Read Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 08 for Free Online
Authors: Martians in Maggody
came to see the crop circles?" asked Jim Bob, wondering if he could figure out a way to get the whole fuckin' organization to buy box lunches. Hell, he'd knock off 10 percent or put in an extra pickle.
Cynthia nodded. "Many cereologists in England feel strongly that there is a link between the corn circle configurations and extraterrestrial activities. The numerous UFO sightings in Warminster in the mid-1960s evolved into crop circles by the end of the decade. And you must bear in mind that this area of England is home to Stonehenge, Avebury, and Silbury Hill."
"No kidding." Jim Bob whistled under his breath and tried to look impressed by whatever the hell she'd been saying. "So you think UFOs might be responsible for what happened in Raz's field?"
Cynthia gripped Rosemary's elbow and steered her toward the door. "We intend to prove it, my dear man. Arthur Sageman is flying in from California and should arrive sometime this afternoon. He is the foremost authority in ufology in the entire country. Come along, Rosemary. We need to arrange for motel rooms before Arthur and Brian get here."
The women climbed into a dusty white car and drove away. Jim Bob went out into the parking lot and counted the cars across the road at Ruby Bee's. There were three times as many of them as he'd ever seen on a Thursday afternoon. Come the weekend, all the folks who couldn't get away from work would come streaming to town like ants to a Sunday school picnic.
He decided he should rent one of those portable signs and park it down by the edge of the road. Surely he could get a dollar more for the box lunches, or two if he threw in a free soft drink.
I was working on the accident report when a man rapped on the screen door of the PD. "Come on in," I said with a sigh, wondering if real writers were besieged with visitors just as the plot was getting steamy or, in this case, gory. "It's not hooked."
I felt a tad more cordial as I got a better look at him. He had curly black hair, a dark tan, and white teeth. He was short, but everything was firm under a veneer of Italian silk and 100 percent cotton. I put his age at thirty, give or take a few years. Most important, he lacked the glint in his eyes that was symptomatic of a flying saucer fanatic. I'd seen a lot of glints in the last twenty-four hours.
"I'm Jules Channel," he said as he sat down across from me and leaned a briefcase against the wall. "I work for a magazine based in Florida, and we're planning to do a story about the crop circles."
"You came all the way from Florida?"
"I was on assignment in Louisiana when my editor called this morning. He was alerted to a story on your local news and thought it had potential."
I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet on the corner of the desk. "I hope you're not expecting a comment from me, Mr. Channel, because I'm fresh out of them. Do you need directions?"
"I was hoping for an interview with the chief of police." He glanced at the back room, which by no stretch of whimsy could pass for an office. "May I assume you're it?"
"Assume whatever you like, but I am not going to be interviewed about this nonsense. After I've heard from the county extension office, I may be in a position to make a brief statement. What's the name of your magazine?"
"The Weekly Examiner," he said evenly.
I rocked back so violently that I banged my head against the wall. "You're from a tabloid?"
"I used to work for the Washington Post, tracking down politicians and assiduously recording their perfidious bullshit. I finally realized I could make a lot more money tracking down weirdos and assiduously recording their sincere bullshit. It's much more entertaining to write about toilets possessed by demons than the trade deficit. It's more lucrative, too."
"I thought you all sat around your offices and made up the stories."
He gave me a wry smile. "And breach our professional ethics? Believe it or not, there is a tiny thread of truth in most of the stories
Cynthia nodded. "Many cereologists in England feel strongly that there is a link between the corn circle configurations and extraterrestrial activities. The numerous UFO sightings in Warminster in the mid-1960s evolved into crop circles by the end of the decade. And you must bear in mind that this area of England is home to Stonehenge, Avebury, and Silbury Hill."
"No kidding." Jim Bob whistled under his breath and tried to look impressed by whatever the hell she'd been saying. "So you think UFOs might be responsible for what happened in Raz's field?"
Cynthia gripped Rosemary's elbow and steered her toward the door. "We intend to prove it, my dear man. Arthur Sageman is flying in from California and should arrive sometime this afternoon. He is the foremost authority in ufology in the entire country. Come along, Rosemary. We need to arrange for motel rooms before Arthur and Brian get here."
The women climbed into a dusty white car and drove away. Jim Bob went out into the parking lot and counted the cars across the road at Ruby Bee's. There were three times as many of them as he'd ever seen on a Thursday afternoon. Come the weekend, all the folks who couldn't get away from work would come streaming to town like ants to a Sunday school picnic.
He decided he should rent one of those portable signs and park it down by the edge of the road. Surely he could get a dollar more for the box lunches, or two if he threw in a free soft drink.
I was working on the accident report when a man rapped on the screen door of the PD. "Come on in," I said with a sigh, wondering if real writers were besieged with visitors just as the plot was getting steamy or, in this case, gory. "It's not hooked."
I felt a tad more cordial as I got a better look at him. He had curly black hair, a dark tan, and white teeth. He was short, but everything was firm under a veneer of Italian silk and 100 percent cotton. I put his age at thirty, give or take a few years. Most important, he lacked the glint in his eyes that was symptomatic of a flying saucer fanatic. I'd seen a lot of glints in the last twenty-four hours.
"I'm Jules Channel," he said as he sat down across from me and leaned a briefcase against the wall. "I work for a magazine based in Florida, and we're planning to do a story about the crop circles."
"You came all the way from Florida?"
"I was on assignment in Louisiana when my editor called this morning. He was alerted to a story on your local news and thought it had potential."
I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet on the corner of the desk. "I hope you're not expecting a comment from me, Mr. Channel, because I'm fresh out of them. Do you need directions?"
"I was hoping for an interview with the chief of police." He glanced at the back room, which by no stretch of whimsy could pass for an office. "May I assume you're it?"
"Assume whatever you like, but I am not going to be interviewed about this nonsense. After I've heard from the county extension office, I may be in a position to make a brief statement. What's the name of your magazine?"
"The Weekly Examiner," he said evenly.
I rocked back so violently that I banged my head against the wall. "You're from a tabloid?"
"I used to work for the Washington Post, tracking down politicians and assiduously recording their perfidious bullshit. I finally realized I could make a lot more money tracking down weirdos and assiduously recording their sincere bullshit. It's much more entertaining to write about toilets possessed by demons than the trade deficit. It's more lucrative, too."
"I thought you all sat around your offices and made up the stories."
He gave me a wry smile. "And breach our professional ethics? Believe it or not, there is a tiny thread of truth in most of the stories
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