Bloody Genius (Virgil Flowers, #12)(3)
There was no question about it, really.
The alien craft was obviously far away, but still appeared to be more than half the size of a full moon. It was motionless, hovering over the countryside like a polished dime, brilliantly lit, alternating gold and white light, almost as bright as the setting sun, and hard to look at without squinting.
A man dressed like a farmer, in mud-spattered jeans and muddier gum boots, said wisely, “It only appears to be motionless. It’s probably a jumbo jet headed into the Twin Cities, flying low and right toward us. The sun’s hitting it at just the right angle, and we’re getting a reflection.”
A pale woman with orange-blond dreadlocks, and the voice of a high school teacher, said, “No, it’s not a jet. It’s not moving. Line it up with that phone pole and you see it’s not moving.”
Virgil and the farmer edged sideways to line the UFO up with the telephone pole, and the woman was right; the UFO wasn’t moving. The farmer exhaled heavily, and said, “Okay. I got nothin’.”
More people were coming out of the café, attracted by the crowd in the parking lot.
A man in a plaid sport jacket said, “This could be the start of something big.”
“Like an invasion,” the dreadlocks lady said. She mimed a shudder. “Like in Cloverfield. You don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s coming and it’s bad.”
“Wouldn’t they invade Washington or someplace like that?” a thin man asked. “Why would they invade Iowa?”
A jocko-looking guy said, “Not because they’re recruiting for a pro football team,” and he and a jocko friend, who was wearing a red University of Minnesota jacket, exchanged high fives.
Somebody said, “I left my camera at home. Wouldn’t you know it? Probably see Bigfoot on the way back.”
A short, fat mail carrier: “I saw a show where the aliens completely wasted LA, but it turned out everything was being controlled from one central bunker, and when the Army hit that, all the aliens’ tanks and shit quit working.”
“Independence Day,” somebody said. “Where they nuked the mother ship, and then the fighters could get through the force fields?”
“No, I saw that one, too, but this was a different movie,” the letter carrier said. “Ground troops in LA. Got the aliens with a bazooka or something.”
A young man with black-rimmed glasses and slicked-back dark hair said, with the voice of authority, “Battle: Los Angeles. Thirty-five percent on the Tomatometer. The ground squad lit them up with a laser indicator so American fighters could target the alien HQ. Or maybe they called in the artillery, I don’t precisely recall.”
A young woman in a jewel-blue nylon letter jacket that matched her eyes said, “I hope they don’t get us pregnant with those monster things like in Aliens. You know, that ate their way out of your womb when they hatched.”
“I don’t think that was Aliens,” the authoritative young man said. “But just in case, maybe you oughta get a lotta good lovin’ before they arrive.”
Jewel Blue, the voice of scorn: “Dream on, Poindexter.”
* * *
—
Virgil scratched his chin, momentarily at a loss. He was a tall, thin, blue-eyed man, with blond hair curling well down over his ears. He was wearing a canvas sport coat over a “Moon Taxi” T-shirt and jeans, with cowboy boots and a blue ball cap. As an official law enforcement officer of the state of Minnesota—L’étoile du Nord—he thought he should do something about an alien invasion but didn’t know exactly what. Call it in maybe?
He watched the thing for another moment, the flickering light, then walked over to his truck and dug out a pair of Canon 10-power image-stabilizing binoculars for a closer look. He saw a teardrop-shaped research balloon, several stories high, probably made of translucent polyethylene film. The low-angle sunlight was refracting through it. Most likely flown out of Iowa State University in Ames, he thought, which was more or less directly to the south.
“What do you see?” asked the woman with the dreadlocks.
“Weather balloon,” Virgil said.
“That’s what they always call it. A weather balloon. Next thing you know, you got an alien probe up your ass,” somebody said.
Virgil passed the binoculars around, and they all looked. And then they all went home, disappointed. A UFO invasion would have been a hell of a lot more interesting than Spam ’n’ Eggs for dinner. He took the binoculars back to his truck, noticed that he hadn’t pulled the plug out of the boat, pulled it, and water started running down into the parking lot.
On his way out of Blue Earth, Virgil saw more groups of people standing in parking lots, watching the UFO. If he wasn’t careful, he could wind up investigating a balloon.
* * *
—
Jon Duncan, a supervising agent at the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, called as Virgil crossed I-90, heading north on Highway 169. “We need you to investigate a murder.”
“Where at?”
“University of Minnesota,” Duncan said.
“What happened?” Virgil asked. “And why me?”
“A professor got murdered. Head bashed in,” Duncan said.
“Again?”