The first thing he should do was go tell the mayor what had happened last night. His honor could call out the local militia, or even get on the hom to the governor and see about getting out the National Guard.
He went into the glassed-in lobby of the courthouse/ city hall and walked toward the receptionist’s desk.
“His honor in?” he asked, walking past the desk.
“Not yet, Sheriff.”
Pythias stopped cold, smelling a rat. “He’s not?” He glanced at his watch. “It’s past ten o’clock. Where do you suppose he is?”
The woman, Peg MacGregor, looked concerned. “I don’t know, Mr. Day. I called his house, but there’s no answer.”
Pythias nodded. He walked around the back, to the village motor pool, and got his patrol car. He’d only driven it once before, but it would get him there in spite of its ice cream lights on top and its buzzing radio plugged into the switchboard here in city hall.
Pythias ducked into his office, found the car keys hanging from a board, and went out to the patrol car.
Three minutes later he was pulling into the half-mile-long driveway belonging to the Cochrane estate. The mayor was the recipient of the largest fortune in these parts, his great-grandfather having made the family fortune in lumber in the nineteenth century. Ever since then, the Cochranes had been in public service.
It seemed unnaturaly still up here today, Pythias thought. There was usually a gardener raking leaves, or somebody painting one of the outbuildings, or somebody riding a horse across the spacious grounds. Not a soul stirred around the mansion.
Pythias got out of the car and walked up the mansion’s front steps. He used the big brass knocker on the oak door, but no one answered.
“Funny,” he said after trying again. There was a houseful of servants here, Mrs. Cochrane, and God only knew who else. Pythias tried to open the door, and it swung inward.
After a few seconds, he stepped gingerly inside. There was an empty foyer. The only sign that something might be wrong was a little mahogany table turned over on its side on the carpet.
The house was silent. Pythias moved quietly through its rooms. He found the first body in the kitchen—the cook, with a surprised look on her face and a hole burned in her breast. He found the maid on the stairs. Apparently she’d been trying to get away when she was cut down.
Mrs. Cochrane lay on the carpet in the upstairs hall. She was wearing a silk nightgown, her patrician face peering from between two banister spokes. She had been looking down at him all the time he had been prowling the downstairs, but of course she hadn’t minded that he had entered uninvited.
Tom Cochrane was inside the master bedroom. He was on the floor only a couple paces from a huge canopied bed that must have been in this room for generations.
Unlike his wife, the mayor was lying faceup. He wore a puzzled look, as if he couldn’t understand how such a thing could happen to him and his wife and their servants.
Pythias guessed that he’d find the gardener outside, and the handyman too, perhaps somewhere among the hedges or in one of the sheds or other outbuildings. He shook his head.
They might have come here looking for him—him or Randall Brunk. Had John Ellis told the Visitors he suspected their enemies had been hiding here, or had the mayor and his family been killed just to demoralize the town of Cutter’s Cove?
He sighed, thinking that he would probably never know.
Chapter 12
Willie was being fed so that he would have his strength when Ronald set him free. Ronald wanted Willie to provide good sport when he hunted him down. Rejecting the rodents that were brought to him, Willie devoured only vegetables. Since he had worked with the resistance, he had devoted himself to the preta-na-ma, in which the eating of flesh was forbidden. He found that vegetarianism gave him stamina that he had never possessed before, even back on the home world, when he was little more than an eggling.
Willie had been raised in the provinces, where people still believed in the old religion. They would never succeed in eradicating the preta-na-ma in the Sirian system. The more they suppressed it, the stronger its adherents became.
How had his world come to such a sorry state? It seemed to him that his people were essentially good, and yet they had somehow permitted this evil form of government to dominate them until they all lived in fear.
The humans claimed that their world had known such governments, but never on a global scale, and they had barely dreamed of totalitarianism on an interplanetary scale, much less the interstellar terror they suffered now.
Like all those who had been sent to Earth, Willie had been indoctrinated thoroughly. He had been taught that the humans were inferior beings, incapable of pure reason without emotion.
To prove that the Sirians had a right to conquer Earth,
the instructors cited the age of dinosaurs as evidence that reptilian life had dominated the planet long before humankind. The inability of the human race to form a worldwide government to arbitrate their regional differences was mentioned as further proof. It was the right— no, the duty—of Willie’s people to civilize these beasts.
Willie had almost believed it, until he had come to Earth and seen what they were really like, these humans. He had been loved by them, and he found their despised emotion as not such a bad thing. A human woman had loved him, and she had died because of her love. How could he turn his back on that?
He must endeavor to escape from this place. Otherwise, Ronald would kill him like a wild beast. Perhaps he could overpower the guard when he brought food. No, they would never allow themselves to be fooled twice in the same way. In spite of the obvious limitations of the military mind, Ronald was not stupid.
Willie would simply have to wait and take his chances. If Ronald gave him any chance at all, it was better than the chance he had here, rotting in this filthy closet.
That was it, then. He would wait and do everything Ronald wanted him to do. He would not permit Ronald to torment him; instead, he would put his faith in the power of the preta-na-ma. This, Ronald would never understand.
Willie began to chant the ritual of Zon, to give himself strength and to weaken his enemies.
His voice echoed in the tiny enclosure, a pleasurable sound ... at least to Willie.
Outside the little storage room, the guards cringed at the sound of the renewed chanting from within. When their master approached, the two of them were relieved by the interruption.
“He still sings?” Ronald asked in amazement. “Does lie think this is a festive occasion?”
“I don’t know, sir,” one of the guards said.
Ronald waved him to silence. “I didn’t expect you to answer, you fool.”
Ronald stared at the locked door. After a long moment, he slammed his bunched claw against it. The singing stopped for a short time and then resumed.
Ronald pounded on the door again. “Silence!” he shouted.
The singing stopped again. “As you wish,” Willie said from the other side of the door.
Somehow this did not placate Ronald. “If he begins that horrible chanting again,” he said menacingly, “call for me at once. He breaks the law every time he chants from the ritual of Zon.”
The guards cowered at the very name of Zon, the forbidden faith.
Ronald stalked away, walking the length of the building and going outside. He went to the skyfighter and uttered a subvocal command that sent the ramp down and opened the hatch.
He entered the ship and made certain that the hatch was closed behind him. He then uttered another command, and a panel, seven feet by three, emerged from the wall.
Removing his uniform, cap, and glasses, Ronald opened the panel, which was shaped like an Egyptian sarcophagus. He lay inside, and the panel closed over him.
A moment later, a vibration shook the tiny cubicle. A warm chemical bath washed over Ronald’s squamous flesh, and tendrillike filaments worked on the fluid covering him as it cooled and hardened into a substance indistin
guishable from human flesh.
When he emerged, Ronald was the image of a naked human male, save for his yellow, reptilian eyes. He opened a box with a selection of plastic eyes and picked a pair of green ones. He inserted them in his pseudo-skin human face, and then examined himself in a mirror. Once a wig was in place, no one would know he wasn’t human.
The perfect disguise to wear on a mission to Cutter’s Cove.
Chapter 13
As Pythias cruised the streets of Cutter’s Cove and the outlying regions, he notice that people tended to shun him. You would have thought he was a Visitor himself, he thought, coming back into town on the Backlick Road.
“That’s it!” he shouted. It was Ellis, claiming he was working with the Visitors, distracting people from realizing the truth. Well, maybe it was time to pay John Ellis a little visit. Pythias had a pretty good idea of where to find that no-good son of a bitch.
He turned up Union Street and parked in front of Mike’s Tavern. Making sure the laser was hidden under his coat, he stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and opened the barroom door.
Ellis, sitting at the bar, did not look up.
“Hello, John,” Pythias said.
Ellis raised his fair, surly head, and his jaw dropped as he saw who it was.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mike Sherman said. “What are you doing here, Pythias? Everybody thought you were dead or captured by them lizards.”
“I was captured, all right.”
“Then the lizard led you into a trap?” Herb Walsh asked.
“That was what I thought at first,” Pythias said, moving to the other end of the bar, away from John Ellis. “Beer, Mike.”
“That wasn’t what happened?” Mike said as he drew the beer from the tap.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Well, what did happen?” demanded Herb. “I never knew a man could stretch out a story like you, Pythias.” Pythias smiled. “He helped me escape.”
“What?” they all cried.
As the men buzzed about what Pythias had just said, John Ellis rose off his bar stool and lumbered ominously toward the older man.
“What the hell are you talking about, Day?” he shouted.
“You heard me, John.” Pythias took a long sip of beer and smacked his lips.
“Everybody knows the Visitors don’t just let you go after they’ve captured you.”
“Didn’t claim they did,” Pythias said, running his fingers along the side of the glass, rubbing off the moisture. “The Visitors captured Willie and me. Since he was one of them, they didn’t realize he was a member of the resistance, like he told us.”
John Ellis snarled.
“But he was.” Pythias looked at him sharply. “I know it, because the first chance he got, he came and helped me get away from the room they had me locked in.” “No kidding,” Mike Sherman said.
“No, sir,” Pythias replied, taking another sip of his beer. “No kidding at all.”
“I never heard such a crock of shit in my entire life,” John Ellis said.
“Is that right, John?” Pythias said, drawing himself up to his full height as he stood. “You got a better story?”
Ellis lost his imposing anger; he began to look confused. “What do you mean?”
“You seem awful sure what I’m saying isn’t true. What’s your version?”
“Why, I wasn’t there. I . . .”
“But you took some men out last night, didn’t you? To find me, you claimed. Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right, but what—”
“That’s what I want to know, John,” Pythias said, looking straight into Ellis’ evasive eyes. “How come you’re the only one who came back?”
“I . . . was lucky,” Ellis said as his tiny red-rimmed eyes darted from one side of the room to the other.
Everyone was staring at him now, wondering the same thing Pythias wondered. Why had twenty-five men gone out, and only John Ellis come back?
“You can’t prove nothing.” Ellis turned toward the bar, where his gun was leaning.
“I wouldn’t if I were you, John,” Pythias said coolly. “These things burn like hell.”
Ellis turned around and saw the laser pistol in Pythias’ hand.
“I’m taking you down to the station for questioning,” said Pythias. “And I might arrest you for the murders of those men.”
“You out of you mind, Day?” Ellis bellowed. “You haven’t got a shred of evidence.”
“We’ll see about that, boy.”
Ellis glanced at his shotgun, wondering if he could make it over to it without getting hit.
“Don’t even think about going for that peashooter, son,” Pythias said. “Or I’ll bum you down to a cinder right where you stand.”
Ellis put up his hands, feeling sweat run down his face.
“Now, march,” Pythias instructed.
Ellis marched.
Jane was doing the laundry. She lifted a box of detergent, racking her brain for the ten thousandth time, trying to think of where Sarah and Dr. Brunk could possibly be hiding. She stared mutely at the box of Tide, and then the image of an ocean wave washed through her mind.
“The ocean,” she said aloud. “Dr. Brunk’s got a cabin on some island out in the ocean.”
She set down the box and went to the phone to call Pythias Day. But then she thought of what John Ellis had done last night. There was no telling who else might be involved with the Visitors, and there were ways to listen in on the phone conversations. It would be better if she went down to city hall herself.
She rushed to the closet and put on her jacket, and then hurried out to the car. Realizing she had forgotten her purse when she went to lock the door, she ran back inside and picked it up.
A few seconds later she was in the Civic, revving up the engine and backing out onto the street. A pickup truck roared by, honking at her. She slammed on the brakes and waited for him to pass and then started out of the yard a little more slowly.
A big man, wearing a blue business suit, entered the tiny sheriff’s office in the back of city hall, the bell ringing over his head.
He looked at the bell oddly for a moment and then down at Pythias; the latter seemed to detect a familiar look in the stranger’s green eyes.
“What can I do for you, mister?” Pythias asked.
“I understand you have my cousin incarcerated here,” the man said.
“What’s his name?” Pythias asked, thinking there must be some mistake.
“John Ellis.”
“Yeah, we got him locked up back there, all right.” Pythias opened a desk drawer to get the keys out. “I never knew he had a cousin around here.”
“You’re quite right, Sheriff,” the man said, smiling. I’m Bill Ellis, from Bangor. I haven’t seen John in years, but I was in Rockland on business and 1 decided to stop over here and visit him, since it’s so close.”
“He’s only been here a short time,” Pythias said. “How does it happen you’ve found out about it already.”
“Well, I went to the nearest bar, and they said he was here.” Bill Ellis looked troubled. “I hope it’s nothing very serious.”
“Just questioning, for now.” Pythias led him back into the cell block. John Ellis sat sulking in the cell, the effect of the liquor he had drunk weighing heavily upon him now.
“John,” Pythias said, “there’s someone here to see you.”
John Ellis looked up, and his sullen expression changed. But it wasn’t the look Pythias expected. He looked puzzled.
“Of course you don’t recognize me,” Bill Ellis said. “You haven’t seen me since you were eight. I was stationed in the Middle East for years. I’m your cousin Bill . . . from Bangor.”
“Oh, Bill. ...” Ellis sat up. “What are you doing here?”
“Just coincidence. I was in Rockland and thought I’d stop over in Cutter’s Cove to see my long-lost cousin. What a surprise.”
“For both of us.” There was mer
riment in Ellis’ eyes now. “What a day you picked to find me.”
Pythias left them alone, reasonably satisfied that it was in fact only a coincidence Bill Ellis had come today of all days. Stranger things had happened, he supposed.
Nevertheless, he pulled his chair up where he could see the two men talking, Bill Ellis leaning against the bars as they chatted. Bill looked like a man of means, unfortunately. He would probably let John talk him into bailing him out.
No sense in speculating about it, Pythias decided. Whatever happened now, he knew the truth about John Ellis. And John Ellis couldn’t be certain how much he knew either. As long as he was in jail, Ellis couldn’t communicate with the Visitors, and as soon as he got out, Pythias would keep him under surveillance.
Pythias sighed, thinking how nice it would be if he could get a deputy. There was a shortage of men in the village these days, though. Only the drunks at Mike’s were left, and Pythias didn’t want another weakling like John Ellis, who might shoot him in the back to get in good with the Visitors. No, he would have to go it alone. He had been selfish to involve Jane Foley in this thing. He should have taken a ride home and left it at that. And yet, he was glad he had stayed at her house the night before. She had needed comfort as much as he did, and so it wasn’t a bad thing that he’d done.
At that moment, a familiar blue Honda Civic pulled up into the parking lot. Jane Foley jumped out and ran toward the office like a girl, her skirt flying behind her.
She burst into the office excitedly, slamming the door, the bell jangling overhead.
“Pythias!” she cried. “I think I know where Sarah and Dr. Brunk are. Brank owns an island a little way off the coast!”
Pythias tried to shush her, but it was too late. He glanced into the cell block and saw Bill and John Ellis both staring attentively at Jane.
V 09 - The New England Resistance Page 4