by Erik Carter
Wilson handed Dale his keys. “Don’t wreck my car, Agent Conley.” He narrowed his eyes.
“I’ll try not to, Agent Wilson.” He turned to Taft. “Sir, I need my own car delivered here by the time I get back.”
“Exactly why?”
“Since Camden Marshall is going to keep sending me after these riddles, I’m gonna need faster wheels. And I’ll need a chopper, too.”
Taft’s lips curled. “You little … Fine.” He stormed toward the exit.
“So I’ll you see you back at the Ashbury Motel?” Dale called out behind him.
“The Ashbury?” Taft spat, his hand on the doorknob. “I’m staying at the Stonewall Jackson.” He slammed the door.
Dale jingled Wilson’s keys. “Here goes nothing.”
“You know what, Conley?” Brown said. “Until you get that fancy car of yours, I think I can do you one better than Agent Wilson’s station wagon.”
The airplane shook all around Dale, and he clenched the seat. He’d never been airsick—he was, in fact, a great flier—but right now he felt like his lunch might resurface at any moment.
It was a small crop duster, and its best days were distant memories. Everything rattled and squeaked. When Dale looked out the window, he saw the wing was covered in patches of rust and shook violently each time it cut through a pocket of rough air.
To Dale’s left was the pilot, a portly good ol’ boy named Butch, who controlled the plane with short, jerky movements of the yoke. Dale was wearing cups, and Butch’s voice came through the speakers sounding all scratchy.
“Darn glad Carl was able to find me,” Butch said.
Sheriff Carl Brown was the kind of man who knew “a guy” for every situation. He’d called up his second cousin and set up the trip within a matter of minutes.
“I was just about to fly this thing out to Waynesboro to pick up my nephew.”
“Sorry to ruin your plans,” Dale said.
“Just glad to help. Any friend of Carl’s is a friend of mine.”
Dale rapped a knuckle on the dash. “What the hell is this thing?”
“Beaver.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She’s a U-6A Beaver. Old Army plane. This baby was in Nam.”
“Looks like she barely made it out alive.” The plane hit a pocket of turbulence and dropped a few feet. Dale was aware of his stomach once more. “How much longer we got?”
“Not long. Five minutes. Now hold on. Here’s where it gets dicey.”
Butch made a sudden, hard bank. Dale’s face smacked into the window.
Chapter 24
It was a damn weird building.
The tower was cylindrical and well over two hundred feet in height, the tallest building in Raleigh. Go to the rounded, razed top of a land that’s royal, plotted, and taken. The tower was perfectly round, but the top was flat. Razed. It was, of all things, a Holiday Inn. The Holiday Inns to which Dale was accustomed were of the two- to four-story persuasion with a sleazy lounge inhabited by tired-looking barflies.
The hotel staff had already let him check the roof. No Marshallites. The last time he stood at the bottom of a building trying to locate victims, he’d found a clue scratched into a stone. But he’d searched under every bush, looked around every tree and found nothing.
After walking the length of the parking lot, he crossed the road to a neighboring group of buildings to expand his search. He was getting desperate. Panic shivered through him. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to go to Raleigh after all.
Something moved in the alley. A piece of paper fluttered from the sky, hitting the ground a few feet away from him. It was an envelope. Written on the front, in the now familiar scratchy handwriting, was:
Dale glanced up.
On the fire escape above him, a man wearing a black hooded jacket was climbing upwards.
The Man in Black. They’d been following him.
Dale stuffed the envelope in the back pocket of his jeans and ran to the fire escape. He yanked on the ladder, and it clattered down, hitting the ground with a bang. He climbed and looked up. The Man in Black disappeared over the top of the building.
Dale’s boots dug into the metal rungs. His hands scrambled to pull him up. He reached the top and hoisted himself over the edge just in time to see something he didn’t expect.
On the opposite side of the roof, the man he was chasing jumped off the ledge.
The man flew across the gap between the building and the adjacent one. The other building was shorter, and it looked like the guy was going to make a giant red splat, but he rolled a time or two, absorbing the shock.
“Shit,” Dale said. He jogged to where the man had jumped and saw him running away across the roof of the next building.
Dale looked down. The ground, four stories below, shrank and wavered. He knew what he had to do, but he hated that he had to do it.
He raced back to the opposite side of the building. This was gonna take a running start. He took a deep breath.
The things he did to keep the world safe from psychotic riddlers …
Dale sprinted.
The edge of the building drew closer. He saw the foot-tall parapet around the edge of the building. For a split second, he thought of how rotten it would be if his foot got caught and he fell face first to the cement fifty feet below.
Each stride of his legs brought the empty void between the buildings nearer. It now looked more like a canyon than a three-yard gap.
The ledge was within feet. He tensed his thighs.
And leapt.
His legs treaded empty air, and his arms pumped in circles around his body, as though he could pull himself across the empty space. He sensed the ground so far below, and its presence seemed to pull him downward like a magnet. His tie flapped behind him. The other building loomed before him, all too distant, frozen in time and space.
But slowly he drifted over the edge of the new building. For a lingering instant, he hovered over his new surroundings. A door, gravel, some vents. Everything felt foreign, like the moment your flight lands and you adjust to the new surroundings.
Then there was the pain.
In Dale’s mind, he pictured himself landing like Dirty Harry, rolling a couple times and then casually hopping off the ground to continue his pursuit. But that’s not how it happened. His legs crumpled beneath him, as much by accident as by will. Throbbing pain burst in his right ankle, and the gravel on the rooftop tore into his palms.
The chaos ended. He skidded to a stop.
He planted his hands into the ground and turned himself right side up. The Man in Black was at the other side of the roof, standing on the parapet with his back turned to Dale just as the Marshallites had stood in Roanoke. Dale pulled out his gun.
“Freeze!”
The man didn’t respond. He slowly stuck his arms out to the side, forming a T-shaped pose. He remained like this.
“Turn around now!” Dale said. He tried to stand, but the pain in his ankle was too sharp. He slumped back onto his stomach.
The Man in Black leaned forward, slowly tipping over. He dropped off the building and out of sight.
Dale gasped. He pulled himself up. The pain in his twisted ankle shot up through his leg, and he hopped on one foot to the opposite side. He braced himself for the sight of a mangled body and a splash pattern of blood.
But when he looked down, he saw the Man in Black climbing out of a giant pile of cardboard boxes. The bastard had this planned the whole time. He sprinted over to a nearby pickup truck, got in, and sped away.
Dale watched, panting, as the truck drove off. He sat down on the roof and wiped the sweat from his brow. He touched his ankle. It was swelling up, but he could tell it wasn’t broken.
He took the envelope from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a piece of paper.
Dale loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and looked at his watch. 11:42. Earlier he’d been worried that he only had seven hours
. Now he had just over three.
For the second time, he felt a wave of panic. A cold sweat flushed over his body. He froze, not knowing what to do.
Go to the rounded, razed top of a land that’s royal, plotted, and taken.
Royal … king, queen, prince. Knights, like Sir Walter Raleigh. Plotted … planned, organized. Schemed? Or maybe the word was referencing plots as in holes. Burials. Could a plotted land be a graveyard?
Dale smacked his thigh in frustration, sending a surge of pain through his ankle. He was getting nowhere fast. He had to get back to Staunton. There was a chance of getting this thing solved with the people and resources back at the base of operations. But he was 200 miles from Staunton. What if he went that far just to find out that he’d backtracked? Given the scant time that remained, doing so could prove fatal for the Marshallites that were hidden at the end of this riddle.
Looking down from the roof, he spotted a filling station with a pay phone. He hobbled over to the fire escape and limped across the road to the phone. He deposited a dime, and a moment later the desk sergeant at the Augusta County Sheriff’s Office connected him to Wilson.
“Conley,” Wilson said. “What happened? Did you find them?”
“Dead end. I’m headed back to Staunton. Is my car there?”
“A time like this and you’re worried about your dang car?”
Dale gritted his teeth. Just like The Animals, he couldn’t stand being misunderstood. “I need a fast set of wheels. The clock’s ticking.”
“So what’s our next move when you get back?”
Dale paused. “I don’t know yet.” Honestly, he hadn’t the foggiest idea.
“I’m glad I got you on the phone. You need to find that pilot and get your butt back up here. She’s talking.”
“Who’s talking?”
“The girl from the village.”
Chapter 25
Dale was back in the girl’s hospital room. With him were Susan and Brian. The nurse looked askance at him with a simmering but timid glare. Dale knew he was running a risk by coming here. There were only two hours left. But he was up the proverbial creek with no paddle, and the girl was his only hope.
She was sitting up and looked quite alert. There was something about her visage now that was completely different than the last time he had seen her. Her eyes weren’t dead. She looked like a normal girl.
“You got her talking?” Dale said.
Brian lifted his chin. “Yes, we—”
“Quiet, you. I was asking the doctor.”
Brian’s mouth moved. Small sputtering noises came out but no words.
“She’s fully responsive,” Susan said. “She’s a little confused and very scared, but otherwise she’s acting like a perfectly normal girl in her situation.”
“What did you do?” Dale said.
“She gave her the sedation and rest that you and the sheriff didn’t think she needed,” Brian said. He’d been calculating his words. He said them like a scared freshman at a forensics tournament.
Dale took a step toward him. “How old are you?”
“My age isn’t—”
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
Dale turned to Susan. “And you?”
“Thirty-one.”
“He’s your younger brother and your nurse, yet you let him do all the talking?”
Susan looked away.
“Is it right?” Dale said. “What he said about the sedative and rest?”
“Yes,” she said. “If you’d just listened to us in the first place, it all would have worked out.”
“I need to—” Dale started to make a demand but quickly changed it to a request. “May I talk to the girl?
“That would be fine. But remember, she’s just a child. She’s been through a lot. Take it easy. And none of your usual clowning around.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dale saw Brian slip out the door. He kept himself from scoffing and turned to Susan. “Tell me, has she mentioned royalty? Anything about a king, queen?”
Susan gave him a baffled look and shook her head.
Dale knelt beside the bed. The girl looked at him. Those eyes that had at first looked so demented were now clear and blue, a pretty blue, the kind they put on cars. There were deep bags beneath the eyes, though.
“Hi, sweetheart. My name’s Dale. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”
The girl nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Caitlin.”
Dale put his hand on the bed rail. “Caitlin. That’s a pretty name.”
The girl smiled weakly.
“Do you know how you got here, Caitlin?”
She shook her head.
“Can you tell me about where you were living not too long ago, the Marshall Village?”
She nodded. “Kind of.”
“Kind of? What do you mean?”
She shrugged, twisted her blanket between her fingers. “I don’t remember much.”
Caitlin was eight years old. She had been in the village just a couple of days prior and had likely been there for a very long time. Dale looked at Susan. She mouthed, I don’t know.
“You don’t remember?” Dale said. “Weren’t you there for years?”
Caitlin nodded again.
“But you don’t remember that much?”
She shook her head.
“Can you tell me what it was like?”
She opened her mouth. The words came out slowly. “They made us do things we didn’t want to do.”
“How?”
She looked down at the blanket she was holding. “With words. The words made us do it.”
The way she said that … The way she clearly defined that words had controlled the Marshallites. Dale began to suspect something of the Marshall Village that he hadn’t yet. The implanting of subconscious thought. Waking suggestion.
Hypnosis.
“Who used the words?” he said.
“Father told us what to do, and the Man in Black used special words.”
Father would be Camden Marshall, and the Man in Black was his man on the outside, the man who’d just escaped in Raleigh.
“Was Father the king of the village?” Dale said.
Caitlin looked up from her blanket. She raised one of her little eyebrows.
“Did anyone ever talk about a king or a queen?” Dale continued.
“Yes. The Man in Black taught us about King Roosevelt.”
There it was. Roosevelt. Franklin Roosevelt.
Susan knelt beside him. “Who’s King Roosevelt?”
“FDR. When he instated the New Deal programs to put an end to the Great Depression, some people thought it was a godsend. But some thought he was overstepping his authority, becoming a tyrant, a monarch.” Dale took out the paper on which he’d written the latest riddle. He pointed to the last words—a land that’s royal, plotted, and taken. “One of the big New Deal projects is minutes away from here. Shenandoah National Park.”
“But Roosevelt didn’t take the park.”
“He most certainly did. By force, as a matter of fact,” Dale said. “The CCC carved the park out of the wilderness. The Civilian Conservation Corps. One of Roosevelt’s New Deal programs that put shovels in the hands of the unemployed. Only problem was, there were already people living on the land. Hundreds of people. Entire communities were forcibly removed from their homes.”
Dale was satisfied. A small smile came to his lips. But then he looked at the riddle again.
He was going to Shenandoah National Park. But where? The park covered more than 300 square miles.
“The rounded, razed top,” Dale said, pointing at the note. “That’s what’s throwing me off. The park is in the mountains, so the top has to be one of the peaks. They’re small mountains, so they’re all pretty much rounded. But razed? How can a mountain be razed?”
“It’s that one with the rocky peak,” Susan said sensibly.
Da
le paused. “You’re right. Old Rag Mountain. It’s one of the tallest in the park—or the top. And its summit is rocky, barren. Razed!”
He could have kissed her. But he didn’t. Which was good because her reaction to the hand he put on her shoulder was chilly enough. He quickly removed it.
And now he had to get his ass to Old Rag. The clock on the wall read 1:28. He had an hour and a half.
He stood up and looked at the girl. “I need to leave now. Get to feeling better, Caitlin.”
He put his hand to her cheek and smiled. As he quickly turned to leave, Caitlin grabbed his wrist. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.
“I don’t want to go back. I don’t like it there.”
Dale knelt down again. “I know, sweetie. You won’t ever have to go back there.”
“You’re here to stop them, aren’t you? That’s why you’re here, right?” She cried.
“Yes. You don’t need to worry about Father and the Man in Black ever again.”
Dale hugged her, and she sobbed on his shoulder. He looked at Susan. She reached out, and Dale gingerly transferred the girl into her arms.
He watched the two of them. Susan lifted her eyes to his. They glistened. She smiled painfully. Dale nodded at her.
Then bolted for the door.
Chapter 26
As the elevator doors opened, Dale pushed his way past the two nurses standing with him in the car, apologizing as he did so. He sprinted across the lobby toward the main entrance, where earlier he’d seen a line of pay phones.
Dale was kicking himself. He needed his car more than ever. As it was, he’d have to call the Sheriff’s Office to arrange transportation. He doubted that his helicopter had arrived yet. But if he had Arancia, there’d be no need for the chopper.
He put a dime in the phone, picked up the receiver, and was about to push the first button when he heard it. A rumbling. Very faint but still audible. It was coming from outside and far away, but the noise was so deep and resonant that he could hear it through the walls.
