Michael Marshall - The Intruders

‘Isn’t that the truth,’ Oz said, playing along. ‘You just never know. Even if They don’t actually exist.’

The man smiled. ‘I’m going to talk to my friends, see about getting us all together. Glad we met, Oz. Been waiting a long time to connect with someone like you.’

‘Me too,’ Oz said, for a moment feeling very alone.

‘We’ll hook up soon. Take care of yourself in the meantime,’ Jones said, and left.

Oz watched the man get back in his car, drive out of the lot and take the turn towards the freeway. Then he slowly finished his beer. He did not hurry, for once. He was feeling almost as if he was just sitting in a bar, rather than hiding there. The people at the counter were talking, laughing. The arguing couple were now chewing face across their table, the woman’s hand hooked meatily around the man’s neck. Oz wished them well.

When he eventually stepped outside it was cold and windy, the streets deserted. People with normal lives were home asleep. Oz was going to join them now. Home for the time being was an anonymous motel on the edge of town, but any kind of home is better than none.

As he walked he considered the man he’d just met, what he represented. There were countless groups interested in the underbelly, in finding the hidden truths. JFK obsessives who met once a month to pore over autopsy shots. Online 9/11 nuts with their trajectory modelling software, Priory of Sion wannabes, Holocaust revisionists, circle jerks for everything that might or might not ever have been true. Jones’ people sounded very different, or Oz would not have agreed to make contact in the first place. A tight, focused group of men and women who studied the facts without previous agenda, who met in secret, who weren’t too close to one particular issue to miss a glimpse of the whole. This was what Oz needed. People with rigour. People with dedication.

Just some fucking people, bottom line.

Maybe, after his time in the wilderness, things were going to start turning around. Oz picked up the pace a little, idly wondering if his motel had a snack machine.

It did not, and the soda machine didn’t work. After establishing these facts and becoming resigned to them, Oz let himself into his room, first noting that the strip of scotch tape he’d laid across the bottom of the door had not been disturbed.

Once inside he stood irresolute. It was late. He should go to bed. Get on the road early. Keep on the move. But he still felt hopped up from the meeting, and knew that if he lay his head down it would get locked in a long spiral that would leave him exhausted and headachy in the morning.

He turned instead to the ancient console television next to the room’s shabby desk. The huge screen warmed slowly, to reveal a re-run of a show so old Oz barely remembered it. Perfect. A little background noise, the kind that creeps inside your head and tells you everything’s all right. Comfort sound.

There was a knock on the door.

Oz turned fast, heart beating hard.

The television wasn’t on loud enough to provoke a complaint. It was hard to imagine why else someone should be outside. The bedside clock said it was 2:33 a.m.

The knock came again, more quietly this time.

Oz knew the flickering of the television screen would be visible around the edges of the curtains. He went and stood behind the door. This was the moment he’d feared, the prospect that kept him awake at night, and he realized suddenly that he’d never really come up with a plan for when it came to pass. So much for the Lone Horseman of the Unknown.

‘Mr Turner? It’s Mr Jones.’

The person outside had spoken very quietly. Oz stared at the door for a moment, put his ear closer. ‘What?’

‘Could you let me in?’

Oz hesitated, undid the lock. Opened the door a crack, to see Jones standing shivering outside.

‘What the hell do you want?’

Jones kept well back from the door, didn’t crowd him. ‘I got a few miles down the road and realized there were a couple things I forgot to say. I turned around, saw you walking through town, followed you back here.’

Oz let the man into the hotel room, annoyed at how careless he’d been to allow someone to spot him on the street.

‘You scared the fucking life out of me, man,’ he said, closing the door and locking it. ‘Jesus.’

‘I know. I’m sorry, really. It’s just I came all this way. And, you know, I think meeting up was kind of a big deal for both of us. The start of something bigger.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Right. So I just wanted to make sure we got everything said.’

Oz relaxed, a little. ‘So what was it?’

The man looked sheepish. ‘First thing, well, it’s embarrassing. It’s just that Jones isn’t my real name.’

‘Okay,’ Oz said, confused. He’d already assumed the other guy might have given a false one. ‘No big deal.’

‘I know. Just, you were going to find out later, and I didn’t want you to think I’d been jerking you around.’

‘That’s okay,’ Oz said, disarmed, wondering if he should offer the guy a drink and realizing he didn’t have anything. The motel didn’t run to coffee-making facilities. It barely ran to changing the towels, and didn’t fudge the issue with cheery crap about saving the environment, either. ‘So – what is it? Your name.’

The man moved slightly, so he was farther from the door.

‘It’s Shepherd,’ he said.

Oz held his gaze, noticing for the first time how dark the man’s eyes were. ‘Well, mine really is Oz Turner. So we’re straight on nomenclature. What was the other thing?’

‘Just this,’ the man said. He pushed Oz in the chest.

Oz was caught off-guard. He couldn’t maintain his balance against the calm, firm shove, especially when the man slipped his right foot behind one of Oz’s. His arms pinwheeled but he toppled straight over backward, catching his head hard against the television.

He was stunned, and barely had time to slur a syllable of enquiry before the man quickly bent down over him. He grabbed handfuls of Oz’s coat, careful not to touch flesh, and yanked him halfway back to standing.

‘What?’ Oz managed. His right eye was blinking hard. He felt weak. He realized the man was wearing gloves. ‘What are you …’

The man put his face up close. ‘Just so you know,’ he said, ‘They do exist. They send their regards.’

Then he dropped him, twisting Oz’s shoulder forward just as he let go. Oz’s head hit the side of the television again, at a bad sideways angle this time, and there was a muffled click.

Shepherd sat on the end of the bed and waited for the man’s gasps to subside, watching the television with half an eye. He couldn’t remember the name of the show, but he knew just about everyone on it was long dead. Ghosts of light, playing to a dying man. Almost funny.

When he was satisfied Turner was done, he took a fifth of vodka out of his pocket and tipped most of it into Oz’s mouth. A little over his hands, some on his coat. He left the bottle on the floor, where it might have fallen. A diligent coroner could question either stomach contents or blood alcohol level within the body, but Shepherd doubted it would come to that. Not here in the sticks. Not when Turner looked so much like a man who had this kind of end coming to him sooner or later.

It took Shepherd less than three minutes to find where the man had hidden his laptop and notebook. He replaced these with further empty vodka bottles. He shut the room door quietly behind him as he left, and then took only another minute to find the back-up disk duct-taped under the dashboard of Oz’s car in the lot outside. All three would be destroyed before daybreak.

And that, he believed, was that.