A Killer's Secret Page 8

  “Get where, Sharon?” he asked. He wiped a hand over his face. “You’ve read all my books and tracked me nearly halfway across the country. But, if you don’t know, by all means, ask.” he said.

  Sharon started the car back up and merged back onto the single-lane highway. “Your books never really told me about you” she said.

  Alan pondered that in silence, just happy to be back on the road. Perhaps there was some truth to the statement.

  “So, Port Orford. We get a house there?” Alan asked, after staring out the window into a dense ball of eternal blackness became overwhelmingly boring. When she nodded, he moved on to the next query. “How do you pay for all this stuff?” he asked.

  “My dad died in some sort of work accident when I was very young. My mom got the settlement, but started mainlining meth, and eventually had her brains blown out. Police said it was suicide. They threatened to come after me if I tried to have the case re-opened. You know, since family is almost always blamed in those cases. Anyway, I inherited a few hundred grand. My weird Aunt took me, and, thankfully, no one ever told her about anything, so most of that money was able to sit in a trust for over a decade, earning interest.” She turned and looked at Alan, smiling. “I actually own a halfway house in Omaha, as well as around a dozen other businesses.” she said.

  “And in your free time, with all that, you followed me.” Alan muttered.

  “And be glad that I did, mister. Have you ever even been laid before?” she asked.

  Alan tensed up. “Of course I have!” He refused to meet her gaze.

  “Okay. Okay. I just would expect a non-virgin to…know a little more about…well, you know.”

  “I’ll get out of this damned car right now.” Alan said. But then he sank bank into his seat. He didn’t know which was worse. The fact of his inexperience being called out, or the fact that he had nowhere to hide. “You seemed to think it was good.” he muttered.

  Sharon laughed. “You boys.” She reached over and touched Alan’s hand. He tried to pull away, but there was something delicate in her touch. Something tender. Alan needed that right now.

  “What’s got you so bothered lately?” she asked.

  “Huh?” Alan couldn’t keep up with all the sudden switches and shifts in the conversation.

  “Why are you becoming an alcoholic? Why did you return my call? Why did you so easily agree to give up work so you could travel alone with a stalker?” Sharon asked.

  “You are fucking weird.” Alan said. He sat up in his seat.

  “If I tell you something, you can’t tell anyone.” he said. He inhaled sharply through his mouth. “Umm…so, I’m not sure, but if you were to tell anyone, we both might be in considerable danger.” He frowned. “Even if you think it. Even if I think it. Fuck.” he said, sotto voce.

  Sharon patiently waited. A few headlights appeared, flashing past as they penetrated the shroud of obsidian blackness.

  “I have an alien in my house. The alien that apparently came from that craft that crashed.” Alan said.

  Sharon nodded. She seemed unperturbed. Alan almost wanted something, anything to pierce her calm exterior. How could someone be so damn serene.

  “I said I have an alien in my house.” he repeated.

  Sharon laughed. “I heard you.”

  “Okayyyyy….” Alan furrowed his brow and tried to get the woman to look at him. “Do you believe me?” he asked. There was pleading in his voice. And he felt ashamed.

  “Of course, I do. I kind of expected something like that.” Sharon said. “Let me ask you something. Be honest. Have you ever had contact before this?” she asked.

  Alan sighed. He closed his eyes. He wanted desperately to pretend that none of this had happened. He desired to return to his decent, repetitive government job where he pretended to be a cop. He thrived on order, control. But ever since he’d moved to Klamath Falls, he’d lost all semblance of control.

  “We’ll talk later.” he said. And then he pretended to fall asleep. Eventually, the steady monotony and drone of the vehicle, coupled with his fatigue, lulled him into a fitful slumber.

  He flailed when something shook him. Drool pooled at one corner of his mouth, his hair looked crazy and disheveled, and his eyes held the panicked fervor of the cornered zealot. Sharon stood there, leaning into the car, waiting out the waves of horror wreaking havoc on Alan’s psyche. Finally, he reached down, unbuckled, and stumbled out of the car.

  Spread out before him was a beautiful scene. The cerulean sea stretched itself out like a long feline after a nap. Gentle waves splashed against gargantuan rocks. A pinkish foam slid across the soft, undisturbed sand. Seabirds soared through the heavens and bickered on far-off granite islands.

  “Is that a whale?” Alan asked. He couldn’t conceal the excitement bubbling inside.

  Sharon opened the back door of the Jag and extracted a pair of binoculars. Peering out into the vast and unknowable abyss, she studied the horizon for a few seconds. Then she clucked her tongue and silently handed the bulky black vision enhancers to Alan. Alan could only stare into the viewfinder. “Wow.” he said.

  The car sat parked in the small gravel driveway of a ranch house. The cream-colored paint and large windows seemed to invite one inside. Trees shielding the home from the highway. A small, somewhat wild yard full of competing weeds, shrubs, and plants led to a steep hill. And there, on the side of that decline, sat a rickety wooden fence. A sign nailed to a nearby tree warned that beach access was at the guest’s risk only.

  “This place…is awesome.” Alan said. He felt the warmth of the sunshine and heard the loud, reverberating refrains of the sea, and experienced a moment of respite. Something about the air and solitude offered him a sensation of peace.

  “Wait until you see the inside.” Sharon said.

  Grabbing a bag from the vehicle, Alan followed his stalker inside.

  The spacious, wood-paneled interior exuded comfort. Two large windows dominated one side of the capacious living room, and looked out onto a near-perfect view of the ocean. A wooden desk was attached, and Alan saw a hot tub there.

  Despite the wonderful atmosphere and release, Alan realized his hands were trembling and his head hurt. The newly acquired thirst for the burning elixir scratched its ugly nails on his mind’s chalkboard, and he could only think of how much he needed a drink. “There a store nearby?” he asked. He reached out, steadying himself as he slowly sat on the long white couch. It seemed to swallow him up perfectly, and he couldn’t help but sigh.

  “Don’t worry. You need a beer?” Sharon asked.

  Alan looked at her. Really studied her, then. He wondered if perhaps she, too, were an alien. Because she seemed so foreign and exotic to everything he had ever known. Sharon possessed patience, charisma, intelligence, compassion…and bravery. She sensed his needs and provided for them before he even knew they were there.

  “Yeah. I could use one.” he said. He watched as she unzipped a blue duffel bag and pulled out a six-pack. She tossed a can to him. He caught it and opened it, sipping with all the eagerness of a Black Friday shopper. Yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

  Such great tits. Fat and proud, they pressed against her shirt. Part of it was her posture. She didn’t slouch. But, she was so skinny. He felt himself growing aroused.

  “Did you ever work on farms?” he asked.

  The question caught her off guard. She shifted positions and leaned against the kitchen counter, where she’d been stacking some groceries. That didn’t help with Alan’s…issue. “Yeah. I grew up in Nebraska. Duh.” She said. Then she threw her head back and laughed. But, god if that laugh weren’t infectious.

  “You…have great posture.” Alan said. “Only reason I mentioned it.” he said.

  She turned and looked at him. She nibbled on her lower lip and locked onto his gaze. She smiled. “Makes my boobies look bigger, huh?” she asked.

  Alan giggled. He couldn’t help it. He felt nervous and excited, but the word
boobies escaping her lips also seemed funny.

  “I really wasn’t a virgin. Close, though.” He said. He gulped. His mouth felt dry. He took another slug of Budweiser. He grimaced. He almost chastised her for grabbing that swill, but thought better of it. Sharon Stone looked like she was about to suck his dick. Even Alan knew a petty argument might make that less of a possibility.

  She walked towards him. “I don’t care, Alan Grunke. I never cared.” She put a finger to his lips. “Forget the past. Live in the moment.” She whispered. She reached down and caressed the front of his pants. “Oooh.” she said.

  And then she did fellate him.

  When they were done, and Sharon stood in the kitchen, topless except for an apron, humming happily as she cut vegetables, Alan couldn’t help but feel a surreal sense of disrupted equilibrium. Where the fuck am I? he thought. But he occupied most of his senses with the task of helping prepare their meal. While she chopped, fragrant and happy as a bibliophile in a bookstore, he put steaks on the small grill on the deck. He stood just outside, with a clear view of the ocean on one end, and a view of a beautiful woman that somehow adored him on the other.

  He realized after some time, as rote monotony slithered back that he’d forgotten his job. Somehow, he’d completely forgotten that a fucking extraterrestrial, telepathic creature was right now in his home.

  He laughed when he had an epiphany: he didn’t even care. He probably would soon, but right then, refreshed and rejuvenated by the hiatus from reality, he just didn’t give a shit. The euphoria he experienced was too good to sacrifice at the altar of anxiety.

  Setting the long wooden dining table, he poured himself a glass of red wine. Sipping it, he admired Sharon as she washed the dishes. Somehow, their connection seemed organic. She had rescued him. He couldn’t deny it. Mired in bureaucracy and angst, and a schizophrenic incipient relationship with a little blue alien, he’d been drowning in the morass. It took an escape to begin seeing clearly. Somehow, she understood that better than he had.

  When she turned, hands glistening and wrinkled, she smiled self-consciously. “What?” she asked, her voice a bit high-pitched.

  “Thank you.” Alan said.

  Sharon turned away and began wiping the counter she’d already cleaned. “For what?”

  Alan laughed. “For stalking me.” he said.

  They ate. Steamed broccoli, mashed potatoes, steak, and a bizarre-but-beautiful salad. Alan couldn’t name half of the produce sacrificed to make the edible arrangement, but after one tentative bite, he couldn’t help wondering why names mattered. The viands were artists, and they painted the Mona Lisa on his taste buds with each fresh serving.

  “This is really good.” he said.

  Sharon blushed. “The steak isn’t bad, either.” she said.

  Looking at her, Alan felt a sudden sense of shame. Mixed in with that was a protective urge. He felt ashamed because he didn’t deserve her. He wanted to protect her because she embodied all that was good in the world.

  “Tell me again how you found me. What made me fascinated with me?” Alan asked. Even though the woman offered a bright moment in a dark period, he still couldn’t shake the reality that the woman had devoted so much time and energy into not only finding him, but seducing him. She obviously didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. Sharon Stone, despite not being the famous actress, was rich, smart, witty as hell, and independent. Even if she weren’t gorgeous, she could find a fuck boy in any bar anywhere, anytime.

  She stopped eating. Looking at some spot in the far-away ether, she measured her words. “Do you remember your first book?” she asked.

  Alan chuckled. “Guardians of the Gates?” he asked. He remembered it fondly. Back when he’d just started working for OIG, he’d been full of vim and vigor. He’d spent almost all of his sparse free time crouched over his desktop, typing in the sallow light cast by a crappy lamp he’d picked up at Wal-Mart or some such place. It wasn’t until he spent almost five years, thousands of dollars, and most of his emotional reserves that he realized being an obscure NASA cop was loads easier than being an author.

  He smiled. “When I got a call, pretty much out of the blue, from this weird guy claiming to be an agent, I almost hung up. It hurt…” Alan had to pause. He might cry if he dwelled on the memory too much. “It hurt, to even think about the stuff I’d written. I’d largely given up hope. Honestly. And it just…it seemed way too good to be true.” he said.

  “But, you took the call?” Sharon asked.

  Alan nodded. He sipped more wine. “Gus Booker. He still is an eccentric old man, but he really did well by me. I don’t think he ever sold anything else, other than my stuff.” Alan said. He made a mental note to call Gus.

  “Well, Guardians is what…did me in.” Sharon said.

  Alan waited, but she didn’t elaborate. “Go on.” he said.

  Tears began to stumble out of her eyes and down her cheek. Alan fought the urge to get up, to go to her and wipe those saline drops away. “I grew up…without a father. My mom…she loved me, but she…loved meth more. I thought I was going to die in Wayne, Nebraska.” she said. “Have you ever heard of Wayne, Nebraska?” she asked. The words came out laced with anger.

  Alan confessed he had not.

  She laughed at that. “Of course, you haven’t. No one has. Anyone that’s heard of Wayne only wants one thing: to forget Wayne.” She sniffled. “We didn’t even have a Wal-Mart.”

  Collecting herself, Sharon wiped her face with a napkin. “I needed to believe in something. I wanted to escape. I could go to church, but all I saw at the churches were tired old hags who bickered over nothing and cheated on their husbands, got drunk, and tried to shove piety down the throats of others. The preachers were basically thieves. My daddy died working, and most of his wages went to helping those bastards act like their shit didn’t stink.” she said.

  “You gave me hope. You gave me something to believe in.” she said.

  The heaviness of the words hung in the air for some time, and they ate in silence.

  “When did you start looking for me?” Alan asked.

  “About ten years ago, I guess. I don’t know. I never really was looking, I guess. You know? Because I knew you were in Pasadena.” She looked up, fork in hand, thinking. “I guess I was scared.” she said.

  “But…you wrote me?” Alan asked.

  “Yeah. Of course. I sent out probably a letter a week. At least. The only addresses I could find early on were in the back of the book. I wrote that P.O. Box, wrote the publisher, and eventually wrote NASA.” Sharon said.

  Alan laughed. No one had ever bothered to tell him. Sitting here, enjoying supper with this complex woman, he felt glad they hadn’t.

  “You seem to know a lot about Oregon. Can you tell me more? You could say it’s relevant to my job.” Alan said. The fact that he had a job didn’t invoke an immediate adverse reaction any more. That seemed like a good sign.

  “What do you want to know? It’s a big state.” she said. “I also haven’t been here long. Most of what I know is from the internet.”

  Alan laughed. Her honesty was yet another of her compelling traits. “There is a good astrology lab at Oregon State. I’ve meet a number of people who went to school there. I think Michelle Obama went there, too. I know the Oregon…Ducks?” he saw Sharon nod. “The Ducks are supposed to be good in sports. Not that I pay much attention to sports.” he said, laughing. “I saw one episode of Portlandia.” Alan confessed.

  “None of that answers my question.” Sharon pointed out.

  “What’s Eugene like? I heard a lot of people in town talking about taking trips up there, to visit their kids or whatever.” Alan said.

  Sharon thought about it. “It’s a fun little city. Very artistic. We should go sometime.” she said.

  Alan picked up on the pronoun. We.

  “Okay.” Alan said. Other responses evaded him.

  “There are a lot of…homeless people. Especially downtown. And down
town is where a lot of stuff is. Nice hotels, great restaurants, and people raving and sleeping on bulging trash bags, right on the sidewalks in front of the stores. Everyone smokes tons of weed. There is a dispensary on every corner.” she said. There was disapproval in her tone.

  “Really? I guess I did hear that weed was legal here. I don’t think I saw a single marijuana shop in Klamath Falls.” Alan said.

  “Yeah. I’m not sure how all of that works. But in Portland and Eugene, there is marijuana everywhere.” Sharon said.

  They ate the remainder of their repast while contemplating the proliferation of narcotics.

  “Would you ever smoke it?” Alan asked.

  The question caught her off guard. Alan had to admit feeling a slight sense of satisfaction at that. It was nice to know the uber-confident woman could at times be hesitant, unsure.

  “I…guess.” she said.

  “I don’t think I would. I don’t know. Life has been…so weird, lately. But, it’s illegal federally. I’d most likely lose my job if I got caught.” he said.

  “Would you lose your job for harboring an alien?” Sharon asked. And then giggled. “No pun intended.” she said.

  Alan stopped. His heart began to race again. That. “Thanks for reminding me.” Alan said, offering a taut smile. “Yeah. Probably. The government would be more likely to kill me, though. They pay me, after all, to essentially debunk alien and UFO claims. I go in, give facts to reporters, and if people persist, I threaten to recommend fraud charges.” Alan said.

  The case took a sledgehammer to the walls erected by this vacation.

  “You want to know something weird? Apparently, the local police suddenly have no recollection of a crash that sent shock waves through the city, burned up probably a square mile of marsh land near the highway, among other things. I mean, a Klamath Falls cop took me to the crash site. The lab tests came back inconclusive, and after only a few days, the casual observer can’t tell anything ever happened there.” Alan paused. Of all the things that spooked him, it was the next bit of information. “And, apparently, the only willing and able eyewitness is now dead. A town of over 20,000, where everyone knows everyone, and all of a sudden, no one remembers that weird seismic-like event that damaged a bunch of stores? Nearly 12000 calls went in to the local 9-1-1 and police dispatches. I thankfully got some record of that before everyone had their memory banks vaporized.” He said.