Nick waved his phony NSA identification in the man’s face. “Afraid its part of my job to drive recklessly and endanger others,” Nick said ironically.
A semi passed, ruffling the patrolman’s baggy slacks and illuminating the exploded window and splattered blood in the rear.
“Hey!” he exclaimed and drew his gun. “Get out of the car, sir.”
“I’d love to get out and chat, but my prisoner here is bleeding to death, thanks to the young woman who tried to kill him. By the way, she’s lying dead in the back seat. I had to kill her before she murdered my prisoner.”
“Get out, I said! Now.” His gun was leveled at Nick’s head.
Nick slowly climbed from the car and raised his hands. “There’s one thing you should never do to an NSA agent, Jack.”
“Name’s Jerry. Now place your hands on the car and spread your legs.”
Nick did as ordered, and the patrolman approached him for a pat down.
“What shouldn’t I ever do to an NSA agent?” he asked smugly.
Nick wheeled on the patrolman like lightning, knocking his gun to the concrete and spinning him into a crushing hammerlock and chokehold.
“Tick him off, wiseass!” Nick roughly pushed the patrolman’s face into the rear window. “There’s the woman, the would-be murderer. Deader than a door nail.”
The patrolman managed a raspy, choked laugh. “I don’t know what you NSA guys are smoking these days, but I beg to differ with you. I see a cat. Deader than a door nail.”
Nick peered inside. The smoky was right, dammit! The woman’s form had changed into a cat. A Siamese cat, with its brains decorating the back of his rental. He recognized it immediately. It was his bodyguard in the Jag, compliments of the Creeper. More magic. He was getting sick of it.
“Hey, buddy, mind easing up on my throat a little. I can’t breathe,” the patrolman managed.
“Right.” Nick released the man. “Get that carcass out of my back seat and take it to the Lauderdale morgue. I’ll have my forensics team over there as soon as possible,” Nick instructed him.
The patrolman reached down for his gun, but Nick stepped on his hand. “Get the cat first, then the gun. Okay?”
“Whatever,” the patrolman replied angrily.
When the cat’s carcass was on the rear floor of the patrol car, Nick handed the man his gun.
“Remember, take the cat to the morgue or I report you, Mister.” He read the man’s badge. “Patrolman Schulman.”
Nick returned to the Jeep and checked on Bustillo. He was still out cold, but the bleeding had stopped and his breathing was regular. On a sudden hunch, he grabbed the Heckler & Koch MP5K and rapped on the patrol car window. Seeing the machine gun, Schulman hesitated, but complied.
“Open the back door and stand away,” Nick ordered brusquely.
Schulman did as ordered and moved away. The oriental woman leaped from the backseat at Nick, her long nails reaching for his throat. He fired, and the bullets aerated her thin frame within seconds. She collapsed at his feet, her long fingers curling into lifeless fists.
Nick looked over at Schulman. “Ever hear of a cat having nine lives?”
But the patrolman was too stunned to answer. The woman’s body slowly reformed itself into the Siamese cat.
“Do you have any rifles aboard?” Nick asked.
“Huh?”
“Rifles! Pop guns!”
The man blinked and came around. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Any ammo?”
“Plenty.”
“Good. I suggest that you check on your prisoner every so often, and if it changes into a woman again, shoot to kill. Keep doing it until she’s out of lives.”
Schulman stared at the cat’s shredded, bloody fur. “Uh, sure.”
Nick put his hand on the dazed man’s shoulder.
“You can count to nine, right?” Nick asked.
“Sure, but this . . . this is unbelievable.”
Nick patted his shoulder sharply. “Believe it or die, my friend.”
“But . . . but what is it, uh, her?”
“A familiar,” Nick replied. “A witch’s companion that can change from an animal to a person or demon.”
“No kiddin’?”
“No kiddin’.”
Nick drove away, mystified by how he’d just blurted out information about witch familiars when he wasn’t aware that he knew about them. Had somebody planted it in his sleep, or had he learned about familiars first hand during his pre-California childhood? The conundrum nagged him during the short drive to the airport.
The Jeep Liberty screeched to a stop outside the Champion Airlines hanger at Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. Champion Airlines had a private contract with the FBI, but the Fort Lauderdale facility was seldom used. Nick shook Bustillo to consciousness and dragged his drained body from the SUV into the secure site. The MP5K dangled from his shoulder and the reloaded M9 was tucked in its unsecured shoulder holster.
The hanger was quiet and dark, illuminated only from the moonlight spilling through the high windows. Nick released Bustillo and was instantly alert to danger.
“Can you walk?”
The old man shrugged. “If I have to.”
Nick examined the unfamiliar shadowed outlines ahead. “So far so good, but you might have to run some, too, unless you’re anxious to have your throat torn out.”
“He’s here?”
“Oh yeah. I can feel him. Let’s move.”
They made their way past unidentifiable obstacles in the faint light to the front roll-up door where they heard an airplane idling outside on the tarmac. Nick located the passenger door beside the roll-up, and he and Bustillo cautiously crept out into the full moonlight. The idling plane was less than a hundred feet away, but the path to it was littered with the mangled, twisted bodies of the meager airline security force, their automatic weapons frozen in their stiff hands.
Bustillo crossed himself four times in rapid succession.
Nick clutched his arm. “C’mon,” he whispered.
They ran a zigzag course to the steps of the dark plane. On impulse, Nick wheeled around toward the hanger, his MP5K raised and ready to fire. An indistinct form emerged twenty feet behind them. Nick’s finger tightened against the trigger.
“We meet at last,” a deep, hollow voice boomed.
“That’s close enough, Creeper,” Nick ordered.
The Creeper stopped. “That’s such an unpleasant name,” it said. “Call me by my Christian name, Thomas.”
“There’s nothing Christian about you!”
“I was baptized. Mother insisted upon it before she died.”
“And your father?”
“Oh, I see you know about him. No, he was not so insistent.”
“And where is he?”
“Not where, but who, Nick. You know the fellow fairly well.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“And spoil the surprise? I don’t think so. Now if you don’t mind, let’s get down to business. I’m here for Bustillo.”
“Obviously, but you’re not getting him,” Nick replied firmly.
“Oh, but I am.”
Nick fired a volley above the Creeper’s reptilian head. “Not on my shift, Thomas.”
The Creeper took a single step closer.
“Aren’t you becoming a tad reckless lately?” Nick queried.
“How so?”
“By showing your true form to all these people.”
“They took my identity to their graves, Nick. Quit stalling. Hand over Bustillo.”
“But Thomas, why are you killing us? It makes no sense, amigo. We created you and raised you,” Bustillo shouted.
“You’re not my idea of family.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“I don’t feel at all, you idiot!”
“You were trained to follow orders. Our orders. Who’s directing you to murder me?” Bustillo asked, his commanding voice masking his fear.
Si
lence.
The old man whined. “Whose orders? Tell me?”
Nick shoved Bustillo behind him. “Let me take a guess. Would it be Danforth?”
“No comment, Nick,” it replied.
“Well, Thomas, I’d love to stick around and chat, but I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“The pilot’s dead.”
“I can fly this baby, no sweat.” Nick spun and pushed Bustillo up the steps.
“Aren’t you going to kill me?” the Creeper shouted in its unearthly, lifeless voice.
“Not today,” Nick shouted over his shoulder and lowered the submachine gun. “And by the way, thanks for saving my bacon on the flight down here. I owe you one.”
“Then take me along.”
Nick stood in the doorway. “I’d have to kill you then. But . . .” He thought of a diversion that might keep the Creeper away from the plane. “If I were you, I’d be worried about your familiar friend. She’s running out of lives, and fast.”
A low, reverberating rumble rose from its massive chest. It resembled a gruff laugh. “You are resourceful, Nick. It’ll be a shame to assassinate you some day.”
With that, the Creeper vanished.
Nick was unfazed. The past several days had left his mind shock proof. He felt a tug at his sleeve.
“Why didn’t the bastard freak kill us tonight?” Bustillo demanded, regaining some of his arrogance.
Nick raised the steps, secured the door, and entered the cockpit without answering Bustillo. There was no answer. Only a hunch. The drug dealer sat down glumly beside him and fastened his seat belt.
After filing flight plans to Columbus, Ohio, they were given the green light for take-off. Thirty minutes later, they were airborne.
Bustillo unbuckled his belt and stood.
“Where are you going?” Nick asked.
“The bathroom.”
Nick shook his head. “Sit down.”
“But . . .”
“No but’s. On my flight last night, a man was mummified in the lavatory. If I were you, I wouldn’t take the chance.”
The old man swallowed and sat.
Nick cleared his mind and settled back for the long trip. He was proceeding to Duneden for some answers about the Creeper’s past. A sudden sense of urgency sent a chill through him.
If he got there while Jill Sandlin was still alive.
Chapter 47
As before, Ron Withers arrived at the Dilly-Dally Inn during a thunderstorm. Lightning crackled and exploded all around him as he ran from the cab to the front doors of the strip club. A white vinyl sign snapped in the drenching gusts announcing “Under New Management” in bold red letters. Withers imagined that the previous owner would be found floating face down in the Potomac some day soon.
He stamped the water droplets from his expensive black leather wingtips, smoothed back his soaked, thin hair, and stepped into the action. Same white, red, and blue spotlights, same cheap flesh, and the same plowed suckers. Mister Orange Check Tie might be gone, but the new management proclamation was a sham. It was still the same sleazy rip-off.
His contact was at his usual table, the black derby pulled low over his forehead. He handed Withers the envelope before he could sit.
“Listen,” he addressed the FBI man. “The boss said to tell you that Neo Doss is history, so don’t worry about him anymore. Just concentrate on Bellamy. Kill the son-of-a-bitch, and what’s in the envelope will be just a small down payment of his appreciation.”
Before Withers could speak, the man stood and walked toward the back of the place. A busty young woman wearing a very low-cut mini-dress met him at the bar, hooked his arm, and escorted him out.
Withers saw dollar signs as he pulled out his cell phone and called for a taxi. He stuffed the envelope in his pocket and braved the wicked weather again. He had to return to the office. He was scheduled to lead a lynching party.
Five Internal Affairs staff members, the President’s representative, and Ron Withers sat across the table from Rance Osborne in the director’s conference room. After briefing Rance that he was being investigated for the murder of former FBI Director Kerwin Anderson, the Internal Affairs chief also revealed that Supervisor Withers would be heading that investigation.
“Evidence clearly supports our accusation, Rance. However, you’ll be given a fair opportunity to defend yourself,” Withers stated.
A ringing cell phone interrupted Withers. Everyone checked his phone. It was Rance’s. He stood and moved to a far corner of the spacious conference room.
“Nick!” he hissed into the phone. “I thought the Creeper wiped you all out at Blue Lick Springs. I haven’t been able to get a hold of any one, including that damned computer.”
He listened intently for a few minutes, injecting an occasional grunt or silent nod.
“I see,” he said finally. “Look, I’m in a bit of hot water here. To quote Crow, Withers is after my scalp!”
He nodded again. “Good. Call me when you arrive. But watch your step. You’ve got more than the Creeper to worry about. The FBI is after you, too. You knew? Very good. No, no, I can still pull some strings around here if you need it. Yeah. Bye.”
“That wasn’t a certain fugitive from the law, now was it?” Withers asked suspiciously. “Because if it was, it helps build another case against you, and one that you and Director Anderson argued about the day of his murder. Aiding a fugitive.”
Rance refused to return to his seat. “I will have my day in court, gentlemen. Until that time, I have nothing more to say to you. Good morning.” He strode confidently from the room despite the excruciating pain in his legs.
He planned to gather the few loyal agents he had left to help Nick with the Creeper investigation. With every new detail that Nick dredged up, it became increasingly clear that Hollis Danforth was behind it all, beginning with his oversight of the Mortal Eclipse project. Now it was time to bring him down before he was elected President of the United States and became an untouchable.
The young enchantress who danced at the Dilly-Dally Inn undressed slowly and seductively in Senator Danforth’s hotel suite in Washington, DC. Her full breasts bobbed and her hips swayed as she danced to an unheard rhythm.
The naked senator reached out for her, and she melted into his stalwart arms. Immediately, her green eyes rolled to white, and the pink radiance in her cheeks faded. Her youthful complexion grew waxen and pallid, and her full breasts shriveled to wrinkled dugs. Like the others, she was dead, the life force drained from her nubile body from one physical contact with the senator.
He dropped her on the bed, rolled her onto her back, and had sex with her corpse. Moments later, he collapsed on the bed, satiated and breathing heavily against her cold, sallow flesh.
After he showered and dressed, he called in Peterson, his long-time servant, and ordered him to dispose of the woman’s body. The phone rang and Peterson hastily answered it, then handed it to his master.
“What!” he yelled. “Yes, I’ll get there as soon as possible. I have a campaign to run, you know, and that’s why I hired you to deal with trespassers.”
He slammed down the receiver and told Peterson that he’d be traveling to the island after his fundraiser that evening.
“Trouble, sir?” Peterson asked, alarmed.
“Some idiot penetrated the lab defenses and let that inferno blob loose.”
“But who? Even the witches know better than to visit the island.”
“I don’t know, but whoever it is will rue the day he was born!”
Withers met secretly with four experienced, highly paid mercenaries in a neighborhood bar in Falls Church. Their nondescript appearances made them perfect for the job. There were no distinguishing features that witnesses could describe to law enforcement agencies, thanks to the marvels of plastic surgery.
Withers laid out his plan for erasing Bellamy, and the others suggested minor modifications. It was after midnight when they disbanded with a solid, foolproof plan. Wither
s preferred it that way. He preferred living to the consequences of failure, and he’d have a lot of living to do as a filthy rich South American gentleman after Bellamy was dead.
He and the mercenaries would arrive separately in Duneden and await Bellamy’s arrival. Nick would be so focused on his foolish Creeper investigation that he would never see Withers and his mercenaries coming until it was too late.
He formed a gun with his thumb and index finger, pointed it at an imagined Nick Bellamy, and fired. Bamm! You’re dead. I’m rich.
He blew away unseen smoke from the end of his index finger as he walked to his car, a smile splitting his usually taciturn expression despite the heavy rainfall. Retirement was just around the corner.
“How sweet it is!” he whispered to himself. “Really sweet!”
Chapter 48
The eerie castle loomed like a Gothic apparition in the semi-darkness. Dozens of burning torches affixed to the towering stonewalls cast dancing specters in the pale, silver mist pervading the enormous cavern. Neo rubbed his weary eyes in disbelief.
Built into a grotto wall, the castle was an ancient nightmare casting a sinister pall with its lofty battlements, arched windows, massive stonework, and drawbridge. The medieval structure appeared deserted, as the only light emanated from torches affixed to three ramparts bounding the inner courtyard.
With a half-dozen steps remaining to reach the cavern floor, Neo sat and massaged his knotted leg muscles. He wasn’t certain how much more suffering he could endure. Rest was the only cure, but he knew from field experience that too many rest breaks would lessen his chances for escape. He propped his back against the cool, damp walls and stretched and kneaded his quads and hamstrings. The knots stubbornly refused to relax and sent sharp shooting pains screaming throughout his body with each massaging stroke.
He was on the edge of consciousness when a strange rumbling below snapped him to full-alert status. Crumbling and crunching preceded a brilliant crimson radiance up the tunnel behind him. It was mesmerizing, and he stared in fascination at its rapid approach and the imploding tunnel walls. Dust choked the tunnel as the ascending crimson light approached his position.
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