Otherworld (5 page)

At the end of the class, Mike jotted down the homework reading assignment in a little notepad. He also scribbled the title of the textbook he had yet to purchase. He set out for the library.

The Landon Library and Research Center was bustling with activity. At each photocopy machine, long lines formed and were continuously dissected by students frantically darting here and there.
Semester's first research paper
, he assumed. He hoped he could find an open table. He did not look forward to sharing space with giggling, note-passing, gum-smacking college students. He discovered a table with a lone occupant. A young man in a high school letter jacket pored over a sports magazine. His lips mouthed the text as he read. Mike lay his computer bag down to secure his seat and went to return the articles he had borrowed the day before. On his way back, he hunted through the catalogs and found some more. At the table, he finished entire volumes of
Science Fact or Fiction?
,
UFO Hunter
,
Roswell Scrapbook
, and
Space Digest
before his companion at the table had finished an article on arena football.

Mike began to notice something. The more he read, the more it all sounded the same. There was nothing new. In a matter of two days, he had really completed his fast-track education on the subject of UFOs. Sure, there were new stories to hear with new eyewitnesses and new twists, but generally they were the same stories, only with different people and different places. They usually concluded with harassment by government agents. These stories eventually led to the UFO folklore of mysterious men in black who arrive unannounced and pressure witnesses into silence. Mike decided he had seen it all.

He rose, maneuvered his way through a seemingly endless mass of aimless collegiates to find a quiet space to use his phone and called Robbie.

“Look, I think I've run into a rut here with this story.”

“You're such a baby,” Robbie said. “I knew you'd do this again, you big baby.”

“Man, I've read all there is to read. All these stories sound exactly alike, and I'm getting tired of reading the same story over and over again.”

“
You
are, but the public ain't. While you're wasting time reading, the story is passing you by. Did you know Pops Dickey was on the
Today Show
this morning?”

“The NBC
Today Show
?”

“Is there another one?”

“I didn't see it.”

“And the Chronicle is still running stories. Pops ain't gonna make the
New York Times
or anything, but our little Trumbull farmer is reaching for the stars Honey Boo-Boo style, bro. Time to get with the program. Are you listening to me?”

“I'm listening,” Mike said.

“Look, I don't care what you write. Just do a brief history of UFOs or something. We'll tack on this dead cow story to the beginning to make it current. But people are eatin' this up, man. Let's just give the public what they want. Journalism shmournalism. We are in the business of selling magazines, right?”

“Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

“Hey, maybe you can get back out there and get some interviews.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Mike hung up the phone and returned to the table to discover his computer bag on the floor, leaning against a table leg. Three girls were seated, and the young sports fan was no longer interested in arena football. Mike picked up his bag and removed his research from its place on the table under the nose of a gawking college girl. If she noticed, she gave no indication.

 

Night. Another cold one. Just as predicted, the temperature hovered in the middle teens. Wearing an old blue sweat suit and a quilt wrapped around him like a superhero's cape, Mike Walsh stared into his laptop and worked on his article. Across the room, Miles Davis wailed from the stereo. The article was coming along slowly. Maybe he wasn't such an expert after all. He decided on one more jaunt to the Landon Library. Maybe he'd missed something.

From “Lights Over Tulsa” by Sid Bentley in
UFO Hunter
magazine:

To this date, no serious investigation has been conducted by any government or official organization. The truth, it seems, will remain hidden in Darla Belford's hazy videotape and the many still pictures taken by amateur photographers. What are these lights? Experts have testified that they are moving in patterns contradictory to known laws of physics. Are residents of Tulsa being visited by extraterrestrials or top-secret military aircraft? The evidence is overwhelming. Something is happening …

 

The phone's ring woke Mike from a deep sleep. He was in the middle of a dream about Molly. His clock read 8:00 a.m. Rising from the womb of comforters and quilts, he set his bare feet on his cold bedroom floor. The shock was enough to launch the drowsiness clear from his head. Within three rings, he answered the phone and muttered, “Hello.”

“Mike?”

One word. One single word, and it was his name. The voice was so familiar, and his body filled with longing in one glorious instant. Wide awake now, hoping against delusion, he ventured, “Molly?”

“Yeah, it's me. Listen …”

His dream became sweet and real.

“… I'm going to be in Houston today. Vickie's showing some of her paintings, and I was wondering if maybe we could have lunch or something.”

Shocked. Overjoyed. “Sure, sure. What time?”

“Well, we're leaving in just a minute, and we should be there no later than noon, wouldn't you think?”

“Yeah, it shouldn't take you much more than four hours, if that.”

“Okay, so we'll be there around noon, I guess. Vickie's going on to the gallery, but I won't have to be there till three or so. Could we do it before then?”

“Sure, yeah. Do you have my cell number?”

“Is it still the same?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I've got it. I'll just call you, then.”

“Sure. Just call me, and I'll come right from work or wherever I am.” He would. He would drive his little beige import as fast as it would go to get wherever she was.

“Okay. I'll see you later, then.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He hung up. His body throbbed with exhilaration. A lunch. He had lived a year without her, without even seeing her (
barely even spoke to her
, he thought), and now she would be here within four hours. A lunch. This could be his chance. A window of opportunity. He could get her back!

He looked at his clock. Eight-o-four.
Time enough to even get some work done
, he thought. He bundled up and started the drive north to Trumbull.

 

Not for a lack of pounding, no one answered the Dickeys' front door. Mike decided to drive to the police station.

The Trumbull Police Department's building on Highway 2920 was neither small nor large, but adequate. Mike entered feeling a bit nervous. He recalled being told to leave by one of their officers at the Dickeys' farm the day Pops found his cow lying behind his barn, allegedly attacked by beings from outer space. He approached the front desk.

“Excuse me, but could you tell me where I could find Officer Sam Petrie?”

The man looked up at him. “You a reporter?”

“Uh … yeah.” He didn't know if this would get him in or out.

“Hold on a sec.” The man called out behind him. “Kelly, get Captain Lattimer, would you, please?”

Mike could see a woman in the back respond by picking up her telephone and speaking into it.

 

Kelly's voice came into Lattimer's office. “Captain? The front desk is asking for you.”

“Sheesh,” Graham responded. He walked to the front and confronted the reporter.

“Sam Petrie?” asked the man.

“No. Who are you?”

“Mike Walsh. I work for
Spotlight Magazine
.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, all right. Anyways—”

“Petrie ain't here. He's got leave. Probably starting his world tour or something.”

“Is there someone I could speak to?”

Graham hesitated. He knew what Mike wanted to talk about. Things were fairly slow right now. No
real
crimes. Trumbull had been pretty peaceful in that sense.

“You from one of those
tacky
magazines?” Graham asked.

“I really don't think so, no.”

“All right. I guess you can come on back.”

The two men retreated to Graham's office, the policeman leading the reporter. Once inside, the former sat behind his desk and the latter sat on a faux leather couch.

“I'm one of the captains—Graham Lattimer.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Hold on just a second.” He pressed his intercom button. “Kelly? Got any aspirin?” He released it and returned his attention to Mike. “
Spotlight
? What kind of paper is that?”

“It's a special-interest magazine. Kinda like
People
, only not as popular. And not just about people. We tell true stories we think people will want to read.”

Graham laughed. “True stories.”

“Yeah. Could I ask you a few questions?”

“I'm sure you could.”

“Well, I was kinda wondering about Mr. Dickey's UFO sighting.”

“Load of bull.”

“Pardon me?”

“That's a load of bull. At least, I'm pretty sure it is. All we got was a call from the man asking to file a report about his cow. Found her dead. Cut open behind his barn. He wasn't even in a rush or anything. Even said that. ‘No big deal,' or something to that effect. One of my guys goes out there on his way home …”

“That's Petrie?”

“… Right. Petrie. Well, he looks at it and gets the idea to call a vet out. See, what no one's getting from this, Mike, is that neither Pops nor Petrie had any inclination of believing aliens killed that animal. This vet shows up—name's Lewis Driscoll—and he declares without a doubt that poor Elsie was the victim of alien mutilation.” Graham rolled his eyes.