Stairway to Forever

by Robert Adams

  Fitz had rehearsed assorted answers for whenever this time came, as he had known it would come, either soon or late, and now he began to trot them out. "I never told Gus or anyone else that it was my uncle, sir; I only said an uncle. Right, Gus?"

  Tolliver nodded. "That's right, Fitz, boy."

  "Actually," Fitz lied on, warming to his prevarications, beginning to enjoy what he was doing, making

  certain that the bronze ring stayed always in plain sight of the two strangers, especially of the big, glowering, hostile Greek, "it was a great-uncle of mine, one of my grandpa's brothers who never came over here to this country."

  The two men exchanged a brief glance. Then Biscuitt demanded, "And where did he live, and die, this great-uncle? What was his name and how long has he been dead? Answer me those questions, please, Mister Fitzgilbert, and I'm warning you, you'd best be fully candid with me."

  "Don't threaten me, Biscuitt," said Fitz, calmly, "don't even think about it, hear? There's something not quite kosher about you and your bunch of supposed Interpol agents. If you were all completely on the up and up, by now you'd have called in the local police, the state police, the FBI, the IRS, the BATF and, probably, the CIA, for good measure. You'd have gotten search warrants and come in here legally, when I was home, not broken in like sneak thieves to paw through my possessions and rob me of the things you wanted."

  Another exchanged glance, then, "Those are very serious accusations, Mister Fitzgilbert. If you cannot prove them, I would strongly advise you to cooperate fully with us and answer all of our questions truthfully. I doubt that you would like any of the alternatives.

  "Now, where did this great-uncle live? Where did he die, and when? What was his name?"

  "His name was Robert Emmett Dempsey. He lived and died in Dublin. When? Hell, I don't remember, exactly. Some time in the nineteen twenties, during the Irish Civil War, while I was just a toddler. I never knew him, never even met the man. He was one of my grandpa's horde of step-brothers. I never

  knew he'd left anything to anybody 'til that box was delivered to me, last year," declared Fitz.

  "Who sent it to you, Mister Fitzgilbert?" Biscuitt demanded immediately. "Where was it sent from? Did it come via mail or express?"

  Fitz shrugged, convincingly ... he hoped. "It was mailed from Dublin, Republic of Eire. I couldn't read the return address or the signature on the note that only said that this was a bequest from my great-uncle, Robert E. Dempsey, originally meant to go to my father, sent finally to me because it had been discovered that he had died. And before you ask me, no, I can't find that note; I suppose I just threw it out with the box and the wrapping papers. So, now, what else do you want to know?"

  "He is lying," said the Greek in good, if rather accented, British English. "You are a liar, Mister Fitzgilbert. You accuse us of theft, but you are the thief, you and your accomplices, who have and probably are still looting the antiquities of my country, or of Turkey, Italy or Syria. Such robbery of sites of archeological value is thoroughly despicable, a crime in every country of the civilized world. Your evil greed cannot be, will not be tolerated longer. Do you hear me? You decadent Americans sicken me. You all seem to think you own all the world. But you do not and if you do not immediately tell us just who are your European accomplices, where they can presently be found and where are located the sites they are despoiling, you will be made very sorry that you did not cooperate.

  "Have you ever seen a Turkish or a Syrian prison, Mister Fitzgilbert? Have ever you been into one, perhaps? They are not at all like the overly luxurious prison facilities of the United States of America. They, and we Greeks, too, know what criminals are and

  how to deal with them. Soft, effete Americans placed in those prisons quite often never live long enough to come to trial, you know. Those who are not murdered by other prisoners, or beaten to death by guards when they have the effrontery to disobey orders, very often loll themselves or go mad, unable to live with the thought of the things that have been done to them in the processes of interrogation and imprisonment."

  "Are you admitting that you Greeks torture prisoners, then?" asked Fitz bluntly. "That you use physical torture to obtain confessions'?"

  "Of course not!" snapped the Interpol man. "Unlike Turkey and Syria, Greece is a civilized country, Mister Fitzgilbert. All of Western art and culture, philosophy, democracy and civilization itself is owed to Greece. You arrogant Americans should remember these debts owed my country far more than you do. The Golden Age of Greece ..."

  "Has been gone one hell of a long time, Mister Vitalis," said Gus coldly. "What the hell have you fuckers done recent, huh? You done had you two ... or is it three? . . . civil wars sincet the end of World War Two alone. If it won't for American loans and the Marshall Plan and American tourists to Greece, you'd all be so fucking broke you'd be eating dog turds for breakfast!"

  Turning on Gus, the Greek said icily, "You would be well advised to hold your tongue, you fat, hairless, uncouth cretin. You are already in serious trouble. Do not further compound your difficulties."

  Old Gus Tolliver was not fazed by the threatening words or manner. "Listen here to me, you fucking, over-eddicated Greek prick, you, I got me connections don't none of you know about, and I done a'ready put some feelers out on the bunch of you

  bastards. Fitz is lighter then he knows, I think. You bunch might've started out working for your guvamints, is what I think, but I think when you'all come to realize just how much gold and money was involved here, I think it was all of you got really greedy, real sudden-like. Now, you trying to scare Fitz into telling you things so's you wont have to bring any other bunches in on this here, sos you can all divvy it up between the five of you."

  While the old soldier had been talking, Fitz had been watching the two men. Biscuitt had become a greenish pale and was repeatedly gulping. The Greek had darkened to lividity; both of his big fists were tight-clenched and knots of muscle stood up at the hinges of his jaws. Fitz was dead certain that Gus had hit the nail precisely on the head.

  To Fitz, Gus said, "Maybe I shouldn't ought to of said all this out here tonight, but I just couldn't take no more of that damn Greek sod and all his anti-American commie crap, is all. Way things is now, maybe I better sleep out here tonight and take one your cars to drive back in the morning, huh? Someway, I don't think it would be too healthy for to get back in that car with these fuckers tonight."

  Biscuitt regained a usable quantity of aplomb first. "Mister Tolliver, to ... to just whom did you speak of ... of these wild, utterly groundless suspicions of me and my colleagues, may I ask?''

  Gus grinned. "Sure, you can ask . . . but I ain't gonna tell you. I will say this, though, the guys I talked to a'ready done toF me that the guys they talked to was all damn int'rested and said they meant to get on it right away, too. So, was I you bunch, I wouldn't go making no long-term plans.''

  "These persons with whom you spoke are, I would assume, connected with some Federal agency, Mis-

  ter Tolliver, so tell me this: are they aware that you have been, via most circuitous channels, some of which are less than legal, shipping large sums of money out of this country?" asked G. Rowland Biscuitt, adding, "As you—neither of you—are not without sins of your own, you would assuredly have been better off to not have thrown stones at others.

  "But throw them you did, I'm sure. Therefore, since time is now very important, I would suggest that we all make an even distribution of the remaining gold. Then we can go our separate ways rapidly. Now, we know that there is very little of the ancient gold in the smaller, most cleverly disguised safe in Mister Tolliver's shop, although there is a bit more in his bank box. Is that all not sold? Or is there more . . . perhaps in a hidden recess of that stone root cellar or whatever it is in the backyard here?"

  Fitz drew from under the cushion of his chair a M1911A1 .45 caliber service pistol. In one smooth movement, he pointed it at the two on the couch and palmed back the slide. Within the confines of the room, th
e metallic sounds rang loud and ugly. Biscuitt regained every bit of his earlier greenish pallor and, this time, even the Greek—staring down the black, nearly half-inch bore that was being steadily held only some seven feet from him—lost color in his face.

  Between spasmodic gulps, Biscuitt gasped, "What does th . . . this mean? I am a . . . federal employ . . . ee in performance of. . . his duties . . . and—"

  "It means, my crooked friend," grated Fitz, "that this interview is at an end. Unless one or both of you wants to make it a very final end, I'd advise you to get up and leave my house and my property while you can still do so under your own steam.

  "The gold is mine, all mine, and I came by it and

  the other things completely legally. If there are any crooks about . . . and there are!—it's you and your cohorts, Biscuitt.

  "Gus, go get the Garand. You know where I keep it. It's loaded. I want some backup when I let these two out the gate. There's a bandolier hanging on the barrel, armor-piercing and ball, three clips of each/'

  "Damn right!" The short man hustled down the hall, his beer belly flopping, to come back with the military rifle.

  At the car, Fitz and Gus warily watched the others have to physically restrain the big Greek. They finally had to pinch a nerve to get the Browning away from him. Then they all piled in and drove off at speed.

  "I still think I should oughta stay out here tonight, Fitz," said Gus stubbornly from the drivers seat of Fitz's Jeep wagon. The big, familiar service pistol now was jammed under his belt and his jacket side pockets were weighed down with spare loaded magazines of the fat cartridges for it. "It ain't that I'm scared for myself, driving back; in fact, I just hope that pack of fuckers does try something with me, so I can show them furriners what kinda shooting the U.S. Army useta teach us.

  "But, boy, it's five them fuckers and if they comes back, with you here all by your lonesome ..."

  "Gus, you've got to go back, and the faster the better. I'm okay here. I'm well armed and not afraid to shoot, if I have to. Nobody can get over that fence, or even touch it, without lights going on and alarms and trip flares going off all over my whole perimeter, you know that. But Gus, those hoods are just mad enough now, and mean enough and frantic enough to go after your wife and try to use her to shake loose the rest of the gold from us. She needs

  you there; I'm okay out here. So you get the hell going and phone me when you get there."

  "Okay, okay, Superman." Gus put the wagon into gear smoothly. "You can go though solid-stone walls, but can you jump over tall buildings with a single bound, too? Okay, yeah, I'll call you up when I gets back."

  It was something under an hour and a half when the telephone rang and Gus's voice said, "Okay, Fitz, boy, I'm here and everything's okay. I think I set a new land-speed record for a Jeep and I kept looking for them bastards, too, but I never seen hide nor hair of them, all the way back. Sary, she's okay. I told her mosta everthing and we both is loaded for bear here. You seen the fuckers, boy?"

  Fitz hung up the phone and went back to his loading. He loaded each and every weapon that would shoot and for which he had the requisite ammunition. He thoroughly checked the fences and every window and door. Then he just waited, the house darkened. Like Gus, he too was dead sure that the gold-hungry pack would return. And since they now knew from Gus that they shortly would find themselves very deep in the shit if they were so unwise as to hang around and be apprehended for their misuses of their authority and resources, they would almost certainly make their return visit tonight or tomorrow, latest.

  Fitz brewed a pot of strong coffee, dragged his chair around so that it faced the window of the smaller of the two bedrooms—which, due to its location, gave a good view of the entire front of the lot and the street beyond—and then just sat there in the darkened room, sipping coffee and thinking. The .44 magnum revolver rode in a holster at his side

  and the Garand leaned against the wall beside the window, easy to hand, as too was the twelve-gauge riot gun on the other side. He was as ready as he was ever going to be, he figured.

  "Why?" he thought, sitting there. "Why did I choose this particular house, on this particular lot, on this particular street, in this particular, run-down neighborhood? Was it all God's plan? Did He think I'd finally suffered enough? If so, then why did He have to let poor old Tom die, too? Was it just necessary that I lose everything, every single tie with the happy life that once had been? If that was it, then why?

  "I can't think of any reasonable explanation for the sand world or how I got there and still get there. I cant conceive of any explanation for the weird time differences between that world and this one, either. Are there human beings in that world? There must be . . . somewhere, because that ship certainly wasn't built by birds and seals and sea turtles and ponies, or even by crocodiles.

  "What is the sand world, for that matter, and where is it? If it's an island, it's sure as hell a damned big one. Those hills beyond that plain look to be a damned long ways away, and I never have been able to get to either end of that beach; it just seems to go on and on in both directions forever. Too bad Gus got shocked so bad that night and wouldn't go through to the sand world with me; he's travelled a whole hell of a lot more than I have and he just might've been able to tell where it is. It's bound to be somewhere in the tropics of damned near to them, because it never gets very cold, even on rainy nights, when the wind picks up.

  "It can't be in the West Indies; otherwise, those beaches would be swarming with tourists. Same thing

  for any of the seacoasts of this country or any other western hemisphere country I can think of. So, what's left? Australia? See above. Hawaii? Ditto. It looks to be too damn big to be any of the South Pacific islands. How about New Guinea, then? Possible, I guess. Or maybe somewhere in Indonesia or the Philippine Islands? Could be. But until I find people there, I won't know anything for sure.

  "But all of that aside for now. What about this merry pickle I'm in—and have dragged Gus into with me—now? Even if we drive this bunch of international predators off", get the bastards all sacked or jailed, there'll surely be others, but legal ones, just as anxious to prove Gus and I are crooked somehow, so they can legally rob us blind. And I know damned good and well that no-fucking-body is going to believe a word if I try to back up at this late date and tell them how and where I redly came by that gold. I sure as hell wouldn't if somebody told me such a fantastic yarn. So I guess that means that Gus and I are going to either have to leave the country or go directly to jail and not collect two hundred dollars, either.

  "And, goddamn it, that's just not fair, no matter how you cut it. I love my country, America. I fought to protect her in two fucking wars, Gus in three, for God's sake. And Gus is right on the money, it's been getting worse for years and I never even noticed it, living smack-dab in the middle of it all.

  "The fuckers in D.C. have gerrymandered everything around until the productive citizens are being robbed blind to keep the nonproductive, nonproductive. The middle class, who made this country the great and powerful republic it used to be, are being eroded, ground down, and if it goes on for much longer, there won't be any middle-class people left to

  rob, only the very rich and the great masses of the poor . . . and then America will be ripe for the Reds to take over. And maybe, just maybe, that's exactly what the fuckers who are doing it to us want to see: a Soviet Socialist Republic of America/'

  Despite the black, bitter coffee, he must have dozed off, for how long he didn't know. The bass grumbling of a powerful truck engine awakened him—that and an odd squeaking-creaking noise that seemed to be coming either from the front yard or the street beyond.

  Slowly, carefully, he eased the soap-lubricated window up and could then hear whispered conversation in some foreign language. That was when he pulled the string lying across the windowsill. There was a loud pop from out on the lawn near the fence, something streaked up into the night sky, whitely flashed with a louder noise, then a parachute flare
began its slow, drifting descent back to earth, bathing house and yard and street in bright white light.

  Just beyond the high front fence sat what looked like a power company truck, mounting a cherry picker on a long, multi-jointed arm. This contrivance was in use, having just deposited the Greek—now momentarily frozen where he stood, staring stupidly up at the flare, his mouth open in surprise—on the front lawn, with another smaller, but equally olive-skinned man about to clamber out of the cup and hop down to join him.

  shouted something and the Greek shouted back, in angry-sounding tones. The other somebody shouted once more and there was a grinding sound as the truck was wrestled into gear by someone obviously inexperienced at driving the model.

  The cherry picker began to rise jerkily and the smaller man shouted something at the Greek. Throwing back something harsh, the big man let off another wild, three-round burst from his pistol, then jammed it back into his shoulder holster and leaped high to grasp the lip of the still-rising cup. The smaller man leaned from the cup and took a grip on the bigger mans belt, trying to tug him up into the cup with him.

  But just as he did, just as the rising and sidewise moving cup's bottom came to a point a little higher than the top of the fence, Fitz decided that they were not proceeding fast enough and, after firing off the last three .44s, took up the Garand and began to pump steel-jacket, armor-piercing rounds into various parts of the truck. Seemingly heedless of the fact that the cherry picker had not been fully recovered and ignoring the now-frantic shouts of the Greek and the smaller man, the driver of the truck began to accelerate.

  The Greek began to scream then, as his dangling legs and loins were dragged relentlessly up the twenty-five-foot length of three cruel strands of barbed wire. Fitz cringed; he had heard men scream in just that way before, long ago, in wars, and he had hoped, had prayed, that he never would hear the like of them again.