“And how about those guys in hoods?”
“I was shooting the breeze with Hooker, the fellow that runs the store in Newfane. He wouldn’t tell me a thing about this gang. He calls them ‘those ones’ and makes ’em sound like leprechauns. He says they don’t trouble the village, and the village doesn’t trouble them. Hooker warned me to stay away, whatever they offer. Folks who do business with them disappear after a while—says he lost an uncle that way.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” I said.
“Keep an eye on Moran,” said Wilson. “He’s up to something.”
After a cigarette I felt up to the big revelation: the proof of Dr. K.’s work. We gathered in front of the laboratory set-up under the electric lights.
“This is the complete technical description of the filter,” said Dr. K., holding up four manila envelopes. “One for each of my investors. But of course, first you must confirm that it is a success for yourselves.”
He placed the envelopes on the bench behind two rows of shot glasses. Ricca, Cristillo, Moran, Wilson, and I stood around as he ceremonially broke the seals and removed the flasks of refined liquor from the end of each of the stills and poured out the golden liquid. I heard a rustle from the other end of the room; there were white figures watching us from the shadows.
“This is the basic version,” said Dr. K., handing around glasses and raising his own. “Forty per cent alcohol—eighty degrees proof in your peculiar American measurement. But is has various contaminants which do not make for a satisfactory drink.”
We all rolled the moonshine around and sniffed and sipped. In fact, it was not bad at all. It was rough, but I’ve had plenty worse. We agreed among ourselves that it was good enough.
“Nonsense,” said Dr. K., “it is a horrible drink.” He held up a glass from the second still to admire its colour. “This is something different. ‘Theory is grey, but the green tree of life grows gold.’” He handed out glasses with shots of the liquor from the still with his special, patent-pending ceramic filter.
He was right. It was in a different class. It reminded me of drinking a good twelve-year-old Scotch after trying the younger version. You could recognise the same flavour, but the imperfections had been smoothed out into something that warmed instead of burning, something which had taste to it instead of just stabbing your taste buds as it passed.
“Now that’s more like it,” said Moran.
“Sure is—set ’em up again,” ordered Ricca, sliding his empty glass over.
Everything went dark. I sensed the others moving about and some kind of struggle nearby. I was about to make some lame gag about wood alcohol making you blind when there was a prolonged clattering noise, punctuated with higher notes of breaking glass.
“Please be calm,” instructed Dr. K. “It is a simple failure. I will get a light.”
Seconds later the room was lit by a lantern held up by the doctor.
Moran and Ricca had both drawn guns, and Wilson was backing away. One of the stills was overturned and the floor was littered with the smashed apparatus, with sections of piping and broken glass in a wide pool of liquid. Then I saw Cristillo, on the ground, stone dead, with his Tommy gun lying next to him. His eyes were still open and bulging. One hand was holding the wire garrotte looped firmly around his neck, cutting half an inch into the flesh. Blood was mingling with the other liquids around him, adding a darker stain.
“Too slow,” said Moran, and shot Ricca once in the chest from three feet away. As the Southsider went down, Moran stepped over and shot him once more in the head. It was a professional job all the way. Each shot was a sharp crack in the closed space.
“What are you doing?” demanded Dr. K.
I already had my hands up as Moran turned around. Wilson had his up too, and had put Dr. K. and me between him and Moran.
“Keep ’em where I can see ’em,” ordered Moran. “You too, Wilson.”
“Everybody keep calm,” I said. “Moran, what’s between you and the South Side mob is your business.”
Moran grabbed a manila envelope and stuffed it into a pocket without taking his eyes off us. “Now, let’s get outta here,” he said. “Dr. K., you lead the way.”
“You may not go.” It was that buzzing voice, coming out of the dark. “None of you may leave.”
A wall of white robes appeared, eight or ten of them stepping noiselessly into the circle of lantern light with more behind. The pointed hoods and black eye slits made them look inhuman. The effect was menacing, but they did not seem to be armed.
“This ain’t your business,” said Moran, nodding at the two bodies on the ground. No reply. Moran weighed up the situation, then casually took a step back and holstered his automatic. “See, I don’t have a beef with you fellows. Sorry about the mess.”
“It’s all over,” Wilson told the hoods. “We’ll take what we paid for and go. We don’t want no trouble.”
“The demonstration was successful,” said Dr. K. “Surely you are satisfied the filter works?”
“The filter works.” I could not tell which of the hoods was speaking. “You have completed the work. You may not leave. None of you.”
“I don’t think you understand who you’re talking to,” said Wilson. “We ain’t staying.”
“You may not leave,” came the reply.
“Let’s talk about this,” said Wilson.
“You may not leave.” There was no feeling there, no change of tone. It was like listening to a stuck record or a station announcer.
“To hell with this,” said Moran. He had edged back to where Cristillo was lying and abruptly dropped down to grab the Tommy gun. As he lifted it, he aimed and squeezed the trigger, filling the chamber with thunderous staccato gunfire and muzzle flashes.
Moran handled the machine gun the Army way, sweeping the stream of bullets from left to right and then back at waist level, just the way they teach you. The robed figures surged forward but went down like bowling pins. The whole thing took all of three seconds, but it seemed like much longer.
I hit the floor, covering my head with my hands, thinking irrationally that if I had survived the fields of France I could survive this.
Moran inspected the damage through the clearing smoke. It was quite a mess.
“Moran!” I called out.
He looked up, drew his automatic, and fired once before they were on him: a wave of seven or eight of them, bringing him down and tearing the gun away. Still more appeared from the darkness from every direction. They were all around us. When I looked back Moran had stopped struggling.
“This is very unfortunate,” said Dr. K. sadly, looking at the wrecked apparatus. The bodies did not seem to bother him.
“Come this way,” one of the figures ordered, and the doctor gestured for me to comply, as if I needed telling. But he made me wait until he had found me an extra lantern.
I was led into a bare room with nothing in it but a dozen empty crates.
There was no door, and one of the figures stayed with me.
“You were sent by Spencer Wade?” asked the hood. “Are you from his family?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “More of a family friend.”
Up close, the robed figures were even stranger. Their arms were too short, and their hands were not right. This guy had to be deformed. Unless they really were from Mars.
I didn’t like the way this one was looking at me.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“We will wait.” His voice was even harder to make out than the other one.
“Where are you guys from anyhow?” I asked. “Dr. K. says you’re extra-terrestrials. Is that right?”
He seemed to sway slightly.
“Do you want to travel to other planets?” he asked at last. “Do you want to see the glories of the vast cosmos?”
“Why, are you selling tickets?”
“It can be arranged,” he said in that blurred, buzzing voice. After another long pause he added: “It is a ra
re opportunity. Only a few are taken.”
“You have a rocket ship hidden down here?” I said.
“We have our method of travel.”
Close up I could make out a face through the eye slits. It was a pale, blank face, almost as white as the robes. “It would be your…reward.”
In that dark, close place the crazy talk was getting to me. My guard was far too enthusiastic about sending me into the cosmos. I only know of one way of getting to another world, and it’s not pleasant. On the other hand, there are plenty of types who think that opium takes them far away. Maybe the anthill crowd was a colony of dope fiends. I was running out of theories and it made as much sense as anything.
“I think I’ll go back to Chicago first,” I said.
“We will talk later,” he said. “But think. Think about what we are offering.”
Then he stood back in the doorway and played statue.
I sat on a crate and lit a cigarette. There were a lot of bodies to clear up, but that wasn’t my problem. I wondered what they would do with Moran. I wondered what they would do with me. It sounded as though someone wanted me to take the cosmic tour rather than leave.
There were sounds of disturbance further down the tunnels. My guard disappeared, and a few seconds later Dr. K. was in the doorway, holding up a lantern which caught the smoke billowing around him like stage fog. Wilson was right behind him.
“There is a small fire,” said Dr. K. “We must go now. Otherwise we will not leave.”
He led me down unfamiliar tunnels. He had his knapsack but no hat or walking stick, and was lighting the way with a flashlight. He was evidently taking a circuitous route to avoid notice but took a wrong turn, and it seemed as if we were walking for miles. This part of the complex was constructed better; it seemed more modern, though perhaps it was actually much older. There were smooth floors and walls. The rooms were more like bank vaults and less like caves.
As we passed the opening into one room I heard a confused voice: “Who’s there? What’s happening?”
“Was that Moran?” I asked.
Reluctantly, Dr. K. came back and shone his flashlight into the vault where the voice had come from. The circle of light played over metal shelves, something like an operating table, racks of equipment. Cylinders like big saucepans lined most of the shelves. And, in the corner, Moran. What was left of him.
“You see, Mr. Jones, there is nothing we can do for Mr. Moran now,” Dr. K. said, pulling me away.
We came out of a different cave mouth from the one we had entered by. “Take this, Mr. Jones,” he said, passing me the Luger. “I believe you are a much better marksman than I. They should not trouble us much in daytime, but unfortunately it is overcast today. Watch out for anything in deep shadow. Or…in the air.”
I tucked the gun into my waistband and set off after him. We splashed through brooks and down muddy paths. We were going much faster now, and Wilson and I had trouble keeping up with Dr. K., ducking under tree branches and skidding on the mossy rocks. He ploughed through stands of big yellow toadstools on the path, scattering them.
Wilson slipped on a patch of mud and went down cursing. I stopped long enough to see him get up and come after me. My ankles were painful from the awkward footing of tree roots, my chest was hurting, and I was getting tired. Wilson kept going; he was a few years younger than I first thought, and in much better shape than any librarian. Dr. K. bounced along ahead of us like a rubber ball, blasting through the ferns, following a path only he could see.
Something stabbed me in the face, and the next thing I knew I was falling backwards into something soft. I thrashed around, fighting to get to my feet. Footsteps ran past me; I looked up and saw the dead tree branch I had run into. I had a fresh cut on my forehead, but the branch missed spiking my eye by an inch.
I checked I still had the Luger, clambered up, and kept on running after the other two. I wiped away blood oozing into my eye, looking around and no seeing any landmarks I could recognise. That long run had a nightmare feel to it, and I’ve run it a lot more times in my nightmares. Usually I get away.
V
We arrived in Newfane before I expected. Pretski was surprised to see us when we knocked on the door. Our clothing was stained, I had blood down my face, and Wilson was holding his arm; he had hurt his shoulder on a tree stump when he fell. We must have looked like the survivors of a massacre. Only Dr. K. seemed undamaged.
“We must pick up a few things before leaving,” said Dr. K. “Please excuse us. What time is the bus?”
“The bus won’t be comin’ today,” Pretski blurted out. “Not if they want to keep you here.”
“How far is it to the highway?” I asked. “Ten miles?”
“Too far, I think,” said Dr. K. “They can move quickly.”
“You can’t stay here,” said Pretski, getting more worried by the second. “I’m sorry, doctor, but I have my wife, and …”
“I’ll see if I can make a phone call,” I said.
I headed briskly over to the store, extracting the number for Transnational Development Services from my mental filing system. The woman said they might be able to help me out of a jam, and they were no friends of that ghoulish crowd in the woods. Maybe if they were on the ball they’d be able to send in the cavalry to give us a ride out of here.
Hooker was behind the counter, reading a mail-order catalogue. He gestured for me to use the pay phone, but when I picked up the earpiece there was only silence. Hooker said the line must be down again.
“Does that happen often?” I asked.
Hooker looked away. “Sometimes. I warned you about goin’ with them in the woods,” he mumbled. “No one can say I din’t.”
Outside, the woods pressed in on the village from all sides, dark and lowering. I thought getting back above ground would be the difficult part. Dr. K. had the door open on the new Ford that Ricca and Cristillo arrived in and he was tinkering.
“I believe I can get it to start in a few minutes,” he said. “Can either of you drive?”
I shook my head, but Wilson nodded. “If the alternative is sticking here.”
Dr. K. set to work while Wilson retrieved his valise from his room, and I did likewise. Pretski stood there wringing his hands. By the time we walked out to the car again it was sputtering and coughing before subsiding into a steady rhythm.
The man in overalls whom I had seen hanging around was hastening toward us from down the street. He looked angry.
“Hello, Mr. Brown,” said Dr. K. “Gentlemen, this is Walter Brown, my associates’ associate.”
“You can’t go, Dr. K.,” Brown snapped. “You know it ain’t allowed.”
“But I’m afraid we are going,” said Dr. K. “Please thank your associates for their hospitality.”
Brown sized the three of us up.
“You’ll never make it out alive,” he announced at last. “Stop this foolishness.”
“Good day, Mr. Brown,” said Dr. K.
Brown turned and stamped off.
“Excellent,” said Dr. K. “I did not think he would oppose the three of us openly.”
He glanced around the town before getting into the back and hunkering down low so as not to be seen. I took the passenger seat, holding the Luger under my coat.
“The march of the pawn to the eighth square,” said Dr. K. behind me. “It is always the most anxious journey, is it not? We must be resolute, gentlemen!”
Wilson experimented with the gears and soon we were driving out at a respectable speed. As I looked back I could see Pretski watching us anxiously. A minute later, we rounded the bend and left Newfane behind.
Then there was a zip in the air and the windshield was starred around a hole big enough to put your finger through.
“Drive faster,” said Dr. K. Wilson did not need any encouragement.
A second shot pinged off the bodywork, and this time I could tell it was fired from behind us. We rounded another bend and there was no third round.
>
“Walter Brown, making his Parthian shot,” said Dr. K. “If he was truly determined, he would have placed himself in front of us, not behind. He is an employee who wants to tell his masters that he has done something so he does not get punished.”
“Close enough for me,” said Wilson.
Dr. K. was especially worried about the two small bridges we had to cross, but they were still intact. Then we came to a place where the road was partially blocked by an enormous rock fall, boulders scattered about like a handful of pebbles.
The situation was not as bad as it first looked, as the larger rocks were well off the road and it would be possible to clear a way. I found a shovel in the back of the car and moved the small stuff while Dr. K. handled the bigger ones and Wilson kept watch, scanning the trees around us.
“I think an explosive charge was placed here in advance to block the road,” Dr. K. said, heaving a two-hundred-pound boulder along like a snowball. “But the position, or the charge, was not well calculated. They are bad with calculations.”
“Something over there,” called Wilson from the car.
I squinted over to where he was pointing, but it just looked like a big crow perched in the lower boughs of a pine tree. All I could really see were the branches moving.
“Keep watching, Mr. Wilson,” said Dr. K., and redoubled his efforts.
In fifteen minutes we had cleared enough rocks out of the way to get the car through, bumping, over the uneven surface. As we started moving again I saw shadows flitting under the trees over to one side. They might have been children wearing dark ragged clothes that trailed around them. But I didn’t get a good look.
“Keep the gun ready,” Dr. K. said. “Aim low in the body and do not hesitate.”
After that I scanned the road ahead with more concentration than a bum looking for pennies in the gutter. I saw things in the shadows a few times, but they were all in my imagination and I did not have to use the Luger. It was the longest drive of my life, but we finally rounded a bend to see the traffic on the main road ahead.
The Dulwich Horror & Others Page 18
