by Ronald Kelly
"What's wrong?" asked Jenny as she climbed the steps of the porch. "What's happened?"
Miss Mable simply stared at her, speechless for the first time in a very long time. She shook her head and sat in one of the porch rockers, looking as if she was on the verge of tears.
Alice took Jenny and Glen aside. "There was a massacre at the beer joint near the county line tonight, at that place called Rebel's Roost. Twelve men were brutally killed. Some were shot and a few were literally ripped apart." She paused, as if trying to convince herself what the state trooper had told her and Miss Mable was actually true. "Homer Peck was one of the victims. He died…horribly."
"That's terrible," said Jenny. "Has Gart found out who did it yet?"
A long silence stretched between them. Then Miss Mable spoke up. "Gart is missing."
"What?"
"We saw both Homer and Gart leave in the patrol car around ten o'clock heading south," informed Alice. "So far, there's been no sign of the sheriff." She stared out into the night and Jenny noticed tears forming in her eyes also. "And no one has found a sign of Rowdy either."
"Rowdy?" asked Glen. "What does Rowdy have to do with all this?"
"He went to Rebel's Roost to have a couple of beers and shoot some pool," said the professor. "They found his hat lying on a barroom table, but he wasn't among the dead." She turned away, hiding the fear in her eyes. "I wanted to go with him tonight, but he wouldn't let me. He said it was no place to take a real lady."
Alice went over and sat next to Miss Mable. She took the old woman's hand, offering comfort and, in turn, getting some herself. Jenny looked at them and saw two very frightened women, worried about the safety of two men they cared for very much. She wondered if she would feel the same sense of alarm if Glen were to turn up missing, and knew immediately that, yes, she would. She moved closer to the bearded storekeeper, glad that he was here with her now, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body next to hers. As if in answer, Glen slipped his arm around her shoulders. The simple gesture of support made her realize that he felt as deeply about her as she did him.
"Those killings at the Roost were connected with all the craziness that's been going on up on PaleDoveMountain," Miss Mable told them.
"Why do you think that?" asked Glen.
"'Cause the one responsible left another message," she said grimly. And it was the final word on the subject, too. The trooper told us what it said…LAST WARNING!"
"So it's started already," breathed Jenny.
"What did you say?" Glen asked. His concern returned as he felt the woman shiver against him.
Jenny didn't answer. There was no need to. Everyone would know soon enough. She knew what kind of man Jackson Dellhart was. He was the kind of man who saw last warnings as challenges to be conquered. Jenny knew that it would only be a matter of time before the self-centered commander of the Eco-Plenty Corporation declared unconditional war on Lance LaBlanc and the race of passive albinos. He would not hesitate to use his wealth and corrupt power to put an end to them, as he had most certainly put an end to her poor father.
There was only one force that could ensure the survival of PaleDoveMountain. A single, relentless force that would stop at nothing to assure its ultimate safety.
And that force was known as the Dark'Un.
PART THREE
DARK FURY
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was six o'clock in the morning when a tall man in a black commando sweater and dark fatigue pants marched through the doorway of Jackson Dellhart's office.
He was an impressive figure of a man — six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds, with sharp gray eyes and a military crew cut. He would have been strikingly handsome if it hadn't been for the mass of ugly scar tissue that dominated the left side of his face and neck, from temple to collarbone. There were other scars also, tattooing his flesh like permanent medals of valor. A deep slash creased his forehead over the right eye — a souvenir from a nasty knife fight in a Saigon whorehouse — and a circular wound dimpled each cheek of his sturdy jawline where a 7.62mm round from a AK-47 had punched through one side of his face and out the other.
"I'm here," he said sternly. He walked to the leather chair in front of Dellhart's desk and sat down, ignoring the man's extended hand. "So what's the current situation?"
"It might be best to show you what we're up against," said Jackson Dellhart. He took a number of photographs from a manila envelope and pushed them across the desk at the big man. They were shots of the massacre at Rebel's Roost only seven hours before. Most were of gunshot and mutilated men lying in pools of blood. One was of Deputy Homer Lee Peck crucified on the barroom wall, his wrists and ankles impaled with bayonets and sabers. The last one was of a message spelled out in human entrails…a warning that read LAST WARNING!
The scarred man studied the photos, then handed them back. His stony expression hadn't faltered a fraction since the moment he had walked in. "You have a real psychopath on your hands, Dellhart."
"That's why I hired you and your men three days ago, Colonel," said the corporate head. "I was hoping that Mr. Russ and his redneck muscle might be able to handle the situation, but they failed to do so. Now it's your turn."
Vincent Russ sat in a chair to the side of Dellhart's desk, eyeing the man in the black uniform suspiciously. "Would you mind telling me exactly who this gentleman is?" he asked his superior. "Or is he another one of your secret employees?" There was a hard edge of bitter sarcasm in Russ's voice. He was more than a little angry at Dellhart that morning. First of all, he had been awakened at 1 A.M. by a state trooper who had personally delivered the news of the tavern massacre, as well as the envelope of gruesome photos. And now here was a battle-scarred warhorse that had been hired several days before. Russ was getting damn tired of trying to do his job while Dellhart's hired flunkies lurked in the shadows, completely without his knowledge.
Dellhart turned and regarded his assistant with a thin smile. "This is Frag Hendrix, retired Special Forces colonel and full-time mercenary. I hired him and his team to resolve our little problem on PaleDoveMountain, since you're obviously impotent about getting the job done." He turned his attention back to Hendrix.
"We need to strike as soon as possible. When can you and your men be ready to move out?"
"We can be in the air within six hours," Frag told him. "I've rented a small farm twenty miles southwest of the objective and turned it into a temporary base of operation. I have a crack team of forty commandos on standby there, awaiting my orders. We also have a squadron of seven helicopters that are prepared to move out at a moment's notice. Four are Bell transports for the deployment of forces, while the other three are Huey Cobras armed with electric Gatlings and cluster missiles."
"The heavy artillery is only to be used to discourage interfering parties," Dellhart told him flatly. "We don't have to worry about the local law; it's nonexistent now. But the state police are still a potential threat. The one in charge of the investigation of last night's massacre is under my control, but the main man, Captain Nickles, could cause some problems when he arrives on the scene. What we need to do is rush in and secure the mountain swiftly, before anyone gets wind of what is taking place there."
"We can do that," Frag Hendrix assured him.
Jackson Dellhart got up and walked to the window of his corporate office. Dawn bloomed over the eastern horizon. The sunlight of a new day glistened on the broad channel of the Mississippi River. "Your objective is to take control of PaleDoveMountain, no matter what type of resistance you might encounter," he told the colonel. "I want every living thing in the vicinity terminated, be it man or animal. And I especially want the bastard that's been causing all the trouble. That is your main task…to search out the one who has been leaving those damned warnings and destroy him."
"No problem," agreed Hendrix. He stood up and checked his diver's watch. "We'll be launching our offensive at noon sharp. I'll inform you the moment we have the mountain secured.
"
"That won't be necessary," said Jackson Dellhart, turning from the window. "Because I intend on being there in person, to supervise the operation myself."
The mercenary's eyes narrowed slightly at that. "I wouldn't advise that. Your presence there will only cause confusion. It would be better if you'd let us handle the strike."
"No," Dellhart said firmly. "This conflict with Project Pale Dove has become intolerable to me. I'm tired of staying out of the picture. Rest assured, Colonel, you will have command of your men as usual. But I intend to call the shots. After the amount of trouble this particular investment has drawn, I want to personally see that this incident is settled, once and for all."
Frag Hendrix didn't look too thrilled over Dellhart's decision. "Very well," he finally said. "I've got a chopper waiting on the roof. But we've got to leave within the next hour if we're going to make our plans and attack at noon."
"I'll be ready," said Dellhart. He smiled at his right-hand man as he started toward his private elevator. "And so will Mr. Russ."
Russ looked up in surprise. "Me? Why do you want to drag me along? I'd only get in the way."
"True, you have proven to be dead weight to me recently, but I still want you there when we take PaleDoveMountain by storm. I want you to see how it feels to experience victory, rather than constant defeat." Then he stepped into the narrow cubicle and pushed the button for his penthouse apartment.
When the elevator door had closed, Frag Hendrix shook his head and chuckled. "Once an asshole, always an asshole."
"You knew Dellhart before he hired you for this job?" asked Russ.
"Yes," replied the mercenary. "We served in Vietnam together. Our association was a brief one, however. We went through the same boot camp and took the same flight overseas, but the day that our unit was about to head into the field, Dellhart was suddenly transferred to permanent assignment in Saigon. He spent his entire tour of duty in a nice, cushy office job, while me and the others humped the boonies, risking our tails for the sake of Southeast Asian democracy. I went through Airborne training and signed up for two more tours, while Dellhart took his leave and went back to the life he had been groomed for. I later heard that his father had bribed a congressman to keep his golden boy out of the danger zone."
"I'm not the least bit surprised," Russ replied. "But why are you working for the guy if you hate his guts?"
Hendrix walked to the tall windows and stared out at the first stirrings of the Southern city. "It's purely business on my part. True, I wouldn't mind slicing up his kidneys with my KA-BAR…but he is paying me and the boys a helluva lot of money to do this job for him. And it sounds like a fairly simple one, too."
"I wouldn't underestimate whatever's hiding up there on that mountaintop, if I were you. A lot of men have said the same thing…and they ended up dead."
"Yes, but they weren't professional bad-asses like me and my team," Frag said with a grim smile.
Macho jerk, thought Russ as he settled back in his chair. He didn't relish the thought of being stuck on that Tennessee mountain with a battalion of trigger-happy Rambo types toting automatic weapons. He also didn't like the thought of being up there with Jackson Dellhart. He wondered exactly why Dellhart wanted to drag him along on the assault, if he was as much a screw-up as his boss considered him to be. The only answer he could come up with was that Dellhart had plans for him during the chaos of the attack. Maybe he intended to get rid of him the same way he had gotten rid of Gart Mayo. Maybe during the shooting, he might end up accidently catching a stray bullet…from one of Frag's men or, possibly, from Dellhart himself.
He smiled slyly and thought of the Browning 9mm he would be carrying with him, just in case. Despite what his boss thought of him, Vincent Russ was no fool. His loyalty to Jackson Dellhart had hit rock bottom during the course of Project Pale Dove and he was growing tired of being constantly berated for his failures. Russ had grown up on the streets; he was little more than a crafty con man, but he was a good one. Therefore, Russ had kept a few bits of key information from his superior. He had neglected to tell Dellhart about Jenny Brice's offer of a few days before or the buckets of gold in the trunk of her car…gold that most likely had come from somewhere on Pale Dove Mountain.
If he had to turn traitor to save his own hide, then so be it. And maybe, if he played his cards right, he might end up an extremely rich man in the process.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lieutenant Frank Ashton was sitting in the sheriff's office of the PeremontCounty jail, drinking strong black coffee to keep him awake and making some important calls, when Officer Hal Olsen poked his head through the door. "Lieutenant, there's a lady here who wants to talk to you."
Ashton stretched and left the desk to get himself another cup from the coffee maker. "Does it have anything to do with this case?"
"Yes, sir. She says it concerns the sheriff."
The lieutenant sat back down and nodded. "All right, send her in."
Olsen ushered a short, elderly woman into the office. She was casually dressed—white blouse, lavender slacks, and a dark violet sweater. She carried a black pocketbook that looked large enough to hold a bowling ball. "Are you the fella in charge?" she asked, looking him over thoroughly.
"Yes, ma'am, I'm Lieutenant Ashton. I'm heading the investigation."
She didn't seem impressed. "Where's Joe Nickles? Shouldn't he be here?"
"Captain Nickles is attending a law enforcement convention in Atlanta this weekend, but he has been notified of the situation here in Tucker's Mill. He should be arriving sometime this afternoon. Until then, is there anything I can do for you?"
"My name is Mable Compton," said the old woman. "I'm a good friend of Gartrell Mayo and Rowdy Hawkens, and I just came over to find out what you are doing about finding them."
"Well so far, Miss Compton, we haven't had time to do much of anything," admitted Ashton. "We've had our hands full with that godawful mess over at the tavern. I only have eight men under my command at this time and they've been busy sorting things out at Rebel's Roost. A couple of my men have searched the general area around the tavern for Mayo and Hawkens, but they haven't discovered any sign of them yet."
"That's because they're looking in the wrong place," said Miss Mable.
"And where would you have them look?"
"PaleDoveMountain. That's where they're likely to be."
Ashton regarded her wearily. "And why do you think that, ma'am? I know there's been some trouble up there recently, but we haven't found anything at the crime scene to suggest any connection with PaleDoveMountain."
"Then you're as blind as a damned bat!" proclaimed Miss Mable. "Don't you think the killings at the Roost look an awful lot like the slaughter of Anthony Stoogeone and his brothers? And what about all those disappearances on the mountain lately? I tell you, there's something up there that's responsible for all this ruckus."
"And what would that be, Miss Compton?"
Miss Mable caught herself before she blurted out her true opinion on the subject. If she started spouting nonsense about the Dark'Un, they would figure her to be a senile old biddy, and that wouldn't get her the results she was seeking. "I don't rightly know. But somebody up there is at the root of all these killings and disappearances. That's why I think you oughta send some troopers up there to look around."
"Like I said before, I'm extremely short-handed here. I couldn't possibly spare the manpower right now. Besides, I personally don't have the authority to launch a full-scale search of PaleDoveMountain. But I assure you, Miss Compton, I'll certainly take up the matter with Captain Nickles when he arrives."
Miss Mable sat there studying the man for a long moment. Then she stood up and offered a warm smile. "Well, I do appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Lieutenant Ashton."
"Yes, ma'am," said Ashton. "And try not to worry. We've found no evidence that either Mayo or Hawkens are victims of foul play. It is a mystery, but one that I'm sure we'll be able to clear u
p during the course of the day."
"Well, I'll let you get back to your work," said Miss Mable. "Oh, do you mind if I use the restroom for a moment?"
"No, go right ahead."
"Thank you." Miss Mable left the office and crossed the squad room to a rear hallway. She acted as though she was heading for the single bathroom at the end of the corridor, but stopped next to a side door when she saw that none of the other troopers were looking her way. She quickly produced a ring of spare keys she had found in Gart's bedroom earlier that morning. She tried several keys before finding the one that fit the lock. Then she ducked inside and closed the door of the evidence room behind her.
Miss Mable's encounter with Frank Ashton had put an itch of suspicion in her mind. It had started when his eyes had narrowed a bit at the mention of PaleDoveMountain, as if she had brought up something that he already had on his mind. His denials of having the men or authority to launch a search only strengthened her mistrust of the lieutenant. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she had an uneasy feeling that Ashton was somehow in cahoots with Eco-Plenty, just like Baldwin and Jergens. Whether he was involved with the corporation or not, Ashton seemed reluctant to check out PaleDoveMountain, at least until Nickles arrived from Atlanta. And that didn't suit Miss Mable one bit.
If they knew what I had in mind, they'd lock me up for sure, she thought as she went to a tall steel cabinet at the far side of the little room. She found the right key and unlocked it. On the second shelf lay two tagged items. One was Stoogeone's .357 revolver, while the other was the MAC-10 machine pistol. She quickly stashed both firearms into the depths of her massive purse. She found ammunition for the guns in a separate drawer and took it also. Then she relocked the cabinet and left the evidence room without anyone ever knowing that she had been there.
