He stood motionless, his finger tight on the trigger. Was this the White World Nick had described earlier? If it was, it was more than a dream world. It was real. Too damned real for his liking.
It was strange, but Crow didn’t sense malevolence within this unnatural phenomenon. Instead of fear, a calm swept through his body, but he remained alert all the same. His sixth sense perceived a presence in the room, but there was no way to prove it to his skeptical mind. Whatever it was, it was invisible in the brilliance, just as Nick and every other object in the room.
Crow slowed his breathing to shallow puffs and stood perfectly still. He listened for any indication of the intruder’s position or identity, but the eerie stillness continued, minute after agonizing minute.
Gradually the whiteness faded, and Crow found himself alone with Nick. There was no intruder now, if there had ever been one. Maybe Geronimo’s security program needed some fine-tuning. He hurriedly examined Nick for signs of injury, but he was alive, unharmed and sleeping soundly. The only changes in Nick were that his skin was now dry, and the anguished expression that had etched his countenance was now a peaceful glow.
Crow shook his head. Despite his extensive knowledge of tribal magic, he realized that this experience was far beyond his comprehension. The one thing that was obvious to him was that there were powerful, magical forces at work, and Nick Bellamy was somehow caught in the middle. Crow’s skepticism regarding Nick’s exploding bedroom mirror, Ethyl Jurkowski’s impersonator, the shape-shifting assassin, and his escape from the DEA’s safe house had vanished with the white brilliance. He was a firm believer.
Geronimo startled Crow from his breakfast with a raucous war whoop. The Indian approached the screen.
What have you got, big guy?” he asked the computer.
“Every bit of information concerning Mortal Eclipse that I could filch from computer files around the world, mostly from Germany and South America,” it replied in a masculine voice. “Excluding some of our own top-secret government files. I haven’t finished cracking all of them yet.”
“Yeah, okay,” Crow answered absently, as he studied one of the screens.
“No peeking now.”
Crow’s head jerked up. “This better not be a waste of time.”
“Waste of time!” The computer voice sounded offended.
“You heard me. Our lives are in danger here, including yours, you conceited wad of circuitry.”
“Mine?”
“If our friend the Creeper decides to flatten this place like he did that DEA safe house, you can kiss your drives good-bye!”
“Do I detect an escalating stress level?” Geronimo asked.
Crow threw his feet on the desk and stretched his legs. “Yeah, you might say that. Sorry.”
“I would hope so!” There was a moment of silence. “Now sit back and listen to my findings while I print you a hard copy.”
Crow settled into the chair in front of his creation. “Fire away.”
“I’ve organized my findings in chronological order.”
“Very good.”
“In 1967, a secret government organization was formed by an underground branch of the Department of Defense with the mission to genetically produce the perfect soldier that could infiltrate and destroy enemy military bases. A CIA supervisor was placed in charge and given a sizable budget with which to conduct the experiments.”
“His name?” Crow asked.
“Patience, please,” Geronimo retorted.
“Don’t get carried away with your insubordination, chief. With a simple program change, I can turn you into Pocahontas.”
“So noted. May I continue?” it asked in a humbler tone.
“Please.”
“The CIA supervisor’s name was Daniel Merrick. He secretly gathered a team of German scientists who had worked on creating a Deutsch super race during World War II. They didn’t call them geneticists back then, because their methods of experimentation and implementation were crude and largely based on guesswork. It would’ve been more appropriate to label them butchers. They didn’t have our present day equipment to map genes and clone.
“Then Merrick hired a civilian to oversee operations. A man who claimed he knew of a chemical compound that could be bonded with human genes to create a new powerful species. A warrior being that would be ideal for the military. The civilian claimed to be the only person who knew of this compound.
“This man’s name was Hollis Danforth.”
“Senator Hollis Danforth?”
“The one and the same, except he wasn’t a senator in 1967.”
“Cowabunga!” Crow was incredulous.
“May I continue?”
“Sure, go on.”
“There is not much information available about these experiments other than there were many deaths. The mothers who gave birth to these experimental children were never seen again outside the facilities.”
Crow stood and paced in front of the computer. “Did they ask for women volunteers for those dangerous experiments?”
“There is nothing available concerning the recruitment of these women,” it replied.
“What about the fate of those experimental children?”
“The only reference I could find about the early experimental children was that they were considered freaks.”
“Hmm. Continue.”
“The experiments were conducted in a top secret facility, and according to two databases, the site was chosen for its proximity to the genetic bonding material used in the experiments. The site was located in Ohio outside the small town of Duneden.”
“Duneden. Holy wampum!”
“Is that significant?”
Crow fell back in his chair and swiveled back and forth. “Possibly. Continue.”
“In 1971, the Mortal Eclipse project was shut down by the Department of Defense, and all funding was stopped.”
“The reason?”
“Too many deaths and no successes was the official reason given, but I surmise that it had something to do with Daniel Merrick’s sudden death in 1971. At that point, Hollis Danforth assumed control of the experiments. Merrick’s death was officially reported as an experimental casualty, and although I could not discover the actual cause of his death, I would label it suspicious.”
“A victim of one of the freaks?”
“Or a power struggle between Merrick and Danforth. The powers that be in the Department of Defense probably had little confidence in an outsider’s control and pulled the proverbial plug on the project.”
“What do you mean by power struggle?”
“Four of the databases reference Merrick’s continuing disenchantment with the project and its toll on human life. The same reports state that Danforth was excited by the results and firmly believed that they were close to achieving their goal. It stands to reason that if Merrick wanted to shutdown the project and Danforth didn’t, Merrick might have been the victim of foul play. Factoring in the human penchant for violence, I give this assumption a 62.4 percent probability of accuracy,” Geronimo droned.
“So much for the sarcasm,” Crow said. “I was hoping that the project ended sometime during or after 1974.”
“You are correct. After the government budget was taken away, Danforth recruited South American investors so he could continue the experiments. These investors kept computer records of their dealings with Danforth, and that’s where I discovered much of this information.”
Crow considered this for a moment, and then remembered the DEA video of the Delahoya hit in Colombia. From the information that Nick had gathered, it seemed a sure bet that the Creeper, who disguised himself as Senator Danforth, was directly responsible for the explosion that killed many of the dealers in the Colombian drug cartel. But what connection was there between the Creeper and Hollis Danforth? Was it real or coincidental? Personally, he didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Don’t tell me that these investors were drug dealers?” he asked Geronimo.
“Then I won’t,” the computer replied smugly.
“C’mon, you red-skinned devil, tell me if I’m right.”
“You are correct. I have a list of these men. There are thirteen in all.”
“Was Hector Delahoya one of them?”
“Yes.”
“Damn!” Crow exclaimed. “You’re doing great. Anything else?”
“Three of the Colombian databases suggest that the experiments lasted until 1975, and that there were at least two successes.”
“Are you telling me that there could be two or more Creepers running around killing people?”
“That is a logical possibility.”
“A plague on Custer!” The idea of multiple monsters frosted his flesh. If the military stopped the funding of the Mortal Eclipse project, then chances were that they didn’t know the full extent of the results after 1971.”
“That stands to reason.”
“Then what was Danforth’s motive for creating a super soldier? People just don’t create killing machines without a purpose.”
“Might I suggest a personal agenda?”
“Did you find any hint of what that might be?”
“Negative.”
“Did you discover any possible reason why Danforth might be killing off his former partners?”
“To dissolve the partnership?” Geronimo ventured.
“But why? Why now? Why didn’t he eliminate them twenty-five years ago? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I have no data to support a speculation.”
Crow slumped in the chair. “Neither do I. We need more data.” Crow tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair, deep in thought. “Did you find any mention of a Joseph Sandlin?”
“Negative. I did, however, discover one related, peculiar fact from three newspaper databases during 1971 that might correlate to the project.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“Hollis Danforth’s wife was kidnapped in early 1971. She has never been found.”
“I don’t see how her kidnapping is relevant to Mortal Eclipse.” Crow paused, then snapped his fingers. “Unless she was pregnant,” he ventured.
“She was.”
“Looks like the old plot thickens,” a familiar, though weak, voice announced behind Crow.
Startled, Crow pivoted and gazed wide-eyed at a hostile Nick Bellamy leaning heavily against the kitchen wall and pointing a gun at his friend’s head.
Chapter 34
Rance’s secretary announced Ron Withers an instant before he barged into his boss’s office waving the empty folder in front of him.
Rance glanced up, thunderheads clouding his eyes.
“Here!” Withers shouted, slamming the folder on Rance’s desk. “This is what Neo took from Bellamy’s office.”
“Take a seat and count to ten,” Rance warned him, checking the file name on the yellow tab.
Withers glared at him defiantly and remained standing. “I will not! I’m the supervisor around here, and I don’t have a file on this Blue Lick Orion Sector Remote Facility. So why does Bellamy?” He propped his hands on his hips, his lips terse and his eyes bulging behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
Rance picked up the folder and tapped the edge on the desk. “Because all information in Orion Sector is given out on a need to know basis. There is no reason that you needed to know about this facility, nor is there now.”
“But . . .”
Rance stood and glowered at Withers. “No but’s, Ron. You know damn well that that’s the way things are around here, and they’re not about to change any time soon. Understand?”
“If we have another facility, I think I’m entitled to know about it. This isn’t some minute detail, Rance. It’s part of our total operation, and since I’m a part of management around here, I feel that I do need to know about it,” he said firmly.
Rance’s stare was unyielding, but this time Withers refused to back down with his tail between his legs.
“Get out,” Rance said quietly. “This discussion’s over.”
Withers was about to resign right there on the spot, but he quickly remembered that his lucrative agreement with his outside contact would be null and void if he didn’t work for Orion Sector. He needed that money for his early retirement to South America where he could live the life of the rich and famous without Uncle Sam asking any questions.
“Consider this an official protest,” he mumbled, as he retreated out the door.
As soon as Withers was gone, Rance dialed the Blue Lick facility number on his scrambler phone. As the phone rang on the other end, a smile split his scowl. Their original plan had worked to perfection. Nick had been worried that somebody might catch wind of the secret facility someday and steal their files, so it had been agreed before construction even began that a bogus file be planted in each of their offices that contained misleading information.
The phone continued ringing.
Although he was concerned about the ease with which the Creeper again infiltrated the high-security Edgar J. Hoover Building, Rance’s alarm was moderated by the fact that the Creeper would be on his way to Blue Lick, Montana to destroy a facility that didn’t exist.
The phone continued ringing.
There were twenty-seven places in the United States and Canada named Blue Lick, so by the time the Creeper visited all of them, Bellamy and Crow should have gleaned enough information from Geronimo to put an end to Mister Creeper.
Rance hung-up the phone and redialed the number. It rang another twenty times before he disconnected the call again. A frown crinkled his forehead. Where the hell was Crow? Had something happened to Bellamy?
God, he’d never forgive himself if Crow’s tribal witchcraft potion had harmed his top agent. It had seemed like such a good idea a week ago when he had brainstormed with Crow on ways to jump start Nick from his lengthy malaise. Tricking him appeared to be their only option, because it was a sure bet that Nick wasn’t about to voluntarily admit himself into the Betty Ford Clinic. And besides, their posh treatment would have taken too long. They needed Nick’s keen mind and exceptional physical skills back and working to stop the Creeper now. Time was of the essence.
Rance’s arthritic fingers cavorted on his computer keyboard and swiftly made a scrambled connection to the Internet. After several attempts to connect with Geronimo, he leaned back in his chair and massaged his closed eyelids. Even Orion Sector’s own computer system refused to respond to his password. Uncharacteristically, Rance began to worry.
Had the Creeper seen through their ploy and attacked the real Blue Lick facility? Surely, the monster couldn’t have traveled that distance in that short period of time. Could he? Rance’s mind raced with possible reasons for the silence from Blue Lick, but each was as farfetched as the others. Finally, he limped out into the office area, desperately searching for a distraction while he waited for Crow or Nick to check in.
Waiting was the most trying aspect of his job.
The elevator doors closed on Ron Withers seconds before Rance Osborne appeared outside his office door. The Orion Sector supervisor was in a hurry. He had vital intelligence for his contact, and he was to meet with the contact’s representative for the usual exchange of cash for information.
Rain fell in buckets as he reached the curb and hailed a cab. By the time a taxi squealed to a splashing stop, he was drenched. His mood darkened again, and his mind flashed back to his meeting with Osborne. Before Withers retired, he would see if his contact was interested in exchanging intelligence for a hit on Osborne. He grinned. That idea appealed to him and dispelled his gloom.
“Where to?” the taxi driver asked abruptly, interrupting his passenger’s reverie.
Withers curtly gave him the address of a bar in Chevy Chase, Maryland. The black eyes in the rearview mirror remained impassive as the driver eased into the heavy, late-morning traffic. He always took a taxi to these exchanges. His agency car would attract too much attention, as it was the stereotypical, b
lack sedan with government plates.
The Dilly-Dally Inn served as much naked flesh as it did alcohol. The dancers stripped, gyrated, and sensuously displayed their sexual assets to an appreciative audience of rowdy men seated along a seemingly endless counter surrounding the octagonal stage. Music blared from every corner of the bar, stimulating the nonstop motion of body parts. Topless barmaids scurried between the bar in the back and the cheering customers, maintaining a high level of inebriation, tips, and dancer dollars. White, red, and blue spotlights illuminated the girls on the stage and cast deep shadows over the surrounding tables where some customers received more personal services from the dancers and barmaids.
His contact’s representative never sat at the counter and never sought the personal attention of the girls. He was meticulously dressed in black with a derby pulled low over his forehead. Withers had never seen his face, nor had he ever wanted to. Such knowledge might be exchanged for a bullet to the brain.
Withers spotted his man at their usual table and hurried in that direction. Suddenly, he stopped cold. There was another man seated across from his contact, and that man was shouting at the top of his lungs to be heard over the deafening din. The new man resembled a small-time hood with his shiny blue-striped suit, orange check tie, and blue shirt. Withers knew the type. Big mouth, small mind. Long on ego, short on balls. He despised those jerks.
Withers moved inconspicuously through the shadows, took a seat at an adjacent table, and pretended interest in the dancers.
“. . . and tell your boss that he can’t have any more girls! Jesus H. Christ! People are startin’ to talk, and the girls are gettin’ scared.”
“It’ll blow over.”
“Bullshit! Scared girls lead to less dancers, and that means less customers and less money. Do the math,” the man shouted.
“Are you trying to hold us up for more dough?”
“More dough! Have you been listening? Are you going friggin’ deaf? I don’t want no more money ‘cause I don’t want no more business from you and your client. Got it?”
Mortal Eclipse Page 18
