Chapter 7

Peabody sat on the edge of the bed, staring out at the neon sign flashing pink in the rain. “Mountain Dew Motor Cour” glowed through the drizzle, the last letter having flickered its last who knew how many months or years previously. He didn’t hear the sound of water dripping off the wide eaves of the motel, since all his auditory attention was focused on the telephone receiver he had clasped to his ear.

“Yes, Mr. Carrington, it’s all there,” he said, glancing at the laptop lying next to him on the bed, and he experienced a sudden wistful longing that a warm body and not a cold machine was there instead. He jerked himself back to reality. “Yes, I faxed the plat and description and a copy of the deed. Stevenson should have it already.”

He looked back out at the rain as the voice at the other end squawked.

“No, no one knows anything yet, sir,” Peabody replied, watching as a glossy black Lincoln pulled up at the motel office. “Not even the realtor.” The car sat there, engine idling, exhaust forming a thick cloud in the drizzle. He couldn’t see the interior through the car’s tinted windows, and Peabody had a sudden vision of Mafia hoods clambering out, hands hovering near jacket lapels ready to whip out large pistols. He shivered despite the warmth of his room.

“Sir, I’m not sure just how these folks down here will react,” he spoke into the phone as he watched the Lincoln’s driver side door swing open. He paused, then craned his neck to see better, but no one climbed out. “This town is, well, a bit out of the loop, if you know what I mean. The people are, well, this is a small town, sir, and I’m not sure that they’ll exactly embrace the facility with open arms.”

He stiffened as he saw an arm emerge from the dark car. It seemed to fumble with something, and then a bright yellow umbrella shot open. As it rose in the air, a frail figure emerged from the car, clad in a brilliant crimson sweater and plaid pants. A jaunty cap was perched atop the head, and an elderly man ambled hunch-backed toward the office door. Peabody let out a breath and felt oddly disappointed.

He turned his attention back to the phone. “Sir, these people are conservative by nature. This is a small town, and it’s in the Bible Belt down here. They may very well look at this as devil worshipping or something.”

He winced as the voice at the other end let loose. “Sir, all I’m saying is that the situation needs to be handled with care. Emphasize the scientific import of what we’re doing here. Keep it all low key so the locals aren’t alienated.” He winced again at his choice of words. “Very good, sir. I’ll expect you tomorrow, and I’ll show you the site.”

The line clicked off as the garishly clad man made his way back to the Lincoln. Umbrella brandished over his head, he held up a key in his left hand and grinned lewdly at the passenger side. Peabody sighed and closed the curtains.

***

Peabody stepped out into the rain and sloshed across the parking lot to the office under the “Mountain Dew Motor Cour” sign. He stepped inside and shook off the water on his coat. “Excuse me,” he asked the man behind the counter, a short, dark Indian wearing a crisp white shirt. The man looked up from the television he was watching and flashed pearly white teeth. “Yes. And how may I be of helping to you now, sir?”

“Um,” Peabody began, glancing over at the TV. It was blaring forth with some inane comedy show. “I was wondering if you could recommend a good place to eat around here.”

“But of course,” the Indian replied, dipping his head. “Chong Dow’s. A very good Chinese restaurant. Very close by. Also, Mama Rosa’s. Italian food. The Cactus Patch. Is very good Mexican food.”

Peabody interrupted. “Um, anything American?”

“Oh, but of course. The Red Crawfish. Is very good Cajun food. From the swamps, yes? Also, there is...”

“Thank you,” Peabody interjected. “I think I can find something.”

“Very good, sir,” and the Indian turned happily back to his television. Peabody went back out in the rain and unlocked his rental car. It was getting dark as he climbed in and drove out of the parking lot, headed toward what passed for downtown. He swung around the central square with its leafy trees now standing soggy in the rain. The clouds seemed to nearly touch the tops of the buildings, and wisps of fog and cloud rolled by overhead. He stopped in front of J.D.’s Eating Emporium and carefully locked the car. He ducked his head under the eave but water still splashed down his collar, chilling his neck. He muttered a curse as he swung the door open. About 20 people were inside in various stages of eating; they all stopped as if frozen and eyed Peabody as though he was the next course. The sudden silence was broken only by the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Peabody stomped his feet and shrugged out of his coat, which he hung on a coat rack near the door. It dripped onto a satiny jacket that advertised a brand of chewing tobacco in bright letters.

As he turned back around, the diners resumed eating and the low buzz of conversation started back up. A waitress with bleached blonde hair tied in a ponytail swirled by laden with a large platter. “Just seat yourself, honey, and I’ll be with you in a minute.” Peabody caught a whiff of strange odors unlike anything he’d ever smelled before, much less put in his mouth. He looked around and found a table for two perched against the back wall.

He settled in and looked around when the waitress breezed by, dropped a shiny menu and a clatter of silverware on his table like a bomber delivering its ordnance with practiced precision, and roared off before he could speak. He picked up the menu gingerly, avoiding specks of some gunk that seemed to have been included in the lamination process, and searched the menu with growing despair. He’d had easier times in restaurants in Paris. What was this stuff? he wondered. A barbecue platter? Barbecued what? Salt and pepper catfish? Ground round topped with Vidalias? What was a Vidalia? And what on Earth was a corn dog? Surely they didn’t...

“Hey there.”

Peabody looked up in surprise at the man standing over his table.

“Yes?”

“Mind if I talk with you a second?”

“Um, well, no, I guess not.” Peabody immediately regretted his decision. Of course they wouldn’t bar panhandlers in the restaurants down here. At least in New York they were confined to the streets.

The man sat down across from Peabody and a warm smile flitted across his face. Tired gray-green eyes looked at Peabody, and then Peabody found himself pumping hands awkwardly over the paper napkin dispenser. The man’s handshake was firm and dry.

“Name’s Moss. Winston Moss. I’m with the Weekly Planet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Jupiter Weekly Planet. It’s the newspaper here.”

“Oh, I see. Say, isn’t that like the name of the newspaper...”

“That Clark Kent worked for, the Daily Planet, yes.” Winston sighed.

“Interesting. Um, Peabody. Sylvester Peabody,” he introduced himself. Peabody was vaguely disquieted, but told himself that he had dealt with reporters before. Big city reporters. He knew how to handle the media. After all, weren’t they simply panhandlers with a notepad?

“I understand you’re looking to buy some land.” It was a statement, and Peabody was a little surprised that this reporter went straight to the point.

“You must really be hard up for news here if you write a story about everyone who looks at property. Besides, I don’t see it as anyone’s business if I am.” Peabody looked up from his menu to see if the reporter would take umbrage, but Winston surprised him by laughing.

“No, we’re not quite that hard up. And you’re right, normally it’s not anyone’s business if you buy or sell a little piece of land. But I understand we’re talking about something more than a little. Something more than big, in fact.”

Peabody ducked his eyes back down to his menu. “Say,” he said, “you wouldn’t be able to enlighten me as to what buffalo wings are, would you?”

“They’re hot little devils. Kinda spicy. I hear you’ve been looking to buy Chestnut Mountain. Folks around here get interested when someone buys up most of a mountain. It’s what you might call newsworthy.”

Peabody looked across at the reporter, trying to read the expression on his face. Winston just looked back. “I didn’t think you journalists could write stories without double-checking your facts,” he said, trying a different defense. “If you double-checked yours, you’d find that I’m not buying anything.”

Winston’s reply was cut short by the waitress, who materialized in a rush, sweeping strands of her hair back out of her face. “What’ll it be, honey?” she asked Peabody. “You’uns want anything, Winston?”

Winston shook his head as Peabody studied the menu again. “Um, I think I’d like to take a look at the wine list first.” He tried to give the waitress his most ingratiating smile but it came out as more of a grimace.

The waitress smacked her gum and shot a glance at Winston, who seemed to be hiding a smirk. She tapped her pencil on her order pad and looked down at Peabody. “Honey, all our drinks is right there.” She pointed with her pencil to the lower right corner of the menu. Under the heading “All Alcoholic Beverage Permits” it listed “Beer: On tap or in the bottle,” and “Wine: Red or White.”

“A glass of your house white, I should think,” he said, and the waitress snapped her gum again. She spun on her heels and was gone. He turned to find the reporter watching him with amusement.

“So, any further questions, my good fellow?” Peabody asked in a tone of dismissal.

“Just one,” Winston said, leaning forward. “Just what does Mr. Conrad Carrington of New York City want with a mountain way down here in North Carolina?”

Peabody’s heart lurched. “I beg your pardon?” he managed to ask, but he realized his voice quavered slightly.

Winston placed his elbows on the table and leaned across it. “Mr. Conrad Carrington. Surely you’ve heard of him. Rich guy. Owns Carrington Industries Inc. You know, your boss, the Condom King.”

Peabody stared at the newsman, trying to put his mind in high gear. It felt as though the gears had rusted somehow, though, and he was having a hard time coming up with a suitable answer. He sought refuge in his menu again, furiously trying to decipher how much this guy knew.

“So, would you recommend the chicken?” he asked, his eye finally finding an entree on the menu that he recognized. “The, uh, drummettes?”

“Not if you have a big appetite. Look, Mr. Peabody, I’m just curious right now. So are a lot of people. We’re curious here when someone from out of town comes in and suddenly wants to buy up a chunk of a mountain. You understand. We just want to know why.”

Peabody felt trapped. He looked around the restaurant, at the easy fellowship of the other diners. He looked back to see Winston sitting back quietly.

“All right,” he said quickly, making a decision. “I’ll make you a deal. “You don’t print anything just yet, and I’ll give you the full story. Later.”

Winston shook his head. “That’s not much of a deal. I’ve got me a story now.”

“O.K., O.K. I’ll give you all the details, but just not right now. I can’t. But later, I will. I promise.”

“When later?”

Peabody hesitated. “Maybe tomorrow night. Maybe the next day. I promise.” He looked pleadingly at Winston, who seemed to be measuring him.

“O.K., Mr. Peabody, you have a deal. For now.” His eyes narrowed and his smile was gone. “But don’t burn me on this. Just because I work at a small paper doesn’t mean I don’t know anyone at a big one. If you catch my drift.” He stood up. “One more thing.”

Peabody looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I’d stay away from the mountain oysters if I were you.”

***

She was unbelievably beautiful. They were running through the woods, sunlight filtered through the tall trees to stab down in bright shafts of light. The ground was soft underfoot, the foliage dense green, and everywhere were the sounds of birds: chirping and singing, fluttering in the undergrowth, flitting overhead. A ray of sunlight caught her long flowing hair, turning it silken in the blazing light. She turned back toward him, eyes dancing with excitement and invitation, and her smile promised radiant passion. The simple dress of some gauzy material shimmered against her body, clasping her hips and breasts in loving embrace. Winston ached with desire and hurried his pace, but she laughed and kept just out of reach.

She darted around a laurel bush, and when he followed she was suddenly there, allowing him to catch her in his arms and swing her off her feet in a full circle. He hugged her to him as they both laughed in delight, and then a sudden blaring noise intruded on their revelry. Hugging her close to him, Winston looked over her shoulder in disbelief as a large revolving round shape appeared in the sky, lights flashing against the glare of the sun and emitting a steady shrill blare. In awe he watched as the huge shape hovered overhead and began to descend, the blaring growing louder. He gasped and struggled to say something, but instead unlocked himself from his embrace so she too could see the fascinating sight. But as he took a step back, hands on her shoulders, he looked at her beautiful face and saw it transform: the honey brown hair falling away to be replaced by a scaly skin, the forehead melting away, the sparkling eyes narrowing into slits as the nose and mouth metamorphosed into a snout. Gone was the beautiful woman; in her place was an outlandish creature of distinctly alien origin. He pushed himself away but it clutched at him, and he felt himself falling backward, the blaring and ringing in his ears and a scream forming on his lips...

“Daddy!” The voice came to him through a fog.

“Daddy!” It repeated itself insistently. At least the blaring had stopped. “Wake up! It’s time to get up.”

His eyes fluttered open to focus on a pert face set in a frown, a look of agitation etched into the freckles. “Daddy,” she said severely, “didn’t you hear the alarm? You’re always oversleeping. Your breakfast is going to get cold.”

This was a standard joke: He usually had cereal in the morning. Winston shivered and grunted, then flapped his hand at his daughter in acknowledgement, and as she spun around and marched out of his bedroom he climbed out of bed and made for the bathroom.

Somewhat revived by a quick shower, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“‘Morning, Nikki,” he said to his daughter, kissing her hair as she stood at the counter making a peanut butter and banana sandwich. “Thanks for getting me up.”

“Daddy, I swear, I’m going to get you a new alarm clock. One that’s real loud.” She turned and shot him a mischievous smile that stabbed into him like a hot blade, so closely did it resemble a smile from another time and another place. He quickly put aside the flash of pain and struggled to put a smile on his own face. “So, what’s up with you today?”

“Same old sh... stuff,” she said. “After school, me and Amber are going over to the library to work on our science project. I might go by her house afterwards if that’s O.K.”

“Amber and I. Sure. I might be late this evening, anyway.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Just working on a story. But I’ll see you sometime tonight, all right?”

“Sure, Daddy.” She had finished making her sandwich and stuffed it in a paper bag. “Gotta go, or the principal will be calling you,” she teased. “Love ya, bye,” she gave him a quick hug around the neck and a peck on the cheek and was gone, the kitchen door swinging shut behind her with a bang. God, she was growing up so fast. Winston sipped at his coffee and let the bittersweet thoughts of the past drift up and wash over him like the endless waves on a beach.

***

Peabody was agitated. He studied the map on his lap and peered down at the ground whizzing by a thousand feet below him. The helicopter lurched suddenly sideways as it caught a gust of air billowing off a mountain below it, and Peabody’s stomach roiled queasily. He glanced at Carrington beside him, but the captain of industry seemed not to notice the bouncing and clattering of the helicopter, his eyes fixed on the panoramic scene spread gloriously out beneath their feet. The helicopter banked, and Peabody saw over Carrington’s shoulder the dip and roll of hills, the steep jutting crags of mountaintops reaching for the sky like shark’s teeth, the dark hollows winding and twisting their way between the humped rock like veins between knife-edged ridges. Even under a sodden sky moist with anticipation, the vast broken landscape was alive with an awesome beauty. Pine forests carpeted the hills and valleys, although here and there bare knobs protruded from the undulating green like bald heads, and hard gray outcroppings thrust forward with ageless grace.

Nervously, Peabody tried to fix his bearings, comparing the ordered neatness of the map in his lap with the impenetrable maze stretching out beneath them. The chopper banked again, and Peabody breathed a sign of relief: There below was a shiny black ribbon snaking around a mountain, just where the map said it should be. It looked considerably different than when he and that realtor had ridden it last.

“There it is, sir,” he leaned over Carrington and pointed. Carrington put the high-powered binoculars to his eyes and scanned the area Peabody had pointed out.

“Fabulous,” he whispered in a husky voice. “Absolutely gorgeous.” Abruptly he looked up, and reaching forward he tapped the pilot on the shoulder. He pointed down, and the pilot nodded. Peabody gulped as the helicopter dropped, the pilot searching for a clearing. A grassy field came into view and the pilot made for it, hovered overhead for a moment to check for large rocks, and then set her gently down. The whine of the engine was already dying away as Carrington jumped to the ground with a bound. Peabody followed gratefully, ducking his head to escape the wash of the rotors.

Carrington, dressed in expensive khaki as though he were stalking big game in the Serengeti, clamped a bush hat on his head and stomped around the clearing. “Peabody, this is it. Magnificent.” He spread his arms as though to embrace the whole scene. The knob they stood on fell gently away to a line of pines and hardwoods, then dropped off sharply to a deep valley through which a distant stream glinted. Spinning around in a circle, Peabody saw nothing but a line of bluish-gray mountains marching away into the distance, the tops of the taller ones obscured by mist. He shrugged his coat closer to him, wishing he had brought a hat as the chill wind reddened his cheeks and made his eyes tear.

“Right here, Peabody. Right here. This is where we’ll put it. By god, I feel like I can touch the sky from here.” He spun to look at Peabody, who was now shivering while he rubbed his arms. He felt the chilled flesh of his face with his hands but felt nothing; either his hands or his face had gone numb. He nodded knowingly, ignoring the elements.

“Yes, Peabody, this is the place. I can feel it. If you can’t find an extraterrestrial from here, you’re not going to find one period. Am I right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You know, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he paused as he took in the wind-blown scene around him, “if they haven’t been here already.”

Peabody looked perplexedly around him. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why some alien creature that could navigate the cosmos would set down on top of a mountain rather than, oh, say, Central Park or the Mall in D.C., but he knew better than to voice his misgivings. Instead, he said, “It’s quite possible, sir.” He felt his teeth start to chatter.

“All right, Peabody,” Carrington said, but made no move to the helicopter that Peabody eyed longingly. “I want you to take care of the details personally.” Peabody groaned inwardly, his mind calculating how many more days it would be before he could return to civilization. “Close the deal fast, and Jenkins will start the ball rolling on the construction. And get what’s-her-name, the scientist lady, down here, too.”

“Chandler,” Peabody filled in. “Victoria Chandler.”

“Yeah, whatever. Get her down here on site. I want her to make sure there are no fuckups. She’s a pain in the ass but she’s got the balls to kick all the necessary butt to make this happen right.” Finally, he strode off toward the chopper, which cranked up with a low whine. He looked back at Peabody. “You coming or not?” Peabody trotted after him.

“Sir? One more thing,” he said once he was buckled in the comparable warmth of the private helicopter. He rubbed his hands together briskly, but still felt no sensation. His lungs felt as though they had sucked in ice.

“What is it?” Carrington didn’t remove his gaze from the window as the helicopter rose gracefully from the grassy knob, hung delicately in the air, and then shot off over the valley.

“How do you want to handle the announcement? Some of the, uh, locals are starting to get a little nosey.”

“Set up a press conference when you get back. We’ll make a big splash. Get some good publicity.”

Peabody thought of Winston and bit his lip. “Uh, sir? What about the local reaction? It could get a bit dicey.”

Carrington turned back from the window and frowned. “Good point. Yeah, we’ve got to handle this correctly. Wouldn’t do to piss off the locals too much. Tell ya what. You go meet with the local bigwigs, such as they are, the mayor, chamber of commerce, whatever, and fill them in. Let ‘em know they’re about to join the big time. Tell ‘em we’re about to put them on the map.” He grinned wolfishly. “They’ll be eating out of our hands.”

Peabody wasn’t so sure. “Um, well, there might be a bit of a backlash. These people aren’t real keen on outsiders. And who knows how they’ll react to a, um, facility devoted to contacting UFOs.” He had a sudden vision of the villagers in “Frankenstein” storming the good doctor’s castle with torches and pitchforks.

“Well, Peabody, just concentrate on the scientific angle. This is a research facility, after all. A non-profit institute.” His eyes gleamed. “For now.”

Chapter 6

Patty Arrington chewed on another donut and could practically feel the tightening in the seams of her stylish new sky-blue pantsuit. She didn’t care. She was depressed, so she had decided she didn’t care about the derriere that kept spreading no matter how many butt machines she bought, or the thighs that kept rubbing together no matter how many steps she climbed on that damn stair-stepper. She took another bite of the donut, wiping the powdered sugar off her lip and stared gloomily out the window of her office at the misty grayness that seemed to reach inside to her.

The weather sucked. Business sucked. For that matter, she thought, her whole life right now sucked.

She was eyeing another donut when she heard the gravel crunching outside. Craning her neck, she could see a plain tan car pull up. A thin, tall man in a hat and overcoat got out. He popped open a large black umbrella against the mist.

Jumping up, she quickly brushed the crumbs from her pantsuit and skipped through an open door to her office. She was just settling down behind her desk, grabbing up the phone, when the door opened. On cue, she began talking into the phone: “Uh huh. Uh huh. Not a problem. We can close anytime you like.” Putting one hand over the mouthpiece, she leaned forward and shouted through the open door, “Be with you in a minute!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she said back into the phone. “O.K. I really have to go now. Bye.”

She hurried out of her cramped office to find the tall man examining his now rolled up umbrella. He seemed disappointed that the mist had not so much as dampened the instrument. “Hello. May I help you?” Patty switched on her smile.

The man turned to her and swept off his hat. He had thinning brown hair that he combed over the top in a desperate attempt to convince the public that he wasn’t almost bald. “Er, yes,” he said hesitantly. “I’m looking for some property.”

Patty turned up the wattage on her smile. She was starting to feel better.

“I’m from out of town,” he offered, as though this bit of news explained everything.

“Of course,” Patty replied, raising her thin eyebrows slightly to indicate surprise, although she had already pegged him not only as someone from off the mountain but from somewhere distant to the state. “Would you like some coffee? A donut, perhaps?” She waggled the box at him.

“No, no. Thank you.”

“Sorry for the way the office looks,” she said. “My secretary’s out right now.” She fluttered her hand vaguely, as though the secretary had dashed off on some important errand when in reality she had quit to go work at the Wal-Mart over in Proctorville three months ago.

“That’s O.K.” The man gripped his hat in his hands tightly.

“Won’t you sit down Mr. ...?”

“Peabody. Sylvester Peabody. Thank you.” He settled carefully into the orange chair facing the secretary’s desk.

Patty sat down behind the desk. New York, she decided. Her gloom was lifting. “You said you’re interested in some property? Not a house?”

“No, just property.”

“Um, well.” She drew out a sheet of paper from the desk and scrounged up a pen with PATTY ARRINGTON REALTY written on it in blue letters. She scratched a note on the paper. “How much property? Less than an acre? More?”

“Well, that depends. But probably several acres.”

“Several, hmmm?” Patty was careful to keep her expression neutral, as she jotted something else down on the paper. She was starting to feel much better. Much, much better.

“Up high.”

“Up high?”

“Yes. Very high. You know, like on a mountain.”

Patty frowned, as though finding a mountain would be difficult in the Appalachian chain. “A mountain? The whole mountain, or just part of one?”

“Well, to start with, the top. Of the mountain. And part of the, er, sides.”

“The sides, too.” She wrote that down.

“If that’s not a problem,” Peabody added helpfully, leaning forward.

“Oh, no,” Patty replied quickly, looking up from her notes. She flashed him another smile. “No problem. But it would help,” and she leaned forward conspiratorially, “if I had some notion of what, um, you needed the property for.”

Peabody looked across the desk at her. “Um, well, actually, I’m looking for a site to, well, um, build a, that is to say develop a, um, facility.”

“A facility?” Patty’s eyebrows arched again. “I see.” She looked troubled for a minute, then asked, “This wouldn’t be a development for some religious cult, would it? Not that I mind,” she added quickly, not wanting to scare off any sale, “but we’ve already got the Holy Order of Devout Entomology over to Locust Gap and the People United Against Underwear over toward Mineral Ridge. So if you’re one of those types, I’d try to locate you in another part of the county. They’re not so keen on competition.”

“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. This is a more, um, scientific type facility.”

“I see.” Patty decided she wasn’t likely to get any more out of him. Now. “O.K. Fine. Let’s see what we’ve got. Um, one more question, first.” She licked her lips. This was the big one. “What, um, price range are we talking about here?”

Peabody chewed a lip, then produced a nervous laugh. “Well, actually, you see, price isn’t really a concern.”

Patty hadn’t felt so good in months.

***

“I say it’s some more of those bug worshipers. You know, the ones that think all insects is sacred?”

“Nah. I heard it was tree huggers, plain and simple. Hippy types.”

“Lloyd, you are so full of shit. Hippies ain’t got the money to buy nothing. And the way I hear it, these folks have got plenty.” Augustus “Gus” Singleton leaned back in his plastic chair at J.D.’s Eating Emporium with a satisfied smirk. Gus was 92 years old, but spry as a goat. He was lean and wiry, with a long face wrinkled and brown from countless years in the sun. He surveyed the table before pronouncing, “Boys, yore imagination is running aways with you again. It’s just some more of them Flor-Ons building their fancy houses.”

“Gus, you’uns is the one full of shit,” rasped Lloyd Tuttle. He reached for his coffee and slurped some down before continuing. “Hippies, I say. A bunch of rich kids who don’t know how to wipe the snot off their nose. So they get their daddy to buy them a mountain so’s they can go back to nature.” He peered at his older friend through thick glasses and chuckled. “They’ll be long gone ‘for winter’s half over.”

“It’s those bug people, I tell you. Or maybe something even weirder.” The third man at the table, Dalton Perry, scratched his nearly hairless head. He lowered his voice as he glanced around the diner, nearly empty in the lazy time after the breakfast crowd but before the early-lunch crowd started filtering in. “You know, deviant sexual practices.”

Gus slapped his thigh and guffawed. “Dalton, I declare, you are something else,” he snorted. “Whadda ya know about deviant sexual practices? Your pecker ain’t done no deviating in 25 years.”

Beside him, Lloyd snickered. Dalton colored. “Now hold on there, Gus...” he began, but Gus cut him off. “You’uns know what they say, Dalton, don’tcha? Use it or lose it.” He cackled at his own wit, and Lloyd tittered again. Dalton looked pained, but could think of no snappy riposte. After all, it was common knowledge that Gus Singleton not only was as spry as a goat, but as randy as one as well. He already had put four wives into the ground; plumb wore them out, if you believed the gossip, and had recently scandalized the Euphoria Reformed Christian Church by showing up at Archie Webster’s funeral with a bouquet of red carnations which he had promptly given to the Widow Webster, who was Gus’ junior by a good two decades but who still cut a fine figure, it was widely agreed.

“You know, fellas, it ain’t like the old days,” Lloyd offered, as the other two groaned. This was his favorite topic. “Folks stayed put, went to work, came home. They didn’t have time for none of this foolishness they got now. Putting up shopping centers everywhere, chopping down trees, bulldozing all the mountains flat. Why...”

“Lloyd, you old chucklehead,” Gus interjected. “You’uns is always goin’ on about the good ol’ days. She-it. I remember them days. Didn’t have no ‘lectricity. No TV. And the damn toilet was out the back door. Screw them days, Gus. Weren’t no Playboy Channel back then.”

“I don’t know, Gus,” Lloyd persisted, toying with his spoon. “You know how it is. Folks are different somehow. They ain’t like they used to be.”

“Lloyd, boy,” Gus said, “I got a news flash for ya. Ain’t none of us how we used to be.”

The three friends chuckled. They looked up as Winston pushed through the doors and peered around the diner, his eyes adjusting from the harsh glare of the sunshine outside. He spotted the three old men and made his way to them.

“Hey, Winston, what’s new?” Gus asked.

“Hello, Gus. Lloyd. Dalton. How’re you guys today?”

“Just fine, Winston, just fine,” Gus nodded back. “Say, Winston, we was just wonderin’ something. Thought you could help us.”

“Sure, Gus. What is it?”

“Well,” Gus shot a look at his two companions, “we was just wondering if we could take us a ride in that there spaceship of yours.” The three old coots collapsed with laughter, and Lloyd started coughing so hard Gus had to slap him on the back.

Winston chuckled despite himself. “Well, Gus, first off, it isn’t my spaceship. It’s Nell Fleck’s. And second, I’m not sure you’d want to hitch a ride on it.” He grinned wickedly. “I hear there aren’t any women aboard.”

Gus guffawed at that. “You right about that, Winston,” he said.

“You think that Nell really saw a UFO?” Lloyd asked.

“I don’t know,” Winston replied. “She sure thinks she saw something.”

“Swamp gas, that’s what I bet it was,” offered Dalton. “Folks all the time thinking they see flying saucers, and it turns out to be swamp gas.”

“Sure, Dalton, swamp gas in the mountains,” jeered Gus. “That makes sense.”

“Hey, it could happen,” Dalton said in an injured tone. “I knowed a feller down to ...”

“Say, boy, you heard about that new Floridiot development?” Gus interrupted, looking at Winston.

“Naw, Gus, I ain’t heard about it. But Floridians building houses in the mountains ain’t news anymore. Even around here.”

“I heard it was hippies,” said Lloyd. “Going to build one of them communes. You know, free love and all.” He leered at the other two at his table.

“Free love my butt,” Gus said. “You don’t know shit, Lloyd. Ain’t nothing about love that’s free. There’s a price for everything in this world.”

“It’s those bug worshipers, that’s the way I heard it,” volunteered Dalton, who had been nibbling on a cheese sandwich. “Bunch of those weirdos buying up a mountain to worship bugs.”

Winston swung back around to the trio at the table. “Who’s buying up what mountain?” he asked casually.

“That realtor woman been showing some Yankee feller around. Heard tell he’s got lots of money and is lookin’ to buy a mountain,” Gus said around slurps of his coffee.

“Oh, yeah?” Winston paused, affecting disinterest. “What’s Patty said about him?”

Gus eyed him from over the top of his coffee cup. “She ain’t said shit, ‘cept this boy was mighty particular about things. She been showing him the property over to Chestnut Mountain.”

“Is that right?” Winston swung back around and faced the counter. “Well, you’re probably right. Just another developer building a couple of summer homes. No story there.”

***

Winston called Patty Arrington as soon as he returned to his office. When she answered, the crackling at the other end told him she was in her car.

“Patty? Winston, from the newspaper. How’re you doing today? How’s business?”

“It’s lousy, Winston. Lousy. I need to find another line of work.” This was her standard line, particularly when talking to anyone with the local newspaper since she suspected that advertising rates would mysteriously rise if real estate sales boomed. “Whatcha want?”

“Look, Patty, I need a little information. I understand you’ve been showing property to some out-of-town guy. What’s the deal?”

“C’mon, Winston, honey, you know I can’t tell you. Realtor-client relations are confidential.”

“Patty, that’s attorney-client relations. Give me something to work with.”

There was a pause at the other end, then she said, “Well, really, all I can say is that he’s looking for a big piece. Of property. High up. Probably for single-family residential. Perhaps some multi-family. But that’s all I know.”

“Who’s he representing?”

“Winston, I can’t tell you that.”

That meant she didn’t know either, Winston guessed. “O.K., Patty. Thanks. One more thing. I need his name.”

He waited as the line popped and crackled. “Patty? C’mon. I need his name.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you that, Winston,” she said finally.

“All right, Patty. I’ll talk to Mavis about giving you a break on your next ad.”

“The name’s Peabody. Sylvester Peabody. I think probably New York.”

“Thanks, Patty. I appreciate it.”

“Sure, sure,” he heard as the line clicked dead.

Winston swiveled to his computer and logged on. He had work to do.

Chapter 5

Peabody drove slowly, unsure of the twisting, winding mountain roads. He was careful to stay on his side of the road, and occasionally he would glance nervously toward his right where the ground simply seemed to fall away to nothingness beyond a narrow grassy shoulder. In the distance the bluish mountains loomed, starkly beautiful against the gray sky.

It had been a long trip. He was not at all happy that Carrington had dumped this assignment on him, but he was fatalistic about it. Besides, he had not gotten where he was in the Carrington empire by charting an independent course; he had gotten there by doing what Conrad Carrington wanted – sometimes before Carrington knew what it was he wanted.

Still, Peabody sighed, he was getting too old for these spur-of-the-moment road trips. He had barely had time to get back to his apartment, stuff some clothes in a couple of suitcases, and catch a taxi to the airport. His flight, of course, had been delayed, and he had arrived in Charlotte an hour late. After picking up his rental car, he’d had to drive nearly two hours to even reach the mountains. Who could ever live this far from an airport, he wondered.

He rounded a curve and slowed even more. A Jeep had stopped half on and half off the road up ahead. Someone dressed in an old Army fatigue jacket and faded blue jeans with a black baseball cap was rummaging in the back. Flat tire or engine trouble, he guessed as he pondered the wisdom of stopping to assist. He had decided against it and was edging around the vehicle when the figure straightened up and glanced his way. He was surprised to note that it was a woman.

He stopped in front of the Jeep, careful to keep the two left tires on pavement. He stepped out of the car and walked back to the Jeep. He was puzzled to see that the woman had a shovel grasped in her hands.

“Need some, er, help, ma’am?” He wondered how you changed a tire with a shovel. Must be some mountain trick. But then, the Jeep’s tires seemed comfortably inflated.

The woman gave him a hard look. Her faced was lined and dark hair streaked with strands of gray spilled out from beneath the cap. “Nah,” she said finally. “I think I can handle it.”

She strode to the middle of the road, and Peabody noticed for the first time that some poor animal lay there in a small pool of blood. He had no idea what kind of animal it had been.

“Why, how thoughtful,” he said, watching as she scooped the creature up in one easy swoop of her shovel. “I guess that’s a problem around here - running over animals, I mean. So everyone pitches in to keep the roads clean, do they? Are you going to bury it?”

The woman looked at him as though he were a squashed toad as she walked back to her jeep, the animal hanging off the end of her shovel, which she held out in front of her like a knight’s lance.

“Bury it?” she repeated. “Nah.”

She reached into the back of the Jeep with one hand and pulled out a brown paper bag. “I’m gonna eat it,” she said as she dumped the animal into the bag.

She wiped the shovel in the grass and looked up to see Peabody lurching back to his car, one hand covering his mouth.

Crazy fucking yuppie slime tourists, she thought.

***

Winston typed up a story on a technical problem at the Jupiter sewage treatment plant as he talked, or rather listened, to the person at the other end of the line. At least he thought it was a person.

“Uh, no, Mr. Sneed, I’m afraid we wouldn’t be interested in recounting your adventures in the, er, which galaxy did you say it was again?” Winston squinted at his notes. “Wow, that’s a lot of shit,” he muttered.

“No, no, I wasn’t talking to you, Mr. Sneed. Um, just go on, please.” He resumed typing.

“The Finestrian Galaxy. Ah. I don’t believe I’m familiar with that one. And you say you got there in a matter of hours aboard the … Borinium spaceship. Well, I wish I could get to the beach that fast. Yes, I’m sorry, Mr. Sneed, I am taking this seriously. But I don’t think our readers … Mr. Sneed, I think … really? They did that to you? With a … how did they? You know, that’s really … interesting, Mr. Sneed, but this is a family newspaper and I think that might be a bit too shocking for some of them. Yes, thank you for calling.”

He rubbed his eyes but looked up when he became aware of someone hovering on the other side of his cluttered desk. He wasn’t sure for a moment what he was looking at: It was a tall, gangling stick of a body with a mat of thick tangled red hair falling to a pair of frail shoulders, surrounding a face with features so sharp they could have been sculpted out of clay. A loud purple sports coat hung on a gaunt frame on top of a red and blue flannel shirt that sprouted a tie at least five inches wide featuring the entire cast of “Star Trek” with the Enterprise floating behind them. A pair of ragged blue jeans fell down to a decrepit pair of what had once been expensive running shoes that now were being held together by dull gray duct tape.

Winston blinked, but the figure did not disappear. “Yes,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“Hey, dude. I’m looking for Mr. Moss.”

“That would be me.”

“Cool!” The face split into a wide goofy grin. A long thin arm poked out across the desk, knocking over a pile of papers. They fell to the floor in an avalanche. “Oops.” The tall figure bent to pick up the papers and snagged an elbow on Winston’s in-tray, and it tipped over and landed on top of the pile. “Uh, sorry about that, dude,” the purple-clad character said as he scrabbled about on the floor, finally surfacing with his hands clasped around a wad of papers and the in-tray, which he set down on a messy pile on Winston’s desk. A bony hand extended again across the carnage of the desktop and Winston involuntarily took a half step back. He caught himself and grabbed the hand, which proceeded to pump his in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Mr. Moss, I’m Lionel Pringle.” He grinned again.

Winston stared at him. “Yes?”

“You know. Your new intern.”

“Intern?” Winston said the word as though he were hearing it for the first time.

“From the college,” Lionel prompted.

Memory flooded Winston’s aching brain. “Ah, yes, the intern. I’m sorry, I’d forgotten.” Hobart had repeatedly refused Winston’s request to hire another reporter, so Winston in desperation had inquired at the local college about getting some help in the form of a student intern. One that Winston didn’t have to pay; that was the type of help Hobart liked.

He eyed the kid warily. You get what you pay for, he thought. “Um, yes. Well. So you want to work at a newspaper, huh?”

Lionel frowned, his brow wrinkling. “Well, actually, dude, I’m like, you know, what I want to do, is, like, be a surfer.”

“A surfer? Here in the mountains?”

“Nah. In the ocean.”

“This is something you can make a career out of now? And you need a college degree for this?”

“It’s like my dream, dude. You know, be a professional surfer. Travel the professional surfing circuit. Ride the Pipeline. You know.” A dreamy look had come across his face.

“So, you surf a lot, do you?”

“Uh, no. Well, that is to say, I plan to. I haven’t actually done it yet.”

“I see,” Winston said, although he didn’t. “So what is a surfer-to-be doing in a newspaper office?”

“Well, it’s like this. My mom and dad, they’re like totally uncool. They say I need to forget this surfing stuff and get a good education. But it’s like my dream, you know? But I figure, I gotta go to California to be a surfer, you know? And I gotta get some money to go there, right? So my folks say they’ll send me to California if I graduate from college, so here I am.”

“I think I understand,” Winston said, massaging his temples again. “So how come you ended up majoring in journalism?”

The face wrinkled up again in a frown. “I am?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Dude, I don’t know. I thought I was majoring in business. But maybe not. Or was it English? Nah, that was last semester.” His face brightened. “Say, you might be right. I should be about up to the J’s by now.”

Winston rubbed his eyes. Cowabunga, he thought, college hadn’t changed a bit. “O.K., Lionel, let’s see what we can do.” He scrounged around on his desk and came up with a few pieces of paper. “Here’re some press releases. Go over to that desk over there and rewrite these on that computer. You know how to use a computer, don’t you?”

“Dude. I’ve spent half my life on a computer.”

Winston didn’t doubt him one bit.

***

Traffic was light, and Peabody was surprised to see the odd Lincoln and Cadillac and BMW among the expected pickup trucks and off-road vehicles. Most of the fancier cars sported Florida or Georgia license plates. Well, thought Peabody, breathing in the mountain air, it certainly is cooler up here than further South. Cooler than New York, for that matter, and the air was much, much cleaner than in the city. Peabody allowed himself to relax slightly as he drove out of the woods and began passing what he took for rural civilization: Open green fields flanked by stands of trees with cows munching on bright green grass. He had been driving even more slowly and more carefully ever since his earlier roadside encounter, his eyes darting to the sides of the road trying to anticipate some wild animal that might launch itself under his wheels. He allowed himself to pry one hand off the steering wheel long enough to rub his aching neck muscles. He shifted in the seat and glimpsed a faded sign beside the road: “Welcome to Jupiter, Biggest Star in the Blue Ridge.” He shook his head. Didn’t these people know what a planet was?

He passed some small stores and then spotted a gas station with an attached convenience store. He pulled in and parked, then went inside to get something to drink to wash out the rancid taste in his mouth. The tiny store sold a remarkable assortment of products, ranging from a vast array of junk food products to motor oil to T-shirts. As he was paying for his drink, he noticed a sign on the counter alerting customers that something called night crawlers were for sale, and asked the clerk, a plump middle-aged woman puffing on a long, slim cigarette, “Pardon me, ma’am, but just what are these … ah, night crawlers?”

The clerk squinted at him suspiciously through a cloud of smoke. “Night crawlers? Honey, them’s worms. Want some?”

Peabody blanched. “Ah, no, no thank you.” He gathered his change and quickly left the store. As he climbed back into his car he noticed a man dressed in faded overalls tipped back in an old cane chair behind a row of small jars laid out on a long piece of lumber perched between two cinder blocks. The jars glinted bronze in the sun. A sign identified the contents as “Pure Mountain Hunny.” Behind the row of honey were ceramic animals: frogs, rabbits, even a small deer. The man nodded his head at Peabody, who ducked his head in response. Peabody started the car and drove back onto the highway. He passed a couple of other roadside stands, one advertising boiled peanuts and “authentic Indian moccasins” and another peddling quilts, pottery and what appeared to be old, rusted out farm implements.

He drove on, and suddenly found himself stopped at a traffic light and facing a small, leafy square with what looked to be some sort of monument in the middle. He craned his neck to see the light change green, then drove around the square. It was surrounded by small, squat buildings, mostly brick and stone; the largest, he noticed was only three stories tall. The biggest building, though, was a rambling white stone structure that dominated one end of the square; broad stone steps rose from the sidewalk to a large set of double doors set behind a set of impressive columns. It was the courthouse, he saw, although it looked like a church. Probably the same thing down here, Peabody mused. He pulled into a parking spot near the courthouse building and got out. The air was mild and somehow clean tasting. He looked around for the parking meter but to his amazement noticed that there were none. Hmmm, he thought. They must have a meter maid. Well, he wouldn’t be parked here long. He fumbled in his coat pocket and found a slip of paper with a number on it. He took out his slim cell phone and punched in the number. He bit his lip; he hoped cell phones worked here. He was rewarded with a ringing on the other end. It rang several times before it was finally picked up. No voice spoke, but Peabody could hear faint breathing on the other end.

“Hello? Hello? Is someone there?”

“Who is this?” A gruff voice answered with what seemed to Peabody to be a mix of anger and fear.

“Um, you don’t know me, but, um, well, you see, my name is Sylvester Peabody. I understand that you, um, recently witnessed a, ah, shall we say, phenomenon?”

“How’d you get this number?”

“Well, I, uh, looked it up.”

“What do you want?” Hostility echoed in Peabody’s ear.

“I was wondering, that is, I would like to meet with you. To, uh, ask you some questions.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Peabody paused. “Why? Why, because I represent a party that is very interested in what you saw. Experienced. He, that is, this party, would like to know more. About the, you know, encounter.” Peabody looked around him to see if anybody was watching him. Nobody was paying him any mind. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice. “And about them.”

Peabody waited. He could hear breathing on the other end. “You believe … in them?”

“Oh, yes,” Peabody lied. “Actually, the party I represent is actively engaged in exploring these phenomena. We’re, ah, really quite excited about this.”

“You are?” The voice was decidedly less hostile.

“Ah, Ms. Fleck, I really would like to continue this discussion in person. Would it be possible for me to meet with you?”

“Here?”

“Well, it would be beneficial if I could examine the site.”

Another pause at the other end. Peabody glanced around; there still was nobody paying him any mind. “I reckon so,” the voice said grudgingly. “You’uns got something to write with? I’ll give you directions.”

***

Winston glumly pondered the list of the week’s stories. Pickings were slim. The only crime of the week had been a car reported stolen by Helen Bainbridge, but the police had found the elderly matron’s ancient Buick parked downtown. She apparently had forgotten where she parked it when she was shopping. The garden club had elected new officers. He could write a story about the tourism season beginning, but everybody already knew that. He sighed. Maybe he should do a follow-up on the UFO thing. Christ knew it had caused enough trouble already; perhaps if he took a scientific angle to it, and included the lack of any other credible reports of sightings, he could put a lid on the whole thing. Besides, it would give him some much-needed copy.

He rummaged through the stacks of papers and books on his desk and fished out the phone book. He thumbed through it until he found what he wanted. He punched in the number and waited until a voice answered.

“Yeah, hi there, this is Winston Moss over at the Planet,” he said briskly. I’m trying to reach Dr. Harris. Albert Harris.”

“Speaking. And you said you are from where? A planet?”

“Yes, Dr. Harris, the Weekly Planet. I’m a reporter. The editor, actually.”

“Ah. I see. A journalist.” The tone indicated that journalist ranked somewhere between mold and slime.

“Yes, that’s right. The reason I was calling is about that recent business with the, ah, UFO.”

“The UFO?”

“Yes. You know, the local sighting by a Jupiter woman. It was in the paper.”

“Ah, well then, I must have missed that. I don’t actually read your newspaper, you see. I prefer the London Times.”

“The London Times? You mean the one in England?”

“Yes, that would be the one.”

“Just out of professional interest, doctor, do you get that delivered here in Jupiter?”

“Ah, well, yes, the library here receives it. It’s only two days late, but still immensely informative. Why, just yesterday there was an article … of course, that was the paper I was reading yesterday, which would make the paper itself dated…”

“Yes, yes, Dr. Harris, I can sympathize with papers being late. Listen, the reason I’m calling is, well, like I said, we’ve had an apparent close encounter here in Jupiter and I thought you could give me a little background information on UFOs and extraterrestrials, what with you being a physicist. By the way, I didn’t know they had a physics department over there.”

“Oh my, yes. We’ve been around for, oh, eons. Blue Ridge is not a large college, as I’m sure you know, but we pride ourselves on quality over quantity. Heh, heh.”

“So, what can you tell me about UFOs? The witness claims it looked like a flying saucer and that she saw creatures get out.”

“Really? Quite amazing.”

“Er, and your thoughts on the incident?”

“Me? Well, I would say that … say, you’re not going to quote me on this, are you?”

“Well, that was the general idea.”

“Ah. I see. Then in that case I think you could say that, ah, um, the incident sounds, ah, interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Ah, yes. And you may quote me on that.”

“Gee, thanks. Could you perhaps elaborate?

“Elaborate? Certainly. It is, ah, provocative.”

“Provocative?”

“Yes. You don’t think that’s too, ah, quotable, do you, Mr. …”

“Moss. No. It’s not. But look here, Dr. … ah, Harris, what I’m really after here is your professional, expert opinion on the incident. You know, what happened or might have happened, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, goodness. Well, of course, I have lots of opinions on lots of matters. I’d be happy to share them with you. But on this, ah, incident. You want me to say, as a physicist, whether or not a flying saucer landed in Jupiter?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Ah. I see. Look, it’s not quite that simple. There are several possible explanations: hallucination, dementia, car lights, weather balloons, swamp gas…”

“Swamp gas in the mountains?”

“Well, er, these are all the usual suspects in incidents such as this.”

“Yes, but what do you think it might have been?”

“Hmmm. What I think. About this. And you say my colleagues might read this in your, er, publication? Well, I think I can safely say that this incident certainly seems to be, ah, interesting. And provocative. You can use that, as well.”

“Thank you, professor, you’ve been quite informative.”

“Er, well, glad to be of help. Call me anytime.”

***

Peabody’s rental car bounced down the rutted lane, the shocks whining from the ordeal. Peabody tightened his seat belt to keep his head from knocking into the car roof. Gracious, he thought, a flat tire would mean sure death; he hadn’t seen any sign of civilization since he’d turned off the main road miles back. He doubted he could walk back to the road before he was victimized by a bear – or something worse; Peabody tried to force his imagination not to conjure up what else might be lurking in the woods. He glanced again at his scribbled directions; he wasn’t sure he’d written down all the right turns. She’d said something about “bear left” where the road curves; all the roads curved and twisted. It was all very confusing. He felt the tall pines that crowded either side of the bumpy gravel road press in on him. Despite the mild temperatures, he could feel sweat trickling down his neck, dampening his collar. He tugged at his tie to loosen his collar. He passed a sign that warned about the dire consequences to trespassers. He gulped.

The car swung around a curve and he spotted a decrepit cabin leaning against some trees. He slowed the car. This couldn’t be it, he thought, but the road dead-ended here. And a Jeep was parked next to the cabin. For some reason it looked vaguely familiar. He pulled in beside it and turned the car off. In the sudden silence he could hear his heart hammering in tune to the ticking of the cooling engine. He took a deep breath as he surveyed the stunning panorama in front of him: The meadow running down to the stream and the blue-tinged mountains sitting serenely in the haze off in the distance. It was beautiful, he conceded, in a rural, rustic sort of way.

He turned back to the cabin to find a very large gun pointing at his face. He yelped and raised his hands high in the air as he backed against his car. The gun had two barrels, he noted before tearing his eyes away from them to the person holding the gun. He gasped in surprise; the woman coolly cradling the shotgun regarded him appraisingly. She was dressed in faded jeans, a flannel shirt and an old baseball cap. He recognized her as the person he’d seen earlier on the road. The Road Kill Queen.

“You’re … you …” Peabody sputtered. “I mean, you are …”

She relaxed slightly, but Peabody noticed that she didn’t point the gun away from him.

“You’uns that Peabody feller?”

“Er, um, yes, that would be correct,” he stammered. “Sylvester Peabody. Um, do you think, I mean, would it be all right if I, um, lowered my arms?”

“Sure.” It came out “shore.” She lowered the shotgun, but still eyed him with suspicion.

“Er, um, this is a very nice place you have here, um, Ms. Fleck. You are Nell Fleck, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.” She eyed him for another moment. “Well, c’mon then. Don’t be standing around here all day.” She turned and marched back up to her cabin. Peabody followed, dragging his handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow. Nell settled into one of the rocking chairs on the porch and parked her shotgun within easy reach against the wall. Peabody gratefully seated himself in another rocking chair.

“So, ah, Ms. Fleck,” he began. “As I told you earlier on the phone, I represent a certain party who is very interested in this, er, type of experience you had. We’ve read the media reports, but, ah, you know how they distort things so. We felt it would be better if we got a first-hand account from the, ah, witness.”

“So you folks investigate this kind of thing, do you?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. We are very curious about, ah, extraterrestrial sightings. I was hoping you could recount your experience for us. Me.”

She studied him for a moment. “I reckon,” she drawled.

Peabody pulled a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.

“Naw. Go on ahead.” It sounded like “gwanahead.”

She proceeded to retell her tale. Occasionally, Peabody would interject a question, and as she finished up her eyes hardened and her face grew grim. “Them things,” she spat. “They’re agoing to come back, you know. I can just feel it. They’s out there. Just waiting.”

“Um, waiting for what, Ms. Fleck?”

She shot him a look. “Why, for the right time. To do what they’s going to do.” She leaned forward in her rocking chair. “You know, to take over.”

She stood suddenly. “C’mon. I’ll show you where they landed.” Peabody followed her down into the grass and out to the burned patch. He walked around it and scratched his head. It was very curious. Very curious indeed. As they walked back up the hill he thanked her for her time. “Your help has been extremely, um, helpful,” he said. “And your information will help us immensely.”

They stopped by the cars. “You’uns hungry?” she asked suddenly, turning toward him. Peabody gulped. “Er, um, no thank you. I, um, grabbed a bite on the road.” He winced as he said it. “I’ll, um, just be going. Thank you, though. Perhaps some other time.” He quickly got in his car and cranked it up. With a little wave, he swung around and headed back down the rutted lane.

Nell watched him go. For some reason, he had seemed vaguely familiar to her. She shook her head. What a strange fellow, she thought.