Withers couldn’t hear his contact’s response, but he read his lips. “You’re well paid. No one will ever connect you to the missing girls, so stop your bitchin’.”
Withers frowned. Missing girls?
“The cops are startin’ to make this place a regular harassment stop. I want out. Take your business someplace else. Comprende?” The small-time hood stood and strode briskly away from the table. Withers watched as his contact nodded to another black suit seated at the bar, who followed the small-time hood through the back doorway that led to the VIP rooms and bar offices. The FBI agent made a mental note to check the obits tomorrow.
Withers slid into the vacated seat across from his contact and handed the man a bulky #12 manila envelope. The man opened it and inspected the documents. There were four pages, and he scanned each carefully. After he was satisfied, he handed Withers a thick white envelope.
“You have done well,” the contact shouted. “We will be in touch.”
Withers left the bar and strode through the rain to a taxi stand a half block away. On the way back to his office, he couldn’t stop thinking about the strange conversation he’d overheard. Missing strippers? It appeared that his unseen benefactor was into more than casual sex with a Dilly-Dally dancer.
Withers was on edge again. Just who the hell was his contact’s boss? Some kind of serial killer? The thought made his skin crawl.
He suddenly thought of the small-time hood at the Dilly-Dally Inn. Certainly by now, the loud mouth, lamebrain was history. Withers swallowed hard. Maybe it was time to take his early retirement now.
Chapter 35
Crow gaped at the gun barrel pointed between his eyes.
“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” the computer genius asked offhandedly, ignoring the blue ice in Nick’s eyes.
Nick staggered closer, gripping the arm of the leather recliner. “What in god’s name did you do to me?” The gun grew heavier in his unsteady grip.
Crow shrugged. “You gave yourself a whopping dose of an ancient Indian remedy for drunkenness. I only offered it, remember?”
Nick shook his head a few times in an attempt to reduce the haze fogging his perception. “I don’t believe you.”
Crow shrugged again. “I figured as much.” He turned to Geronimo. “Didn’t I predict that the paleface wouldn’t believe me?”
“That is correct,” it replied. “Your ancestors’ concoction has left Nick Bellamy with both a hangover and a bad case of distrust of his friend.”
“Shut up, you stupid machine!” Nick growled. The color drained from his face with the effort.
“Look, Nick, either shoot me or put the damn gun down before you shoot yourself,” Crow demanded, his stoic face emotionless.
Nick collapsed into the recliner and let his gun hand fall over the armrest to the floor. “It feels like you poisoned me.”
“The poison was already in your system. My remedy purged it, dehydrating you to the point of death. That’s why you feel like a Betty Ford Clinic graduate.”
Nick grimaced and massaged his clammy forehead. “Why didn’t you just let me die?”
“Because Rance and I need the sober Nick Bellamy to put an end to the Creeper.”
“Rance?” He groaned, looking green around the proverbial gills. “He was in on this, too?”
Crow nodded. “Does that tick you off?”
“I’m too light-headed to be upset at anybody at the moment, but I’ll reserve that right for later.”
Nick’s stomach gurgled, and he half-ran, half-stumbled from the chair to the bathroom. Crow shook his head sympathetically as he heard retching. Moments later, the shower hissed and wisps of steam floated through the compound. A relieved Crow went back to work with Geronimo. It appeared as if Orion Sector’s would-be alcoholic was on the mend.
An hour later, Nick reappeared in the computer center, freshly shaved and showered. His tread was still unsteady, but his face had regained some of its healthy color. Crow turned, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“What happened to your . . .”
“I cut the damn ponytail off.” He patted the uneven patch of ash hair where his ponytail had been. “It’s time to get back to some serious work, Crow, and I can’t do that if I keep looking at a hippie-alkie in the mirror. But I’ll warn you right now, I still feel like a damn zombie. What in the hell did you put in that Indian ‘scotch’ anyway?”
“Sorry, but it’s a trade secret,” he said seriously. “And let me warn you right now that if you decide to get back on the wagon, you’ll wish you were dead. Any kind of alcoholic drink will make you sicker than Custer at Little Big Horn.”
Nick managed a weak grin. “I’ll keep that in mind. I can’t believe that Rance agreed to this barbaric remedy.”
“Well, believe it. We were desperate.” Crow propelled his desk chair forward. “You remember where we left off?”
Nick sighed. “It’s a little fuzzy. How long was I out?”
“Three days.”
“Jesus! No wonder I feel like . . . Custer.”
Crow chuckled, left the room for a few minutes, and returned with a tall glass of ice water.
He handed it to Nick. “This is your salvation, cowboy. Water - and lots of it.”
Nick drained half the glass in with one long swallow and wiped his lips. “Not bad. Now, where were we in this investigation three days ago?” He took another drink. “Oh yeah, you were trying to connect my sudden appearance in California in 1974 with the Mortal Eclipse project. Right?”
Crow nodded. “Don’t forget that Joe Sandlin popped out of nowhere at about the same time, too. And, that Jill Sandlin, Joe’s daughter, claims that she knows who this Creeper really is, and she picks you, a complete stranger out of the entire U.S. population to tell her story to. You following?”
“Hmmm hmmm.”
“Good. Now, Geronimo just completed researching the murdered Valerie Jacobs, and guess what?”
“I’m too beat to play twenty questions. Give it to me straight.”
“She was born and raised in Duneden and mysteriously disappeared in September of 1974. She was listed as a missing person by the county sheriff and was declared dead after the usual seven years. Geronimo broke into the Witness Protection files and found no references to her. It was as if she had disappeared from the face of the earth until she turned up murdered a few days ago.”
“But somebody knew where she was, and gave that information to Jill Sandlin so she could arrange a meeting.”
“Exactly, pale face.”
“And the Creeper intercepted Jacobs before she could meet with Sandlin.”
“And then he met with Sandlin himself.”
“Right, but why didn’t he kill her? She’s obviously a threat to his operation, knowing his identity.”
“I thought long and hard about that, and there’s only one reason the Creeper kept her alive.”
“Do I have to beg for the answer?”
“Patience.”
“I’m out of patience!”
“Easy, paler than pale face.” He leaned back in his chair. “The Creeper might be using her as bait to lure you to Duneden.”
Nick nodded and jumped up from the recliner. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint him. I’m on my way.” He swooned, fell back into the recliner, and was breathing rapidly. “But not today.”
“Good call. While you’re recovering, why don’t we see if we can explain why he would want you in Duneden?”
“Sounds fair enough.”
“Like I said before, it appears that not only do you, Joe Sandlin, and the Creeper have ties to Duneden before 1974, but that we can throw Valerie Jacobs into the mix, too. But before you go charging into Duneden, we need to have Geronimo dig up some more info so that we can formulate some kind of plan.”
“Agreed. I’d rather be the trapper than the trapee.”
Crow laughed. “Now that’s more like the old Nick Bellamy. Welcome back.”
“Thanks
, but I’m not all the way back yet.” Sweat rolled down Nick’s face as another wave of nausea swept through his being and stimulated his salivary glands. He swallowed hard, fighting back the sickening sensation. “Geronimo, fill me in on the history of Mortal Eclipse. I only caught the tail end.”
Geronimo repeated the facts, and Nick listened quietly, the haze gradually receding from his brain. After the incredible revelation, he stood, steadying himself against the wall, and ordered the supercomputer to print out the names of Danforth’s thirteen cartel financiers for the Mortal Eclipse project and their last known addresses. After scanning the list, his brow puckered.
“What’s going through that brain of yours?” Crow asked.
“Eleven of these guys are dead, with ten murdered in the blast at Delahoya’s place in Colombia.”
“Not bad. Kill ten birds with one blast,” murmured Crow.
“Yeah. The eleventh, Diego Garcia, was murdered at his home in upstate New York yesterday. No cause of death listed.”
Crow cocked his head. “How do you know that? You were asleep.”
“I don’t know. I just do,” he said cryptically.
“We’ll check it out in a minute.” He paused, thinking. “It appears that Danforth is eliminating his past.”
“No cause of death,” Nick repeated, his gaze distant.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. I was thinking about Garcia.”
“If you’re right about Garcia, there should’ve been a splashy headline if the Creeper used his standard M.O. ‘Man found dead – Throat Missing’.”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Nick said.
“Exactly. Why hasn’t anybody put a file together on these bizarre murders? Ripping someone’s throat out is a bit sensational, yet we seem to be the only ones investigating them.”
“Cover-up.”
“Danforth.”
“Sounds about right, but how can one senator have so much clout?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out and fast, Crow. Let’s start with twelve and thirteen on the list. Carlos Chavez and Hefe Bustillo. Maybe they’ll be willing to talk to me about the good old days to save their skins.”
“You gonna offer them a deal with the FBI?”
Nicked nodded.
“I’d just as soon see those drug scum dead.”
“Me, too, but we need them.”
Crow drummed his fingers on the desk.
“What’s wrong,” Nick asked.
“I hate to say it, but I don’t like your idea.” Crow hesitated. “You won’t be the only one after these two scumbags.”
“I’ve thought of that.” His lips contracted into a terse, thin line. “I intend to use them as bait to kill the Creeper,” he said, determination momentarily dispelling his nausea.
“Hey, chief, I gotta give it to you, that’s a ballsy plan, but it’s way too dangerous. What’s to stop him from turning the tables on you?”
“I’ll be one step ahead of him this time. He won’t know what hit him.”
Crow remained unconvinced. “Maybe, but remember what he did to the DEA safe house? This guy stormed their armed facility like a marine battalion charging through a Baskin Robbins. And, isn’t this the same guy who can make himself invisible?”
Nick’s heart thumped forcefully against his ribs, but he remained resolute. “Don’t remind me.”
The following morning, Nick packed a light suitcase from his facility wardrobe for his chartered flight to Boca Raton, Florida, home of Carlos Chavez. The Orion Sector agent was in a much better frame of mind, and his body had recovered sufficiently enough for him to travel. He was actually grateful that Rance and Crow had tricked him into sobering up. It was about time that he ended his spiraling descent into the self-destructive world of depression. He was thinking clearly for the first time since Laura’s murder and Jimmy’s injury, and he was going to aggressively pursue the Creeper - this time with a sense of purpose devoid of emotional distractions. Using Chavez and Bustillo as bait for his trap was an inspiration born of his burgeoning abstemiousness.
He found Crow in the computer center as usual, hunched over his desk and intensely studying a bright white image on one of the monitors.
“What’s up?” Nick asked, as he approached Crow. “Bored with real images?”
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “That, white man, is your white world.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You had a visitor during your big sleep,” Crow replied. “Hidden within that brightness, I sensed a presence. Of course, I couldn’t see it, but it was there just the same. Geronimo’s security camera recorded the entire visit, and sensed the presence as well. It sounded the alarm.”
“That can’t be. The white world only exists in my dreams.”
“Not last night, Sleeping Beauty. Mind telling me what you dreamed about?”
“I don’t re . . .” His eyes went vacant. “Wait, I think I do.” He enunciated slowly, as if in a deep trance. “I had a dream that the Creeper stole the bogus Blue Lick file from my Washington office, and that Geronimo shut down all incoming communications as a precaution to prevent the Creeper from tracing any of them to this facility.” He grimaced. “And of course, the Creeper’s wet work on Garcia.” Nick snapped his fingers. “That’s how I knew about Garcia. I dreamed it!”
“Geronimo, confirm this information,” Crow demanded sharply.
“Confirmed. Diego Garcia was murdered, but the official reports don’t list the cause. All incoming communications have been terminated.”
“Without your knowledge?”
“So it would seem,” Geronimo responded.
Crow was incredulous. “How was that possible?”
“Running a systems check now,” the computer announced.
Crow glanced at Nick, whose features were drawn with fear.
“Did you dream anything else?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so. I saw Neo in a dark, cold place, lost to the world.”
“Dead?”
“I don’t . . . know.”
“Geronimo, contact Neo on his satellite phone immediately.”
The computer complied. A recorded woman’s voice instantly spilled over the eight wall speakers.
The service for the unit you have dialed has been disconnected. Click. Silence.
“Shit the bed, Fred!” Crow exclaimed and turned back to his boss. “Anything else in your dreams, Nick?”
“A beautiful woman. Swimming naked. Dark, alluring eyes. Smiling at me.”
He bit his lip. “Sounds like your dream wasn’t all bad. Don’t tell me. She’s your guardian angel,” Crow said.
Nick shook his head absently. “She’s . . . evil. Pure evil. Beauty and the beast in one hot little shape.”
Before Crow could respond, Geronimo’s deep voice filled the room.
“Systems check completed. All systems functional and unchanged.”
“What about receiving incoming calls?” Crow asked.
“Not possible at this time.”
“Then you are not functioning properly!” Crow shouted at the massive computer.
“Geronimo functioning normally.”
“Then why the hell can’t we receive incoming communications?”
Crow’s shouting broke Nick’s spell.
“What are you yelling about?” Nick asked.
“Your damn dreams, pale face!” Crow briefly recapped Nick’s dream summary.
“If Neo’s in trouble, then I’ve got to go to him now,” Nick exclaimed. “Screw saving Chavez.”
Crow grabbed his arm. “Neo’s past trouble,” Crow said softly. “According to your dream report, he’s dead. I’m sorry, Nick.”
“But it was . . . just a dream. Wasn’t it?”
Nick followed Crow’s gaze toward Geronimo. “Answer my question, you red-skinned jackass! If you’re functioning normally, why can’t we receive incoming communications?”
There was a long pause before
Geronimo responded.
“It is an unexplained anomaly. Geronimo functioning normally.”
Crow kicked the chair, sending it crashing against the desk. “I hate goddammed anomalies!”
“Could it be a virus or a worm?” Nick asked.
“It’s no virus or worm! It’s something from your dream world. White world! It’s that damn . . .”
Nick shoved his palm in front of Crow’s mouth. “Don’t say it. I’m out of here.”
“I won’t say it, Nick!” Crow shouted after the fleeing frame. “You’re damn right I won’t say it.”
He heard the whir of the armored door opening.
“You can’t outrun it, Nick!” Crow sprinted through the facility to the entrance and shouted past the closing door. “You can’t outrun the MAGIC!”
The door thumped shut, and Nick was gone.
Chapter 36
Neo awoke, completely naked and shivering in total darkness. He was lying flat on a hard, slimy surface with his throbbing head propped up on what felt like bundled rags. Each shallow breath was a gargantuan effort, and his untreated wounds from his struggle with the lake creature were firestorms of pain in the dankness. He desperately wanted to pinch himself to see if he was truly alive or in death’s halfway house awaiting connecting transportation to either heaven or hell, but he lay still, not knowing if that repulsive creature was in the darkness with him.
Since his eyes were of no use, he closed them and listened. Falling water drops sporadically splashed against the floor around him and echoed in the stillness. A gurgle of rushing water sounded as if it were twenty feet away, but in the darkness, he realized that his sense of distance could be way off. Other than those sounds, it was deathly quiet.
He lay there for what seemed hours. His back ached and his muscles were close to cramping in the cold atmosphere, but still he listened. The falling water drops echoed when they splashed against the hard ground, and he speculated that he was lying in a cavern. But where?
When the soreness grew beyond human tolerance, he chanced repositioning his body. Slowly, holding his breath, Neo turned slightly on his left side, but the agony of movement was too great. A small whine escaped his throat.
Mortal Eclipse Page 19