Alien Deception (4 page)

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I asked first," she murmured, still denying him a glimpse of her face. "You go first, now, please. I want to know all about you."

His soul melted at the warmth of her words and her voice. "Well, where shall I begin?"

"At the beginning," she said and lightly laughed.

"I grew up in New Jersey," he began as his eyes scanned every inch of her. "Went to school there, not that there was anything exciting about that." He raised his hand to block the spotlight. It was beginning to interfere with his view of the woman and he felt an annoyance with whoever was changing its location.

"Friends?"

"Friends? Well, not a lot. Heck, I wonder if anyone from high school even remembers me. They didn't even know I was there. No senior prom, no sports jock, just plain old me." He closed his eyes tightly to block out the bright spotlight that had changed its angle again to glare into his face. He shifted position his position but the light followed him as if it was intentionally preventing him from seeing clearly.

"Don't let the light bother you," she said, her face still turned. "I'll bet you had a lot of girlfriends."

"Not exactly. I remember getting a bad start, and I think it dampened my whole outlook toward dating. I asked this cheerleader out on a date. I think I was thirteen or something like that at the time. You know, she wasn't the best-looking girl in the school, but she still was kind of cute in her own way. She turned me down flat, in front of a bunch of kids in my algebra class. That was embarrassing."

"Her loss," she responded, reminding him of what his father had told him after that incident.

"My father told me the same thing," he said, as this thought, tied to another by the closeness of time, brought back memories of his father's sudden death just a few months after this event. "He died not too long after that."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

"I was devastated. My dad had always understood me. We could always talk things through, regardless of the sensitivity of the subject. When he died, I became very depressed. Mom tried hard to help, but I really missed the conversations Dad and I used to have. He always seemed to know how to make sense of things. Hell, he could probably even figure out what was happening to me now with all these almost-accidents."

"Don't let those concern you right now," she said, as she sipped her drink. "They're just distractions."

"Distractions? You know about them? But how can you? You're just a dream in my mind, some kind of fantasy that I'm living."

"Me, just a dream? Oh, no, I'm as real as you. But let's not talk about that right now. Tell me more about your father," she said.

Greg detected a subtle firmness in here voice this time. He wanted to talk to her about what was happening, but her voice was very persuasive, so he continued about his father. "After my father died, I felt there were so many things I didn't know about him. I asked Mom about the past, but she admitted that there were some things even she did not know about him, particularly about his past before they met. She told me that the past didn't seem to matter when you were in love." He smiled at that memory. "Mom passed away a couple of years after Dad, and that left me with parts of his past littered with holes that I have never been able to fill," he said, the frustration evident in his voice

"It's difficult to face the future sometimes without understanding the past," she said.

"Yes, you understand," he agreed. "Most people don't feel that knowing about the past is important." He was pleasantly surprised to see she felt the same way as he did.

"Of course. Please, go on."

"Well, through these hardships, I completely retreated into my shell, and didn't show my face anywhere for quite a while after that. I bounced around to my mother's relatives for a while, but never seemed to find a home that felt…you know…just right. That was another strange thing about my father; there were no relatives of his that we knew of. They had been killed in some terrible transit accident or something."

"You sound as if you didn't believe him?"

"It's not that I didn't believe him, but it was a bit odd. Anyway, I floundered around for a few years until I realized I wanted out of New Jersey, and maybe wanted to see the world. So I enlisted in the Navy. I only did a short stretch in the military because that was about all I could stand. It was good in some respects; I did get to travel, but the constant cleaning and the folding of clothes thing got out of hand. Let's see - how did they put it? 'I lacked the self-discipline.' That was the comment on the last evaluation I received. What they really meant was that I was basically a slob. And I have to admit, I couldn't argue a bit with that assessment."

"You don't seem like that type," she said, her voice still mesmerizing him with its sound. "You are searching for a purpose. Many go through the same thing and then, one day, they find what they are seeking and dive into it with passion."

"I suppose that could be, but I obviously haven't found that purpose yet," he laughed.

"All in time," she answered. "But please, go on. I am intrigued with your story."

The spotlight increased in intensity, its glare further distorting his vision. He squinted his eyes and raised his hand to block its brightness. With the light in his eyes, he could barely make out her image.

"Please finish your story. I want to know all of it," she said.

"After I received my discharge, I ended up staying where I had been last stationed, here in New Orleans. I found work humping boxes of records. It was a job, and it kept me in food and rent. That was about all I needed for the moment."

"You want a challenge, don't you?"

"A challenge?" he asked. Suddenly a sound began, a whine that was getting louder every second. "What's that?"

"Don't worry," she said. "That is your destiny coming for you."

"My destiny?" He asked as the sound increased to the point where it became painful to his hearing.

"Yes, destiny—the one that we shall share together."

The sound was almost on top of him, and he couldn't decide whether to use his hands to block the light or the sound.

"What's happening?" he shouted frantically over the unbearable noise.

"Just be calm and relax. You are relaxed, aren't you? That's why I am here, to prepare you for your journey and your destiny, the one that we shall face together."

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the light and noise stopped, and she turned to face him. She had the most beautiful face he'd ever seen, so warm and friendly, features that were so smooth and enticing that all he wanted to do was touch and caress them. Then everything was gone and there was only silence and darkness.

* * * *

"What happened?" the burly police officer asked as he sorted through the crowd of spectators that encircled the body on the ground. The paramedics were putting their equipment away. One of them looked toward the policeman and shook his head, indicating that the man was dead.

"I don't understand it. I was backing the garbage truck out of the pickup area, and all my lights and alert sirens are working fine," a man said, pointing to his large truck. "I never saw this poor fella but, for the life of me, I can't understand why he never saw or heard me."

"Witnesses? Did anyone see what happened?" the officer asked.

"Yes, sir, I did," a young woman said.

"What did you see?"

"It was the strangest thing," she began. "He," she pointed toward the body, "was just standing there and he was…smiling. He had the most contented look that I have ever seen in my life. He just stood there as if oblivious to everything around him."

"Anyone know his name?"

"His name was Greg… Greg Carlson."

Chapter Four

SARAH MCCLENDON

Sarah McClendon aligned the paper clips on her report, small side facing in and two inches from the left side of the paper. The folder which contained the report was brand new, labeled, typed and dated neatly. She flipped each page, being careful not to crimp or crease any of them. She glanced over every word for the third time in the past hour, checking to make sure she had not missed anything. No smudges, no fluctuations in ink contrast. Finally satisfied, she closed the folder and placed it off to one side of her immaculate desk.

She checked the clock, smiling to herself; the report was not due to her boss for another twenty-four hours. She was quite proud to submit her findings ahead of schedule, as usual
. Mr. Gordon will be pleased,
she thought. He commented constantly about how well she had been doing in the short time she had been working for the company. Just thinking about those comments made her feel warm inside; she lived for those types of compliments.

She decided to take the report to her boss now, instead of waiting any longer. She picked up the folder, being careful not to scrape the fingernail polish from her conservative-length nails onto any of the pages. She stepped around the desk to check her appearance in the full-length glass panel that separated her work area from the rest of the office.

She was slender and physically fit, and had long black hair that went midway down her back which she brushed religiously each night before she went to bed. She was light-skinned, but used that to her advantage with her choice of clothing to contrast with her dark hair and eyes. Her face was smooth with well-defined cheeks, her lips full but not too large, her nose slender and proportioned to her face.

As her eyes inched their way down the image in the glass, she stopped, her eyes widening because, to her dismay, she noticed unsightly wrinkles in her skirt. She knew immediately that she would have to correct them before leaving her work area, especially before she went in to see her boss with the report. She reached into her lower desk drawer, removed the wrinkle remover and plugged it into the nearest electrical receptacle.

While waiting for it to heat, she sat in her chair and swiveled it so she could get a view of the blue sky and clouds through the only window that was on this floor of the building. She needed to compose herself for her visit to Mr. Gordon's office. She felt a little out of sorts today because her sleep had been interrupted by a disturbing dream last night. The beginning alone had disturbed her, just because of its location. She had actually been in a nightclub of all places! Even worse, she was sitting at a, well, a bar, and alone! Sarah thought, appalled. She would never be caught dead in a bar of any kind. Still, she remembered thinking that the 1940's motif did have a certain charm to it.

Either the lack of sleep or the charming ambiance of the setting caused her to drift back to the scene in her thoughts. As she opened her eyes, she found herself sitting at the bar, just as she had been in her dream. Surprisingly, she did not feel alarm; instead, she felt an unusual calm settle upon her.

Her eyes watched as a man strutted across the room, his pant legs billowing as he moved, greeting many people. He seemed to be very popular, especially with the women, she thought almost with some sort of well, almost—jealousy? That was silly. She didn't even know him; she was sure of that much. But people certainly seemed drawn to him for some reason. Something—something about him keyed a feeling in her mind. She just couldn't put her finger on it. Maybe he had been a business acquaintance that she had met and subconsciously the image of him had imbedded itself into her mind
. Yes, that was probably it,
she thought, dismissing any possibility of an unexplained event.

For a fleeting moment, she had felt his eyes upon her and she knew that he was heading toward her. Feeling shy, she turned away from his approach and concentrated on taking tiny sips from the drink in front of her. She had wanted to give the appearance that she did not want to be disturbed.

She nervously smoothed the folds of the black evening dress.
What will I say if he tries to converse with me?
she thought, panicked.
I could talk about work. No, that wouldn't do.
Sarah heard her mother's "I told you so" voice ringing in her ears from their numerous discussions of how she lacked social skills in dealing with men.

He put his hand on the back of her stool. She could hear him inhaling deeply as he stood directly behind her.

"Tell me about yourself," he said, his calm voice enticing.

"Me?" she asked coyly.

"Yes," he answered. "I want to know all about your fascinating self."

She blushed. "I wouldn't know where to start," she said, as she continued to look ahead and not directly at him.

"You pick a place and time," he offered.

Sarah felt a rush of thoughts enter into her mind. Oddly enough, the predominant thought was her mother's warning. "No man will marry a woman who is a perfectionist. They will say you are too 'picky' to live with. Always criticizing. Can't please anyone but yourself."

"That's not true," the man said, startling her. "Being a perfectionist is an amiable trait to possess."

"My dad would tell me the same thing," she said. "He would smile at me and say not to worry about it, to just be myself, always."

"You loved your father a lot, didn't you?"

"Yes. I loved him immensely," she said, feeling an emotional swell within her. "I was very saddened at his premature death. I wished that we could have had more time together. He understood me so well that he always seemed to have the solution, regardless of the problem."

"But you're troubled about something else, aren't you?" His voice was so soothing that Sarah just wanted to keep hearing it.

"Yes. I always wanted to know more about the past, his past."

"Tell me about your past," he asked, his voice inviting her to continue.

"Well, as you already know, I am a bit of a perfectionist. I’ve been this way throughout my school years from grammar school to college. I am an extremely hard worker and I graduated at the top of my class in high school."