Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 08 (5 page)

"Like the alien offspring in Brazil?"

"The mother had the baby during a two-year period when her husband was working on a freighter. When he returned home, all her relatives agreed that she'd been raped by small purple men from a flying saucer. No one can understand the baby's babbles. It could be a foreign language."

"And I could sprout wings and fly out the door," I said, unimpressed.

"That might get your picture on the cover."

Struggling not to giggle at the images that came to mind, I stood up in hopes of ending the conversation. He was attractive, but I needed to finish my diagram of where the body parts had landed. "You'll be the first to know, Mr. Channel. Would you like directions to the cornfield?"

"I need to find a motel first," he said. "Are you sure you won't make a statement? Otherwise, I'll be obliged to report that the local authorities refused to rule out the possibility that the circles were created by alien spacecraft."

"Who said anything about alien spacecraft? These are circles of flattened cornstalks, for pity's sake! The director of the county extension office must have rattled off two dozen possibilities, including the corn borer, corn earworm, corn weevil, corn beetle, corn-root aphid, and a very common parasitic fungus called corn smut. You'd be better off interviewing the naked Pentecostals about their brand of clothing."

"That's why I was in Louisiana," he said as he started for the door. "It seems that only the driver was jailed. His companions slipped away from some minimum security facility and fled into the woods. There'll be a story in the next issue about their exorcism ritual, which they no doubt performed on the banks of a bayou."

"No doubt," I said, then waited until he was gone before collapsing in my chair and cradling my head in my hands. When the high school basketball team won the conference title, there was nary a word in the area newspaper. When the FHA club won a blue ribbon for its booth at the county fair, there was a single sentence buried in a long paragraph.

But now we were going to be featured in the Weekly Examiner, right next to demonic toilets and errant Pentecostals. What I needed was a bulldozer and a moonlit night, I decided. The resultant destruction wouldn't merit a mention in a church bulletin.

Arthur Sageman shook his head as he looked out the car window at the dismal little town. "I hope this is worth the trip," he said. "The manuscript is late, and I really need to spend more time polishing my keynote address for the conference in Houston next month. Book sales have been slacking off, and the conference may be my last chance to regain international prominence. If only I hadn't fallen for that woman's story and featured her in The Roswell Incident Revisited, but I had no idea she would turn out to have been institutionalized more than a dozen times. Once the reviewers got wind of it, they were merciless."

His secretary, an exceptionally pale young man named Brian Quint, didn't bother to reply. Arthur had been complaining steadily since they'd left LAX five hours earlier. Brian was aware of the unfinished manuscript (since he was word-processing it) and of the approaching conference (since he'd negotiated the fee and made the necessary reservations). He was also aware of the substantial salary he received in exchange for such duties and therefore managed a sympathetic murmur.

"Surely Cynthia has her facts straight," Arthur continued in his vaguely British accent, which he'd adopted after deciding a Texas twang diminished the impact of his lectures. He'd adopted a new name, too; Leroy Longspur did not inspire reverence. "If so, I can use this in Houston and literally bring down the house. Very little has been done with corn circle configurations in the United States, I suppose because of the crude forgeries in Kennewick several years ago. This will be quite a coup."

"And Rosemary will be here," Brian said as he braked at what appeared to be the only stoplight. "Oh, shit," he added, then pointed at a figure walking alongside the road. "Look who's here -- your favorite tabloid reporter, Jules Channel." Arthur was distressed enough to ruffle his sculpted silver hair and allow a deep crease to cut across his wide forehead. He pulled off his wire-rimmed glasses, polished them on a silk handkerchief, and resettled them on his undeniably patrician nose. Keeping all but the faintest hint of vinegar from his voice, he said, "We could have done without the chap. His edge of sarcasm makes legitimate sightings sound like a quaint elementary school theater production."

"He turned into the parking lot with a motel sign. It's likely to be the only one around, so it's probable Cynthia booked us rooms there. Talk about your strange bedfellows ... "

They found the motel behind a pink building, but there was neither office nor any hint of the registration procedure. There were three cars, however. Two had stickers indicating they were rented, but the third had a metal plate from a Little Rock Honda agency.

"That could be Cynthia's or Rosemary's," Arthur said. "I have no desire to encounter Mr. Channel, but I would like to get settled in so we can start taking slides this afternoon. Knock on the door, Brian."

As Brian climbed out of the car, a door at the end of the building opened and a young woman emerged. She was burdened with a briefcase, several camera bags, and an enormous leather purse. He watched as she staggered to one of the rental cars, made a futile attempt to open the door, looked around with a fetchingly helpless expression, and then dumped her load on the hood of the car. Only then did she realize she was being observed.

"Hello," she said with a strained smile. Brian wiggled his fingers. "Hello. You've obviously found the office and managed to register. Could you be so kind as to point me in the right direction?"

"Talk to the woman inside the bar." She turned away and began to dig through her purse, but her cheeks were noticeably pink. Somehow or other, she managed to knock the briefcase off the hood while spilling most of the purse's contents at her feet. "Darn!"

Brian thought she was adorable. "Are you here to see the crop circles?"

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "I'm a reporter."

Arthur stuck his head out the car window. "Brian, my boy, we cannot sit here all afternoon and natter with other guests. If this car is not Cynthia's, then we must track her down and determine where we are to stay tonight. It's imperative that our cameras are placed before dark."

Brian obediently knocked on the door of No. 2. When Rosemary peered timidly out the window, he beckoned to Arthur. The girl from No. 3 drove away as Cynthia opened the door and stepped outside.

"Welcome back to Arkansas, Arthur!" she boomed. "You haven't been here since the MUFON conference in Eureka Springs four years ago, have you? I was so hoping you might speak at our UFORIA conference last month. We had a decent turnout, but we would have drawn attendees from across the country if you had come."

He shrugged modestly. "I am dreadfully busy these days. My fourteenth book just came out, although you must have heard that from Rosemary. I insisted her photograph be included on the interior of the dust jacket this time."

Cynthia was properly impressed with his magnanimity, as well as his prolificacy. "She loaned me her copy, although I haven't had time to read it yet. This business with the Mars Observer conspiracy has taken all my energy."

Rosemary wiggled past Cynthia. "Arthur, how are you? Did you have a nice flight? I've never flown, you know, except for my trips in Pleiadian spaceships, and those were absolutely terrifying -- "

"Brian, you and Arthur are directly across from us in number five," Cynthia called as the former opened the trunk. "I tried to get you separate rooms, but these were the last two. I'm sorry about that, Arthur. I hope it's not inconvenient."

It was, but he was busy congratulating himself on the publication of fourteen books. It was even more amazing if you took into account his numerous scholarly contributions to the Journal of the ETH Research Foundation. He was also in the midst of a caustic exchange that took place in the letters to the editor page of the Chronicle of Cosmic Inquiry. All that, he mused, and conferences at least every other month, some as far away as Australia and England. One of these days he'd have enough frequent flyer miles for a free trip to Alpha Centauri.

"Do you have the key, Cynthia?" Brian asked as he balanced the laptop, boxes of disks, and a stack of manila folders. She did, and while Rosemary continued to describe her ordeal aboard the alien craft, Arthur to muse over his accomplishments, and Brian to glance wistfully at the door of No. 3, luggage was stored inside the room (cramped and cheaply furnished, but very clean). At some point Cynthia confirmed that Jules Channel was in the very next room and that the girl in No. 3 was indeed a reporter from the Probe. This cast a gloom on the group that was lifted only when Arthur said, "Well, then, shall we begin?"

Brother Verber inspected his gear to make sure he was ready to begin that very night. On the couch were an industrial-size flashlight, an extra package of new batteries, a can of bug spray, a plastic pith helmet, and a worn, well-thumbed Bible. On the floor were two rubber boots, each big enough to drown a cat. He'd driven to the army surplus store in Farberville that morning and, to his chagrin, had been informed that they were the only ones in stock. Even though they were size sixteen, the salesman seemed to believe that they'd do just fine with socks stuffed in the toes. Brother Verber believed it, too, once ten dollars was knocked off the price and the pith helmet thrown in for free.

He'd already decided which biblical verse to use (I Peter 2:11) and had been rehearsing most of the afternoon. "'Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul,'" he said, punctuating it with a string of sorrowful sighs for the wickedness that already would be in progress when he arrived. As disgusted as he would be, he could not shirk his duty; the mail-order seminary in Las Vegas had stressed selflessness and dedication, even when it meant going one-on-one with Satan hisself.

Something about the quote didn't sit just right, he thought as he poured a glass of sacramental wine and sat down at the dinette. He rolled his eyes in a heavenly direction to find out if the Good Lord might object to a little fine-tuning. The Good Lord didn't comment. That meant He most likely was too busy with famines and wars even to notice. Brother Verber pondered the verse, trying to give it a little punch, and came up with a much more potent version. It was so promising that he went into the bathroom and struck a pose in front of the mirror.

"Dearly beloveds, I beseech you as local teenagers whose parents attend the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall on Sunday mornings and hardly ever skip Wednesday evening prayer meetings, abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against thine virgin souls."

Satisfied that he'd covered all the bases, he went back to the dinette and reached for the wine bottle. All that was left to do was to determine if he was going to patrol upstream or downstream from the low-water bridge. If the Good Lord didn't drop any hints before dusk, Brother Verber figured he could flip a coin.

Ruby Bee had sent Dahlia home to rest up before the crowd came back for happy hour. She herself was tuckered out, but she'd shooed out the last few customers and managed to get a dozen pies and cobblers in the ovens, along with briskets and green bean casseroles and scalloped potatoes. A vat of chicken and dumplings bubbled on the stove. Corn bread and biscuit batters awaited their time. Estelle had come to lend a hand, since crop circles seemed to have no impact on the cosmetology industry. Now the two of them finally had a chance to sit down at the end of the bar.

"All the units are rented?" Estelle said incredulously. "That ain't happened since the folks from Nashville came last year."

Ruby Bee wasn't in the mood to reminisce about that particular disaster. "Two of 'em are tabloid reporters, although that little girl doesn't look old enough to be anything but a baby-sitter. Her name's Lucy Fernclift, and her address is somewhere in Florida. I don't think she would have admitted she works for the Probe if I hadn't upped and asked her. Jules Channel, the other reporter, is from the Weekly Examiner. He's older -- and a mite smirky."

"Arly's type, huh?"

"I reckon so," said Ruby Bee, "but I don't aim to be the one that tells her. The women in number two are from Little Rock. One of them was gabbling about some club or something when I gave her the keys, but it was noisier than a room full of fiddlers, and I didn't catch much of it. She also had me keep a room for two men coming all the way from California."

Estelle's jaw dropped so far it liked to bump her chest. "California? Are you claiming folks are coming all the way from California and Florida and Little Rock on account of the circles in Raz's cornfield?"

"I'm not claiming anything, Estelle. I am repeating what they told me. They could be crazier than any of the Buchanons, including Diesel. I heard just the other day that he's taken to living in a cave on the back side of Cotter's Ridge and biting the heads off live squirrels and rabbits."

"I ain't surprised," Estelle said, trying to sound as if she'd known it all along and just hadn't bothered to repeat it. She did some calculating on her fingers. "That leaves one more unit, doesn't it?"

"Last night right after the news a man called me all the way from New Mexico to reserve a room. His name is Hayden McMasterson, and he's the director of some research place that investigates mysterious happenings. He told me the name of it, but I can't recall what it is. He should be arriving shortly."