by Tom Abrahams
I sling the Tec-9 over my shoulder, and grab his shoulders. “Mack, it’s me, Jackson. What happened?”
He’s heavy, almost dead weight, and he barely helps me sit him up. It’s evident he was jumped. There’s a lump on the back left side of his head, his nose is bloodied, his bottom lip is swollen. He mumbles again. He’s not going to be much help.
“Okay, Mack, I’m gonna ask you ‘yes/no’ questions. Nod your head or shake it. You don’t have to talk.”
His neck is limp, his chin against his chest, but he manages a nod.
“Were you jumped when you left the bar?”
A nod.
“Was it someone you knew?”
Another nod.
“That mustache, Sam Elliott guy, named Duke?”
He nods with a shrug. Maybe he’s not sure.
“Anyone else jump you?”
Mack shrugs.
“Was Bella with you?”
He nods.
“Was she conscious? Was she okay? Did they hurt her?”
A grunt. To many questions at once. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.
“Was she okay?”
A shrug.
“Was she hurt?”
Mack shrugs again.
“Did they take her inside the mine?”
He nods.
“To the lab?”
Another nod.
“Okay. I’m gonna help you here, but I need to get to Bella first.”
“Uh huh,” he nods again before laying his head on the seat back.
“Do you think you can get up? I want to get you over to my car and out of this one.”
He shakes his head and grunts again, rolling his neck back and forth on the seat back.
“Okay then. I’ll leave you here. I’m going after Bella now. Be back as soon as I can. Hang in there.” I slip off my pack, and pull out the Governor. I flip open the cylinder and fill it with six shot shell. Mack may or may not be trustworthy, but I can’t chance making the wrong decision. He could be useful down the road, and given the condition of his face, he’s probably still on Bella’s side. That means he’s on my side for now. He gets the gun.
“Use this if you need to,” I wrap his left hand around the revolver. “It’s loaded with shot shell. They’ll spray like shotgun shells. You don’t have to be accurate.”
He looks down at the gun and manages a weak chuckle.
“Not everybody’s weapon of choice,” I acknowledge. “But it’ll get you out of a jam.”
He tries to say something, but he gulps past what I imagine is a knot in his throat and the pain in his mouth, and he gives up.
“Don’t worry about it,” I reassure him. “You’re welcome. Don’t lose it. That gun’s my favorite.”
I make sure his legs are clear of the door and I close it. He’s pretty badly beaten up, but he’ll be okay. Maybe.
***
Among the complex of buildings, the only one showing any signs of life is the silo and the A-framed building attached to it. Its lights are on and from a distance it appears there’s a security guard sitting in a chair next to the entrance.
Still hidden by the darkness of the lot, and maybe fifty yards from the door, I kneel down and shove the Tec-9 into my pack. No need to call more attention to myself than necessary. Especially in the dark. After hours. At a secret research facility. In the wake of a murder.
My mind cranks through the possible explanations I can feed the guard. None of them sound viable.
As I approach the door and the guard, it’s obvious I won’t need anything to get past the guard. His blue and gray ball cap is pulled low over his eyes, his arms hanging at his side. To the left of his brass nameplate, which reads S. TILLEY, there’s a dark burgundy stain on his gray uniform shirt. His eyes are fixed, staring past me into the dark lot.
I kneel again and whip out the Tec-9. I open the front door to the building with my foot. It’s unlocked and pushes inward against a rush of cool air from the large open space inside.
At the far end of what looks like a combination of an office and a machine shop, is a large cage. The cage is an open enclosure that houses an elevator shaft.
There’s no elevator though, which means Bella, Salt and Pepper, Mustache Duke, and whoever else, are at the bottom of the shaft.
There are no up and down elevator buttons. There’s no obvious lever or switch. But on the left side, there’s an electrical box. Inside the unlocked box are a series of breakers. Next to each of the breakers are Dymo labels, one of which reads EMERGENCY RETURN.
I flip the breaker and there’s an immediately rumble on the inside of the cage. The large wire ropes on either side of the cage are spinning, whining almost, as they pull the elevator up from the floors below.
What seems like three or four minutes pass before the elevator, not much more than a cage itself, clangs to the opening above ground. I flip the emergency return breaker to its original position before sliding open the gate, closing it, and engaging the motor from the inside.
I have no idea where this thing is taking me or what I’ll find when I get there. The elevator churns below ground, and I pull the Tec-9 and aim its Swiss cheese, ventilated barrel at the gate. My finger sits on the trigger, ready to pull.
CHAPTER 6
Devils Tower is the core of a volcano that never erupted. Or maybe it’s not. That was my favorite of the many explanations as to what formed the rocky tower thousands of years before my parents took me there.
After I sat through a ranger’s talk and walked through the museum display at the base of the tower, my dad agreed to hike around the tower through the piney trail that surrounded the monument.
“We’ve got a couple of options,” my dad said, struggling with a park map. “There’s the Red Beds Trail, which is pretty long. And there’s the Tower Trail, which is shorter, but takes us closest to the tower. It even looks like you might be able to climb some of those big rocks at its southern base, Jackson.”
“I’m up for whatever,” my mom said. “I’ve got on good walking shoes. You boys lead the way.”
“Tower Trail is good, Dad,” I told him. “I want to climb those rocks. Plus, it’s better to be closer to the tower.”
He clumsily folded the map to shove it the breast pocket of his hiking shirt. “Everybody got their water bottles?”
My mom and I exchanged nodded and the trek began.
I remember the temperature changing almost immediately as we approached the base of the tower, the tall Ponderosa pines creating the bed of the hiking path with their dead needles, and providing shade that kept the sun at bay. They were beautiful and imposing, acting as sentinels for the tower.
“Look for a walking stick,” my dad suggested. “I bet you’ll find a good one here.”
“Why do I need one?” I was two or three steps ahead of my parents. They were holding hands.
“For walking,” my dad chuckled.
I stopped and turned around to look at him. My mom was rubbing his bicep with her free hand, her wedding band glinting against a thin beam of sunlight sneaking through the needled canopy. “I can walk. My knee is healed. Why would I need one?”
“Your knee is fine, yes.” He glanced at the leg I’d spent months rehabbing in the wake of a torn ligament. “But a walking stick is about a lot more than helping you walk.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he rubbed my head with his right hand, “sticks are walking aids. But throughout history they’ve also been used as signs of power. They’re good weapons too”
“Weapons?” Now he had my interest. He and I already shared a love of guns and crossbows. But sticks? This could be beyond cool. Old school ninja cool.
“Yep. In Egypt, the type of stick you carried said a lot about you. Were you a farmer or a king? Among other things, the stick would symbolize that position. The same was true for tribal chiefs. He pointed up to the southern side of the tower. “The Native Americans who worshipped here, they had sticks.
The bigger the dude, the bigger the stick.”
“What about the weapons?” I pressed. “How were they weapons?” We were getting close to an outcropping of large rust colored rocks on the southern base of the tower. It looked as though a giant had chiseled grooves into the side of it, and these rocks were the chipped pieces.
“Think about it, Jackson,” he challenged me. “How could a stick be a weapon?”
“I guess you could use it defensively.” I held my hands out in front of me, pretending to grip a large stick. “You know, to block a knife or a sword.”
“Good one,” my mom said.
“Or,” I switched hand positions, one clenched on top of the other, “I could hold it like a sword if it had a pointed end.”
“You sure could.” My dad stopped walking and looked down at me. “You could also hide a weapon in the stick. If it has some sort of special handle on the top or if it’s hollowed out in the center.”
“Oooh!” My eyes widened at the possibilities. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Hands on hips, I scanned the area in front of us, the forest to either side. “Do you see a good stick?”
“You choose,” he suggested. “I bet you’ll find one that’ll do the trick.”
Off to my right, before we reached the rocks, there was a stick that looked right. It was two, maybe two and a half, feet high, and it bent into a natural handle at one end. The other end was torn, revealing a sliver of the yellow pine underneath. I grabbed it from its place among leaves and needles and brushed it off. It was sturdy and maybe a couple of inches thick. It was dry but not brittle. The knots along its side gave it character, almost making the stick look wise. A stick worthy of kings and warriors, that’s what it was.
“What do you think?” I held it out to my dad without testing it out first.
He took it from me with a smile. “This is a fine stick,” he said. “Nice balance, great handle, a really fine choice, Jackson.” He handed it back to me and I gripped the handle, putting my weight onto it.
I used the stick to climb the first couple of large igneous boulders. My parents walked around the rocks, staying on the path which wound east toward a sheer cliff. I hopped from boulder to boulder, using the stick to help me avoid falling into an imaginary river of flowing magma. I was too old for imaginary friends, who’d long since left my mind, but not too old to play make believe. I was the hero, battling the elements to save the world from evil. One wrong step and I’d slip into molten lava; evil would triumph.
“Hop down!” my dad called from the edge of the trail. “Your mom wants a picture.”
Putting the quest on hold, I climbed down and, carrying the stick like a rifle, charged to the photo spot. My dad’s pager beeped.
“Really?” Mom asked in exasperation. “Now?”
“Hang on.” Dad pulled the pager from his hip and checked the alphanumeric message. His eyes narrowed and he sighed.
“What?” Mom asked, trying to read his expression.
“I’ve got to take this,” he said. “Give me two minutes.”
“Two minutes,” she held up two fingers and shot him a look that suggested even one extra second on the phone would be too long.
He walked away from us, back towards the rocks, and opened up his flip phone. He checked the pager with one hand while he dialed his cell with the other, then turned his back and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Who’s that?” I knew the answer.
“Work,” she said. “It’s always work, right?”
“Yeah.” I pulled the stick up and held the handle next to my cheek. I aimed the opposite end of the stick off into the distance, beyond the edge of the cliff and out toward the valley and mesas below. The green and yellow fields were spotted with young pines, the edges of those plateaus framed with what looked like red clay. It was like something from a postcard.
“Boom!” The stick rifle kicked against my face. “Bulls-eye!!”
“Good shot!” my mom said. “What are you aiming for?”
“The target,” I replied without looking away from the vista expanding below us. “Always the target.”
From the corner of my eye I could see Mom looking back toward my dad. She examined her fingernails and then placed them to her lips and began chewing. Nervous habit. It happened a lot when my dad got a page from work. It usually meant he was about to leave us for “emergency business”. He had a lot of “emergency business” for being a technology consultant. But not this time.
“Hey,” Dad said, rejoining us. “I’m back.”
“That was four minutes.” My mom gently shoved his shoulder. “What did they want?”
“Nothing much, just checking up on me.”
“They’re never checking up on you,” she said. “They always want something from you. When do you leave?”
“Not until the day after tomorrow,” he said, trying to avoid eye contact with me. “You know as well as anyone, darling, that when work calls I have to answer.”
“That means we have to cut the trip short.” My mom, master of the obvious.
Dad, his eyes betraying guilt and disappointment, looked at me, and then put his hands on my shoulders. I was holding the stick like a divining rod and had turned my attention to the dirt under my shoes. My dad was a good father. He did the best he could, and whenever he had the time, he spent it with me. Trips to the gun range, out into the country and our own private waterside retreat, and to the movies to see the latest PG-13 rated action flicks.
He traveled a lot though. They weren’t the kind of trips for which my mom and I could plan. They came with a couple of days or a couple of hours’ notice. When he was gone, it might be for a week. It could be a month.
Looking back, my mother was incredibly supportive. She never complained beyond the initial protest. “I signed up for better or worse,” she’d say. “And the better outweighs the worse.” She was always there, which made it more tolerable. When Dad was gone, Mom was around. She indulged my track meets, my obsessive interest in music, my love of guns. She carted me to and from whatever. I always told her how much I appreciated all she did for me. I never left the house or hung up the phone without telling her how much I loved her.
But she wasn’t dad. She knew it. He knew it.
“I’m really sorry, Jackson.” He knelt down, hands still on my shoulders, his eyes searching to meet mine. “I didn’t plan this. It can’t be helped.”
“It’s okay.” My eyes focusing on his face, I could see how genuinely hurt he was at having to abbreviate our vacation. “I get it.”
“We still have this tower to conquer,” he said with a forced smile. “Mt. Rushmore is tomorrow. Then we can check out the buffalo at the state park before we head back.”
I nodded. I knew he felt bad.
I also had a gut feeling he wasn’t telling me something.
***
The elevator rumbles to a stop at the bottom of the shaft. The wire cables dance for a couple of seconds after the ride ends. They sound like sound effects from a laser fight in Star Wars. The hallway outside of the elevator is brightly lit and empty. There’s an odd mixture of humidity and air conditioning that smells almost like grass after a rainstorm.
I shrug my pack onto my shoulders and adjust the Tec-9 shoulder strap. The machine pistol, with its fifty round magazine, is comfortable in my hands.
The corridor is narrow and, to the left, it forks. To the right, there’s a single hallway. I turn right, expecting an easier path, and almost immediately find another fork.
Great.
Eenie-meenie-miny-moe....
I take the left path and walk slowly, heel to toe, panning right to left with the Tec-9. Every couple of steps, I stop to listen. Only the sound of what must be enormous air circulators are hissing and humming overhead.
I’m about to turn around and take one of the other hallways when I notice what looks like a large water tank about fifty feet in front of me. The corridor ends at the cylindrical tank, which is suspended fro
m the ceiling and framed by a couple of metal floor to ceiling ladders against the rear wall.
This part of the hallway feels like a “clean room”. The walls are white and bathed in a bright, off-putting artificial light. I stop at the tank and reach out to touch it. It feels cool against my sweaty hand. There’s a rapid, though faint, vibration coming from inside the tank.
I’m lost for a moment, considering the uses of the upside-down, vibrating cylinder, when there’s a noise from the other side of the tank. I close my eyes and listen.
There it is again!
Both hands are on the gun again as I pad my way to the wall behind the tank. Deliberately, I press my ear to the wall.
From the other side of the wall, I can hear people talking. It sounds like one man and...no...two men. Two men are talking.
A third voice...higher pitched...maybe a woman. Two men and a woman. Their voices are muffled, so I can’t understand what they’re saying. The men sound agitated, one maybe more than the other. One of the voices is much deeper and resonant.
It’s gotta be Bella, Salt and Pepper, and Mustache Duke.
There’s no obvious connection between the hallway and the other side of the wall. It could be that they took another corridor and I’ll need to backtrack. Before I waste that much time, however, I need to exhaust my options. Bella and Mack talked about the lab being undisclosed, a secret underground location.
Backing up a step, my fingers search the wall for a door seam or an entrance. At first I don’t find anything, so I start to climb the ladder against the wall thinking there could be an access panel along the ceiling.
On the fifth rung, my hand feels something protruding off the back of the ladder. I hop off the ladder and look closer, seeing a lever.
My left hand is hovering over the lever, my fingers dancing, playing an imaginary piano, ready to unleash whatever this hidden lever operates. My right hand is wrapped around the lower receiver frame of the Tec-9, trigger finger engaged. I take a deep breath in and out through my nose and I flip the lever to the left.