Zone Casanova.”

  Davis laughed. “Yes. I learned all my womanizing techniques from Rod Serling himself. Submitted: One offer of dinner, a sympathetic ear, and a warm household. But watch that signpost up ahead!”

  “Just show me to the one that says Wine Cellar,” said Jake.

  “I don’t know if I care to waste my wine cellar on the likes of you, Camden. I should just cook up some straight ethyl alcohol in the lab!”

  “Jake!” said Marsha. “Remember, you’re supposed to be good! No drugs, no drinking. We’re in a serious situation!”

  “Good idea, Jake. Now then, come on in so I can actually hear about this intense situation! And I really do want to hear about where you got that Winnebago from!”

  “I must say, now that you mention it, I’m famished!” said Marsha.

  “Damn, Marsha. Just one little glass of vino won’t hurt!”

  “We’ll see.”

  “And to think I thought this was your new girlfriend, Jake!” said Davis, leading them up the pathway. “She sounds more like your nanny. And I must warn you, Marsha. Beautiful nannies are a particular fetish of mine!”

  “I never thought of myself as a nanny before—the Julie Andrews-Mary Poppins sort?”

  “No, I rather more think the racy novel sort!” Davis said it with such excellent timing, enunciation, and good spirits, however, that the suggestive tone seemed pure Noel Coward.

  “Just ignore him, Marsha. He gets lonely and horny out here, that’s all. So Davis, my man. How about that chow?” Camden rubbed his Hawaiian shirt in the vicinity of his stomach.

  “Certainly.” Davis beckoned. “Just this way, if you please. We’ll have a lovely dinner. And please forgive my suggestive comments, Ms. Manning. I do go a little overboard, perhaps, when I see a pretty face. I hope you’ll share your intelligence and personality with me, and forgive my baser male urges and compulsions.”

  “I must say, they come in a very charming package, Mr. Davis.”

  “Please. Ed. Call me Ed—or if you feel formal, Lowell!” He beckoned them to follow him, and they did.

  Well, this guy’s pretty nice, and absolutely fascinating, Marsha was thinking. And here we are, about to get help and a good dinner to boot. And back there in the Winnebago, there’s old Everett Scarborough, sulking. Well, stew Scarborough. Have your pride for dinner. I, for one, need this break!

  Lowell Edmund Davis held the door open for them and then went into his house.

  Chapter 9

  Lowell Edmund Davis’s house was unlike any other bachelor interior that Marsha Manning had ever seen. For one thing, it was quite large and quite packed with furniture, books, pictures, art, souvenirs; the effluvia of a writer’s life.

  However, on the other hand, it was quite neat.

  It wasn’t the imposed neatness of another, a housekeeper’s influence, although from the spotless condition of the oriental carpets on the well-waxed hardwood and parquet floors, it looked as though some help came in at least once a week. No, everything had an order, a straightness, and a layout that looked planned by a person with a methodical mind.

  In truth, when Camden had talked about stopping at a science fiction writer’s house, Marsha had expected to find a strange, disheveled character living mostly in his dreams. The layout and content of this house, though often fanciful, seemed quite well-grounded and disciplined.

  “Great place, huh, Marsh?” said Camden, strolling about, hands in pockets, head bobbing like a backseat car ornament.

  “Food first, tour later?” said Davis.

  “Oh, man, I’m famished.” Camden loped up the stairs to the dining area and plopped down on a chair, lounging with a vengeance. “I’m starving! Give us something to eat, Davis!”

  Lowell Davis turned to Marsha, handsome eyebrows raised with polite inquiry.

  Actually, Marsha was inclined to opt for the tour. From what she saw of the house so far, it looked to be quite a unique place. For one thing, the foyer, the hallway, and the living room were simply jammed with stuff. There were shelves of books of course—and not just polite and subdued leather-bound hardcovers, but a speckled rainbow of paperbacks and old plastic-wrapped garish pulps. There were also paintings and sculptures, half of a fantastical nature, half of a more astronomical bent. From the ceiling in the living room, for example, hung a mobile depicting the sol
ar system, each planet composed of a different-colored metal with the sun a splendiferous quartzite. The furniture was part modern, part antique—with a couple of oddly angled chairs that appeared to be home-designed, home-built. In one comer of the living room was a pinball machine. In another was a Wurlitzer jukebox, decked out in electrical colors.

  Right by Marsha’s elbow was an old-fashioned gumball dispenser, filled with a spectrum’s worth of candy.

  And the air had a refreshing pine-scent to it, with a touch of Lemon Pledge. Not a bit of the usual bachelor’s effluvia of yesterday’s pizza, clogged ashtrays, rancid underwear, and old beer bottles in old boxes.

  Goodness, if a small part of this big house was like this, what must the other parts be like?

  True, though—she was pretty hungry.

  “Food, I guess. We should get something inside us first—although, I must say I find your—um, decoration fascinating!”

  “Oh! This! Well, thanks. I’m a bit of a collector. Maybe too much of a collector. You’ll enjoy the rest of the house then, I think. But we’ll pop something into the microwave if you’re that hungry! In the meantime, maybe some hors d’oeuvres and perhaps a bottle of that wine I promised,” said Davis delightedly, rubbing his hands and beaming brightly.

  Camden’s expression turned suddenly mopey. “Damn. I guess not for me. I’ll take the cocktail weenies... but the wine... guess I’ll have to pass on that.”

  Marsha, however who was definitely in the mood for something calming after what they’d been through in the past days, was feeling magnanimous. “I don’t see how one little glass will hurt as long as you drink it with the food.”

  Jake sat upright, beaming.