by Scott Powers
The Roswell Swatch
Scott Michael Powers
Off-University Press
Orlando, Florida, U.S.A.
The Roswell Swatch, Copyright © 2016 by Scott Michael Powers. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted without written consent of Scott Michael Powers. www.ScottMichaelPowers.com. [email protected].
Published November, 2016, by Off-University Press, 10151 University Blvd., No. 247, Orlando, Fl., U.S.A., 32817. www.Off-UniversityPress.com. [email protected].
This is a work of fiction, and the names, characters, locations, and incidents are all entirely fictional. Any resemblance to anyone or anything is purely coincidental. It’s not you..
Cover Design by Stephen Segal, stephenhsegal.com,
Manuscript edited by Marsha L. Butler, Take Flight Literary Services, Estes Park, Colo., www.swmpwriter.com.
Manuscript copy-edited by Kelly Hartigan, ExterraWeb Editing, www.editing.exterraweb.com.
Snippets of the following copyrighted songs appear in this book either through agreement with the publishing managers or through assumed, gracious defaults to fair-use doctrine after attempts to receive agreements were met with non-responses. All of the snippets are used only to portray the character of Max Studebaker, and are short enough to qualify for fair-use.
“I Can’t Drive 55,” words and music by Sammy Hagar. Copyright © 1984, WB Music Corp. and The Nine Music. All rights administered by WB Music Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Music.
“Detroit Breakdown,” words and music by Peter Wolf and Seth Justman. Copyright © 1974 (renewed,) Walden Music Inc., Pal-Park Music and Center City Music. All rights reserved by Walden Music Inc., All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Music.
“All The Small Things,” words and music by Travis Barker, Tom DeLange and Mark Hoppus. Copyright © 1999, Sony/ATV Music Publishing, Hal Leonard Corporation.
“Eli’s Coming,” words and music by Laura Nyro. Copyright © 1967, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC., Hal Leonard Corporation.
“Otherside,” words and music by Flea, Anthony Kliedis, John Frusciante and Chad Smith. Copyright © 1999, Mushroom Music Publishing, Hal Leonard Corporation.
“Smoke On The Water,” words and music by Richard Blackmore, Ian Gillan, Roger Glover, Jon Lord and Ian Paice. Copyright © 1971, Glenwood Music Corp., Sony/ATV Music Publishing, Hal Leonard Corporation.
“30 Days In The Hole,” words and music by Steve Marriott. Copyright © 1972, Universal Music Corp., Hal Leonard Corporation.
“Thunder Road,” words and music by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 1975 by Bruce Springsteen, c/o Chapman Bird & Grey Inc., and Grubman Shire & Meiselas, P.C.
“We Gotta Get Out Of This Place,” words and music by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. Copyright © 1965, BMI, Sony/ATV Music Publishing, Hal Leonard Corporation.
“Brownsville Girl,” words and music by Bob Dylan. Copyright © 1986 by Bob Dylan, Special Rider Music.
“Drive, Drive, Drive,” words and music by Scott Michael Powers. Copyright © 2016 by Scott Michael Powers, c/o Off-University Press.
www.TheRoswellSwatch.com
For Connie
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1 - HEY JOE
Chapter 2 - ELI’S COMING
Chapter 3 - AMERICAN WOMAN
Chapter 4 - WE GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS PLACE
Chapter 5 - DETROIT BREAKDOWN
Chapter 6 - BURNING FOR YOU
Chapter 7 - HOW TO SAVE A LIFE
Chapter 8 - GIVEN TO FLY
Chapter 9 - ENTER SANDMAN
Chapter 10 - LITTLE ROBBERS
Chapter 11 - OTHERSIDE
Chapter 12 - SLOW RIDE
Chapter 13 - GUERRILLA RADIO
Chapter 14 - DOWN IN A HOLE
Chapter 15 - DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE
Chapter 16 - DREAMS
Chapter 17 - PHOTOGRAPH
Chapter 18 - IT’S BEEN AWHILE
Chapter 19 - WITH OR WITHOUT YOU
Chapter 20 - I DON’T NEED NO DOCTOR
Chapter 21 - WHITE ROOM
Chapter 22 - THE BOMBER
Chapter 23 - THE PUSHER
Chapter 24 - INSIDE THE FIRE
Chapter 25 - SMOKE ON THE WATER
Chapter 26 - SUPERHEROES
Chapter 27 - FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND
Chapter 28 - BRASS IN POCKET
About The Author
CHAPTER 1
HEY JOE
Eve Mirada's Grandpa Joe had driven into a canal almost a month ago, twenty years later than most people had figured.
They had found him two days later. Eve’s mom didn’t cry, and Eve took her cue from Mom and swallowed the news without flinching. Grieving wasn’t going to happen. Still, Eve wished they’d come for Grandpa Joe’s funeral. It would have been a new experience. She’d never seen him sober or looking neat and clean. And she’d never faced him without fear.
Eve's mother, Meg, had handled arrangements by phone. But after the funeral and all the paperwork had cleared, there still was the matter of claiming and collecting his measly earthly possessions. Only Eve could go. She knew it before her mom could say it.
“Be sure to get the picture of Grandma Fay,”Meg advised.
“Dibs on his TV,”claimed Eve's brother, Alan.
So here she was, on the tail end of the three-hour drive to the shrimper's town of Seadrift, Texas, still the desolate and depressing place of Eve's childhood visits. She turned right at the old Chevron station, where they’d always stopped to pick up cigarettes and beer, the price of admission to visit Grandpa Joe. Eve drove this road back out of town, and past the canal where he had died.
They used to come frequently. For some reason, Meg had felt duty-bound toward Old Joe until Eve and Alan were in their teens. Eve associated Grandpa Joe mainly with the couch. He'd fill it, lounging across it with big, swollen legs that didn't look quite human, and he often never got up the whole damn time they were there.
He had never seemed comfortable with their presence. He had always seemed to start his thoughts in panic and then retreat into confusion.
"Hey! Goddamn! What the fuck are the kids doing in my bedroom, Meg? Will you tell them to Goddamn stay out of the bedroom? It's a shithole and I've got guns and shit in there."
"Okay, Pop, I'll get them."
"I just don't want those kids messing around in there. There's too much crap. They could get hurt."
"I'm getting them, Pop. Eve! Alan! Get back in here!"
"I'm just fucking saying."
"I know, Pop. Eve! Now!"
"I just don't want them getting hurt. Or blowing a hole in my fucking trailer."
"They're out, Pop."
"Fuck. It's a Goddamn shithole in there."
"They're out, Pop. You kids go outside and play."
"My fucking guns are in there. I don't want them messing with my guns. Right?"
"Pop."
"Shit. It's for their own damn good. Right?"
One day when Eve was maybe fifteen, their mother made them give him their usual awkward hugs and shooed them out of the trailer.
"I'm not bringing the kids back here again, Pop, ever," Meg said.
"Just as well. This is no fucking place for kids" That was Grandpa Joe's final farewell.
Since then he had missed a lot: Eve’s high school with a ride up into national honor society and a screaming drop into just barely graduating; two failed semesters of community college; three years of the Army with her disastrous deployment to Afghanistan; and then a timeless drift through aimless jobs, lovers, and stunted ambitions. But what would Grandpa Joe have cared?
Hell, Eve didn’t care much anymore. He was long gone from her life.
At last, he had died.
The red trailer drew Eve's attention from 500 dusty yards away. Curiously, a Lincoln was parked beside it. Eve crunched to a halt next to it, climbed out, and eyed the area.
Petite, tan, with shoulder-length, white-blonde hair, Eve looked tiny standing next to her truck.
She almost never felt tiny. The Glock 26 jammed into a pocket-carry holster in her jeans made her strong. Yet normally, which was to say almost anywhere but here, she didn’t need it to project strength. At twenty-nine Eve Mirada had ping-ponged through enough crap to become the embodiment of don’t screw with me.
But here she felt small again. Eve wished to stay only long enough to pick over and clean out Grandpa Joe’s trailer.
She approached the Lincoln with her hand on her gun and inspected the interior. Nothing. She climbed the stoop and pounded on the mobile home door. Silence. Eve absently tried the knob. The door pushed open a crack. The lock was not set. She took a steadying breath, touched her gun again, and opened the door.
Eve did not expect this. The trailer was clean and tidy. The air was fresh; the floor and surfaces clean. The trailer also appeared to have been cleaned out.
The air conditioner was gone. The TV stand was empty. Joe’s gun case, standing just inside the bedroom door, was closed but empty. Even the refrigerator was empty but clean. It made no sense. A burglary was one thing. She’d pondered the prospect. But who would clean up afterward?
She returned to the bedroom. The framed, black-and-white photograph of her grandmother Fay, which had always hung above Joe’s bed, was gone too.
She heard gravel crunch outside and jumped, jolted by adrenaline.
She moved to the front room window of Grandpa Joe’s trailer, and pushed the curtain aside enough to see an old man looking into her truck.
Eve opened the door and stepped onto the stoop. The tall, leathery man looked cowboy tough, complete with beige hat and a full head of silvery hair underneath.
“Can I help you?”she asked. Slowly, carefully, she withdrew her gun and pointed it toward the stoop.
The man looked amused. His low, slow laugh turned to a deep cough. When that ended, he tipped his hat.
“You must be Eve,”came a coarse baritone.“He knew you’d come.”
“He knew I’d come?”Eve echoed.“Who? My Grandpa Joe?"
"He's—"
"Who the hell are you?
"I'm—"
"What’re you doing here? Where’d his stuff go?”
The codger stepped forward raising both hands. He stopped, coughed again, and spit. He pulled a handkerchief from a pants pocket and, still looking down, wiped his mouth. He examined the hanky, pushed it back into his pocket, and finally looked her straight in the eyes.
“I’m Ziv,”he said.“Joe told us to watch for you.”
That’s when Eve saw he wasn’t alone. An old, short, squat woman in a headscarf—the word that entered Eve’s mind was babushka—stood by the Lincoln, twenty feet away, holding an oversize purse in both hands.
“You got his moxie. Good. You’ll need it,”Zivsaid.“Don’t worry. We got Joe’s things safe. All of 'em. And his story. For you. It’s your legacy, Eve.”
Legacy? Eve thought. I just want his guns. She didn’t speak.
“Come along, honey,”the lady by the road called out.“It’s terribly hot today, and I’ve got some cold tea.”
The babushka’s name was Nan. To Eve she was like Yoda, compact, calm, and seemingly very wise, but with hidden purpose.
Nan and Ziv took the Lincoln. Eve followed in her truck.
They turned onto a dirt road, dry, hard and rutted, nothing the truck couldn't handle. Ziv pulled into the driveway of a house set back some distance from the road. The white ranch had blue shutters and trim and tidy landscaping. A pair of lawn elephants, about the size of sheepdogs, stood sentry on each side of the walk.
Memory of the little house, the elephants, and the walk, wafted through Eve’s mind like a faint but distinct odor. She’d been here before. She tried to tune in the memory, but it faded like a radio signal just out of reach. A vague recollection was all she got. Strange, she thought. Of Ziv and Nan, she had no recognition.
Inside, Nan put Eve in an easy chair and went for tea. Ziv lowered his body onto a couch as if his back, neck, hips, and legs all gave him trouble. He gave her a silent smile. There.
“Tell me girl," the old man said. "Do you believe in UFOs?”
Eve was stunned. She looked around for Nan. She was busy in the kitchen. Eve returned her gaze to Ziv, who patiently awaited her response. She flashed her eyes to the left and dropped her lips open just a bit, expressing unfiltered disbelief and disdain.
“Look, Ziv, is it? Ziv? Christ. What kind of name is Ziv? Ziv, I’m in a hurry. Where’s Grandpa Joe’s stuff?”
He coughed deep and long, wiped his mouth, and then smiled again. He moved toward a box under the coffee table between them.
“Most is stashed in the garage. But this.”Zivdragged out the box.“Let’s start here.”He removed a framed, black-and-white photo of a young woman with thin lips, translucent eyes, and long, pale hair. It was the portrait of Grandma Fay her mother wanted. Ziv handed it to her.
“Beautiful. Looked just like you. I figure that’s why Joe wanted us to tell you about her murder.”
Eve ran her fingers over the glass of Grandma Fay’s portrait. She’d never really looked closely. She did resemble her Grandma Fay, whom she’d never met.
Did the old man say murder?
The word sank in late. She looked up in anger, challenging him to take it back.
“Murder? She died in a car crash. It was his fault. He was driving. Drunk, naturally, the bastard.”
Nan finally returned with a tray of iced tea glasses.
“Yes, dear, that’s all true, I suppose,”she said.“But your grandfather always believed he was set up. Here you go.”
Eve took the glass from her. An etched logo on the side read,“Carley’s Fish House.”
“Why? What are you talking about?"
Zivinterrupted.“They was after him. They didn’t care about her. That’s what Joe always said."
Eve kept her you-better-back-up-those-words expression. Ziv ignored it.
"And I think he was telling the truth," he said. "That’s why he came here with your ma—to hide. Your ma was just a baby then.”
“We knew your granddad a long time,”Nan said.“But we didn’t know his secrets until just a few weeks ago. He came to us scared, with this box.”
“I think he figured they’d found him after all these years. He was scared. He wanted to settle things. He said if anything happened to him, we wasto hold his things and wait for you,”Ziv added, letting it sink in a moment.
"‘My granddaughter will understand,’he said. He figured if you knew, you’d do what he never could. Set things right with his wife’s murder. He thought highly of you, Eve. He was proud of you. Goin’into the Army and all.”
Eve stood. She paced the couch, keeping her distance from this couple.“Bullshit. He didn’t know me. He didn’t care. He was nothing but a filthy, mean, drunk, worthless prick.”
“Yes, he was, dear,”said Nan, finally sitting down. She reached behind her, spread the lacy white sofa cover with her hand, and then gently eased onto it.“Lord knows, it was hard being his friend. We often had to rely on the Lord to give us patience. And he did.
“Do you know why?”
Eve shook her head. Her hair flopped over her right eye, and she brushed it away.
“Why what?”
“Why he was like that?”Nan asked.
It had never occurred to Eve there was a reason. Some dogs just stank.
“Your granddad’s real name was Joe Fynn,”Zivsaid.“By the time you wasborn, he’d changed his name, and he wasn’t half the man he used to be. He was hiding, with your ma, when she was just a baby. On t
he lam, we used to call it.”
Ziv reached into the box for a set of dog tags just like the ones Eve had once worn. He handed them to her.
They read,“Joseph L. Fynn.”
He’d been in the Air Force, Ziv explained. His unit took a top-secret mission. Then one by one, they all died mysterious deaths. Accidents. One after another.
“Joe was the last of them, an’he knew it,”Zivsaid.“It was a miracle he survived the crash. He figured they’d come for him again.”
"So what are you saying?"
"Someone killed his wife, your grandmother. Killed his friends. Tried to kill him. He got scared and ran."
"And drank," Nan added.
The whole conversation sounded like fiction to Eve. None of it jibed with what she’d always known. She’d never heard the name Fynn. Her grandfather’s name was Joe Ross. Ross was her mother’s maiden name.
Eve said nothing for a moment, waiting for them to go on. But they sat patiently, waiting for her to come around.
“Who killed them?" she said finally.
“Do you know about Roswell, dear?”Nan asked.
There it was again, the UFO thing. Eve blinked. She looked from Nan to Ziv and back to Nan, seeking telltale signs of shared insanity. People, who lived isolated but together, could develop the same delusions. Did their eyes look clear? They patiently awaited an answer so Eve played along for the moment.
“What? A flying saucer, right? Crashed in New Mexico, in the 1940s?”
“That’s right,”said Ziv.“We didn’t believe it none neither. Hell, I never gave it much thought,’til we heard Joe tell it.”
"What? Aliens were trying to kill Grandpa Joe? Where's his shit? I don't have time for this."
“The story goes,”Nan said,“that the Air Force took the flying saucer to Texas. Then to a base in Dayton, Ohio. That’s the legend. But your grandpa picked it up from there. He said it was moved one more time.”
Eve let her body sink into the easy chair, getting ready for a long sit. She sipped her tea. Nan continued.
The Air Force base was secure but lacked proper lab facilities, equipment, and technical expertise needed to study a UFO, Nan explained. All the top military scientists and engineers at that time worked in well-funded, private labs, under highly classified government contracts. Just an hour from Dayton, in Columbus, was one of the biggest, best-equipped, best-paid, and best-staffed military labs in the world, the King Institute.
