Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  He unlocked it, glanced quickly in both directions, then stepped through the door. The hallway ran the full width of the house. He started toward the center, where he could see a stairway leading down, but stopped when he heard voices coming from below. Scurrying back to the other end, beyond the bedroom, he found stairs going up and took them.

  This was a closed-in stairway with no light except that which filtered up from below. He paused beside the door at the top and listened. Standing in the near-darkness, he turned the knob. Slowly, he nudged the door open and stepped through. He had entered the attic, where he found a bit more illumination. The area was floored with random-width boards and, except for a few feet toward the front and rear, he could stand easily.

  Quietly, he closed the door and began to examine his surroundings. The attic was obviously seldom used. It was littered with stacks of old magazines, large boxes, rolled-up carpets, a couple of ancient-looking steamer trunks, a pile of old draperies, some odd pieces of furniture draped with sheets. Everything appeared coated with a layer of dust. He took care not to disturb the dust.

  Toward one end of the house, he found a powerful electric motor that was connected to a large wheel suspended over a hole in the floor. A strong steel cable ran over the wheel and down into the darkness, looking like a miniature version of the mechanism that powered the lift in a mine shaft. He realized this one powered a small elevator. No doubt it had been installed for the invalid. They had probably used it this morning to bring him up in the wheelchair. The size of the shaft indicated it would accommodate no more than a wheelchair and a couple of passengers.

  They would discover he was missing anytime now, and a search would begin. He had to find somewhere to hide. There were two bare light bulbs, hanging by cords, about halfway from the center on either side. He hadn't turned them on, but they would doubtless illuminate most of the attic, leaving little space for hiding. He returned to the elevator shaft. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness by now, and he peered down into the shaft. There was barely enough glow to make out the counterbalancing weights, attached to the cable along the near wall. The weights had stopped only a few feet from the top, indicating the cage was at the bottom. He reached out to touch the cable and pulled back a hand smudged with grease.

  The pile of old draperies lay nearby. The cloth was rough and brittle, like the skin of an old man's arm. He ripped off two large pieces of the dark-colored material. Back at the shaft, he crawled over the edge, letting his legs dangle, hooking one foot behind the cable. Wrapping his hands with the heavy cloth, he gripped the cable and slowly slid down until his feet rested on the weights. He flattened himself against the wall and waited, praying no one would want to use the elevator.

  It seemed like ages, but was probably no more than ten minutes, before he heard voices and saw the glow of lights on the time-bronzed rafters above. He held his breath as the voices came nearer.

  "What's this over here?" someone asked.

  "That's the elevator shaft, stupid."

  "Could he be in there?"

  "If he is, his stomach's damn sure ruptured. That's a helluva drop down there."

  "Want me to look down in it?"

  "I don't give a shit. We'd have heard him yell if he fell in."

  Burke heard a shuffle of feet around the motor nearby.

  "I can't see anything. It's too damn dark down there."

  "Forget it. Come on. Let's go down and check the basement."

  The lights went out, and it was quiet again. Burke breathed an audible sigh and began the struggle to climb back up. The tension on his stomach muscles boosted the pain to a new level. It forced him to pause a minute, arms supported by a protruding metal brace, feet clinging to the cable, before climbing back over the edge to the attic floor. At first he merely sprawled there, breathing heavily, intent on resting and considering the rather gloomy possibilities for escape.

  First, he had no idea how many people he might be facing. He had identified three different voices in the attic. The three men from the jet? Probably, but there could be others. Most likely someone outside. He had to get out of the attic, but there was risk of encountering someone at every turn.

  Second, even if he made it down to the main floor undetected, there was still a good possibility of being caught on the outside. His chances would be much improved after dark.

  Depending on the house's location, and it was a little over an hour's flying time from New Orleans, darkness would probably come between eight and nine o'clock. He glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen. He faced a long wait. Then another disturbing thought bubbled its way to the surface. When they failed to find him downstairs, they would probably return to the attic for a more thorough search, probing the dark corners with a flashlight. This time they would undoubtedly check out the elevator shaft.

  There had been mention of a basement. If the shaft extended that far, obviously that's where the elevator sat now. Could he slide down the cable, crawl through the escape hatch into the cage, then exit through the door into the basement? It sounded worth a try, though he would need to wait long enough for the search of the basement to be completed.

  He heard a noise, almost like a cannon on a distant hill, and sat up. Then it sounded again, the roar lasting a bit longer. Thunder? As he listened, the rumbling moved steadily closer.

  At two forty-five, he decided it was time to make his move. Following the procedure he had used before, he climbed down onto the weights. Grasping the cable that held the weights in one cloth-shrouded hand, he reached the other out to grab the cable centered over the darkened shaft. Then, breathing heavily, his heart thumping like a jungle drum, he swung his legs toward the cable and began a downward slide, Tarzan descending on a vine. With nothing to support his weight, he slid out of control. Finally managing to lock his legs around the bundle of steel wires to halt the drop, he began to lower himself slowly into the chasm. With all the grease it would leave on his clothes, he knew he would resemble a greenhorn auto mechanic, but that was the least of his worries.

  By the time his feet touched the top of the metal cage, the thunder had moved close enough that he could feel a vibration in the cable. A direct lightning hit could fry him there like a chicken on a spit. He heard the splatter of rain begin to beat against the roof above. Wind blowing through the attic drew air up the shaft similar to the draft of a chimney. It set up an eerie moaning noise. Stooping down, he felt around and soon located the hatch that lifted to permit escape from a stalled elevator. Enough light spilled around the outside door to show the floor of the cage. Carefully, he slithered through the opening, lowered the hatch, hung there a moment, then dropped to the floor. The cage rattled as he landed, but the sound was muffled by the moan of the shaft and the rumble of thunder. Nevertheless, he paused to listen for any reaction inside the house. Hearing none, he pulled the grillwork barrier open and searched around the outside door until he found a handle. He pulled up on it and watched the door slowly slide aside.

  The elevator opened onto a storeroom that contained cleaning supplies and equipment, carpet steamers and floor polishers, stacks of wood for fireplaces and a shelved corner that Burke first took for a food pantry. Light from the overhead fluorescent fixture bathed the area in a soft glow, and as he looked closer, he realized it was an emergency food supply, including large containers of staples with a long shelf life. The house's owner must have believed the warnings of the doom and gloom newsletter writers to be prepared for the worst.

  Pausing a moment, he checked his left arm to be sure the wound was not bleeding again from all the exertion. He saw no signs of new blood.

  The basement walls were stone, the floor concrete. Shallow windows up near the ceiling, at ground level, let in only a small amount of light because of the heavy overcast that accompanied the thunderstorm. Burke walked to the door opposite the elevator, cracked it an inch and looked out.

  He found a hallway with rooms leading off each side. Moving along slowly, alert for indications
of anyone around, he checked each room as he went. The first two must have been living quarters for servants sometime in the past. Another was the laundry room. Across from the laundry was a small, long-since abandoned bread and pastry kitchen, with a dumb waiter that once carried its delicacies upstairs.

  A heavy wooden stairway rose near the center of the house. And at the opposite end from the elevator stood a well-supplied workshop capable of repairing garden implements and providing general maintenance for the property. A short stairway led up to a below-grade door. Using a ladder to look through a window, Burke saw outside steps of concrete leading up to ground level. After dark, that would provide his escape route.

  Burke walked back through the hallway and discovered something he had missed before. In a small alcove beside the main stairway, a large bell attached to a cord was suspended over a box in the shape of a tic-tac-toe game. Each square contained a number. Burke had seen them before. It was the servants' station, where a ring of the bell summoned them to see which number, corresponding to various rooms, desired their presence. Beside the box were several metal tubes flared out on the end, speaking tubes once used to give instructions to the waiting servants.

  Moving near the tubes, he could hear the murmur of voices, indicating some were still connected to rooms upstairs. He moved his ear along until he found the one emitting the sound.

  "I don't give a shit about the rain," an angry, abrasive voice barked. "Somehow he's managed to get out of this damned house. Ed's been keeping watch out front. He must have slipped out the back way. He shouldn't have gotten far. Ed will take the car and drive around the area. The rest of you fan out on foot and cover the properties up and down the road. Charlie, you take the other side. There's gonna be asses kicked all over this damn county if we don't get him back in here. Move it!"

  Burke smiled. If they thought he had already escaped, no one should be watching for him out back after dark.

  EAST ST. LOUIS, ILLINOIS

  Chapter 42

  The cavernous warehouse stood on the banks of the Mississippi River at the northern edge of the city. It had been painted a dull battleship gray, an appropriate shade since functionally it was about as antiquated as those aging vessels with their monstrous guns and questionable utility. The warehouse's ceiling was much lower than most modern storage buildings, its loading docks less than the optimum height, its doors too narrow. As a consequence, the former tenants had opted for newer facilities, its owner had declared bankruptcy and an already overburdened bank had taken title. A large sign beside the road, near the access gate in the high chain link fence, told it all:

  For sale, rent or lease. No reasonable offer will be refused.

  A slow moving mass of low-lying, grayish-black clouds hung over the area like a Damoclean sword, adding to the melancholy look of the deserted structure. The agent whose name appeared on the sign had received a call that morning from someone who had identified himself as an officer of the bank, instructing him to unlock the gate by noon. He was also told to unlock the ground level access door at the end where a row of high windows provided daylight illumination. Someone would be out during the afternoon to show the building to a customer who had demanded the strictest confidentiality. That was fine with the agent, who had more promising business to take care of, since he would collect his commission regardless of who made the sale.

  A blue panel truck with Missouri plates and a sticker identifying it as the property of a Kansas City rental firm arrived first. The driver opened the gate and drove into the large paved area, which blossomed with a variety of exotic weeds growing through cracks in the asphalt. Closing the gate behind him, he proceeded to the building and parked inside.

  Some thirty minutes later, a white truck bearing freshly-painted red and blue lettering on its sides appeared at the gate, followed by a small tan pickup. The lettering read "Lone Star Network Satellite Service." A painted replica of a dish antenna aimed skyward had been incorporated into the design. The painter had required a picture to complete the job, since he had never stolen a dish antenna.

  When the last two vehicles pulled inside the warehouse, Robert Jeffries walked over to greet the occupants. Blythe Ingram, driver of the pickup, was first out.

  "Have any problems finding the place, Blythe?" Jeffries asked. He was dressed in short sleeve blue coveralls bearing the ever-present "RJ" monogram.

  "No sweat." Ingram shook his head, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "Don't say anything about what happened on the island. I haven't told them." He wasn't too sure himself.

  Jeffries looked around at the Jabberwock trio ambling across the concrete floor. "Hi, guys," he said, smiling. "I've got the rest of your mechanism in the back here." He pointed a thumb at the rented blue vehicle. "How does the truck handle on the road, Gary?"

  "Easy. I've driven 'em bigger." Overmyer’s experience had included some of the Army’s largest rigs. Shrugging, he said, "She's a bit slow on the uptake. Until you get her up to speed, you'd be damned lucky to pass anybody."

  Ingram folded his arms and looked across with skepticism. "He can make damned good time when he gets a full head of steam, I can tell you that. When he got too rambunctious, I had to pull around and flag him down."

  Overmyer gave a defensive shrug. "You haven't had to do that much. I'm a law-abiding citizen."

  "You'd damn well better be," Jeffries said with a rumpled brow. "We sure don't want any nosy cops getting around that vehicle. How far are you going tonight?"

  "Indianapolis," said Overmyer.

  Ingram nodded. "We want to make Toronto tomorrow night. It'll mean a really long day. You guys going to feel like driving thirteen hours?"

  "I have no objection," said Richter with a shrug.

  Abdalla looked out through cold, deliberate eyes. "Whatever the plan calls for."

  Jeffries walked over to the panel truck and opened the rear doors. He gestured inside. "Here's your dish. All we have to do is set it on the arms in back of the truck and bolt it down. It shouldn't be too difficult. This is a mock-up of the real thing, designed for use in displays. It's made from lighter materials instead of the steel of an actual dish. I'll show you how to maneuver it around with the controls."

  It took only a few minutes to install the dish, particularly with Hans Richter manhandling it as though it were a large aluminum umbrella. Jeffries demonstrated how to operate the elevation and azimuth controls, and they were soon ready to resume the journey to Indianapolis. Ingram instructed Overmyer to go ahead, that he would catch up with them in a few minutes. He had some business to take care of with Jeffries.

  As the satellite truck pulled out, Ingram turned to his colleague. "I understand there's a real flap over what happened on the island. All I've been told is that Ted is no longer with us, that I'd have to chaperon the team until they could send a replacement. We're supposed to meet him tomorrow night, just across the border."

  Jeffries nodded, frowning. "It was gruesome when we got back out there Saturday afternoon. Ted and Sarge were both dead. Ted was lying in the doorway of the shop, the back of his head blown off. Sarge was tied to a chair, a bullet through his heart. It looked like the Sarge was shot with Ted's gun, and Ted with Sarge's .45. But who pulled the triggers is anybody's guess. That private investigator, or whatever he was, and the black man were long gone."

  "Damn," Ingram said nervously. "Has anybody found them yet?"

  “According to my father-in-law, the white guy's real name is Hill. I was told this morning they had an operation under way to lure him into a trap. They were taking him to a house near Nashville owned by Mr. Wizner. It's been unoccupied since his sister died. They're planning to use drugs to find out about the black guy and if Hill has talked to anybody else about Jabberwock."

  "I'd better check with Mr. Newman tonight and see where everything stands." Ingram didn't like the sound of it.

  "Good idea. I'm sure he'll know. I think he was supplying the airplane to fly Hill out of New Orleans."

 
Lori had spotted the tail shortly after she left home that morning. It was a dark blue Ford with a dent nearly in the center of the left front fender. She shook her head. Someone should tell the guy you don't use vehicles with obviously identifiable marks in surveillance. It was still with her later in the morning when she crossed the Key Bridge into Georgetown, looped onto the Whitehurst Freeway and picked up Pennsylvania Avenue at Washington Circle. She spotted it cruising past as she parked in the area behind the House office buildings on the south side of the Capitol.

  The congressman was late for his appointment with Lori and apologetically invited her to lunch in one of the House dining rooms. Afterward, she drove downtown for a few follow-up calls. When she hit the streets, she soon singled out a man dressed in a short-sleeve white shirt, navy blue slacks and powder blue tie. Long brown hair was tossed about his head by a sultry, ill-tempered wind. He kept his distance most of the time. When she entered a business, he paused to window shop or stroll into a nearby store.

  Lori kept to her routine and gave no indication that she was aware of any of this. She had planned her schedule to wind up near the Pennsylvania Avenue office in late afternoon. This was the phone number she had left with the congressman's receptionist for relay to Burke. The small Clipper Cruise & Travel office was located in a storefront building with floor-to-ceiling windows, providing an unobstructed view from the street. There were a few desks in the open area, with the manager's office and a workroom at the rear.