V 15 - Below the Threshold

by Allen L Wold (UC) (epub)

  “It was, but I have reason to believe that Lt. LeGrange is working with the mob. He was the one who refused to do anything about that phone call you mentioned.”

  “Oh, dear, I see. But are you sure? He seemed like such a nice man.”

  “I’m not sure, Mrs. McKinley, but I’ve been betrayed once already, and I don’t dare take any chances. And I don’t want you to take any chances either. I just wanted to let you know that I’m all right, but that I won’t be back to the office for a while, a couple days at least. Cancel all my appointments for the next week. If I don’t get back to you by next Friday, then start referring my clients to other psychologists and doctors. And start looking for another job yourself.”

  “I most certainly will not look for another job. I work for you because I enjoy it, not because I need the money.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. McKinley. Now look, if the police come around again, you cooperate with them in any way you can. Tell them about this phone call if they ask. Keep yourself out of this mess as much as possible. I’ve got enough to worry about as it is, I—” He was interrupted by a knock at his door. “I’ll try to call you next week,” he said, and hung up before she could protest.

  He answered the door. It was room service, with his supper and a shaving kit. He paid and tipped the bellhop lavishly. He ate quickly, then shaved, having difficulty with the safety razor. Then he cleaned and reloaded his gun.

  There was no sense waiting around the hotel any longer, even though he wanted a good long nap, so he let himself out of the room. Waiting for him, right in front of the door, was Marty Patrushka, gun drawn.

  “Back inside,” Patrushka said, “and keep your hands up.”

  Jack backed through the still-open door. Patrushka advanced with him, step for step, and swung the door shut when he was inside.

  “You’ve been causing us a lot of trouble,” Patrushka said. “But that’s all over now, and you’re going to start telling us just about everything we want to know.”

  “I’m not very impressed,” Jack said, “if they sent you all alone.”

  “I came alone because one is enough. Now drop your gun on the floor.”

  Jack carefully took the gun out of his coat pocket and did what he was told. Patrushka kicked it into the comer of the room.

  “Okay,” Patrushka said, “how’d you find out where we were keeping Velasquez?”

  “It’s a long story,” Jack said.

  Patrushka struck him across the face with the back of his hand, knocking him backward into the chair by the night table. “So tell it,” he snarled, striding up to lean over him, his gun aimed at the middle of Jack’s chest.

  Jack flung himself and the chair over sideways, kicking up at the same time, between Patrushka’s legs. He landed on his right side, rolled to his face with his knees bent under him, and pushed up and back, smashing backwards into Patrushka’s half-doubled-up form.

  They fell to the floor together, Jack on top, and he tried to roll free, but his false arm couldn’t support him and he fell on his face. Patrushka, lying on his back, was bringing his gun around in a high arc, aiming for Jack’s head. Jack raised his false arm and took the blow, feeling no pain, but hearing plastic crack.

  Patrushka reached back to strike again. Jack swung his false arm down, smashing into Patrushka’s face. Patrushka’s blow went wild, but at the same time he kicked out, striking Jack just below the right knee.

  The pain was like a hot wire, running all the way up his leg to his hip. Jack, half on his face, flailed again and again with his left arm. He lacked the strength in the artificial limb to strike a solid blow, but its unyielding surface smashed Patrushka’s face, spattering blood.

  When Patrushka dropped his gun to protect his face, Jack rolled away and struggled to his knees. But before he could get to his feet Patrushka reached up and grabbed his false arm, jerking him back on top of him. Jack felt his arm give, and Patrushka must have felt it too, because he let go at once.

  Jack jacknifed his knees into Patrushka’s side, knocking the breath out of him, and jerked upright. He turned toward the comer where his gun was lying, but Patrushka grabbed his ankle and he fell on his face. Patrushka pulled on his legs, dragging Jack back, but Jack’s hand closed on the gun and he rolled over once again, brought the gun around right into Patrushka’s grinning face, and fired.

  The bullet produced a small, black hole just above Patrushka’s browline. The back of Patrushka’s head came off, brains and blood spattering across the room. He fell on Jack’s knees, bleeding between Jack’s legs.

  Jack extricated himself from the body and climbed to his feet. He stood there a moment, panting, his right leg nearly buckling, his right hand trembling so hard that he nearly dropped the gun.

  He stepped away from the body and the spreading pool of blood. He had to get out of there before somebody came to investigate the shot, but his left arm wasn’t working. He put the gun down on the night table and took off first his jacket, then his turtleneck. It wasn’t easy.

  One of the straps which held his artificial arm in place was half tom through, and two buckles had come undone. Jack quickly but carefully refastened his arm, then put his turtleneck and jacket back on. His jacket was badiy rumpled, but the only blood spots were down around his lower legs. He dropped the gun into his jacket pocket and, leaving his clothes and suitcase, left the room.

  He took the elevator down to the lobby, thinking about his car back at the safe house on Berry. He walked to a phone booth on the comer of US 18 and Marlin, just a short block away, and called a taxi. Fortunately, it came within moments.

  He got out at the shopping center on south US 18 and walked up Wyndham to Berry, a block beyond Wade Avenue, then south on Berry the block to the safe house. It was a beautiful summer evening, and the events of just moments before seemed unreal.

  Sally Greenstreet met him at the door.

  “Good God,” she said as she let him in. “What happened to you?”

  “We don’t have Marty Patrushka to kick around any more,” Jack said. “Do you have any aspirin?”

  “Yes, I think so, you need a drink?”

  “Anything you’ve got.” He went over to sit sprawled on the couch while Sally went in search of medicaments. Before she came back Marvin Dahlgren came in from the bedroom area.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Dahlgren said. “We’d heard you’d had a fight—”

  “Patrushka found out I was staying at the Carter House. He’s dead.”

  “You’re damn amazing, you know that?”

  “Who the hell cares,” Jack said as Sally came back with two aspirin and a tumbler full of whiskey. “How’s Emily?” “Somebody came over just a few minutes ago,” Sally

  said, “a deconversion expert Walter sent. You talked with Walter?”

  “Yeah, not that long ago.” He tossed the aspirin into his mouth and washed them down with bourbon. “Where’s Abbot?”

  “He’s not here, he had something else to do.”

  “So where’s this expert?”

  “In the bedroom with Emily,” Dahlgren said. “We just got her equipment set up.”

  “I wanna see her,” Jack said, struggling to his feet. The pain in his right leg was easing off, but his artificial left arm felt a little clumsy.

  “Come on back,” Dahlgren said, and led him to the bedroom where Emily was lying. Standing beside the bed was a red-haired woman, who looked too young to be an expert in anything, dressed in a pastel blue skirt and blouse. Her face was very plain, but when she looked up at Jack and smiled, she was utterly charming.

  On either side of the head of the bed were gray metal boxes, each the size of a two-drawer filing cabinet. Wires led from the boxes to a loose helmet on Emily’s head.

  “She’s going to be all right,” the red-haired Visitor said. “I’m Sylvia. You must be Dr. Page.”

  Emily opened her eyes and looked up at Jack. His heart lurched. “Dr. Page,” she said, and his heart lurched again, but this
time with disappointment. She would have called him Jack if she felt anything for him. “What happened to you?” Emily asked.

  “Marty Patrushka will never kidnap anybody again,” Jack said softly. Emily’s eyes got large. She had such beautiful eyes, Jack thought.

  “You killed him,” Emily said.

  “Yes ”

  “I’m glad,” Emily said. Then she sat up, put her hands on the helmet, looked at Sylvia who nodded, and took the helmet off. “It must have been terrible,” she said.

  “It was. But that’s all over now. How are you doing?” “I think I’m going to be all right,” Emily said. “I don’t remember being converted, and yet Sylvia has already been able to clear my mind a little bit.”

  “It’s going to take a lot longer,” Sylvia said, “but Emily’s conversion was only partial, and limited in scope, so we should be able to bring her back to normal in just a few weeks.”

  “That’s very good to hear,” Jack said.

  “And guess what?” Emily said, her eyes bright. “Marvin talked to Ms. Carpentier this afternoon, and it looks like we’re going to get the contract after all. Can you imagine? The entire public area of WCTY, plus Ms. Carpentier’s offices, and maybe more later.”

  “That’s terrific,” Jack said, forcing himself to smile. He was happy for her, but the way she looked at Dahlgren told him more than words. “You were discreet,” he said to Dahlgren.

  “Like 1 told you, that’s one subject about which I know everything.”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” Emily said, “working through Marvin as though I weren’t there. How soon do you think it will be before I can go back to my office? Joyce doesn’t even know I'm alive.”

  “Not real soon,” Jack said. “The situation is getting more complicated. You’re going to have to stay in hiding for a while I’m afraid. There’s more than your life at stake. ” “I understand. You’ve been wonderful, Dr. Page.”

  “I think 1 should get back to work now,” Sylvia said. “I can keep this equipment out only so long before people start asking questions.”

  “All right,” Jack said. He smiled at Emily again, then turned and walked blindly from the room.

  “You need another drink,” Dahlgren said when they got back to the living room.

  “Yeah, I guess 1 do,” Jack said. Sally, watching out the front window, turned to look at him.

  “You care for her, don’t you?” Dahlgren asked as he went over to a side cabinet.

  “Is it obvious?”

  “Not to everybody. But I’ve known Emily for a long time, and I’ve been watching you. She’s a pretty nice lady, Jack.”

  “I think so.” He took the glass Dahlgren offered him before fixing himself one. “Obviously you do too.” “She’s smart,” Dahlgren said. Sally came over to fix herself something. “She’s got a real talent. She should be in New York, not stuck down here in a town where there’s nowhere further to go. She’s a good partner, and a good friend.” He raised his glass to Jack.

  “Am I wasting my time?” Jack asked, after returning the salute.

  “I don’t know. I suspect so.”

  “She’s in love with you, you know.”

  “I figured that out a while back.”

  “And you?”

  “I told you what I think about Emily. But I wouldn’t turn her down if she ever made up her mind.”

  “So what am I going to do?” Jack asked rhetorically, feeling a bitterness he had not felt even when he’d lost his arm.

  “Nothing,” Sally said. “At least not now. Not until we’ve all come through this mess alive. If we do.”

  The doorbell rang. Sally went to answer it. It was Walter, dressed in black workpants and a navy sweatshirt.

  “Where’s Abbot?” he asked at once.

  “He hasn’t come back yet,” Jack said.

  “Damn. All right, we’ve been doing some pretty heavy research on Dwight,” he said. “We’ve known for a while that he seems to have more influence with the higher ranks than he has any right to. He’s second in charge of human-Visitor relationships—read minister of propaganda—but that’s not a very important office here. In St. Louis, in Boston, yes, but not down here.

  “He’s got connections, private connections mind you, with the higher bureaucracy—our people are prone to the same kind of corruption you’re suffering from here in Freeport, after all. Consider that a large portion of his activities have not been made a matter of public record. Those of us within the hierarchy who might be expected to know something about what he’s doing have not been informed. If anybody has reason to ask, they are told simply that it’s none of their business.

  “Most of the time, so what? But I’m Northampton’s procurement officer. It’s my job to obtain human goods for our use, live animals for food, and special electronics, such as those used to equip that TV station in the Fairfield Mall. Dwight, as unofficial minister of propaganda, has to work with me on occasion. He’s supposed to enact programs that will make it easier for me to do my job. I’m supposed to consult with him to tell him what 1 want, so he can put out the right word. I tried to get an interview with him, shortly after we talked, and I was just shut off. No explanation, no future date, no nothing.”

  “So somebody’s covering up for him,” Sally said. “Just his own staff?”

  “In fact, now that you mention it, yes.”

  “You didn’t try to get to him outside of regular channels?”

  “No, 1 didn’t. I should have.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “Except that it might have told us whether the whole bureaucracy was behind him, or whether he was on his own.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Walter said. “I was calling on him with a trumped up problem, and didn’t really have anything to say.”

  “But the fact,” Sally said, “that he’s incommunicado is still significant. To me, that says he’s the key to this conspiracy.”

  “I agree,” Walter said, “but it gives us absolutely no idea as to what it’s all about. The only positive thing is that our fifth column is working up a plan to either remove Hickory from Northampton, by legitimate bureaucratic means if we can, or by assassination if we must. But that doesn’t involve you people down here in Freeport. I just wish you had an organization that could move against Kline in the same way.”

  “Kline,” Sally said, “is probably the hardest person in Freeport to kill. He’s far too used to protecting himself.” “What about Oswald?” Walter asked.

  “We still don’t know that he’s guilty of anything,” Sally said, “and even if he were, he’s also well protected.” “What about Annette?” Jack asked.

  “That’s another thing,” Walter said. “The official report is that she has been accused of treason and taken to the mothership over Atlanta. She’s guilty, of course, in the eyes of our law.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Sally asked. “Absolutely nothing. The days are past when a solitary hero like Mike Donovan could penetrate a mothership and single-handedly effect a daring rescue. No, Annette is lost. I just hope to hell that the person who turned her in gets retribution.”

  “He used to be a friend of mine,” Jack said. “But if I meet him again, he will die.”

  “Have you found out anything more about the Fairfield studio?” Dahlgren asked.

  “Nothing that’s of any help,” Walter said. “As far as I’ve been able to tell, it’s perfectly legitimate. It conforms to all human, Visitor, and interspecies regulations, and does just what it is supposed to do.”

  “I don’t know anything about TV technology,” Jack said, “but Abbot’s an expert, and he said that it was not a very sophisticated operation. And I’ve been thinking about that. They asked Vanessa Carpentier, the president of WCTY and an expert on broadcast technology, to help them set that studio up. Why? The impression I got from Abbot was that any good engineer could have done the same job. Why pay the price of an expert they couldn’t use or afford?” “I don’t kn
ow, Dr. Page,” Walter said. “All 1 can tell you is that, at least in Northampton, there has been no secrecy about the studio whatsoever. The only thing we don’t know is the whereabouts of its director, Dwight.” Jack became aware, while Walter was talking, that Emily had come into the room.

  “Are you all right?” he said to her. “Is Sylvia done now?”

  “I’m okay,” Emily said. “Sylvia’s packing up. She’ll be back tomorrow. But I couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about. While Sylvia was working with me, some things kept popping up in my mind. I don’t know if they mean anything or not, but ...”

  “Let us decide,” Jack said. He watched with a sinking heart as Emily went to go stand beside Dahlgren, who put his arm around her.

  “1 remember,” Emily said as she laid her head on Dahlgren’s chest, “one time while Dwight was questioning me about who I had showed the pictures to. A technician came in, and said something like they had verified that there were no shadows.”

  Jack looked at Dahlgren, who did not return his glance. “No shadows?” he repeated.

  “I have no idea what he was talking about,” Emily said. “That’s all I remember, there were no shadows.”

  “Shadows in a room?” Jack asked. “Where were the shadows?”

  “I don’t remember,” Emily said.

  “We were just talking about TV broadcasting,” Sally said. “How about broadcast shadows?”

  “Yes!” Emily said, “that’s right, Dr. Page was saying something about TV engineers, and the thought just came into my mind. 1 don’t know why.”

  “Let’s think about this,” Walter said. “The Fairfield studio has a broadcast tower, on the bluff just north of town, so that the signal can reach the whole city. Tall buildings with all that steel in their structure, block regular broadcast signals, and hence cast a kind of shadow. And unless you have a special antenna, if you’re in a radio shadow, you can’t pick up the channel.”

  “I wish Abbot was here,” Jack said.

  “But the technician said nothing about a tower,” Emily said. “It was more like, dammit, ‘we’ve verified that there are no shadows from the studio.’ Or something like that.”