Scarborough smiled fondly at her. “She always has been, Jake. Always.”
Jake had been feeling antsy and nervous and wanted to get a long head start. ‘So I can make sure this thing moves’ he had said, indicating the Z. “I’m going to zoom it around some on the highway, and then wash it and get it filled up with the highest octane gas imaginable.” He had been electric with excitement, all primed and ready, not frightened at all, which Scarborough appreciated. It looked as though in this situation they were really going to be able to count on the man.
Everett Scarborough had a good feeling about today, yes. Mostly though, he was just happy to be doing something, accomplishing something toward getting Diane back, resolving this mess.
Because he knew, deep down, that if he just sat for too long, just hid away, he would go crazy with self-doubt and anxiety. No, in this case movement was all. He had to keep up this crazy momentum, because it was the only thing that kept him from teetering on the crazy brink that had opened up on him the other night in Prescott.
Jake left before noon. They would not have to leave until two. Jake had suggested that they come down earlier, just to be sure they knew where things were, but Scarborough didn’t want that; the map of Tucson was marked plainly enough. It would take about an hour to get down there. A Winnebago was a little bit too obvious hanging around that restaurant for too long; and Scarborough didn’t want to lumber around town with it. No, he assured Jake—they’d leave around one-thirty, which would give them an extra margin for error.
After Jake left, Marsha and Scarborough took a walk.
They found a path that indicated a vista point a half-mile away. They hiked along this snaking, woody trail a while and for a moment, without any sign of civilization around them, they seemed lost in the wilderness, gathered up into a timeless place, away from all the craziness of events, and wrapped in the sheer majesty of nature.
Although the sun was bright enough for them to need their sunglasses, and for Marsha to comment that she wished she had some sun-blocker lotion, it couldn’t have been any more than seventy degrees: a perfect climate. A slight breeze ruffled the surrounding foliage as they walked.
The vista point, when they reached it, provided a sign that indicated that they were looking over the Sonoran desert, a subtropical arboreal community without peer amongst North American deserts for number and diversity of plant life.
Long flat yet sloping alluvial plains—bajadas—fanned out from the steep and rugged Catalina Range. Characteristic plants down there, the wordy sign indicated, were the palo verde or green stick trees. Marsha pointed these out to Scarborough; they were in bloom now with bright yellow flowers. Even from up here, they could see the vast number of large saguaro cactus—home, the sign claimed, for the Gila woodpecker and the elf owl. Amongst the many varieties of vegetation were mesquite trees, ocotillo and creosote bushes, brittle bush, caliandra, lupine, buckwheat and bush muhly. Not to mention desert willow, hackberry, cottonwood, ashes, and salt-cedar trees.
“Fascinating, the way the foliage is entirely different up here,” said Marsha.
“Makes sense.”
“I know, but sense is one thing and the actual sight of it is another.”
“Looks like what we’ve got here are conifers!” said Scarborough.
“Very good,” Marsha said. “According to the sign, to be totally exact, ponderosa pine, Douglas fir, white fir. To say nothing of the red penstemon flowers and the wild raspberry!”
“Don’t forget the penstemon flower, by any means!”
The air had a wonderful mountain freshness, and Scarborough could almost taste those raspberries among the fresh pine smell carried by the breeze.
A long, long way from cosmic experience with flying saucers and government conspiracies.
“You know, Marsha, if we get through all this—”
“When we get through all this.”
“When we get through all this, we ought to come back here. Hike.”
“Wintertime, Jake says, they’ve got real good skiing up at Mount Lemmon.” She pointed up at the peak not very far away but about a thousand feet higher in elevation.
“I’m not much of a skier, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“You’re on.”
They knew they couldn’t stay long, and that was part of the reason why this beauty was all the more poignant.
They held hands on the way back, cherishing each of these quiet moments.
“Yes,” said Scarborough finally, as they got off the path, “We will come back. I promise you that, Marsha.”
“Let’s not think about the future,” she said, softly. “Let’s just think about now.”
They walked back to the cabin, where they made quick, passionate, and fretful love.
“How are we doing on time?” Scarborough said, splashing some water on his face in the sink.
“Don’t worry. It’s a quarter after one. And believe it or not, I’m just about ready to go.”
Scarborough buttoned up his grey cotton shirt, then stuck the tails into his jeans and snapped the button closed. He put a wetted comb through his greying hair, thinking Boy, I could sure use a haircut, and then put on his Reebok athletic shoes. A light windbreaker for now, that could easily be taken off later, and he was ready.
The guns were in the Winnebago.
“All right, Marsha. I think I’m all set.”
For her part, Marsha had just put her jeans and blouse back on, this time with a light powder blue sweater. She wore no makeup, but she still looked very beautiful to Scarborough.
Funny thing about that, thought Scarborough—when you were falling in love, women just get more and more beautiful to you.
“Well,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be!”
She kissed him, hugged him again.
“Whatever else it is, it’ll be interesting.”
There was a knock at the front door.
“Who could that be?” said Marsha, a little unnerved.
“Neighbors looking for some sugar maybe,” said Scarborough.
He walked to the sliding door.
There was no one on the deck. Strange. He walked outside, looking around, and immediately saw them.
There were two of them. One was perhaps fifty years old with greying hair and a solid build. The other—a little slighter—was perhaps twenty. They wore sunglasses and short sleeves and jeans and walking shoes. They looked like hikers.
Behind the Winnebago was parked a black Cadillac sedan, doors open, engine running.
In the hands of the men were slender .38 caliber Smith and Wesson automatic handguns.
“Hello, Dr. Scarborough,” said the older of the men. “I believe it’s time for us to talk.”
Chapter 21
When she arrived at Tucson International Airport on the 11:32 American Airlines flight from the John F. Kennedy Airport in New York City, April Hardesty immediately went to the nearest Hertz-Rent-A-Car booth and retrieved the BMW she bad ordered before her cross-country flight.
April liked BMWs; she appreciated the way they handled, they could accelerate quickly and drive at top speeds, and yet they were solid cars, not terribly ostentatious and sporty so that they attracted a great deal of attention.
The one they had for her was silver with a comfortably plush interior that smelled brand-new and had a terrific air-conditioning unit.
She put on sunglasses against the Tucson brightness, tied her hair up in a scarf, and then drove to the Trailways terminal. As promised, in storage locker A-947 she found a black leather suitcase. She purchased a hot dog with relish and Coke Classic with shaved ice at the refreshment counter, and then took the suitcase out to her BMW in the parking lot.
She placed the case in the passenger seat, and opened it.
Nestled inside was a pretty little Glock automatic and, as requested, her own personal favorite, an AK-47, along with ammunition and other assorted oddments of weaponry s
he might need here.
Good. As usual, the Colleagues worked smoothly and efficiently. It was a pleasure indeed doing business with them—they made everything so… streamlined.
She consulted the map of Tucson she’d been given before she left. She got her bearings and then drove west, past Route 10, out to the area known as Old Tucson.
Tucson was the first population center in the state occupied by people of European extraction. After a Jesuit missionary named Father Eusebio Francisco Kino discovered it in 1687, the Spaniards decided to settle the area because of the water provided by the Santa Cruz River. The next century they built a presidio—a walled city—there, the wall to protect it from marauding Indian tribes. The name “Tucson” itself is derived from the Indian word Stjukshon meaning spring at the foot of a black mountain.
After Mexico rebelled from Spain in 1821, Tucson was a part of Mexico. The Gadsden purchase of 1854 made it part of the United States. During the Civil War, at first it was named a Confederate territory, but when Union troops arrived in 1863 from California, it became a Union territory.
It was after the Civil War that Tucson was launched into the “Old West Period” depicted in movies.
It was a part of this Old West portion of Tucson that April Hardesty drove to. Old Tucson was just that—a recreation of the archetypical Old West towns of the turn of the century. As she turned into a road on the outskirts, she caught a glimpse of the town through her tinted windows. She found it most amusing—something straight out of a John Ford or Howard Hawkes western she’d seen as a young lass on the telly, or at a Saturday afternoon matinee at the local revival house in Ulster, while some handsome, horny Mick teenager pawed at her.
She parked her car on a side street and walked the rest of the way, a light pale linen jacket flapping in the May breeze.
Yes, sure enough—there was the saloon, the jail house, the bawdy house, the courthouse—all bordered by tethering posts for horses. She also saw the film unit cameras and set up crews, and she knew that the man she’d come to see would be here.
After the necessary inquiries, she found him in his trailer, having a solitary lunch.
She walked in, unannounced, surprising him.
“Who are you?” said Maximillian Schroeder, reaching over a half-finished croissant sandwich for a cellular telephone even as he made the inquiry.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” she said, reaching out and grabbing his wrist before he could grab the phone. “I’m a high priority agent of the Publishers, come for a little talk.”
Schroeder’s eyes went wide. “An Editor?” His eyes flicked down to where the automatic was tucked in its holster under the coat. Something like fear flashed across his blandly attractive features.
“No. Higher priority.”
She drew a letter from a pocket, flashed it just long enough in front of him for him to note the legitimacy of the signature, then tucked it back into her jacket pocket.
“I see.” He seemed to calm down when she made no indication of drawing the gun. “Why wasn’t I notified about your arrival?”
“Mr. Schroeder—I am not working in tandem with White Book, Black Book, or the redoubtable Brian Richards.” Satisfied that he would sit still for a while, she casually sat down in the chair, relaxing. This caused Schroeder to relax as well—and he was able to take in the attractively presented picture before him. This pleased April Hardesty. Her beauty had always been one of her weapons—and, in this case, it was certainly a valuable tool. Funny thing about heterosexual men—a little perfume, a teasing glance from beneath heavy eye makeup, a nice face and figure, and that extra surge of chemical juices in them would tilt small things in your favor. Either that, or it would at the very least confuse the issue considerably.
He nodded, saying nothing. He wasn’t a dummy, this one—he jumped to no conclusions. He waited to see what she had to say.
“Make no mistake, Mr. Schroeder. I know all about you,” she said, her eyes flashing mischievously. “I received the full dossier, if you will.”
“Ah.” An unreadable mixture of emotions passed over his face. “I see.”
Maximillian Schroeder was the author of a series of thrillers who had suddenly documented his experiences with “The Others” in a succession of best-selling nonfiction books. He’d parlayed his high-profile media figure into many appearances on television, which had sold more books, and then precipitated an even more successful venture into the film business.
“You really are a most remarkable character. A mediocre fiction writer, selling out to a supra-governmental program of disinformation.” She smiled sweetly. “And very well-paid, too, I understand.”
“Were you sent to pronounce judgment on my career—whoever you are…?”
She shrugged. “Call me Emily.”
“Emily.”
“No, I wasn’t sent to pronounce any kind of judgment—I’m here to help you, Max.”
“I didn’t know I needed help.”
“I believe that you are presently in contact with one Jake Camden.”
“If I am, isn’t that my—”
“Max, you don’t seem to understand.” She was smiling, but she bit the words off with precise British diction. “You don’t answer to Richards anymore. You report directly to higher authorities. I am their duly appointed official, and so you answer to me.”
“I see.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am in contact with Mr. Camden.”
“Excellent. Our intelligence indicates that Everett Scarborough was rescued from White Book’s Gamma Complex on Kirtland Air Force Base just days ago, and that there is every indication that where Camden is, Everett Scarborough is not far away. My employers would like to resolve the matter of Scarborough as soon and efficiently as possible.”
Schroeder tilted his head with open curiosity. He was wearing a western shirt with a string bow tie. On the desk was a Stetson hat. Hardesty almost wanted him to put that white bat on his curly hair so that she’d have the full image of the mythical “city slicker” before her.
“I thought that my contact with Camden was the element that was going to bring everything under control. He still believes that I’m on his side. We have mutual benefits to gain from an alliance.”
“My employers are circumventing that situation—bringing in direct supervision.” She smiled prettily and pointed at herself. “Moi.”
“I see. Well, your knowledge of the situation seems sterling enough... Emily. And I can only respect the credentials that you bring along.” He nodded toward her gun. “I can’t help but wonder, though—have you, ah, removed Richards from the picture entirely?”
“Mr. Richards is still operating... indeed, you may be hearing from him.”
“And I assume that you do not want him to know of your participation at this level?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Hmmm.” He drank from a bottle of Evian water and grimaced. “As you may surmise, Emily, I’m hardly in my element out here. But my new film calls for a segment involving “The Great Airship Scare” —a period back in the 1890s when strange flying vessels were observed all over the American heartland. Did you know that UFOs went back as far as that, Emily?”
She smiled. “Oh yes. And farther back as well. The Wheel of Ezekiel in the Bible. The prodigia of the Romans. The aerial phenomena of medieval and renaissance times, interpreted religiously then, but seen as a harbinger of the present sightings. Yes, Mr. Schroeder. In fact, you may be amused to know that I read your book Baptism. A very excellent summation of the situation.”
Schroeder nodded. “I’m a good writer, Emily. I was a successful enough writer before this... business. Please, do not interpret my involvement here as a selling out. No, my family is deeply entwined with your, ah, employers.” He sighed, pulled out a bottle of Scotch, and dribbled some into his Evian water. “Certainly, I have profited a great deal in my creative expressions during this period of my life—and I reaped financial rewards. But su
ffice it to say that there were deeper reasons!”
“Far be it from me to criticize someone who hires out services for money, Mr. Schroeder. I’m certain that there are all kinds of reasons for your involvement.”
“What do you know of my association with Jake Camden?”
“That to obtain money he made a deal with you for movie rights to his story. In return he is also asking for help in eluding the authorities.”
Schroeder drank a gulp of his drink and then speared her with a look. “You’re going to kill them, aren’t you?”
“Who?”
“Scarborough. Camden. The woman who’s with them... that Air Force lieutenant who helped them escape from Kirtland. The Publishers... The Colleagues, if you will... They can’t afford Scarborough getting hold of the right ears, clearing his name... They can’t afford Richards fouling up again. They want a quick radical solution to the matter, don’t they? And so, they brought you... a very beautiful international assassin... into the picture.”
She smiled. “We’ll see, Mr. Schroeder. We’ll see.” She pulled out the piece of paper that had been included in her bus station package, consulted it. “Now then, please don’t think I’m alone in this. There are others about.”
“I see.”
“Yes… and according to them,” she tapped the paper with a manicured finger, “you’ve got an appointment with Camden at the EI Charro restaurant this afternoon at 3:00.”
Maximillian Schroeder blinked with surprise. “How …” Then understanding passed over his face. “Ah ... I see … Your sources seem to cross with mine.”
“Precisely. Now then, Mr. Schroeder, there’s not a great deal that you have to do.” She tilted her head in an almost coquettish manner. “Just take me along with you and introduce me to this fellow Jake Camden.”
A vastly amused smile crept out over Schroeder’s face. “Oh, he’ll like that,” he said. “I’m positive he’ll like that a great deal!”
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 94
