Page 31 of Identity Unknown
“Practically speaking, we need to ask who might be hell-bent on creating chaos right about now.” Lucy opens the back of the SUV.
“I have a feeling I know where you’re going with this,” he replies, all but rolling his eyes. “Despite what you seem to be convinced of, all roads don’t lead to Carrie Grethen.”
“Cause and effect,” Lucy says. “We took out one of her comrades last fall. Now she takes out one of ours.”
“And how would that explain a UAP dumping the body? You think she’s got a flying saucer at her disposal?” Marino’s sarcasm is biting.
“She could.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he exclaims, squinting in the deluge, water running off his big face and shaved head.
“The U.S., Russia, probably the Chinese have been designing and building flying saucers since the fifties.” Lucy pulls out my rain slicker but it’s a little late, and I drape it over an arm. “I can point you to ones now in museums at places like Fort Eustis and Wright-Patterson. Trust me when I tell you that there are all sorts of technologies out there that the general public knows nothing about.”
“So, you’re saying that all the weird shit people have been seeing forever, the UFOs, the UAPs, the Tic Tacs, the jellyfish are secret human-made technologies,” Marino says.
“Not all of them,” she replies as Tron lifts out the cardboard box full of containment body pouches.
“The chopper’s okay sitting out in this? What if it hails?” Marino carries our Pelican cases.
“It wouldn’t be ideal.” Lucy leads the way, the rain splashing and sizzling on yellow bricks.
CHAPTER 12
The first order of business is the camping toilet I instructed Marino to bring, and now that I’m thinking about it, I wonder where it is. When asked, he shrugs, telling me we’ll have to make do without it.
“Easy for you to say,” I reply as we make our way through the wind and rain. “Your equipment’s different from mine.”
“Sorry about that, Doc. I was going to bring it but got distracted.”
“I’ve managed before and will again.” Already, I’m soaked to the skin, and I suppose taking to the woods won’t make much difference.
“Your best bet are the restrooms inside the Witch’s Castle,” Tron suggests. “Nothing works and the place is a stinking mess but at least it’s right here and you’re out of the weather. When I was in there earlier, I heard something scuttling about. Rats, squirrels, maybe raccoons.”
“I’ll go with you,” Marino tells me.
“Give us your gear and we’ll meet you in the blue tent,” Lucy says, and we hand over our scene cases.
Marino and I step around puddles, half walking, half trotting through the heavy rain. Our booted feet thud across the familiar wooden drawbridge leading to the castle, a shell of what it once was due to vandalism and neglect. The thatch roof is collapsing in places, the windows broken out, the walls defaced with spray-painted graffiti. The black front door with its brass broom knocker is off the hinges and on the ground.
Broken glass crunches beneath our boots as we walk inside, dripping water everywhere we step. Turning on our cell phone flashlights, we shine them around as I’m bombarded by memories of when Lucy and I used to come here. I envision the fake bats that darted and dive-bombed overhead on wires from the ceiling. Every room was filled with recordings of screams and maniacal laughter.
We’d climb the stone steps inside the prison tower while video projections on the walls showed the Wicked Witch scowling and cackling while staring into her crystal ball. I envision scary Winkie guards standing sentry in their bearskin caps, at intervals crossing their halberd spears to block our passage. It was startling when they’d break into their chant.
“Oh-Ee-Yah…!”
Even though we knew it was coming it would snap us to attention. Lucy’s eyes would widen. Then both of us would laugh.
“Ee-Oh-Ah…!”
Climbing to the rooftop platform, we’d take the Flying Monkey zipline, something that went against the very fabric of my being. Thrill-seekers willing and otherwise streaked over the moat, the poison garden and the guard hut where enemiesof Winkie Country were tried for trumped-up crimes. The ride ended at the roller coaster, the Wicked Witch’s laughter sounding while we hurled along the tracks.
The castle’s gutted shops and snack bar have been spray painted with vulgar graffiti that doesn’t seem to have a point, everything in ruins. I remember that the restrooms are past the stone stairs on the other side of the shadowy open area cluttered with overturned tables and chairs. The crystal ball is missing from the fortune-telling machine where you’d feed in a dollar and hear your future predicted.
“I’ll be super quick and waiting for you right here.” Marino heads to the men’s room.
Shining my phone’s flashlight, I’m careful where I step, pushing through the ladies’ room door. The air is stale and foul as I enter a stall, the toilet bowl empty and stained brown. I’m digging tissues out of a pocket when something clatters upstairs, sounding like a metal object falling to the floor.
Then I barely make out a strain of eerie music playing. I could swear I hear the Winkie guards chanting, and fear tickles up my spine. I strain to listen. Nothing now. I zip up my pants, barely breathing as I detect faint footsteps overhead. I hear mumbling and muttering as I pass mirrors over the sinks, my reflection dim in dirty shards of broken glass.