Make Me

“A small number compared to the population of the United States, but a large number compared to how many hours an old man should spend on the telephone.”

Westwood said, “Ma’am, is it possible he hired a private detective?”

The woman said, “For what?”

“To help him with his investigations into the granite situation.”

“No, it would be most unlikely.”

“Can you be certain?”

“The facts are not in dispute. There’s nothing to investigate. And he has no access to money. He couldn’t hire anybody.”

“Not even cash?”

“Not even. Don’t ask. And don’t get old.”

“Does your husband have a cell phone?”

“No.”

“Could he have gotten one, maybe from a drugstore?”

“No, he never leaves the house.”

“Have people died because of the granite?”

“He says so.”

“How many, exactly?”

“Oh, thousands.”

“OK,” Westwood said. “Thank you. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

“My pleasure,” the woman said. “Makes a change, talking to someone else.”

They heard a slow pause, and a final clonk, as the big old handset was put back in its cradle.

Westwood said, “Welcome to my life.”

Chang said, “It’s better than hers.”

Westwood dialed the fifth number. Area code 773, which was Chicago. It rang and rang, way past the point where an answering machine would have cut it short. Then suddenly an out-of-breath woman came on the line, and said, “City Library, Lincoln Park, volunteer room.” She sounded very young and very cheerful, and very busy.

Westwood introduced himself and asked who he was talking to. The kid gave a name, no hesitation at all, but said she had never called the LA Times, and knew no private detectives. Westwood asked her if the phone they were on was used by other people, and she said yes, by all the volunteers. She said she was one of them. She said the volunteer room was where they left their coats and took their breaks. There was a phone in there, and time to use it, occasionally. She said the Lincoln Park library was a little ways north of downtown Chicago, and it had dozens of volunteers, always changing, young and old, men and women, all of them fascinating. But no, none of them seemed to be obsessed about anything scientific. Not overtly. Certainly not to the extent of calling distant newspapers.

Westwood checked his list, for the name against the 773 number, as recorded contemporaneously in the company database. He said, “Do you know a volunteer called McCann? I’m not entirely sure if it would be Mr. or Ms.”

“No,” the kid said. “I never heard that name.”

Westwood asked, “How long have you volunteered there?”

“A week,” the kid said, and Westwood thanked her, and she said he was welcome, and he said he guessed he should let her go, and she said well yes, she had things to do, and Westwood hung up.

He dialed the last number. Area code 505, which was New Mexico.

Chapter 27

The New Mexico number rang four times, and was answered by a man with a quiet, defeated voice. Westwood gave his name and ran through his standard preamble, the LA Times, the returned call, the apology for the delay, the sudden revival of interest in the issue. There was a long pause, and the quiet man on the other end of the line said, “That was then. It would be a different story now.”

Westwood said, “How so?”

“I know what I saw. At first no one would listen, including you, I’m afraid. But then the police department sent a detective. A young man, casually dressed, but keen. He said he was from a special confidential unit, and he took my report. He said I should sit tight and do nothing more. But then a week later I saw him in uniform, on traffic duty. He was writing parking tickets. He wasn’t a detective at all. The police department had fobbed me off with a rookie. To keep me quiet, I suppose. To head me off.”

Westwood said, “Tell me again exactly what you saw.”

“A spacecraft in the desert, just landed, with six passengers disembarking. They resembled humans, but weren’t. And the important thing was the craft looked to have no means of taking off again. It was a landing module only. Which meant those creatures were set to stay. Which begged a question. Were they the first? If not, how many came before them? How many are already here? Do they already control the police department? Do they already control everything?”

Westwood said nothing.

The quiet man said, “So now the story would be psychological, rather than purely scientific. How does an individual cope, when he knows something, but is forced to pretend he doesn’t?”

Westwood asked, “Did you hire a private detective?”

“I tried to. The first three I called wouldn’t take on extraterrestrial investigations. Then I realized it would be safer to lie low. That’s the issue now. The stress. I suppose many of us are in the same boat. We know, but we feel like the only one, because we can’t talk to each other. Maybe that’s what you should write about. The isolation.”

“What happened to the spaceship?”

“I couldn’t find it again. I imagine their allies hauled it away and hid it.”

“Has anyone died as a result?”

“I don’t know. Possibly.”