The Gardener

The gardener Francine Smith hired was a reclusive man, rarely speaking a word. But he had an uncanny knack for growing any tree or plant, no matter the soil type or weather conditions, with only one caveat—he required working undisturbed and after midnight. He made no noise so as not to violate any ordinances.

Word spread of his green-thumb, and he gained many clients in the neighborhood, including high-profile local businesses.

One afternoon, Francine received a knock on her front door by two men dressed in black suits with unusually smooth skin texture, dark eyes, and expressionless faces.

"Ms. Francine Smith?" asked one of the men.

"Yes. Who are you?" She asked through the secure chained door.

"My name's Frank Jones, and this is my partner Richard Marx. May we speak with you?"

"What for?" asked Francine.

"We're special agents Ms. Smith," answered Agent Jones while they both showed her their identifications. "Can we meet with you in your backyard?"

"Very well ... I'll open the side gate."

Agent Marx carried a probe, then stuck it into the ground, read the results, and nodded.

"Ms. Smith, when does your gardener come over next time?" asked Agent Jones.

"Every Tuesday at midnight, right after 11:59 pm on Monday. What's this about?"

"We won't lie to you, Ms. Smith. Your gardener is a harvester."

"A what?" Ms. Smith stepped back. "What do you mean?"

"All these plants you see in your backyard, their appearances are deceiving. They devour flesh."

"Flesh ..." She stared at him wide-eyed. "You mean that they eat ...?"

"Correct." Agent Jones nodded.

"So what's down there?" She pointed to the ground underneath her plants ...

"I'm not sure you'll want to know Ms. Smith."

"I'm a grown woman, Agent Jones. I can handle it."

"Very well, Ms. Smith. Dead aliens."

She raised an eyebrow—"You mean people from other countries?"

"No, Ms. Smith. Space aliens."

"You're kidding me, right?" She laughed. "You're saying my gardener kills aliens from outer space?"

"Not quite, Ms. Smith. It's much worse than you think."

"Go on, Agent Jones ..." She covered her mouth while smiling. "Do explain ..."

"Well, Ms. Smith, harvesters are notorious serial killers. They wander the cosmos killing unsuspecting aliens, and escape through wormholes. They use the alien corpses to fertilize their own indigenous crossbred vegetation with, in this case, Earth's native flora. The hybrid plants and trees digest the DNA of the victims to produce irreversibly addictive narcotics for the victim's species, whom the harvesters then export to."

"Oh my." She gasped. "I just gave a reference for his entire family to work at the golf club!"

"His entire family?" Agent Jones looked at his partner.

"Yes, that's right, he said all of his relatives immigrated to here."

"One moment, please, Ms. Smith." Agent Jones muttered to Agent Marx, "Looks like we'll need to initiate Operation Excavation—leave no part of the soil on this planet unturned."