In the time it had taken Dan and Captain Taylor to finish up at the Reynolds’ house and drive to the high school, all apparent traces of what had happened to Denise had been erased. Dan knew a careful investigation would show all kinds of blood and tissue embedded in the concrete floor and walls, but to the untrained eye, the place was clean.
And the cover-up continued, and Dan kept getting in deeper and deeper. With no apparent way out.
The man who had been with Dodge on the other side of the gates the night before was leaning up against a bus, smoking a cigarette.
Dan walked up to him. The man lifted his eyes. Cold, unreadable. “What do I call you?” Dan asked.
“Lou will do, Sheriff.”
“Do I get to see the girl?”
“Oh, sure, Sheriff. You’re into this cover-up all the way now. No point in holding back from you. You blow the whistle on us, you gotta blow it on yourself as well.”
“I’m under orders to work with you, Lou.”
Lou smiled knowingly. “But we’re holding the paper containing that order, Sheriff.”
Dan grunted. They had him boxed. No way to go but forward. “Cute,” he said.
Lou removed a dozen Polaroids from his coverall pocket and handed them to Dan. He studied Dan’s face closely as Dan inspected the pictures.
Dan and Taylor were silent as they viewed the prints. It was difficult for Dan to believe the girl had endured the savage torture. In some of the prints, Denise’s naked body had been washed clean, allowing the cuttings to be more clearly shot.
“What did you wash her with?” Taylor asked.
“Hosed her down,” Lou said.
Dan looked at the man, amazed at the insensitivity.
Lou shrugged. “She’s gonna die anyway. No big deal.”
Taylor said, “And the girl is still alive? After all of this?”
“Yeah. Barely. She probably won’t make it. She’s lost a lot of blood. The cuts themselves aren’t that deep. But maybe the doctors can learn something from her. Who knows?”
“And if she does make it?” Dan asked.
Lou’s smile did not waver. “We have people who can... ah ... fix it so she won’t remember anything. Like a fading bad dream. Miracles of modern medicine and all that.”
“And if she dies?” Taylor asked.
“Her body will never be found. If by some chance it is, it’s just another Jane Doe.”
Neither Dan nor Taylor could believe the coldness of the man called Lou.
“What happens to her car?” Dan asked.
Lou’s grin spread. “You really wanna get into it deep, don’t you, Sheriff?”
Dan felt sick at his stomach. “Forget I asked.”
“Aw, come on, boys,” Lou said. “This is nothing. I worked in East Germany for two years. You should see some of the stuff that goes on over there. Hell, boys. The little lady is just one person out of two hundred and thirty five million. That won’t even make a blip on a stat chart. Hey! Where’s a good place to eat in this burg? I’m hungry.”
15
Dan and Taylor both noticed that on the back of the worker’s coveralls was the lettering: HPB TRUCKING. As they drove out to the site of the DB call, they saw several more of the workers, all dressed alike. They were shopping at a supermarket, picking up a paper, having lunch at a local cafe, making themselves a part of the community. Friendly, courteous, fitting right in. They would cause less suspicion that way.
“I wonder how often this scenario is played throughout the nation?” Taylor asked.
“More than the average citizen realizes,” Dan said. “I personally know of one government agency-which shall remain nameless, and it isn’t the CIA—that is into many, many businesses. They use them as fronts. And they all make money, too. That way, they don’t have to go to congress for additional funding when a project comes up they want a hand in.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Dead serious.”
“Why doesn’t someone blow the whistle on them?”
“People do try, from time to time. But it would take ten teams of accountants, working around the clock, ten years to even scratch the surface. By that time, the businesses would be gone. Besides, they’re run by civilians who don’t realize who their real bosses are. And it’s like the man said, ’everybody has dirt.’ Once it’s found, that person is in the pocket of whatever agency finds it.”
Taylor shook his head. “I suppose, in the long run, it’s necessary.”
“Most of the time. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I have to sleep like everyone else.”
“Yeah.”
Dan ordered the blanket removed from the cold dead body. This one was the worst yet. The body had been savagely gnawed on; pale white flesh from the blood sucked from it.
And Dodge was there. The men looked at each other. Dodge said, “You know this man, Sheriff?”
“No. From the looks of him, he’s a transient. Hitchhiker, probably. Did you go through his pack, Chuck? ”
“Yes. Dirty clothes. A paperback book about some sort of transcendental meditation. And three joints.”
Taylor grunted. “A dead dumb hitcher. The smart ones stopped carrying grass on them a long time ago.”
Dan looked at Dodge, glad to be taking his eyes off the mangled flesh of the man. “I guess you want what’s left of him?”
“I guess so.”
“I want a pass giving me gate authorization at the terminal any time of the day or night.”
“I’ll see if I can arrange it. No promises, Dan.”
“I understand.”
“HPB Trucking a real outfit?” Taylor asked.
“Oh, yes. Has a lot of government contracts. HPB pulls a lot of SSTs.”
“A lot of what?” Deputy Herman Forrest asked.
“Safe Secure Transports,” Taylor told him. “Nuclear stuff.”
They stood and watched as the body was bagged and loaded into the station wagon. The back windows of the wagon were slightly darkened. The sign on the doors read HPB TRUCKING.
As if reading Dan’s mind, Dodge said, “It’s better this way. Reduces suspicion. The regular hospital personnel handle the routine calls, using hospital equipment.”
“Didn’t they get suspicious; angry about being displaced?” Taylor asked.
“Not after being given a talk about national security and five thousand bucks apiece,” Dodge straightened that out.
“HPB must make a good profit,” Dan said drily.
“Oh, it does. The, ah, regular personnel are fully unionized and have good benefits.”
“Isn’t that just dandy?” Taylor said.
* * *
Two long trailers had been placed end to end, making one long fully equipped and staffed lab. Two other trailers were placed along side, one on each side, side doors facing and interlocking. One of the side trailers was the mobile hospital; the other the morgue, autopsy room, and small cold storage for stiffs. In case of a power failure, a huge portable generator would kick in ten seconds after any failure, maintaining a constant temperature inside the trailers.
Another long trailer sat, for the time being, idle. But it could be fully operational in minutes, if needed. It would be needed. Much sooner than anyone could possibly realize.
Denise lay on one of the two operating tables. Vital blood flowed through a needle in one arm; an antibiotic was going IV into her other arm. She was naked, her tortured youthfulness under the gaze of the doctors.
“What a mess,” one doctor said, working on the left side of the girl.
Goodson was observing. “She’s young and strong and healthy,” he said. “She’s got a fighting chance.”
“Sixty-forty,” another doctor said. “That jerk Lou gave us yet another problem we didn’t need by hosing her down.”
“Yeah,” another gloved and gowned and masked doctor said. “Pneumonia. I’ve told him a dozen times at least to take it easy.”
“This poor child needs to be
in a hospital,” Doctor Goodson said.
Bennett, the chief of the OSS medical team, said, “Look around you, Doctor. You’re looking at ten million dollars worth of equipment. This is a completely sterile environment. This is a battle hospital. There is nothing a permanent hospital could do that we aren’t doing here, at this moment, for this particular case. We’re scientists, yes; but we’re doctors, too. If she can be saved, she will be. If you don’t like what we’re doing here, you are free to leave. You know to keep your mouth shut, and why. Careful with that stitch, Robert. One more. There. Good. No scarring. Nice work.”
“Your concern for the girl is touching,” Goodson said.
The doctor’s eyes showed humor above his mask. “Isn’t our work professional enough for you, Doctor?”
Goodson grunted. He had to admit the men were as good as he’d ever seen. Better than most. But damned if he was going to tell them so.
Goodson remained silent, listening to the OR chatter.
“BP?”
“Stabilizing. Looks good.”
“Pulse is strong and steady.”
“By God! I think she might make it.”
“I certainly would like to talk with her. It’s important we know something about the person who attacked her.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Bennett said. “I want to study the pictures of those drawings carved in her skin. They are the strangest I’ve ever seen.”
Suddenly, Goodson grew weak-kneed as a white hot flash of recollection and old memories flooded the man’s mind. He had known they would; that had been one reason he’d stayed. The words from that old Egyptian came roaring into the light of full recall.
Goodson’s father had asked about what he had heard was the Forbidden Ones. Some sort of religion. He had asked that question of several hundred Egyptians. It had become an in-house joke around the Bedouin camps. Finally one old man had acknowledged that he had heard of such a thing. He had been the first to even admit that much.
“You are speaking of the Cat People,” the old man had said. “No one wishes to speak aloud of them. For no one outside of their group ever sees them and lives.”
“Obviously,” the elder Goodson had said, “you are the exception.”
“I was lucky, and it was a lifetime ago.”
“Who are they?”
The old man had looked fearfully around him. “They are of and for the Dark Once.”
“The Dark One?”
“You call him the devil.”
The old man had said he was dying, and knew it. It no longer mattered whether or not he kept his silence. The Cat People could do nothing to him. He had made his peace. Dying was something he did not fear. It was living that was to be feared.
The old man had then begun speaking in a rush of words, almost a babbling. He had spoken of human sacrifices, of human and animal being born of woman. Twins, a girl and a cat who would live and reign for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. The pair possessed strange powers and feasted on human flesh and blood. And their bite was highly infectious. The bite could produce rapid aging. It could infect and cause a mummy-like condition. It could change human life into a form of animal. The girl and the cat had powers over other felines. And the girl and the cat were carriers. If it stops there, he had added.
“Carriers?” the elder Goodson had questioned.
“That which causes dogs to go mad.”
Goodson’s father had not pursued the “if it stops there,” part of the old man’s statement.
Goodson stepped away from the operating table and walked into another compartment of the trailer. There, he removed his mask.
Not a religious man, Goodson rejected the concept of the devil. Let God, if He existed, combat the devil. The medical profession had something else to worry about in Ruger County.
Goodson sat alone for several minutes, deep in thought. With a sigh, he put his mask back on and reentered the OR. He could not keep this to himself. No matter how he detested what these OSS people were doing.
Bennett looked up, meeting Goodson’s eyes.
“There is something you all had best be aware of,” Goodson said.
“Oh, Doctor Goodson? Would you please enlighten us?”
“There was evidence of human bites on the girl, right?”
“That is correct. Savage bites on both inner thighs and on the stomach.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. We have yet another problem on our hands, gentlemen.”
The OSS doctors looked at him in silence, waiting.
“We might be looking at a rabies epidemic here in the county.”
16
Doctor Goodson stepped out of the trailer he was using as a home away from home. He looked up into the clear blue Virginia skies. He sighed. An old man’s sigh, from a man who had seen the best and the worst of what humankind had to offer. He had been correct in his assumption that Denise was a victim of a rabid bite. As far as it went, that is.
It was rabies, all right. At least a form of it. But unlike any type he had ever seen. There was no doubt the girl was infected. And there was nothing the medical profession could do about it.
It was spreading faster than a brush fire in dry country. Denise’s nervous system was showing signs of rapid deterioration.
Goodson looked toward the north. He muttered, “You idealistic young fool!”
The reason for that strange statement, and Doctor Goodson’s overriding reason for staying with the OSS people, with the project—his term for it-was because of his nephew; his brother’s son. Benjamin Goodson had opted for Canada rather than be drafted during the Vietnam War. Before he left, however, he had been a radical, taking part in bombings and other violence. He had been in Canada for years, living under a different name.
Of course the OSS knew about Benjamin Goodson. Of course the OSS had told Goodson if he didn’t keep his mouth shut about what was going on in Ruger County, his nephew would be hauled back to the U S of A, one way or the other, and prosecuted on half a dozen charges. And that meant prison. Of course Goodson did not want that to happen.
Dirt. Pressure. Rattling skeletons in the family closet. Everybody has a lever. The trick is in finding the handle and pulling it.
Doctor Bennett walked out of the mobile hospital and to Goodson’s side.
“The girl will be dead in twelve to eighteen hours,” he said.
“Mercifully so.”
“That is one way of looking at it.”
“How do you manage to sleep at night, Bennett?”
Bennett laughed. “Quite well, thank you. Goodson, everybody has a job to do. Some more distasteful than others. To some people. Ours involves national security. You have to look at it this way: if a few people are sacrificed to save millions . . .”
“Oh, shut up, Bennett!” Goodson said, considerable heat in his voice. “I don’t want to hear that horseshit. Goddamn you, Bennett. We’re talking about innocent people. This is not a war!”
Bennett chuckled, derision thick in his ugly humor. “Not a war, Doctor? You’re wrong. It most certainly is a war. Don’t you think we have counterparts in Russia? Of course we do. And they have more of them and are working much harder than we. If they got wind of this project, don’t you think for an instant they wouldn’t kill all of us to get it. And then isolate it, hone it, and use it against this country.
“Innocent people, Doctor? Really! How can a man of your experience and knowledge be so naive? Eddie Brown was a drunk. He hasn’t worked, contributed, to anything in his entire life. Milford and Hardy were in their twilight years. Mickey Reynolds was a petty, pompous official. The young cop was a nobody; besides, cops are paid to take risks. The girl in there?” He jerked his thumb toward the hospital trailer. “Is—or was—a spoiled, arrogant brat. Innocent? Don’t make me laugh, Doctor.”
Goodson glanced at him. Talk about pompous and arrogant and petty, he thought. “You believe in the devil, Bennett?”
“Eh? Don’t be absurd. Why are you asking me
such a stupid question as that at a time like this?”
Goodson remained silent.
“All right,” Bennett said. “Do you believe in Satan, Goodson?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t until about an hour ago. Now I’m not so sure.”
Bennett laughed. “Well, Doctor, before you go to sleep tonight, be sure to look under your bed. Check carefully for ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night.”
He walked away, chuckling.
Goodson recalled the old Egyptian. “I think I shall,” he muttered.
* * *
“Just got a call from the same woman who called this morning,” Dan was informed. “The neighbor of Mickey and Betty Reynolds? She said Mrs. Reynolds and the kids are back home now.”
Dan looked at Taylor. Both men stood up. “She say anything about Mickey?”
“No, sir.”
Dan and Taylor rolled up to the curb and stopped. They got out of the car and walked slowly up the sidewalk to the Reynolds’ small front porch. Dan knocked on the door. Betty Reynolds opened it.
“Betty? Is everything all right here?”
The woman’s eyes seemed too big for her face. Her face was very pale. Circles under her eyes. She wore a long sleeve shirt, so neither man could tell if her arms were bruised.
“Is everything all right, Betty?” Dan repeated.
The woman blinked. Focused her eyes on Dan. “Why ... of course, Sheriff.” She spoke in the flattest sounding voice either man had ever heard. Eerie sounding. Taylor resisted an impulse to look around him for ... He mentally shook that thought away. He was just too damned old to be believing in ghosts and haunts and such.
“Ah ... sure, Betty. Of course,” Dan said. “Is, ah, Mickey home?”
“Mickey? Mickey? Oh! Why, no, Sheriff. He’s at the school.”
“At ... the ... school?” Dan said, very slowly. He blinked his eyes. Shook his head. Looked at Taylor. Silent cop talk. You take it!
“Mrs. Reynolds,” Taylor said. “I’m Captain Taylor, Virginia State Police. You called the sheriff’s office last night and reported your husband missing. Sheriff Garrett and I came over here this morning to talk to you. You were not at home. Your house had been ransacked. We thought there might have been a fight; some sort of trouble. We ...”
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