by Mike Baron
A cheap garage sale desk hunkered between towers of files and boxes beneath a small window. A large leather ledger was open on the desk. Fagan flipped it open.
It was written in German and filled with mathematical and chemical equations, disturbing drawings of the human nervous system. Here, too, dozens of newspaper and magazine articles had been clipped and stuck to the file cabinets with magnets. These dealt with both animal and human cloning, stem cell research, the regeneration of organs in lab animals and humans. An old cover of Wired showing an improbably smooth androgynous person over the headline, IS THIS THE FUTURE OF HUMANITY?
The bile rose from Fagan’s stomach as a wave of revulsion rose within him. He choked it down, leaned forward and brushed the heavy ledger aside. Beneath it was a black patent leather photo album, six by seven inches, embossed with the gold Reichsführer symbol and in gold script: Gruppenführer Heinrich R. Von Mulverstedt.
Fagan stared at it as if it were a venomous snake. He feared to touch it yet he knew he must. With trembling hand he unsnapped the clasp and opened it at random to two facing black and white pictures. He reeled back as if struck by a baseball bat. The black and white images were at once clinical and obscene. A naked androgynous subject strapped to a gurney, face contorted in agony as a serious-looking Von Mulverstedt in white lab coat and stethoscope prepared a syringe. Von Mulverstedt’s hair was greased and combed straight back like that of some matinee idol. A tube connected to a clear plastic bag filled with dark liquid went into one of the subject’s eyes.
The other was worse.
Fagan closed the album. He listened to the old house creak. The faintest rumble of thunder. The storm was moving off.
He pulled open the file drawer on his left. Hanging files in alphabetical order in German. Fagan found receipts for everything from medical supplies to canned peaches, all delivered to a private post office box in Paducah. Smart. Von Mulverstedt could visit at any hour of the day or night avoiding scrutiny.
Fagan found accounts in Germany and the Cayman Islands, receipts for a Gold Visa in the name of Helmut Von Mulverstedt.
Hiding in plain sight. A phantom. The First Bank of Cayman paid the utility and credit card bills electronically. Von Mulverstedt appeared to be tech savvy but there was no computer. Maybe somewhere else.
Fagan pushed himself away from the desk with a scrape and went to the next room. Standing to one side he used his left hand to turn the knob and push the door inward. There was no response. Fagan stepped through pistol first and swept the room.
Heartbreak.
The monastic cot, the thrift store nightstand, the photo on the bureau. It was a color photo of a smiling, handsome man holding his beautiful wife, a dead ringer for Janet, wearing a red dress with the two smiling kids in front. It looked like it had been taken somewhere in the country, perhaps after they’d embarked on their American journey in their rental car.
Helmut had been a good-looking dude, a Marlboro man, a rangy matinee idol, a German Eastwood. She was a stunner. They could have been Hollywood royalty or a Norman Rockwell painting.
The only wall decoration was a cheaply framed Doctorate of Microbiology from the Medizinische Fakultut, Friedrich-Alexander. It was badly torn and a little burned. The bed bore a slight indentation—not the monster’s. The closet door stood open revealing the four grotesque leather suits and helmets.
Where’d he get the money?
Fagan opened the bureau drawer.
A Walther P38 lay in its well-oiled holster. Fagan picked it up, undid the clasp and withdrew it. There were swastikas on the grip. He replaced the pistol. There was a box of Wolf ammo and a dozen pair identical white gym socks.
He went through the other drawers. A dozen pair black short-sleeved cotton tees, size XXL. A dozen black jockey shorts.
Satisfied Macy wasn’t on the second floor Fagan slung the shotgun over his shoulder and descended with his pistol in one hand. The roast pork aroma was tantalizing and sickening. Fagan circled through the living room and tiny dining area into the kitchen. The light over the stove was on, the black roasting pot shoved to the back.
He pulled the pot toward him. It was warm but not hot. He lifted the lid, slammed it back and shoved the pot to the back of the stove.
Some terrible Teutonic ritual. Von Mulverstedt was a scientist! Why would he eat the head?
Fagan listened. The stove clicked as it cooled. The house cracked as it settled. Thunder rumbled a long ways off. Fagan plucked the newspaper clipping off the counter and read with disbelief about the tragic ending to the Von Mulverstedt family vacation.
How could Fullerton not know this?!
Where did the paralyzed Von Mulverstedt recuperate? How did he regain use of his limbs? His story had earthshaking ramifications for the world of medicine. What if he had regenerated his entire nervous system? The monster in black leather was fast as a cat and strong as a horse.
Fagan instantly deduced that the Von Mulverstedts had been run off the road by bikers. What other possible motive was there? The man was consumed with hatred. His interest in Macy was obvious—she was a dead ringer for Von Mulverstedt’s late wife.
Fagan scanned the news clippings looking for a name. Ingrid.
Von Mulverstedt loved his wife so perhaps Macy was not in immediate danger.
That left only one area unexplored.
***
CHAPTER 38
The Basement
The scarred wooden door opened with a creak. The basement steps were the same impossible slope as the others. The banister started at ground level and sloped down into stygian darkness. Fagan found a light switch at the head of the stairs and flicked it without result. He turned on his pen light and stuck it in his teeth, gripping the pistol in his left hand and the banister with his right.
Fagan inched down the steps straining for the slightest sound. With each descent sound seemed to retreat so that by the time he reached the bottom he might as well have been inside a cave. The basement smelled of damp, coal, ammonia and other chemicals. Putting the pen light in his hand, Fagan did a slow three-sixty. The wall directly before him in front of the house was rough concrete. A wooden work bench filled the narrow space. Pegboard on the wall held hammers, chisels, pliers, screwdrivers and other tools. There was a drill press and a compound miter saw fastened to the bench, and a vise.
A forty-eight ounce soup can stripped of its label and a small sauce pot rested on the counter. Plastic bins held circuitry, boards, transistors, capacitors. Everything was neatly organized, every piece in its place.
To its right a relatively new wall bisected the basement. It was finished in knotty pine and felt solid to Fagan’s touch. There was a metal door set flush with a metal frame in the middle. Three steps cut out of the floor led down to the door. If Fagan hadn’t shined a light on it he might have broken his neck. On Fagan’s left were floor-to-ceiling metal warehouse shelves holding a dozen enormous jars.
They reminded him of his own basement bedroom.
For a second Fagan thought they might be specimens or pickled pigs heads. He shone the light directly on one. Bulging eyes stared sightlessly in an emaciated face. Quarter-sized black discs were affixed to the forehead with wires running up through the lid. There were gauges and circuit boards on the lid, wires running to a power source. It was difficult to tell the race or age of the head in the jar. Only the tats had not deteriorated in some way. Fagan could not stop himself from looking at the three other jars on the shelf. And then at the ones below. Feeling detached and under enormous pressure he returned his gaze to the nearest jar. A stream of bubbles escaped from the head. The massive yellow eyes swiveled and fixed on Fagan.
Help me, the head mouthed.
A leather clad arm snaked around Fagan’s neck and constricted, lifting him off the ground. Black vacuum enveloped him.
He woke on the ground with his head enclosed in a tight chamber. Hands went up encountering a smooth plastic surface. The light was dim, as if from a distant
star. He wore a full-face helmet with a heavily-tinted face shield. Fagan sat up and tried to lift the face shield. It wouldn’t lift. It was super-glued to the frame. He felt for the clasp. There was no clasp. The tough nylon belt fed into some kind of slot from which there was no release. No light sneaked in around the neck opening. There was next to no light in the helmet.
Fagan had dropped his pistol and pen light. There was no point searching for them. He had to get the helmet off. Fagan crawled until he found the wall. Paneling. It was the wall dividing the basement. He stood and flailed about until his hand struck a small weight on a string. It disappeared and he waved his arm until it struck him again, waited patiently for its gyrations to stop, seized it and pulled. A dim bulb went on directly over his head. A sixty-watter screwed directly into a ceramic base screwed into the open wood-beam ceiling. The ceiling was so low Helmet Head would have to stoop.
It was difficult to see through the scratched and tinted shield. Fagan went to the workbench and grabbed the smallest chisel, inserting the edge between the face plate and the helmet. No matter how he tried he could not get a firm purchase with which to pry the shield away. He gradually became aware of a faint whine. At first he thought he was doing it himself but when he held his breath the whine persisted.
He went down the three steps. The steps were jumbo-sized, two inches deeper than normal. Fagan laid the helmet against the metal door. The whine issued from within sending an electric current of terror through his heart.
His scalp itched to the point of madness. He seized the helmet with both hands and worked it furiously over his head in an effort to relieve the itching.
He had to get the helmet off. It wasn’t just the itching. It was claustrophobia, too. He’d never had a problem with it before, but here, head sealed in a box in a basement it felt crushing. He couldn’t breathe.
Gasping, he returned to the workbench. He put both hands on the bench and steadied his breathing, trying to regain a measure of control. He seized the hack saw. He tried cutting upward from the helmet base to get to the strap but he couldn’t get a decent purchase on the tough fiberglass without fixed support. It was like trying to pick up mercury.
That left the miter saw. In order to cut through the nylon strap he would have to bring the saw directly up beneath his jaw against his throat.
Why were there no other cutting tools? Why no tin snips, blades or keyhole saws? A thousand red ants chewed into his scalp to the point where he wanted to hurl himself against the concrete wall and smash the helmet off his head.
Fagan adjusted the blade, rotating the guard back and exposing the jagged edge. The miter saw was a vertical rotating disc. He flipped the toggle switch and the saw spun with an anxiety-inducing whine. Ever so slowly he lowered his chin over the spinning blade. The first hook caught the strap and yanked the helmet down against the blade. The helmet bounced back and up. It was like taking two to the head from Mike Tyson. Fagan caught his balance and returned. He had to keep the blade against the strap.
The Pit and the Pendulum.
Again, he lowered his chin atop the blade and this time, using his hands and his neck, he forced himself to endure the savage teeth as they ripped through the strap and hit his flesh sending him reeling back out of control smashing into the metal shelves.
Fagan fell to the ground and ripped the helmet off his head even as he heard the splank of breaking glass and felt the splash of acrid liquid against his cheek. With a grunt he hurled the helmet at the wall. It smacked and rolled making a dry hollow sound. He got to his knees and turned.
An emaciated hairless head gasped for breath in a pool of viscous liquid, mouth opening and closing like a grouper’s, wires attached to its neck and forehead. Fagan followed the wires up to the shelf, to a series of cables that ran behind the shelf, running through modulators to a number of pressurized tanks set up at one end. Some of the tanks bore a red skull and crossbones.
There were eleven jars on the shelves. Each held a human head. Most were looking at him, agitated bubbles escaping the corners of their rictus-mouths.
Those eyes. Some were sunken, some bulbous, some milky white with enormous pupils. All looking at him, pleading, warning, raw hatred. Madness.
Shuddering, he worked his nails into his scalp like a man trying to escape being buried alive. He turned toward the workbench searching for a weapon.
He saw the fire ax beneath the bench.
***
CHAPTER 39
The Source
Blood seeped down Fagan’s neck into his shirt. There were no mirrors in the basement and he dared not waste the time to go upstairs and look. By feel he determined it was not a serious cut. He used duct tape and tissue from a box to bind the wound leaving a silver band around his neck.
The faint whining from behind the metal door had stopped. It was as if the house was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. He could almost feel its faint exhalation as something stirred the air. He got down on his knees on the bottom stoop and laid his head flat against the dust-covered concrete floor trying to peer through the quarter inch gap beneath the metal door. He saw light, linoleum, and stainless steel. He listened.
Not a sound issued from behind the door. He stood, hefting the ax in both hands. His side was a throbbing mass of pain. His introduction to the basement had been so intense he hadn’t noticed but now it came roaring back. Fagan stared at the door handle. Not a knob. A handle. The door was too high-tech for its surroundings. It was fitted with a dead bolt lock. He wouldn’t know if the door were locked until he tried it.
The minutest brush of moan issued from somewhere up above, so soft Fagan was not sure he heard it. He froze, white knuckles gripping the ax. The front stoop creaked as someone stepped on it. The visitor ponderously mounted the three stairs, each step eliciting squeals and groans from the sagging wood. The front door opened and shut.
The visitor paused inside the door.
And paused.
The seconds staggered by like a noon train in the middle of town. Fagan found himself breathing with a high keening sound and forced himself to inhale deeply. The minutes stretched on. What was he doing? The same thing as Fagan? Listening, extending his senses, trying to divine who was in the house?
But if it were Helmet Head, who had been operating the machinery behind the metal door? It could have been an automatic compressor. A refrigerator. Or any other electronically timed device.
The footsteps resumed with an odd clumping gait as if on uneven legs. The visitor marched straight back through the house, threw open the basement door and started down as if he owned the place. Fagan dashed beneath the stairs clutching his ax. The area beneath the stairs was crowded with metal tanks, regulators, and boxes filled with circuit boards, transformers and switches.
The visitor stood beneath the sixty watt bulb. A mesomorphic body wearing filthy blue jeans, a T-shirt. The visitor had no head. Instead it had a circuit board and a tiny camera that swiveled on a gimbal mount. It breathed through a tiny circular valve inserted into its larynx emitting an odd wheezing sound. The camera swiveled with a tiny whine until it fixed on Fagan. The shoulders slowly followed.
It was Fred. Fagan recognized the shirt. Fagan ran forward and brought the blunt end of the ax down on top of the camera and circuit board. There was a spark, a whiff of smoke, the smell of jet plane fuel. Fred took one step forward and collapsed.
Fagan bent to examine the device fixed to Fred’s neck. Fagan knew little about electronics but even he could see this wasn’t the usual circuit board. It had a homebuilt quality—using folded metallic gum wrapper and tiny gold earrings for connections. The transistors—or whatever they were—were nothing like he’d seen before with translucent segments.
Fagan searched Fred again from force of habit. Nothing new. He searched more thoroughly for his gun. Gone. All he had was the ax. He really had no choice. If Macy was behind that door he had to go through now.
Gripping the ax Fagan turned the handle
and shoved the door back. Fluorescent light blinded him for a second and he instinctively pulled back and to the side.
Nothing happened.
Gripping the ax ferociously Fagan stepped through the door.
Into a gleaming underground laboratory that descended another four steps to tunnel under the earth toward the hills. The basement level had an institutional linoleum floor and acoustic tile ceiling with flush-fitted fluorescent housing. To his right a series of six foot vertical cabinets with convex doors lined the wall. And here, at last, were the computers: a laptop set up near the cabinets showing graph charts, a desk model at another station against the wall.
Where did they get power? Where did they get internet access? Fagan had seen no dish antennae or lines but that meant little. Von Mulverstedt could have run the lines through the forest to a dish. Just looking at the underground complex gave Fagan an eerie sensation. Look what one man could accomplish when he set his mind to it.
Von Mulverstedt may have found a way to restore damaged nerve tissue. He had solved the insurmountable problems of keeping detached human heads alive. He had found a way to animate dead bodies.
What could he not do? Von Mulverstedt had come closer than any human being to understanding the secret of life itself and what did he do with it? The desktop computer was connected to a radiator-looking hard-drive. Fat cables criss-crossed the floor held in place by gaffer’s tape. They all converged in the wall next to a metal door the size of a broom closet. Fagan turned the latch and pulled it open.
Inside was a massive copper coil made of half-inch tubing, about six feet high. It hummed faintly and Fagan could feel its heat. It took him a second to realize that the coil was wrapped around an axis, poking up about six inches to within an inch of the closet ceiling, which was fitted with a concave dish. Fagan couldn’t clearly see the axis without removing the copper tubing and he wasn’t about to touch anything. The protruding top came to a point. Fagan stood on his tiptoes and examined it as best he could.