Perkins was in the door again. Philips looked up expectantly.
"The radar-analysis group reports they've found something anomalous-a reading for something splitting off from the main group and heading south."
"Christ, now what?" Philips stood up. "Show me what you've got."
He followed Perkins out.
Twenty minutes later he was studying a fax of a chart showing a radar signature of something that looked like a small swarm of insects, something that wouldn't even have registered on any ordinary equipment, something that would ordinarily have been dismissed as a bit of cloud, or a bunch of bees, if it was noticed at all.
Except this particular swarm of bees or bit of cloud had apparently been moving south at roughly six hundred miles per hour.
Philips glowered at the fax.
"Six hundred," he said. "Since when are spaceships subsonic?"
"Since never, sir," a technical sergeant replied.
"Our previous tracks were all at hypersonic speeds."
"So what the hell was this one doing?"
"We don't know, sir," the sergeant replied. "Except . . . well, commercial airliners cruise at about that speed."
Philips looked up from the paper. "So is this a goddamn airliner?"
"No, sir, it's not," the sergeant said, "but . . . well, it might be a shadow of some kind, or an echo. We're dealing with stuff right on the edge here, sir, right at the limits of our equipment."
"So it may not have anything to do with our unwanted visitors?" Philips asked.
The sergeant shrugged.
"I wish I knew, sir," he said. "I really wish I knew."
"I wish, too," Philips said, flinging the paper aside. "I wish to God somebody knew what those things are doing!"
* * *
13
Rasche turned into the drive and pulled the family car into the motel parking lot.
"Here we are again," he said cheerfully. "Our home away from home."
"Can we go swimming in the pool now?" Steven asked from the back.
"Later," Shari answered.
Rasche parked the car neatly in front of room 112; a space was open in just the right spot.
The boys immediately jumped out on either side, but Rasche sat behind the wheel for a moment and looked over the white-painted concrete walls and the flat-pink doors. "This place is a bit tacky, isn't it."
"It's fine," Shari said. She leaned over and squeezed her husband's arm. "Thanks."
Rasche turned, startled. "Thanks for what?"
"For bringing us here. For taking a vacation."
"Hey," Rasche said, "I figured we were due. And it was about time the boys got to see the falls."
"I thought so, too," Shari agreed. She hesitated. "This didn't have anything to do with, you know, Schaef getting beat up, did it?"
"He wasn't exactly . . . ," Rasche began, then stopped.
"Honey, I've been a cop's wife for a long time. I didn't listen in or anything, I don't want to know all the details, but I saw what Schaef looked like, something bad happened to him." She shuddered. "There must've been a lot of them, to beat him up like that!"
"He wasn't beaten up, he fell out a window," Rasche said. "Fifth floor."
"And then he left the hospital and came straight to our door and spent a day talking to you," Shari said, "and then you went into work with him and came home early without him and said we were taking a vacation, and how did Niagara Falls sound . . . Honey, are you in trouble?"
Rasche looked her in the eye and admitted, "I don't know"
"Is Schaef okay?"
"I don't know that, either. I swear, Shari, I wish I did." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Look, don't worry about it," he said. "We'll all be fine. Just relax and have a good time."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
Someone rapped on Rasche's window, and he turned to find their younger son's face pressed up against the glass. "Come on, you guys!" he shouted.
Rasche smiled and opened the door.
An hour later Shari and the boys were splashing in the motel pool, but Rasche didn't feel like staying in the water. Despite what he'd told his wife, he couldn't really relax; he was still thinking about his work.
He got up and dried himself off, then headed back to the room.
There was some kind of superhuman killer loose in New York, and he was up here on vacation with his family, and that just didn't feel right.
And Shari's questions were nagging at him. Was he in trouble? How much?
Was Schaefer okay?
Schaefer was off in Central America somewhere, and Rasche hadn't heard a word since he left.
Rasche had left word with the department of where he was going, of course, and after they'd arrived and gotten settled in, he'd phoned back and given the desk sergeant their room number and the name and phone number of the motel; if anything came up, they'd call him . . . .
Wouldn't they?
Well, no, they wouldn't. It wasn't his case. It wasn't Schaefer's case, either. And if Schaefer called and asked for Rasche, the desk man would probably just tell him, "I ain't your goddamn answering service," and hang up.
Rasche frowned as he dressed. Maybe, he thought, he should head back to the city, just in case Schaefer did call. Shari and the boys could stay up here, where they'd be safe, or go to her mother's place in Elmira.
Of course, they had only the one car, and Shari didn't like driving-she'd lived in the city for a long time. She drove well enough when she had to, but she didn't like it.
As he buckled his belt, he shook his head. This was ridiculous; he was being paranoid, worrying about nothing. The feds would get the killer, whoever and whatever he was. They obviously knew what was going on; Philips had said to wait a couple of weeks and it would all be over, and Rasche had to admit Philips was probably telling the truth. Schaefer was on a wild-goose chase; he'd poke around the jungles for a while, then come home.
And by then, when everything had blown over, Schaefer could sue for reinstatement and the union would back him up and he'd get his job back, and everything could go on the way it was before, and in eight years Rasche would retire and collect his pension and he and Shari would pack up and head out to Portland or Anchorage or somewhere.
He was sitting on the bed and had just tied his shoes when he heard footsteps outside; he glanced up.
The shadows of two men-two big men-were visible on the drawn curtains, passing by the window.
Then the footsteps stopped, and Rasche judged that the two men were just outside the door of his room.
Suddenly nervous, he reached over to the lower shelf of the rickety little nightstand and found his pistol-he'd brought it with him, of course, but he hadn't expected to touch it while he was here.
"One-twelve," one of the men said in a low voice, barely audible through the paper-thin door, and Rasche froze. "Do we knock?"
"He's probably out somewhere," the other said. "Maybe we should just wait."
"Let's see if he's in there first."
The men couldn't have realized how thin the door was, that Rasche had heard them.
They were after him.
Who were they?
If this was something legitimate, if the department needed to reach him, they'd have phoned, they'd have left a message-so this had to be somebody else.
Like whoever was behind the two massacres.
They just looked like ordinary men through the curtains, not like the eight-foot-tall monster that Schaefer had described, but that monster couldn't be operating alone, could it? And maybe Schaefer had been hallucinating, maybe he'd been drugged somehow, and why hadn't Rasche thought of that sooner?
For an instant he thought about his choices. He could sit here and let them come in, but if these were the killers, come to skin him alive because he was Schaefer's partner, that would be suicide: He could shoot it out with them-he checked, and yes, his weapon was loaded-but if they weren't the killers, that would be a disaster.
>
The best thing to do was not to be here at all.
He headed for the bathroom, praying the window there would open.
It did; by the time the knock sounded on the door, he was hauling himself up and through it, wishing he'd stayed in better shape. This shouldn't have been such a struggle; he really did need to lose some weight.
A moment later he was standing on a strip of poorly maintained asphalt between the back of the motel and a tall wooden fence; to one side sat a big blue Dumpster, and Rasche could smell something rotting. Flies were buzzing over the Dumpster.
He wrinkled his nose in disgust. It wasn't anywhere near as hot here as it was down in the city, but it was hot enough that something in the trash had gotten very ripe.
He ducked below the window and listened for a moment, but heard nothing-apparently the men hadn't heard him and thought the room was empty. They hadn't broken in to check; maybe they didn't want to be that obvious.
He turned and hurried-not running, but walking fast-the other way, toward the motel office.
He had to make sure of what was happening-and he had to protect Shari and the boys.
And then he had to get back to New York, because obviously, running away from whatever was going on wasn't working.
He reached the back door of the motel office and walked in, trying to look casual.
"Any messages for me?" he asked. "Rasche, room one-twelve?"
The clerk looked up, then glanced down at the desk.
"No, sir," he said.
Then it wasn't McComb who sent those two. McComb would have called.
But they'd known his room number, and they hadn't had to ask here at the office, either. They must have gotten it from someone at the department, but no one had phoned, so this wasn't a friendly official visit.
Rasche leaned over and looked out a window, along the row of rooms; the two men were still there, one standing alertly, the other lounging against the wall.
They wore dark suits that looked completely out of place in this pastel tourist trap, especially since even up here the weather wasn't exactly cool-no sane person would be wearing a jacket.
At least not unless he wanted to hide something, such as a shoulder holster.
They were obviously not just a couple of locals here to award him a free pizza or something.
They might be feds--but if so, it wasn't a friendly visit, if they were coming to get him instead of phoning him to come in and talk.
Rasche had to get away, get back to the city to straighten this out-but he also had to make sure that Shari and the boys would be all right, whoever those men were. And he hated to leave all the luggage that was back there in the room.
"Thanks," Rasche told the clerk. "Can I use the phone?"
The clerk pointed to a pay phone on the far wall.
Rasche pawed through the yellow pages below the phone, then dialed the number of the local Budget car rental.
When he got an answer, he said, "I need to rent a car-can you drop it off for me?"
"When would you need it, sir, and where are you?"
"I need it right now, and I'm at the American Maid Motel on Route Thirty-one."
The rental agent was dubious, but Rasche argued. The agent insisted he didn't have any cars right there on the lot just now, but eventually conceded that there was a van available, and after further negotiation it was agreed that the van would be at the motel in twenty minutes.
That settled, Rasche went back out to the pool.
Shari waved to him, and Richard, the older boy, tried to splash him; Rasche was a foot or two out of range.
"Shari!" he called, beckoning to her.
She swam over and hung on the side of the pool; he knelt down.
"Listen, honey," he said, "something's come up. Remember you asked me if I was in trouble?"
She nodded.
"It looks as if maybe I am. So I'm heading back to New York to see what I can do about it-I'm renting a car, I'll leave ours here for you. And I think it'd be a good idea if you and the boys packed up and went somewhere else, another motel, or maybe down to Buffalo, or go visit your mom, whatever. Stay another two weeks-I hope that'll be enough."
"Are you . . ."
He held up a hand. "I'm fine, I'm just being extra careful, okay? But there's one other thing. If there's a guy in a suit anywhere in sight when you go back to the room-don't go back to the room. Go to the motel office and call the local cops, tell 'em the guy's been harassing you, and you think he's dangerous, and then don't go in the room until the cops get here. You understand?"
"Of course I do... but are you sure... ?"
"I'm sure. I love you; you be careful, okay?"
He stood up and looked around.
No sign yet of his rental van; no sign that the men in suits were watching. The pool was on the far side of the office, out of sight of Room 112, fortunately.
He strolled out toward the road, glancing casually toward the room, then wandered back, out of sight.
The two were still there, still waiting.
He had to lead them away, so that Shari and the kids could get out.
Five minutes later a white van turned into the parking lot and pulled up to the office. Rasche trotted over.
The driver was a pimply teenager. "Mr. Rasche?" he asked hopefully.
Rasche nodded.
A moment later the paperwork was done and the teenager was settled in the office, waiting for his ride back into town.
Rasche accepted the keys, went out to the van, and headed it over toward Room 112. Deliberately parking farther away than necessary, he got out, but left the engine running.
Then he walked casually toward the room.
The men spotted him almost immediately; Rasche heard one of them say, "That's him!"
Rasche didn't wait for anything more; he stopped, stared, and turned and dashed for the van.
The men dashed after him, as he had thought they would.
They were still a dozen feet away when he put the van in reverse and pulled out.
He watched in the rearview mirror as they turned and scrambled for their own car-a blue sedan, down at the end of the row
He didn't wait, though-he wasn't any Hollywood stunt driver. If he wanted to lose his pursuers, he needed all the lead he could get.
Lose them he did, by dodging into a suburban shopping plaza a few blocks away and pulling out onto a different road. After a few more twists and turns he was able to double back past the motel.
Steven was standing in the door of Room 112 and spotted Daddy's van as it went by; he waved, and Rasche waved back.
Shari was already loading suitcases into the trunk of the family car, and there was no sign of the men in suits; Rasche drove on toward the east, back toward New York, fairly confident that he'd pulled it off, that Shari would get away, that everything would be fine.
At least for the moment.
* * *
14
Perkins's expression was wary as he waited for the general to notice him. Philips saw that as soon as he looked up.
He wished Perkins wouldn't do that; sure, it let him know there was bad news coming, but it made it look as if Perkins were scared of him. He didn't like to think he'd take out his annoyance at bad news on the messenger, or that Perkins would think he might. He wanted his men to respect him, not be scared of him.
"What is it?" Philips demanded, annoyed.
"It's Detective Rasche, sir," Perkins said.
"What about him?"
"Something spooked him," Perkins said. "He took off before our men could talk to him, and while they were chasing him, his family checked out of the motel and disappeared. We've lost him, and them, completely."
Philips shrugged. "Doesn't matter," he said; Perkins relaxed visibly, annoying Philips further.
"I thought you needed Rasche-"
"We just wanted him to tell us where Detective Schaefer went," the general said. He gestured at the faxes on the desk. "I think we've figured th
at out on our own. His credit cards show that he charged an airline ticket for a flight to Panama City, and the flight schedules match that radar trace we couldn't explain-it looks like one of those things followed him somehow, matched speeds with the airliner."
"I don't understand," Perkins said. "Why would Schaefer fly to Central America?"
"Dutch must have told him something about the mission there," Philips explained, "and he's put two and two together and gone off to find out what happened to his brother, to see what it has to do with our friends here in New York." Philips sighed. "And that radar trace means that one of the aliens went after him." He shook his head. "So now it looks as if our friend Detective Schaefer is dead meat. Out in the jungle that thing'll be right in its element, and a New York City cop'll be as out of place as a priest in a whorehouse. It's a damn shame, Perkins. "
Perkins hesitated. "Shouldn't we do something about it, sir?"
"Not much we can do, son," Philips said. "Maybe send someone out to keep an eye on the situation, make sure nobody else gets caught in the cross fire-guess we should give that a shot."
"Couldn't we . . ." Perkins hesitated. "I mean, he's Dutch's brother. Shouldn't we do something to give him a fighting chance?"
Philips shook his head. "No, son," he said gently. "We can't do that. Think it through. One of the aliens followed Schaefer from New York. That means they want him-not just anybody, but Detective Schaefer specifically. So they're going to get him sooner or later; we can't stop them. It's a safe bet they've got the technology to take out that whole goddamn country if they want to."
"But you said there was just one that went after him . . . ," Perkins protested.
"That's one ship," Philips pointed out. "We don't know how big the ships are, how many of those creatures are on each ship-we've never actually seen a ship, remember, just picked up the radar traces. Besides, even one of those things is enough to kill anyone. And you aren't going to stop it short of killing it."
"Well, sir, if we armed Schaefer and told him what he was up against . . ."
"Then it's just barely possible he might kill it, yeah," Philips acknowledged. "And if he did, then we'd all be in deep shit. How do you think the others would react if Schaefer killed one?"
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Predator 01 Page 9