Fires of Midnight

by Jon Land

  “1981, then,” McCracken calculated. “Maybe ’82.”

  “Yes.”

  “And where does Harry Lime fit in?”

  “Your friend was one of the guardians we selected.”

  “Even though he was crazy and all of you would have known it,” McCracken followed accusingly.

  Gloria Wilkins-Tate didn’t bother with a denial. “Our choices were motivated by other factors as well.”

  “People who for the record, like Harry, could easily be made not to exist. People who had a close but tenuous association to the government. Harry would have fit all those qualifications perfectly. Who pulled the plug?”

  “There were leaks, embarrassments. The Carter years were not good ones for us. The Factory was abolished, accounting for the file status of men like your friend and for my … retirement.”

  “What about the children?”

  “Once Operation Offspring was abandoned, they were removed from their guardians and placed indiscriminately in adoptive homes.”

  “Not Joshua Wolfe.”

  “No,” the old woman said, her voice hesitant and confused. “Apparently not.” Her eyes sharpened, flashing fear. “Someone else must have continued to control and monitor him, picking up right where we left off.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea who.”

  “It could have been anyone privy to our reports. That list was very small, but I don’t have to tell you in Washington it doesn’t necessarily stay that way.”

  “Could it have been Haslanger?”

  “Not alone. He wouldn’t have had the resources.”

  “I’m sure he could have found a benefactor.” Blaine paused. “He’d done it before.”

  He reached into his pocket and produced the picture found in Joshua Wolfe’s Harvard dorm room, handing it to Gloria Wilkins-Tate. She released her grip on her twisted sweater and accepted the photo, lifting her glasses on their chain to her eyes so as to see the shot of the smiling man with his arm draped over the shoulder of a long-haired teenager.

  “Joshua Wolfe,” was all Blaine said.

  The old woman’s stare was far away when she looked up. “All the children we placed were given the names of animals for easy identification and coding. I didn’t think I’d ever be seeing any of them again, even Wolfe.” Her eyes caught life again. “Where did you say he is now?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s Harvard. And he’s not there anymore. Something happened.”

  “What are you talking about? You act like I should know.”

  “I’m sure you do. The whole country does. A shopping mall in Cambridge, Ms. Willdns-Tate. Seventeen hundred people found—”

  “No!”

  “Joshua Wolfe was responsible, believe me. Prevailing theory right now is that it was a tragic accident, a botched experiment. But if Haslanger’s involved, there’s no telling. And if he gets to the kid first …”

  “This can’t be happening!” the old woman moaned.

  “Rest assured it is. And I’ve got a bigger problem: Harry Lime’s disappearance. Somebody arranged for it after he spilled his guts to me. You placed this kid with him, Ms. Wilkins-Tate. You gave Harry a dead wife to fill out the scenario and he started to believe she really existed, even thought I’d been to the funeral. Then one day last fall, whoever picked up where you left off came to take his kid away for good. They ship Harry down to Florida and the new Air America. Only once in the Keys, everything starts to break down. In Harry’s mind the kid’s been snatched, kidnapped. So whoever’s running Operation Offspring now isn’t just making geniuses, they’re covering their tracks. Right up Haslanger’s alley, isn’t it? He’s done that before, too, hasn’t he?”

  “You really think you can stop this?”

  “I can find whoever killed Harry. That’s a start. Where is Haslanger now, Ms. Wilkins-Tate? Where can I find him?”

  “I don’t know! You must believe that. If I did, I’d—”

  She swallowed the rest of her words when the lighting in the collection room died, plunging them into darkness.

  “Take my hand,” McCracken said to Gloria Wilkins-Tate calmly. He could see no light whatsoever sneaking in beneath the door crack, indicating the power was out on the whole floor.

  The old woman’s rigid fingers flapped against his own. McCracken closed on them gently with one hand, while his other reached for the doorknob.

  “This isn’t unusual,” she told him, “especially in the summer. Brownouts and the like, you see.”

  Blaine had worked the door soundlessly open. “The emergency lighting’s out, too.”

  “Oh,” Gloria Wilkins-Tate responded, understanding.

  “We can’t stay here. We’ve got to move.”

  He led her out of the collection room and to the right at the same time he steadied his SIG-Sauer. Inching their way through the blackness and using the wall for guidance, they reached the end of the short hall and rounded it. Blaine recalled the high-tech, movable stacks were to the right, while directly before them lay a huge expanse of traditionally shelved books.

  A slight shuffling sound came from not far ahead of them, followed by a thump.

  “Who’s—”

  McCracken laid a hand over the old woman’s mouth too late to stop the single word from emerging. A shape shifted before him, whirling. Blaine felt it first, then caught a vague, soundless outline. He fired the SIG in the direction of the whirling shape, feeling again for Gloria Wilkins-Tate’s hand in the process. But she had yanked it away at the ear-pounding burst from the SIG’s barrel. McCracken was still flailing for a fresh grasp when the shape, a huge disturbance in the darkness, split between them. Blaine lunged aside, dipping free of an expected grab. He followed the shape with the SIG, afraid to shoot with the old woman’s position before him unknown.

  There was a gasp and a crack. Then the sound of something thudding to the floor. McCracken steadied the SIG and pumped off four rounds. The first three muzzle flashes gave him a view of a figure that stretched three-quarters the height of the stacks ducking in amidst the neatly shelved books.

  Blaine crouched down and felt about the floor. His free hand closed on Gloria Wilkins-Tate’s arm first and traced up it for her neck. There was no pulse. And something else, he realized, something all wrong.

  The old woman’s head was twisted all the way around, her neck snapped as easily as a twig.

  Blaine reclaimed his feet, pausing briefly. The nearest exit was straight ahead and to the right, had he chosen to use it. But there were no answers to what was going on beyond the exit door; the answers lay here with whoever had just murdered Gloria Wilkins-Tate. So McCracken backpedaled down a row between two tightly packed shelvings of books, following in the killer’s path.

  Krill embraced the darkness, the advantage if provided him wondrous. His eyes, those hideous bulging spheres that so cursed him in the light, cut through the blackness and took in what lurked within it. His eyes worked much like an animal’s under such conditions, recording motion more than shape.

  And it was motion that told him the gunman was edging tentatively along the aisle he had dashed down himself after dispatching the old woman. Tall shelves cluttered with collections of first editions dating back centuries enclosed the aisle on both sides, creating a tunnel-like effect that would further obscure his new prey’s vision.

  Krill waited, thought about holding his position here until the man walked right into him, then discarded the notion in favor of a better one.

  He saw the man edging along halfway down the aisle, a nine-millimeter pistol sweeping the air before him. He sidestepped to the right and started down the adjacent aisle, closing slowly.

  Blaine edged his way through the darkness, hoping to find a hint of light to improve his vision. The dim glow of an exit sign at the rear of the firstedition stacks grabbed his attention when he was halfway down the aisle. It wasn’t much, but at least it provided a destination.

  The enemy had created the darkness to utilize i
t, obviously equipped with some sort of night-vision device, which provided an incredible advantage. Strange how he had gone for the woman first when he just as easily could have tried for McCracken, instead of alerting him.

  Unless Gloria Wilkins-Tate had been his primary target, the killing of Blaine just an afterthought. But who could possibly—

  Books rained down around McCracken. He spun toward the origin of their fall, leading with the SIG. In the darkness a hand closed on the wrist holding the gun, the grip like nothing he’d ever felt before. A vise being turned quickly to maximum tightness. His hand wobbled, the pistol torn from his grasp and sent clanging to the floor.

  A second hand joined the first through the litter of fallen books on a shelf even with the top of his head. It closed for his throat and McCracken just managed to deflect it with his free hand. He felt a powerful tug on the captured wrist and found himself slammed into the shelving, dislodging another shower of tumbling books. He flailed desperately to keep the fingers that seemed more like steel digits from finding his throat. With the shelving standing between him and his opponent, his legs were useless as weapons, leaving him only the single free hand he had dedicated to defense.

  Go for the eyes, whatever he’s wearing over them.

  A strategy born of necessity not choice, the risk lying in clear exposure of his throat to the enemy’s inhumanly strong grip. McCracken waited until he felt another wrenching tug. When it came he shot his hand outward on an upward angle for where he judged the enemy’s face to be.

  The blow impacted on a face that might have been a skull, there was so little flesh covering it. The extra six inches to reach the eyes put the enemy in the seven-foot-height range, big as Johnny Wareagle. Blaine felt the huge head arching away as he jerked his hand upward and skirted across the enemy’s brow.

  He wasn’t wearing any night-vision device at all. There were only … his eyes, and McCracken raked his fingers across one of them, trying to angle his thumb for a piercing jab. The enemy grunted in pain, and his grasp on Blaine’s wrist slackened enough for McCracken to tear free. Momentum slammed him against the books on the other side of the aisle and several stacks of these went tumbling, too.

  Blaine heard another loud, guttural grunt emitted just before the clanging noise of a metal-crunching collision. Still battling the darkness, he sensed more than saw a huge section of shelving caving in toward him, a shower of books spewing ahead of it. He darted sideways, just managing to avoid the initial spill and realizing the next section was starting to topple as well. The effect was not unlike dominoes and ultimately it caught up to him as he dashed down the aisle. McCracken felt himself pummeled by books and then his shoulder was racked by a huge section of shelving crashing down, pinning him beneath it.

  SIXTEEN

  McCracken flailed at the books and debris covering him. He managed to extract himself from the bulk of it, only to have a stubborn section of shelving resist all his attempts to lift it. His angle was all wrong, no leverage possible.

  Footsteps approached him, soft, barely grazing the tile floor and not striking a single fallen book in the process.

  He can see me! Blaine realized. Whatever this bastard is he can see me …

  McCracken sent his hands raking frantically across the debris-strewn floor for his SIG, abandoning the effort when it was clear it would yield nothing. He could feel the eyes that were not eyes at all upon him, taking their time. Blaine returned his attention to the last of the shelving, felt it start to give. He could yank his legs out now and scamper away for the dull glow of the exit sign.

  Toward what purpose?

  A book slid across the floor as a foot kicked it from its path. McCracken held his position, pretended to be struggling desperately to extricate himself from the toppled shelving.

  The shape stirred. Blaine felt it as a variance in the air, imagined its outline looming over him, and waited. Its breath touched him. An arm that was more like a tentacle clawed through the darkness.

  McCracken propelled himself upward, pushing off on legs he had pretended were still trapped. His head caught the huge shape under the chin and snapped its cavernous skull backward, gaining him the time he needed to lunge all the way to his feet. Something that felt like iron slammed into the side of Blaine’s head and staggered him. The shape thrust itself his way, and McCracken ducked under the oustretched arms. He pounded the thing in the kidney with fists interlaced and tried to angle in for its throat or groin. But the figure turned fast and Blaine felt an impossibly long hand close on his throat, starting to lift him off his feet.

  Find a weakness … . Gotta be a weakness … .

  McCracken thought of the monster’s eyes that were so comfortable in the dark. Breath wedged deep inside him, he dropped a hand into his pocket, feeling for his key ring and the miniature mag light attached to it. His fingers closed on it and he brought it upward, working his fingers toward the button.

  He found it just as his feet finally cleared the floor. Pressed it to angle the beam of light straight into the monster’s line of vision.

  The beam cut the darkness like a bullet slices air. The shape screamed and tossed him aside, flinging him hard enough into the shelving on the aisle’s other side to buckle it. Blaine tried to regain his footing, grabbing his first clear look at the enemy. It was man-shaped, but everything else about it was all wrong, elongated limbs and a narrow, bony face beneath a patchy dome. But the eyes were the worst. They seemed to bulge outward, the sockets too small to contain them.

  Half blinded, the monster flailed at him desperately, forcing Blaine to backpedal until he was up against yet another bookshelf. He resteadied his beam on the onrushing shape, its hand raised before its eyes to spare them further agony. McCracken seized the opportunity to duck under the monster’s determined but unfocused surge. He joined its momentum and shoved it savagely forward into one of the uprights, mashing its face against the steel.

  The monster bellowed and snapped both its arms backward, forcing Blaine off. It twisted viciously, snarling, when McCracken’s flashlight caught it again. Another guttural yell preceded a strike from the darkness Blaine never saw coming. The monster’s hand caught him in the wrist, numbing it and sending his key chain and minimag light flying.

  The beam glowed on as it rolled across the floor, giving Blaine sufficient light to dash off before the monster had totally steadied itself. But the spilled books slowed his pace enough to steal valuable seconds, and a powerful hand latched on to his shoulder from the rear just as he reached the head of the aisle.

  The monster was done with subtleties this time. Blaine felt himself being hurled backwards, into the air, slamming into a wall not far from where Gloria Wilkins-Tate’s body lay. Before he could recover his wind and his balance, the monster fastened both its clawlike hands on his lapels and jerked him backward. McCracken felt his insides shake. His legs went wobbly. The monster threw a fist forward which Blaine just managed to duck under. Above him the wall cracked, showering him with plaster.

  Everything was cloudy, growing dim. He blocked one strike, deflected another. But then the monster had him, fingers closing on his throat, the cartilage starting to contract under their power. Then, before he could even contemplate a response, the basement lights snapped back on.

  The monster howled in agony, hands leaving McCracken to cover its eyes again. It backed up, staggering. Blaine gasped for air and saw the monster heading for the nearest exit door, disappearing through it before he could reclaim his feet.

  The fat man answered the phone in a barely audible voice.

  “Hello?” Thurman repeated.

  “I’m here,” came the reply, a bit clearer. “You caught me with my mouth full. I was just in the middle of lunch. Anguilles Quo Vadis. You know what that is, of course.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “We must give you some culture, Thurman, we truly must. Anguilles Quo Vadis are eels in a special green herb sauce I make myself from parsley, mint and chives. Of cou
rse you must have a special source to obtain eels at this hot time of year. Mine are frozen during the winter in their native Italy and shipped in special containers. Twenty-four hours and a phone call away.”

  “Speaking of phone calls …”

  “Be quick with your report. The eels are best when eaten hot.”

  “I managed to keep McCracken alive,” Thurman reported.

  “He’s not the sort of man who usually requires such assistance.”

  “He did this time: went up against one of Haslanger’s creations in the main branch of the New York Public Library.”

  “Ah, then the good doctor is getting a bit nervous.”

  “He should be, with McCracken sniffing down his trail.”

  “As we expected he would.”

  “But there are more complications: Group Six is staking out Harry Lime’s apartment.”

  The fat man’s voice fell slightly. “We didn’t expect that. How?”

  “Cambridge was too much for them to resist. They made the connection faster than we expected.”

  Thurman could hear the fat man chewing again. “How unfortunate … I thought they’d be drained of manpower by now.”

  “Whatever they have left has been concentrated in Key West. We can’t match it on such short notice, even if we wanted to.”

  “It would be ironic if our efforts end up helping Group Six achieve its goals. That is something we must avoid at all costs.”

  “There may be a way out of this,” said Thurman.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Let them think they’ve won. Let them have the boy.”

  “An inopportune suggestion.”

  “Not really. Because we have McCracken.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Joshua Wolfe noticed the men watching Harry Lime’s apartment as he biked down South Street in Key West. He was not surprised to see them, but there were more than he expected and they weren’t making much of an effort to disguise their presence. There were three Ford Taurus sedans, a pair of men in each in addition to a construction crew, a mailman pretending to sort mail in his stalled truck and a trio of gardeners at work on the bushy landscaping that fronted Harry’s building in the Southpark Condominium complex. Not to mention the one or two who would undoubtedly be inside.