The Otherworld

by Mercedes Lackey

  Horrified, Al watched her sweep up the dust into a shoebox and begin wiping down the plastic runner with a sponge.

  "We don't have a . . ." What was it called? Oh, yeah, "A mop. Didn't know you could do it that way."

  She paused, then looked up with a faint smile. "I can tell. Don't worry, I'm almost done. And I guarantee you won't be able to find a thing."

  "That's nice to know," Al said, uncertain of what exactly she meant. He realized that he was still fully clothed, either because he had been too exhausted to remove his garments the night before, or in his foggy state he was too modest around Cindy to get comfortable. He'd even left the track cap on, with his hair pulled back into a thick ponytail, so as to better hide his ears. Good. Saves me the trouble of getting dressed. He glanced out the little side window at the white van that was his elvensteed, and reached with his mind to the sleeping human within. Bob wasn't sleeping; in fact, he wasn't even there. Must be off doing something.

  He sat up and regarded his small—but now spotless—home. The sink and stove had been cleaned, as had the microwave and refrigerator. These items were now new colors, ones he didn't recognize. Even the cabinets had been wiped clean. He was suddenly ashamed that this human had had to stay here without the usual concealing spells that made its squalor into splendor.

  She deserved better. He began moving the foam-block cushions to make the bed back into a breakfast table, pondering the changes in the RV, and the more unnerving ones deep in himself.

  Something was missing, but in this unnatural state of cleanliness, he didn't know what. It was all so . . . different.

  My clothes! he realized, in panic, remembering the crumpled, smelly pile of fabric that was developing a life of its own, a fixture that was moved from one location to another without ever really being dealt with. What did she do with them?

  "Bob is at the laundromat," she said, as if reading his mind. "I had to show him where it was."

  Which answered two questions. "It is sort of hard to find," Al said, wondering where it was himself.

  She eyed him strangely, then said, "Would you like me to make coffee?"

  Caffeine! Blessed Danaa, no. . . .

  "Uh, no thanks, Cindy. I don't drink coffee." Or anything else with caffeine. "Hard on my stomach. I'm—uh—allergic to it. To caffeine. Badly." Al checked his wristwatch. Ten-thirty. "It's early. And it looks like you've got a lot done. Why don't you take a break?"

  "I think I will. Oh, I wanted to ask you. Where did that white van come from?"

  Al feigned nonchalance. "Oh, that's ours. The crew's. It kind of gets traded around," he said, hoping she believed him. I meant to have that changed back to the Miata before anyone got up, he thought, and hoped that Bob told her the same, if not a similar, story.

  Cindy dropped into the tiny booth the bed had become. Al opened a Gatorade, his standard breakfast fare. "How do you feel?"

  "Much better. Since it was cool this morning, I went ahead and opened the windows. The cleaners, and all." Al nodded; it was still an uncomfortably strong scent. Guess that's what clean smells like. "Thank you for letting me stay here. Hope you don't mind the cleanup."

  "Oh, not at all. I'm glad you did. Forgot what the place really looked like."

  Bob came into the narrow door, first shoving in a huge laundry bag that Al was distantly aware of owning. It was stuffed to its maximum capacity with, he assumed, clean clothes. A rare treat. It caught in the doorway, and with a visible effort Bob wedged it through.

  "Just set it up there," Al said, indicating the now vacated loft. "We have things to do today."

  Bob looked around at the RV and the sparkling results of Cindy's work. "Jesus," he said, and sat. "You've been busy. I've been asking around about your boy, Cindy. Nobody here knows anything. Might be they've never been here."

  Cindy looked down, to hide the sudden surge of despair. Al felt it anyway. "Oh well. It was worth a try," she replied, sounding defeated. "I don't know what else to do now."

  "Have you called the sheriff's office?" Bob asked.

  "I've talked to the Tulsa police. There wasn't much they could do about it. Then I called the Tulsa County sheriff's office, and they were sympathetic, but not much help either."

  "Eyah," Bob said. "But we happen to be in Pawnee county here. What you say we give 'em a call? If those nutsos that your ex is involved with set up shop around here, you can bet the Sheriff will know it. And in a place this small, everybody knows everybody else. A new man in town with a small boy is likely to get noticed."

  Al finished his Gatorade and all three trooped to the pay telephones to call the Pawnee County Sheriff's office. Bob gave Al a nod and a significant look; Al shrugged and stood aside to let Bob make the call.

  "Well, I think we might be in luck," Bob said, hanging up the phone. He had spoken for several minutes in a hushed monotone that was hard to listen to. The one-sided conversation shed little light on what the person on the other side was saying. "Deputy named Frank knows about some kind of whacked-out religious cult in this area. Actually, it's closer to Pawnee than Hallet, from what Frank says. He wants to talk to us."

  "Well, then," Alinor said. "Let's go."

  "In what? The Miata's only a two-seater," Bob said.

  Al gave him the hairy eyeball, cleared his throat loudly, and continued. "The crew gave us the van. Remember?"

  "Oh, yes. The van," he responded, while Al wondered what he had told Cindy about the elvensteed and the mysteriously appearing and disappearing van.

  But at the moment, Cindy didn't seem to notice the awkward exchange, or care. She had a gleam in her eye, excitement that could only be a glimmer of hope.

  * * *

  Pawnee was a tiny little burg nestled among the rolling hills of Northeast Oklahoma, similar to a dozen other towns that Bob and Al had passed through on their trip to Hallet. Pawnee itself was built on a series of hills, giving it an uneven, tilted look. It looked old, and for Oklahoma, which had been granted statehood in 1907, that meant sometime early this century. The dates on the masonry of some of the buildings confirmed this: 1911, 1922, 1923. City Hall was behind an elaborate storefront, on a red brick street unevened with time. Across a street-wide gulf of time and technology was a Chevy-Geo dealership, displaying the latest Storms and Metros in the same showroom window that once must have hawked carriages, Model T's, and Woodies.

  Al had a definite feeling of déjà vu, thinking maybe he had been here before, in his youth, when horses and sprung carriages were just starting to replace horses and buckboards. Even in modern times the town maintained a tranquil, relaxed atmosphere.

  They passed a Texaco, a mom and pop steakhouse, a tag office, a Masonic temple and assorted city blocks of ancient brick structures that had no obvious function, their windows boarded or bricked over. Pickup trucks and enormous cars from the sixties and seventies seemed to be the preferred mode of transportation here. Townfolk strolled the sidewalks, casting annoyed or disdainful looks at the few hopped-up teenmobiles haunting the streets. Lunchtime, Al noted, thinking there was probably a high school nearby.

  In the center of Pawnee was a grassy knoll, surrounded on three sides by brick streets; Al had forgotten such anachronisms still existed. The seat of Pawnee County government sat atop the knoll, guarded by a large piece of artillery, a museum piece forever enshrined on the front lawn. Behind this stood a WWI memorial, a statue of a soldier with flowers spelling "PAWNEE" at its feet. The courthouse was a three-story brick building, surrounded by a few cedar and oak trees. Carved in stone, across the top of the structure, were the words: PAWNEE COUNTY COURTHOUSE.

  As they approached, Al could see a single car in the parking lot, with the traditional silver star of authority painted proudly on its side.

  "This is it for the whole county?" Bob exclaimed as they climbed out of the van. "Doesn't seem like much."

  "Pawnee County is not highly populated," Al reminded him, then jibed, "I thought you didn't like metro areas."

  "I don'
t. I just expected more, is all."

  Cindy held her purse closer, as if it were a teddy bear. Then she checked to be sure the photo of Jamie was still inside. "I don't care if it's a shack, as long as they can help me find my son. Is the sheriff's office in there?"

  "Should be. That's where the car is. Let's have a look."

  The courthouse smelled old; smelled of dust, layer upon layer of ancient floorwax, more layers of woodpolish, of old papers stuffed away in boxes and forgotten, and of heat-baked stone. There was no air-conditioning in the central part of the building. The floor was hand-laid terrazzo, cheap and popular in the thirties, and worth a small fortune today. In the hallway, handpainted signs hung over battered, wooden doors, thick with brown paint applied over the years. There was not a person in sight in the overpowering silence. Al began to wonder if they were in the right place.

  "Is there anyone here?" Cindy said, as they walked uncertainly down the hallway. "No people."

  "This is it. Look," Bob said, going towards a sign that said "SHERIFF'S OFFICE," with an arrow pointing down. They took a short flight of stairs to the courthouse basement, and found the Pawnee County Sheriff's office behind a glass door.

  Again, the place seemed to be staffed by ghosts. They looked over a receptionist's counter into a well-furnished office. The walls were half-faded government-blue and half-wood paneling. Then, from an adjacent office, a chair squeaked, and a deputy appeared.

  "Yes? Can I help you?" the young man said. "Are you . . ."

  "We called a half an hour ago," Bob said.

  "You must be Cindy Chase, then," he said to Cindy. "Please come in. I'm Frank Casey, I hope I can help you."

  Frank was exactly what a deputy in Oklahoma should look like, Al decided. He was sizable, with short, coal-black hair, dark skin, high cheekbones. He was without a doubt part Native American, a large man who barely cleared the doorway to his office. He wore a dark brown uniform with tan pants, and had a deep, booming voice that commanded immediate attention. He moved slowly, as if through water, and had a gaze that suggested he was drowsy. But Al saw he was anything but dim; his eyes shone with subdued intelligence, an intensity that seemed appropriate for anyone in a position of authority. He was capable, and concerned about Cindy. Al decided that he was an ally.

  Frank pushed open a creaking brass-trimmed door and led them to his office. Three ancient varnished-oak folding chairs had been set up, apparently in preparation for their visit, in front of a pressboard computer desk with a gleaming-white IBM PC sitting incongruously atop it.

  "Have you filled out one of these?" Frank asked right away, shoving a piece of paper across the desk to Cindy, a form for a "runaway or missing person report."

  She nodded without taking it. "In Atlanta, and again in Tulsa. Last time they said it was already in the computer."

  "Good," Frank said, sitting at the computer. "That will save time. Lets see what the NCIC has to say about it."

  "NCIC?" Al asked.

  "National Crime Information Center." Frank tapped away, and soon a menu filled the screen. "If you filled out a report in Atlanta, then it was entered there. This will tell us if anything else has developed lately that you don't know about yet."

  After a few moments he frowned and said, "James Chase, Jr. Kidnaped from school by one James Byron Chase, your husband—"

  "Ex-husband," Cindy quickly interrupted.

  "And last seen in Tulsa, a week ago. Hmm. And now you think he's in Pawnee County?"

  "I thought he might have been at Hallet. You know, the races. They're big car fans, the both of them. . . ."

  "Tell me about it," Frank said calmly. "Tell me the whole story. From the first time you thought something was wrong. There might be something there I can use to help you, and we've got time."

  Al paid no attention to the words; this time he narrowed his eyes as he tried to sort out the feelings involved. As Cindy told the deputy about the changes in her husband, Al had the feeling she was somehow trying to justify the search for her son, emphasizing that James Chase was no longer the man she married, that he had become a monster and was nothing like the caring, giving father of her son that she knew. Almost . . . apologetic. For as many years as those two had been married, there must have been some kind of ongoing emotional abuse for her to feel so responsible about the situation. Emotional abuse results in emotional damage. Great Danaa, look at Bob when we rescued him. Gundar thought he was autistic until he peeked out from under that thick, defensive shell.

  When she got to the part about the Chosen Ones, Frank became visibly more alert. "After that first meeting I knew I had to get Jamie to a shelter, but I was too afraid to do anything. Then, after James dragged him off the second time, he came home in hysterics. Something happened—I still don't know what. But it was the last straw."

  Frank's eyes burned with an intensity that made Al think of the Lakota warriors he had known so many years ago. "I see. And the leader of this cult, what was his name?"

  Cindy bit her lip. "Brother something. Brother Joseph, I think it was. Totally nuts."

  Frank calmly got up and went to a file cabinet. When he returned he held a thick file, and opened it out on his desk. He handed Cindy a glossy photograph from a stack of others. "Is this the man?"

  Cindy stifled a gasp as she looked at the picture, holding it by the edges as if it were tinged with poison. "That's him, all right," she said, half in fear and half in anger. "Those eyes. I could never forget them."

  "Then it is true. More evidence. Another angle to this mess."

  "What mess?" Al asked.

  "This cult," Frank said, speaking the word as if it tasted vile. "They've set up shop right here in our county. There's hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. For the past three years they've been building this damned thing right under our noses and we never knew about it until recently. Here. Look at these."

  Frank handed her what looked like an aerial photograph. Bob and Al, sitting on either side, leaned in closer for a look.

  "What am I looking at?" Bob asked.

  "We asked the State Highway police to fly in and take some pictures a few months back." Frank's eyes continued to smolder, and Al sensed a deep and abiding anger behind the calm facade. "The construction you see there is pretty much done by now. But there you can see the equipment in use. From what I can see from these, and it's not much, it looks like they're digging bunkers for World War III."

  "That would make sense," she said thoughtfully. "I remember something from that sermon, or whatever it was, about an invasion that was going to happen any time now."

  Frank raised one eyebrow. "From any particular direction? Any special enemies?"

  Cindy shook her head tiredly. "The Soviets, the Jews, the blacks, the gays, the Satanists, pick a group—any or all together. They didn't seem to differentiate one from the other. But from the sounds of that bunch, I don't think it would matter. He could say hairdressers or Eskimos and they'd still believe him."

  Frank sat back in his chair and fingered one corner of the file folder. "We've tried to get a search warrant to kind of check things out. No luck. They have a tight-assed lawyer—pardon my language, ma'am—who has filed injunction after injunction, blocking the warrants. The judge has no choice but to grant them. We don't have enough evidence. The lawyer, as crazy as he is, knows his business. Especially the loopholes in our legal system. You'd think he wrote 'em, he knows them so well."

  "What about building codes?" Bob asked. "Those bunkers look a little questionable."

  "That's the sad part about it," Frank said. "That part of the county is unincorporated, so there aren't a lot of permits you have to get. We already cleared them, including the Environmental Impact Assessment, years ago, without really checking it out. The inspector in charge back then has since retired, when we found out he had serious problems of a nature I'm not at liberty to discuss. We even have the blueprints to the place they filed when they applied for the permits. It looks like they built more than originally de
clared, but it's all underground, and we can't tell from outside. And we can't get a warrant to go in."

  "Can we see the—blueprints?" Al asked, though he wasn't sure what a blueprint was.

  "Nothing much to see," Frank said. The blueprints were in a desk drawer, and he spread them out over the open file.

  "All this here, and here, looks like living quarters. The area isn't zoned so we couldn't get them on zoning violations. The rest, I don't know. But it's legit. All of it. At least everything they actually filed for." He folded the blueprints up and returned them to his drawer. "After they scared the EPA guy off with a squad of six armed bald goons following him around, nobody wants to go in and inspect. And there's nothing leaking into the aquifer or spilling into the creek, so we can't go in there on that excuse."

  "They had guns. Lots of guns. What do your laws say about that?" Cindy asked.

  "They're legal, on private property. To own and to discharge. They're not within any city limits. They're their own city. Unincorporated, of course, but a city nonetheless. And if they ever incorporate—they can make their own laws."

  "Even machine guns are legal?"

  Frank gazed at Cindy a long moment. "Are you referring to assault weapons?"

  "I guess," she said doubtfully. Frank got to his feet, amazingly agile for such a big man.

  "I'll be back in a minute," he said.

  While Frank was gone Al leaned forward and glanced through the file. On top was a map, crudely drawn, which seemed to be of the cult's hideout in relation to the land and roads around it. He leaned back in his seat before Frank returned.

  "Did they look anything like this?" Frank said, brandishing a fierce-looking rifle. "It's a Colt AR-15. If they have too many of these I'll be most displeased."

  "Well, they had some of those." She frowned. "But there were other kinds, too. Can I have something to write with?"

  "Here's a pad," Frank said, shoving a notepad and pencil across the desk to her. "Can you draw what you saw?"

  She was already sketching. Frank stowed the assault rifle and returned; she gave him the rudimentary drawing of a weapon.