Dream of a Falling Eagle m-14

by George C. Chesbro

  "Just talk to her in John Wayne and you'll be fine! Now get on the fucking horse! Remember what I told you about posting!"

  "You're on, Pilgrim!" Garth shouted as he put a foot in a stirrup, and lunged up and onto the back of his horse.

  I immediately dug my heels into my horse's side, and the animal responded, lurching forward as I ducked under a limb, heading through the trees. I rode a hundred yards, then sensed something was wrong. I reined in the horse, turned to look back, and knew we were going to have a problem.

  In my years with the circus I had ridden on the backs of everything from Bengal tigers to Asian elephants, so, even under these conditions, riding a well-trained horse in a well-fitted saddle was a walk in the park, in a manner of speaking. Not so with my brother, who wasn't used to riding anything that didn't come with four wheels and a motor. He had barely gone ten feet. His horse, sensing the nervousness and lack of confidence of a novice rider, was now even more panicked. He was rearing, bucking, and corkscrewing, and threatening to throw off Garth, who had dropped the reins and had his arms wrapped around the horse's neck, at any moment. In addition, the backwash from the helicopter's rotors was surrounding us in a storm of debris that was not only blinding but could also literally put out an eye. We could not go back the way we had come. When we had ridden in during the day, I had noticed dried-out stream beds leading down the other side of the mountain to a broad, forested valley, and other mountains in the distance where there appeared to be narrow canyons and washes where it would be difficult for the helicopter to maneuver. If we were going to escape, that was where we would have to go. I wheeled my horse around, rode back.

  "Change of plans!" I shouted as I grabbed the reins of Garth's horse and brought the animal under control. "Just hang on to the pommel with both hands! We're going down the other side of the mountain! When we head down, let go of the pommel, grab the edges of the saddle, and lean back as far as you can! The horse will take care of the rest!"

  Garth released his grip on the horse's neck and grabbed the saddle pommel. Gripping the reins of my horse with one hand and the reins of Garth's horse with the other, I urged my mount forward, out of the trees and onto the bare ground of the mountain's crest. There were perhaps three hundred and fifty yards of open ground to cover before we reached what I remembered to be a reasonably negotiable slope down the other side, and now I spurred my horse forward at a full gallop. The helicopter followed directly overhead, one searchlight turned downward and bathing us in a moving pool of bright white light. I wouldn't hear the report of a gun over the deafening roar of the helicopter rotors, but I cringed as I expected at any moment to feel a bullet ripping into my back. It didn't come, perhaps because the angle was bad, or the pilot figured he had plenty of time to run us down and give his gunner a better shot. We reached the spot I had been riding for, a rocky but negotiable dry wash that had been carved out by spring water.

  I couldn't control my mount and lead Garth's at the same time, and it would have been dangerous for his horse if I tried to do so. I pulled the second horse after me over the crest and into the wash until it had reached a point of no return, then flung away the reins and shouted over my shoulder, "Here we go, Duke! Lean way back and hang on!"

  I relaxed my horse's reins and leaned back, posting in the stirrups and letting my mount pick its way between and over rocks and hard-baked rills. We were over a quarter of the way down the mountainside, still with no shots being fired, when I began to think we actually might make it to the cover of a copse of trees a hundred yards further down, where we would be shielded from view and the decline was less steep. Then I sensed, rather than heard, Garth's horse stumble and go down, and my brother soared, none too elegantly, over my head and landed on his back in a clump of thorn bushes growing out of the right wall of the wash. His horse recovered, shot past me, and disappeared into the trees below.

  I reined in my horse, jumped to the ground, and scrambled up the bank of the wash to the clump of thorn bushes where Garth, dazed and struggling feebly, was entangled. I drew my Beretta and fired blindly at the white light and roaring cascade of sound above my head, groping through the cloud of dust thrown up until my fingers wrapped around Garth's shirt. Still firing my gun overhead, I pulled with the other hand, trying to help Garth out of the bushes.

  "Mongo, get out!"

  "You get out of the fucking bushes! Come on!"

  "I'm stuck! It's important that one of us get away from here! Go!"

  "It's important to me that both of us get away from here! Come on, goddamn it!"

  I emptied my gun and stuck it back into my shoulder holster, then worked my way deeper into the thick vegetation. I grabbed Garth's shirt front with both hands, dug my heels into the rocky soil, and tugged. Finally he broke free, and we both tumbled back down the wall of the wash to the bottom. I was reaching for my horse's reins when suddenly a net dropped down through the cloud of dust and settled over both of us. Cursing mightily, I struggled in the net. I managed to get the Seecamp out of my ankle holster, but it was a wasted effort. I felt a sharp, burning sensation in my right shoulder-not the smashing, tearing impact of a bullet, but something more along the lines of a wasp sting. I turned my head, saw a dart sticking out of my flesh near the collarbone.

  "Shit," Garth said as he was struck by two darts, one in the right thigh and one in the belly.

  I ripped the dart from my shoulder, and was still struggling to get out from under the net when the deafening thrashing of the rotors overhead dropped in volume and pitch to a low hum with a deep bass that throbbed in my head, chest, and stomach. The swirling dust around us suddenly became a kaleidoscope of garish greens, reds, and yellows. There was the taste of bitter chocolate in my mouth. Then, for the first time in two days, my splitting headache winked out. There was nothing to worry about. All was well with the world, so I stretched out on the ground and began to dream of emerald eagles with golden eyes and red beaks falling from a purple sky.

  Chapter 13

  My head soon began to throb again, even in my dreams, and all did not stay well with the world for long. The dreams turned to nightmares, the emerald eagles turning to black and diving for my eyes. It was difficult to fend them off, for my movements were slow and plodding, my quick reflexes gone. I had turned into a gray-faced, stumbling, drooling creature, and I felt only a dull ache in the places where the ebony raptors had torn away chunks of my flesh. Somehow I ended up in a hospital where everything was painted pink, and when Harper came to visit she screamed at the sight of me and vomited, and then ran from the room. Friends and family came to visit, but most could only stand the sight of me for a few minutes before they had to leave. Only my mother and father, ever the stoics, sat at my bedside for long hours, tears rolling down their cheeks. For my part, I just lay around in silence and drooled a lot. I desperately missed Garth, who was nowhere to be found, and never mentioned. Sometimes nurses took me out for walks on a leash. Children laughed at me and called me a zombie.

  Behind or beyond the dreams was a sensation of flight, and a sound that reminded me of the steady drone of airplane engines. I would feel myself rising in the air, perhaps waking, and then I would feel a sharp sting in the arm or leg, as if someone was sticking me with a needle. Then it was back to the headache, bad dreams, and drooling.

  When I did finally regain consciousness, I did not find my situation all that much improved over my nightmare dream world; some might even argue that it had deteriorated, since I was lying naked on my back on a cold marble slab of a table with my arms and legs splayed, my wrists and ankles tethered by thick leather straps attached to the sides of the table. My head wasn't restrained, so I raised it and looked around. I was not cheered by my surroundings. Garth, still unconscious but breathing regularly, lay on a similar table to my left, and he was similarly naked and strapped down. We were both spattered with blood, but it wasn't ours; apparently it had sprayed out of the bodies of the three dead Haitians, formerly Guy Fournier's little helpers, who l
ay on slabs to my right. Their chests had been cut open, and their hearts evidently placed in the red clay, bloodstained jars that were placed above their heads. The killings had apparently taken place within the past few minutes, for blood and gore still oozed from the gaping wounds in their chalky flesh, puddling on the brown marble and dripping to the floor.

  Guy Fournier's place of power was a very large room, perhaps a loft, that had been converted into what I assumed was a voodoo temple; at least it looked pretty voodoo to me. Lighting came from red stage spots recessed in the ceiling, tinting everything the color of blood. There were dozens of veves painted on the walls and ceiling and the tile floor. I couldn't see behind me, but there were two doors, both closed, cut into the wall to my far left. On a section of wall to my right, beyond the three corpses, there hung a large set of Venetian blinds, now closed.

  Our host and master of ceremonies was standing in front of me with his back turned, head slightly bowed, and chanting softly in Creole and in what I hoped was going to be a very long, solo ceremony. Guy Fournier was dressed in a long, flowing, yellow silk robe decorated with black veves. He stood before a massive altar that took up almost three-quarters of the wall space to the front. On dozens of shelves on the altar were red clay jars, carved wooden statues, veves, what appeared to be dry, withered limbs, and a collection of skulls.

  I began to make a very serious effort to free myself.

  I tested the bonds on my wrists and ankles, and found the straps tight. However, the strap on my right wrist seemed just a bit looser than the others. I made a fist, flexed my muscles, and rotated my wrist back and forth. There was some give to the leather. The straps were lined with sheepskin, but the blood of an unknown number of victims that had lain before me on this stone bed of death had hardened in layers that had cracked, creating a series of sharp edges. That, I thought, could work to my advantage; if I could reopen the cuts on my hands and make myself bleed before Fournier did it for me, I might be able to get a hand loose. I kept twisting my wrists back and forth, rubbing the flesh against the rough edges, staring at the back of the voodoo priest as he chatted with his bloodthirsty gods. It was a tricky business. I was drawing blood, all right, but the irritation was making my wrists swell, threatening to cancel out all my good works.

  I kept at it, twisting and pulling, and then froze when Fournier abruptly wheeled around to face me. In his right hand he carried one of the scimitar-shaped knives previously wielded by his dead henchmen. The front of his robe, his hands, his triangular face and white hair were all spattered with blood. His dark eyes gleamed even brighter than usual, and he smiled broadly when he saw that I was awake. I was surprised to see that he had an erection, clearly visible as a bulge in his loose-fitting robe.

  "Home delivery," I said. "I'm impressed."

  "I'm so glad," he replied, his smile growing even broader. "A person in my position has certain prerogatives, and having the notorious Frederickson brothers delivered to me alive was one of them."

  "I like the alive part. Look, I've got a splitting headache. You wouldn't have a couple of aspirin around here, would you?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "So where are the chickens?"

  His smile vanished. "You and your brother are the chickens, Frederickson."

  "This your place of power?"

  "Yes."

  "Where are we?"

  He hesitated a few moments, then quickly walked to the wall to my right, past the three corpses, and opened the black Venetian blinds. I raised my head as far as I could, glanced in that direction, and found myself looking out over a familiar view, the Hudson River. New Jersey, what looked to be Hoboken or Jersey City, was across the way, which put us in a warehouse or on a pier somewhere down on the lower West Side. The sun was just setting. It looked like Garth and I were going to die close to home-in prime time, no less.

  "Nice digs," I continued, then nodded toward the three mutilated bodies lying to my right. "You killed them because they botched the Dickens murder?"

  "I killed them because they are no longer needed. Your investigation into Haitian matters is at an end."

  "That's exactly right. I take that to mean you brought us all the way back to New York so that you could surrender to us personally."

  He turned back to close the blinds, and I used the few seconds to begin twisting my right wrist again. "You do have a bizarre sense of humor, Frederickson."

  "You're fried no matter what happens to us, Fournier. There are copies of all our records in a safe deposit box, to be opened and immediately delivered to the commission on the death of one or both of us. Killing us is going to get you nothing but grief from two very dangerous friends of ours. Even if your outfit does manage to assassinate the president and vice president, how long do you think Kranes is going to be able to remain in office after all this business becomes public? The FBI has to be right behind us, and then there's the NYPD, Secret Service, and even the Spring Valley Police Department working on this case. We found the connections between you, the planned assassinations, and the CIA, and so will they. This whole conspiracy is going to be blown out of the water, and making Garth and me disappear is only going to speed the process. Your best bet for survival is to agree to testify and let us take you in. The FBI will put you in a Witness Protection program. Trust me; you'll prefer that to what will happen to you when our friends track you down. And they will."

  "I think not," Fournier replied evenly. "When William Kranes becomes president, the FBI investigation will go away along with the commission and its planned report. The NYPD is of no more concern to us than the Spring Valley Police Department. None of the information you and your brother have developed will ever be made public, and nobody will know of the events you've been involved in. Of course, that would not be the case if the two of you were to remain alive. Your disappearance will be treated as no more than a peculiar mystery. Your bodies will never be found. Our organization will ride out this storm, and with Kranes in power there will be no more threats. In hindsight, we should have killed the two of you at the beginning. Despite your track record, we still underestimated your persistence and investigative skills. We didn't want to unnecessarily complicate things, and we'd hoped that killing witnesses would head you off and shut you down, but it didn't. Your days were numbered long before you found me, Frederickson. But since you did find me, it shall be my pleasure to personally eliminate the two of you. It may give you some comfort to know that we consider the information you've developed and the report you were preparing to be, by far, the most potentially devastating of all the work being done by the other teams working for the commission."

  "You're going to depend on Paul Piggott to keep your secrets?"

  "Piggott didn't have any secrets worth sharing until you two visited him. Now he's dead."

  "You move fast."

  "So do you and your brother."

  "So will the FBI when they finally get up to speed."

  "Sometime this evening there will be a new president, and I'm absolutely confident that the FBI will be told that their investigation into the killings of the Haitians is to be given very low priority."

  "The convention?"

  He smiled thinly, nodded. "The president and vice president accept renomination by their party tonight, and they will appear on the platform together. It's only a matter of waiting until the nominating speeches are over. It's a pity I don't have a television set or radio here."

  "Well, I hope you have a telephone, because you'd better get on the horn right now and tell your people to call it off. After our first little chat, the first thing I did was go to the police. The FBI knows all about you and the CIA, and they know about the two murdered Supreme Court justices and your Right-to-Life shooters. If those killings take place, Congress is likely to legislate the entire CIA right out of the alphabet."

  "I think you exaggerate, Frederickson. The police will defer to the FBI, and it won't make any difference what the FBI knows, or what you told them. The FB
I is nothing if not committed to the chain of command, and the director will do as President Kranes orders. The new president will not want to shock the country even more, and he will not want the good name of the CIA sullied, or its good work interfered with. As for myself, I will be halfway around the world by morning."

  "Our dangerous friends will find you."

  "Ah, yes. Those dangerous friends. Your dossier indicates that you're probably referring to Veil Kendry, whose martial-arts students have been guarding your brownstone for the past few months, and John 'Chant' Sinclair. If Mr. Kendry chooses to do anything but continue on with his very successful career as an artist, we'll kill him too. As for Mr. Sinclair, not even we know where he is these days, but it's safe to assume that self-employed mercenary is mounting yet another sting operation against us or our friends to steal our money. I doubt he has any idea what you're involved in, and if he does he probably doesn't care. No, it's only the two of you who remain as obstacles- but not for long."

  "Why schlep us all the way back to New York to kill us?"

  "I thought you understood. There is great power for me in killing you myself, in a particular manner, in this particular place. I will keep your hearts in a place of honor on my altar. I shall dispose of the rest of you."

  "I'm touched."

  He drew himself up, breathed deeply, exhaled slowly. Guy Fournier looked immensely pleased with himself. "Now, is there anything else on your mind you'd like to discuss while we wait for your brother to wake up? As you can see, I rather enjoy talking to you."

  "I'll bet you say that to all your victims. You just love to hear yourself talk."

  "I can assure you that you're the first to utter anything but screams, Frederickson. I'm enjoying studying your behavior under stress. You are a truly remarkable man. When I cut you, I won't be surprised if I draw ice water."