by Greg Ballan
He headed toward his truck, fired the engine, and drove toward the restaurant he called home. He needed to smell the scents of fresh brewed coffee, bacon, sausage and eggs that would be coming from Madame's kitchen. He needed to see the friendly faces of the waiters and waitresses as he sat at his favorite booth. Erik didn't have much material wealth, but he liked where he was and the people he called friends. Today, he lost a friend, and needed the comfort and companionship of other friends to help him through his loss.
Erik walked into the restaurant and silently made his way to his favorite booth. Alissa quickly poured him a cup of coffee. She studied his face intently, as if reading his expression like a book.
"I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered.
Erik looked up at her. "What are you sorry for?"
"Your loss, your grief, and your pain," she answered bluntly.
Erik struggled with his emotions. He would not allow himself to break down, not here, in front of people. "How do you know?" he asked, fighting back the tears.
"The same way she knows," Alissa added, pointing toward the front door.
* * *
Shanda walked through the front door, moving hastily to Erik's booth. She had a look of concern that was broadcast across the entire restaurant. Alissa smiled at her and walked away. Erik looked up and she could read the emotional agony he was experiencing.
"You need to get out of here." She helped him up.
Erik didn't argue, and allowed her to guide him to his apartment. Once there, he sat on his bed. "How did you know?"
"I don't know the what, I only knew you were in pain, intense emotional pain. I felt it earlier. I knew something terrible was happening."
"Steve is dead, along with the other two cops and three soldiers," Erik said with surprising calm.
Shanda gasped with horror as she recalled the jovial officer who paid for her breakfast earlier.
"Those things tore him apart, and I wasn't there, I wasn't there to help him." Erik’s voice wavered. "My God, his body, it was in pieces. Those things literally tore him limb from limb."
Shanda embraced him, and gently touched him telepathically. She could now share his grief and experience his emotions. She saw him screaming into the radio as he heard the sound of gunfire. She felt the sharp pangs of guilt and horror as he heard his friend's final words over the radio.
Erik lay silently in her arms. His mind reeled in spasms of agony as his body tried to cleanse itself from the experience. Shanda refused to let go of her link. She wept with him and held him, doing what little she could to ease his burden.
"It's okay, honey, I've got you. I've got you," she whispered repeatedly as she gently rocked his body.
* * *
Shanda was sitting on Erik's sofa. Erik was in a dead sleep in his room. He had been sleeping for nearly two hours when there was a knock on his door. Shanda opened the door, but there was nobody there. She looked down and saw a large platter of food and four iced beverages. She picked up the tray and placed it on a table. She nibbled on a turkey sandwich and took a deep drink of ginger ale while she continued thumbing through old gun magazines and detective trade journals scattered on a coffee table. After another half hour of reading, she decided her boyfriend needed better leisure reading material. She heard Erik stir from his bed, and heard his footsteps as he entered the room.
"How long?" he asked
"A little over two hours." She gestured for him to sit by her side.
"When did this get here?" Erik picked up a chicken club sandwich from the platter.
"About a half hour ago, somebody knocked on the door, and when I opened it, this was there." Shanda looked deep into his eyes. She could see the haunted expression – the look of a man who's known too much pain and too much loss. "How are you?"
"I'm numb. I still can't believe this happened. I've lost one of the few friends I have," he answered sadly.
"I'm so sorry about this, Erik. How far back do you two go?" Shanda asked.
"About four or five years, there was this narcotics case," Erik began and spent the next hour recalling some of the cases that he and Steve crossed paths on. Recalling the happier memories seemed to soothe the hurt, so Erik continued with more stories, remembering events and episodes from the handful of cases that he had worked on with the Hopedale Police Department.
"Then," he concluded, "we come to the Lisa Reynolds missing persons case." Erik paused and sighed heavily. "You already know how that one ends," he said sadly. "I can't help thinking that if I had been up there, maybe I could have made a difference, somehow."
"Erik, is it worth the risk of Brianna grieving for her father too? What if you were brought out in pieces, what would be going through her mind at this very moment?"
Erik was silent. He stood up and began pacing back and forth. "It still doesn't make me feel better, but it is a consolation that she's spared that."
"You have to remember that there are people here that love you, and want you around. You're not alone, what you do does affect other people's lives." She walked toward him and put her arms around him.
"You'll just have to keep reminding me," he whispered as he looked down at her.
"I can do more than that," she whispered and then kissed him.
* * *
Richard Pendelton sat alone in his spacious board room, listening to the bootleg tapes that were intercepted by his man at the Hopedale Police Department. As he heard the sounds of men screaming and dying, he drained his glass of scotch.
Richard was filled with remorse and regret. What had they done? What manner of creatures had they freed from slumber? How much more blood would have to be on his hands before this was all over? Richard could no longer sleep at night. He barely spoke to his wife, or her daughter. It was so easy to plan these things – manipulate the fates of men from a distance, to hear that they were dead from some impassive piece of paper, or disinterested business associate – but to hear the actual screams of men dying, the sound of gunfire, and the hideous roar of some weird creatures brought it all home for him.
He had caused the deaths of those men, the first research team, and the recon team. All of that blood was on his hands, and his alone. The 'buck' stopped with him, at his desk. He knew he could not deflect any blame to anybody else.
He poured another glass of scotch from the decanter, emptying the contents. He had gone too far to turn back now. He'd have to play the game to its conclusion and hope he was smarter and more efficient than those investigating the goings on in Hopedale. Richard was confident the Hopedale Police would do their usual standard investigation. His people could easily mislead and derail that, what concerned him was the Erik Knight factor.
Knight had been convinced to stay out of the action, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be looking at things from the sidelines. Conrad was right. Knight had become a very formidable man, not only physically, but also intellectually. He had read some of Knight's work in the police files. He was able to come up with leads and clues the police were seemingly oblivious to. Knight was the only person to discover any actual physical evidence in the Lisa Reynolds missing person case. How he was able to pull that off was something Pendelton was very interested in discovering. His company, his wealth, and most assuredly his personal freedom relied on him playing this through to the bitter end, reluctant or not. He would not lose his family fortune or spend time in any federal or state penal institution.
Richard drained his second glass of scotch and studied the plans he'd drafted for his next operation. He reached over to the telephone and punched four keys.
"Conrad?"
A voice responded through the headset
"Have the packages arrived at our private hangar yet?"
The voice responded.
"Well, let me know as soon as they arrive. We need to be ready to move out within the week. All hell is going to break loose in that mountain pretty soon, and we need to be ready."
Chapter 10
Thursday afternoon, Pende
lcorp Hangar 1:35p.m.
Conrad and the two technicians studied the Apache helicopter Pendelcorp had appropriated, meticulously. The contractors who had given the airship the army-olive paint job were well worth the additional expense. The helicopter looked flawless, right down to the bogus white registration lettering and army star on the ship's tail section.
Conrad examined the two weapons pods and two hard contacts that were mounted on the ship's small wing sections. He spotted the ship's armaments stockpiled in one corner of the security hangar.
Carefully stacked in wooden crates were two typhoon air-to-ground missiles. The warheads of each missile contained as much concentrated high explosive as fifteen tons of TNT. The coordinates of the Hopedale excavation tunnel had already been preprogrammed into the Apache's tactical computer. These coordinates could quickly be fed into the missile's internal guidance system and fired with lethal accuracy, but the aircraft had to be within the typhoons' limited operational range. The solid rocket fuel engines of this missile type were extremely limited. It would be necessary to be within a half mile of the site before the weapon could be effectively utilized. In another large packing crate were sixteen rockets that would be loaded into the two launchers under each wing of the craft.
The two technicians spent twenty minutes studying the ship, examining the flight control system computers and the navigation consoles specifically.
Conrad watched them impatiently. "Well, can you do it?"
"Yeah," one of the technicians answered. "It's quite a bit more complicated than the other bird we wired, but it can be done." He paused, glancing at his partner. "For an added cost. The time involved is substantially more than before, and the electronics needed will be more sophisticated. Plus, we'll need a bigger charge to rupture the fuel tank. That makes it tougher to hide." The technician paused then added, "Do you want to use the same frequency?"
Conrad nodded, staring at them as they continued to survey the chopper.
"You'll be well compensated for your efforts. Begin the work immediately, and remember, gentlemen, confidentiality is the key word," he emphasized in a dangerous tone.
"No worries, mate," the other technician responded in a deep Australian accent. "We won't bite the hand that feeds us – poor business." He tipped his hat slightly.
"Excellent, I'm glad we understand each other. Contact me when the work is completed," Conrad replied as he departed the hangar.
Conrad walked toward the awaiting company car. The chauffeur opened the passenger door for him and closed it as he made himself comfortable in the car's spacious seat. He picked up the Nexus phone, keying the transmitter.
"Richard, are you there?"
"Go ahead," Pendelton's distinctive voice answered.
"The package has arrived and is being prepared for service. All is going according to plan."
"Conrad," Pendelton answered after a moment's silence. "We can have no loose ends."
Conrad was puzzled for a second, then understood the meaning of his employer's last words. He approved of Richard's thinking, and chastised himself for not realizing the potential breach himself.
"I'll see to it personally," he answered. "Conrad out"
He picked up the phone in the car and dialed, the phone rang three times before it was picked up, and a synthesized voice answered.
"It's me," Conrad began. "Reference number 5862-31." He paused while the party on the other end input his account number into a database. After a few quick seconds, the voice on the other end of the line gave Conrad the clearance to continue.
"I have a contract for you, two marks. I'll send you the details in the usual manner."
Conrad listened to the voice on the other end for almost thirty seconds before responding.
"The fee is acceptable," he replied. The connection was then severed.
Conrad reached into the portable bar and poured himself a large glass of iced scotch. It had been a busy day, and there was still much to do. Conrad looked out the window as, suddenly, the lead-gray skies unleashed a torrent of rain upon the city. This was the part of his job he disliked, he had no problem with embezzlement or other white-collar crimes, but he never fancied himself as a contract killer.
* * *
Rolling Hills Cemetery, Hopedale
The honor guard of seven officers fired three volleys into the air, while the priest recited scripture from his Bible.
Mrs. Stephen Forrest wept uncontrollably, while next to her, her two young children looked up at the casket that contained what was left of their father. The fifty uniformed officers, many from several nearby towns, lined up in a procession, to offer their final condolences to the grieving widow and her extended family. As the procession continued, the skies that had been threatening rain all morning unleashed a downpour. People began to scurry toward their awaiting cars to avoid the downpour, while others opened umbrellas while escorting the widow and her children back to the long black limousine.
A lone figure stood upon the hillside, watching the ceremony from a respectful distance. Rain rolled off the long black leather jacket that he pulled tighter around his upper torso to ward off the sudden chill. A gust of wind flared and caught the insides of the garment, causing it to billow like the cape of some dark specter.
He watched quietly as the last of them departed. Once he was sure he would be alone, he slowly walked down the hillside toward the covered casket, ignoring the increasing torrents of rain, which was accompanied by violent thunder and lightning. The man stopped by the casket, produced a single flower from inside the jacket and laid it gently on top of the casket along with the other flowers already there.
"I'm sorry, Steve," he spoke aloud. "I'll never be able to forgive myself for not being along for the ride. I'm sorry for all that you're going to miss: Your children growing up, being a grandfather, the spring bass fishing, fall deer hunting, the taste of your wife's kiss, the warmth of her touch, the laughter from your kids." He paused as he placed his hand on the metalwork of the casket, the rain pelting his back and exposed head. "Forgive me, Steve, I wish I could have prevented this. Everyone keeps telling me that if I were there, I'd be in one of these boxes too, that I should be thankful that I'm alive, and count my blessings. The truth is, old friend, I feel like a big part of me died that day too. It's funny, everyone I care about seems to die: My parents, my military buddies, and now my friend on the force."
Erik continued to stare at the coffin in silence. His face contorted, the grief he'd been carrying bubbling up to the surface.
"Damn you!" he swore. "Why did you have to go? Why did he have to die?" He looked up to the heavens. "Why?" he whispered.
Then his teardrops fell, plentiful as the rain, for almost ten minutes. Erik stood by his friend, weeping at his passing, ignoring the violence of the storm that seemed to be a reflection of his own grief and sorrow. He placed his hand gently on the casket, one last time.
"Goodbye, may this last journey be pleasant and bring you to a better place." He quickly spun around. The bottom of his jacket whirled, spraying rivulets of water in a circle. Erik headed back to his tiny apartment in the back of a small diner, to the place he called home.
Erik walked into his small office and tossed his waterlogged jacket on the coat rack in the corner of his office. He sat down at his desk thumbing through a stack of mail with his feet resting upon the desktop. For the first time in over a week, there was nothing for him to do. He had no desire for company, friend or female. And no real particular urge to do anything except cope with the loss and take the rest of the week to pick himself back up. His mind, however, would not let him rest. His thoughts kept wandering back to Lisa Reynolds. She was still out there, somewhere. More than likely, the girl had expired.
Erik felt that the inability to locate the child was a personal failure on his part. He knew there was no possible way that she could be alive at this point. Undoubtedly, her corpse would turn up somewhere once a way was found to contain the creatures. Erik was certain
there would be a massive assault on the mountain. The Army wouldn't accept the loss of three of its soldiers without knowing what had happened, and then dealing with the threat. It was obvious this problem could no longer be kept at a local level. He expected State and Federal officials to become embroiled with the problems occurring in Hopedale, and the inevitable media circus was sure to follow. A light tapping on his door pulled Erik from his thoughts.
"Yes."
"Erik, Mr. Nelson is here to see you," Alissa replied through the closed door.
"Please send him in, the door is unlocked."
Scant moments later, the Halls detective was escorted into Erik's office and seated himself on one of the couches.
"Belechek and I are on our way back to corporate," he announced.
"I figured as much," Erik answered. "There doesn't seem anything else that we can do here."
"No, there isn't." Nelson nodded his head in agreement. The older man seemed suddenly uncomfortable. "Look, Erik, I know Forrest's funeral was today and, judging by the pool of water under your jacket hanging in the corner, I can only assume that you were there—"
"He was my friend," Erik interrupted. "I had to say goodbye."
"That's commendable, but stop blaming yourself for what happened up there. You're wearing your guilt on your sleeve, young man. There's no need to seek penance or absolution. You are in no way responsible. Death is also a part of the job we do as investigators. Mourn his loss, keep him alive in your memories, but move on. Don't allow yourself to be hamstrung by this," Nelson warned Erik. "I've seen this kind of guilt tear people apart."
"You don't feel somewhat responsible for Henderson, and what happened to him?" Erik countered.
