Season Of Strangers Part 12

"I certainly am. I can't help Laura unless I understand what she's afraid of. Since it happens to be s.p.a.ceships and aliens, this is the stuff I need to read."

He thumbed through the volume on top of the stack, which was filled with color photos of UFO sightings. "Well, if nothing else, it ought to be entertaining."

Julie just smiled. "No doubt it will."

Patrick closed the door to the pa.s.senger side of the car then walked around and slid behind the wheel. It was still light but after seven by the time they turned down the street that led to the parking lot behind the office.

"How about dinner?" he asked. "I found another good j.a.panese place over in Century City."

Julie shook her head. "I've got a meeting with Owen Mallory first thing in the morning. He's thinking of buying some investment property. You know how sharp he is. I want to be prepared. I want to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I see him."

Patrick grinned. "Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?"

"That's just an expression."

The smile slowly faded away. "Mallory wants more from you than a real estate deal. You know that, don't you?"

The hackles went up on the back of her neck. "Owen's a very good client, Patrick. That's all he is and he knows it."

In the parking lot, they pulled up next to her car. Patrick dumped the books he'd unloaded into her trunk and slammed the lid. Turning, he slid an arm around her waist and drew her against him. She could feel the long sinews of his thighs, the heat of his hands, the ridges of muscle across his stomach.

"If you won't let me take you out to dinner, let me take you home. It's going to be a beautiful night. I'll stop and pick up something to eat and later we can walk on the beach."

"I told you I have work to do," she said, but the words did not come easy.

"What are you afraid of, Julie?"

"You, Patrick. The person you really are, the one you've locked away. We both know that person is still in there. Sooner or later, he's bound to reappear."

"I don't do drugs anymore. I don't drink or smoke. That man is gone, Julie. I'm a different man now-I won't do those things again."

"What about your women, Patrick? Anna Braxston was in your office this morning. You probably spent the night with her last night."

"I didn't spend the night with her. I'm not interested in Anna Braxston."

"Why not?"

"Because she isn't you."

She shook her head, but her pulse was thrumming in her ears and her hands had started to tremble. "I have to go." But she didn't want to. She wanted to stay with Patrick, to touch him, hold him, let him hold her. Dear G.o.d, it was the most frightening sensation she had ever experienced.

"All right, I'll let you go. But I don't really think that's what you want, and next time, I'm not going to let you pretend."

She stared at him, her thoughts in turmoil, then slowly turned away. He watched her climb into her car and start the engine, stood there as she drove away. She could see his tall figure in the mirror, long legs splayed, arms folded over his chest. Was it possible he really had changed? It seemed unlikely, yet the man she'd just left was a different person than the one she had known for the past eight years.

Perhaps this time he really had changed. It was hard to imagine, but more and more she was beginning to believe finding out might just be worth the risk.

Ten.

Julie stayed up well past midnight. As soon as she got home, she began going over the real estate investment information for her meeting with Owen Mallory. She went over each project she intended to present to him, but it was hard to concentrate when her thoughts kept straying to Patrick and the kisses they had shared, the things he had said to her.

It took a good deal of determination not to dwell on her growing desire for him, but her sister's problems were far more pressing. Thinking of Laura and her terrible fears, she turned next to the books she needed to read. Though the hour grew late, once she got started, they were just too fascinating to put down.

She had never thought much about UFOs, one way or another. It never actually occurred to her that such things might really exist. Now as she perused the volumes scattered all over the pinewood floor in her bedroom, she had to admit the possibility of life on other planets didn't seem quite so far-fetched.

And she wasn't alone in her thinking. All through the ages, men and women had postulated whether other life forms might not exist. Sightings of odd "air ships" and ancient astronauts went back to the beginnings of man.

In more recent times, in the 1970s, an author named Erick von Daniken proposed a theory in his book, Chariots of the G.o.ds, that the planet might have been visited by extraterrestrials a number of times over the centuries. Perhaps advanced otherworldly cultures had been instrumental in building the great pyramids of Egypt, or a.s.sisted with the ma.s.sive statues on Easter Island, or been responsible for the incredible landing strips on the South American plains of Nazcar, all mysteries that had never been sufficiently explained.

Another book discussed an occurrence in the Forties. Right after the Second World War, a number of sightings stirred the first modern interest in UFOs, and in July of 1947, one of the most controversial mysteries of recent times began. The Roswell incident. Fascinated, Julie read the article about the highly publicized crash of what was believed to be a UFO, her breath catching when she noticed an interview with a man present during what was purported to be one of the government's biggest cover-ups.

An officer named Lee Beeson, a retired colonel in the Air Force, lived in nearby Thousand Oaks, just a few miles north of L.A.

She continued to read, voraciously scanning each page, until several hours later when she began to yawn. Closing the volume she had nearly finished, she glanced at the clock and groaned to see it was almost 1:30 in the morning. She would be tired tomorrow, but the knowledge she'd gained had been worth it.

She knew a great deal more about UFOs, and she was going to track down this Colonel Beeson who lived in Thousand Oaks. With any luck at all, she would get a chance to speak to him. It would be extremely interesting to see what he had to say.

"I wish I knew what to do, Patrick." Fred Thompkins stood in front of his desk, clutching a file in his thick-fingered hands. "The sellers have agreed to accept my clients' offer but they want more down payment than they've got. My guy can't really afford it. It would take every last cent out of his savings, which would leave him high and dry at tax time and in really bad straits if anything unexpected came up."

Val ran through his memory banks, searching for solutions to similar problems Patrick had come up with over the years. The man's real estate knowledge was amazing. It was a shame he had never used his capabilities in a positive way, never wanted to work hard enough to become successful.

"How does his future income look?" Val asked. "Any upcoming bonuses, antic.i.p.ated pay increases, that sort of thing?"

"He's in the advertising business. From what I gather, bonuses are commonly awarded. I think that's how he came up with some of the money he's using to buy the house."

"See if the seller will carry a second trust deed as well as a first. Make the second all due and payable in three to five years. Once the money's been repaid, the buyer's equity position will improve and his payments will go down. And the seller has the property as security. He won't have much risk."

Fred Thompkins grinned above his plaid bow tie. "You know, that just might work. Thanks, Patrick. I was hoping you'd be able to come up with something."

"Let me know what happens, Fred."

Fred blinked at the final words. Patrick had always been good at problem solving, but concern was something he rarely bothered with. "I'll do that. Thanks again."

In seconds, the heavyset agent had crossed the room and slipped out the door, moving faster than expected for a man of his size and age. As soon as the door eased closed, Val got up from his chair, crossed to the inner window, and looked out through the blinds that shielded his office from the main working area.

According to Shirl, Julie was due in any minute. He'd been out when she had called the office, but it seemed she was looking for him. Her meeting with Owen Mallory was over, but apparently by the time they had finished, she had one of her migraine headaches. If they weren't so d.a.m.ned painful-and he didn't feel so d.a.m.ned guilty-he might have been grateful.

At least she trusted him to help her in one way.

Unfortunately, the headaches were also dangerous. On the Internet he had learned that twelve million Americans suffered from migraine headaches. A number of studies had shown that people who had them also had a greater chance of having a stroke in their later years. Though Julie's headaches seemed to be coming with less and less frequency, he didn't like the idea that the Ansor's study probe had caused them and that it might mean serious injury long after he was gone.

Looking through the window, he saw her walk in just then, carrying her burgundy briefcase and an armload of books he recognized as some of the ones she had checked out of the library. She was smiling, which he took as a good sign. He left his office and headed up the aisle in her direction, stopping beside her in front of Shirl's desk.

"I got your message," he said. "How are you feeling?"

The smile went broader. "Thank G.o.d, my headache's gone. The doctors never found out what was causing them, but the good news is they seem to be going away."

"I'm glad you're all right, but I have to admit I was looking forward to giving you that ma.s.sage."

A soft flush rose in her cheeks. "It won't be necessary now, but I really appreciate the times you've helped. I'd love to know how you do it."

"Years of study," he teased, but this time she didn't smile.

"Yes, well, it's fortunate for me it wasn't necessary, since I'm running short on time. I just need to get off a letter, then I've got run."

"Where are you headed?"

"I'm on my way to Thousand Oaks. Ever heard of the Roswell incident?"

Val's stomach tightened. He'd heard of it, all right. The accident was a moment of infamy in Torillian history. Fortunately, on Earth, the whole event had been covered up, buried by a government recovering from a terrible war, mired in fear of a future that included the atom bomb, and a situation they worried might be even more threatening. Since the Roswell incident, world governments had adopted an ostrich, head-in-the-sand sort of policy that gave interstellar visitors free rein. It also kept the various governments from having to deal with a matter they were as yet unprepared to handle.

"I've heard of Roswell," Val said. "I saw a movie about it on HBO."

"Yes, well, a lot of people think a s.p.a.ceship really crashed that night in the New Mexico desert. They believe the government knows it happened and has simply covered it up."

"And you believe that?"

"I don't know. I'll know better how I feel after I've talked to Colonel Beeson."

"I take it this Beeson lives in Thousand Oaks."

She grinned. "You got it." She brushed past him, hurried into her office and sat down behind her desk. Her computer was already on. Taking out a piece of letterhead stationery, she slid it into her printer, typed the letter, then used her mouse to hit the print designation b.u.t.ton, and waited for the finished letter to appear.

Val propped a shoulder against the door frame, watching her efficiency with quiet admiration. "I'm through for the day. I'd like to go with you." Her head came up. He steeled himself for a no and silently prepared his reb.u.t.tal. The refusal never came.

Instead she studied him a moment while the printer quietly hummed.

"Shirley mentioned that Charlotte Rollins was looking for you this morning," she said out of the blue. "Charlotte says you've been ignoring her. She says you've been acting very strange and she's worried about you."

"Charlotte is no longer my concern."

"Meaning you aren't sleeping with her?"

"No, I'm not. As I said, she's no longer my concern."

"And I am?"

"Yes."

Something flickered in her leaf-green eyes. She fumbled with some paperwork then looked up at him. "All right, Patrick. I'd love some company this afternoon."

"And dinner afterward?" he pressed.

"Yes."

He wasn't exactly sure what had just happened, but he felt certain it was something important. "My car or yours?" he asked, backing off a little, giving up a bit of control and Julie a little s.p.a.ce.

"Mine." She wheeled back her chair, jerked the letter out of the printer, stuffed it into the envelope she had already addressed, and tossed it into the out-bin. She smiled. "Come on, let's get going. I don't want to be late."

He found himself smiling back as she dragged him out the door, down the hall to the rear of the building, and out into the parking lot. He wondered what other surprises the day might hold in store.

Colonel Lee Beeson lived in a small, una.s.suming white stucco house in an older subdivision just off the 101 freeway in Thousand Oaks. He was a man in his early eighties, average in height but exceedingly fit and trim, with a full head of steel-gray hair.

"Come in, come in," he said, holding open the screen door while they stepped up on the porch. "It's been a while since anyone's asked to come by. Living by myself, I get a little lonely. Best thing about what happened in Roswell is it brings me a little company now and again."

"Thank you for seeing us," Julie said.

"Like I said, it's nice to have someone to talk to once in a while."

She introduced Patrick and the two men shook hands, then they walked into the living room. The house wasn't large and the room was a little bit dark. It smelled musty, as if he rarely opened the windows. Colonel Beeson moved a stack of newspapers off the sofa so they could sit down then took a seat in his worn, but comfortable-looking brown recliner.

"I s'pose you want to hear the whole story."

"Yes, if you don't mind, Colonel." Julie pulled out a small steno notebook, rested it neatly on her lap.

"No one calls me colonel anymore. Still, after so many years, it has a nice familiar ring to it." Releasing a long slow breath, the gray-haired man leaned back in his chair. When he started talking, it was obvious he had told the story a number of times before, but that made it no less interesting.

"I was only a shave-tail lieutenant back then," he started, "on perimeter duty the night it happened. July, it was, of 1947. I remember it was hotter than a pistol. I was wiping my forehead with a handkerchief when I first saw the light, sort of a silver streak across the sky, then a flash when it hit the ground. I radioed it in, of course. Thought it might be a small plane going down, or more likely, a meteor or something. A couple hours later I wound up in the recovery party."

He shifted, suddenly looking up. "I forgot to ask...you all want some coffee or something? There's some Coca-Cola in the icebox."

"We're fine," Julie answered for both of them.

The colonel simply nodded, settled more comfortably in his chair. "All together that night, more than a dozen soldiers were dispatched to the site where the craft went down. I saw the wreckage up real close and I saw what was in it."

"What did it look like?" Julie asked when he paused.

"It was all in pieces, you understand, but some of them were pretty fair-sized. There were some odd sort of beams with funny markings on them. Looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics, but n.o.body could figure out what they said. Other pieces were shiny, like silver, but when you picked it up, it was light as a feather. One of the guys said it would have to be light in order to withstand the forces of acceleration."

"How big was it?" Patrick asked.

"From what was left, near as we could guess about fifteen feet. We figured it must have been disk-shaped when it was whole. We didn't see any windows."

"You said you saw what was in it." Julie leaned forward on the sofa. "What was it you saw, Colonel Beeson?"

"Not a what, Ms. Ferris, a who. There were four of them, little tiny fellows no more than four feet high. Gray they were, leathery skinned. Big heads, small bodies, hands with long thin fingers. Some of the men loaded them onto stretchers and they were taken away in an ambulance. We never saw them up real close but near as we could tell, all of them were dead."

Julie felt a chill move through her. "A story about it appeared the next day in the newspaper, isn't that right?"

He nodded. "Some reporter from the Roswell Daily Record heard about it from the ranchers who reported the crash that night. They were the first ones there. A reporter called someone at the base and at first n.o.body thought to deny it. By the following day, the bra.s.s had all been flown in and things began to get sticky. All the guys in the recovery party were told to keep their mouths shut-in no uncertain terms. Top secret, they said. Cla.s.sified information of the highest priority. Anyone who was the least bit uncooperative didn't last long in the Air Force after that and left with the threat of a treason prosecution if they talked about a secret operation."