Sergeant O’Connor was nearly through the San Bernardino traffic, on his way towards Los Angeles when the chief called. He contemplated, briefly, ignoring the call and feigning poor service, but the red line ran on a satellite link, and there wasn’t much point in it. He punched the answer button, affecting his best answering machine tone. “Sergeant O’Connor is away from his desk at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message…”
“You have the file on Arroyo Grande with you?” the chief barked.
O’Connor reached into his leather satchel in the passenger seat and withdrew the manila file stamped “Top Secret” across the front like a sixties spy movie. “I got it.”
“I need you up there to do preliminary interviews with Dr. Vickers.”
“Chief, I got—”
“Sergeant, I have an auditor sitting in my office supply cabinet taking stock of my ballpoint pens at the moment. Would you like me to find out how much money I’ll save without your salary in my budget?”
O’Connor grit his teeth. “I’m almost to Newport Beach, Chief.”
“That’s too bad. I’m going to need you to turn around and head back to San Bernardino for me.”
O’Connor glanced down at the preliminary field report with a contact address about a hundred miles north of there. He glanced around at the San Bernardino traffic, wondering what the draw might be. “Why San Bernardino?”
“Because you dropped your GPS tracking chip about three miles before the northbound turnoff for the 215.” The chief cleared his throat. “It appears to be doing about fifteen miles per hour up the I-10 freeway right now. If you hurry, you might catch the cyclist who’s got it.” The line was quiet for a moment.
“Got it, sir,” O’Connor muttered.
“And, Sergeant, as long as you’re there if you wouldn’t mind just bopping by Dr. Vickers’s to take an official statement on the LIDAR images, I’d be greatly appreciative of your selfless sacrifice.”
O’Connor grumbled and flipped on his right turn signal, easing towards the right lane and the eventual freeway exchange. “I’ll be there by two,” he growled. The line went dead.
Poolside. He was supposed to be poolside already. Poolside, where his brother-in-law had a few racks of ribs going on the grill. Poolside, where his sister-in-law had just set out a frosty pitcher of sangria. He was so ready to be poolside, that he wore his flip-flops, board shorts and an old t-shirt, planning on walking directly from the driveway and diving straight into the bathwater-warm backyard swimming pool. As if watching his blinking GPS blip crawl across the valley in slow motion weren’t entertaining enough, the good chief added a few hundred extra miles round trip. O’Connor would be lucky to get to the beach house before Mary was passed out on night meds and fruity wine.
A rhythmic squealing started as the engine downshifted to climb a small hill fifty miles outside of Barstow. O’Connor watched the temperature gauge needle bounce steadily upwards for another ten miles. It was barely a hill; it was a dip in the road, and then the squealing. He turned down the air conditioner hoping that might help. Twenty or so miles to go, and he figured it would limp into town easily. Rolling through the next dip, however, the downshift was punctuated with a wrenching clunk, the needle jumped to red line, and the front hood vented a cloud of steam that blinded him entirely. O’Connor let it coast to a stop just over the rise, a series of tinny alarms sounding from within the dashboard as every blinking light went on and the engine cut out. O’Connor slapped the hazard lights on and sat back, listening to the ticking and hissing sounds still audible over the music. Meanwhile, Mary O’Connor, lithe little bikini butt slathered in cocoa butter and deep tanning oil, sat poolside with a paperback, waiting. He glanced out at the sparse Joshua trees and the empty hills rising to the west. “Poolside,” he muttered under his breath, scrolling through roadside assistance recommendations on his phone. Digging through his overnight bag, he pulled out the old fashioned manila folder that sufficed as the Vickers brief and flipped through it while he waited for the tow truck driver to arrive.
* * *
Dr. Vickers’s decades-old unexplained cold case was legendary amongst extraterrestrial investigators. Interviewed as a youth, the boy named Kenton Alexander Vickers was the sole witness capable of communicating his close encounter to the available authorities. At the tender age of eight years old, however, he was not considered the most reliable witness to the event. Had his older brother, Richard, been capable of speech, or capable of communicating at all, really, he might have been a better eyewitness. Unfortunately, after the alleged close encounter, Richard was left in a catatonic state, incapable of speech and generally unreactive to external stimuli. While his parents and local testimony seemed to corroborate the dramatic change in his behavior, subsequent medical examinations revealed no physiological changes which might elicit the suddenly stony demeanor.
According to the field reports filed by various law enforcement, the episode was described as follows: The Vickers boys, both avid outdoor enthusiasts involved in local scouting troops, had decided to spend a night camping in the hills just outside of their hometown of Arroyo Grande, California. At the time, it was not unusual for a pair of young boys to be allowed an unsupervised excursion. As a Star-ranking Boy Scout, Richard was considered an excellent orienteer and suitable guide for an overnight adventure. Packing their rucksacks with the limited supplies outlined in their respective manuals, they set off one afternoon in the spring of 1969. They packed food and water enough for at least a few nights, although they had only actually planned for one night of camping, nestled in a wash just a few miles from their home. Their mother had packed them a considerable amount of food, lest they should somehow become lost in the hundred-mile-long dry lakebed or the barren outlying hills that surrounded it.
When casually asked about the excessive food stuffs found on the boys three days later, their mother had become defensive, assuming that they were accusing her of somehow permanently traumatizing her own sons by sending them out into the wilderness like Hansel and Gretel. Her own testimonies eventually degraded into angry rants about the importance of Oscar Mayer hot dogs and requisite s’more fixings. The reason for her indignation was deeply personal in that she had secretly hoped they might stay out a few days longer, allowing her and her husband a little more private time. That they actually had stayed out that long, and later necessitated a search and rescue party in the same boxed-in desert that they had previously assumed was impossible to get lost in, eventually frayed her last nerve. As one investigator succinctly dismissed it: “Her testimony was manufactured of equal parts wishful thinking and televised lunar landing coverage; a delusion born of hysteria and guilt at her sons’ unfortunate accident.”
That the close encounter affected both boys deeply was undeniable. Richard, of course, never recovered and remained unresponsive. Kent, on the other hand, rather than suffering some detrimental psychological effects, suddenly developed a keen interest in both math and science, excelling in his studies, though medical tests similar to his brother’s were inconclusive and did not demonstrate a physiological change which might explain his newfound aptitude. Friends of the family attributed the boy’s gifts to his father’s firm morality and strong work ethic.
With time, however, their mother developed a nervous tick with regards to her remaining son’s whereabouts. This culminated in a mild nervous breakdown shortly after Kent accepted a full scholarship to MIT, but well before he departed for his freshman year. It was his mother’s apparent fragility which eventually became the cause of Kent’s reluctance to return home on holidays. Some would say that Kent’s absence, along with Richard’s ongoing caretaking expenses, eventually led to her psychological deterioration. Within a few years of her husband’s passing, Mrs. Vickers had almost entirely withdrawn from public interaction so that news and rumors of the Vickers children’s close encounter was eventually eclipsed by suburban legends of that mad old Vickers woman. Returning to town permanently just after her death, Kent Vickers inherited both custody and care of his older brother as well as the ignominy of the family name.
There were, incidentally, two other witnesses to the alleged incident that night. A traveling encyclopedia salesman had seen the incident while driving south along the 395. Stopping in Arroyo Grande to escape the inclement weather, he recounted what he had seen to the handful of regulars gathered at the Starlight Lounge that night. Most dismissed it as a tall tale told by a man who proceeded to get himself embarrassingly drunk and ended up sleeping in his car, only to leave without word or contact information the following morning. By the time investigators arrived to take statements regarding the incident, few of the locals remembered him well enough to give a description besides white male, middle aged, slightly overweight, between five and six feet tall, talking about a meteorite. Twenty years later he would apply and be accepted for a short-lived primetime paranormal investigation show on a basic cable channel. His account, greatly embellished, would last less than three minutes. Complete with a dramatic re-enactment, a spattering of stock footage of flying saucers, and a few clips of the witness himself, the episode would never air. All pertinent footage and blue pages were confiscated by an earlier incarnation of the Terrestrial Investigation Group and unbeknownst to anyone, the last remaining digital copy of the episode was actually in an unopened manila envelope postmarked January of 2004, buried in a vacant office of the new Terrestrial Investigations Group’s Phoenix headquarters. The confiscation had nothing to do with the traveling Encyclopedia salesman’s account, but rather a completely unrelated story about hieroglyphics discovered near a Hopi sacred site which seemed to depict a giant robotic spaceman and two bug-eyed visitors, dating back to the 17th century.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
The only other witness to the incident was a boy named Ephrem, just a few years older than Kent, whose father ran the tiny service station at the edge of town. He had seen the fireball break through the clouds and crash to earth that night. He recalled the event in great detail, describing it to every passing motorist who happened to stop for gas the next day. His descriptions of the spectacular blue fire from the sky may have lacked eloquence, but not enthusiasm. His repetitive accounts ended abruptly, however, when the Bonanza theme song began playing on the television that evening. He was, after all, only eleven years old, and a particularly rabid fan of cowboys.
* * *
“So that’s a new pump, two new hoses, a new fan, and a new radiator.” The tow truck driver slid the estimate across the countertop.
O’Connor nodded and waved, plucking his company card from his wallet, absentmindedly flashing his badge in the process. “That’s fine, how long will it take?”
“A few hours.” The driver ran the credit card through for a presale.
O’Connor checked his watch. That left him just enough time to interview the Dr. Vickers guy and get back on the road before dark.
“Parts should be here by Tuesday.” The driver stapled a copy of the presale credit slip to the invoice.
“Uh…” O'Connor's jaw hitched slightly. Poolside. He was supposed to be poolside. “I’m headed to LA,” O’Connor said, unsure as to whether he had already mentioned that in the ride back.
“Like I said,” the tow truck driver drawled, “you’re headed in the wrong direction.”
O’Connor slapped the countertop, his jaw clenched. He glanced out the side window, with a view of the work bays. A dented Honda sat just under the window with its hood up. The other bays were empty. A couple of guys sat under a shade awning in the back corner, drinking beer and laughing. The place wasn’t exactly bustling with business. O’Connor sized up the kid at the computer terminal. He was a scrawny, greasy little Latino in blue pinstriped coveralls with a name tag that said: “Jack”. The kid was probably cooking meth in a shack out back. All of the desert types were into it. Skinny as he was, O’Connor could snap him over his knee like a number two pencil.
“I can rush order the parts,” the tow truck driver said, “but you’re still looking at Monday afternoon at the earliest, and it’ll cost you about a hundred dollars more.”
This Jack guy had failed to understand the importance of those repairs. O’Connor reached back for his wallet instinctively, this time deliberately flashing his badge. “Look, Jack, I’ve got a few hours’ worth of work to do here in town, and then I need to be on my merry way towards some official business in LA.” The official flourish might have been a little more impressive had he not just whipped his badge and credentials from the elastic waistband of a brightly colored pair of board shorts.
Jack seemed unimpressed. “Easy, there, officer Moondoggie.” He leaned back against the parts counter and crossed his wiry arms over his bird chest. “You want to take it to somebody else; you just feel free to give them a call. But if you leave it on my lot, you’re paying storage fees for the night.”
Sorry that he did not have his sidearm on, O’Connor glared at the twiggy little junkie. That there might be another shop in town seemed unlikely. They’d passed a couple of gas stations on the drive through, but those seemed like big plastic corporate stores, and he doubted that they would have a full-service repair bay. If they did, there was no guarantee that they would have the parts. This kid had him by the balls and they both knew it.
O’Connor gripped the service counter to brace himself. He glanced down at the grimy floor, gritting his teeth. In any other world, he would be pulling this scrawny little meth head over the counter and crushing his face against the dirty linoleum. Instead, he cleared his throat softly, picked up the cheap ballpoint pen, and signed the authorization for the repairs. “Is there a hotel nearby?” he asked.
Jack motioned to a little acrylic countertop display full of free tourist pamphlets. He yanked the perforated edges of the signed estimate, separating the various copies. He passed the white one to O’Connor. “I’ll call you when it’s ready,” Jack grumbled, sliding the pink and yellow copies onto a hanging rail behind the counter.
Realizing that he’d just made a very bad impression on the guy he was going to leave his cruiser with O’Connor regretted flashing his badge. This greasy redneck stick figure was going to strip it clean. Hell, he’d probably send a few of his friends over to the hotel to kill O’Connor and bury him in a ditch somewhere. He’d left his sidearm in the passenger seat and the 9mm under the driver seat. He took a brochure, backing slowly towards the door. “Do you mind if I grab a few things out of the car?”
Jack waved him off, “It’s your car.”
O’Connor nodded, feeling contrite. “Uh, thanks, man.”
Jack looked up, nodding, but his face twisted into an angry glare. “Well, it’s about fucking time!” he yelled.
O’Connor staggered backward against a rack of candy bars as Jack charged around the service counter, seeming to swell in size. O’Connor understood, too late, that even skinny little junkies could be a hell of a lot to handle without a firearm or backup. He braced himself, ready for the wiry little tweaker to attack, but Jack slid right by him, yelling at another tow truck as it rolled onto the lot.
“Two hours!” Jack yelled at the new driver. “You said two fuckin’ hours!” He charged across the lot. The truck jerked to a stop right in front of the service bay doors, a few feet short of his Crown Vic. The driver was another skinny kid and a skinny little girl. O’Connor figured they must all be junkies. Maybe Jack was waiting for his fix. He imagined his beloved cruiser on cinder blocks in the back lot, rusting away as he, presumably, decomposed nearby.
“I had some troubles with the winch,” the new driver explained. They had some lump of a wreck under a tarp on the flatbed.
The kid named Jack pulled a creosote branch from the front bumper and tossed it off into the cars parked on the lot. “If I’d known you were going to be off-roading it all day, I would have said no.”
O’Connor pulled the TIG equipment duffel from the trunk, his overnight bag from the back seat, and his leather satchel from the front. He stealthily removed his old police issue Sig Sauer from under the driver’s seat, tucking it into his elastic waistband, confident that if they took a step towards him, he could level the three of them in just a few seconds. Feeling slightly better, he stood beside his luggage wondering how to go about calling an Uber in a hick town.
The entire town was about three miles long and just about as wide. O’Connor doubted if there was even an old-fashioned taxicab in town. As the tow truck drivers argued, he flipped through the tourist pamphlet, looking for a local hotel, preferably something nice, with room service and a big bathtub. Instead, he found two motor inns. The pamphlet was nothing but a bunch of tourism ads, listing attractions and facilities for a few hundred miles of the desert highway. The Arroyo Grande section, like the town itself, only took up a few pages. As much as he hated to interrupt the junkies, he needed a little help. “Excuse me,” he said, regretting it instantly.
The guy named Jack spun on him, obviously angry, with another creosote branch in his hand. “Tuesday, man.”
Deciding that he was better off finding his own ride, he threw his overnight bag and the TIG duffel over his shoulder and aimed himself for the highway, assuming that one or the other of the Motor Inns would be well within walking distance, seeing as how everything else in town was.
O’Connor hadn’t bothered to pack much for his weekend jaunt. He kept a few items in the beach house closet along with a handful of toiletries in the bathroom. He had two complete uniform changes and a variety of casual clothes hanging behind her collection of sundresses and racks of shoes. Most weekends he didn’t bother to change out of his shorts and an old threadbare skater shirt he’d had since high school. He lived there like a brand-new boyfriend, hidden in a handful of stashed personal items and basking by the pool.
All he had in his overnight bag was an old pair of jeans and a faded TIG polo shirt for a uniform. Had this been a legitimate case, he might have brought a uniform change, or even a nice Fed costume, a crisp black suit, to really impress the locals. He damn well would have brought some shoes. As it was, he was better prepared for a beach bonfire than he was for a legitimate case. Dumping his bags on the motel bed, he sat down and kicked his flip-flops off, wiping the sweaty, dusty soles of his feet on the ugly carpet. He laid back, convincing himself that everything would be fine.
If she was going to have an affair, Sergeant O’Connor couldn’t think of a better place for Mary to have it than the beach house. His in-laws hadn’t much liked him since he’d moved her inland, and he was sure that neither of them would have told him if she had boyfriends rolling through on a regular basis. Missing their long weekend this way, for some ridiculous wild goose chase of an interview, was a good way to ensure that she was taking applications to fill his spot, so to speak. She hadn’t returned any of his calls yet, but there was sure to be an explanation.
After leaving a message for Dr. Vickers, he flipped through the tourist pamphlet, figuring that he could eat something. So long as he was trapped in the shit hole sticks, the company could damn well afford to buy him a nice steak dinner. The pamphlet came with a little map, with all of the advertising businesses marked out for easy navigation. His choices were a Silver Spoon of some sort, an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, and a pizza joint with a special on two slices and a soda for five dollars. There might be twenty other restaurants in town, but if they didn’t advertise in the little pamphlet, they would be practically invisible to tourists.
Preparing for dinner he changed into his formal attire, the threadbare jeans and polo shirt, planning to make an impression down at the Szechwan Palace. He decided to leave his sidearm on the nightstand. The upstairs walkway looked over the parking lot and the gated pool. The stairs at the bottom led directly to the front door of an adjoining bar. Figuring that he could stand to wait out the big dinner rush, he peered in the open door of the bar, thinking he might grab himself a quick drink before he wandered around the town.
He was supposed to be on a few days’ vacation, after all.