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.”