The Otherworld

by Mercedes Lackey

  But he was under strict orders to keep the operation a secret. Not that the orders were necessary; he understood the wisdom in keeping a lid on any pending raid. When information like that got out in advance, to the public or press, cops died.

  A plan as big as this would surely involve casualties. The question was, how many and on whose side.

  He wasn't getting enough sleep, and he knew it. It was already noon, and he had spent the entire night on the phone with FBI SWAT leaders, coordinating logistics. Fortunately the bulk of the army they were assembling was going to hole up at a National Guard depot in Tulsa, so as not to alert the Chosen Ones. They would begin moving in under cover of darkness and strike a few hours before dawn, when armies were traditionally the most vulnerable. He hoped the plan would work. But given the apparent luck of the lunatic cult lately, he had his doubts.

  If I'm going to be worth a flip during this thing, I'd better get some rest. It will either happen two or three days from now. If I'm going to sleep, this will be about the last chance I'll have.

  Frank was on his way out the door to take care of exactly that when the phone rang.

  "I'm not here," he said to the secretary. "I'm going home."

  He was halfway to his squad car when he realized he'd left his keys on his desk. When he went back into the office, the secretary frantically waved at him, the phone pressed to her ear.

  Frank groaned. I knew I shouldn't have come back in here. It would have been better to just curl up in the backseat and go to sleep. Better yet, in the trunk. No one could see me there.

  "Who is it?" he asked. "I hope it's important."

  "I'm not sure," she hissed. "He says he's from that camp of crazies over there at that church. Chosen Ones, I think he said. You wanna talk to him?"

  Frank stared at her. His exhaustion was temporarily forgotten as he went into his office.

  "Line four," she said, and he picked up the phone.

  "Yes?" Frank said. "This is Deputy Casey."

  There was a pause, just long enough for Frank to think it was a crank call after all. He was about to hang the receiver up when a young-sounding male said, in a trembling voice, "Are you Frank Casey?"

  "That's me," he replied. "What's on your mind?"

  The gulp on the other end of the line was audible. "Everything. I'm an officer of the Sacred Heart of the Chosen Ones. I want to leave the group, but I need your protection."

  "Is that right?" Frank said conversationally. Good Christ, this is a kid I'm talking to! "For what purpose?"

  "My father is crazy," the unknown said. "He's going to end up killing someone."

  Father? Crazy? Who am I talking to? He broke into a cold sweat, but managed to maintain his casual tone. "Oh? And who is your father?"

  "Brother Joseph."

  Frank sat up in the chair, rubbed the sleepiness from eyes. Did I hear that right? he thought. Or is the sleep deprivation making me hallucinate?

  "Are you still there?" the boy asked.

  He took a deep breath and rubbed sweaty palms on his pants. "Oh, I'm here. I know who you're talking about. You said you need protection. Why?"

  The boy sounded desperate enough to be authentic. "Because they'll come after me. They'll come after me and kill me. I'm not joking."

  "I don't doubt it," Frank said, not entirely sure he was believing this conversation. "How do I know this isn't some sort of a trick?"

  It was the other's turn for a long pause. "Well, I guess you don't know. You'll just have to take my word for it."

  "I'm afraid that's not good enough," Frank said evenly. "We can get you the protection," he said, thinking, Yeah, the jail cell is a pretty safe place. Iron bars. Concrete walls. Reasonable rates. "What are you willing to give us?"

  "Anything you want," the boy said without hesitation. "I know everything there is about the Chosen Ones."

  "I suppose you would," Frank said, "if this man is your father." If this is true, this boy can tell us what to expect. Layout of the bunkers. Who's there. Or, it could be a trick. Do I take a chance?

  What would it cost me? Another few hours of sleep?

  "So tell me," he continued, "what do I call you?"

  "Joe," he said. "That's short for Joseph. Junior."

  "Of course it is," he replied inanely. "What would you like to do about this, Joe? Could you come down to the station—"

  "No!" was the immediate reply. Then, "I mean, they'll be watching for me there. Too risky. I meant it when I said they would try to kill me. They should know by now that I'm gone, and they'll be looking for me. Do you have any extra bulletproof jackets?"

  Frank considered this a moment. "Perhaps. Do you really think that's necessary?"

  There was no hesitation in the answer. "Yes. I do."

  In the silence that followed, Frank decided the boy was serious. The risk might not be real, but he certainly thinks it is. What I've seen of that bunch, though, it wouldn't surprise me to see them hunt down and kill one of their own. Especially if he's serious about squealing on the whole rat's nest.

  He sighed. "Okay, then. I can't promise a vest because I don't know who has them checked out. There isn't exactly a lot of call for them around here. But I will meet you someplace. You name it."

  A moment's pause. "There's a steakhouse out here. Called Granny's something. You know it?"

  "Granny's Kitchen?" Frank asked. "Out on Highway 64. Would you like me to pick you up?"

  A sigh. Of relief? "No. That's all right. I can see the place from here. Granny's Kitchen it is."

  Frank did a quick mental calculation. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

  With bells on.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In spite of the fact that he wasn't sure about taking the kid's paranoia seriously, Frank found himself calling in a few tags, some out of state, on vehicles he didn't immediately recognize. He told himself that he did have to admit he'd seen more strange faces lately. But there were always a certain number of strangers around, especially around race-time down at Hallet. He'd never made any connection with the Chosen Ones—if that was really who they were. What surveillance the PCSO had done indicated this group pretty much stayed on their own land, with only a few of them going out for supplies.

  While he'd been trying to dig up information, he'd even questioned the trash collection agency that went out there and turned up nothing. One or two men went in with a single truck at night when the place was dark, passed a guard on the way in and out, and that was it. The guys on the truck never saw anything but a parking lot, the guard and the dumpsters. He'd come to the conclusion a while back that if anything suspicious was going on, it was either kept out of sight of watchers from the edge of the area and from above, or it was happening down below, in the bunkers.

  Every tag he called was clean, but that didn't do much to calm his jitters. Shoot, now he was getting paranoid! Too much coffee, Frank diagnosed. Too much coffee and not enough sleep. It's enough to make any man jumpy.

  He pulled in the parking lot of Granny's Kitchen, a quaint little restaurant he remembered fondly, though he hadn't been there in some time. I've been with the department now for what, ten years? Where has all the time gone?

  Nothing that he'd ever been through or been trained for had prepared him for what waited for him inside. What am I walking into here? Trap—or hoax—or the break he'd prayed for?

  The diner was exactly as he remembered it; not a stick of furniture had been moved. The old formica and vinyl booths still lined the walls, each with their own remote-jukebox selector dating back to 1957. The floor was worn through to the concrete foundation in places; the scent was of home-cooking, with an aftertaste of Lysol. The cash register sat atop a wood and glass case, which enclosed candy and cheap, locally made trinkets.

  The place was oddly silent for the time of day. From the kitchen came the sounds of an ancient Hobart dishwasher, the tinkle-clank of glasses and coffee cups being placed in racks, plates being stacked, silverware being sorted.

&nbs
p; On duty at the open grill, Old George flipped hamburgers; when he saw Frank he smiled a toothless grin and waved, a greeting that hadn't altered since the deputy was fifteen.

  And there was someone else on duty who knew him almost as well as Old George.

  "Good God, you look like hell," Peggy said, putting an order pad away in the pocket of an immaculate bleached apron. The waitress looked like she'd walked off the cover of a 1955 issue of Life, complete with blond bouffant. Like the diner, she hadn't changed since the fifties.

  Frank had dated her briefly in high school, but the romance never advanced past petting, and Peggy had married a real estate agent the same month Frank went into the academy.

  She's the kind of girl who can be your best friend, Frank had once observed. Too damn few of them around.

  She frowned at him, hand on one hip. "Don't you believe in sleep anymore? Or are you too busy catting around at night?"

  "Have pity on me, Peggy. It's been one helluva long week," he said awkwardly, glancing around the diner to see who else was there. Two high school girls, one of the locals, named Russ, and a National Guardsman he didn't immediately identify. But no young man. He took a seat at his usual booth. "Coffee, please. For now."

  Maybe the kid's waiting outside, he thought, hoping this wasn't a wild-goose chase.

  "You looking for someone?" Peggy asked, pouring a cup of coffee, and dropping a plastic-covered menu on the formica table beside him.

  He decided to play it cautious. No point in setting himself up to look like a fool to more people than just himself. "Not sure yet. Have you seen a boy—a teen-ager—hanging around here lately? Not one of the local kids, a stranger." Peggy knew every kid that hung around here—and their parents and home phone numbers. God help them if they acted up when she was on shift. Mom and Dad would hear about it before they cleared the door.

  She pursed her lips. "Well, yes I have. Early this morning. Saw him walking along the road. Just thought he was passing through, but he showed up again and made a phone call over at that pay-phone." Peggy pointed to a gas station with a phone booth, across the highway. "He looks kind of like a runaway. That who you're looking for?"

  "It likely is," Frank said. Has to be. "What did he look like?"

  "Blond, looked like a jock. About eighteen, nineteen. Holes in his jeans, wearing a white t-shirt. If it weren't for the military haircut he'd look pretty scruffy. Like you did when you were that age." She grinned. "Or can you remember that far back?"

  Old George yelled, "Order up." Peggy winked mischievously and trotted off to the counter, pink uniform skirt swishing.

  Military haircut. Could be, though most of those guys were shaved bald. I'll have to ask him about that. If it's him. If he shows.

  The door opened, jingling the little bell fixed to it. Frank looked up as he took his first sip of coffee.

  Son-of-a-gun. Looks like I've got my chance now.

  He came into the restaurant slowly, a predator moving into new territory, feeling his way with all senses alert for trouble. Coolly, professionally, he scanned the patrons sitting at the booths, apparently deciding after a cursory examination that they were not a threat. And that they were not who he was looking for.

  His eyes alighted on Frank. Frank nodded, warily, and the boy returned the nod. Just as warily.

  "You must be Frank," the boy said, walking over to the booth. "I'm Joe. We spoke on the phone just now?"

  The boy kept his voice low, just barely audible. Frank followed his example. "Yes, son. Have a seat."

  Joe carefully set his pack down on the bench and deposited himself opposite Frank. They regarded each other uncomfortably for a moment before the deputy suggested, "Would you like something to eat? I'm buying."

  Indecision passed over the young face, as if the boy was afraid to ask for a handout. "No thanks. I'm not hungry," he replied, in a tone that wasn't very convincing. Then suddenly the boy's stomach growled, loudly; people in the booth next to them gave them a sideways glance.

  Frank couldn't suppress a grin of amusement. "Are you sure?"

  The youngster shifted, uncomfortably. "Well, sir, I am hungry, but I don't want any handouts. I was raised funny that way."

  No handouts? If his father really is Brother Joseph, why would that be a problem? That's how the entire circus over there was financed. But then, the boy probably has a pretty distorted viewpoint.

  Frank shrugged. "Consider it a loan, then. We can work it out, somehow."

  Relief washed over the youngster's face. "Okay then," he said, reaching eagerly for a menu. As Joe studied the selection, Frank was impressed with the boy's fine physique. It took work and dedication to get a body built up that way. Muscles bulged from under the tight shirt, with thick, meaty arms that suggested years of free weight training. Frank's eyebrows raised when he saw the crude swastika tattooed on Joe's forearm, though the boy was deep in the menu and didn't notice. From the symbol's location on the youngster's arm, though, Frank had a shrewd idea that it had been done a few years earlier, before a rapid spurt of growth.

  For the rest, Joe was shaving, but just barely. A fine blond stubble was visible on his upper lip and chin, but nowhere else. He was dirty and smelled, and looked like someone on the run, right enough. But this was no teenybopper runaway; for all Joe's apparent youth, this was a full-grown man. And one who, from the dark circles under his eyes, was having a serious crisis.

  Peggy appeared with two glasses of ice water, raising an eyebrow at Frank. A silent response from his eyes asked her to save her questions for later. She nodded knowingly and said only, "What will you have, sugar?"

  Joe looked up at her and licked his lips, his hunger showing. "How 'bout the chicken fried steak with fries, a hamburger—you got a chef salad? Yeah, I'll take the salad with a side of cole slaw, a large milk. . . ."

  "You have quite an appetite," Peggy noted with a grin, continuing the order on another ticket. "How about you, Frank?"

  "Just a hamburger and a ginger ale," he replied. "Put it on one ticket. I'll pick it up."

  Peggy left with the order. Joe drained his ice water in one gulp. Frank edged his glass over. "Have it. I'm not thirsty. When was the last time you ate, anyway?"

  "Yesterday—yesterday morning, actually," Joe replied. "I've been moving ever since this morning around four."

  Interesting. Either the Chosen Ones were keeping their folks on short rations, or something had happened to kill the kid's appetite for a while. Maybe the same thing that had caused his defection? "You waited a while before calling the office. You almost missed me."

  Joe toyed with the glass of ice water. "I had to lay low today. I knew they were going to be out looking for me as soon as they knew I was gone—by breakfast at the latest. There's always an early Praise Meeting around noon, so I figured now would be the best time to get in touch." He looked up, under eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "I wasn't kidding when I said they were going to kill me."

  "Don't worry, you're safe here," Frank said placatingly, still not altogether certain there was anything to really worry about from the Chosen Ones. So far all he had evidence for was an overactive imagination. "Would you like to tell me what this is all about?"

  Joe took a deep breath, let it go. "Not sure where to start."

  "Why don't we start with your father," Frank urged.

  "Yeah. My father." He made a face, as if the words tasted bitter. "It took a while to figure him out."

  I bet it did. "So tell me about it. And just for the record, how old are you?"

  Joe sighed. "I just turned eighteen. I've been training in paramilitary since I could walk, it seems. Guess what I need to do now is go into the army or something."

  Frank nodded, slowly. "Not a lotta call for Pizza Hut delivery guys that handle AK-47s." That was a test, to see by the youngster's response—or lack of it—if what Cindy Chase and her backup band had told him was true.

  The kid didn't even flinch, and that made him one very unhappy cop.

 
; "I guess so." He sighed again. "But there are some things I need to take care of first. Will you give me the protection I need?"

  "Of course we will," Frank said smoothly. "We've got assault weapons, too."

  The deputy let that last statement dangle in the air, like bait. The question was, would he take it?

  "Yeah I bet you do," Joe replied levelly. "But not as much as what we've got down there."

  Frank was now a profoundly unhappy cop. "Would you care to expand on that?"

  Joe shook his head, but not in denial. "I guess it's not `we' anymore. I don't know, its just that a lot of weird stuff has been happening to me lately. Things you wouldn't believe. Things I'm not sure I believe."

  "Start from the beginning," Frank advised.

  Joe nodded. "As long as I can remember, Daddy was a preacher. He kept talking about the second coming of Christ, the Armageddon, the Sword of God—and this direct phone line he had to God Almighty. Like a Heavenly Hotline or something. Only thing is, he never told me why he could hear God, and I couldn't."

  "Well, I'm not too surprised about that," Frank said cautiously. "We gotta lot of guys like that out here in the Bible Belt. Not real big on explanations."

  Joe grimaced. "Yeah. I just took it for granted that he was right and I was wrong, as usual, and the only right thing I could possibly do was to obey him and serve whatever church he had created that day. I didn't dare contradict him, even when the contradictions were so obvious that any fool could see he was making this stuff up as he went along. I kinda got to the point where it didn't matter, you know? Like as long as he was handing down the line, I'd swallow it and not even think about it. Then he started the Sacred Heart. Sacred Heart of the Chosen Ones, he called it. God's chosen people. And the only chosen people."

  Peggy showed up with a pitcher of water and filled both empty glasses.

  Joe emptied his for the third time. "Hot day. Nothing to drink, either," he offered.