The Stickmen by Edward Lee

life,” and then his mother had shouted
back, “You can’t force your son into being what he doesn’t
want to be!” “Yeah, well I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let you
raise him to be a queer!” They’d argued some more until dad slapped
mom hard across the face. Danny hated seeing that; it must’ve been
his fault too.
    He guessed it was just better to do what his
dad told him to do.
    Today he’d drawn the Stickmen’s ship again,
only closer this time: the big light bar on the bottom and the
trapezoidal windows on the side. He couldn’t remember what the
inside looked like, but he knew he’d been there at least once. The
next picture was the first Stickman he’d seen, the one that had
come into his room, and the next was him getting into the ship the
night they’d shown him where it was.
    I wonder what I should draw next… I
know!
    Danny began to draw the gloves…
     
    ««—»»
     
    Garrett’s car was not what many would call a
primo set of wheels: a ‘76 Chevy Malibu whose shiny candy-apple-red
lacquer had long since gone over to something like the finish and
color of house-bricks. The A/C didn’t work, the radio didn’t work,
and the windows didn’t roll down, but Garrett figured as long as
the wheels turned, then it beat taking the bus.
    Before he’d set out, he’d paid his phone
bill, his water bill, his back rent plus a month in advance. He
paid his tab at Benny’s Rebel Room, and Craig had almost fainted.
Then he went home and took a shower. So far, so good…until he’d
called Jessica.
    She’d changed her number.
    Just playing hard to get, he thought. She loves me.
    But as for Swenson and his “assignment,
Garrett still didn’t know what to make of…ANY of it, and since it
was his nature to be suspicious—in fact, it was his job—there was
no one he knew in the world who warranted more suspicion that
General Norton Swenson. The twenty grand was a life-saver, and
Swenson’s hubbub about actually liking Garrett and even thinking of
him as a surrogate son seemed strangely sincere. But Garrett
acknowledged one possibility with no hesitation whatsoever.
    This whole thing could be another
set-up. Swenson had admitted that he’d been a disinformation
officer for the A.I.C.
    Maybe this is just more disinformation, and
like a sucker, I’m falling for it. I’m doing THEIR work for
them…
    Whatever the case, he’d find out soon
enough.
    The sun was going down by the time he’d made
it to Annapolis. Route 50 cut a great swath toward the Chesapeake
Bay, and just a few miles before the bridge, Garrett found his
destination. Talk about out of the way, he thought. He’d
almost missed the looming U-STORE sign, which was not illuminated.
The Malibu’s tie-rods shimmied as Garrett motored up a winding
service road until he eventually idled into a long deserted parking
lot. The lot was plunged in darkness, and there was no sign of a
security guard.
    “Great place for a murder,” he muttered. He
turned on the dome light and slipped out the key Swenson had given
him. A standard brass disk-tumbler; the engraving read: #A-104.
    Garrett got out, flicked his cigarette, then
stalked ahead with his flashlight in hand. Before him stretched
multiple rows of long connected storage units; each unit was fitted
with a garage-type door. Garrett stumbled amongst the rows for a
good twenty minutes before he found it. He had to work the key back
and forth several times before it grittily turned. Then, “Oooof!”
he exclaimed once he grabbed the handle and pulled. The door didn’t
budge. Damn it, Spock, I’m a writer, not a fuckin’ fork-lift.
Either this door’s heavier than William Howard Taft or it hasn’t
been opened in years. Several more back-bending tugs got some
play, then the rust-choked track-wheels began to grind in their
rails. Finally the door clattered open.
    Garrett scanned the interior with his
flashlight.
    The storage unit was empty save for a single
small black