Free Trinity by Kristin Dearborn Page B

night when he was younger, five or six, maybe. Fueled by Aftershock or some other cinnamon scented liquor, his mother had grabbed him by the meaty part of his upper arm and hauled him from his bed to the driveway. She thrust an unsteady hand at the sky, pointing. The only light came from the trailer’s kitchen window, a comfortable gold rectangle on the gravel driveway, and the stars glowed bright in the sky. He remembered no moon that night.
    “Up there.” She jabbed a finger at the sky. “They’re coming for you.”
    He remembered trying to run, but her hand was a cool vice on his bicep, digging into his skin. He started to cry and she had called him a baby, cinnamon-stinking breath in his face. If he thought this was scary, she told him, just wait.
    “When they come?” She laughed. “You’ll wish it was dear old Mom. No one’s going to hear you scream, not out here.”
    They stood in silence, Caroline watching the sky, Val watching Caroline. Five-year-old Val didn’t know how long, somewhere between ten minutes and eternity. When her fingers loosened, he took his arm back, rubbing the red skin where she held him.
    He tried calling her name, but she didn’t answer, so he went inside, closed the door behind him, and started watching an old monster movie. The creature’s dead eyes scared him, so he switched to re-runs instead, even though it meant getting up to change the channels.
    The next morning he woke up on the couch, the TV still on, to find Caroline slumped in the easy chair. The bottle of Aftershock—it was Aftershock, that was the one with crystals in the bottom of the bottle—lay on its side in the middle of a dark puddle on the carpet.
    Not long after, he’d gone east.
    “We’ve tried every combination of medications we can think of,” Angelina was saying, “but nothing stops the delusions.”
    “How long does she have?”
    “I don’t know. No one knows. Six months ago I would have said less than six months. I don’t know how she’s hanging on; the cancer isn’t going into remission. It’s stabilized, like it knows how much it can take and let her stay alive.”
    “So she could go at any time.”
    The nurse nodded. “All we’ve been doing for months is making her comfortable.” She said some more things Val didn’t understand then waddled down the hall to another patient’s room.
    He went in to say goodbye to Caroline, but found her asleep. He picked up his hat and headed out to his truck, careful not to disturb her.

Excerpt #2
    from Trinity by Judd Grenouille ©1988

    At first I thought Adrienne was crazy when she told me that she’d figured it all out.
    “The ones that look like people call themselves the Tylwyth Teg.”
    “Adrienne,” I said. “The Tylwyth Teg are fairies. It’s an old Welsh name for them.”
    She ignored me, though. “They want our children. They’ve always wanted our children. That’s why they took my first.” She was quiet a moment. “They let me see her.”
    This is common; the visitors often let mothers see their taken children. (See Intruders , 1987, Budd Hopkins.) Kathie Davis, the subject of Hopkins’ book, reported seeing her daughter several times.
    “I don’t remember, though. I remember that I saw her, and everything in my heart was so wonderful. I don’t know what she looked like, or where we were, or anything. Will you hypnotize me again?”
    It has been eight months since I have last seen Adrienne. She is wearing a white dress; her hair is down, cascading over her shoulders. She looks innocent, like a girl herself. I don’t smell alcohol on her this time. She claims she is making an effort to turn her life around.
    “Tell me your theories first,” I coax.
    “They aren’t theories. I’m tellin’ you what they told me.” Now she looks wary instead of innocent. “The gray ones are the Sangaumans. The Tylwyth Teg want their mind powers, but they can’t find a way to breed with ‘em. So they’ve traveled the galaxy for years