Joe took advantage of the trucker's store to buy himself a new hat, not much different from the trucker's hat he'd had made for him in the days back in Husaquahr—only a bit better quality.
It was difficult for him to explain his childlike joy at sitting there at what was basically a boring and tiring job hour after hour, particularly since he, himself, hardly had such glee when he'd climbed into rigs for a living and pushed them from Nowhere to Anywhere without even really seeing or enjoying the places in between, but it was a simple thing to him. He'd been an adventurer, a warrior, and even something of a god, but always there was a dispatcher there controlling his movements and scheduling his appointments. Even though he was still on assignment, here he was, behind the wheel, with no worry about load limits or schedules or bills that had to be paid, a somewhat free knight of the road, the way all the songs said it was and the way it never was before.
They went up I-25 and then over I-40, not because it was quicker but because, while a bit out of the way, it avoided most of the major cities and also much of the congestion. They had no problems and, from all appearances, were little noticed by anyone at all, let alone anyone hostile to them. There was something of a sweat at what Joe called Arizona Customs and Immigration, the inspection station where all trucks had to stop and have their permits checked and stand an agricultural inspection, but the dummy load and the rear seals helped get them through with no problems. As with customs between countries, very few trucks had their cargoes fully inspected; to do so would create a bottleneck forty miles long.
California was tougher and nastier at their inspection, even stopping all private cars, but when they opened a few of the boxes and saw the contents they were more than satisfied that no dangerous insects were lurking inside, or could stand to live with forty thousand plaster Buddhas and nine thousand lawn jockeys, which were among the more outstanding items on the cargo manifest.
They had no problems keeping Tiana's tub full and reasonably fresh, although they had traveled through mostly very dry country. There had been one thunderstorm, but she had been in the tub at the time and so it didn't matter that the land adaptation was cancelled. It wasn't this part of the ride that worried Joe. Now, however, they made a slight jog south to I-5, then proceeded due north. The Baron's holdings were in the northern part of California, above San Francisco and above the wine country, more in the land of the redwoods, but it was a marine climate, perennially shrouded in fog and mist and quite wet the year around—and particularly so in the middle of spring.
Although Ruddygore's organization on Earth was based in Europe, it had some connections and much in the way of assets in the United States. Poquah regularly phoned north to teams of private detectives employed to work with and provide much information to them before they arrived—and, hopefully, to provide backup, when and if needed.
"A tremendous amount of work is going on inside the compound," he told them. "Trucks and skilled workmen have been going in and out all the time, and the Baron has a substantial amount of free labor in his resident followers, who appear to live mostly in tent cities in clearings created by the old logging operations."
"If he only had a castle, he'd feel right at home," Joe remarked. "I mean, here are his serfs toiling for him while his heart bleeds for them."
"He has his castle—of sorts," Poquah said, pulling out a small packet of photographs. "These were taken at great risk by operatives with special equipment." The photographs showed various views of a huge old Victorian-style mansion surrounded by redwood trees and somewhat shrouded in mist. The house, nonetheless, was impressive.
"Where in hell did he find that?" Marge asked.
"It was there, although not in that good shape, when he bought the land two and a half years ago," the Imir replied. "There is still a great demand for redwood, but there was always money in the logging business—quite a lot if you imagine the house when new. It was built by and for one of the early California lumber barons, a man named Stockman Mills, before the turn of the century. It has, however, a tragic history. He was killed in a logging accident while out looking over his operations—by accident, it was claimed, although it was suspected that it was actually murder by a rival baron. His new bride, a San Francisco society matron, and he hadn't even moved in yet when it happened, and she never did move in, although she paid to keep the house up for many years. It was finally sold to a large lumber conglomerate who used it as a base of operations; then later it was sublet to the government for something called the Civilian Conservation Corps, I believe. It then fell into disuse and disrepair until a large number of young people discovered it in the sixties and founded a commune of some kind there."
"I think I know the type," Marge remarked.
"They seemed to have repaired the house and kept it up. Indeed, they seemed to have a good deal of money for it—enough so that eventually they attracted attention. It was found they were engaged in the growing of some narcotic or the other, and it was broken up years ago. Until the Baron purchased the land, it was boarded up and again, I assume, falling apart, but people seem to have known how to build houses in those days. We don't know its interior configuration now; but when it was built, it had a deep cellar and a total of twenty-four rooms on top. We know the Baron installed running water and indoor plumbing, but it is not connected to the county system and so must be by well and septic tank. It had no electric when the Baron purchased it, but if you see these trailers and that odd operation over to the side and in the back of the house, you'll see that he now has his own small generating station, sufficient for his needs. He may have been spoiled in the past few years, but one suspects he does not need a fully electrified home, considering his background."
"Electricity again," Macore muttered. "I like what it can do here, but I hate to see it involved in a problem. I had a hell of a time with that one electrical alarm in Ruddygore's vault."
The Imir looked up at the thief. "How, indeed, did you get around that one?"
"Spells are nothing but energy in a controlled field, and so is electricity. They're used, controlled, generated, transmitted, and the like in totally different ways, but they're really two sides of the same coin. I just treated the electrical current as if it were a spell and diverted it. Even I have enough power to do that."
It was obvious that Poquah had never thought of it that way—and, in fact, neither had Marge. If electricity could be treated as a particular kind of spell energy, and if spells traveled along electrical lines.... There was something there, but neither could yet see it.
The Baron had spent much time with his magical knowledge and his powerful computers. What problems had he posed to those computers, and what had the computers solved for him? What, in fact, could a mind like Boquillas come up with if, instead of laboriously having to work out each complex mathematical formula for a spell by hand, he could do so with the speed and ease of a computer?
"Now that we are getting close, there is something else I'd better tell you," the Imir added. "We are not the first party hostile to him to go to his lair, and we are not the first to wish to do him harm. Some, including some of our detectives, have become his strongest converts, particularly in the last month. Others have simply vanished."
That sobered them. Up until now, it had been something of an adventure, an exotic or nostalgic visit to new places, depending on which of the band you were. Now the fun was coming to an end. Now they were coming close to their old and treacherous foes, and, unlike the experience on the River of Dancing Gods, they could not even bluff a backup by a higher power.
"It's only three days until the full moon," Tiana reminded them. "We must make allowances for other strange powers as well."
"Oh, yes—the were business," Poquah said, nodding. "That's mostly a physical spell, I thought, yet it persists."
Joe sighed. "It's a long story, even though you heard most of it, but when I wasn't myself and the original mermaid wasn't herself I bit her, and it carried over. Since—well, I've bee
n bitten again. Let's leave it at that." He seemed a bit embarrassed by that, and was surprised at Poquah's response.
"For our purposes, it will be a very handy thing. The Baron's followers, who call themselves the Elect, have among them two groups that are a potential nonmagical danger. One group, called the Elders, is an elite all-male security force. Most are or have been violent criminals, or combat soldiers, or law officers, and all are tough, nasty, and ruthless. They are his security force and they are quite good at what they do. The other group, the Ministering Angels, is under the command of his nominal wife and actual adept, the former Lynn Syzmanski, usually now called the Baroness by their followers."
"That's the former horror movie hostess?" Joe asked.
"Indeed. She began with pornographic movies, had aspirations to be a real star, but never made it past the late movie. A self-administered spell provided by the Baron has restored her to her youthful prime. Her Ministering Angels are her stunning supporting cast now, but don't underestimate them. Beneath their beauty, they have been given body-building and other extensive training, and have learned every deadly art, including all of the martial arts. They are many things, but to us they are deceptive and quite effective bodyguards for the top echelon. Even stark naked, it is said that they could defeat professional combat troops. I repeat: Do not underestimate them. They are designed to be underestimated—until it is too late."
"Neat system," Marge noted. "The guys guard the property and external dangers; the girls guard the people."
"Yes," the Imir agreed. "So, you see, being a were is not necessarily a liability. We have timed this well enough so that both you, Joe, and you, Tiana, will be able to do some infiltrating more effectively than anyone else. And, of course, you are impervious to anything except silver, which includes the sort of bullets they use here."
Joe nodded. "I figured as much. That saved me from the Baron once before, remember."
"Yes, I do remember. Only do not be complacent. Rest assured that the Baron remembers quite well, too. He expects you, and has a particular score to settle with you, so don't get too cocky. Let him be the one with the overconfidence."
"We'll remember," Joe assured him. "Now what's our first move? We'll be in his backyard tomorrow night, unless you want me to keep going today."
"No, that will not be necessary. We need immediate facts and a layout. I need to know what that manor house looks like now, and I need to know what has been added or subtracted since. Tomorrow, we will split up into temporary teams. Marge, you and Gimlet can fly and both of you have exceptional night vision. You will take Gimlet with you and do a general flyover, getting an idea of the terrain and the situation within. If you are undetected and in the clear, then Gimlet is well suited actually to enter the house and check it out."
"Dis goi's a big shot wizard and you t'ink he won't know me?" The pixie sounded worried.
"He will not expect a pixie in particular. You don't reflect or trip optical alarms, and your hearing is more than adequate to avoid sonic alarms. You can see spells, even if you can't read them at his level, and avoid them. No risks—see what you can see and get back out to Marge."
"Yeah. Easy fer you to say, hot shot. And wudd'l you be doing while we got our necks stuck in it?"
"Macore and I will be checking with our operatives. Joe—you and Tiana will have a different mission. You'll be traveling a bit, and can leave early if you're up to it. We have located a long-time resident of that commune I spoke of, living just over the county line. We want to know what changes they might have made—particularly hidden areas, which would be logical for ones in their business to create."
"Yeah, I see," Macore put in, his professional thief's mind working. "They were doing something illegal and they had to be always afraid that the law would sneak up on them, so they had to think of all the ways and guard against them. They'd know the lay of the land pretty good."
"Just as interesting," Poquah responded, "is how the law managed to get inside in spite of all that forethought and catch them with incriminating goods."
"I am a little concerned about going so far," Tiana said. "If it is as wet a climate as is indicated, I might well be unable to use the adaptation at all, or I might change at any moment."
The Imir shrugged. "Believe me, if this person even noticed it at all, she would think it an asset."
The place clearly had once been a church, in older, better times. It now was a pale shadow of itself, with paint peeling off its stucco walls and obvious gaps where parts of the exterior had split, fallen, and splintered to the ground. There was no cross atop the small steeple anymore, nor any other signs of its former life in the dingy small town that had been bypassed by all the highways and by life itself.
A hand-painted, crude sign over the entrance read; THE NEO-PRIMITIVE HAWAIIAN CHURCH.
Tiana had worn one of her overly long dresses and was using the wheelchair, although she still had her legs for now. The dampness was already creeping in, and it was only a question of time until the air struck the inner ridges of the coastal range and was lifted high enough to give up its moisture.
Joe stared blankly at the door as he helped Tiana out of the van. "Now what are we supposed to do?"
"Knock?" she suggested.
He did, but there was no response. Finally he decided just to open the door, an old wooden two-part barrier that formed an entry arch. It opened, and he helped Tiana up the steps and then back into the chair, and they went inside.
It seemed foggier inside than out, with a thick mist curling around the floor of the old structure, but the mist was definitely not of natural origin. The air was thick with an incredible mixture of incense scents as well. The whole of the interior appeared to have been cleared of pews and other structures and thickly woven straw matting had been placed over the entire floor. On all sides were enormous images of Hawaiian gods and totems, some quite realistic, others very crudely painted and decorated in garish colors. Ahead was the altar, upon which stood a gigantic and very impressive wooden carving of a Hawaiian deity, flanked by others in descending order of size and, possibly, rank. In front of the deity was a sculpted horizontal redwood platform, decorated with flowered garlands, and on it, stretched out, was the still figure of a dark-skinned female body, stark naked except for a lei and flowers in her black hair. Somewhere, from cheap speakers, Hawaiian chants came forth in a monotonous drum-accompanied performance. The needle definitely needed cleaning or changing.
Both of them were shocked and thought much the same thing. Tiana looked up at Joe. "Do you think she is a sacrifice?"
"I—I don't know."
"Joe—I'm changing. The rain must be here."
"Just sit tight. I'm going to see if she's still alive." He approached slowly, warily. He would not have been at all surprised to find a horde of Polynesian savages suddenly rise from the thick mist of the floors and attack him with spears.
He walked up to the altar and heard Tiana's wheelchair follow close, the same tenseness in her as in himself. He looked down at the girl and was relieved to see a very slight rise and fall, indicating breathing. She was certainly of Polynesian ancestry from her looks, but not as young as she'd appeared from a distance—perhaps early thirties. It was hard to tell.
He stood there a moment, wondering what to do, when her eyes opened and she looked up and saw him standing there. Suddenly she sat up and swiveled around so she was sitting, facing them, and she smiled. "Oh, hi!" she said.
Joe was so taken aback that he was at a loss for words for a moment. Finally he managed, "Uh—I'm sorry if we disturbed you."
"Oh, you didn't disturb me. I always meditate for two hours after dinner. It helps clear the head and combats food allergies. I'm Mahalo McMahon. And you are?"
"Uh—I'm Joe Romero, and this is my wife Tiana."
The mist covered the wheelchair up to the spokes, further masking any sign of fins, already difficult to see in the eerie light of the old church.
"You folks here for t
he services, just passing through and got curious, or are you something else?"
"Something else," he told her.
She suddenly froze up. "We don't talk to narcs. You caused us enough trouble."
"We're not narcs. We don't care about that at all. We are interested if you were one of the folks who used to live at the Mills place, though."
She looked suspiciously at the two of them. "You're not wearing yellow, but I don't talk to Pathies no matter what."
"What has yellow to do with them?" Tiana asked her.
"They all wear something yellow. I don't think it means anything, just a uniform or something, you know."
They filed that one away under useful things Poquah forgot to mention and got on with it.
"If that's your attitude, I think we can be friendly. You see, we knew the Baron long ago. This isn't the first time he's tried to become powerful and subjugate lots of people."
"Lots of people don't like him, but he's got real power. If you're for real, you're not long for this world."
"We are for real," Tiana assured her. "The Baron once commanded armies with a demon as an ally, and still we defeated him. We know who and what he is and how he does what he does."
Mahalo McMahon was unconvinced. "You sound German, and you, big boy, sound like a truck driver with too much education. Where the hell could he have commanded armies? He ain't old enough to have been a Nazi."
"Not in Europe," Joe told her. "Not anyplace you've ever heard of. He's from a different place—than here. So are we."
Vengeance of the Dancing Gods Page 21
