A lot of the tourists were wearing Star Trek costumes, original and Next Generation. I couldn’t help but feel there should be a strict weight limit enforced on people who wear skintight costumes. Lycra isn’t meant to stretch that far.
We passed by an entire restaurant in the shape of a flying saucer. Outside the front door, a full-sized replica of Robby the Robot recited the day’s specials in his roboty voice. A DVD shop had a poster in its window proudly proclaiming the imminent arrival of a new big-budget remake of The Starlost, directed by Harlan Ellison and starring Laurence Fishburne and Paris Hilton. Even more distressing, many stores were given over to all that crystal-channelling angel-worshipping flower-aromatherapy New Age bullshit, all of it priced through the ceiling. I sometimes feel people should be required to sit a mandatory IQ test before they’re allowed into places like that.
I vented some of this to Walker, who just nodded and said, Angels! in a rather grim tone of voice. I didn’t press him. I didn’t think I wanted to know.
We finally stopped beneath a large sign from the Roswell Chamber of Commerce bearing the invitation HEY, SPACE PEOPLE! COME ON DOWN AND BE FRIENDLY! YOU’RE SURE OF A WELCOME HERE! Stephen Spielberg’s got a lot to answer for. Never met an alien yet that was prepared to share the secrets of the universe with us. Mostly they just see our world as prime real estate, once they’ve got rid of the inconvenient species currently inhabiting it. And don’t even get me started on the ones who come here on sex trade cruises.
A television crew was doing a vox populi, stopping passersby and asking them fatuous questions for the local news channel. The interviewer’s hair had been teased and sprayed to within an inch of its life, and her teeth were blindingly bright. It was the usual fluff, with lots of bad puns and jokes about illegal aliens. I did consider asking them if they’d seen or heard anything unusual, but none of them looked like they’d know a real news story if they fell over it.
The three of us gave the camera crew a wide berth and wandered on through the town. People had finally started to notice us but in a weird kind of way. They’d glance at us, and then look away, and then stare openly when they thought we weren’t looking, as though they thought they recognised us but couldn’t quite place us. They didn’t seem at all startled or disturbed . . . just intrigued. Honey started to get a bit irritated.
“I am a CIA agent!” she said huffily in a voice that was perhaps just a little too loud and carrying. “I am not supposed to be noticed!”
“Maybe they think you’re a supermodel,” Walker said generously.
“It’s the Elven Lands,” I explained. “Some of their glamour rubbed off on us. Don’t worry; it won’t last long.”
“I’ve always wanted to be glamorous,” said Walker just a bit wistfully.
“I don’t like being so . . . visible,” muttered Honey.
“Relax,” I said. “They’re not seeing us, just the glamour. Probably think we’re film stars, or local celebrities, or someone they’ve seen on a reality show. If anyone comes up and asks for an autograph, just glare haughtily at them and brush them aside, and they’ll go away quite happy.”
“Why did you steal Peter’s phone?” Walker said abruptly.
I’d been considering that myself. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It was an impulse, done as soon as thought. I can’t help wondering if some outside influence nudged my thoughts for good or mischief. Can’t say I regret it, though. I don’t trust Peter. Too quiet, too watchful . . . always hanging back and doing his best never to get directly involved. And he does seem to know rather more about our weird world than someone of his supposed background should know.”
“You think he’s a ringer,” said Honey. “Planted on us to report back to his grandfather. The spy within.”
“Let’s just say . . . I wasn’t comfortable with Peter having the only hard evidence of all we’ve discovered,” I said.
“And now he’s gone,” said Walker, looking at me thoughtfully. “I always knew you Droods could be ruthless on occasion.”
“Have you checked the phone’s camera files?” said Honey. “Just to make sure it really does hold the proof Peter said it did?”
“Not yet,” I said. “And I have to wonder . . . whether he’d gathered any evidence of our trip to the Sundered Lands. I’m not even sure our technology would work in a place like that.”
“The boat worked,” said Honey.
“True.” I looked at Honey, and then at Walker. “Did either of you see Peter use his camera in the Fae Court?”
“Can’t say I did,” said Honey. “But we were all somewhat preoccupied at the time.”
“So we might not have any evidence of the elves’ involvement with the USS Eldridge?” said Walker.
I weighed the phone in my hand. “Not necessarily. And . . . I’m reluctant to try and access any files on this without checking it over thoroughly first. Peter was the Independent Agent’s grandson. No knowing what kind of protections and booby traps he built in to protect his data.”
“We could always go back to the Elven Lands and ask them to pose for photos,” said Honey.
“Let’s not,” said Walker. “I’m more concerned about what Alexander King might say if we don’t have any hard evidence to back up our stories.”
“What’s this we stuff, paleface?” said Honey. “There can be only one, remember? The CIA didn’t send me on this mission to share the spoils with anyone else.”
“We started out with six, and now we are three,” I said. “Wouldn’t take a lot now to whittle us down to one. Treachery and backstabbing have always been a recognised part of the spy’s trade.”
“Sometimes literally,” said Honey. “Where were you, Eddie, when Katt and Blue died? Or when my submersible was sabotaged and I nearly died?”
“I saved your life,” I said.
“Good misdirection,” said Honey. “How better to make me trust you?”
“We could still be four,” said Walker. “Peter might still turn up.”
“Perhaps,” said Honey. She looked at me for a long moment. “Keep a close watch on that phone, Eddie. I’d hate for it to go . . . missing.”
“Right,” said Walker. “A tourist trap like this is bound to be lousy with pickpockets.”
Honey sniffed loudly. “If I find someone else’s hand in my pockets, I’ll tie their fingers in a knot.”
I smiled, perhaps a little complacently. “No one steals from a Drood and lives to boast of it.”
“The Blue Fairy stole a torc from you,” said Walker. “Is that why you killed him?”
I turned to face him, slowly and deliberately, but to his credit, he didn’t flinch.
“Is that an accusation?”
“Not yet,” said Walker.
“You’re sure someone killed them?” said Honey. “No way it could have been just . . . chance?”
“I don’t believe in chance,” said Walker. “Not where professionals like us are concerned. And especially considering someone tried to kill me back in Tunguska.”
“So you say,” I said.
“Well, quite,” said Walker.
“We have business to attend to,” Honey said firmly. “Starting with working out just what that business is. Everything else can wait.”
“Yes,” I said. “It can wait.”
“For now,” said Walker.
“Men . . .” said Honey. “Why don’t you just get them out and wave them at each other?”
We walked on through the town, taking in the sights, hoping for a glimpse of something significant. The sun blazed fiercely in a clear blue sky, not a hint of a cloud in sight, and not a whisper of a breeze to take the edge off the increasingly uncomfortable hot dry air. And still, tourists everywhere: large, red-faced, happy souls in colourful outfits with not a care in the world . . . or any sense of danger, apparently.
“I may be wrong about this,” Walker said quietly, “but I rather think we’re being followed.”
We stopped, looked into a sho
p window full of cute little stuffed aliens, and then casually turned and looked about us, as though wondering where to go next. I let my gaze drift easily back and forth, but with so many people milling about it was hard to spot anything unusual.
“I don’t see anyone,” I said finally. “And I really am pretty good at identifying tails.”
“I run the Nightside,” said Walker. “You don’t last long in the Nightside without developing especially good survival instincts. There’s someone out there, and they’ve been following us for at least five, maybe ten minutes.”
“I don’t see anyone,” said Honey. “But I do feel . . . something.”
We walked back the way we’d come, darting in and out of shops, using front and back entrances, doubling back and forth and using shop windows as mirrors . . . All the usual tactics for surprising a tail into betraying himself. And even after all that, not a glimpse of anyone anywhere doing anything they shouldn’t. But now I was definitely getting that prickly feeling at the back of my neck of being watched by unseen eyes. Someone was out there, shadowing our every move; someone really good at what they were doing.
A professional, like us.
“Who knows we’re here?” Honey said finally. “Who knows who we are? Hell, even we didn’t know we were coming here till we were here!”
“Alexander King knew,” I said. “He could have arranged for word to get out. And we have been making waves . . . We were bound to attract attention sooner or later from any number of groups or organisations or even certain powerful individuals. Damn, this is creepy. I spy on people; I don’t get spied on.”
“Use the Sight,” said Walker.
“No,” I said immediately. “If he’s as good as I think he is, and he must be really bloody good if he can hide himself from me, he’ll detect it the moment I raise my Sight. And then he’ll know for sure he’s been spotted.”
“He must know that now, the way we’ve been acting,” said Honey.
“No . . .” I said. “He may suspect, but he doesn’t know. And as long as he’s still not sure, we’ve got the upper hand.”
“Perhaps,” said Walker. “Whoever they are, they must represent whoever it is that’s responsible for whatever’s happening here . . . or what’s scheduled to happen. God, I hate sentences like that. But consider this: if you were setting up a major operation in a small town and all of a sudden just happened to notice a Drood, a CIA agent, and the man who runs the Nightside strolling casually around taking an interest in things . . . You’d want to know more about them, wouldn’t you?”
“Let him watch,” I said. “Let him follow. He can’t do anything without revealing himself, and if he’s stupid enough to do that, I will then quite happily bounce the bugger off the nearest wall and ask him pointed questions.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Honey.
Our attention was attracted by a small group of tourists gathered in front of a shop window. They seemed more than usually excited. We strolled over to join them and found they were watching a news programme on a television set in the window. The local news anchor, a small man in a large suit with a deep voice and an obvious toupee, was getting quite excited over the story that was just coming in through his teleprompter.
“We’ve all heard about cattle mutilations,” he said, his voice only slightly muffled by the shop window. “Cattle found dead of no obvious cause, with bits missing and numerous incisions made with almost surgical skill. All kinds of people (and others) have been blamed for these: aliens, mad scientists, government agencies backed up by their ubiquitous black helicopters . . . even Devil worshippers and extreme vegetarians. But events right here at Roswell have now taken a new and disturbing turn.”
I looked at Honey. “Black helicopters?”
“Nothing to do with me,” she said. “Cattle mutilations are just so beneath us. We’d never be involved in anything that messy and that obvious.”
She broke off as several people in the crowd shushed her, and we all turned our attention back to the news anchor.
“Early this morning, seven dead and mutilated cattle were discovered on the ranch of well-known local businessman Jim Thomerson, some twenty miles outside of Roswell,” he said. “In each case, major organs were missing, removed from the carcasses with professional skill. Strange burn marks were noted on the ground near the dead cattle . . . but no other signs to show how the attackers came and went, according to local law enforcement officials. Disturbing enough, you might think, but the breaking news is that Jim Thomerson himself has been found dead and mutilated not far from his cattle. His body has been brought into town, to the new morgue, for forensic examination.”
The news anchor forced a smile for the camera. “Have our little Gray friends finally gone too far? We hope to be able to show you actual photos from the crime scene later this evening. We must warn you that these photos are likely to be of a graphic nature; viewer discretion is advised.”
“Translation: everyone gather around the set; this is going to be good!” said Honey. “Yes, I know; shush.”
And then the television screen went blank. The four other television sets in the window that had been showing other channels with the sound turned down also went dead. The crowd stirred nervously, broke up into couples and families, and drifted away, chattering animatedly. Walker and Honey and I looked at each other.
“This . . . was weird,” said Honey. “All the local stations going off the air at the same time? If it was just a technical thing, the screens would be showing the usual variations on Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible, accompanied by lots of Be happy, don’t worry music. No . . . those broadcasts are being jammed, just like ours. Which, if nothing else, must take a hell of a lot of power. Someone doesn’t want this news getting out of Roswell.”
“So it’s not just our comms that have been targeted,” I said. “The whole town’s been cut off from the outside world. Isolated . . . So that whatever’s going to happen, or maybe even already started . . . no one from outside will know till it’s all over, and it’s too late to do anything.”
“But even so, cattle mutilations?” said Walker. “They’re just rural myths, aren’t they?”
“Not when it starts happening to people,” I said. “I think we have to assume this is the mystery we were sent here to investigate.”
“King knew in advance this was going to happen?” said Walker.
“Who better?” said Honey. “The man was and is seriously connected.”
“That farmer’s body should have got here by now,” said Walker. “I think it behooves us to visit this new morgue and take a look for ourselves.”
“I love it when you use words like behoove,” I said. “Oh, please, Walker; teach me to talk proper like you, so I can sound like a real agent.”
“Shut up, Eddie,” said Walker.
“We can go take a look,” said Honey. “And then you can make the poor guy sit up on his slab and tell us what happened. Right, Walker?”
“It was just the one time!” said Walker. “I do wish everyone would stop going on about it!”
“Any idea where the local morgue might be?” I said. “It’s not the kind of thing you can just go up and ask complete strangers. They tend to look at you funny.”
“Maybe we should look for someone in local law enforcement,” said Walker.
“And just maybe you two should try living in the twenty-first century with the rest of us,” Honey said scathingly. “We passed a cybercafé just a few blocks back.”
It didn’t take long to log in on the town site, call up a map, and locate the new morgue. It wasn’t that far from where we were. Walker and I carefully didn’t look at each other. Honey looked decidedly smug as she led us out of the cybercafé.
“What’s the matter, Walker? Don’t you have computers in the Nightside?”
“Of course,” he said stiffly. “Some of my best friends are artificial.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” said
Honey.
The new morgue was a calm and civilised structure, very modern and stylish and not at all threatening. Honey bluffed her way in with a fake Homeland Security ID that she just happened to have about her person while Walker and I did our best to look properly mean and hard and American. No one gave us any trouble; the locals were only too happy to have someone experienced on hand to come in and take over. A local deputy carrying too much weight and topped off with a hat far too small for his head led us through the outer offices to the morgue at the back of the building. People watched us pass with wide eyes and spooked, scared expressions. It was one thing to make your living exploiting alien visitations, and quite another to have them turn up in your backyard with chain saws and scalpels, intent on playing doctor. The deputy looked more openly nervous the closer he got to the morgue. He was sweating profusely despite the arctic air-conditioning and jumped at every sudden sound.
“All communications systems are down,” he said abruptly. “Can’t get a word in or out. You folks know anything about that?”
“Sorry,” said Honey in her best brisk and professional voice. “Information only on a need-to-know basis. You know how it is.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” The deputy actually relaxed a little in the presence of such obvious authority and competence. “Good to have someone here who knows what they’re doing. We’re mostly part-timers. Sheriff’s off sick with his allergies, and Doc Stern’s busy with a car cash on the other side of town. This is all . . . a hell of sight more than I signed on for.” He looked at Honey sharply. “Did your people know this was going to happen? Is that why you’re here?”
“It’s our job to know about things like this,” said Honey. “Has there been any panic in the town? Any rush to get out of Roswell?”
“Well, no,” said the deputy, frowning heavily. “Everyone here was expecting the tourists to get in their cars and head for the hills once the news got out, with the townsfolk right behind them, but . . . everyone’s being real calm about it. Doesn’t make a blind bit of sense . . . I’d leave, if I had anyone halfway competent to leave in charge, but . . . it just doesn’t seem right to go off and leave old Jim Thomerson lying there in the morgue. Not . . . respectful. Here; this is it.”