The Being of Sarah

By Chuck Keyes

'The Being Of Sarah' is an exhilarating sci-fi story is about a lonely private detective that’s hired by a gorgeous woman to locate her father, who supposedly disappeared along with his aircraft, directly after making an emergency landing in an East Texas pasture. This mysterious woman takes Detective Brent Carr on a perilous mindboggling journey that far exceeds his primitive human imagination. As the awesome story progresses, Brent falls in love with the strange sexy woman, but his love for Sarah is filled with mixed emotions.
Extreme dangers, mysteries, and action filled escapades will keep you enthralled throughout the entire novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chuck Keyes
• Release date: Jun 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452414201

Chuck Keyes

Chuck Keyes has published six science fiction books, short stories, articles and a book of his unique poems, known worldwide for his unique, creative style. Chuck Keyes is a Medical Engineer who has always enjoyed the human creativeness of not over your head, exhilarating science fiction. Chuck currently resides in beautiful Athens, Texas, a thriving medical device-manufacturing town. Chuck enjoys his relaxing hobby as a sci-fi novelist, offering readers exciting stories filled with imagination.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Brent Carr forcefully pushed his back into the firmness of his black vinyl desk chair. He yawned and stretched his arms overhead while tightly flexing his fingers to work out some stiffness in his knuckles. He sighed in frustration, wondering if he should buy a computer program to teach himself how to type faster. His two finger hunt and peck method is too damn slow. He’s eager to finish his investigative report for the Proctor Insurance Company, so he can hand deliver it along with an invoice for payment. His one-man private investigation business has been somewhat slow over the past three months. Last month he had to lay off his Aunt, who was working as his receptionist, secretary, and bookkeeper. Aunt Thelma, her husband George, and his big brother Robert, are among a handful of his relatives he can stomach longer than a nodding hello. He’s still feeling a bit guilty about having to let Thelma go. Thelma and George are good people. They relied on the extra income to send their kids to college. In addition, Thelma is much better at deciphering his scribbled investigation notes than he is.

The damn economy struck an iceberg, and it’s sinking faster than the Titanic, Brent thought as he rubbed his temples with his fingertips. If my business slumps off anymore, I might be forced to work with George as a small town cop. Brent paused from his thoughts to take a deep breath of air. Spending most of my working hours pulling over East Texas diehard rednecks for speeding, running red lights, or driving drunk, isn’t written down on my list of favorite things to do. Generally, the rednecks around here treat the local cops like flying assholes. That’s because they think they have a freedom to break traffic laws.

Brent glanced down at the time display on the lower right hand corner of his computer screen. It’s one sixteen PM. He gloomily shook his head upon realizing he worked straight through his lunch hour. He prefers his daily routines to run on a perfectly timed schedule so he can easily manage his private detective business. He likes to schedule his client appointments around his high noon lunch hour. Brent swiveled his chair around, pulled open a filing cabinet drawer, removed a loaf of white bread, a Rambo-like hunting knife, a jar of creamy peanut butter, and a warm can of diet cream soda.

His mind raced while he made himself a peanut butter sandwich. Damn, I sure do miss going out for lunch, he thought. He chuckled to himself because more than the good tasting food, he actually misses his habit of checking out the local restaurants for middle-aged single women. He figures his loneliness is similar to ghostly haunting himself. That's because he’s the only one who can interact with himself. For the past two years, he enjoys checking out the woman, and he notices them checking him out too, but he’s too damn petrified to get involved with any of them. Janet, his ex-wife, who he considers the super journalist of bitches, slowly ripped his heart out off his chest and stomped on it. He’s afraid to put his heart back where it belongs. He doesn’t want to end up in the same heart ripping mess, so he looks at the candy, but he doesn’t savor the taste.

Brent smiled at his reflection in the glass jar of peanut butter. I should be able to resume my daily lunch after receiving my payment from Proctor Insurance, he thought. Fifteen percent of a twenty-one thousand dollar bogus insurance claim is nothing to sneeze at. He shook his head. Although I did put in over three weeks of tedious investigation work to prove Mr. Buford Young’s dual-axle pickup truck wasn’t mysteriously stolen out of his driveway. Buford, who’s in debt up to his fat redneck ass, paid his slimy brother-in-law, Jesse Valdese, to steal his truck, drive it over the border, and sell it on the Mexican black market. Proctor Insurance will never payoff on Buford’s fraudulent claim. They’ll use my investigation report, along with my testimony, to file insurance fraud charges against good old Buford and his low-life brother-in-law.

Damn, I love being a private investigator, Brent thought. It’s almost like being a redneck superhero. It sure beats working for a big city police department, dealing with supervisors who don’t know the difference between their ass and their mouth. That’s because they’re always talking crap. He laughed aloud at his own humorous thinking.

Brent popped open the can of warm soda. The foamy fluid sprayed out like an erupting volcano. What the hell, he bellowed, jumping up out his chair to brush the wetness from the crotch of his pants.

Sorry to disturb you, but your entrance was not secure, so I took the liberty to enter your private area.

Brent snapped around in the direction of the female’s voice. What? Did you mention something about my private…? Her beauty is so overwhelming that she totally captured his visual senses and shocked his brain. His mouth dropped open as if somebody hung a sixty-pound weight to his jaw. He tried to finish what he was saying, but his lips failed to form words. Her long light brown hair curled down beyond her shoulders, outlining the face of an angel from heaven. Her blue eyes studied him with a magical radiance of youthful curiosity. Her light greenish blue blouse and black slacks fit snugly, revealing a voluptuousness figure that would make any man uncontrollably drool with desire. For a moment he thought he recognized her from somewhere in his past, but he couldn’t remember from where. She seemed out of place in East Texas. He figured she’s probably from California, maybe the Los Angeles area. Maybe she’s a movie star or a super model for one of those swanky magazines his ex-wife buys all the time. Then he noticed she isn’t wearing any makeup or jewelry, which seemed odd for such an astonishing woman.

He quickly gathered his composure. Oh, I’m the one who should be apologizing for my outburst of anger. He grimaced with embarrassment. As you can see, I was rudely attacked in my private area by my can of diet cream soda.

She glanced down at the wetness between his legs. Yes, she nodded. I witnessed the attack. The liquid violently discharged when you opened the cylindrical container.

Yeah, it certainly did discharge. Brent nodded with a confused grin, wondering why anyone would refer to a soda can as a cylindrical container. The soda pop was warm. I shouldn’t have snapped it open so damn quickly. He shot her his best boyish charm smile. What can I do for you, pretty lady?

Are you the private investigator listed on page three hundred and twenty-seven, line fourteen, in the yellow section of your local communication directory?

Yeah, it’s called a phone book. I’m listed in the yellow pages. Brent shrugged his shoulders, thinking she’s a bit peculiar, but very fantastic to look at. My name is Brent Carr. He walked over to her and extended his hand to shake hers. Do you require some clever investigative work?

She glanced down at the detective’s extended hand. Yes, I require your help to locate my father. I require all of you, not just one of your appendages.

Brent blinked as he figured he was just attacked by extreme strangeness. You’re joking, right? I’m offering to shake your hand.

Why?

Because shaking hands is a civilized greeting between people who just meet for the first time.

She extended her hand.

Brent clasped her hand and shook it. So I gather you need all of my exciting body parts to locate your father?

Yes, she replied with a slight nod. Twenty-seven point six days ago my father’s aircraft malfunctioned. He was forced to make an emergency landing in this region identified as East Texas.

I see, Brent rubbed his chin in thought. His plane crash landed. Have you notified the proper authorities, such as the State Police or the Federal Aviation Administration?

No. She briskly shook her head. Locating my father and his aircraft must be a private endeavor between us.

Oh…I see. Brent figured her father was probably a drug dealer, flying white powdered death into Texas from over the Mexican border. He might also be a smuggler with a cargo of priceless artifacts stolen from an ancient civilization in South America. However, he may have been transporting animals from the jungles of South America. With the right connections here in the States, rare monkeys, colorful exotic birds, and disgusting lizards bring in some big bucks. So you want this search to strictly be a covert operation.

Covert. She repeated the word as if she’s searching her brain for its meaning. Yes, this must be a secret operation. I will pay you a large amount of United States currency for your investigative services.

Brent flashed a wide foxy smile. Just how large a sum of money are we talking about?

She opened her leather handbag, removed a thick yellow envelope and handed it to him. I will provide you with a second payment of the same amount of currency when we locate my father.

Brent opened the envelope to find a thick wad of crispy new one hundred dollar bills. A broad thin smile formed across his face. Why there must be over six thousand dollars here, he said as he slid his thumb over the edge of the bills, allowing the fresh inky fragrance to gust up toward his nostrils. This is more than enough money for me to find your father. Damn, there’s enough money here to locate your father and all your first grade classmates.

No, she shook her head. My father is the only one missing.

That my dear, was a little joke.

I am deliberately exceeding your rate of compensation to procure your services on a fulltime bases. It is extremely imperative we work together as a single entity. I am not from your United States of America, so my unfamiliarity with your society’s customs prevents me from conducting my own investigation.

Brent shook his head. You’re talking about a partnership, like Lewis and Clark, Batman and Robin, or Rocky and Bullwinkle?

Yes detective Carr, I believe a partnership is the correct terminology.

Sorry lady, but I prefer to work alone. Brent thumped his chest with his thumb. I don’t like working with partners.

She stretched out her hand. Please return the United States currency. I shall locate a private detective who is willing to work in unity with me.

Brent looked down at the wad of greenbacks. Damn, he thought, this cash will certainly buy me many restaurant lunches. In addition, it’ll help me catch-up on my bills, so I won’t have to keep screening my phone calls to avoid the pain in the ass bill collectors. Okay pretty lady, you win this deal of the cards. A partnership it is, but I’m giving you fair warning. I don’t play well with partners. I was a Houston police detective for eighteen years, and most of my partners were not happy campers. They often complained about my no bullshit code of ethics.

I do not care about your moral principles, as long as they do not interfere with my primary objective of locating my father.

What country did you say you’re from? Brent asked while displaying a puzzled expression.

Where I am from is not imperative to our objective of locating my father.

Okay, the detective nodded, looking even more mystified. He wondered why she’s refusing to divulge where she’s from. Her milky white skin eliminates Latin America. She doesn’t have any kind of noticeable British accent, so she’s not from overseas. He shrugged it out of his mind. He badly needs the money, so he really didn’t care where on the world she came from. He picked up a pencil and flipped open his pocket size notebook. I’ll need to gather some information to help us find your father. What's your name?

Sarah.

What is your last name?

You require two names?

Brent blinked. Are you telling me the citizens in your country don’t have last names?

Swanson…yes, Swanson is my second name.

And your father’s name.

Tony.

Tony is a popular name with the Italians, Brent said with grin. Years ago, when the young Italian men arrived on Ellis Island, they frequently had handwritten signs pinned to their jackets consisting four letters, ‘TONY’, which means To New York. He laughed at his humor until he noticed the deadpan expression on Sarah’s face.

Are you married?

Sarah paused as if she’s thinking about the question.

Let me rephrase this. Do you have a husband?

A husband is a male mate?

That’s the general rule.

No, I have never mated. Why are you asking me if I have mated?

Brent ignored her question. So I can assume your father has the same last name as yours?

Yes.

Tony Swanson, he mumbled as he jotted the name down in his notebook. Do you have a picture of your father?

A picture. she repeated, wrinkling her face and puckering her pretty lips in thought.

Yes a picture, Brent snapped in frustration. A photograph image of your father’s face. We can show it around to people who might be able to identify him.

No, I do not have a photographic image of my father’s face.

The detective shook his head as he blew out a breath. No picture, he wheezed. "This is certainly going to make my…I mean our investigative job more difficult. How do you know your father had to make an emergency landing in East Texas?"

Because I was in direct communication with him up until he landed his aircraft.

Oh good, Brent said with a nod. You were talking to him over your cell phone?

Yes, it was a communication device.

What’s your father’s cell number?

I do not know what a cell number is. It was my father who initiated the emergency communication.

Brent ran his fingers through his thick black hair as he stared at Sarah’s beauty. He figured her crooked father probably has a cell number in the nearest Federal prison. He mentally concluded that he’s dealing with a foreigner who happens to be a super good-looking woman with a scrambled brain in her head. I guess strange is what strange does.

Sarah, What type of plane was your father piloting. Also, do you know the registration number?

Sorry, but I do not understand the question.

Brent exhaled forcefully. Was it a twin or single engine Cessna, Beech, Piper, or what?

Sorry detective, but I cannot offer you any information pertaining to my father’s aircraft.

Brent paused to rub his creasing forehead. It would be real helpful if I knew the location from where your father’s flight originated and his final destination.

I believe he was traveling in a northeast direction.

Brent shook his head. You don’t know where the hell your father was going?

I am certain hell was not my father’s destination.

Brent sighed deeply with a shake of his head. Sarah, I really need this information to figure out your father’s flight path. East Texas is one hell of a big place. Locating your father’s crash site is going to be like finding a needle in a twenty acre cactus farm. Is there any helpful information you can give me?

I know the exact location where my father crash landed his aircraft.

Well that tidbit of information would certainly be extremely helpful.

Sarah removed an East Texas road map from her handbag. She unfolded the map and positioned it on Brent’s oak desk so he can view it. The known latitude and longitude indicates my father’s aircraft landed right here, she said as she placed her index finger on the map.

Brent’s face brightened. Okay. Sarah, now we’re cooking with gas. These coordinates are about forty miles from here, near this Farm to Market road number four thirty-three.

What does cooking with gas mean?

Brent rolled his eyes. It’s just an urban saying. It means we’re on the right track, or we’re heading in the right direction.

Sarah shook her head in confusion. We need to travel to these coordinates, she demanded, tapping her finger on the map. I do not see any railroad tracks leading off to my father’s crash site. Do you have another form of surface transportation?

Of course I have transportation. Like most Americans, I have an automobile. Actually, it’s a big Ford pickup truck. Trucks are very popular here in Texas. I figured in my line of work a truck is less conspicuous on a long stakeout. He paused in thought. Most of my boring stakeouts are to spy on a husband or wife, to find out if their being naughty or nice. He studied Sarah for a long moment, looking for a humorous response to his witty words, but her face remained very unemotional. So, when would you like to go to your father’s landing site?

Now would be good.

Now, Brent repeated with a dry gulp. I suppose we can go now, he sighed as he glanced at his unfinished report to the insurance company. Just give me a few minutes to finish my peanut butter sandwich and clean up this damn mess.

Very well. She carefully and precisely folded the large road map and placed it back into her purse. She took a few steps backwards. Then she stiffened her body. Her unblinking eyes are focused forward and her arms hung down straight against her body, giving Brent the impression that she’s a soldier standing at attention.

Brent kept an eye on Sarah while he ate his sandwich. She continued to stand motionless with her unblinking eyes fixed on a picture of Ronald Reagan hanging on the wall behind his desk.

Sarah, standing there like a storefront window mannequin is giving me the heebie-jeebies. You’re welcome to sit down and make yourself comfortable, Brent voiced, pointing at one of his old green vinyl guest chairs. I bought those old office chairs at First Monday Trade Days. I think they may date back to the sixties.

No thank you detective Carr. I prefer to remain in an upright position, she said without diverting her eyes from Ronald.

Since we’re going to be partners in this investigative endeavor, you can call me Brent. He quickly ate the last two bites his sandwich, drank what’s left of his warm cream soda, and quickly tossed everything back into the filing cabinet. If he had taken a moment to read the labels on his foodstuff, he would’ve noticed Sarah Swanson’s Peanut Butter and Tony’s Bakery Products.

CHAPTER TWO

"Sarah, it’s pretty damn cold out there, Brent voiced as he held the door open for her to step out onto the red brick sidewalk. Everyone in East Texas needs to wear a coat in January. Where's your coat?"

I do not possess a coat, Sarah answered sharply. She quietly followed the detective toward the municipal parking lot, located behind the Tyler Texas Bank One building."

Brent shivered as the January wind parted his unzipped brown leather coat. When I was a youngster I enjoyed the cold wintery weather. All winter long I’d go running around outside wearing just a flannel shirt, but now in my later years I can’t go outside without wearing a winter coat. He zipped his coat up to his neck. Aren’t you freezing to death?

My mind will adjust my body to withstand the cold temperature.

Okay. Brent nodded as he unlocked the passenger door of his pickup. Mind over body. Are you referring to some kind of exercising mind control like yoga?

Yoga. Sarah repeated the word as if she’s searching an imaginary dictionary for its definition. Spiritual insight and tranquility has nothing to do with my attempts to use my mind to control this female body. Before climbing into the passenger side of Brent's truck, Sarah paused to inspect the truck's interior. There appears to be a great deal of wasted space within this surface vehicle.

Yeah, I guess there is. They call it an extended deluxe cab. Lots of room to store all kinds of junk behind the seats. Texas men love their big shiny trucks. He paused to offer Sarah a chuckle. The bigger the truck the better, he said as he closed her door. Then he dashed around to the driver’s side and climbed in. I guess it’s a John Wayne macho thing, he blurted as he inserted the key into the ignition. Look here Pilgrim, my truck is bigger than your truck, he said in his best John Wayne voice.

Brent first started the engine to warm up the cab, and then he fastened his seatbelt. As he reached forward to select reverse, he noticed Sarah is having trouble fastening her seat belt. He reached over to guide her hand. This shinny metal tab locks into this slot. In spite of the cold, plus the fact that she’s shivering like his vibrating tooth brush, her skin is extremely warm and soft. He felt a slight tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach, which made him quickly pull his hand away. It’s been a long time since he’s been this close to a sexy woman. Don’t you have any doggone seatbelts in your country?

The need to strap one’s self into a surface vehicle implies it is not very safe.

Don’t worry Sarah, this surface vehicle truck is equipped with air bags, plus I’m an excellent driver. It’s better to be safe than sorry. Besides, Texas requires everyone to wear seatbelts. It’s a good thing, because Texas does have its share of stupid-ass drivers. Sometimes I think half the drivers around here drive with their heads up their rectums.

Detective Carr, I believe it would be impossible for anyone to maneuver one of these surface vehicles with their head inserted into their rectum, Sarah said as she carefully watched Brent back the truck out of the parking space. Besides, I doubt if a human is physically capable of inserting their head into their rectum.

That’s funny, Brent said with a grin. I guess you do have a sense of humor.

I was not attempting to be humorous. Are the air bags required for traveling through poisonous atmospheric areas?

Brent shot Sarah a raised eyebrow. Some people are funny even when they’re not trying to be funny. He reached behind his seat, grabbed his old fur lined dungaree jacket, and handed it to Sarah. Obviously your mind control bullshit isn’t working. I can clearly see that you’re shivering from the cold, so please cover yourself with my dungaree jacket until the truck’s engine warms up.

Thank you, she said as she hugged his jacket.

Brent pulled out onto Main Street, heading north toward the Interstate Highway. Thank God our pollution in Texas isn’t high enough to create poisonous atmospheric areas.

Why is your truck emitting awful noises?

What noises?

Here, she said, pointing at the circular patterns of small holes on the lower panel section of the passenger door."

Oh, you’re referring to the radio. I keep the volume low until I hear a song I like, and then I crank it up. He paused to listen to the song playing. The late and great Johnny Cash singing 'A Boy Named Sue'. This is a cool country classic.

It sounds like disturbing useless noise

I guess you don’t like country music. Would you like me to switch it to another station? Maybe some oldies, crazy hard rock, some black rap, or old man sitting in the parlor symphony music?

Can you please discontinue the noise?

All right, he said as he pushed the off button. I’ll probably go to hell for turning off this country song.

How long will it take to travel to my father’s landing site?

If there's not too much traffic, we should be there in about forty-five minutes.

Good, Sarah nodded. I am hopeful we will find some clues to my father’s whereabouts. I know he’s in trouble. We could not locate him from above, which means he may be sealed within a thick-walled structure, or hidden away inside an underground cavern. He should have contacted me by now. I believe they are holding him against his will.

A kidnapping, Brent shook his head. Why in the world would somebody kidnap a pilot who just made an emergency landing?

My father’s physical appearance would be reason enough.

Oh, Brent nodded, a mistaken identity. I know a guy who looks somewhat like Chuck Norris, the Kick boxer movie star. From a distance people actually think he’s Norris, so they get real excited, only to be disappointed when they get a little closer. Brent turned right onto the highway entrance ramp.

I hate to say this, Sarah, but your father could’ve been hurt during his emergency landing. Maybe he’s been lying around in a hospital all this time, unconscious, or suffering from amnesia. He may not even know who he is.

If my father was injured, they would never place him in an ordinary hospital.

Who are they?

They are the ones who may have abducted my father.

I see, Brent slowly nodded his head as his mind tried to rationalize why Sarah refers to her father’s possible kidnapers as only they. Sarah is a very strange sexy woman, he thought. Maybe she escaped from an insane asylum. The story about her father just might be a figment of her crazy imagination. Maybe somebody is playing a practical joke on me. However, she paid me all that money. I know my old buddies are not rich enough to give Sarah all those crispy hundred dollar bills. Damn, I didn’t look at the money too closely. It might be counterfeit. He started to reach for his wallet to inspect one of the bills, but decided he better wait until he’s alone. He sighed with a touch of relief, remembering the money smelled real. Could the story about her father be make-believe, he asked himself? I watch the local news every morning. I don’t remember anything about a small plane making an emergency landing in some farmer’s pasture. Around here, news of a plane crash landing would be a big deal.

Brent nervously glanced over at Sarah. She’s watching the passing scenery, which consisted mostly of huge pastures dotted with cattle. Occasionally, they’d pass by a manmade pond, a forested area, or a few small rolling hills. Sarah, is the East Texas scenery similar to the landscape in your country?

No. The landscape is extremely dissimilar, she said softly. Our surface is rough, rocky, with huge mountains that puncture through the many layers of our atmosphere.

I drove to California once. I saw mountains that pass right up through the clouds, which I guess you could call atmosphere layers.

She pointed off in the distance. What are those four legged creatures roaming the surface?

Are you saying you’ve never seen any cattle?

Are those cattle intelligent beings?

Brent nervously giggled. He figured it’s probably best to play along with her. He once read an article about dealing with crazy people. It said they could become violent when someone tries to