The Enigmatologist (18 page)

“Well, of course I can. I can think of quite a few
reasons.”

Mrs. Morris went into the next room. John leaned over,
checking to see if she was bringing out another bowtie. Instead, she came back
with a shoebox full of books.

“Each one of these books offers insights into the world of
Elvis Presley and his dealings with the United States government, but this
one…” she pulled out an old paperback with yellow pages and faded spine, “this
is the only one that talks about the Air Force or NASA.”

Mrs. Morris handed John a tattered book, but wouldn’t let
go, biting her upper lip. John quickly yanked the book away, making Mrs. Morris
squeal quietly. He set it on her Elvis coffee table, illustrated with a scene
from
The Elvis Presley CBS Mystery Hour
. Elvis is walking down a haunted
mine shaft, flashlight in hand, leading a group of beach-goers in the search
for buried treasure, unaware they are being followed by a ghost pirate. John
slid the book over and showed the sheriff the title.

Elvis and the Extraterrestrials
.

“In this book,” Mrs. Morris said, “the author talks about
how Elvis is tracking extraterrestrials for the Air Force.”

“
Extratawha
?” Sheriff Masters
asked.

“Extraterrestrials. Aliens from another world.”

“I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to be offensive, ma’am, but
are you telling me that Elvis hunted aliens for the government?”

“That’s alright, sheriff.” Mrs. Morris grinned. “I
honestly don’t expect you boys to believe me. I know I must seem a little
eccentric, what with all my collectibles, but yes, that’s exactly what I’m
saying.”

“Whew,” the sheriff exhaled, crumpling into the couch.

“You were telling us about the book,” John said. He
squinted at the sheriff, wondering if he really believed what Mrs. Morris was
saying.

“It’s by an expert on extraterrestrials, Professor Zeke
Gentry. I’m surprised you haven’t come across him in your line of work, John.”

“We probably haven’t crossed paths yet.” And John wondered
if Mrs. Morris knew what he really did, climbed on trashcans to photograph a
straying husband with a belt around his neck, tugging the belt with one hand,
pleasuring himself with the other, while watching an eighties cartoon about an
all-girl rock band, would she leave him alone or propose to him?

“Well, you really should meet him. He’s quite remarkable.
Anyway, in his books, he reports that Elvis met with government officials in
early 1960’s. They showed Elvis the Roswell spacecraft and recruited him into a
top secret branch of the Air Force, where he was trained to defend the Earth
against hostile aliens. And in 1970, President Nixon gave Elvis a special badge
allowing him access to all levels of law enforcement. Sheriff Masters, I’m sure
you received a memo about that.”

“That was a while ago. It’s hard to remember everything
that crosses my desk.”

“Well, Elvis became the Air Force’s secret weapon in the
fight against aliens.”

“Elizabeth, do you think there’re aliens in Las Vegas?”
John asked.

“Of course I do.”

Sheriff Masters leaned in, putting his elbows on his
knees, paying attention to every word Mrs. Morris said. John furrowed his
eyebrows at the sheriff, questioning why a stoic cowboy, the embodiment of the
American West, was so willing to believe in something so ungrounded.

“You see,” she continued, “the aliens have focused their
attention on the American Southwest.”

“It is prime real estate,” John said.

“Roswell’s not too far from here. I’m sure Sheriff Masters
can tell you all about that. Los Alamos Research Facility is not too far away,
either. That’s where they take apart the alien spacecraft and see what makes
them work. You know, John, Roswell holds a UFO festival every summer. You
should attend this year. We could come together.”

“Uh, thanks for the invite. I’ll, uh, I’ll give it some
thought,” John said.

“Believe me, I’ll be thinking about it, too.”

“Anyway,” the sheriff said, clearing his throat, “you were
saying, ma’am, about Elvis.”

“Yes,” she resumed, “it was the government’s idea for
Elvis to be stationed in Las Vegas so he could keep an eye on things for them.
The concerts were his cover. Professor Gentry believes the aliens found out
Elvis was spying on him, so he faked his death. Now Elvis is collecting data on
aliens for the government, but that’s really all I know. Professor Gentry
hasn’t published a book in a while.”

“Ma’am, why do you think the Air Force was out here today,
then?”

“I’m not really sure. Maybe the young man was working with
Elvis. Oh, my.” She sat up quickly. “Do you think the person who killed this
man wants to kill Elvis?”

“That’s very unlikely,” John said. “It was probably
something totally unrelated.”

“I hope you’re right, but I think you should talk to
Professor Gentry, anyway.”

“What do you mean, ma’am? ‘talk to Professor Gentry’?” the
sheriff asked.

“Why, didn’t you know? He lives just outside of town. On a
ranch. I can get you his address, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” the sheriff said, leaning forward, hands on
both his knees.

Mrs. Morris came back with a small slip of paper.

“Here’s Professor Gentry’s address, and here’s a copy of
his book to read.”

She slipped the address in like a bookmark and handed John
the paperback with both hands. When he took it from her, Mrs. Morris stroked
the back of his hand with her dried fingers. John yanked his hand away, like
the friction from her fingers would light his skin on fire.

“You know where that is?” John asked the sheriff, giving
him the slip of paper.

“Yup, it’s east of town. It’ll take little awhile to get
there.”

“Good thing I brought a book,” John said.

“Ma’am,” the sheriff said, “thank you again for all your
help.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. I’m always glad to help, especially
if it involves my Elvis. And John, come back anytime you’d like. We can
continue our conversation from the other day.” She wiggled like a burlesque
dancer with a plastic hip.

John shivered.

“Conversation?” the sheriff asked, walking outside.

“Yeah, she likes speaking in foreign tongues.”

They walked down the dirt driveway to the sheriff’s car.
Mrs. Morris watched them from her picture window, curtains clutched.

“Sheriff,” John said, “I’m sorry for bringing you out
here. This was a mistake. Mrs. Morris doesn’t know what’s going on. She’s just
worried about aliens sneaking around doing God-knows-what to some farm
animals.”

“Seems like you’re more worried about her doing God-knows-what
to you.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Mrs. Morris stared at
John through the window, smiling. “I mean, look at her, she’s so excited. She
knows she’s just become part of Elvis folklore. She’s probably getting ready to
blog about it.”

“Hell, she just might be checking out your ass,” the
sheriff joked. “I don’t know about her not being helpful. She did tell us about
this Gentry fella. Seems like a good lead to me. Besides, I
gotta
feeling this is
gonna
get real interesting.”

“Sheriff, be honest with me, do you believe what she said
about aliens? Because inside…”

“Hell no!” He looked east, away from the mountains. “Well,
maybe a little. You telling me you don’t?”

“You kidding? Of course not. It’s just something people
buy into because they don’t want to admit that this is all there is.” John
pointed to a pink house across the street, its collapsing car port, a light
blue pick-up with a brown door parked on the street.

“You know, I got a lot a questions need answering. Hell,
you should hear the calls we get. Strange stuff. People seeing floating lights,
hearing children laughing in the middle of the night.”

“Kids out past their bedtimes, that is scary,” John said.

“Makes me wonder if everyone in town’s nuts or there
really is something out there. Besides, if this Professor Gentry has an inkling
as to what the Air Force is doing here, well, I think we should hear him out.
He could blow this whole case wide open.”

They
drove east, away from town, the slip of paper with Professor Gentry’s address
propped on the dash between air conditioner vents blowing cool air in opposite
directions. John skimmed through the journal, looking for something
interesting, anything that could help him find a link between everything that
he’d experienced since coming to Las Vegas. He was looking for clarification.

September 5, 1862

The
most interesting thing happened in Lamar County, Texas. I was walking around
the town of Paris when I came across an old Indian sitting in front of the
trading post trading skins for dental work. I struck up a conversation with the
man and offered to buy him a drink. I purchased a bottle of whiskey, and the
old Indian, who went by the name Jonathon
Deerfoot
,
and I sat behind the blacksmith stable drinking until the early hours of the
morning. I eventually asked him if he’d heard any legends or tales of spirits
walking the earth. He looked at me and said those people were dangerous and I
would be wise to leave them be. I tried my best to convince him to tell me
where to find the spirit-men, but, not being much of a drinker, I had become
intoxicated, and my words stumbled over each other. Mr.
Deerfoot
looked at me gravely, as if peering into my soul. He took another liberal drink
of whiskey and started laughing. He said I should head west into New Mexico
Territory, to the town of Las Vegas, and search at the foot of the mountains.

Eventually,
I passed out. When I awoke, I was in my bed at the inn were I was lodging. When
I asked the innkeeper how I got there, his response puzzled me. He said I came
in shortly after dinner and had been there all evening. I inquired about
Jonathon
Deerfoot
. The innkeeper responded by saying
I had returned alone. I searched the town for Mr.
Deerfoot
,
but no one had heard of him, not even at the trading post.

John took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to
grind aside the coincidence that both he and his great-great-great-grandfather
had traveled to Las Vegas, New Mexico to investigate a legend that had its
basis in blind obsession.

October 23, 1862

Yesterday,
I arrived at a small town, at the foot of the mountains, called Las Vegas. I
entered the saloon, seeking room and board. Even though I was in a US
territory, the men in the saloon were mostly Mexican, and a few, Indian. Being
the only English speaker, I attracted immediate attention.

I
attempted to strike up a conversation with a Mexican gentleman standing at the
bar. He gave me a peculiar look when I said that Jonathon
Deerfoot
suggested I visit this town. He informed me he’d never heard of him and walked
away. Seated men whispered. They watched while I had a small dinner of potatoes
and pork and went to bed.

That
night I was awakened by the sound of footsteps outside my room. I rose and
looked for my Remington Model 1858, but it was not in its holster. I heard the
doorknob twist and saw the door open slowly. The barrel of a revolver peeked
through a sliver of light from the hallway. Two shots were fired. I grabbed my
chest, expecting wounds, but there were none. Instead, the man in the doorway
fell dead. The shots originated from the corner of my room. I looked over and
saw the Mexican gentleman from the bar. He tossed me my revolver and told me to
pack my things. I thanked him, and then asked why I should trust him, even
though he had apparently just saved my life.

He
looked at me and said Jonathon
Deerfoot
had sent him.
That was all I needed to hear. Jonathon
Deerfoot
had
sent this man to protect me.

Although
it did occur to me that I mentioned Jonathon
Deerfoot’s
name earlier that evening, I decided to go with him anyway. It was either that
or attempt explaining the circumstances surrounding the man’s demise to the
constable, if there was one.

I
started for the door, but my new friend stopped me, motioning to the window. I
crawled onto the roof. We walked to a ladder he had placed against the back of
the saloon and climbed down. At its base was my wagon. My new friend had
liberated my belongings from the stable. My horse was old, the wagon
cumbersome, and I feared our escape would be brief. My colleague told me not to
worry, that our exit was already secured. At the time, I did not know what he meant,
but I quickly found out.

We
headed northeast, out of town. In the rear, I heard horses chasing us. Gunshots
exploded behind us. I ducked my head and grabbed my ankles, trying to become a
small target. My new friend whipped my elderly horse, trying to compel it to
move faster.

Suddenly,
from behind us, I heard ghastly noises, like a menagerie had been loosed on our
pursuers. Their horses neighed and snorted in fear. The riders shouted, trying
to regain control of their horses.

My
new friend told me not to worry anymore. He said that the horses had become so
disoriented that it was impossible for the posse to chase us. I sat upright,
thanked him again for his aid, and introduced myself.

He
said his name was Oscar Ramirez. I asked him if he really knew Jonathon
Deerfoot
. He said everyone knew Jonathon
Deerfoot
. The Territorial government considered him an
outlaw, and that’s why those men chased us. They thought I was a
co-conspirator.

We
traveled for several hours. The sun was rising over the desert to the east.
Oscar Ramirez nudged me. I looked up and saw a small settlement by a little
body of water. As we got closer, I could make out small houses. Tents
surrounded the lake.

We
dismounted from the wagon and walked through camp to a small building near the water.
It was empty except for a man sitting behind the desk. I recognized him
immediately. I had found Jonathon
Deerfoot
.

I
introduced myself to Mr.
Deerfoot
, saying I had been
sent by President Lincoln to implore him and his men to fight for the Union. I
was about to deliver an impassioned speech, when Jonathon
Deerfoot
stood and walked over to me. He put an arm around me and started laughing. He
said they wouldn’t be fighting any wars, but there was something I could do for
them. I was confused. He said not to worry, that I would understand everything
in due time. He invited me to stay and enjoy their hospitality.

Oscar
Ramirez took me to a tent by the lake which was to become my home. My
belongings had already been arranged inside. I tossed my jacket on the canvas
cot and walked outside to survey my new surroundings. The lake was very
inviting. It wasn’t very large, and I could see land on the other side and the
mountains in the distance. Men were net casting off canoes and some were
hauling their catches back to shore.

Feeling
thirsty, I walked down to the water. I knelt and scooped some water with my
hand. It was cool, and stung my dry, cracked lips, and soothed my throat as it
slid down. I drank another handful, and then another. The more I drank, the more
I wanted. Eventually, I succumbed to my thirst and submerged my head in the
cool water. When I couldn’t drink anymore, I lifted my head and coughed for
air.

I
collapsed with joy on the grassy bank of the lake. My head was soaked and my
belly was full of liquid. And I laughed, not at myself, or anything, really,
but rather at life. For the first time in a long while, I felt alive. These
people were fisherman, farmers, not Mrs. Lincoln’s spirit army. My mission was
the fool’s errand Secretary Seward suspected it to be, and I did not care.

When
I sat up to let the sun dry my face, I was approached by a mysterious creature.
Its silhouette blocked the sun. I held my hand above my eyes and shielded
myself from sunlight, but still couldn’t make out what was before me. Then it
bent down, revealing itself to be the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She
smelled like lavender on a spring morning.

I
tried to introduce myself, but stammered repeatedly. Finally she spoke, saying
that she’d come to invite me to breakfast on behalf of her father, Oscar
Ramirez, and that she was his daughter, Louisa.

At
breakfast, I sat next to Oscar Ramirez, who was to become my benefactor. I was
to go to him if I needed anything. I planned on visiting him often, although it
would be to visit his daughter, Louisa.

December 18, 1862

I
had been living in this new community for a few months and was trying to learn
as much as I could about them, but so much remained a mystery.

My
afternoons and evenings were spent with Louisa. She apparently taught
astronomy. She would tell me about the constellations, how far they were from
Earth, how their light took millions of years to reach us, and how those stars
no longer existed. In the evening, she would teach the children about celestial
bodies. She pointed out one in particular, Sagittarius, telling them to look to
it and to wave when they felt alone, that someone was waving back. I thought it
was mere whimsy, but the children took the lesson to heart, waving to the night
sky.

One
evening, a young girl named Rosa Jimenez approached us. She asked me if I
wanted to marry Louisa. I had the sneaking suspicion that others had been
discussing this topic. I told her that, yes, I did indeed wish to marry Louisa.
Rosa became very excited. She jumped up and down and ran back to the village.

After
dinner, Louisa and I walked hand in hand by the lake. The sun had set and stars
shot across the sky. I told her I intended to ask her father for her hand. She
smiled and put her head on my shoulder, saying that would make her very happy.
I kissed her. Louisa sighed and we spent the rest of the evening making love
under a meteor shower.

That
night, I was woken by the sound of an animal growling outside my tent. I
grabbed my pistol and pointed it at the tent’s entrance. I am not a brave man,
but Louisa was sleeping next to me, and I was not going to let anything happen
to her. I summoned what courage I could and got out of bed. I opened the flap
of the tent and walked outside.

Standing
outside my tent, I looked around, the pistol shaking in my hand. My ears
throbbed with the sound of my heartbeat. My breath, quick and heavy, floated
aimlessly in the cool night air. In the black night, a set of red eyes
approached. I was about to fire, when I grew suddenly calm. My breath slowed,
as did my pulse. My hand stopped shaking and I lowered the firearm.

A
mountain lion walked out of the shadows. It growled and hissed as it
approached. It paced back and forth in front of my tent. Then it raised itself
onto its hind legs. Its snout receded and its hair shrank. The front paws
split, forming five fingers. However, the most jarring transformation happened
to its hind legs. The mountain lion’s knees dislocated, moving forward with a
loud, popping sound, forming human legs. In a matter of seconds, the beast had
transformed into a man I knew very well: Jonathon
Deerfoot
.

Jonathon
Deerfoot
addressed me, saying it was time he answered
my questions. We walked in silence to the one-room building I’d been in when I
first came to the village. Clothes were bundled on the desk. Once dressed,
Jonathon
Deerfoot
sat behind the desk, putting his
elbows on it, and folding his hands. I sat in a chair opposite him.

I
thought Jonathon
Deerfoot
intended to discuss my
desire to marry Louisa, but I quickly realized there were other matters
requiring discourse.

He
told me his people’s history. He said they were colonists from another world
who had arrived here one hundred and two years ago. They traveled across the
galaxy instantaneously by opening a hole in space, bridging the distances. They
were required to leave most of their technological devices behind, including
the device that helped them bridge space, and, as a result, were stranded here
until the next wave of colonists arrived. However, he added, what foreign
machinery they were able to bring enabled them to make the desert hospitable by
manipulating and reshaping the natural landscape.