My phone rang just as I was settling the delivery onto Mrs. Kirby’s garage floor with the pallet jack. I gave her an apologetic shrug as I pulled out my phone and checked the caller ID. Patrick Jordan, the phone reported. I hit the answer button and spoke into the phone before he could get a word out. “Hi, Patrick. Let me call you back in five minutes.” Without waiting, I hung up.

I forced a proper smile as I handed the bill to Mrs. Kirby for her signature. She signed with her usual flourish, her movements surprisingly energetic for someone old enough to remember when the first automobile came to Dunnville.

“You and Patrick planning some more trouble?” she said.

“Hopefully,” I replied with a laugh. Mrs. Kirby was a long-time family friend, a de facto aunt. Fortunately, I’d thought to back the truck in so she couldn’t see the damage. She’d be certain to mention it, and I didn’t need my father trooping out to the barn before I’d unloaded the special cargo.

Once I was back in the truck, I pulled out my phone and pressed redial. Patrick picked up on the first ring.

“Nice. Real nice. You set me up with a really mysterious message, then leave me hanging. Explain to me why I shouldn’t just hang up on you, in one word or less?”

“Aliens.”

There was a moment of silence. “That’ll do it. More words, please.”

I glanced in the side mirror to make sure Mrs. Kirby wasn’t within listening distance. “Or maybe Bigfoot. I dunno. Listen, do you have any flour at your place?”

“Okay, buddy, you’ve obviously popped a blood vessel or something,” Patrick said. “Why would I need flour? Why would you need flour? Who uses flour, and for what?”

“For the invisible alien. Or Bigfoot. Or Chewbacca.”

More silence, followed by a sigh. “Okay. You’ve out-crazied me. Where and when?”

“The barn. I’ve just done my last delivery, so fifteen minutes?”

“Will do. See ya.”

Well, that had gone better than I’d hoped. Of course, Patrick probably thought he was being set up for a practical joke, but he was good-natured enough to go along with it just to find out what the payoff would be.

In this case, the joke was that there was no joke.

I drove slowly past the family home to the barn in the back acre. The Kernigan property had been a large, prosperous working farm at one time, and both the multistory farmhouse with its wraparound porch and the gigantic barn out back reflected that. The wagon doors, when fully open, allowed for two-way traffic of farm equipment. The interior was almost large enough to hold our entire house.