by Fox, Stephen
“Well of course he did. I would have expected nothing less.” The captain paused again to consider the next step. “Can you reproduce your findings?”
Now it was the doctor’s turn to consider. “I believe I can duplicate most of the information. Keep in mind, other than the blood, there were no major abnormalities in the Patrick case. He appeared a normal human being. The extra bodies in the blood were the only major find. All of the blood and tissue samples are gone, of course, but I can remember the major results of my study. It may take a few days to remember all of the details, but I’ll begin working on it immediately. In the meantime what can we do about it? What can we do about these people? What should we do now?”
Another chuckle from the police chief. “I don’t know about you but I’m going to see if Inspector Clouseau has any openings in his department.”
The figure had heard enough. After gliding into the doctor’s spacious office, the shadow had moved into an unused corner, to see what information could be picked up. It was imperative that the Chosen know exactly how much the normals knew. The doctor was going to be a problem. His study of the blood gave him data that could prove dangerous. As the doctor hung up the phone, the figure leaned forward in anticipation, and the sword gleamed.
Just then Doctor Barker and Doctor Summers walked into Bell’s office arguing in a light-hearted manner.
“No, man. The Braves are dead. They can’t win their division this year, let alone the Series.”
“Aw come’on. They’ve still got the pitching. Granted they’re getting a little long in the tooth by now, but they can keep the Braves on top for another year or two. All they need is a good closer.”
“Listen at you, man. They always need a closer. Every year the bullpen …”
The figure backed into the corner, lowering the sword, and willed the doctors not to see him. The interns ignored him completely.
“Dr. Bell, we’re going out for pizza. Come with us. My treat.”
“Why, thank you Doctor Barker. And what is the occasion for this festivity?”
“Well, I don’t want to make it a big deal, but Gail found out last night that she’s pregnant again.”
Dr. Bell’s face lit up. “Wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Doc. We hope this one’s a boy.”
The small talk continued as the men walked out of the office. The shadow watched them go. Taking Bell when he was alone seemed the prudent course right now. There would be another time. The figure moved out into the hallway, and was gone.
Any chance of keeping a lid on the story died with the disappearance of the body. The media descended on the city like a plague. Dozens of reporters jammed the entrances to the station and quoted anyone who sneezed on their way into the building. Television cameras abounded, at the station and at the homes of most of the officers in charge. Anyone who was thought to know anything spent their days hounded by the press. For five days the media circus went on. Then a jumbo jet went down in a suburb of Chicago and took out a block of residences, and the media attention focused on the survivors like piranha around a Holstein. The Savannah police department normalized once again.
In the meantime information on the senator began to flow into Underwood’s office. According to her records, Mary Shaun O’Mullens was born in Louisville, Kentucky and lived there until she entered college at Kentucky Southern. However discrete inquiries revealed that, while there seemed to be records of her school attendance in Louisville, she did not appear in any yearbooks or class pictures during her entire school record. O’Mullens did not apply for a driver’s license until she entered college at the age of nineteen, in a state and time where teenagers could get a learner’s permit at fifteen and a full license at sixteen. There was also no record that either of her parents listed on her birth certificate had ever had a driver’s license. It was becoming increasingly evident that the records had been doctored. The senator couldn’t have gotten access to the records so someone else with clout had a hand in the fraud. She was one of the Chosen and they obviously had a powerful organization helping them change identities when needed. Underwood needed more information but the trail was cold and fiercely guarded. He would have to move with caution.
Patrolman Sam Beckman pulled his coat collar tighter as he moved toward the squad car, his arms loaded with goodies for the night’s trials and tribulations. The temperature had dropped into the low forties shortly after sunset, and, coupled with brisk spring winds, it felt a little nippy. He and Sergeant Johnson were teamed again, now that Johnson’s suspension had been lifted. Both officers liked to snack as they cruised the Savannah streets at night, and this Quik Mart gave them discounts to keep them coming around. Beckman approached the passenger’s side of the car. Johnson sat behind the wheel and started the vehicle as Beckman got in. They pulled out in traffic and started down Bull Street north toward the river. The radio squawked, “Unit Seventeen.”
Beckman grabbed the mike. “Seventeen, go ahead.”
The dispatcher sounded so sweet this evening. “A special message from Captain Underwood. You are to proceed to 1237 River Road north of the Tallmadge Bridge to pick up a package. The package is to be picked up and delivered to the captain’s house immediately.”
The two officers looked at each other. Beckman keyed the mike. “Dispatch, ten-nine.”
The radio operator repeated the message.
Johnson turned again to his partner and spoke. “River Road? Where in Sam Hill is that?”
“It’s just across the river in South Carolina. It goes back into the swamp.”
“Strange place to pick up a package.”
Johnson shrugged. “I’ve seen stranger. Let’s get going.” As he made a left, he added, “Did I ever tell you about the time I had to pick up a skeleton? Well, apparently they found this skull over in Beaufort…”
It took half an hour to make their way across town and over the bridge into South Carolina. Another fifteen minutes went by trying to find the right road leading away from Route 17. River Road was a dirt road on the best of days. The recent rains had turned it into a quagmire. The cruiser bounced and sloshed down the road for what seemed like ages, but when Johnson looked in the rearview mirror, he could still see the lights from the highway. As the road went further into the Savannah Wildlife Preserve, Beckman began to get annoyed. “I don’t remember any houses on this road. She didn’t say anything about how to find this package other than a street address on a road that leads into the heart of a swamp.”
Johnson nodded. He didn’t like the situation either. “Any idea how far back this road goes?”
“If it doesn’t end soon, we’ll be out in the Atlantic. Wait a minute! Here comes something.”
Their headlights picked up the dark shape of a car about fifty feet in front of them. The cruiser bucked and dribbled toward the shape.
The closer they got, the more uneasy they became. “This whole scenario stinks to high heaven. Get on the radio and let’s clarify this crap.” Beckman reached for the microphone.
The first of the high-powered rounds caught the officer just below the chin. Blood and bone fragments splattered all over the dashboard. The second shot was lower. Smashing through the radio receiver barely slowed it down as it slammed into Beckman’s lower torso. Johnson’s foot jammed the gas pedal to the floor. Instead of burning rubber, fountains of mud and water shot out behind the car and the car barely inched forward. A third shot smacked into the engine, silencing it instantly. Johnson tried to leap out of the car, but the next slug nearly took his right leg off, pulverizing both bones. The officer collapsed face down into the mud next to the disabled vehicle. He raised his head and reached for his portable radio, which hung from the left side of his belt. The radio exploded as the next bullet went through his hand, and struck the radio, driving plastic and metal into what little remained of the bones of his hand and lower arm. In shock and already growing weak from loss of blood, he lay there waiting for the coup de grace, which nev
er came. The shooter walked away, leaving the immobilized policeman trying to crawl to safety. Johnson didn’t make it ten feet.
Underwood was dreaming. He had to be. Strapped naked to a table, the only thing that he could move was his head. Sudden recognition flooded his mind as he looked from side to side. This was the room in Patrick’s house they had found the boy. The terrible room where the monster had done such unspeakable things to the helpless teenager, and then cheerfully boasted about it later. As he struggled to free himself from the bonds, an unseen voice spoke from above his head. “Ahh, at last you wake!” He tried to turn his head but failed to locate the source of the voice. “Moving around like that will only make you uncomfortable … And we wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself now, would we?” A short fit of maniacal giggling turned Underwood’s heart to ice.
A new sound reached his ears as he struggled to free himself. Something on wheels began to slowly roll in his direction. As it neared, the sound seemed to change pitch, then stopped only to start again. Patrick came into view, pulling a cart filled with knives. Lying across the collection was a broadsword, at least five feet long. The dark man picked up the huge blade. “I think we’ll start with this one.” He raised the sword over his head.
The sound changed, becoming more shrill as it stopped and started, stopped and started again and again. Patrick tilted his head as the ringing became insistent. Underwood noticed for the first time an object covered with a cloth on the cart. Patrick set down the sword and raised the cloth, revealing a phone. He picked up the receiver and listened for what seemed to Underwood to be hours. Finally he turned to the captain and smiled, revealing long, jagged fangs. “It’s for you.” As he reached out with the phone, it became a dagger, and Patrick plunged it into the captain’s heart.
Underwood lay there in horror, watching the blood pulse out of the wound, in time to the incessant ringing. The dagger turned back into a phone, which continued to ring. Underwood stared at the apparatus for a minute, then summoned the courage to pull the receiver out of the gaping hole in his chest. As he put the phone up to his ear he realized in the back of his mind that he shouldn’t have been able to grab the phone with his hands tied. A tinny voice reached his ears from the receiver. “Captain? Captain Underwood? Hello?”
Underwood looked down. The pajamas he wore were spotless, without the slightest hint of a hole. He lay in his own rumpled but clean bed, holding the receiver in his unsoiled hands. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he spoke into the phone with a raspy voice. “Hello?”
“Captain Underwood?”
He cleared his throat and tried again. “Speaking.”
“Captain, this is Lieutenant Morris. We need you to come to the station immediately.”
That statement helped clear his head. “Don’t tell me we’ve lost another prisoner.”
“Ahh, no sir. But we ‘re missing a patrol car.”
The captain was wide awake now. “You mean someone had the audacity to steal a patrol car?”
“Well, not exactly, sir. The car is missing, but so are the two officers in it.”
“Tell me again all the steps we’ve taken to find that car.” Underwood was having trouble understanding how this situation came to disturb his sleep.
“Yes sir.” In times like this, Morris was the perfect aide. His attention to detail left no stone unturned when it came to a summary. “Every available officer, on-duty and off, is conducting a citywide search. In the eight hours since you authorized the manhunt, approximately sixty-one percent of the city has been combed without a trace of the officers.”
“Could they have gone off duty and forgotten to check in?”
“I doubt it, sir. While Beckman was a rookie, his record shows him to be extremely attentive to procedures. He was very much a by-the-book type of officer. Sergeant Johnson was a somewhat freer spirit, but in ten years of service he has never walked off the job without informing his superiors. One of them might have possibly forgotten, but not both.”
“Did they contact dispatch at any time last night? They should’ve called in if they were leaving their post.”
“We’ve interviewed both dispatchers on duty last night. They report nothing unusual from either officer. The dispatcher’s tape has been reviewed. The last communication with Sergeant Johnson was at 9:05 when they came back on line from dinner. They indicated no problems. Dispatch tried to contact them at 10:10 but could get no response. Sometime during that interval they dropped off the face of the earth.”
“What was their dinner location?”
The lieutenant consulted his notebook. “According to the tape, the location was 1225 Wheaton. That would be Michelle’s Seafood.”
“Did the tape indicate any place they were going?”
“No sir. But their assigned patrol was the riverfront and Bay Street.”
Underwood continued to dig, trying to find some deviation, some reason, some explanation for the officers to have failed to follow standard operating procedures. “Any discrepancies in the tape?”
The lieutenant’s eyebrows raised. “Now that you mention it, there was a weird area on it. It sounded as if the tape stopped turning. You know how a tape sounds when it’s been left in the car too long and it overheats. It seemed to drag for a few seconds.”
“Have it sent over to the lab. Ask them to account for the problem and see if they can figure out how long the tape system was inoperative. Tell them we need it yesterday.”
“Yes sir.”
As Morris scurried off to perform his tasks, Underwood’s brain tried to fathom an assassin’s role. If he wanted to take out two trained and armed police officers, where would he do it? Obviously the spot must be secluded. An idea formed in his mind and he reached for the phone. “Morris? Find out if the South Carolina State Patrol has been notified of our search. If they haven’t, ask them for their assistance in checking the Carolina wetlands near the river. Tell them to look for any place where an ambush could be pulled off. Also have Midway and Richmond Hill alerted to keep an eye out for a patrol car. That’s right. Thanks, Lieutenant.”
That done, there was little else he could do for now, so Underwood pulled out his list. The captain always kept a list of things that he needed to do so that he could fit them into his day on a ‘whenever I get a chance’ basis. The next item on the list revealed a note to get answers to questions about the Patrick autopsy, so he put in a call to Dr. Bell.
“Dr. Bell’s office.” The doctor’s secretary sounded even sweeter than normal. But business first.
“This is Captain Underwood. May I speak to Dr. Bell, please?”
“Jim! Nice to hear from you. My father isn’t here right now. Can I help?”
“Uh, hi Marie.” So that’s why she sounded so wonderful. “He’s got you answering his phone now? What did you do wrong?”
He could feel the grin in her voice, “Not me. I’ve been a good girl this week. I just happened to be passing by, so I answered his phone. I don’t know where his receptionist is. Maybe she took an early lunch. Anyway, he’s meeting with a couple high honchos from the governor’s office. He should be back by eleven. What do you need?”
“I have some questions about the Patrick case.”
“Well, I helped him with that autopsy, so I know almost as much about that guy as he does. What do you need to know?”
“Actually I’m a little uncomfortable discussing it over the phone. Why don’t we meet for lunch?”
“Well, Dad’s secretary should be back in a few minutes. What about the Shoney’s on Fifteenth Street in half an hour? That’s about halfway.”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
Marie put down the receiver just as Maggie returned with two other receptionists. Apparently somebody had called a meeting that required them all to attend.
“Maggie, tell my father I’m going out to meet Captain Underwood to discuss the Patrick case. I’ll be back after lunch.”
Maggie’s eyes grew wide as she nodded. She
knew the feelings that the young doctor had for the handsome policeman. “I’ll be sure to tell him, Marie.” The secretary held up her hand with crossed fingers. “And good luck.”
The shadow in the corner cursed under its breath. Another few seconds and there would have been a double-header. A snicker escaped at the thought. “A double-header. I can’t believe I said that. I’ll have to remember that one.” Disappointment flooded the figure, but patience was a quality that the Chosen had learned centuries before. Better to wait until the young girl was alone. The shadow slipped out the door without anyone the wiser.
The restaurant stood only fifteen minutes away, but it took ten minutes to leave the building. No new information had turned up on the missing officers. Underwood promised to keep his cellular phone with him, so that any developments could be acted on immediately.
He made a brief scan of the room, but Marie had not arrived yet. Spotting her red Mustang pulling into the parking lot, he met her at the door. As Marie entered the restaurant, male eyes throughout the room followed her walk. Every contour of her body was highlighted by the Channel original that she wore so comfortably. The waitress led them to a table and they placed their orders.
“Now the interrogation. You may fire when ready.”
“Okay, first question. What about sex?”
A brief pause as she studied his face. “Well, it’s a possibility, but aren’t you supposed to feed me first?”
He thought for a minute and turned red. “Oh I’m sorry. I meant the suspect.”
She giggled. “I know what you meant, but you’re so easy to tease. You’re the only man I know that can blush over the phone. I assume you want to know if his equipment was in operating order. Keep in mind he was dead when I met him so we’ll never know for sure, but everything appeared to be normal for a twenty-five-year-old male.”
