When Blake's cell phone alarm went off the next morning at eight o'clock, he quickly shut if off, sparing his friend still soundly sleeping in the bed next to him. He got up quietly and started the coffee machine in the room. Going over to his jeans draped over a chair, he took the key from his pocket and looked at the address on the worn paper tag attached to it.

Opening his navigation app on his phone, and typing in the Farmington street address, Blake could see the location of where the key would lead them. It was in an area out of the center of the town and what appeared to be an industrial area. Pouring out two cups of coffee, he brought one over to his friend.

"Hey man. Russel wake up!  Were on a mission."

He struggled to open his eyes. "Where the hell are we, Captain?"

Blake laughed. "Not in San Diego yet. But if you get up and we make it out of this hotel, we might be on our way to the bars and babes before high noon."

"High noon. Right. Wasn't that some kind of cowboy movie?"

"Yeah. And we're in it right now, pal. Remember the hats and boots of those people in the bar last night?

Russel slowly sat up, squinted his eyes and reached out for the coffee cup. "Thanks man. Yeah. Real cowboys. And did you see those women?"

"Come on, pal. Some of those cowgirls were pretty fine."

Russel just looked at his friend blankly.

"So, what's the plan, boss?" he finally asked.

"Look. We're going to blast out of here. Go to where this key leads us. Check things out. And then power back across the desert to San Diego."

"Yeah and how many hours will that take?"

"If we drive all night . . . about . . ."

"All night? God, don't tell me, Blake. Let's just get on the road."

"Alright. Five-minute showers. Whatever breakfast there is down there. And were mobile."

"What you said, man. Let's go!"

* * *

After the breakfast—surprisingly sufficient for the two former high school basketball players, Blake and Russel had located Rosita Way, a frontage road on the outskirts of Farmington. The heat was already intense at ten o'clock, and many large trucks were docking in front of supermarket warehouse storage facilities. Moving onward to the street number 25, with the help of Blake's GPS locator, they found themselves in front of a massive complex of storage buildings under the sign Wrangler Public Storage Co. They parked the car and walked up to the gate that led into the center, a security guard in a baseball cap quickly drove up to them in a golf cart.

"You guys here for storage business," the young, well-built man asked.

Blake then realized the key he had, leading them to 25 Rosita Way, was obviously to one of the locked storage rooms on the premises.

"That's right," he told the employee, cautious of what else he should reveal to him. 

Tan-faced and wearing a white golf shirt, the young man took out a clip board and pen.

"It's policy here for you to just give me an ID before I allow over to the storage sheds," he said in a friendly voice.

Blake did not comply immediately.

"So then, are you renting new today? Or do you already have a contract and key?"

Blake froze again, trying not to give his ignorance about the place away.

"The young man realized there was a communication breakdown and simply asked, "You got a key and a storage room already, guys?"

"Yes," Blake guardedly said,

"OK. No need to tell me which one is yours. Whether your family or friends. We just keep track of people on our premises each day to follow up on any claims of theft. I'll record the time and date of your visit, that s all. Just for security, OK guys?"

"OK."

"If you've got business here with your belongings or family belongings, you're more than welcome to stay as long as you want. Just please lock up when you leave."

"That's right. I've got a key. I'm here to check on family stuff. That's all."

"Great!" the young man said cheerily. "Just show me some ID and I'll log in that you were here this morning. And that's it."

Russel stepped back nervously, trying to signal to Blake that his identity might not be a good idea. Blake realized it was his only option and took out his wallet to show the man his California driver's license."

The employee routinely wrote down Blake's name and number on the clip board.

"That's it guys. As I say, just a precaution against theft. Please lock. And we thank you for your business with us. Have a good day."

The guard quickly started up his silent vehicle and drove it back in the direction from where it came. The two had obviously been seen moving from the parking area to the storage facility gate, possibly by a CCTV camera.

Blake and Russel now freely passed into the large complex. It had many rows of locked storage buildings, all with wide garage-like doors. Each was locked by a heavy steel padlock and the metal door had a number stenciled in red on its center. Blake took out the key and could see on its tarnished bronze surface there was a dim number embossed in the metal. He rubbed it with his shirt until he could clearly read #14-47.

As the two walked along the cement pathways, wide enough to drive on with a vehicle, they found themselves in an entire matrix of storage sheds. It soon became obvious the first two numbers on the key were the rows of buildings, and the last two digits the actual storage rooms. Finding row 14 and storage room 47 took some time in the searing heat, and after some confusion, the two were standing in front of where the key had finally led them—Farmington , NM, 25 Rosita Way, Key #14-47.

"So, you think this is it, Captain?"  Russel asked quietly.

Blake checked the key once more and looked at the closed door. "It has to be, Russ. God knows whats in there, but I think it's time to find out."

"I'm with you man. Maybe it is  gold and we'll go back to the UC in style."

"Don't hold your breath, my friend . . . Come on, let's do this."

As Blake put the key into the lock, it did not turn easily. It was a sign it had not been opened recently. How long, was the question. Yet, the larger question was what would be found inside, once it opened. If it opened. Blake banged the heavy padlock against the metal door several times to loosen any debris or dust. He then took the key out and wet the key with saliva.

"Come on, you devil. Open for us!"

He twisted the key with all his might, back and forth. Left and right. Finally, it clicked loudly to the left, springing the lock open.

"Whoa! Nice work!" Russel exclaimed in a whisper.

Blake took the lock off the door and the two strained to lift the roll-type garage door upward until it rolled open on its own.

Inside in the dim light they saw a room full of wooden boxes and shelves of books—completely orderly. Nothing like the disarray of useless objects found in William's own trailer home. Were this truly his father's own area for storage, it was the antithesis of what Blake had learned of him since coming east from California across the desert.

As the two let their eyes adjust to the light inside, they found that all the boxes, large and small, were fastened with small locks. Some were just taped with duct tape, but all sealed. The books on the shelves were perfectly stacked, large volumes to small on each row. And they were held neatly in place with metal bookend holders. 

It was crowded inside the room with larger crates, crafted of wood—also locked and nailed shut. Again, they were neatly stacked on top of each other. A small desk and chair were in the corner of the storage room with an old-fashioned kerosene lamp on it. Its reservoir was empty of fuel, but ostensibly it was there to be used for reading at the desk. The room was dusty but orderly—its boxes and crates stacked up to the very ceiling in places.

Blake went to the bookshelf and looked at the spines of the books for titles. He read three out loud to Russel.

"Check this out . . . Star People of the Zuni . . . The Navajo Universe . . . Ancient Sky Visitors of the Pueblo People . . . Jesus, Russ."

"What's this all about?" his friend asked, walking over to a refrigerator and freely opening it. Inside were shelves not of food but apparently the powerless appliance  was used to house several painted clay bowls resting securely on stands of Styrofoam inside. By shape, they were ancient looking, but perfectly preserved. Obviously made by Native Americans and immaculately cleaned during their preservation. Taking one carefully out and holding it for both he and Blake to see, an obvious motif became evident as Russel turned it around to inspect its images under the scrutiny of a flashlight.

It depicted stick-figured characters on the ground, their arms raised toward other beings which floated down to the them. These more skyward figures had rounded, triangular shaped heads and large, oval black eyes. The most striking objects in the painting were what hovered in the sky above both sets of characters. They were a formation of obvious saucer-shaped vehicles, descending at an angles. Others hovered low over the desert floor where this primitive but dramatic scene was taking place in clay and pigment.

"You get that, Russel? Can you see what's happening there?"

"Yeah, I get it, Blake. And it's scaring the shit out of me!"

"I'm totally freaking out with this stuff,"  Blake said, out of breath and carrying the round clay pot back into its preserved resting place. He could see another perfectly preserved pot with circular flying objects depicted on it as well, with unworldly beings floating around them. He carefully shut the door of the powerless refrigerator.

"If this is really my father's storage room . . . what kind of shit was he into out here? It's all about the . . . alien thing, buddy. What those people were telling us about this crazy desert . . . the whole UFO thing."

"Can we . . . can we just get the hell out of here, Blake?"

"It all makes sense now. What my father was doing in his place. Why he stayed so many years. Just quietly . . . collecting stuff."

"I don't even want to know what's in all these other boxes, Blake. Those bigger crates. Jesus!"

Blake walked around in the cramped space. He could see each wooden box had been stacked neatly and locked or nailed shut. He tried unsuccessfully to remove the tape on several with his fingers, but could not.

"We're gonna need some knives and scissors here. A hammer and screw driver to open this stuff, Russel."

"Come on, Blake. You really want to?  Let's just leave this shit alone? OK? Go back to California. Christ!  Who else might possibly know about this stuff? That's in here? That we're  in here now!"

"I don't know. But I'm coming back today. With some tools to open these things up. To see what my old man found over all those years. What was so important to him . . . And what he obviously knew."

* * *