A Cook in Time

by Joanne Pence

  “Now I know why all dose guys on TV always carry aroun’ a cell phone,” Earl said with dejection.

  “Quiet! I just heard a noise.”

  Footsteps grew louder, one by one, up the stairs.

  Vinnie and Earl didn’t move. The footsteps stopped, then at the top of the stairs they eased forward in a shuffling motion, like an old man.

  Shoes swished against the concrete, closer and closer. Silently, Earl and Vinnie scooted toward each other, huddling close. Then Earl tugged on Vinnie’s arm, and the two men knelt down.

  A leg bumped into Earl and stumbled. A man’s leg. Earl grabbed the foot and lifted. The man shouted as he went up in the air. He came down on top of Vinnie.

  “I caught him!” Vinnie cried.

  “I got him, too!” Earl said.

  “Kick him! Gouge his eyes! Hit him in the nuts!” Vinnie yelled.

  “Stop! It’s me, Elvis. Paavo said we’ve got to call the cops, quick!”

  “I t’ink we got some bad news for you.”

  Angie tried to ignore thoughts of aliens and UFOs that paraded through her head, and instead tried to think of more earthly things, like why there was light in the room the strange figure she’d seen had been in, but nowhere else in the basement. Could it mean that, instead of a power outage, someone had purposely shut off the basement lights?

  The bobby pin trail had been heading in that direction. Could that be where Connie was? Had that man forced her into the room? Angie’s instincts told her yes. Nothing else about Connie’s behavior made any sense. But who would do such a thing to Connie? And why?

  Holding her hand against the wall, she made her way down the long hallway until she felt the frame of a door—very likely the door she’d seen the figure emerge from. “Connie?” she called.

  She heard a thump.

  “Connie? Is that you?”

  Two thumps.

  She tried the door. It was locked. Thumps and muffled cries that she knew were being made by Connie gradually moved closer and closer to the door. An eternity seemed to pass before she heard a noise against the lock. It sounded as if Connie was trying to turn the deadbolt. “Hurry, Connie!” she cried.

  The deadbolt twisted again partway, but clicked back into place. Finally, it twisted all the way around.

  Angie waited a moment, then reached out for the doorknob and turned it. The latch clicked. Holding her breath, she cautiously pushed the door open.

  The first thing that hit her was the smell—metallic and acrid, horrible, yet strangely familiar. The room was lit in the garish fluorescent lighting of a hospital. It was a laboratory with shelves and counters lined with bottles of chemicals, beakers, a Bunsen burner, microscopes, flasks, condensers, and a whole litany of other laboratory implements.

  She opened the door a little farther, and there, kneeling on the floor, her hands and ankles bound, her mouth taped, was Connie. “Connie,” she whispered, relief and fright filling her.

  As she stepped into the lab toward Connie, her gaze swept over the far side of the room.

  She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut.

  27

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Algernon stood on the sidewalk, flapping his arms and looking up at the enormous dark warehouse. Usually when an event was going on, they lit the outside lights, opened the lobby doors wide, and enlisted ticket takers; Oliver Hardy would set up a stand to give away brochures. He shuddered at that last thought. Still, where was everyone? “Why are all the lights off? Who wants to go to a party that’s so dark and dreary?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong.” Triana stepped to his side. They walked to the doors and tried to open them. The doors were locked. “I guess no one is here. I tried calling to say we were going to be a little late, but the phones weren’t working.”

  “Did they cancel my event without telling me?” Algernon was literally hopping mad. “What the hell is wrong with all of you? Do I have to do everything myself?”

  “Frankly, I don’t see that it matters,” Triana said. “After the news broke about that murderous lunatic Oliver Hardy, people were calling all day long with one excuse after the other not to attend.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? It matters to me—to my book, my career! What kind of imbecile are you?”

  “You don’t have to get nasty! This is hardly my fault,” she cried.

  “Not your fault? Whose is it, then? It’s a disaster! A fiasco! It’s all your fault. You and that stupid incompetent you hired, who didn’t even appreciate all I tried to do for her.”

  Triana arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And what did you try to do for her?”

  “I—” He snapped his mouth shut. “Nothing.”

  “I thought you were a little too interested in her!” Triana yelled.

  “Me?” he asked coyly.

  “Don’t play innocent! I’ve gone out on a limb for you, you playboy. Not to mention what the food for this nonexistent party will cost me. If my husband finds out I’ve spent more money on you, he’ll be madder than ever. Now I learn you’re trying to mess around with the hired help!”

  “Miss Amalfi is hardly in the category of hired help, Triana,” he said, unable to stop a smile from touching his lips as he thought of Angie.

  “You old goat!” she ranted. “You’re old enough to be her father. Those face-lifts haven’t erased years, only wrinkles!” She turned and marched toward her car.

  “Triana, you’re being unreasonable.” He followed her.

  “The only thing unreasonable about me was paying attention to you in the first place. See how far you get without me—and my money! Good-bye.”

  She got into her big Mercedes and locked the doors.

  “Triana, wait!” He clutched the door handle. “You aren’t going to leave me out here in this neighborhood at night, are you?”

  She gunned the engine and took off. He ran after her, waving his arms and shouting. But she didn’t stop.

  “Oh my God,” Angie cried, running across the laboratory. “Is he still alive?”

  In the center of the lab stood a large metal bathtub. Derrick Holton lay in it. He was unconscious; on his chest the numeral 7 had been carved. Blood from the wound covered his torso. Horrified, Angie’s eyes took in the implements surrounding him: butcher knives, a meat cleaver, a hacksaw, power saws, plastic tarps, a meat hook. Suddenly it all came together. She understood what she was seeing. “God help us,” she whispered. They were in the laboratory of the mutilation murderer. Oliver Hardy wasn’t the killer after all. The mutilation murderer was still alive … and he was killing Derrick.

  Her knees felt weak, her head light. Little black and purple dots flashed before her eyes. Gulping great quantities of air, she turned and faced Connie. She had to compose herself, untie Connie, and get them all out of there. It was up to her.

  She took hold of the tape covering Connie’s mouth and ripped it off.

  “Thank God,” Connie whispered, pressing her hands to her lips. “He wanted me to watch! He cut Derrick! It was so …” A sob broke. “Then he heard you calling me. That was why he stopped.” She began to cry harder, unable to go on.

  Angie grabbed a knife and cut through the ropes on Connie’s hands and feet. She couldn’t help Derrick yet. If she and Connie didn’t get out of there, none of them would escape.

  She had just cut Connie’s ankles free when she heard a noise at the door. Then the door swung open.

  Kronos tripped over something huge lying on the floor and went down in a heap. “By God’s wounds! What is that?”

  He reached back. It was hard, bony. An arm. His fingers traveled up the arm to the face, the long, frizzy hair. “Phil, is that you, knave?”

  Phil’s mouth was cold. He didn’t seem to be breathing. “What’s wrong with you?” Kronos said. He reached for his pulse. It was there, but faint.

  Not knowing what else to do, Kronos applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Amazingly, Phil’s breathing grew stronger. “Wake up, man,” Kro
nos said, slapping his face. “We’ve got to find a nice cave to hide in until all this is over. I think someone wants us all dead.”

  Paavo stood in the darkness, more frustrated than he’d ever been before. He’d gone after the man with the flashlight but had lost him. He didn’t know if the guy had turned down a hall Paavo had missed, or shut off the light, or what. Was the man trying to be helpful or to make things worse for them? His instincts were failing him—because of his worry about Angie, or because he couldn’t see or hear a damn thing, he didn’t know. Maybe both.

  By calling out to Butch and listening to his responses, he had gotten his bearings and found his way back. Now he and Butch were slowly making their way to the stairs. Once upstairs, he’d get a flashlight—there had to be several up there—and call for backup himself. He couldn’t understand why the police were taking so long. They should already have been there. He swore at himself once again for having been taken in by the man with the flashlight, whoever he was.

  The bigger worry was what had become of Angie and Connie. He couldn’t believe that anyone would have made a move against them at an event like this. It didn’t make sense.

  Could it have been Derrick? If so, why? He’d seen the women continuously, even while he was in hiding. No, it wasn’t Derrick.

  That was it! Derrick had been in hiding. He was the target. The one place the NAUTS people and the Prometheans knew he would be was at Tardis Hall that evening. If Derrick was the target, then Connie, on the lookout for him, might have gotten involved simply due to bad luck and bad timing.

  Paavo’s main hope was that Angie had not succeeded in finding Connie. As long as she didn’t find her, she might be safe. Who was behind this, though? Which of the NAUTS or Prometheus Group people could it be? Algernon? He still hadn’t shown up, but Paavo couldn’t imagine him laying a trap for Holton. Algernon was a con man. Con men rarely killed. If things got bad, they simply moved on to the next con.

  Who else could it be?

  He found the door to the stairway to the main floor. Someone had shut it. That was odd. Elvis had gone upstairs—would he have shut the door? Paavo slid his hands over the door until he found the knob. He turned it. The door was locked. He tried again, tugging and rattling it to get a feel for how strong the lock and the door were. They were solid.

  He tried to find the keyhole. Where was it? With one of Connie’s bobby pins, he should be able to pick it open. He’d gotten pretty good at that in his years in Homicide. He ran his hands over the edges of the door. There was no keyhole. That meant the door had been electronically locked.

  That gave him pause. Whoever was behind this had the ability to electronically control a door. If he could do it to one door, he probably could do it to all of them. He most likely could lock and unlock them at will from a central place in the warehouse. Same for the lights. It was the mark of a scientist—a very capable scientist. The type that might be involved with UFOs and all the advanced electromagnetic technology that went along with them.

  Paavo strained to see in the darkness, but it was impossible. A creeping dread came over him. If whoever was behind this could lock a door remotely, what else could he do?

  “You just stepped on my hand,” Vinnie yelled.

  “I couldn’t step on not’in’ ’cause I’m crawlin’ so I don’ fall over,” Earl yelled back.

  “Well, you kneed my hand, then. Keep on your own side!”

  “I t’ink I found da front door.” Earl reached up, felt the doorknob, and stood. “I got it.”

  “Don’t just stand there, open it!”

  “I’m tryin’. Da doorknob don’ toin.”

  “What do you mean, it don’t turn? Maybe your hands are as weak as your head. Let me do it.”

  “Where’s Elvis?” Earl said.

  “I don’t know. Hey! What is this? These doors won’t open.”

  “Let’s holler. Maybe dere’s somebody outside.”

  “If there is, how’re they gonna open a door that’s locked?”

  Earl’s shoulders slumped. “I t’ink dat’s a good point.”

  The door opened. Angie’s hand tightened on the knife she had used to cut the ropes that held Connie. She hid it behind her back.

  A man walked into the lab and removed the night vision goggles that covered his eyes. But even before he did that, even while still wearing the goggles, even though his wig and facial hair were gone, Angie recognized the black turtleneck, the gaunt frame.

  “Malachi!” she whispered.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” Connie cried. “Who are you?”

  “I’m no man,” he said, then laughed.

  At the bizarre words, a strange possibility struck Angie. Could it be? “No man,” she asked, “or new man?”

  He nodded. “Very good, Angie. Very good. I knew I liked you. Yes, they all thought I was dead. They tried to ruin everything I’d spent my life building. Splitting up the Prometheus Group was a big mistake. Their last mistake. Instead of teaching the world that they walk among us—or, I should say, that we walk among you—the idiots fight over trivia. They all deserve to die.”

  “All?” Angie whispered.

  “In time, in time. Right now, I have more important things to do. I trust you’ve looked over my laboratory. Did you notice my laser? Not nearly as good as the one I used at Area Fifty-one, but then everything there is at least ten years or more ahead of what you civilians use. I enjoyed having Connie in the corner to watch it all. I’ll enjoy having you watch even more, Angie.”

  Angie’s voice was strangled. “What are you talking about?”

  “The date wasn’t finished. Seven-five-forty-seven. I don’t have the last seven yet. That was reserved for Holton. He knew it, too. That was why he was scared—why he ran and hid. He couldn’t stay hidden forever. I knew Tardis Hall would lure him back to me, and so it did. Too bad you girls got caught in my trap. Such is life. Or death.”

  “What about Algernon?”

  “He’s a fool. He’s nothing. Once I finish here, I’ll own Algernon and everything the Prometheus Group stands for. There won’t be anything to connect me with this, you see. It’s all very simple. I’ll finish my work with Holton—I won’t get to do such a fine job on him as the earlier three because I’m rushed. But it won’t matter.

  “I’ll take him out to Treasure Island in the middle of San Francisco Bay. From there, I’m going to flash a hologram in the sky—that’s a three-dimensional picture using laser beams, in case you aren’t up on the very latest technology. It’ll be an enormous hologram of a flying saucer. When the people of San Francisco see it hovering overhead, they’ll flock out to Treasure Island. There they’ll find Holton’s body. That’s when seven-five-forty-seven will be complete. Ufologists across the country will make the connection.”

  “They’ll connect it with Roswell, you mean?” Angie asked. As she spoke, she and Connie circled away from him. She was sure he had a gun, but still, if she could get near the door, she might be able to stab him and then run. Or something more practical might come to mind if she was lucky.

  “They’ll recognize the date,” he continued, “the most important date in all of mankind’s history. Christmas day, Mohammed’s birth, the discovery of America—they all pale against July fifth, 1947. The day the Earth was given proof that we are not alone. The day my father fell to Earth.” He smiled. “Everyone will be screaming about Roswell as a result. Their interest will flow to NAUTS and the Prometheus Group. And, dare I say it, to me.”

  Angie continued to inch sideways, but he stepped in front of her, his eyes red and intense as he blocked her path to the door. “Next year, on July fifth, I will let the world know that I am still alive. They will beg me to take back the Prometheus Group. And I will. Yes, I’ve planned this a long, long time. It’s perfect. The perfect crime. With all the publicity I want. I can hardly wait. Too bad you’ll miss it all.”

  Angie and Connie glanced at each other. “You can let us go,” Angie said. “We�
�ll be able to tell the world how great you are.”

  Connie was too petrified to speak, but she nodded.

  “No, because you’ll also tell them I’m a murderer, Angie. I’m not stupid! Right now there’s nothing to link me to the murders. I really quite prefer it this way.”

  “Except us,” Angie whispered.

  “Except you. But I’ll give you a nice death, not a painful one. When I finish here, I’ll simply put on a gas mask, and then light a very smoky fire—I have the chemicals and supplies in this lab to do it. You and your friends will die of smoke inhalation. Oh, I forgot to mention. Your friends are locked in the basement, too. A couple of inconsequential ones are upstairs. I might have to simply shoot them, I haven’t decided yet.”

  Keep him talking, Angie told herself. Delay. “How do I know you’re really Neumann? Everyone says he was killed. I believe them.”

  He laughed. “I escaped. Quite easily, I might add. I knew the government was trying to kill me because I had found out too much about their space programs and the important information they concealed from the people. I hid for a time, planning to rejoin the Prometheans. But they changed. Holton changed them, dividing them, weakening them. I watched and waited.”

  “Why kill anyone? You could have gone to the public, told your story. You would have been safe.”

  “You’re so naive, Angie. The public believes whatever the media tells it, and the media is a tool of government. My victims were people who had been in Area Fifty-one with me and had moved to San Francisco like the Prometheans did. It was interesting to learn how their little exposure to Area Fifty-one—to me—had stayed with them over all these years, and when given the slightest encouragement, they sought us out. They happily gave my friend Oliver their names and addresses.”

  “So Oliver worked with you?”

  “Yes. He was the only one I trusted enough to tell I had returned. He thought he was recruiting old Area Fifty-one workers for me. It was too bad he got so upset when he learned he’d sent those men to their deaths that he took his own life. Before that, he believed everything I told him—he was quite the idiot.”