It had been some years since Dr. Vickers had found a reason to visit anyone on a personal level. Although he was familiar with most of the locals, he had no real use for any of them. Those that he had known from childhood were few and far between. Some had moved on, some died early, and others had faded away to the margins, still living in town but losing all familiarity with time so that he hardly recognized the old men and women with whom he had attended primary school half a century prior.
Dr. Vickers and Mr. Englehorn had attended school together, from kindergarten through high school, and yet they had never found much reason to associate. This was generally considered to be a fine arrangement. Although they were the only two residents of Arroyo Grande with a sincere interest in avionics, they pursued distinctly different disciplines, and each privately considered the other to be a bit of a kook. Dr. Vickers was not keenly interested in talking with Mr. Englehorn on anything more than a superficial level. However, the young Ms. Nash had mentioned stopping by to discuss flight theory, and Dr. Vickers was intrigued to know exactly why.
While young Ms. Nash was an excellent student, she had never struck Dr. Vickers as being particularly inquisitive in general. She studied and understood the precalculus theory as much as required, and exceedingly well for a student of her age, especially when compared to her peers. While he knew that she was supposedly “on the spectrum”, Dr. Vickers had never given the autism spectrum more than a passing thought, nor did he accept ADHD as a legitimate condition requiring consideration in a classroom setting. In his opinion, children who exhibited symptoms or hid behind diagnoses of either cosmopolitan condition were undoubtedly spoiled and undisciplined; they merely lacked structure. More often than not, he had observed, that they were children wanting proper adult supervision. While he could not control their home lives or study habits, he did his level best to impose what discipline he could without resorting to corporal punishment, although he had considered it, often.
All the more reason that a surprise visit from Ms. Nash at such an inopportune time had intrigued him so much. While he could understand her perhaps studying ahead for physics or calculus, he would assume that she would approach him with questions on a specific theorem that she found troubling, or a concept that might be beyond her. Autodidactic himself, he thought it not unreasonable that such an awkward, homely child should take a deep interest in her studies.
Mr. Englehorn answered the door with a whole wheat toast triangle clenched between his teeth.
“A bit late for breakfast,” Dr. Vickers observed.
“Yes, well,” Mr. Englehorn replied, pulling the toast out of his mouth. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”
“I wasn’t sure how to contact you.”
“Well shoot, Kent. My number hasn’t changed in nearly forty years.” Mr. Englehorn took a bite of his toast and chewed it somewhat indiscreetly. “So, what can I do for you?”
Disappointed to have to ask for an invitation, Vickers bristled slightly. He didn't want to have such a delicate discussion on the front porch and suddenly felt uncertain. “I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time.” He nodded subtly, awkwardly attempting to invite himself into the house.
Mr. Englehorn glanced around at his lawn and the neighborhood. When he heard the knock at the door, he had secretly hoped that it was Abel and Baker, back from outer space again. Instead, he got the doctor ready to give him a missive on the church of E.T. or something. “Yeah, alright.” Eyeing the rest of his toast triangle, he shrugged and reluctantly stepped aside, inviting Dr. Vickers into his home. “So, how’s your brother?”
The atmosphere was thick with breakfast eggs and coffee. Mr. Englehorn appeared to have strewn most of his laundry around the living room and the dining room table was entirely unserviceable, save for Mr. Englehorn's breakfast plate. “He’s well, thank you.” Afraid to touch anything, Vickers hovered in the entryway.
Mr. Englehorn plucked a pile of threadbare business shirts off a chair and moved a stack of books from the table setting so that Vickers could sit down. Already regretting answering the door, he took his seat and picked at the edge of his plate, preening crispy burnt edges of his hash browns and nibbling at them while he waited for Vickers to get to the point. “You know, your mother used to take him for a walk most afternoons.”
Vickers nodded, slightly perturbed.
“She drove him down to the playground at the park and they’d roll around in circles for hours. I think she said he was particularly fond of the red tails nesting in that ponderosa stand. Said he tried to clap a few times, even.”
“Well, I’m sure that my mother had a little more time on her hands for recreational activities.”
“Oh, right,” Mr. Englehorn nodded. “You’ve got that little tourist trinket shop up and running. How’s that going for you?”
Dr. Vickers’s mustache twitched slightly. Despite it being located in a strip mall, the museum contained plenty of factual information on UAV activity in the Panamint and Death Valleys, as well as featuring content on the Nevada Triangle, a little-known vortex in the southwest desert, comparable to the Bermuda Triangle, but without as much coverage. “I was recently contacted by the History Channel, regarding the museum.”
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“The History Channel, you say?” He feigned interest, still preening the lace edges of the egg and lifting a single triangle of dry wheat toast to take a small bite. He was only faintly aware that some years earlier the History channel had changed its format and taken to pseudo-archaeological documentaries on ancient aliens, but why they might have any interest in the Arroyo Grande ghost story was beyond his comprehension. He stopped tuning into the History Channel after a program claimed that the pyramids were Tesla coils designed to power the entire fertile Levant area wirelessly. “So, what brings you by, Kent?” Mr. Englehorn set the remaining portion of toast back on the edge of the plate and brushed the crumbs from his fingertips. “I’m sure you didn’t come around just to hear me tell you that you need to take your brother out for a walk once in a while.”
That Mr. Englehorn was a bit coarse was no surprise to the doctor. He considered the military types, extensive aeronautics education notwithstanding, to be less cultivated in general, and was not expecting more than perfunctory manners. His experiences in rocket propulsion laboratories were such that even the highest brass could tend to be brusque, though they considered themselves to be little more than direct. Dr. Vickers could appreciate directness. He adjusted the lapels of his waistcoat unconsciously. “Ms. Nash recently visited me down at the museum. I had the opportunity to speak with her briefly regarding my research.”
“Oh yeah? Good for you.” Mr. Englehorn muttered. “I’d heard that the flat earth society was coming up with the young people.”
Dr. Vickers gritted his teeth. “She mentioned that she had recently been to discuss avionics with you. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind elaborating.”
“Oh, you mean little Baker? Yeah, yeah. The kids were over a few days ago. Baker didn’t like the sound of the bandsaw, so we chewed the fat for a few minutes.”
Dr. Vickers fidgeted. As uncomfortable as he was to be in someone else’s house, he had always felt slightly intimidated by Mr. Englehorn, having never been very athletic in high school. Despite his years of study and many awards, he still remembered his place in the high school hierarchy with a surprising freshness. “Ms. Nash asked me some fairly pointed questions about flying saucer propulsion. I’m sure that you recall that much of my research has been focused on exactly that topic, and I found it delightfully synchronous that she should wander in asking such specific questions.”
Mr. Englehorn sipped his coffee, regarding the good doctor with a cheerless lack of interest. “So let me get this straight. Little Baker wandered into your alien museum and asked you a question about aliens and you found that interesting enough that you had to drive up to her neighborhood to visit her at her home?” Mr. Englehorn sucked his teeth and shook his head. “Well, you’re damn right that’s strange, Kent. We oughta call in Sheriff Etherton, and see what he has to say about you chasing a little girl around town.”
Dr. Vickers trembled involuntarily, just a brief shudder. “I merely wondered what might have piqued her interest, and as you are their neighbor, and apparent confidant, I thought to ask you.”
“Ask me what?”
Dr. Vickers glanced briefly around the room. He had assumed that being adults, he and Mr. Englehorn could openly discuss the children’s activities. If they were up to anything suspect, Dr. Vickers assumed that it was in the community’s best interest that the responsible adults remained well-informed. Unsupervised, there was a fairly good chance that the children were getting into something that they ought not, and if that happened to have anything to do with his missing extraterrestrial artifact, all the better that he be there to prevent a catastrophic incident. Recognizing that Mr. Englehorn was already wary, he did not want to raise the subject of the saucer directly but thought to glean what he could by other, circuitous means. “You mentioned that the boy had been using the bandsaw, what for?”
Mr. Englehorn nudged the breakfast plate with his thumb, inching it toward the center of the table as it cooled. “I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. As far as I’m concerned, it’s none of my business, and none of yours, either.”
Mr. Englehorn’s ambivalence began to bother Dr. Vickers. He seemed entirely unconcerned with the children’s activities, no matter how suspect they might be. “How can you not be interested? It is a rare opportunity to educate an eager student in your chosen profession.”
“Yes, Kent, but that’s where you and I differ. While you tinkered away in your little beakers and Bunsen burners in the laboratory, I was dropping a three-ton chopper into a firefight to collect carrion. I wouldn’t wish that vocation on anyone.” Mr. Englehorn stood and rose to full height, not looking his age in the least. “Now, if you don’t mind, my eggs are cold, and I’ve lost my appetite.” He picked up his plate, brushed past Dr. Vickers with a dismissiveness that belied a sincere contempt, and stepping on the foot pedal of the trash can, dumped his meal into the garbage. “For the last time, Kent, leave the kids alone. If they’re busy pulling junk out of the wash at least they aren’t smoking meth in the park. If you feel like picking trash out of the wash yourself, go right ahead. I’m sure you got plenty of room to haul your own junk, seeing as how you aren’t using the wheelchair lift in the van any longer.” Mr. Englehorn strolled towards the front door, shuffling his bare feet along the entryway tile. “Well, you come on back when you can't stay so long, would ya?” He opened the front door and smiling wanly, invited the doctor to leave.
Dr. Vickers stood and adjusted his waistcoat. As insulted as he might like to be by the abrupt and patently rude ejection, he was only slightly ruffled. He exited quickly and without further awkwardness nodded politely at Mr. Englehorn. “Good afternoon, Mr. Englehorn.” He turned and walked briskly towards the van, relieved to be alone again, and with good news, even.
Despite his quarrelsome manner, Mr. Englehorn had, quite accidentally, answered all of the doctor’s questions with the inadvertent reference to pulling junk from the wash. So, the young Ms. Nash and her associate had found his artifact.
A thin smile surfaced beneath his disturbingly full and dark mustache, a dark shade rising to the surface of a murky pond. If the children did have the saucer, that meant that the new army of agents did not, and before they could whisk it away, he might stand a chance of finally getting Richard’s hands on it.