Red Centre (10 page)

Roy laughed. He didn’t care; he was a
coward.

“
Whatta ya doin’ here?”
Frank said.

“
I don’t know what kind of
sick game you’re playing here, but if you’ve done anything with my
son”—Chris clenched his teeth—”I’ll kill you ... The both of
you.”

Frank looked over at Roy, a little confused.
“Calm down, nancy. I didn’t do anythin’ with ya son, ya dumb
son-of-a-bitch.” He walked over and sat on the bed behind
Chris.

Chris scooted his chair back so Frank wasn’t
directly behind him.

Frank slowly played with the knife in his
hand. “Ya know that around thirty-five thousand people go missin’
in Australia each year? A hundred and seventy-five, give or take a
few—never seen again.” His eyes looked to Roy, then back to Chris
again. “Take out runaways, criminal activity, murders and so on.”
He pointed the blade at Chris. “I could slit ya throat and dump
your arse in the desert and no one would ever find you. Not out
here.”

Chris’ gaze locked Frank’s; on edge, still
unsure of his immediate fate.

Frank continued, his voice slightly raised,
frustrated. “But there are a handful of people that are never
found. They remain a mystery. Not connected to any criminal
activity.” He snapped his fingers together. “They just disappear.
Cold cases. No one can explain it. No one wants to explain it.”
Frank got to his feet. “I saw it. With me own damn eyes. It’s no
longer a mystery.” Frank looked to the ceiling. “They took my
Emma.”

Chris felt a lump in his throat. His eyes
glanced around the room. Was he going to get out alive?

“
What do you want with
me?” Chris said in a slow, calculated voice.

Frank let out a chuckle as he sat back on
the bed. “You’re an itch that won’t leave me alone.” He turned his
knife over, lightly rubbing the blade with his thumb to determine
its sharpness. “So what do I do with ya? Dump your arse in the
desert or …” His eyes looked up at Roy.

Roy winced. He knew what he was going to
say.

“
... use you as an ally.”
Frank finished his sentence.

“
I say we dump his arse in
the desert, Frank.” Roy sucked snot out of his nose into his mouth,
spitting it onto the floor. “We don’t need this Yankee piece of
shit.”

Frank looked down at the green booger on his
floor. “Ya better clean that shit up.”

“
Sorry, Frank.”

Frank turned his attention back to Chris. He
pointed the knife. “I think it would be easier to dump your arse …
but …”

“
Can we talk about this,
Frank?” Roy interrupted.

Frank dropped his arms down by his sides. He
gave a look of “what do we have to talk about?”

Roy motioned with his head to step out of
the room for a moment. Frank grunted, getting to his feet.

Chris’ eyes darted around.
He focused his attention on the wardrobe in the corner.
W
ardrobe in front of the door. Chair
through the window. One minute to get to my car.
He grabbed the armrests, ready to make a move. He
watched as Roy stepped just outside the door. Frank was smarter. He
stood side on, his back against the open door, glancing over at
Chris—to ensure he didn’t try any crazy shit.

Chris didn’t know what to do. Use the chair
as a weapon? Maybe not so good against two men and a knife. He
stayed, not wanting to risk another beat down or being stabbed.
They may slit his throat anyway.

After a short moment of indistinct dialogue,
Frank returned to the bed and Roy stood back by the door.

Damn it! Opportunity
gone
, Chris thought to himself.

“
What if ya knew who took
your son?” Frank sat on the edge of the bed. “But ya couldn’t call
the cops. What would ya do?”

Chris sat forward, fear turning to anger. “I
would hunt down whoever has him.”

“
To get your boy back,
you’re gonna need to do things.” He looked up at Chris under his
old, bushy eyebrows. “Things you may not wanna do.”

“
I’ll do whatever it
takes.”

“
If ya want in on our
little operation here, ya have to buy your way in.”

“
Buy my way in?” Chris
squinted his eyes. “What the hell are you talking
about?”

“
Fifty grand.
Cash!”

Chris looked at the two men. Roy had a smug
look on his face. One that Chris would like to knock right off. “If
I give you the money, will you give me back my son?”

Frank dropped his head. Holy shit, does this
guy listen?

“
Cut ’im Frank! Cut his
dumb arse.” Roy had an evil twinkle in his eye, eager to inflict
more pain on Chris.

“
We’re at war”—he pointed
the knife up—“with them. And war costs a lot of money and I’m all
out.” Frank got back to his feet to leave. “I don’t have your son.
So if ya want him back, we’re the only ones that can help
you.”

Frank waited for a response from Chris, but
he was silent. Dumbfounded.

“
I’m not gonna offer
again. So either get ya arse outta me house, or cut me a check.”
Frank lingered for a moment, waiting again for Chris’
response.

Chris still tried to process the
information, not sure what to do or what to make of these two
rednecks. His mind ticking over, trying to find the right words.
“Are you yanking my chain? Trying to shake me down, Frank?”

Frank looked over at Roy, not sure what
Chris was on about.

“
This is bullshit. You and
your fat boyfriend need to let me go,” Chris said.

“
This is no bullshit. If
ya want in, you gotta pay.”

Chris looked back and forth between the two
very serious men. “You’re serious?”

Frank stood firm.

“
You need to show me
first,” Chris continued.

Frank looked over at Roy, who shook his
head.

Chris looked over at Roy. “I don’t know what
kind of freak show you hillbillies are running here. If you want
cash, you need to open the door and let me take a look.” Chris
looked back at Frank. “I don’t even know if what you’re doing can
deliver results.”

Frank rubbed his chin. He had a good point.
He took a deep breath. He looked over at Roy and then back to
Chris. “What I’m about to tell ya is classified.”

Chris frowned. “Who classified it?”

Frank and Roy just stared at him, not sure
what the question meant.

Chris continued. “What government agency
classified it, US or Australian?”

“
No, stupid! It’s me own
damn classification. What I tell ya doesn’t leave the
room.”

Newspaper clippings, photos of aliens and
UFOs plastered the living room walls. Some were believable and
others not so much. Some were just artist impressions. Chris moved
around the room examining the photos. Frank stood in the middle of
the room observing. Roy stayed back, standing in the doorway.

Chris reached the photo of Shawn. It was
accompanied by a photo of Emma and what appeared to be other
missing persons.

“
What is all this?” Chris
said.

“
Research.” Frank adjusted
his dusty jeans. “Know your enemy.”

Chris pointed to the picture of Shawn. “What
about this?”

“
Prisoner of
war.”

Chris looked back at Frank. Had this guy
completely lost his shit? His eyes reexamined the room. All the
furniture had been removed except for the coffee table, lamp, a
wooden desk and chair, which sat against the wall. Books on aliens
and UFOs piled up high. Papers scattered everywhere. An old
computer, with an old CRT monitor, sat in the middle of the chaos.
Above the computer hung a large world map, dotted with little red
pins.

Chris moved over to the desk, retrieving one
of the books. He carelessly flipped through it, viewing pictures
and text about UFOs and aliens. All seemed made up. His eyes
wandered up to the map. Hundreds of the little red pins dotted
every country. Chris shot a look back at Frank.

“
Sightings.” Frank cleared
his throat. “Every country has ’em.”

Chris threw the book back onto the pile.
“This is it? Any whack job can get all of this off the net!”

Frank folded his arms. He looked back at
Roy, who said, “Don’t do it, Frank. We don’t know this
arsehole.”

Chris stayed quiet, observing the two men,
not wanting to break Frank’s flow.

“
There’s more,” Frank
mumbled.

***

The bright afternoon sun hit the three men
in the face as they exited through the back door. Frank lead the
group behind the two sheds. The vast land stretched out as far as
the eye could see: rolling dirt hills, scattered trees, birds
soaring in the open blue sky. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t so
friggin’ hot. Close to the sheds lay a huge bank of solar panels,
all running back to the sheds. Beside the panels were twenty,
ten-inch satellite dishes, all of their cabling running back to one
of the sheds.

“
As ya can see”—Frank
pointed to all the fancy gear—“I’ve had expenses.”

“
What’s it for?” Chris
asked.

***

The heavy chain slid down, dropping into the
dirt as Frank removed the padlock from the first shed’s doors. The
door opened. Light spilled into the darkened shed. Two old cars,
partly pulled apart, lay near the entrance. Behind the cars, toward
the back, a large vehicle was parked. A heavy-duty, gray canvas
tarp covered most of it. Only the large, four-by-four styled tires
were exposed. The rooftop had something extra attached, protruding
from the top; an odd, circular shape. Chris’ eyes were drawn to
it.

He continued to take in his surroundings: a
workbench to the right with an array of tools. Two small, rusty fox
traps hung from the wall above, the metal jaws blunt and well used.
To the left, some steel stairs led to a mezzanine. A greenish glow
emanated from there. Desks lined the outer railing, making it hard
to see what was actually up there.

The three men climbed the stairs. Their
boots on the steel-grid stairs echoed through the expansive
shed.

The desks circled the small room, which
included what looked like high-tech equipment: lights blinking and
little beeps emitting from black and gray units. Chris didn’t
recognize any of this stuff. Large computer monitors, power cables
and network cables running everywhere filled out the rest of the
space.

Programming code populated several monitors.
Another had a weather map—at least that was what it looked like. At
one of the workstations sat a small-framed man, in his late
sixties. He wore full-length, blue pajamas with moons all over
them. He didn’t break his concentration, his face inches from the
screen, except to adjust the thick glasses which sat on the end of
his nose. As the three men approached he held up his index finger,
indicating no one speak. His hair was spiked. He looked like a
crazy person.

“
Touch nothing!” the crazy
man said in a thick, Russian accent.

The Russian scooted his wheeled chair across
the room to another workstation. His fingers danced on the
keyboard, typing a hundred words a minute. He paused, looking up at
Chris. “Is your head okay?” He pointed to the back of his own head,
and immediately returned to frantic typing. “You didn’t give me a
choice.” He let out a quiet chuckle to himself.

Chris rubbed the back of his head. The blood
had clotted and dried in his short hair.

“
This is Dr. Sargy
Pavlova,” Frank interrupted. “Space scientist.”

The Russian stopped typing, “Ser-gei!” He
banged his first onto the desk. “Sergei Pavlovich! Imbecile.”

“
This is me command
center.” Frank walked to the center of the room, turning to face
Chris. “Pav is in charge of the techno stuff.” Then he nodded at
Roy. “Roy, security.”

Chris looked over at Roy.
The lower half of his bare gut hung out from under his shirt that
was a size too small. Jeans in their usual position—half way down
his ass. Pathetic
.
He turned his attention back to the crazy Russian. “What’s he
doing?”

“
METI.” The Russian
stopped what he was doing to get involved in the conversation.
“Messaging to Extraterrestrial Intelligence.”

Chris listened carefully to understand his
thick, Russian accent. “Like SETI?” Chris asked, referring to the
government agency: Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.

“
HET, HET!” He said “no”
in his native Russian. “American stupidity,” he said to himself.
“We’re not searching!” He cleared his throat. “Using advanced
algorithms and binary code—a mathematical language—we sending
message to ETs.”

“
What are you messaging?”
Chris enquired.

“
Declarations of war,”
Frank interjected.

“
Not like the pussies over
at SETI,” Roy added, trying to sound intelligent and be involved in
the conversation.

Chris frowned. “Isn’t that kind of
dangerous? And wouldn’t it take years for it to reach its intended
target? Do you guys even know what you’re really doing?”

Pav grabbed an open bottle of vodka,
knocking back a gulp. He sat forward on his chair. At last, someone
smarter than the two Australian idiots. “These satellite dish, too
small to do anything with any significances.” He nodded his head
back and forth trying to think how to explain what he did and find
the English words. “With all together we making a small Allen
Telescope Array; but we’re not trying reach outer space.”