Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“I doubt the ancients went in for tanning preparations. Hey, maybe this guy was an actor?” Temple said. “Maybe Silas T. had hired him to add some alien color to his big revelation.”

“He ever mention an ancient Mayan theme to you?”

“No, but I’ve been visiting all the UFO and alien Web sites lately to figure out what Farnum was up to, and the ancient-alien theme is a whole industry.”

Molina shook her head. “Talk about alien visitors, you are one on those Web sites.”

“True. I don’t believe any of it. You can take any image or custom or artifact from history and theorize that ‘ancient alien visitors’ left signs of giving the culture a sudden technological boost. I’m quite satisfied with the way public TV says the pyramids were built. Slave labor is a lot more likely than alien tourists who lent an ancient hand and then left us to stew in our own slow mambo to modern times over centuries of ignorance and war.”

“Mercy. You’re pretty indignant about these fringe theories.”

“I’ve been pretty mercilessly misled by Mr. Farnum and his undercover enterprise,” Temple answered. “And the sad part about all this is that his magical disappearing act is the real deal. That’s on the Web too. Scientists are learning to bend light, and time, to make our eyes fool themselves.”

Molina’s mouth went thin-lipped and grim. “That just makes my job harder. It’s bad enough Vegas is a 24-hour cabaret of crime, my friend. What I don’t need are alien interlopers. Your cat is about all I can handle, just barely, in that department.”

Chapter 31

Short Stuff

Much as I loathe treading in Crawford Buchanan’s footsteps, he makes a good cover.

He has now buttonholed a lady wearing an outfit my vintage clothing–loving Miss Temple would give the Revival Stamp of Approval: plaid Bermuda shorts and crisp light blue shirt with rolled-up buttoned sleeves. Then again, this lady may have just bought from Lands’ End classic mail-order catalog.

Her sensible navy canvas boating flats are refreshingly odor-free, but I can’t say the same for her boon companion, whom she has released from a canvas doggie tote to the arid ground and swift perusal from my world-class sniffer.

This critter is so small, the dogdom bit is questionable. However, it has the intelligent and sturdy look of the noble and industrious sled dogs known as huskies.

I confess myself confused.

“Hey, shorty,” I greet this ambiguous animal.

I am answered by a round of yapping, which settles the species question.

“No offense,” I say after another long inhalation of its essence. Hmm. Attar of taco sauce. “I gather that you are familiar with the ruins called ‘Calix-tla-hua-ca.’ Pardon my accent, but my breed is not geographically centered, as yours is.”

“Whowho Whoareyou? Whadayoudoinghere? Iguardmyhuman. Iwillchewoffyoureartips.”

Manx, that is one territorial Chi-hua-hua! Fierce little fellow. I sense a story here, and they are a talkative breed.

Meanwhile, above me, the Bermuda shorts lady is enlightening Crawford Buchanan far more than he wishes to be.

“Why are you and your TV station making a mockery of this event?” she demands. “Alien visitation is no joke.”

“Ah, no, madam.” Buchanan’s feet do a little jiggle as his mind seeks to catch up with her challenge. “But … people saw this thing land. Including you? Miss—?”

“My name is Penny, and this is my dog, Rens.”

I hear echoes of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and his dog, King. I am most fond of vintage TV.

“I do not know,” she goes on as if she is sure that he does not know, “if you realize that our age’s greatest scientific mind has warned that our incessant search for life beyond our planet may have unanticipated results. If they are smart enough to be ‘out there’ and find us, we may not want to be found by the likes of them.”

“Aw, yeah? ‘Our greatest mind’?”

“Surely, even you have heard of Stephen Hawking.”

“Aw … sure. The guy who wrote The Stand. ”

“Not Stephen King. Stephen Haw king. And I’d bet you haven’t a clue about string theory.”

“String theory? Ah … yo-yos?”

I hear a huge sigh above me. “Yo-yos, yes. Like you.”

“What did this Hawking guy warn against?”

She leans close to the mic and articulates every syllable. “Watch out what you wish for. The aliens we are searching for may be out there, all right, looking to take us over. The human rider from that spaceship is dead, isn’t he?”

I comment off-camera to my new compadre. “She may have a point. What do you think?”

“I think there are a lot of food stands around here where the pickings are dropping to the ground and free for you and me.”

I always bow to the superior sniffer. With one chomp, I pull the tongue of leather on his collar through the metal buckle and Rens and I are off on a culinary scouting mission of our own.

We know our moments of freedom are few. Our respective associates will soon be tracking us down. Miss Penny will not remain deeply engaged with the shallow Crawford Buchanan for long, and my Miss Temple will not appreciate my cavalier ways with her convertible top control.

Meanwhile … free food!

Our loving ladies mean well, poor souls.

Chapter 32

Identity Crisis

Temple didn’t know whether she was relieved or worried to find the Miata’s top down and Louie gone. Given Louie’s record of going rogue whenever he pleased, she was very, very afraid. For everyone else.

She grabbed the wide-brimmed hat with the built-in scarf she kept in the car. The unshaded lot was as dangerous for her redhead’s sensitive skin as driving a convertible with the top down. She put up the top to protect the car’s leather seats and steering wheel from frying in the sunlight.

As for Mr. Midnight Louie, missing “purrson,” she figured she’d find him, or vice versa, in the crowd. He’d just become another lead to follow.

While talking to Molina, Temple’s PR genes had stayed active and entered Eavesdrop Mode.

An ace public relations person could nod attentively and talk to one person, even an authority figure like a cop, while locating the presence and identity of at least half a dozen people around her at the same time.

Given the extreme appearances of the pro and con UFO crowds gathered, that was much harder right now. Basically, the crowd was fifty shades of weird. Being a PR person, Temple enjoyed every shade of weird. It made for easy publicity. That was surely true now, with vans from local TV stations jumping on footage of this event before L.A. could even hope to get a unit here.

During her almost subconscious pans of the crowd, Temple thought she’d spied a local personality who might at least know Midnight Louie if he saw him and help her corral her cat before Louie unearthed another body.

Looking for Crawford Buchanan’s head in a crowd was as bad as someone looking for hers, given his short stature. Having to want to find the sleazy cad-about-town was even worse.

She needn’t have worried. Buchanan had some PR vibes himself, because she heard a baritone voice from the mob intone, “And here’s a local light on the Strip PR scene,” just as someone grabbed her arm.