An immense, three-story brick manor loomed in the shadows of the ten wooded acres and sat upon a low hilltop. Gargoyle spillways were positioned at each corner of the third story rain gutters, and Neo counted thirteen gables across the front of the structure. His eyes panned down to the portico supported by white polygonal columns, and although it was too dark to be certain, he guessed that there were thirteen steps leading up to the front entry.
A passing cloud obscured the sun and a deeper gloom blanketed the extraordinary manor. After what had happened to Nick yesterday, Neo was surprisingly reluctant to approach the place. He considered it worse than being blocked with a high-low double team in pro football. A thousand spiders scampered along his spine and chilled him. Snap out of it! he thought. Are you a man or a candy ass?
He didn’t wait for the answer. He patted his ankle holster and quickly scrambled from the car. Neo got the strange feeling that the gargoyles crouched atop the twin gateposts were watching him as he crossed the street. Another chill raked his spine. This was a new experience for him. There had never been a fear he hadn’t conquered, and this wasn’t going to be the first.
The guardhouse door hung open on rusted hinges, and he peered inside. There was no guard and no phone. He faced the house and swore under his breath. Now how in the hell was he supposed to let Sandlin know he was at the gates?
“Jim Johnson, isn’t it?” a feminine voice asked sharply from inside the guardhouse.
Neo jumped, slamming his right shoulder into a gate. “Damn!” he shouted, trying to rub away the pain.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman said.
Neo turned and stared. The woman hadn’t been there a second ago. Where had she come from? His mouth was parched.
“You’re looking for Jill Sandlin?”
Neo regained a semblance of composure and straightened to his full height. He squinted into the guardhouse, but he couldn’t make-out the woman’s appearance. Her features were cloaked by thick shadows. He stepped closer.
“Right. I am looking for Jill Sandlin, but how did you know?”
“Lawrence told me,” she replied.
“Who?”
“The owner of the Duneden Bed ‘n’ Breakfast. I believe you met him.”
The pain in his shoulder subsided. “Yeah. Friendly guy.”
The woman laughed quietly.
“Did he phone you?” Neo was hoping that Lawrence had. It beat the mysterious alternative.
“We have no phones here, Mr. Johnson,” she replied, as if being there answered the question.
“It’s important that I see Jill Sandlin right away. In fact, her life depends on it.”
“Life and death, is it?” she asked.
“That’s the size of it, ma’am.”
“Well I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Look, I was told she was here, and I need to see her now.” His patience was ebbing fast.
“She can’t see you.”
“I came here to help.”
“You can end the charade. You’re no friend of Jill’s. You’re Neo Doss, an FBI agent who’s come here like a . . . black knight to save her. Well, this isn’t Camelot, Agent Doss, and your presence is not required,” she said firmly.
“But . . .” he protested.
“To put it in terms you might understand better, take a hike.”
The cloud passed and sunlight fell upon the guardhouse, revealing a woman’s bare foot protruding from the shadows. It was quickly pulled back into the darkness, but not before Neo noted that the owner of that foot was not standing on the floor, but floating above it! For a moment, he forgot to breathe. His mind numbed, and his six-foot six frame stiffened with alarm.
“Well, Jill is perfectly safe with me. You can’t protect her like I can,” the woman said.
“But . . . how did you know who . . . I was . . . am?” he managed.
“This is Duneden, Agent Doss,” she repeated.
Again, the enigmatic explanation. He swallowed hard. This floating woman – oh, c’mon, just face it, witch – was not only bullying a former NFL all-pro lineman but also an FBI agent. He couldn’t tolerate any more of her disrespect. After all, he wasn’t some lowlife traveling salesman. Like his football coaches had drummed into head since Pop Warner football, to the aggressor belong the spoils of victory.
Neo swelled his chest and scowled. “Look lady, this is official FBI business, and if I don’t see Jill Sandlin within the minute, I’m going to arrest you for obstructing justice!” he threatened.
The woman laughed again. “I suggest you walk back to town, get in your car, and drive back to Washington, D.C. before something bad happens to you. You’re in over your head here.”
“Walk back to town? Why my car’s right . . .” Neo glanced across the street. His car was gone! His poise vanished as well. “Where’s . . . where’s my car? How? I mean . . . what have you done with it?” he sputtered.
Silence.
Neo stormed the guardhouse, but was stopped at the doorway by an inexplicable, invisible barrier. He bounced backwards and massaged his aching nose and forehead.
“Leave now!” the woman commanded.
Neo had had enough of this woman. It was time to counter force with force. He bent and drew his gun, but it was now a plastic squirt gun loaded with water.
“You’re a foolish man, Agent Doss.”
Two fire ant hills appeared beneath him, and thousands of the carnivorous ants swarmed his shoes and legs. He shouted, stomped, and danced down the driveway into the street, swatting his pant legs as he went. People passing on the sidewalk regarded him as if he were insane and continued past without a word or an offer of help. After a few minutes, it became painfully clear that this was not an unusual sight in Duneden.
The fire ants and their agonizing bites disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, and Neo wasted no time beating it back to town. After navigating six blocks through the residential area and scaring off two unleashed dogs, he finally reached the small business district where he located his car parked behind the hotel. He was shaken, sweaty, and angry, and not even a prolonged cold shower tempered his mood.
Whatever hocus-pocus Nick had experienced yesterday was nothing compared to his own paranormal encounter in Duneden. Against the witch in the guardhouse, he was as helpless as a rabbit pulled from a black hat and just as obvious. His undercover persona of Jim Johnson was a complete flop. He might as well have worn his FBI jacket around town.
He dialed grandmother’s house on his satellite phone. It was time to see if his new boss had any other bright ideas. As his finger hovered over the send button, the phone rang. His nerves were so frayed that he threw it on the bed as if it were a snake. Exhaling slowly, he chuckled at his jumpiness, retrieved the phone, and glanced at the caller ID. He recognized it immediately, and his blood froze.
Similar to returning to the sidelines after the opposing football team had just run for a touchdown through his side of the defensive line, Neo knew his ass was grass.
Chapter 31
Crow printed the fax from the Chicago Police Department, and he and Nick huddled over it.
“They hit a brick wall with their background check of Sandlin like we did,” Nick lamented after reading the report for the second time. “At least there’s no doubt that Sandlin was murdered by the Creeper. The torn throat fits his M.O.”
Crow examined the report again. “It appears that Joe Sandlin didn’t exist before 1974. Very interesting.”
Nick eyed him suspiciously. “What’s going through that devious mind of yours?”
“Someone erased his personal history, and if I’m not mistaken, pale face, his real name, too.”
“The witness protection program?”
Crow shook his head. “They’re not that sloppy. He’d at least have a phony birth certificate and family background. This was the work of an amateur.”
Nick sighed and nervously massaged his temples. He felt like a recovering alco
holic must feel like. “There are a million reasons why he would’ve wanted to change his name that don’t connect him with the Creeper. This report doesn’t help us at all.”
”Not necessarily.” Crow pointed to the top of the first page. “We have his fingerprints.”
“So? They didn’t help the Chicago cops pin down his real identity.”
Crow grinned. “Ah, but they didn’t have Geronimo.” His fingers nimbly played the keyboard like a concert pianist, and the search for Sandlin’s unknown past began.
Crow looked up. “There’s more.”
“How can there be?”
“Look at the date that our mysterious Mr. Sandlin appeared. September 1974. Now compare it with this.” Another series of keystrokes produced information on another screen.
Nick read it and reddened. “Why did you do a background check on me?” he asked, irritated.
“Hey, cool off, white man. I can give you a lot of good reasons.” He held up his index finger. “First, you’re the only intelligence agent in the world who somehow knew of this assassin’s existence. So I’ve been asking myself these past few years, why you? What was your basis for suspecting that such a monster existed? You told Rance that the evidence from certain assassinations pointed to the killer, when in truth you had it backwards. You went looking for evidence to support your theory before you were certain that any of these kinds of assassinations existed. I know that for a fact because you came to me and asked for my help in searching the worldwide law enforcement databases for unusual murders. So I played along, but I started that search before you broached Rance on the subject. Remember?
“It seemed obvious to this ole Indian brain-trust that you knew this guy existed and went looking for evidence to prove it.”
Nick started to protest, but Crow held up two fingers.
“Second, even when everyone else, and I mean everyone else, was skeptical, you didn’t back down. You were positive that this guy existed without concrete proof. Again I asked, why?”
“This is ridiculous,” Nick protested weakly, but he was beginning to see Crow’s point.
“Quoting Lee Corso from ESPN’s College Gameday, ‘not so fast my friend.’ You, like Joe Sandlin, seem to have no past beyond 1974.” He glanced at the monitor. “Since August 1974, to be exact,” he read. “That’s when you popped up as a missing kid in California. Left on the doorstep of Children’s Services in San Francisco. An amnesia victim who didn’t know his name, parents, or where he was from. Officially listed as a traumatized runaway and put on the adoption block.”
“I remember that place,” Nick said quietly. “Vaguely.”
“Sure. And you remember being adopted by Walter and Marge Bellamy and living a happy childhood with no memory of your first seven years?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Third, during this investigation I find a man who paid someone to alter his identity in September 1974, an investigator whose new life began in August 1974, and our altered identity’s daughter who calls you out of the blue to offer evidence of the Creeper’s identity. I don’t need the sky to fall on me to see the connection,” Crow explained.
A thunderclap exploded overhead and shook the building. Crow checked the surveillance monitors and watched a gray curtain of rain hammer their compound. Nick remained silent.
“I don’t recall ever seeing the Creeper.” Nick’s eye held a distant stare.
“My theory is that you saw him during your first seven years.” He tapped the back of his head. “You remember him here. In your id.”
“You might be right. Who knows? I sure don’t,” he said sadly. “My parents – step-parents – took me to a shrink when I was fifteen.” He looked at Crow. “Of course, we’re not even sure that I was fifteen, are we?”
Crow shrugged. “It’s a moot point.”
“Yeah. Anyway, this lady shrink tried for months to make me remember my early childhood, but without results. Finally, she got my parents’ permission to hypnotize me.”
Crow stiffened. “And?” he asked anxiously.
“Mom told me that when the good doctor started regressing me, I started screaming and kicking like a wild man. Yeah, she said wild man,” he said absently. “She and Dad had to hold me down while the psychiatrist questioned me, but after a little while, they insisted that she wake me up. They told me later that they couldn’t stand to see me tormented like that.”
“Didn’t they ever tell you what you said during hypnosis?”
Nick shook his head. Sweat beaded his forehead and his face was ashen. “Mom would only say that I was terrified of something that happened before I turned up in San Francisco, but she never told me what. I just assumed that she didn’t know because I didn’t reveal anything.”
“She was most likely trying to protect you from some horrible memories,” Crow said.
Nick licked his lips. “Dammit, Crow, I need a drink! C’mon, I know you have some scotch stashed somewhere around here,” he shouted.
“Tough it out, man. It’s not like you’re an alcoholic,” Crow shot back.
Nick held out his flattened hands. They shook badly. “Ever since Laura and Jimmy . . .” His eyes glossed over. “I’ve been stressed to the max. I’m no good, Crow, to you or me or Jimmy. I can’t handle Jimmy’s coma and this damn investigation any more. I’ve had it! I need the booze to cope, so please for the love of God, get me some now.”
Crow disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a half gallon of scotch and a glass. “Knock yourself out,” he said grimly, and turned toward Geronimo’s large bank of monitors.
Nick ignored the glass and took two deep swallows from the bottle. He grimaced. “What is this stuff?” he asked.
“One hundred percent Indian scotch. I get it cheap online from the reservation. I’ve got more if you run out.”
“This scotch’ll rot my gut,” he complained, but took another long swig.
After thirty minutes, the half-gallon was a quart, and Nick was snoring loudly in the recliner in the corner. Crow hoisted him over his shoulder, carried him down the hall to the bedroom, and dumped him onto the mattress.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispered. “See you in about three days.”
It was a difficult three days for Nick. A high fever fueled delirium and painted his skin a mottled red. His agonizing moans roamed throughout the compound. He twisted and turned as if trying to escape his hellish confinement, and just when he was on the verge of breaking free, he was pulled back into the nightmarish abyss. His body was continuously drenched with perspiration, and Crow stayed busy changing the bedding.
But he didn’t mind. This had been expected. It was just part of the plan, and it had gone better than anticipated.
Nick never saw it coming.
At the stroke of midnight, the scrambler phone rang at the Blue Lick Orion Sector facility. It was the second night of Nick’s beleaguered state.
Crow answered it without a greeting.
“How’s our boy?” the male caller asked simply.
“He’s having a rough time of it, but he’ll survive,” Crow replied.
“This idea of yours better work,” the man warned.
Crow’s grip on the receiver tightened. “I thought you trusted me.”
“Just keep reminding yourself about the price of failure.” The call was disconnected.
Crow slammed the receiver into the cradle and stared blankly at the bank of monitors. A single sweat droplet appeared at his hairline and dribbled across his furrowed forehead. He brusquely wiped it away with his sleeve. Despite his bravado, Crow knew that the world wasn’t a big enough place to hide if anything went wrong with his plan.
On the third night of Nick’s unconsciousness, Crow dozed in the recliner across from Geronimo. Suddenly, the computer’s excited voice awakened him.
Geronimo sounded agitated. “There’s an intruder in sector four.”
Crow threw off the comforter, drew his gun, and checked the computer for the status of each e
ntry point of the windowless facility. None had been breached. Crow ran a hand down his braids. How could anyone have gained entry? he wondered nervously. He checked the video reconnaissance in Nick’s room, but all that appeared on the screen was a brilliant white nothing.
After snapping the loaded clip into his gun, he moved with the silent stealth of his ancestors through the kitchen and into the gloomy corridor leading to the three bedrooms, two baths, a records storage area, and darkroom. Unlike most computer nerds, he had four years of field experience and was familiar with dangerous confrontations. Crow’s gun arm was cocked at a ninety-degree angle as he reached the closed door to Nick’s bedroom.
Taking a deep breath, he quietly twisted the doorknob and launched himself into the room.
Chapter 32
Neo hesitated, and then answered the call.
“What the hell are you doing in Ohio?” Ron Withers shouted before his agent could squeeze in “hello”.
“I don’t remember authorizing such a trip, but yet you charged your flight to Columbus this morning to my budget.”
Neo began explaining, but Withers interrupted him.
“Before you make up some lame excuse, I advise you to think twice. I know who requested your trip to Duneden.”
“How?” was all that Neo could manage.
“Never mind.”
Then the answer dawned on Neo. “You tapped my home phone!” It was his turn to shout. “Dammit Withers, that’s illegal.”
“Not at all. Nick is wanted for the murder of his landlord, and we tapped all the phones of Bellamy’s known acquaintances to expedite his arrest. That includes you.”
“Does Osborne know about this?”
There was a slight hesitation. “Of course.”
Mortal Eclipse Page 16