Bright Light City: An Elvis Novel

By Michael Hodjera

THE ULTIMATE HOSTILE TAKEOVER

A visitor from beyond the solar system is planet shopping. A member of a dying species, he is looking for new real estate to annex. He finds it on planet earth.

PLANET FOR SALE

A genius at economics, he devises a plan to take over the planet without a single shot being fired. By masterfully manipulating a political and economic climate characterized by relaxed standards and minimal oversight, he surreptitiously succeeds in building a vast financial empire that transcends national boundaries and grows to encompass the balance of the world's vulnerable energy resources. Now he is only a couple of acquisitions away from checkmate in a game that must spell doom for humanity.

At ground zero the task of preventing the total annihilation of the human species falls to two unlikely people-an entertainer and a recovering vampiress. The entertainer is none other than the King himself, Elvis Presley who, contrary to common belief, is alive and well and currently living incognito on the Big Island of Hawaii. The vampire is his sultry and mysterious longtime girlfriend, Desdemona. Together they are headed for a showdown with a formidable, soulless menace in the city that never sleeps. And the stakes could scarcely be higher .

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 10, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595838578

Michael Hodjera

Michael Hodjera is the author of a trio of books featuring the fictional present day adventures of Elvis. One of these, The Fear Merchant, was a Darrell Award finalist. A songwriter and composer, he lives in the Santa Cruz mountains. Sleeping Gods is his fourth novel. To learn more visit michaelhodjera.com.

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PROLOGUE

October, 1991

From space the planet looked inviting. Blue, with swirling, white cloud formations, indicating the presence of an atmosphere. He had seen many planets that could qualify in his centuries long quest across the galaxy. But none as promising as this. It looked like an aqueous planet essentially, with land masses intervening here and there. There was an atmosphere of oxygen and other gases, and potentially the kinds of resources that would be required.

His hope had been that there wasn’t some problematic element present, a species for example, which had degraded the planets potential to the point where it would prove unsatisfactory for exploitation. His preliminary readings had confirmed the presence of just such a species. Further investigation indicated that the effect of this sizable population on it’s remarkable environment was still within acceptable tolerances. There was a level of intelligence at work here. That was evident even without the aid of instruments—the geometric patterns of light everywhere on the landscape were proof enough of that. But it seemed limited, by his estimate. Basically, the planet was in a state of disarray. There was no overriding organization present. This could be used to advantage. It boded well for what he had in mind. There was certainly no organization capable of rendering much resistance, if he operated in a discreet and clever manner.

A decade and a half local time, give or take, would be sufficient, he calculated. And his calculations were seldom wrong.

The space craft he occupied was small and innocuous, about the size and shape of a regulation play football. And as he drew closer, the visitor had a sense of exaltation. All the indicators were positive that this could be the place. It had everything, and in the right proportions. At last!

The space craft came in at a speed and on a trajectory indistinguishable from a meteorite. It landed in the middle of the night in a blackened area just removed from what was by contrast the brightest constellation of lights in this particular inland region. The blazing, brilliant lights seemed to attest to a level of social interaction and general activity that might prove useful for his designs. Even so, the arrival of the visitor set off a signal on Norad radar screens. A small military crew was dispatched locally to investigate.

But when the men arrived at ground zero, they were puzzled to discover that there was no trace that anything had crashed into the desert there. The incident was quickly written off as an anomaly.

The visitor had vanished into the night.

Big Boss Man

CHAPTER ONE

Southwestern Nevada, Present Day

Do you really think there’s life out there? Gillian asked Jason.

The two were lying under a sea of stars in the desert on a warm late summer’s night. Because the atmosphere was so clear, it felt as if you could reach out and touch the firmament. At this time of year the heat of the day was slow in receding. It would be another hour or two before it was cool enough to sleep comfortably.

Jason Christy was in his early thirties, a PhD in biology. He had medium brown hair, kept short, and the stern demeanor of a tax attorney. It was hard, if not impossible, to believe that he was the son of Galen Christy, notorious wild man and world famous sculptor. Christy had died in the early nineties from throat cancer. By this time, Jason’s mom, Coleen, had long since divorced her iconic husband. She had married a respectable and successful architect, Rupert Sweeney, and moved to Bel Air, taking their teenage son with her. The son, under his mother’s tutelage, was steered away from anything remotely resembling the profligate artistic road her ex-husband had traveled. And his ultra conservative father-in-law did all he could to help out. Jason ended up getting a degree in biology, a field of study, it turned out, he displayed a considerable aptitude for. He moved to Nevada to do his doctoral work and eventually got his PhD from the University of Nevada.

He had been doing field research in southern Nevada ever since, funded by grants from the University. His itinerant lifestyle made getting a trailer practical early on. He currently had it parked in the desert southeast of Death Valley, thirty miles from Indian Wells, the nearest town. The simplicity of his lifestyle suited Jason fine. But it was not a life conducive to meeting members of the opposite sex.

Gillian was five years his junior. Close to his 5’8" in height, she was lanky and wore black horn-rimmed glasses. She had been working on a dissertation for her degree in ethnobotany for more than four years. Jason had been afraid for some time that she was losing interest in her studies. If she lost interest in her studies, he was convinced, she would eventually lose interest in him.

The thought saddened him. She had been his first bona fide girlfriend since college.

Gillian had been orphaned early on and had been raised by a grandmother living in Reno, Nevada. She possessed a no-nonsense approach to life that Jason had found appealing. She had close cropped brown hair, like Jason’s. And since both she and Jason tended to dress alike in either khakis or denim, from a distance they were hard to tell apart.

Statistically, it’s very likely, he said seriously, missing entirely the dreamy, romantic note that had crept into her voice when she had asked the question. He knew a lot about badgers. He knew their mating rituals, their eating habits, the details of their life cycle. But when it came to humans, he knew next to nothing. He wouldn’t have recognized a cue if it ran over him in a Hummer.

Do you think there are any space people out there that are like us?

Highly doubtful, Jason said. Jason being a scientist, the word impossible was rarely used without some qualifying adjective or phrase, such as virtually or for all practical purposes. He was unfailingly scrupulous in his attempt to be precise where language was concerned. Absolutism was unscientific. Especially so since Heisenberg. One had at least to indicate an openness to the possibility that something could happen, no matter how remote the statistical probability was that it ever would. Part of the discipline of scientific inquiry, as far as Jason was concerned, involved keeping one’s certainties strictly to one’s self.

It’s so big, Gillian said. Doesn’t it make you feel small?

Well, according to the evidence, Jason said matter-of-factly, we are small. Infinitesimal, if we take in the scale of the universe. Barely worth considering at all.

You don’t really believe that, do you? I mean, don’t you think there’s some purpose to all this? How could something so vast and incredible exist for no reason at all?

Jason cleared his throat. They were on rocky ground here. Jason believed that the scientific approach didn’t allow for what he called fuzzy thinking. And any discussion of the purpose of the universe—the reason for its existence—involved, in his opinion, the very fuzziest of thinking. And there was something else in Gillian’s question that Jason didn’t want to confront, if he could help it. It implied a profound difference between their orientations toward life: Jason the skeptic, the agnostic; versus Gillian, the believer. And again the specter that their time together might be limited passed before Jason’s eyes. That this apparently unsurmountable philosophical chasm might one day widen to the point where it made their relationship untenable was a possibility that could not be discounted. And Jason was nothing if not a realist.

He decided it was prudent to change the subject. But Gillian beat him to it. You never talk about your father, she said.

The question caught Jason off-guard. I’ve talked about Rupert. Many times.

I mean your real father, Galen.

Jason looked over at Gillian but couldn’t read her expression.

It’s because there isn’t much to say. I mean, he died more than a dozen years ago. And I hardly ever saw him when he was alive, after my mom divorced him, Jason said, feeling flustered for some unknown reason, defensive. He went on. Weekends now and again, when I was in my early teens. That lasted until I was about sixteen.

What happened then? Gillian asked.

I don’t know. My mother thought he was a bad influence on me. So with my father-in-law’s connections, she got the court to terminate visitation rights.

And that was OK with you?

Listen, I just don’t think a lot about this stuff. It was a long time ago. And besides, it doesn’t have anything to do with anything anyway. Jason realized he was getting mad, as he often did when the subject of Galen came up.

We didn’t have that much in common, Jason said. In fact, we had nothing in common. He still tried to finagle visits with me, but my mom was usually around to chase him off. Like I said, it was probably just as well. He was never much of a father anyway.

Jason was still for a while, remembering, in spite of him himself. You know, before the visitation rights were cut off, he’d take me to parties with his crazy friends—musicians, out-of-work actors, local artists, bums mostly. He even let me drink alcohol. He mixed me a Margarita when I was thirteen and a half years old!

He made you drink it?

Jason was still for a moment. I asked him, he confessed finally. He was mixing them for everybody else, and I guess I felt left out. I never dreamed that he’d actually do it.

Doesn’t sound too bad to me.

I got blotto and ended up catching hell when I got home. Of course, that was nothing compared to the flak that Galen took for allowing me, a minor, to drink in the first place. And he deserved it. What did I know? He just didn’t behave the way a dad was supposed to behave. He never did, Jason said, exasperated, acutely aware again that for some inexplicable reason they weren’t seeing eye to eye. The abyss yawned between them.

I’m sorry, Jason, Gillian said. It’s none of my business. I guess it’s just that since I never had the luxury of parents, I like to hear what it was like for someone who did. You had an abundance of parents, even if all parties didn’t always get along that well, she laughed, a little sadly.

Listen. I apologize for getting snippy, Jason said, suddenly relenting.

A couple of minutes passed in silence.

I guess even after all these years, Jason continued. I still don’t know what to feel about my old man.

CHAPTER TWO

Jason set out early the next morning while it was still relatively cool leaving Gillian asleep in the tent. He needed to collect some scat samples to take back to the lab at the University. Yesterday’s outing had yielded nothing in the way of badger doo. So, by default, today was the day. By this time tomorrow they’d be heading back to civilization. Gillian had classes. And Jason would head over to the University later in the day to run tests, after he had sorted and catalogued his samples back at his trailer.

He and Gillian were camped on top of a low mesa that dropped about two hundred feet to a flat expanse of desert that extended to the east toward Highway 95, about 25 miles away. The desert here was virtually featureless at this time of the year. The scrub brush was desiccated and even the cacti—yucca, saguaro and ocotillo—though present, were not plentiful. It took a trained eye to notice the tracks and traces left behind by the wealth of insects, reptiles and mammals that inhabited the desert and which ventured out generally only in the relative cool of the night air.

A sidewinder accompanied him along the ridge for a few dozen yards before veering off. Jason was suddenly engulfed by the profound silence of the desert. It was as if he’d suddenly gone deaf. Only the occasional caw of a crow or the shriek of a hawk intruded on the stillness. At first, the absolute silence had made Jason edgy. It was claustrophobic in its all-pervasiveness. But over the ten or so years that he had been making field trips into this particular region, he had gotten used to it. He couldn’t deny that it had a calming effect on his nervous system. Though he never really articulated the notion, he found it therapeutic.

Tourists in this part of the desert were rare. Most visitors were bound for Death Valley, about 50 miles to the west, on the main thoroughfares which completely bypassed the area. It offered little of interest to the uninitiated, except occasionally in the springtime when the cacti bloomed and a few delicate, fragrant flowers blossomed for a short period of time and vanished in the rising heat.

Jason continued his trek for the better part of the day, stopping occasionally to munch the trail mix he had brought along and to drink from his canteen. In mid-afternoon he found traces in the sand of the animal he was studying. He followed them until he found the dried scat he was looking for. Congratulating himself, he extracted a sandwich-size baggy from his day pack, scooped the now thoroughly dry sample into it, and sealed the plastic with the ziploc feature. Mission accomplished, he thought to himself.

He retraced his steps to the camp, arriving just before nightfall. Gillian was heating some Progresso stew on a propane stove as he approached.

Any luck? she said.

He held up the sample.

Looks yummy, she said. So. We’re set. We can head back tomorrow.

We can leave anytime, really, Jason said. We could pack up and head back to the trailer after dinner, if we wanted to. It’s not that far away.

I’m up to staying another night, Gillian said, ladling the steaming stew into metal camping bowls. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had my fill of stargazing just yet.

At least we have this much in common, Jason thought: we both love the desert.

Jason was awakened in the pre-dawn hours. At first he didn’t know what had roused him. Gillian lay tucked into her bag beside him. The temperature had plunged dramatically after midnight, making it desirable to cover up. Her rhythmic breathing told him she was still asleep. But there was another sound, one that was incongruous with the natural sounds of the desert: the distant whine of diesel engines. The sound was so foreign out here that it took him a moment to process it and identify it. Trucks. The steady increase in the volume of the engines told Jason they were heading this way.

Gillian, wake up, Jason whispered urgently. Something’s happening. Somebody’s coming.

The two emerged from the tent to see four groups of headlights below, advancing toward the low cliff they were camping on. Jason pulled out his binoculars. Crouching, he focused on the approaching vehicles.

Two closed semis, two Mitsubishi D-7 bulldozers on a flatbed and a limo, Jason reported.

Jason, Gillian said, with a shiver. I don’t like it.

Let’s just see what’s going on, Jason said. OK?

Reluctantly, Gillian nodded.

Conceding to her instincts, Jason flattened the tent so it wouldn’t be visible from below. Then he and Gillian lay down at the edge of the precipice, trading off on the binoculars, watching as the vehicles drew closer.

The intruders stopped side by side about thirty yards back from the cliff face, almost directly below them. The intrusive roar of the big diesels stopped suddenly, and a group of twelve men climbed out of the trucks, scurrying about, barely visible behind the headlights.

What do they think they’re doing? Jason said, getting angrier by the second. He had been here so often without encountering another soul that he felt possessive about this part of the desert. These people were trespassers, tearing up the desert with their truck tires. They’d apparently come in from Highway 95, rolling across the desert ecosystem as if it didn’t exist.

Jason couldn’t stand it any longer and jumped to his feet. A truncated yelp had left his throat before he saw the guns. Gillian yanked him down hard, grabbing his pant leg and pulling before he gave them away.

What was that? they clearly heard one of the armed men say. A spotlight came on and swept the air over the two clandestine observer’s heads.

Looks like nothin’, another voice said. Probably a damned coyote.

The doors to the limo opened and a large man emerged. He was wearing a cheap suit, a white ten-gallon hat and snakeskin boots. Jason recognized him immediately through the binoculars from various news stories and magazine articles. It was Wade Slater, the CEO of Merlin Industries, a company that owned half the state, and one of the richest men in Nevada.

Shit, Jason hissed. "What’s he doing here?"

Ssshh, quiet, Gillian whispered fiercely. And stay down! I’ve got a rotten feeling about all this.

Jason relented, reluctantly.

Halogen arc lights were set up around a perimeter the size of a volleyball court. Gas powered generators sprung to life, and the entire area was instantly flooded with a harsh, achingly bright light. Both Jason and Gillian had to shield their eyes for a few seconds until they grew accustomed to the glare. One man directed the heavy machinery, swinging a flashlight up and down, while the bulldozers rolled off the flatbed trailer. The D-7s advanced into the circle of light and wasted no time in carving a large gash in the desert floor at the base of the cliff.

What the…! Jason exclaimed, rising to his knees before Gillian again pulled him flat. This time the sound of his exclamation was covered by the deafening roar of the D-7s.

They’ve got guns! Gillian reminded him.

The bulldozers worked quickly to open a hole that was about twelve hundred feet square and ten feet deep.

That’s good enough. Wade Slater’s voice was distinct above the din, his southern drawl pronounced. Let’s offload this crap! Move it! No dallying y’all! Let’s get this done and get the fuck outta here!

The semi trailers were opened and a forklift emerged, rolling down a ramp. It carried several containers that looked like oil drums, except that they were marked with the distinctive symbol for radioactivity, along with the familiar skull and crossbones that connoted poison in any language.

They’re dumping toxic waste in my desert! Jason wailed. Goddamit! They can’t do that!

Both he and Gillian looked on helplessly as the two trucks were unloaded, a process that took three-quarters of an hour. Jason counted a total of one hundred and twenty fifty-five gallon drums that were summarily deposited in the pit. When the truck’s trailers were empty, Slater, who was clearly the man in charge, gave a signal to the operators of the D-7s. Immediately, the bulldozers began to cover the canisters over with the accumulated earth alongside the pit.

While Slater’s hired hands climbed back into the cabs of their respective trucks, the bulldozers quickly refilled the pit and were loaded onto the flatbed trailer and secured. Two hours after the trucks and car had arrived, the convoy departed again in the direction of the main highway, leaving behind only a mound raised about two feet above the level of the surrounding desert.

As if in a trance, Jason and Gillian watched the departure of the vehicles. The two rose slowly, dazed, from their concealed perch at the lip of the cliff and brushed the sand from their clothing. The silence of the desert gradually reasserted itself, as any danger of their being discovered receded with the disappearing taillights.

Soon there was nothing to be heard but the chirping of a few crickets and the subdued call of an owl in the scrub brush below. Somewhere in the darkness high above them, they heard the piercing shriek of a hawk. The sound caused both Jason and Gillian to look up. But neither could see anything against the vast, star-strewn sky.

CHAPTER THREE

They didn’t even try to hide the radioactivity decals! Jason wailed. Damn Slater. Damn guy. Probably thinks he can buy all the legal immunity he needs!

Gillian blinked. It was rare that Jason used profanity, and it showed. In fact, before that night she couldn’t pinpoint any other instance of his swearing in memory.

They were now at Jason’s trailer, located in a dry wash where scruffy, bare ironwood bushes offered some shelter from the merciless heat of the day. Sensing instinctively the desirability of distracting Jason, Gillian had turned on the radio. It was tuned to a country music station.

This last fact didn’t go unnoticed by Jason. It was another point of divergence in their relationship. It wasn’t that he knew anything about music. He just knew that his tastes tended toward classic rock. He usually made an effort not to let on that the weepy, manipulative, flag-waving drivel that was oozing out of his Radio Shack boom box repulsed him. Tonight he was too wound up to put up a front.

Please turn that effluvium off, he said coldly.

Gillian quickly complied. But he could tell she was hurt. I thought you liked country music, she said, puzzled.

This is important, he pleaded. We’ve got to decide on a course of action.

Silence reigned in the twenty-one foot 1976 Open Road. The fabric used to upholster the bed and the dining benches was a queasy yellow and brown plaid. There were papers scattered and piled everywhere in the trailer, a testament to the fact that Jason didn’t often have company out here. Gillian rented a dorm room near the University of Nevada in Las Vegas about a hundred miles away. That wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.

How about we notify the cops? Gillian suggested. Let the law take over from here.

It seemed too simple to Jason. He instinctively disliked cops and other authority figures. Probably one of the few things he had inherited from his father. But in the face of such a gross violation of environmental law by one of the state’s most prominent figures, he was at a loss. There must be something else they could do. Maybe notify the EPA. He didn’t trust governmental agencies much more than local law enforcement, but who else was there to call? Someone at the University Biology Department might be able to suggest something.

I’ll put in a call right now, Gillian said. Somebody’s got to nail these guys before they get too far away. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.

When the dispatcher answered, Gillian said, I’d like to report an illegal dumping of radioactive waste in the desert south of Dry Lake, Last Chance Range. The perpetrators were seen headed toward 95—two semi trucks, two bulldozers on a trailer and a black limousine, a Cadillac, I believe.

She listened a moment. No, I can’t tell you which way they turned once they got out on the main highway.

She listened some more. The dump site is a few miles east of Ash Meadows, north of Pahrump, she said. She was beginning to realize the futility of describing the exact location without actually leading someone out there. Where’s your nearest office? she asked finally and, getting an answer, hung up.

Indian Wells, she told Jason.

First thing in the morning, he vowed.

Jason drove his 1965 American International pickup truck to Indian Wells the next morning to file a report. Gillian had left early. She had agreed to meet Jason later in the day at the University after class. Before he left the trailer, Jason made a call to Bernadine Krause the head of the Biology Department. He described to her what he had witnessed the previous night.

Well, I’ll be, Bernadine said with the distinctive Midwestern accent she had not entirely lost in her fifteen years in the wild west. Wade Slater. Are you sure?

Positive, Jason replied.

The unmitigated gall, she said. Bastard thinks he can get away with murder.

This was a major operation, Jason said. They had it planned right down to the last detail. In and out in two hours. They only thing they hadn’t reckoned on was somebody else being out there when the deal went down.

There was a pause at the other end. We’ll have to move carefully, she said. "Slater’s got a lot of clout. I’ll