Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 08 (14 page)

I mean, carbon monoxide in the middle of the woods? As we so quaintly say in the South, that dawg won't hunt.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Dr. Sageman," I said, "there has been a death. I realize that you're in a hurry, but I have questions that must be answered."

He stopped toweling his hair long enough to give me a wounded frown. "What happened was an appalling tragedy, Chief Hanks. Brian Quint was by no means just a valued employee, but also a close friend and a confidant, and I am deeply distraught over his death. If I had not agreed to meet with an assistant producer from X-Files at the Farberville airport about the possibility of narrating a segment, I would be prostrate with grief. I regarded Brian as the son I never had. In fact, I'd come to think of him as my successor as director of the ETH Foundation."

"I need information about him so I can notify his family -- unless you've already done it."

"His father died years ago. His mother lives in Long Beach, and I spoke with her before I took a shower. I didn't know what to say about the cause of death, so I merely said it was an accident and assured her I would take care of the arrangements." He dropped the towel and sat on the corner of the bed, his bathrobe gaping to expose a hairless, freckled chest and a faint ripple of ribs. His aristocratic accent was replaced with gravelly anxiety as he added, "You will get to the bottom of this, won't you? If Brian was killed, inadvertently or intentionally, during a close encounter, all of us in ufology must rethink our supposition that the extraterrestrials come in peace. The Majestic Twelve commission will have to cast off the mantle of secrecy. The conspiracy must be exposed so that we as a race can unite in our response to this impending peril."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I nodded and said, "What do you know about Brian's background?"

"He sent a résumé when he applied for the position, but I don't have it with me. I seem to think he grew up in the San Fernando Valley and went to one of the California universities to study business, or perhaps marketing. He did public relations for various computer companies, edited in-house publications, and became interested in ufology after attending one of my seminars. We began a correspondence, and two years ago, when my former secretary resigned, Brian expressed eagerness to work for me. I was desperate since much of my research was on computer files. I prefer to dictate my books and then revise them after they've been processed in the computer and printed out. I myself am what you might call electronically challenged." He gave me a sheet of paper. "I've written down his mother's address and telephone number. Brian was single, with no serious romantic entanglements. Last year, after his apartment was burglarized for the third time, he moved into the guest cottage on my estate in Topango. The city lights are less obtrusive back in the canyon, and one feels much closer to the celestial presence."

"Let's talk about last night. You left him setting up equipment by Boone Creek?"

"That's correct." Sageman went to the dresser, picked up a comb, and somberly studied himself in the mirror before attacking his hair with the fervor of a cosmetologist. Between incursions with the comb and spritzes of hair spray, he said, "A few minutes after seven o'clock Cynthia and I left him to document any unusual activity in the vicinity. Brian was a very conscientious investigator, Chief Hanks. I trusted him. If I'd suspected there was physical danger, I would have insisted on staying with him. There was no reason to think so, and I felt it was more important to examine the possibility that aliens had abducted a local girl."

"Did you?" I murmured, then sat back in my chair and gave him lots of time to stew. He was jittery; that was obvious. But I didn't know why, any more than I knew the origins of the strange lights or how best to interrogate the world's foremost authority on extraterrestrial encounters -- depending on whom you believed these days. I wasn't inclined to believe much of anyone.

"Okay," I said, "what did you do after you came back to the Flamingo Motel?"

"The subject was already here and eager to begin her exploratory session. She, Rosemary, and I adjourned to the middle room in the opposite building. She was remarkably flexible. In many cases I must endure the more insignificant and tedious past lives in order to win the trust of the subject and coax -- "

"When did the session end?"

"Around eleven, I should think, but you should ask Rosemary. I find clocks and watches distracting. Time is hardly linear, after all, but exists in an autonomous dimension -- "

"Then why didn't you answer the telephone when Ruby Bee called sometime between ten-thirty and eleven?" I said. Despite my southern upbringing, I'd become amazingly adept at interrupting these people, all of whom teetered on the brink of delivering a lecture, complete with footnotes, with minimal or nonexistent provocation. The idea of attending a weekend conference with hundreds of them had less appeal than root canal work.

Sageman returned to whatever mundane dimension we were in and gravely considered my question. "The telephone did not ring. The subject was in a deep trance, but Rosemary will confirm it. She never left the room."

"Why did Dr. McMasterson drive Dahlia home?"

"How else could we send the girl home? Cynthia had Rosemary's car, and Brian had the one that we rented at the airport. Hayden McMasterson is an idiot, but he is not a lout. I explained the situation, and he readily agreed. An hour later he was kind enough to take Rosemary and me to the hospital." He noticed my expression. "Does this perplex you, Chief Hanks?"

It did, but I wasn't sure why. "I'm still trying to get a picture of what happened immediately after the session. Dr. McMasterson left with Dahlia. What did you do then?"

"I went into my room, rewound the tapes, and began to listen to them while making some preliminary notes. As soon as possible I'll schedule a second session with the subject. There is a wealth of explicit and vivid material here -- all distinctly erotic. I fully intend to make this abduction the core of the Houston lecture and of my next book. The correlation with the crop circles makes it unique."

"Why didn't you read the note and go racing to the site of the crash?"

"Because there was no note. Had I known of the purported crash, I would have found a way to get there. I've dedicated more than twenty years of my life to the cause of ufology, but I've never once been privileged to see a spacecraft. Can you imagine how frustrating it is always to be the bridesmaid and never the bride? I want to see one, dammit! I want to go inside and marvel at the technology, soak up knowledge, share their vastly superior conceits, communicate with them at a level far beyond that of a simpleton witness." He began to pace as best he could, considering the confines of the motel room. A new direction was called for every four steps or so. "Don't they know that I'm the leading authority? Why don't they contact me? I am Arthur Sageman, not some fisherman in Mississippi! They should contact me!"

I slipped out the door, then paused in the parking lot and wasted a few minutes trying to decide if he was certifiable. Odds were good, but as far as I could tell, my opinion of him had nothing to do with Brian Quint's death.

The bar and grill was redolent of freshly baked biscuits and frying bacon. I poured myself a cup of coffee, then sat on a stool and wrote up the interview with Arthur Sageman. He'd last seen Brian at seven o'clock and subsequently had been in the company of Dahlia and Rosemary Tant. The former was too witless to lie, and I could think of no reason for the latter to do so. There was no pressing reason to suspect any of them, for that matter. Or anybody else.

Ruby Bee came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate heaped high with just about everything near and dear to my heart. "I called the hospital," she said. "Cynthia's out of danger, but they're gonna keep an eye on her for the next few days. I told Rosemary I'd give her directions to the hospital so she can sit and visit for a spell."

"She can't have her car until it's been fingerprinted." I shoveled a forkful of buttery grits into my mouth, fantasized fleetingly about heaven, then swallowed and said, "Last night you and Estelle were caught up in the drama of tracking Cynthia to this clearing. Never for an instant would I suggest you imagined this apparition, but isn't it possible you saw something a whole lot less incomprehensible and allowed your imaginations to run wild?"

She shook her head. "I knew you were gonna ask me that question, so I gave it some careful thought. Estelle and me may have had some flights of fancy in the past. We may have gotten in the way of your investigations on occasion, too. But all the way back to Maggody, we talked about what we saw, and we're both real firm in our minds about it. The creature was close to seven feet tall. It was shimmery. When it came across the creek, its feet were well above the water. I'm sorry if you don't believe us, but we can't change our story 'cause it's the gospel truth."

The gospel according to St. Sageman anyway. Rather than risk having my plate snatched from under my nose, I settled for a noncommittal shrug. "I just spoke to Dr. Sageman. He claims the telephone never rang last night. Are you sure you dialed the right number?"

"Are you implying I don't know the numbers of the units ... or that I'm so crazy that I made up the story about calling, too?"

"No, of course not," I said, prudently holding the edge of my plate. "He also said he didn't find this note about the crash. After you read it, did you put it back under his door?"

"I told Estelle to put it back, but she said we might need the map if we missed the road. I said that was ridiculous because it was the first road past the bridge, but she said -- "

"Do you still have it?"

She took a folded paper from her apron pocket, dropped it in front of me, and exited through the kitchen doors.

Despite the fact at least four people had handled it, I opened it with the tip of my knife. The printed message read: "I saw a silver disk crash two nights ago in this location." The map was neatly drawn in black ink, with the main road, County 102, and Boone Creek labeled, and a dotted line indicating the old logging road. A trite X marked the spot.

Although I doubted any telltale fingerprints could be lifted, I refolded it and put it in my shirt pocket, planning to drop it off at Harve's office later. I sopped up the last drop of gravy, then resumed my duties as chief of police and protector of the populace. I did so walking across the parking lot to knock on Hayden McMasterson's door (No. 6, if you're keeping a chart).

"I was just about to leave," he said as he brushed past me, staggering under a burden of camera bags, a tripod, and exotic paraphernalia. "I have permission to enter the field this morning. The only way to determine the validity of the configurations is to dowse them and locate the energy lines. If I'd been there last night, I could have checked for radioactivity, but it dissipates quickly. Oh, dear, did I forget the Geiger counter?"

"Wait a minute," I said, cutting off his route back inside the motel room. "I want to talk to you."

"I must photograph this quintuplet formation for the Chronicle of Cosmic Inquiry and for my presentation at the Houston conference. My editor has agreed to delay production of my new book, Concentricity and Conception, so that I can add a chapter. My publicist has already approached the major network talk shows, and for once they're willing to examine the slides and consider me as a potential guest."

I thought about grabbing his ponytail to command his attention but settled for blocking the doorway. "Dr. McMasterson, do you recall who I am?"

"You're the police chief."

"Very good. This means that if I get testy, I can shoot you and claim self-defense. I can throw you in jail for pissing me off. I can confiscate your camera and your Geiger counter. The Supreme Court may come down on me one of these days, but in the meantime, you really should take your foot off my foot and pay a little bit more attention to what I'm saying."

"Sorry," he said, stepping back and wiggling his nose at me as if I were an unfamiliar -- but not necessarily repugnant -- smell. "I'm so tremendously excited. Have you heard about the configuration?"

"Have you heard about Brian Quint?" I countered.

He crumpled like a wet towel. "I never knew Brian well, but I did see him at conferences and sightings. He had a very distinctive bluish green aura. My wife adjusted it for him at the last MUFON conference, and afterward he hugged both of us and said he felt much more euphonious. It was a very special moment for everyone in the room." He began to cry, at first with constraint but then with such emotion that I found myself patting his back, murmuring encouragement -- and feeling acutely uncomfortable. I'd never encountered a male in Maggody who cried or would be caught dead in the embrace of another male. Physical contact within the gender is pretty much limited to smirky nudges and fistfights.

"It's okay," I said numerous times, then went into the bathroom and dampened a washcloth for him.

He was fingering his crystal when I returned. "Brian," he said, accepting the washcloth with a rueful smile, "was a dynamic young man, filled with promise. He'd fallen for Arthur's delusions, but at times I sensed that he might be salvageable."

"Why did you think that?"

"He had no choice but to be drawn into the asinine theories of the ETH enthusiasts. He was paid to do so, after all, and paid very well. Given time, he might have seen the fallacies and come over to our side. He called me at the institute to tell me about the crop circles and to urge me to come, which tells me that he suspected my intraterrestrial hypothesis might better explain the phenomenon.