by Ronald Kelly
They were only a few hundred yards from solid earth when Dale felt the nylon of his knapsack begin to rip in the reptile's grasp. He closed his eyes, knowing he would take a bad spill if the pack didn't hold. Before he could prepare himself, it gave way. The boy screamed loudly as he felt himself airborne again, this time without the assistance of the dinosaur bird. He spun end over end, and landed mercifully in a soft clump of dense honeysuckle. Dale hit on his back and the impact knocked the breath from his lungs, but that seemed to be the extent of his injuries.
He lay there for a dizzy moment, fighting to regain his senses. When he finally decided to open his eyes, he found the pterodactyl bearing down on him from above.
Oh God, it's gonna eat me now! It's gonna rip me wide open and pick my guts clean out! The muscles of his belly tightened as he awaited the unpleasant sensation of razored talons burrowing into his flesh to fish for the tender prizes locked within.
But again, his most terrifying expectations failed to come true. He felt only a gentle pressure as the creature straddled him. It balanced its awkward form on the frame of its gigantic wings and stared at him with tiny black eyes. They were the eyes of the triceratops, except in miniature.
"Well, what're you waiting for?" piped Dale. He could smell the foul breath of the dark creature. It smelled like a dead animal that had lain out on a hot asphalt road for a day or so. The bloated, gassy scent of decayed flesh.
The long, gawky head of the pterodactyl dipped toward his chest and he could picture its sharp beak burrowing through his ribcage, coming away with his nine-year-old heart. But the thing had no desire for Dale's internal organs—only the thing in his T-shirt pocket.
The boy watched in amazement as the dinosaur took the white dove in its fanged beak, cradling it with a tenderness that was unexpected of such a brutal creature. It stared at Dale, and was it his imagination, or did it actually wink at him? He was pondering that question as the pterodactyl rose upward with one mighty downward thrust of its gray wings. Dale was left lying there on the ground, bewildered, but not enough to miss a golden opportunity.
"Say cheese, you butt-ugly bird!" Dale found the camera that was still slung around his neck and snapped off a quick succession of shots.
As if in reply, the pterodactyl opened its mouth and flashed a toothy grin. At the same time, the dove was released. It faltered for a split second, as though uncertain of the technique of flying, then spread its pale wings and soared into the vast, southern sky. Side by side they flew, an unnerving contrast to each other—one a symbol of peace and tranquility, the other an image of nightmarish terror and doom. Then they were gliding over the crest of the rocky bluff, disappearing above the foliage of the heavy timber.
Dale sat there amid the sweet-smelling honeysuckle and wondered if he had actually experienced the horrifying episode. For a moment, he thought he might have fallen while scaling the mountainside and dreamed the whole fantastic thing during his unconsciousness. But he knew things weren't quite that simple to explain. He checked the exposure count on his Nikon and found that the entire roll of film was spent. He also examined his backpack. It was torn to nylon ribbons—completely useless.
Ten minutes later, he was rolling his bike out of the thicket and onto the mountain road. He wasted no time in hightailing it back to the familiar surroundings of Tucker's Mill. On the way down, he decided he wouldn't tell his father about what had happened. Heck, he wasn't planning on telling anyone. A story about seeing living and breathing dinosaurs in the forest was the kind of nonsense that adults expected from a kid like him, but tales about critters that melted down and reformed themselves into other critters, well, that kind of stuff could get you tossed into the juvenile nuthouse.
There was only one thing he could do to prove that his experience had been real—develop the film. That was the only true evidence he had. The knapsack could have gotten ripped up by sharp rocks or by a feisty raccoon looking for grub, but the film would not lie to him. It would tell him without error whether the escapade on PaleDoveMountain was the product of an overactive imagination or an incredible truth that could not be denied.
Chapter Five
"So offer him more money." That was Jackson Dellhart's cure-all solution whenever difficulty presented itself. And it was usually quite an effective one…but not this time.
"It just doesn't work that way with this guy," Vincent Russ told his boss. "The old fart doesn't give a damn about money."
Dellhart stopped jogging around the indoor track of his private gym and looked puzzled, as though he had never heard of such a species of human being before. In Jackson Dellhart's mind, man was uncivilized if he did not live for the pursuit of legal tender. To lack such a craving seemed downright communistic to the corporate head. Greed was part of the American Way.
He shook his head in astonishment and, wrapping a towel around his neck, left the gym and stepped out on the penthouse terrace of the thirty-story Eco-PlentyBuilding. Vincent Russ followed—an entourage of one. He was careful not to scuff the polished hardwood floor with his shoes. If he did, Dellhart would make him get down there, personally, and clean it up. He had done so before.
Russ joined his boss at a canopied table adorned with a silver platter of fresh fruit and oat bran muffins. There were no scrambled eggs, no greasy bacon, no buttery flapjacks or strong black coffee. Nothing even remotely fortified with cholesterol or adrenaline-pumping caffeine, only things that were good and wholesome. Dellhart was a fitness nut who exercised two hours daily, ate well, and kept a close eye on his health. He shunned tobacco smoke and allowed himself only an occasional drink when he attended a benefit or high-class function.
"So you gave it your best shot, did you, Vincent?" asked Dellhart. He poured himself a tall glass of orange juice and forked a modest serving of fresh strawberries and a wedge of cantaloupe onto a plate. "Well, that's all I can really ask of my employees, isn't it? That they give a hundred percent of themselves?"
"And I did," Russ put in hastily. "But this Fletcher Brice is the queerest bird I've ever come across. He lives up there in the middle of nowhere, living off the land with no electricity or running water. The guy's got to have a screw loose to want to live like that. That's why he keeps turning down our offers." Russ eyed his boss carefully, trying to detect some hint of anger. As of yet, he had noticed none. "I'm just sorry that I couldn't square the deal for you."
"No, you didn't square it for me," said Jackson Dellhart. "But I know who can. Set up an appointment with the Three Stooges as soon as possible."
"The Stoogeone Brothers?" asked Russ with undisguised contempt. "What do you want with those goons?"
"I want them to bring me the deed to that old bastard's land," said Dellhart. As he smiled, his pearly teeth blazed brightly amid his tanned face. "I want them to succeed where you failed quite dismally."
Failed. The word struck a raw nerve in Vincent Russ. "All the Stoogeones succeed at is getting someone wasted. Remember that congressman who kept voting against that off-shore drilling project? They were only supposed to persuade the guy and, instead, ended up slicing him into fish bait and tossing him into San FranciscoBay. We were real lucky on that matter, damned lucky. But if they screw up with this Brice character, they may get us in hot water."
Dellhart regarded him wearily. "What is there to worry about, Vincent? The local police? From my reports, there seems to be only an old bumpkin of a sheriff and one deputy—kind of like Andy Taylor and Barney Fife. The Stooges are professionals. They'll get that deed signed and in my possession by the end of the week."
Vincent Russ studied his superior, trying to figure out exactly what was going on behind those blue eyes. "What's so blasted valuable about this geezer's land anyway? I mean, it's just a lousy piece of real estate." He knew the general motivation behind Eco-Plenty's exploitation of the earth's natural resources: pure profit. But there couldn't be much money to be made from this particular deal.
"That's where you're wrong, Vincent. I've
had geologists working that area for a number of months now, without the knowledge of the citizens who live there. It may seem like a hunk of rock overgrown with trees to you, but to me it has the potential for becoming a goldmine. There are three million dollars worth of good timber on the topsoil, but underneath there are eight million worth of coal. And it's the same for all the surrounding mountains. If I could secure the rights for most of the mountains in PeremontCounty, I could strip-mine them within an eighteen-month period, just like in western Kentucky. And beneath the coal, there is the possibility of other precious minerals. Traces of gold were even found in some of the mountain streams. I have the geological reports to prove it."
Russ knew that Jackson Dellhart didn't have to prove anything to anyone, especially him. The man's mind was like the jaws of a steel trap clamped down on the leg of a helpless animal. When he got his mental hooks latched onto a scheme, there was no letting go. The corporate president was a winner with no serious competition. And when there was a loser in the Eco-Plenty machine, it certainly wasn't Dellhart who suffered the consequences, but his underlings. Russ shuddered at the thought of the man whose job he had filled. Sometimes he wondered exactly how Dellhart had turned a hundred-thousand-a-year executive into a grubby street person within a matter of weeks. Not that Russ wanted to know the precise details. He could very well end up sharing a cardboard box and a bottle of cheap wine with the fellow if he became too curious about Dellhart's unique system of promoting and demoting.
"Just get me a meeting with the Stooges," said Dellhart. He looked up and watched as a pigeon landed on the terrace wall and picked at grit along its ledge.
"Yes sir," replied Russ. "Right away."
"And Vincent?"
The man turned. "Yes?"
Dellhart snatched a shiny red apple from the centerpiece and pitched it unerringly at the bird on the wall. It hit the pigeon squarely in the back of the head, snapping its neck with a crisp pop. The bird's wings didn't even flutter. It grew limp and dropped off the side of the building, disappearing from view.
"Don't screw up again when I send you out on a special job." The smile had lost all humor now. It was practically predatory. “You do and you'll be on the street. Not like your predecessor, though. More like that pigeon."
"I understand, sir," Russ said so softly that he could barely hear himself. He considered that poor bird splatting on the roof of some car below and made his exit, wasting no time to put in the call that Dellhart had requested of him.
No one in the administrative ranks of the Eco-Plenty Corporation would have labeled the Stoogeone Brothers as anything other than a family of respected businessmen. All three were tall and roughly handsome, possessing the raven black hair and dark eyes of their Italian heritage. Joseph and Frank were lean and nearly identical, although they had been born several years apart. Older brother Anthony was more solid in build, sporting a mustache and a noticeably receding hairline.
The entire personnel of the corporation thought the Stoogeones to be wealthy investors. Only Jackson Dellhart and Vincent Russ knew what they actually were. The three brothers were former mob hitmen who had successfully broken the bonds of organized crime to hire out their expertise to cutthroat corporation heads like Dellhart. They had a spotless track record for getting the job done, one way or the other. In a ten-year period, the Stoogeones had performed numerous "persuasions" and "terminations" in the dog-eat-dog world of high finance, and they had never been suspected, let alone caught and convicted.
Solemnly, like three executives with nothing but business on their minds, the Stoogeones strolled down the carpeted hallway to Jackson Dellhart's private office. They reached the receptionist's desk and were about to check in when a voice came from out of thin air. "Delores, please show the gentlemen in."
"Yes sir," replied the secretary. As she ushered the Stoogeones through the massive oaken doors, Anthony shot a glance at the video camera that was cleverly hidden behind a matted Picasso print. He gave the dancing Harlequin a knowing wink, just to let the true eyes of the clown know that he was aware of what was going on.
Once the double doors had been shut, Jackson Dellhart left his desk—which was nearly the size of a Cadillac Seville—and met the elder brother in the center of the plush and paneled office. His eyes took in all three in a single sweeping glance. "Larry, Moe, and Curly…I'm glad you could make it on such short notice.”
Anthony Stoogeone flashed a measured smile and shook Dellhart's hand. "If you weren't the man with the money, I'd cut out your freaking tongue for making such a crack."
The president of Eco-Plenty laughed and nodded. Their exchange was a ritual of sorts—an icebreaker to push the formalities out of the way and get down to business. "Have a seat, Tony."
The larger Stoogeone took a leather chair across from the monstrous desk. The other two stood behind him, a few feet to the right and left. Dellhart had done business with the family for nearly a decade and he was positive that Joseph and Frank always stood in the exact same spots. He would have laid down a generous bet that the distance between them could be measured at any given time and, when compared to the time before, would be precise to the square inch.
"I trust you received the information on this particular case," said Dellhart as he returned to his seat.
"Yes," replied Anthony. "Mr. Russ faxed it to us and we reviewed it during the flight down. I assume this shall be a routine "persuasion" and that there will be no heavy work involved."
"That is correct. The gentleman in question is seventy years of age and lives alone in a remotely rural area. He has no neighbors within hearing distance. According to Mr. Russ, he owns only one firearm: an old double-barreled shotgun that he keeps loaded with rocksalt. Other than that, he is perfectly harmless."
"Excellent," said Anthony. The brothers nodded in dead-pan agreement. "And you wish a certain deed from this gentleman, releasing his mountain property into the sole possession of the Eco-Plenty Corporation?"
"Yes, but there may be complications as far as the paperwork is concerned. The only certified copies of the deed are in the files of the PeremontCounty courthouse in Tucker's Mill."
"We can obtain them without any problem," promised Anthony.
"And the notarization date must be several days before the time of the actual signing, to discredit the old man if he starts claiming that he was pressured into the transaction."
"We can do that, too." Anthony studied his manicured fingers and grinned. "The procedure for the persuasion…it shall be of our choosing?"
Dellhart matched the smile with one of his own. "Why, certainly. Whatever makes you fellows happy. Threaten him or use torture if you wish."
Anthony frowned at the word. "We prefer to use the term 'physical duress'."
"I see," said Dellhart. Even after all those years, he still marveled at the civilized air of the deadly brethren. "Payment shall be two hundred thousand dollars, plus any expenses you might accumulate."
The leader of the Stoogeones laughed quietly. "To offer such an amount of money for the simple pressuring of an old man makes me seriously wonder if the stakes are somewhat higher than you let on. Exactly what is this PaleDoveMountain made of? Diamonds and gold?"
"No offense intended, but that's my own business. I'm willing to increase the fee to two hundred and fifty grand."
"Three hundred," countered Anthony.
"Two hundred and three-quarters, and that's my final offer."
"Deal." Anthony leaned over the broad desk and shook Dellhart's bronzed hand in a gesture of finality.
"Fine." Dellhart took a manila envelope from his desk drawer and handed it to the big man. "Here is a packet of information that may be helpful: a profile of Tucker's Mill, typographical maps of Brice's property, and other odds and ends. There is also a check for one hundred thousand dollars made out to the old man. It is to be left on his person after the deed is signed over. Even if he is a little worse for wear, I want it known that Mr. Brice was paid for his l
and."
"We understand."
"I'll have Delores make your flight reservations for tonight. I would supply a company jet for your use, but I think it best for you fellows to arrive there incognito."
"We'll just be three businessmen there for a few days of fishing and canoeing. Those bumpkins won't suspect a thing. I promise you, it'll be fast and clean. A quick John Hancock from Mr. Brice and then back on the plane again."
Jackson Dellhart stood up and walked them to the door. “And of course, I get the usual guarantee."
"That goes without saying," Anthony told him. The guarantee was simply an unspoken vow that if the three were arrested for services rendered to any client, the identity of the employer would be held in the strictest confidence. The Stoogeones were an honorable family who were prepared to accept the punishment for any mistakes or misfortune encountered during an assignment. Unlike the disloyal dregs of today's criminal element, the brothers would rather commit suicide than rat on a customer for the sake of a plea bargain.
On the way down in the elevator, Joseph Stoogeone broke his customary silence. "There's something I don't like about this job, Tony. For some reason I have a bad feeling about it."
Frank nodded. "Yeah, me too. Maybe we should have passed on this one."
"What's with you two?" growled Anthony. He stared at his siblings until they dropped their eyes. "Brice is just a dried-up old fool who doesn't have the brains to take a good deal when it's offered to him. We'll just take a leisurely drive up to that cabin, persuade him to sign the paper, and then drop the deed in the mail to Dellhart on the way out of town. No problem. Hell, we've pulled trickier jobs than this on more occasions than I can count. What is it about this one that's got you so spooked?"
"I don't know, Tony," shrugged Joseph. "I've just got that feeling."
"Well, get rid of it. If the word got out that we refused a job because we had a freaking premonition, we'd end up on the unemployment line with all the roughnecks and slobs. I've been there before and I'm not about to go back."