Just as Bryce managed to lather himself up with a foulsmelling bar of dark-brown soap, he discovered that the capacity of the Dew Drop Inn’s water heater was somewhere around three quarts. The water went from hot to warm to cold in a little under a minute, leaving him gasping as he tried to rinse off.
That didn’t add a lot to the dark mood that had been building for the last twelve hours. He had finally awakened again about 2:00 A.M., gotten undressed, and climbed under the sheet. The bed was so narrow that even when he folded his arms both elbows hung over the side. He slept fitfully until the sunshine coming in through his window finally awakened him about six. Then came the cold shower and the remembrance that his shaving kit was stolen with his car. Growing more foul by the minute, he combed his hair as best he could with his hands, then brushed his teeth using a finger and cold water. By the time he came back into the hall to use the phone, his mood had darkened to a full-blown thunderhead.
Ready for battle, he dialed “O” and waited. There was no response. He clicked the receiver hook sharply and lifted his finger to dial again, but it stopped in midair. He had half turned, and a small bulletin board on the wall caught his eye. In the dim light of the previous night, he hadn’t seen it. Now in the full light of day he simply stared.
There was a cheap brochure advertising the wonders of the Dew Drop Inn, a colored photo of someone holding a string of fish. But that was not what he was staring at. It was the fullcolor map that covered two-thirds of the board.
Stunned, Bryce stepped closer. “THE CONFEDERATED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA.” The title was boldly placed across the top in inch-high letters. North America it certainly was. There were the Great Lakes, the familiar lines of the east and west coasts, the huge blue gouge of the Hudson Bay in Canada. Correction. Not Canada. What should have been the eastern third of Canada was colored a light purple and labeled “The Confederation of Canadian States.” Everything west of the province of Manitoba was colored orange and labeled “Republic of Canada.”
Bryce’s eyes ran over the map slowly, not comprehending. Instead of the familiar outlines of forty-eight contiguous states, everything east of the Mississippi was covered by three divisions. In addition to the Confederation of Canadian States, there was a small section of pink-colored area labeled “The New England Confederation.” That caused him to start. That was what he had seen on the registration card last night. The pink section included everything from Maine to the southern border of New York State and westward to Lake Ontario. The rest of the eastern section of the U.S. stretching all the way down into Florida was a pale lavendar color. Across the whole expanse was emblazoned the words “Atlantic States Alliance.”
The western half of the continent was even more shocking. Everything west of the Mississippi River was in a dull beige color, with hardly any more detail than the line of a few rivers and the blue splash of the Great Salt Lake. It too had three main divisions marked off. As he had already seen, the top was called “The Republic of Canada.” As he looked closer, he saw someone had penciled in below it the words “Free Canada.” The central section, which went down only as far as what would have been the northern borders of New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada, was labeled “The United States of America.” Below that, the area continuing into Mexico and off the map, was labeled “The Republic of Latin American States.”
He leaned closer. A bright-red two-inch-wide band separated the eastern third of the continent from the beige portion of the map, running from top to bottom, most of it following the line of the Mississippi River. Bryce leaned closer, then gave a soft cry. In three or four different places the red band was labeled “Demilitarized Zone.”
He stepped back, feeling the hair on the back of his head start to prickle. Had the map been hand drawn, he might have put it down as someone’s sick joke. But this was printed, professionally done. He felt his head whirl and the strange sensation that reality was moving away from him, retreating into the mists.
There was a soft noise behind him, and Bryce turned. A large man was just coming out of his room, clutching some papers. He saw Bryce, looked startled, then spun and started swiftly down the hall in the opposite direction.
“Hey!” Bryce yelled.
The man broke into a run and disappeared around the corner. Bryce dropped the towel he was carrying over his shoulder and sprinted down the hall. The door to his room was open. His mouth opened and then shut as he saw inside. On the night table, his loose change was still there but his wallet was gone! He heard a door slam somewhere behind him.
Bryce swung around and dashed down the short hallway to where it turned and opened into a small alcove. Empty! He took stock quickly. There were two doors, the one he had come through last night from the outside, another marked “Private.” He was out the first in two strides. The sun was up, and a beautiful late summer morning was breaking on the world. He scanned quickly in every direction but no one was in sight.
Ready for battle now, he ran back inside, stepped to the second door. Bam! Bam! Bam! The door rattled with the fury of his pounding. Nothing! He hit it again! Five times. Six. Still no sound. He grabbed the doorknob, twisted it hard. Locked. Jaw tight, he straight-armed the outside door, and with growing fury ran around to the front office, stopping only long enough to grab a solid piece of spruce from a stack of firewood piled against the building.
Chapter 14
Through the window of the motel office he could see the woman working behind the counter. Twice she glanced around nervously. He turned the knob on the door slowly, then gave the door a hard shove. It slammed against the wall with a crash, and she visibly jumped, knocking over a can full of pencils.
“Oh!” She fumbled quickly, trying to pick them up.
“All right, lady!” he said, stepping up to her and thrusting his face right next to hers. “Where is he?”
She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, eyes darting sideways. For one instant Bryce had the distinct impression of being warned, but detecting subtleties was not his strong suit at the moment, and he reached across the counter and clamped one hand over her arm. “Somebody just broke into my room and stole my wallet. He went in that back door that leads straight into your apartment.”
She just stared at him, eyes now full of fright. And sadness! Somewhere in the far back of his mind that registered. There was a deep sadness.
He shook her arm. “I know he’s in there! Get him out here! Now!”
“This what you’re looking for?”
Bryce dropped her arm and spun around, the club coming up instinctively. The man who had stepped out of the doorway was of medium height and build, fair skinned, but with narrow, darting eyes. He wore a black suit—slightly rumpled—and a narrow tie. He held Bryce’s wallet up in his left hand. But it wasn’t the wallet that Bryce was gaping at. It was the small-bore, snubnosed automatic that pointed directly at his stomach.
“Drop the club!” he demanded.
Bryce lowered his arm slowly and let the piece of firewood clatter to the floor. A second man stepped out. Everything about this man was big—his hands, his shoulders, his neck and head, his brutal features. It also registered in Bryce’s mind that this was the same man who had come out of his room.
The shorter man inclined his head slightly, and the other sprang into action. He moved to Bryce, kicked the wood aside, then frisked him—quickly and very thoroughly. Then he stepped back.
“Mr. Sherwood, I presume?” the first man said pleasantly.
Bryce licked his lips, feeling the blood pounding in his head.
“Oh, come, Mr. Sherwood, let’s not be bashful. Certainly not now.” He shot the woman a hard glance. “We’ll be talking to Mr. Sherwood in his room. We are not to be disturbed. Do you understand that, Mrs. Lambert?”
She met his gaze, then finally nodded. To his surprise, Bryce saw her eyes smoldering with hatred. She wasn’t in on it, and that was why she had tried to warn him.
“You’re already in serious trouble for not report
ing this last night,” the smaller man said to her. “Don’t add to your problems.”
“I understand, Captain,” she said quietly. Again Bryce noted the bitterness, but, strangely, no fear. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer, but this middle-aged woman showed no fear.
The man stepped forward and jammed the gun into Bryce’s ribs. “All right, move!”
At first the interrogation totally baffled him. They sat him down on the bed, and then the captain, as the woman had called him, started firing questions at him. Where are you from? Is this address in Maryland correct? This, as he jammed Bryce’s driver’s license under his nose. Where did you get this driver’s license? How did you get here? What route did you take?
Suddenly, Bryce realized, with a rush of relief so strong it was almost palpable, that the men confronting him were policemen.
“You’re police?” he blurted, incredulously.
The other’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who did you think we were?”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Bryce blurted. “I tried to call you last night. My car was stolen. I hit something. There was a storm. When I woke up my car was gone. I—”
“A car?”
“Yes, a red BMW. About five miles north of here. I—”
“BMW?” He had a small notebook and pencil and was making notes now, the pistol back in his jacket pocket. “What is a BMW?”
Bryce gaped at him, then bit back a sharp comment. “It’s made by the Bavarian Motor Works—BMW.”
“You say you tried to call us last night?”
“Yes. The operator said she would call back, but—”
“You also tried to call Boston and to make a call to Maryland without a permit. Who were you trying to call in Boston?”
“My parents. They were expecting me and…” He stopped as the man’s words registered. “The operator? She told you all this?”
He ignored that. “We also have no record of your crossing the border, Mr. Sherwood.”
“Border? What border?”
The ferret eyes narrowed. “You wish to play stupid, Mr. Sherwood? I assure you this does not make things better for you.”
“Hey, look,” Bryce started, beginning to feel like the only one at a party who couldn’t speak the language, “I don’t know what you guys are up to, but this has gone far enough. Let’s talk about my car and how it was stolen.”
“First, I would like to hear how you crossed into our state without passport or identity card and driving a car I have never heard of.”
“Passport?” Bryce laughed nervously. “You need a passport now to get into Connecticut? I heard you weren’t wild about tourism, but this is ridiculous.”
The man stepped forward menacingly, his mouth twisting into an ugly gash in his face. “You think traveling without a passport and identity card is amusing?”
At that point, Bryce’s patience gave out. Jerkwater policeman or not, this had gone far enough. “I’d like to make a phone call,” he said evenly.
The big man tipped his head back and laughed. The captain only smiled grimly. “And where will you call, Mr. Sherwood, to some nonexistent number in Boston?”
Bryce felt his head starting to whirl. Something was terribly wrong. The operator had called these men last night. And yet… He looked up. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a common criminal. My car was stolen. I demand you take some action to find it.”
“You demand?” the man said incredulously.
“Yes, I demand. I’m a lawyer. I know my rights. If you want to avoid the biggest lawsuit Connecticut has ever seen, I suggest you stop the television tough-guy act and find my car.”
What Bryce saw in the other man’s eyes was suddenly very frightening. He had known one other man like this—short in stature and shorter on self-esteem, who made up for it with a wicked, sadistic streak when anyone pricked at his enormously inflated ego. At that moment Bryce realized he had made a serious mistake.
The big man leaped forward, grabbed Bryce’s shirt, and yanked him to his feet. “How did you get into this country?” he screamed into his face.
The whiff of bad breath tinged with alcohol was so strong that Bryce wrinkled his nose. “You know,” he said, trying to keep his voice conversational, “I think I walked into the state looney bin last night. You, the operator, the motel lady—you’re all crazy.” Then his own self-control snapped. He put his hands against the big man’s chest and shoved free of him. “Look, buster,” he shouted, “I don’t know where you went to police academy, but you lay another hand on me and the governor will hear about this one.”
The man smiled, a thin, mirthless smile that looked more like a grimace. Then suddenly he doubled his fist and drove it with the full force of his body into Bryce’s stomach. Bryce gasped and dropped to his knees like he had been poleaxed. Both men watched him impassively as he retched frantically, trying to get air.
Dimly Bryce felt the huge hands sweep down and grab him by his shirt. Buttons ripped as he was yanked to his feet. Bryce saw the blur of the massive fist. He jerked his head, but not fast enough. It caught him a glancing blow along the jaw. Lights exploded in his head and he catapulted backwards, unconscious before he even hit the bed.
Bryce groaned and rolled over. His eyes opened slowly, trying to focus on the bulk towering over him. There was the warm, salty taste of blood inside his mouth. The big man stepped back, and Bryce pulled himself into a sitting position, grunting as the pain in his stomach nearly doubled him over again. The captain was leaning against the door, looking bored.
He watched absently until Bryce swung his feet off the bed. “Now, Mr. Sherwood. I think we’ve really had quite enough of your being cute.” The captain glanced at the big man. “Sergeant, call Captain Rodale in Hartford. I want a complete rundown on this man.”
The big man gave him a questioning look, but the other frowned quickly. “I’ll be fine. Get out there and call him!”
He exited quickly.
“While he’s at it, he’d better call you guys a lawyer,” Bryce said hoarsely, still trying to recover his breath. “This is still the United States of America, and you’re in more trouble than you’ve ever dreamed of.”
There was an instant narrowing of those dangerous eyes, and he stepped forward. “The United States of America?”
“You’d better believe it!”
“So that is why you carry U.S. currency? Are you from the USA?”
Bryce just gaped at him.
“Why then do you carry papers from the ASA?”
“The ASA. I don’t know anything about any ASA.”
“The Atlantic States Alliance.”
“Never heard of it.” Then suddenly Bryce’s head came up. On the map. Stretching from Florida to Pennsylvania. The fear abruptly returned, sending chills coursing up and down his back.
The man reached in the inside coat of his jacket and withdrew a sheaf of papers folded longways down the middle. He opened them, looked at them, then looked at Bryce over the top of them. “The United States of America. But of course. That would explain everything.”
“What are you talking about?” Bryce said slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of defiance but feeling only a growing sense of baffled horror.
His inquisitor suddenly thrust the papers under his nose. The top page was titled “The Declaration of Independence.” Bryce knew what they were instantly. The documents from Nathaniel Gorham.
“Where did you get this document?”
Bryce leaned back against the headboard, fighting for calm. “I refuse to answer any further questions until I have an attorney present.”
In one swift movement, the captain’s hand whipped to his coat, then out. In an instant the barrel of the pistol was jammed up hard against Bryce’s face, grinding the flesh against his cheekbone. “Now let me tell you something,” the captain hissed softly into his ear. “This document has been outlawed in the Confederation of North American States for over a hundred years. The penalty for hav
ing it in your possession is death.”
Bryce didn’t dare move, but his eyes flew open with the shock of the man’s words.
“I can shoot you on sight as a spy from the United States government and no one will bat an eye here. Do you understand me?”
He twisted the muzzle hard, and Bryce yelped with the pain.
“Now I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Sherwood. Where did you get this document?”
Bryce hardly heard the last question. Death! For the Declaration of Independence. Something snapped inside of him, and he laughed wildly, unable to control himself. “A ghost gave it to me.”
The laugh died in his throat as the captain stepped back, the pistol coming up slowly to point directly at Bryce’s head. The man’s hand was trembling, but Bryce, his clarity sharpened by the sudden horror of the moment, saw the man’s finger start to tighten on the trigger.
There was a heavy clump against the door. The noise seemed to cause something in the captain’s head to click, and suddenly he was rational again. “It’s open,” he snapped over his shoulder. The wave of relief hit Bryce like a blast of water from a fire hose. He had come within a fraction of an inch of having his head blown off.
“I said it’s open,” the captain snarled, jerking around to grab the doorknob. He yanked the door open, then jumped back as the sergeant’s body tumbled into the room. A man was standing in the doorway, deer rifle covering the small room. The captain leaped back, his pistol whipping upward. Both weapons fired simultaneously, and the blast in the small room was deafening.
The captain’s shot hit high, burying itself in the plaster just to the left of the man’s head, but he was slammed backwards as the heavy-grained bullet from the rifle caught him square in the chest. Eyes bulging in horror, Bryce stared as the man slid slowly downward to a sitting position, leaving a red smear on the wallpaper, then toppled forward onto the body of the sergeant.
The man with the rifle was young, dressed in overalls and a long-sleeved shirt. He stared at the two bodies for a moment, breathing hard, then finally lifted his eyes to Bryce. There was a soft sound, and the woman, Mrs. Lambert, was at the door, eyes wide and filled with fright. She motioned quickly to Bryce. He didn’t move, just stared at her, still in shock.
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 97
