Danforth exploded. “Don’t ever call me that!” he shouted, and then terminated the call. Why couldn’t Thomas have died like most of his brothers?
Chapter 28
It was nearly three o’clock the next day when Nick turned off route 68 near Blue Lick Springs, Kentucky onto a one-lane gravel road that disappeared into the craggy foothills. Two miles down the road, he made a sharp left and continued north on a weedy, washout of a trail that ran parallel to a roiling creek. A sudden afternoon shower pelted his windshield and blurred his vision as he maneuvered the blue Cherokee between the close rocky outcroppings and small landslides littering the trail. He swore at his bad luck. It was hard enough to find Grandmother’s house in that godforsaken landscape without the damned rain, and to top it off, the sun was shining.
His foot hit the brake hard as the rain abruptly quit. Above him was the landmark he was searching for. Jesus Saves was boldly proclaimed in uneven, red painted letters on one of the boulders high above him. This was a common homemade billboard in the local hills, and that’s why he and Crow had chosen it for their marker. Nobody would give it more than a passing glance.
Nick nosed the Cherokee through an opening in the rocky embankment to the creek’s edge and prayed that this was the right crossing. He hadn’t been here in over a year, and his memory, like the rest of his life during that span, was a little hazy. Probably a lot hazy.
After flipping the switch beneath the dash that activated the engine snorkel, he guided the SUV into the deep, rushing current. The Cherokee’s tires slipped on the slick, rocky river bottom as it crawled to the center of the creek. The rising white water threatened to sweep the now buoyant vehicle downstream. The frothy torrent gurgled against the windows and climbed steadily toward the top of the snorkel. For a breathless moment, Nick feared that he’d have to abandon the Jeep and swim for it, but then two motorized rails rose from the river bottom like two long steel fins and prevented him from being swept away. The SUV bounced precariously off the left rail as it continued across the seventy-foot crossing.
Finally, the tires grabbed the river bottom and the Cherokee began its gradual climb up the opposite bank. Once out of the creek, Nick guided the dripping Jeep along a narrow road through a cave-like canopy of ancient oaks and maples and then into a sun-bleached clearing. There, nestled against a craggy foothill, stood a rustic one-room shack.
A 360-degree network of surveillance cameras was hidden from view in shadowed recesses along the top of the butte. Computer controlled machine gun positions and SAM installations were strategically placed around the secret facility in case of a terrorist attack. Each element in the defense system was hidden beneath a movable rock formation.
Nick pressed the single button on a remote clipped to the visor, and the shack slid aside, revealing a heavily armored steel alloy door built to withstand direct tank fire. It swung back, and Nick drove inside a made-made cavern and parked beside Crow’s identical Cherokee. The automatic door closed behind him.
The area was brightly lit, and the atmosphere was crisp compared to the muggy summer air outside. Huge air handlers hummed overhead as Nick grabbed his briefcase and placed his hand on the security ID pad. It glowed green, and the inner door opened into a long, stark white hallway with walls and a ceiling that resembled the inside of a large pipe. It was a sophisticated x-ray weapon detection system. Nick imagined the alarm sounding beyond the far door as he strode the walkway armed with a gun in his shoulder holster and one in the briefcase. The door clicked open, and he entered their top-secret computer operations base. Only Rance, Crow, himself, and the FBI Director, John Stanton, knew of its existence.
Crow sat at the massive computer station beneath a bank of monitors where he had been watching Nick’s creek crossing and approach to the shack. He was a short man with a slight paunch, black hair twisted into two long braids, and knotted biceps prominently displayed below his sleeveless white tee shirt. His face suggested a man older than his thirty-six years with its deep furrows above and below deep-set eyes and half-moon craters bordering a wide, humorless mouth. His keen black eyes watched and analyzed behind hooded eyelids and never missed a trick.
“A squaw could ride a jackass across that creek better than you handled that Jeep,” he said, standing as Nick entered his electronic domain.
“Nice to see you, too,” was all that Nick could manage. They shook hands. “It’s been a long thirty-six hours.” He collapsed into the leather recliner where Crow usually spent his nights awaiting computer search results.
“I hear ya. Anything new?”
Nick relayed his conversations with Neo and Jill Sandlin.
“Ghosts?” Crow shook his head after hearing about Jill Sandlin and Valerie Jacobs. “Sounds like our star witness has been on a jag longer than you.”
“Speaking of said jag, where are you hiding the scotch these days?”
“Where you can’t find it. I need your pale face sober from now on, you hear? You’ve been pity-partying long enough. It’s time to catch bad guys.”
Nick sighed. “I hope I’m up to it.”
“You want the Creeper, or not? He’s yours unless you want Rance to turn the investigation over to Ron Withers.”
Nick stiffened. “Damn you, Crow. And damn the scotch. Give me a couple weeks to dry out on Diet Coke, and I’ll be as good as new.”
Crow slapped Nick’s shoulder. “That’s a good pale face.”
“I’m going to shower and get some shut-eye.”
“Sleep all night, cowboy. I’ve got a lot of work to do on this case. Even with this super-charged baby,” he said, patting the monstrous computer CPU, “it’ll take most of the night to complete phase one.”
Nick reached the door and then turned. “See what you can find out about Jill Sandlin’s father.”
“Hey, do I look as deaf as a cigar store Indian? I heard every detail of your convo with the Sandlin squaw, and investigating that computer search glitch about her old man’s murder is already on my revised hit parade. Now get the hell out of here and grab some winks.”
It was nearly nine the next morning before Nick shuffled slowly into the computer area with a steaming mug of black coffee in his unsteady hand. He was dressed in a white polo shirt, blue jogging shorts, and Nike running shoes. Instead of seeming refreshed, he appeared even more pallid and gaunt than he had the day before. Dark pouches clung to his bloodshot eyes.
“Have some rough dreams?” Crow asked, studying Nick’s countenance.
“None,” Nick replied weakly.
Crow dropped the subject, because he realized that his friend was drying out. It was going to be a difficult road back to sobriety for Nick, but it had to be traveled if they were to close down the Creeper.
“Anything new?” Nick asked, as he raised the steaming mug to his blanched lips.
“Same shit, different day, Nick. If Lewis and Clark had erased their trails as well as these guys we’re after, the Pacific Northwest would still be undiscovered. But me and Geronimo are doing our best.” Geronimo was the nickname Crow had given his super-computer system that filled half the static-free room. “Someone erased all traces of that Mortal Eclipse file you asked for, but Geronimo’s working on restoring it. So far, it’s uncovered the standard top secret warning bull.” His face lightened. “But Geronimo’s reconstructed the first date in the file.”
Nick raised a brow.
“1967.”
“Jesus! This goes back a long way.”
“When low tech was high tech.”
Nick nodded. “So what the hell was going on in Duneden during that time that spawned the Creeper?”
“An orgy of stoned hippies who got a hold of bad acid before copulating?”
Nick rolled his eyes and sipped the coffee. “I’m serious.”
“Me, too, chief. I was trying to point out to a paler than usual pale face that we could guess ourselves into the grave and miss the mark. Wait until Geronimo restores the entire file before you expend a
single nanosecond of brain time on this.”
He sighed. “Point taken, but it’s easier said than done.”
“But we’re making headway.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Whoever scratched the Mortal Eclipse file did the same with Joseph Sandlin’s murder case file in Chicago and doctored Senator Hollis Danforth’s records.”
Nick leaned forward. “All three?”
“All three.”
“But how can you be sure?’
“Same hacker style. Same computer footprints. Old low-tech footprints, I might add. I figure mid-seventies. They’re as easy to identify and track as an elephant in a sandbox.”
“Great if you’re an elephant hunter. But without the damned files, we’re nowhere.”
“Hey, Chief Gloom and Doom, we’re anything but. I can reconstruct the changes made in Danforth’s government files.”
“But what about Joseph Sandlin’s?”
“Don’t have to. I phoned the Chicago cops this morning, and they’ve got hard copies of the records back then. They’re supposed to be faxing us Sandlin’s file today or tomorrow.”
“Good work!” Nick exclaimed.
Crow swiveled his chair toward the computer keyboard and punched in several commands while Nick refilled his mug. Then Crow checked the outside security monitors and frowned.
“Looks like rain brewing, Nick. If you’re going to get in any jogging today, you’d better leave now,” Crow suggested.
Nick laughed weakly. “Is that the official Indian weather report, or do you still have to check out the width of the local tree rings or the diameter of Blue Lick caterpillar balls for substantiation?”
Crow suppressed a laugh, but failed in one loud, choke-spitting raspberry. “It’s official, you crazy white man.”
“I feel better already,” Nick lied, as he tugged on his running shoes and headed for the door. Suddenly, one of the computer stations chimed, alerting them that there was an incoming fax. He collided with Crow as they raced to the chiming monitor.
Chapter 29
Diego Garcia climbed from the pool behind his up-state New York mansion and paced back and forth along the flagstone deck, breathing deeply. His body was showing its age, but it had been a good ride. At seventy-seven, he was clinging to life so that he could realize his long-awaited ambition: an appointment on President Danforth’s cabinet. It had been his dream – their dream – since the late fifties. He had money and power. His illegal drug operation had seen to that. In fact, they all had money and power. That wasn’t what they were after or why they had formed their secret coalition so many decades ago.
Someone called to him from the corner of the screened terrace above. He turned and saw a man being escorted by two of his top bodyguards. Diego toweled his stringy gray hair and put on his sunglasses. His mouth dropped. It was the old bastard himself!
“Hollis,” he greeted the senator hoarsely.
“Diego.”
They shook hands and sat at a poolside umbrella table. The two bodyguards moved to a discreet distance from the two old men.
Diego scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?” His olive expression was nearly hidden amid deep accordion folds. “If the fed surveillance agents report your visit, the Senate Ethics Committee will have some tough questions for you.”
Danforth raised his flat palm. “Diego, it’s under control. They’ve been pulled at the request of my oversight committee for DEA budgetary reasons. We need to talk.”
Diego’s body relaxed, but his coal eyes remained wary. “About Delahoya?”
“Among others.”
Diego leaned forward. “Talk already.”
“It seems someone is on to us. Trying to eliminate us one by one.”
The drug lord rubbed his temples. “You mean the Mortal Eclipse coalition?”
Danforth nodded and unbuttoned his white Panama linen suit coat. “There always was that one loose end, thanks to Joe Sandlin.”
Diego’s eyes blazed in the umbrella shade. “Sandlin’s a has-been. Ancient history. Besides, he and the kid didn’t know squat. No, Hollis, that can’t be it. Maybe somebody’s been nosing around in the computer files.”
Danforth fell back and laughed. “You’re smarter than you look.”
Diego straightened. “You came here to insult me?” he sputtered. He snapped his bony fingers and the bodyguards jogged to the table.
“Yeah, boss?” the Italian with the broken nose addressed Diego while his eyes were glued on Danforth.
“Get this piece of shit off my property.”
The Italian grinned. “My pleasure, boss.”
As the two men stepped around the table, a horrific, brown-scaled creature with yellow hourglass eyes suddenly displaced Danforth’s form. Before the men could retreat, the Creeper broke the neck of the Italian with its humanoid hand and slashed the throat of the other bodyguard with its taloned claw. Both collapsed like flaccid, quivering marionettes to the flagstones.
Diego retreated several steps. “You!” he shouted in a broken voice. “We created you to help us, not kill us!” Fear flushed the arrogance from his eyes.
The Creeper’s thin lips moved slowly. “I’m just doing my job. Following orders,” he replied, its tone deep and soulless.
Diego’s knees were Jell-O. “But Thomas, whose orders?”
Thomas laughed again. “Why Father’s, of course.”
“I’ll pay you!” Diego nearly screamed, all questions about Danforth’s motives for such betrayal squashed by his survival instincts. “I’ll make you rich.”
The Creeper lunged forward and ripped Diego’s throat away with one snap of its powerful jaws. Blood sprayed from the dark, jagged cavity as Diego’s head lolled back and crashed into the stones a split second ahead of his body. Thomas’s long tongue cleaned the blood from his face before he assumed Diego Garcia’s appearance and strolled up the steps toward the driveway where his limousine awaited.
Two more old drug dealers to go, he thought, before his father’s past would be totally erased, and no one could prevent his father from carrying out his own private agenda after being elected President of the United States.
It would be a soulless new world.
Chapter 30
Neo yawned as he turned right onto Duneden Road. Since Nick’s late-night call, the only sleep he’d managed was on the red eye flight from D.C. to Columbus, Ohio. After printing out a background report on Duneden, he made a reservation at the Duneden Bed ‘n’ Breakfast under the name of Jim Johnson, picked up a blue Grand Marquis from the Columbus Bureau, and started his trip south. It was now ten o’clock, and the July morning was rapidly heating up.
As the Duneden report had described, he drove past the decaying hulk of a dairy processing plant that had gone out of business during the Great Depression. Beside it were rows of clapboard bungalow shells that had once served as company residences for the dairy employees. A dense forest was the half-mile buffer zone between the dairy ruins and the quaint Wicca town of Duneden.
The whitewashed welcome sign proclaimed a population of 136, but Neo judged from its size that the town fathers must have included dogs and cats in that count. Duneden was what Neo commonly referred to as a blink town on his family vacation trips. Blink once, and you’re past it.
Even this early in the day, tourist cars lined the main street, and people, mostly older women, moved slowly in small groups along the sidewalks gawking at the business signs. Neo passed a modest IGA, a quaint Witch Crafts store, and Evelyn’s Wicca Bookstore. Each red-brick and white trim building was meticulously maintained in its original 1800’s design and separated from the others by narrow alleys.
Neo had no trouble spotting the Duneden Bed ’n’ Breakfast. Aside from the large sign in the lushly landscaped front yard, the porch, with its ornate red and white railing that wrapped the two-story hotel, seized his attention. He parked in the gravel parking area in back and entered the back door with his single suitcase.
&
nbsp; The thin man at the front desk regarded the black giant suspiciously with a cool stare. “May I help you?” he asked, but Neo could tell that the man was hoping that he couldn’t.
“I have a reservation,” Neo replied, ignoring the man’s inhospitality. “Johnson. Jim Johnson.”
The man scrutinized Neo’s casual attire of a blue tee shirt, jeans, and basketball shoes, nodded reluctantly, and swiveled the visitor book around so Neo could sign in. Neo noticed that there wasn’t a computer. So much for civilization.
“You guys are kinda low tech,” Neo said, as he filled in his line in the book.
“We don’t need those electronic contraptions here in Duneden,” he snapped. “We get along just fine.”
Neo nodded, put down the pen, and handed the man a credit card.
The man’s lips parted into a crooked smile. “Cash only.”
“Of course,” Neo replied, and handed him enough cash to secure one night’s stay.
The man’s grin vanished. “Upstairs, Mr. Johnson,” he said, as he handed Neo a room key. “What is your business here? We don’t allow peddlers.”
“I’m here to see an old college friend.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Jill Sandlin, and she’s the one who told me about your hotel.”
The man stiffened.
“I don’t suppose you could tell me where I could find her,” Neo said.
“Of course I could,” he said curtly. “She’s staying with Gabriella.”
“And where does Gabriella live?”
The man gave Neo directions to a vast estate on the west edge of town. Neo thanked his indifferent host and was pleased that he was able to locate Sandlin so easily. After tossing his suitcase on the double bed, Neo drove out to Gabriella’s estate. His jaw dropped as he parked across from her place.
The estate was something out of a gothic novel. Massive, gnarled limbs of dozens of ancient maples and oaks intertwined over the grounds and kept it in perpetual darkness. A ten-foot high stone and wrought iron fence surrounded the estate, and a menacing gargoyle topped each of the stone columns sited at thirteen-foot intervals. A black brick drive extended from the street, past two massive closed gates, and up the hill to a mansion where it ended in a circular drive.
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