DRIVERS LICENSE
Jack pulled open the door and stepped inside.
"Hey, Jack," said the skinny, basset-faced man behind the counter. "How y' doin'. How y' doin'." Not a question, just Ernie's habitual rapid-fire greeting. "Lock the door and flip the sign to 'closed' there, will ya?"
Jack did just that, then approached the counter, passing racks of sunglasses, customizable T-shirts, sports caps, and bootleg videos. Ernie developed film and made legitimate photo IDs, and generally sold anything that had a fat mark-up, but his main income came from people who wanted to be someone else, or at least be known as someone else.
Over the years Ernie had made dozens of driver's licenses and photo IDs for Jack.
"You said you need another high school ID, right?" Ernie said, lifting an accordion file from the floor and removing the elastic band that encircled it. "Here in the city?"
"No. Hoboken."
Ernie flipped through the pockets in the file, an extensive collection of ID cards and badges for most of the schools, factories, and offices within a ten-mile radius.
"Hoboken…Hoboken…what's the kid's name?"
Jack unfolded a photocopy of a certified birth certificate and placed it on the counter.
"Here he is. And I'll need you to notarize this copy for me, too."
Ernie had a Notary Public seal, the duplicate of a legitimate Notary down in the financial district.
"Sure thing." He squinted at the birth certificate. "D'Attilio, huh? D'Attilio the Hun, maybe?" He flashed Jack a quick, Charlie Callas grin. "For a D'Attilio we should probably enroll him in St. Aloysius." More searching. "Here it is."
He removed a high school ID from the file and clipped it to a yellow legal pad.
"Okay," he said, scribbling on the pad. "We've got John D'Attilio. D-O-B?"
Jack pointed to the birth date on the certificate. "Right there."
"Got it. Address?"
Jack gave him the address of his Hoboken mail drop.
Ernie nodded. "Yog?"
"What's that?"
Ernie raised his eyebrows and gave Jack a Do-I-have-to-spell-it-out? look. "Y-OG?"
Of course—year of graduation. It was on all school IDs.
"Let see…he's just turning sixteen, so he'll graduate two years from now."
"Got it. And I've got a nice photo to go with that name. Okay. When do you need it?"
"No hurry. Next week's okay."
"Good. Cause I'm a little backed up."
"Usual price?"
"Yeah."
"See you Monday."
Jack turned the sign, unlocked the door, and stepped back onto Tenth Avenue. He glanced at his watch. Time to check back with the hotel. He hoped the reservation desk had scrounged up a room for him. He found himself looking forward to mingling with the Society for the Exposure of Secret Organizations and Unexplained Phenomena. He'd never been an "experiencer" before.
4
Jack lucked out with a room: One of the SESOUPers had to cancel because of some family emergency, and Jack took her place.
He wound up in a fifth floor room overlooking the street. The decor was typical hotel blah: stucco ceiling, heavy duty beige wall paper, TV, dresser, and a pair of double beds, double drapes on the window, and framed nondescript prints of ponds and tree branches on the walls. But the bland surroundings didn't allay the strange uneasiness he felt every time he stepped into this building, as if the air were charged with some sort of cold energy.
He was unpacking the gym bag that held the change of clothes he'd brought from home, when he heard a knock on his door. He eyeballed the peephole, expecting to see Lew. Instead he found Olive Farina standing in the hall.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Shelby?" she said as Jack pulled open the door. "May I come in? I have a question or two I'd like to ask you."
Jack hesitated, puzzled. What did she want here?
But she looked harmless enough, and he was curious to hear her question or two.
"Sure."
He stepped aside and Olive entered uncertainly, peering into the bathroom as she passed, as if expecting someone to be hiding in there.
"You're alone?"
"Last time I looked."
When she reached the center of the room, she stopped in front of the TV cabinet and turned to him. "Before we speak, will you do something for me?"
"Depends on what it is."
She lifted the silver crucifix that hung from her neck. "Will you hold this for me?"
"Hold it?"
"That's right. Just wrap your fingers around it for the count of ten."
Uh-oh, Jack thought. Loony Tunes times.
But he said okay and gripped the crucifix in his fist, firmly resisting the manic urge to scream in agony and fall writhing to the floor. Very doubtful this audience would find much humor in that.
"Good," she said after a few heartbeats. "You can let go now." She inspected Jack's open palm.
"Looking for scorch marks?" he said.
She gave him a tolerant smile. "Laugh if you will, but at least now I feel I can trust you."
Jack shrugged, thinking, if that's all it takes, you're already way too trusting. He gestured to one of the upholstered chairs by the big plate glass window.
"Have a seat." Jack turned the chair from the writing desk to face her and dropped into it. "What did you want to ask me?"
"Well," she said, adjusting her wide frame into the narrow seat, "if I understand correctly, you were the last one to speak to Melanie Ehler."
"I don't know that for sure. She could have called lots of other people."
"Yes, of course. But I want to know…when she spoke to you, did she mention anything else…did she mention the End Times?"
"No," Jack said. "I'm not familiar—"
"That must be what Melanie learned," Olive said, her voice revving up. "Because everything that's going wrong in the world is evidence of the End Times." She pointed to the night stand between the beds. "There's a Holy Bible in that drawer, and it's all recorded right there in the Book of Revelations."
"Really."
"That glowing figure you saw in the woods? That could have been an angel—the Book of Revelations mentions angels appearing to the Righteous near the End Times. Are you righteous?"
"I sure hope so."
"And that light you saw? Some will claim it was a UFO peopled with aliens. Don't believe them. UFOs are not from outer space—they're the chariots of Satan."
She was working herself up. It was almost as if she were talking to herself. Jack could only watch and listen, fascinated.
"Yes! Satan! For isn't the Dark One, after all, referred to as 'Prince of the Air?' The lights in the skies are proof that Satan is here. He and his forces are at this very moment working to hurl America into anarchy by destroying religious freedoms. That's why there's been so many church burnings recently—and don't forget Waco! But he'll also try to undermine from within by striking at us through our children! Even now his minions are teaching those innocent minds about evolution and life on other planets, trying to convince them that science proves the Bible wrong! And it's working, trust me, it's working. And what is Satan's purpose? Just before the End Times, he is going to join the USA and Canada into a single government and install the Antichrist as overall leader."
Jack listened raptly. He loved this stuff.
"Any idea who this Antichrist is?" he said when she took a breath. He could think of a few politicians who fit the description.
"No. Not yet. We'll know soon enough, though. But not all of us are going to sit around and just let this happen. The Righteous Faithful will resist to the end. The Devil is going to mark his billions of followers with a special microchip. It will run at six hundred and sixty-six megahertz—six-six-six is the Number of the Beast, you know. His followers, those who have the chip, will be able to buy food and roam free; the Righteous who refuse the chip and stay faithful to God will starve or be rounded up and put into camps."
Got to make sure I get me one of those chips, Jack thought.
"It will be a terrible time," she said, shaking her head as she wound down and her voice softened. "A terrible, terrible time."
"How did you learn all this?" Jack said.
"I told you: it's right here in the Bible, and in the papers every day!"
"Right. Of course." He knew she hadn't been born like this. He wondered when she'd gone off the deep end. And he wanted to know if she was far enough gone to make a move against Melanie Ehler. "But when did you first begin putting it all together?"
Olive leaned forward. "I can tell you the exact date I became aware of Satan's evil hand in world affairs. Up till that time I was just like everybody else, blithely going about my business, thinking everything was fine—well, I had a bad weight problem and couldn't seem to do anything about it. But I had no idea my obesity was related to Satan."
Jack couldn't resist. "The Devil made you eat?"
"Are you mocking me, Mr. Shelby? Because if—"
"Call me Jack, and no, I wasn't mocking you." Had to tread softly here. "Go on."
"All right. As I was saying, I was getting nowhere with my weight until I went to this wonderful therapist. She took one look at me and said, 'You were abused as a child—that's why you're overweight. Your mind has forced you to build up that layer of fat as symbolic insulation against further abuse.'"
"She made the diagnosis first, before she started interviewing you? Isn't it usually the other way around?"
"She's an exceptional woman. At first, of course, I thought she was crazy, but she convinced me to go through memory recovery therapy. And, to my everlasting horror, I found she was right. I recovered memories of Satanic ritual abuse when I was a child."
Jack said nothing. He'd read an article in the Times about memory recovery therapy and how it tended to create more memories than it supposedly recovered.
Olive pulled a tissue from the pocket of her flowered vest and dabbed at her eyes. "My parents denied it all till their dying days, so I couldn't find out if they'd implanted one of those 666 chips in me."
"What makes you think—?"
"Because they hurt me!" she said, her eyes puddling up again. "I remember that! I can see those black robed figures standing over me—you hear about men in black, and there was that so-called comedy movie about them, but these were the real men in black, and believe me, there was nothing funny about them!"
"Easy, Olive," Jack said, fearing she was about to lose it. "It's all right."
"It's not all right! These Satanic cults sacrifice most of their victims, and so for a while I thought I was lucky because I'd survived. And then I started thinking maybe I was allowed to live for a reason. Maybe I'd been implanted with the 666 chip. If that's true, it will control me during the End Times. I'll be marked as unfaithful. I'll miss the Rapture and suffer the Tribulation."
"A simple X ray ought to—"
"They don't show up on X rays! I've had countless pelvic exams, plus CAT scans and ultrasounds and MRIs, but they all supposedly come back negative."
"Supposedly?"
"I'm beginning to suspect that the medical profession is in league with the CIA and Satan, implanting these chips in everyone they can. That's why I've got to know when the End Times are coming…so I can prepare myself…purify myself. If you hear from Melanie again, ask her about the End Times, will you? Please? I've got to know."
Jack's sense of derisive amusement with Olive melted away in the face of her genuine anguish. Her fears were whacked out, but the deeply troubled woman before him was real, and she was hurting. He would have liked a few minutes with the so-called therapist who got her started down this road.
"Sure, Olive," he said softly. "If I hear from her again, that's the first thing I'll ask her."
"Thank you," she said, brightening. "Oh, thank you. And tell her I've still got the disks." Her eyes widened and her hand darted to her mouth.
"What disks?" Jack asked.
"Nothing," she said quickly. "It was nothing. Forget I said that."
Jack remembered the empty "GUT" folder in Melanie's computer.
"Computer disks, Olive?" he said, improvising. "Melanie told me she had large computer files on her Grand Unification Theory. She said she made copies for safekeeping and that she was giving them to someone she trusted." He was stabbing in the dark here. "Was that someone you?"
"Her theory? All her work?" Olive sat frozen, staring at Jack. "She told you?"
Jack nodded. "You've got them in a safe place, I hope."
"Yes, but I don't know anything about computers, so I have no idea what's on them. And I was wondering why she didn't give them to Lew. Do you think she doesn't trust him?"
Good question. Why hadn't she given them to her husband?
"I can't say, Olive. I never met her, and I've only known Lew since Tuesday."
"Melanie and I are very close. She's such a good, warm person. She'll always listen to me, always comfort me. She never has a bad word to say about anyone. She's been like a sister to me."
That didn't jibe with Lew's description of a woman with few friends or social contacts.
"If something's happened to her…" Olive sniffed and blinked back tears.
"You know," Jack said slowly, cautiously, "I know a little about computers. Maybe I could help you get into those disks and—"
Olive was shaking her head. "No." Her eyes narrowed. "Why should you care about what's on those disks?"
"Well," Jack said, improvising again—this was one suspicious lady. "Melanie seemed to know about my, um, experience. I want to know how. Those disks might give us a clue as to—"
"No-no!" she said, her voice rising. "No one can see them! I promised!"
"Okay," Jack said, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. He didn't want her getting worked up again. "Good for you. You have to honor Melanie's trust. Does anyone else know about the disks?"
She shook her head. "Not another soul…until now."
"Good. We'll keep it that way. I won't mention it to anyone, not even Lew."
She wiped her eyes and composed herself, then rose to her feet.
"Thank you. You're a good man. And I'm sorry I made such a scene. I didn't mean for this to happen. It's just that I seem to cry so easily lately. Maybe it's because something inside me senses the End Times coming. Do you think that could be it?"
"I couldn't say, Olive. But I'll bet they're still a long ways off."
"Let's hope so—for both our sakes."
"What do you mean?"
She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "Get yourself a check-up, Mr. Shelby."
"Me? Why?"
"Those missing hours after you saw the light and the figure—they might have planted one of the 666 chips in you. Get a thorough examination by a doctor you trust. Soon."
Jack led her toward the door. "Yeah. That's probably a good idea. Thanks for the advice."
"And watch out for Jim Zaleski."
"Who?"
"One of our more prominent members."
Jack remembered the name now—Lew had called him a "ufologist."
"I don't know why he was ever allowed in this organization. He's so foul mouthed. He cannot seem to speak a single sentence without blaspheming or taking the name of the Lord in vain."
"I don't see how—"
"And he has a temper nearly as terrible as his tongue. I'm just hoping that Melanie didn't come to him with some information that upset him, because there's no telling what he might do."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"And the other one to watch out for is Professor Roma himself."
"I've already had a run-in with him."
"I heard. That's why I thought I could trust you…because I don't trust him. At least not yet. He could be an ally, or he could be in league with the devil."
"Why do you say that?" Jack remembered his instant dislike of the man.
"That monkey…I've seen him talking to it."
"Well, everybody talks to their pets now and again."
"Yes, but I've seen it answering him, whispering in his ear. I even overheard it once."
A chill shot through Jack. The way that monkey had glared at him earlier, with almost human hatred…
"What did it say?"
"I don't know…it was speaking a language unlike any I've ever heard, almost like…" She glanced at him. "Have you ever heard anyone speaking in tongues?"
"Can't say I've had the pleasure."
"Well, I have. And many times the Spirit has taken me over and I've spoken myself. That's what it sounded like to me—Speaking in Tongues."
"You could be mistaken."
She nodded slowly. "Yes, I could be. But what if that monkey is some sort of familiar? That would tell us which side he's on, wouldn't it." Her eyes narrowed again. "That's why I'm watching him…watching him whenever I can. I'll find out the truth about Professor Salvatore Roma."
Jack opened the door and ushered her into the hall. Movement to his left caught his eye and he turned in time to see a man in a hat and a dark suit moving quickly down the hall and ducking out of sight into the elevator alcove. He had a sense that he'd been standing outside the door a few seconds ago.
Listening? he wondered. Somebody watching me? Or watching Olive? Or just somebody heading for the elevator?
He considered heading down to the alcove to get a better look at the guy, but dropped the idea when he heard the elevator bell ring. He'd never make it in time.
He turned back to Olive. "If you learn anything about You-know-who, be sure to let me know."
"I will. And remember," she said, a fearful need growing in her eyes. "If Melanie calls again—"
"I'll ask her. I promise I'll ask her."
"Bless you. I'm in 812. Call me as soon as you have any news, no matter how late the hour."
Jack closed the door and sighed with a mixture of relief and pity. One very disturbed woman. At least he hoped she was. None of that could possibly be true, could it?
Nah. Jack figured he didn't know much about the End Times, but he did know a lady who should probably be on some heavy-duty medication while she was waiting for them.
5
Jack sat with Lew during Professor Roma's welcoming address. He was less interested in the words—some mishmash about "confluence of ideas" and "spreading the Truth" and "ripping the cover off' and so on—than, in the man.
Roma—sans monkey—wore a very dapper light gray Armani suit with a black collarless shirt buttoned to the top, giving him the appearance of a very rich and hip minister. Much as Jack hated to admit it, the guy was a mesmerizing speaker. He prowled the little stage with a cordless mike, gesturing dramatically, speaking without notes. Sincerity and dedication fired his every word. Here was a man with a mission.
The biographical sketch in the rear of the program book said he was a native of South Carolina and now a professor of anthropology at Northern Kentucky University.
Jack wondered how a college professor afforded Armani suits. Maybe he did a lot of public speaking, because he seemed to have a gift. He'd seized this audience of about three hundred. They listened in rapt attention, breaking into applause every time he paused. The crowd itself surprised Jack. The SESOUPers were older than he'd expected. The average age had to be forty-plus. Lots of gray heads in the audience, which was pretty evenly divided between the sexes, but almost exclusively white—he'd seen only one black face since he'd entered.
He'd been anticipating more picturesque types, and indeed he'd spotted a few ethereal, long-haired New Agers, and the inevitable bearded fat guy doing the Michelin Man thing in a stretched-to-the-limit "Abductees Do It In Space" T-shirt, but mostly he saw lots of old guys wearing white shoes and string ties with a flying saucer cinch, matrons in warm-ups and polyester pants suits, nerdy engineer types with pocket protectors and suspenders. The home towns on their badges were in states like Colorado and Missouri and Indiana.
On the whole, what was so striking about SESOUP's members was their very ordinariness. Middle America seemed to be heavily into conspiracies.
Jack didn't know whether to be heartened or dismayed.
After the standing ovation for Roma's address, everyone streamed into a large adjoining room for the cocktail reception. Jack watched singles, couples, groups greeting each other with smiles and hugs.
"Looks like a pretty friendly group," he said.
Lew nodded. "They're good people. A lot of us know each other from other similar organizations. Most are like Melanie and me—no close living relatives, not much in common with their neighbors. For many of us, these conferences are almost like family gatherings." He held, up a couple of drink tickets. "Thirsty? I'm buying."
"I thought you didn't drink."
"I'm making an exception tonight."
"Okay. I'll take a beer. Anything as long as it's not made by Anheuser-Busch."
As Lew threaded his way through the crowd toward the bar, two middle-aged women stopped before Jack.
The taller of the pair introduced herself as Evelyn Something-or-other, a big, chunky blonde wearing a bright red dress, little white socks, and shiny Mary Janes on her tiny feet—all Jack could think of was an old comic book character…Little Dot's voracious friend…
Little Lotta.
"I'm the program chairwoman?" Evelyn said. It sounded like a question. In fact, just about everything out of her mouth sounded like a question. "Lew told me about your experience? We're planning on holding panels? You know, with experiencers? Would you care to participate?"
"No, thanks," Jack said. "I'd rather not."
Evelyn smiled sympathetically. "I know there's some controversy? I mean, about your being here? But that shouldn't put you off? It's good to share? And the audience? It will be totally nonjudgmental?"
"I really don't have all that much to tell," Jack said. "I hardly remember a thing about it." How true, how true.
"I can fix that," said the other, a hawk-faced, anorectic-looking woman.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Evelyn. "This is Selma Jones? A memory-recovery therapist?"
Selma fixed him with an intent share. "I've helped many, many experiencers regain 'lost' hours. I can help you."
And maybe turn me into an Olive Farina? Jack thought.
"Maybe some other time."
"Well, if you, you know, change your mind?" Evelyn said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "About the panel? You'll let me know?"
"Sure. Thanks for asking. You're very kind to care."
He meant that. She seemed sincere. And it couldn't hurt to have an ally or two among the membership.
The pair moved off, and Jack looked around for Lew.
He spotted him limping toward him with a Bass Ale in each hand. He had a trim, middle-aged man in tow.
"Jack," Lew said, handing him a bottle. "I want you to meet one of SESOUP's more prominent members, Jim Zaleski."
Jack had read about Zaleski in the program book which described him as "the world's foremost ufologist who has devoted his entire life to unexplained aerial phenomena and alien manifestations." In person he appeared to be in his late forties with thin lips, hornrimmed glasses, and longish dark hair that he repeatedly brushed off his forehead.
"Lew says you're the last one to hear from Mel," Zaleski said, giving Jack a quick handshake while his voice did light speed. "Want to talk to you about that. Got plans for breakfast tomorrow?"
"Nothing firm: a couple eggs, maybe bacon, but I could go the pancake route."
Zaleski didn't even blink. "Great. Meet me down in the coffee shop about eight. We'll talk." He clapped Lew on the shoulder. "Gotta run, Lew. Gotta work the goddamn room."
As Zaleski melted into the throng, Jack told him about turning down Evelyn's offer to be on the experiencers panel.
"Did I do the right thing?"
Lew nodded. "I'd say so. Keep things as vague as you can. The more you tell, the less interesting you'll be."
"Well, thank you very much."
Just then Lew reached out and grabbed the shoulder of someone passing by, a stocky older man with short gray hair.
"Miles! Miles, I want you to meet someone." The man stopped and turned their way. "Miles," Lew said. "This is Jack Shelby. I told you about him earlier. Jack, this is Miles Kenway."
Kenway's handshake was firm and lingering. He had a lined face and a military bearing. He wore a snug herringbone sport jacket, and appeared to be in good shape.
His icy blue eyes bored into Jack. "Good to meet you, Shelby. We must talk in depth of your experience sometime, but first let me ask you: Do you remember seeing any black helicopters at the time?"
"Uh, no," Jack said slowly, hesitating. Was this a trick question? "It was night."
Kenway's brow furrowed. "Yes. Yes, of course. Well, carry on then," he said and marched off.
"Warm fellow," Jack said to Lew as he watched Kenway work his way into the crowd.
"And now you've met all the SESOUP big shots—except Melanie, of course. Miles is the one that worries me. He's a former Army Intelligence staff sergeant who was attached to NATO where he says he came across secret UN plans to take over the country. He now heads a militia unit outside Billings, Montana."
"You mean one of those white supremacist groups?"
"He's not a racist as far as I can tell. Just staying prepared for when the shock troops of the New World Order invade the United States." Lew raised an eyebrow.
"Whatever gets you through the night," Jack said.
He watched Kenway's broad retreating back and thought he noticed a slight bulge in his sport coat at the small of his back. Was he carrying?
Both military and intelligence training, most likely armed, and probably a few Fruit Loops shy of a full bowl. Dangerous combination. This was a guy to watch.
He glanced at Lew and found him staring at the carpet, a million miles away, and lost there.
"Thinking of Melanie?" Jack said.
He nodding, blinking and biting his upper lip.
"We'll find her."
"But will she be okay when we do?" Lew said.
Jack couldn't answer that with any authority, so he said nothing.
"I really miss her," Lew said. "Especially now. This kind of gathering was always the best time for us." He took a deep shuddering breath. "I think I'll go back to my room and leave the TV on…maybe Melanie will contact me again. You'll be okay?"
"Sure," Jack said. The poor guy looked truly miserable…like a hound dog who'd lost his master. Jack felt for him. "Go ahead. I'll just hang out and…mingle."
Mingle? Jack thought as Lew moved off. I haven't the faintest idea how to mingle.
He never went to cocktail parties and had no skills at small talk. He felt like a stranger at a family reunion. But at least it seemed like a friendly, open family. He started weaving among the small groups clustered throughout the crowded room—
And came face to face with Professor Salvatore Roma. Jack swallowed another surge of distaste and forced a smile. He'd have to build bridges here if he was going to learn anything about Melanie Ehler's whereabouts.
"Good speech, professor," he said.
Roma blinked in surprise; his expression remained guarded, as if waiting for a zinger. When it didn't come, he smiled cautiously. "Why…thank you, Mr. Shelby. Very kind of you to say so. It seems we got off on the wrong foot earlier."
"Just a misunderstanding." Jack imagined himself extracting a few of Roma's too-white teeth. "I've forgotten it already."
"So have I." But Roma's eyes said otherwise.
"By the way, where's your better half?"
"My better—?"
Jack tapped his own shoulder. "Your affectionate little pet."
"Oh, you mean Mauricio." He chuckled mirthlessly. '"My better half,' indeed. Mauricio is back in my room. He doesn't do well in crowds."
"Not too cool in the one-on-one department, either. He tried to bite me before you showed up earlier."
Roma's grin broadened. "Over the years I've found Mauricio to be an excellent judge of character."
As much as he hated to, Jack had to smile. Score one for you, Sal.
"Later," Jack said, and began to turn away.
"Oh, one more thing," Roma said.
As Jack faced him again, Roma raised his right hand with his three middle fingers raised and curved. He moved it slowly downward on a diagonal in front of Jack's body.
"What's that?" Jack said. "The secret SESOUP salute?"
Roma sighed. "Hardly," he said softly. He shook his head. "How easily we forget."
Jack stared at him, baffled. "Forget what?"
But Roma only smiled and moved off into the crowd.
6
Miles Kenway swirled his scotch on the rocks and watched Roma and the newcomer talking. Something not right between those two. Everybody knew about the showdown between them this morning—almost came to blows from what Miles had heard—and now they were smiling at each other. How do you figure that?
Maybe I'm just cranky, he thought.
Not without good reason: When he'd checked into his room today he'd found that it faced east. No way he was staying in a room that faced toward the UN. No telling what kind of devices those NWO types over there would be aiming at him during the night. He'd gone back to registration and got in their faces until they put him in a west-facing room.
He took a sip of his scotch and watched Roma and the newcomer go their separate ways. Roma was okay. Miles had him checked out—a professor just like he said; a family man with a wife and two kids, no criminal record, no ties to shady organizations. But the newcomer…
Jack Shelby…I'll just bet.
Miles couldn't say exactly what it was, but something about this fellow didn't sit well. Maybe it was the way he looked at people. Those eyes…just sucking in everything. But sneakily: watch him raise his beer to his lips and scan the room while he takes a long, slow sip.
Wouldn't surprise me a bit if he's already spotted my .45, he thought.
Or maybe it was the way the newcomer moved. Like a cat. No, not just a cat—a jaguar. A just plain nobody who just happened to lose a few hours after seeing a light in the Jersey Pines shouldn't move like a predator cat.
Miles had seen men like that. He had a couple of them in his unit back in Montana. Always looked ready to spring into action. Both were ex-Navy SEALs.
Was this fellow special forces too? Had the One Worlders brainwashed him, changing him from someone sworn to protect his country into someone dedicated to bringing it down?
He wouldn't be the first.
Another thing that bothered Miles about Shelby was the way he'd appeared out of nowhere and insinuated himself into a supposedly exclusive group.
But why should that surprise me? he thought with a mental shake of his head. The SESOUP folks aren't the most alert bunch.
Lew was too gullible, pure and simple. He took far too many things at face value. And unless Shelby was wearing a pentagram or inverted cross tattooed on his forehead, Olive would think he was okay. And Zaleski…he was only on the lookout for aliens.
Miles knew that the threat to the world as he knew it would arrive as a perfectly normal human being. Melanie probably knew it too. Were she here, she'd keep this Shelby character at arm's length. Miles and Melanie were the only sensible ones among the members…and sometimes he wasn't so sure about her. She'd been getting some weird ideas lately.
As usual, Miles would have to rely on himself. And his contacts.
He still had a few trusted moles in the intelligence community. His best was in the FBI—a good man, recently converted to the cause, who'd agreed to stay with the Bureau in order to keep an eye on things from the inside. It might be wise to ask him to do a background check on this Jack Shelby, just like he'd done on Sal Roma.
Miles would keep a close watch on Shelby tonight and see where he left his beer bottle. He'd use that as a fingerprint source. An excellent starting point.
7
Jack wandered the room, focusing here and there on the various conversations in progress around him. He heard "JFK" mentioned to his right and saw half a dozen middle-aged men and women standing in a loose circle. He sidled their way.
"Look," said a silver-haired fellow with a neatly trimmed beard, "all the evidence shows that Kennedy was killed because he was going to reveal MJ-12's deal with the grays."
Jack blinked. MJ-12? Grays? Was this some sort of code?
"Haven't you seen the latest?" said a round-faced woman with long straight brown hair. "His driver was the second gun, and he administered the coup de grace because Kennedy was going to pull us out of Vietnam!"
"Going to take us out of Vietnam?" said another guy. "Like hell! He'd just committed more troops to Vietnam. No, you two are looking for way-out solutions when the truth is much more mundane. Kennedy was whacked by the mob for screwing with Giancana's babe!"
They all began talking at once. Just for the hell of it, Jack added to the babble: "Um, how about Oswald?"
That stopped them cold. They all turned to stare at him. He suddenly felt like a caterer who'd just brought a platter of glazed ham to a Moslem banquet.
Finally the bearded man spoke. "Oswald? You some kind of nut?"
They all started babbling at once again, but this time at him. Jack backed away and escaped before they could encircle him, and in the process he bumped into someone.
"Sorry," he said, turning and offering an apologetic smile to a guy holding an eight-by-ten photo.
"It's okay," said the guy, who looked to be about eighty. He thrust the photo toward Jack. "Here. Take a look at this." He turned to the younger fellow with him who sported a Fu Manchu mustache. "Here's a completely neutral observer. Let's see what he says." Then to Jack: "Go ahead. Tell us what you see."
Jack looked at the photo and shrugged. "It's the Earth—looks like a picture of the northern hemisphere of the Earth from orbit."
"Right—a satellite shot of the North Pole. I had this part of it blown up. See that dark spot? That's the hole that leads to the inside."
"Inside where?"
"Inside the earth. It's hollow, you know. There's a whole other civilization inside, and that's the entrance."
"Looks like a shadow."
"No, you're not looking closely enough." He snatched the photo from Jack and jabbed his finger at the dark splotch. "That's a huge opening. That's where the saucers come from."
"Saucers?" Jack said.
Over the guy's shoulder Jack saw his Fu Manchu'd companion rolling his eyes and rotating his finger by his right temple.
"Yes!" said the old guy, brandishing the photo. "People have been brainwashed into thinking that UFOs are from outer space. They're not! UFOs are from inside the earth!"
He stomped off with his photo.
"UFOs from inside the hollow earth," the guy with the Fu Manchu said derisively, watching him go. "Some people will believe almost anything."
Jack nodded enthusiastically. At last—someone with an ounce of common sense. "A bit of a nut, ay?" he said from the corner of his mouth.
"I'll say. Everybody knows they're based on the dark side of the moon."
Jack said nothing, just kept nodding and smiling as he backed away. He heard "Princess Di" as he passed another group, and paused.
"It was the Royal Family, I tell you. Queen Liz offed Di with the help of the Masons. It was the minefield thing."
"The minefields? Oh, don't be silly!"
"Those mines are where they are for a reason. You don't really believe they're all just normal land mines, do you? If the poor girl had just kept her mouth shut, she'd still be with us."
"She is still with us! Nobody offed Di. That whole thing was faked. She's in hiding from the Royal Family."
"With whom?" Jack said. "Elvis?"
"Hey, now there's a thought!"
And there's my cue to move on.
He glanced at his watch. He had to get out to Elmhurst to set up watch in the Castlemans' backyard, to keep an eye on Gus and the purportedly abused Ceil.
On his way to the escalators, he saw a squat, red-haired man with a full beard in a wheelchair exiting the elevator. The man began rolling along but after a dozen feet or so he suddenly braked and stared at Jack. He looked almost startled to see him.
Do I know you? he thought as he passed.
No. He'd remember a guy like that.
Jack kept moving. He checked the front of his shirt and pants, but no, his fly was closed and he hadn't spilled anything. As he stepped on the escalator, he glanced back and found the red-haired guy still staring after him.
First the monkey, then Roma, now this guy. What is it about me that's so damn interesting?
8
Jack rubbed his grainy eyes as he crouched in the rhododendrons by the Castlemans' fence. Had to love rhodos—they provided the same cover year round.
His back ached and his butt was cold from sitting on the ground. He pulled his gym bag under him for insulation. The hard irregular lumps of the tools inside were almost as uncomfortable as the ground. Had to remember to bring a cushion tomorrow night.
He'd spent hours observing the Castlemans' home life and so far hadn't seen a hint of anything even remotely violent. Or remotely interesting. These were not exciting people.
Skinny little Ceil apparently had got home shortly before Jack arrived. Schaffer had said his sister worked for a small publishing house in Manhattan. The little kitchen TV was on—Jack recognized Eyewitness News—and she was pouring herself a stiff vodka. She watched the news as she started slicing and dicing for dinner; she'd smoked three cigarettes and downed another vodka by the time big Gus Castleman came in from a hard day of accounting at Gorland Industries. He peeled off his suit coat and went straight to the fridge. Maybe he grunted hello to Ceil; Jack couldn't be sure. Sure as hell no hello kiss. Gus pulled out two Bud Lights and sat down before the family room TV—Jack couldn't see what he was watching.
When dinner was ready Gus came to the kitchen table and they ate watching the TV. After dinner, more TV. Gus fell asleep around ten. Ceil woke him up after the 11:00 news and they both went to bed.
Such was life at the Castlemans'—boring to live, excruciating to watch. But Jack had a rule about being sure of a situation before he did a fix. After all, people lied. Jack lied to most people every day. Schaffer could be lying about Gus, might want him laid up for something that had nothing to do with his sister. Or Ceil might be lying to her brother, might be telling him it was Gus who gave her those bruises when all along it was some guy she was seeing on the side. Or Schaffer and Ceil could be conspiring against Gus…
Jack smiled and shook his head. Less than one day with the SESOUP folk and already he was hunting up conspiracies.
Whatever, Jack needed to be sure Gus was doing what his brother-in-law said he was before he made a move on him.
But so far Gus was just boring and inattentive. That didn't rate hospital-league injuries.
If something was going to break here, Jack wanted it to happen before Sunday. Clocks were due to get pushed ahead then and the extended daylight would make surveillance a lot tougher.
Calling it a night, he crept back to the street. As he headed for his rented sedan, he heard the hum of a car engine growing behind him. He tensed. Cops, maybe? He continued strolling along with his gym bag over his shoulder, doing his best to look like a local on his way back from a late night work-out. Trouble was, the bag wouldn't withstand even a cursory inspection: under the sneakers and sweatsuit lay a full set of burglar tools and a special .45 ACP automatic.
Jack didn't turn, didn't give a hint he'd even heard the car until it came even with him. Then he glanced over, real casual like, preparing to nod and give a friendly little neighborly wave.
The car was passing under a streetlight—a black Lincoln Town Car, a later model than the one he'd seen in Monroe. And the two guys in the front seat weren't cops. Jack wasn't sure what the hell they were: Ditko characters with pale faces, black suits, white shirts, black ties, and black hats with the brims pulled low over dark glasses.
Dark glasses? It was edging toward midnight.
The driver was closer, staring straight ahead, but the passenger was leaning forward, studying Jack. Without changing speed, it glided past and cruised on down the street.
Just two guys dressed like the Blues Brothers.
So how come they left him with a case of the creeps?