CHAPTER 1
Colorado
Covering over the small body with a loose tarpaulin, Jesse Tullett slammed the tailgate shut on the old ranch utility. How was he ever going to explain this? And more to the point, who the hell would believe it?
During the night, there had been a light snowfall, just enough to dust everything with a powdered coating of what looked like icing sugar on Ma's pound cake. The sky was dark and desultory, a warning of more snow to come.
Tullett's ranch was a sizeable property in Bakers Flats, Colorado, and had been in the family for 140 years give or take. Jesse Tullett was feeling the pinch of old age and the frustration of past events that had been happening on and around his property of late.
The four men who had just joined him were all friends, neighbours, and patriots. Well, did he have a story to tell them!
First, though, he had to come up with a plan; and he didn't want anyone talking him out of it. This was something he had to be in control of. When the shit hit the fan on this one, Jesse knew the repercussions would be a global hysteria at best. Hardly something you rushed into.
Yes, sir, this one needed some figuring out.
Jesse glared down at the reason he had summoned his friends out of their beds so early on a bitter cold day. Before them lay the dead body of his prized Polled Hereford stud bull. Dead was being kind, and there had been nothing kind in any of the cattle mutilations that had plagued each and every one of the ranchers since as far back as the late '60s. In fact, it was a repetitious game of "whodunit," and except for supposition and generalised theories; they had no proof as to what the hell was happening in their own backyards.
All the mutilations had been carried out with surgeon like precision. The cuts were precise, the carcass was devoid of blood, and the wounds cauterised. All bones were left intact. The mutilations always appeared on the right side of the animal, with the ear, eye, and tongue missing and the bottom jaw defleshed. The sexual reproductive organs, udder and the like were cored out and likewise missing.
"This makes ninety-two in total." Jesse grimaced. "Always the same MO—no tracks; no smell of decay; clean, concise cuts; not a drop of blood on the ground or surrounding the injuries."
Freddie Larzabal hunched down and scrutinised the wounds. "No damn insects and no signs of predator activity."
Bert Cummins settled the hat back on his head and shifted uneasily inside his lamb's wool jacket that had seen almost as many winters as he had himself. "I heard a farmer in Argentina recently lost fifty-one cows in the same paddock. At the same damn time. I checked out the pictures, and there didn't appear to be any signs of panic. It was like they all got zapped with an electrical charge and died where they stood." Bert shook his head. "One cow gets spooked, they all run. But this was like something got the drop on them. What the hell is that all about? Fucking mass hypnotism?"
Jim Moor, Jesse's lifelong best friend, calmly looked out at the tall abaya's beyond the ridge. He was equally as fed up but resolved that, like it or not, there was precious little they could do about it. "We have been putting up with this shit for the past fifty years, and we're no closer now than we were then. There's no one near ready to accept what we know as fact. And if we go spouting off our mouths, we got to answer to FEMA.
"Geez, Jim, listen to what you're saying," Sam Haskell snapped. "This is not a school playground and we're hardly dealing with the class bullies. They are picking our backyards to vent out their bullshit agendas, and we are doing fuck all to stop them."
Jesse inhaled cold air. "Sam's got a point. It's not only our cattle; they're branching out. Remember those bodies they found out at White Sands and Dulce? Human bodies, with identical incisions and surgical markings."
"How many times do we have to go over this same old shit, Jesse?" Freddie Larzabal grunted. "It's happened so often we just give each other a phone call and have us a bitch session. Seems we got past caring and just accepted the inevitable."
Is that what it had come down to? Not giving a shit anymore? Being taken for granted and letting them SOBs experiment on their livelihood?
How could Jesse tell them that he had found something that shed a light on the mutilations and then changed his mind at the last moment, leaving them temporarily out of the loop? Was he being selfish? Didn't they have a right to know what he had found?
Over the years, they had all suffered the same trials and traumas, and they had somehow formed a brotherhood together because of it. And now here they were, wondering why he had called them out on a bitch of a morning to go over the same old ground. Maybe he should reconsider his agenda and do some sharing.
Jesse explained softly. "Over the years, we've seen documentaries by well-meaning people who came out and recorded this psycho X-Files crap; UFO magazines have been writing about cattle mutilations and disappearances since 1972. Hell there was even that senator from New Mexico who insisted the FBI come out here and take a look—and what was it they said before they even started the investigation?"
"It was nothing more than predator activity and they would prove it!" Sam added.
"And how long did they stuff us around? When they finally did release their findings, we all knew full well what it would say. Predator activity! No surprise there. Either they don't believe what they're seeing or else they could care less. It doesn't affect them, so they turn a blind eye.
"Maybe it's time they had their eyes opened." Jesse Tullett gazed blearily down at the bloated carcass. "Me and Tobias go back a long way. Hurts like hell that I lost a top stud bull—not counting a further ninety-one head of cows, many with calf." He looked away, grieving and angered. "Ninety-two head in total. Well that's ninety two head too many. This time, we're going to fight them bastards on their own turf; no more feeling around in the dark. Those Federal mongrels are going to be held accountable."
"As I recall," Bert reminded him, "those were the same words you spouted off last time we found a mute, Jesse—and the countless times before that. When our tempers die down we're left with the reality that what we're up against is FEMA. And they keep a low profile, so all of this blows away in due time."
"Until the next time," Sam offered feebly.
Jesse had a secret. Maybe now was a good time to share it.
* * *
Kira Ireson threw her expensive camera bag onto the back seat of their millionth rental and leaned against the car, arms folded, bored and ready to defect. Her life sucked.
She had spent the last six months relegated to places where duelling banjos was a way of life and cryptozoology summed up the family pet. Why the hell had she allowed herself to be talked into taking a photographer's job that kept her on the road for six months at a time, with only a week's break in between.
Two years of throwing herself into her work to forget a broken relationship with an egocentric talk show host who thought the sun revolved around him and, regrettably, not her. She surmised that, in the greater scheme of togetherness, there had to be at least two participants to form a relationship, and sadly, there didn't seem to be enough room for her. So she'd left.
Kira looked around and had never felt so desolate. Did I throw myself out of the frying pan and into the fire? she wondered. Is this it? In an attempt to escape one hostile situation, she had literally plunged herself into an even worse scenario. Her life could be summed up as boring, repetitive, and lonely. So much for making a name for herself photographing cryptozoology anomalies—the unexplained, conspiratorial, and unorthodox species—for one of the country's top controversial magazines The Unexplained Truth. Two years of living out of suitcases and eating take-out was proving to be more oppressive than the relationship she was running away from.
Her partner, Ky Brady, was presently standing on the edge of a wilderness camping reserve, in the midst of a frantic discussion with an elderly man who was using explicit hand gestures apparently to prove a point.
Brady was patient if nothing else and reminded Kira of a reasonably fit, slender version of Sylvester Stallone, without the muscles, square jaw, and attitude. He was used to excitable people who had a point to make and a story to tell. That was his job. To find unusual, unexplained, conspiratorial, and unorthodox cases that would sell magazines and make his editor proud. He loved his job.
But lately things had gone south. Kira's attitude was both lethargic and evasive, clearly noted in her inattention to producing the pictures needed to placate their editor. Clearly, Kira was in a slump, and things between them had soured.
As Brady approached the car, she raised her eyebrows and tried to sound civil—which, lately, had been an effort. "Was it good for you, too?"
"You telling me I get off on people's paranormal psychosis?" He grinned.
"That man just told you he was chased by a humanoid creature that resembled a giant seven-foot lizard. He clearly could not outrun your ninety-three-year-old grandmother with a ten-yard handicap, so why pander to him like you believe every word?"
Ky opened the driver's side door and glanced over the roof of their latest car rental.
"Just because what Mr. Duchamps saw doesn't fall into your area of scientific anomalies, Kira, does not mean the man is a liar." He got in the car and slammed the door a little harder than he'd intended.
"Excuse me," she snapped, getting in the passenger side and doing likewise.
Brady fired the motor and backed out of the strand of leech grass, edging the car back onto the shoulder of the makeshift road. "You're getting cynical." He mused, "These last two assignments have held as much interest for you as ABBA declaring a comeback."
"Meaning?"
"You don't entertain the thought of change anymore. You're becoming a creature of habit. When was the last time you opened your mind up to the realm of extreme possibility?"
She folded her arms in the adamant gesture of a scolded schoolgirl and settled for, "You're saying I'm stagnant?"
"I'm saying you're stuck in a groove. You don't allow yourself the indulgence of an open mind or a penchant for the curious anymore."
"You really want me to visualise a naked lizard man chasing Mr. Deschamps through the forest with dishonourable intentions?" She let out a long drawn breath. "This could set my social life back twenty years," she said, adding softly, "such as it is."
Brady mellowed just a touch. "All right, maybe Mr. Deschamps is a lonely guy craving attention ... bad example."
"Do I sense a but here?" She smirked.
"You used to have an open mind, Kira. Today you had that poor man categorised and referenced before you even set eyes on him."
"He talks to lizards," she snapped.
"You talk to my fish," he countered.
"It's either that or a brick wall when you're in one of your moods." A quiet moment that Kira didn't feel particularly comfortable with followed.
"Moods?" he grated.
"Like now. You're pushing for an argument."
"Are you referencing me now?"
"To be honest, Brady, just lately I wouldn't know how to classify you."
He afforded her a look that said nothing. Then again, she read a lot into it.
* * *
It had been raining most of the day, and the trip from the airport was one of wet discomfort. Brady's clothes were wet, his hair was wet, his sense of humour was on par with a wet weekend, and so it went on.
Six months. Six continuous months of researching, hoarding, interviewing, harassing, travelling, sleeping in his clothes, starving, listening to Kira's ever growing sarcasm about their shitty job, and so that, too, went on. That just about summed up his life. And so it went—on and on and on.
Ky Brady was hitting thirty-six. He was unmarried, unloved, and unappreciated by the mob that dictated his life and sent him on these ridiculous missions in search of the great unknown to bring back stories on cryptozoology, vampires, werewolves, alien abductions, and the like. It had gotten to the point he doubted what was fact and what was fiction anymore.
He was tired.
In truth, he was lonely.
Maybe it was the uselessness of this pilgrimage into the outer limits one time too many that made him realise his life was not flashing in front of his eyes with accredited accomplishments. He was not the desire of every gorgeous female in respectable circles, and he had no friends to invite over to a barbeque if he wanted or craved company. In essence, the only one who was glad to see him was his editor. And that was only when and if he got his assignments in on time.
Brady thought back to his pet goldfish.
Harry, he called him.
Why anyone would want to name a goldfish Harry, shows just how lonely and out of touch he was with reality. Nevertheless, he'd formed a comfortable attachment to Harry. His landlord Sam even came in and fed Harry when Brady was out doing his twilight zone thingy, and he had Harry to look forward to when he came home cold, lonely, and in need of a friendly chat.
Whether Sam, the landlord's having forgotten about Harry was accidental or deliberate, Sam had suffered a massive heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. The callous bastard had failed to make provision for Harry, so poor Harry had starved to death and gone belly up in the huge, globular fishbowl that had been his life for the past two years.
Sam, however, had pulled through with flying colours, although he never could quite understand why Ky's bright, cheery demeanour had diminished into nothing more than a snarl and barrage of obscenities that Sam took as a new language Ky had learned on one of his usual, strange country trek things and so stayed out of his way for a while.
The taxi pulled up outside Ky's flat. He dragged his heavy, wet baggage over to the steps and let himself in. Before retrieving his bits and pieces from the porch, he flicked on the corner light, snapped on the gas heater, and put the kettle on. Bugger the bags. Come to think of it, bugger everyone and everything.
He nevertheless relented, brought in his bags, and whipped the door shut behind him.
He sneezed. Great. Does it get any better than this? A lonely wet welcome home, devoid of—
It was then he saw it.
He blinked twice.
No! Not possible.
It can't be.
Then, bugger him, if suddenly he didn't calm down and raise a smile. Over on the television, swimming merrily in the orphaned fish bowl was a replacement for Harry. Same size, same shape, same colour.
Nice one, Sam!
Damn, if this wasn't turning out to be one of those warm, fuzzy Kodak moments—or would have been if not for the shrill of the telephone on the corner unit. How was this possible? He had only walked in the door, the clothes still wet on his back. What perverse individual could not even grant him the solitude of his arrival long enough to so much as let the percolator perk?
Brady was in two minds whether or not to pick it up, but as usual, protocol ruled and he made contact. "Me!" he snapped.
"I'm glad we got that sorted," said the gruff reply.
"I don't believe you. I've been home, what, three and a half minutes. Call Kira. She deserves this!"
"She's next on my list. You both put out some very productive work once you get past the whining, griping, nipping, and nausea of being together. I know marriages that haven't lasted as long as you two."
"Which puts us where?"
"Pack enough for several days. Something warm. New Mex is a bitch this time of year."
"Give me a break, Carl. I haven't unpacked from my last assignment."
"Good, you've already saved time."
Ericson was a hard-nosed SOB who ruled the newsroom with an iron fist and a large expense account that Brady was privy to. Ericson indulged his penchant for overspending and travelling first-class. Brady couldn't (shouldn't) bite the hand that paid the chefs in gourmet restaurants who fed him.
He expelled the sigh of a defeatist. "What happened in New Mexico that can't wait for a hot shower—Chinese takeaway and a dozen hookers?"
This was met with the silence that always pre-empts something you don't want to hear.
"Fallout, Brady. Jell-O is falling from the sky."
