And now they weren’t giving Philips a chance to interfere and maybe piss the creatures off. The big brass was keeping him waiting here, at an empty desk, staring at a phone that never rang…
The phone rang.
At first Philips didn’t even notice. He heard the sound, but it didn’t register. He didn’t recognize it as anything that concerned him; it was just more of the background noise that was always present.
Then it rang again, and that time it penetrated. He jerked as if he’d been shot, dropped the empty glass, and snatched up the receiver.
”Philips here,” he barked into the receiver.
He was trembling.
Chapter 7
Rasche awoke slowly, his mind hazy; he didn’t really remember where he was.
He lived in Bluecreek, Oregon, he remembered that much-he and his wife, Shari, and their two boys. They’d moved out here to be safe, after that mess in New York.
He wasn’t at home now, though, was he? Whatever he was lying on, it didn’t feel like an ordinary bed. He opened his eyes.
At first he saw only darkness. Then bright light, painfully bright, cut through the dark, blinding him. He closed his eyes again, still trying to collect his thoughts.
That mess back in New York… who were those things, really? What were they? Why were they there? Would they come back?
Would they come back for him?
Schaefer had had them all figured out, but Rasche had never really understood it. Hunters from space, yeah-but why? How did they decide who to hunt? Where would he be safe-anywhere? Was Bluecreek far enough away?
He couldn’t stop thinking about them, couldn’t stop remembering the strange masks and the hideous faces underneath, their yellow flesh and black talons, the dripping blood and mutilated bodies of their victims.
He blinked. He felt as if he had been drugged, had he? He couldn’t remember. He still couldn’t remember where he was, how he had gotten there. He tried to see through the light, through the mental haze.
A mask-he saw a mask hovering over him. And long yellow fingers were reaching toward his face.
It was one of them, he realized-one of those things from outer space!
”He’s awake…” someone said.
Rasche forced himself to act, suddenly and decisively. He wasn’t a young man, he looked overweight and out of shape, but he could still move fast and hard when he needed to, and he moved now, lunging at the thing in the mask, his hands reaching for its throat as he shouted, “Not again! You won’t get away again! This time I’m taking you down with me!”
His foe went over backward and tumbled to the floor. Rasche landed on his opponent’s chest, and that unbearably bright light was behind him instead of in his eyes, so that he could see clearly again.
A woman shrieked, “Sheriff Rasche, please! Stop it!”
Rasche looked down and saw that the shadowy figure wasn’t what he had thought. The mask was white paper over gauze, not alien metal; the throat in his hands was human. The yellow fingers were rubber gloves. And Rasche knew he couldn’t have knocked over one of those alien predators anywhere near so easily. He released his hold.
Then at last the mental haze cleared, and Rasche realized he was kneeling atop his dentist.
”Dr. Krelmore,” he said, suddenly remembering the man’s name.
Krelmore made a choking noise.
”I’m sorry,” Rasche said as he got off his victim. “The gas… I mean…”
”The gas?” Krelmore said as his hygienist helped him up off the floor.
”I was imagining things that weren’t there,” Rasche said. “Hallucinating, I guess.”
”Hallucinating?” Krelmore brushed himself off. “I’m just a dentist, Sheriff, but I never saw anyone react like that just to the gas.” He coughed. “Your filling’s all done, but maybe… maybe you’d be better off consulting, you know, a psychiatrist or something.”
Rasche shook his head. “I’ve seen enough psychiatrists to diagnose the entire state of Florida,” he said. More to himself than the others, he added, “Jesus, I really thought I was over it.” He looked at Dr. Krelmore. “I had this real bad time…” he began.
Then he caught himself. Telling his dentist that he’d been involved in a secret war against alien monsters on the streets of New York was not exactly a good career move.
”Look, Doc,” he said, “I’m really sorry for what happened. I… I’d appreciate it if you could keep this under your hat.” He managed a sickly smile.
”I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, y’know? New place, new job, I’m still getting settled in.”
”Sure,” Krelmore said, rubbing his neck-the red marks left by Rasche’s chokehold were already fading. “Sure, no problem, Sheriff. Your secret’s safe with me.” He forced a weak grin in response to Rasche’s smile. “Every time they show Marathon Man on TV, it’s the same damn thing. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
”Nobody’s ever…” the hygienist began, then stopped as both men turned unhappily to face her, afraid she was going to say something they’d all regret.
”Well, we’ve had some upset patients before,” she said, “but I think you’re the first one to actually take Dr. Krelmore down like that.”
Krelmore’s smile reappeared. “Best two falls out of three?” he asked.
No one quite managed to laugh.
Ten minutes later Rasche was out on the streets of Bluecreek, thinking hard as he automatically scanned his surroundings, cop fashion.
He didn’t like losing control like that. Yeah, he’d been out of it from the gas, but trying to strangle a harmless tooth doctor was not a good sign, even so. He’d been the local sheriff in Bluecreek for a little over four months now, and he’d mostly thought he’d been settling in nicely. He’d thought that he’d left all the freaks and crazies behind when he quit the NYPD and went west, but now he wondered whether maybe one of the craziest hadn’t moved out west right along with him, right inside his own head.
He walked on automatically as he thought, taking in everything around him, unconsciously classifying everyone he saw into one of three categories, the traditional New York cop triage. The three categories were cops, citizens, and scum; back in the Big Apple he’d always seen a mix, but here in Bluecreek he only seemed to see citizens.
That had been the whole point of moving here, of course, but it still didn’t seem entirely natural. He’d spent almost his whole life in New York; if it hadn’t been for those monsters from Planet X, he’d undoubtedly still be there, probably still working homicide or narco with his partner Schaefer, finishing out his time until retirement.
The spaceships and the all-out firefight on Third Avenue had been too much for him, though. He’d left. He’d found the job as sheriff, gathered up Shari and the kids, and come out here where it was safe.
Or safer, anyway. He glanced at the sky. He couldn’t be sure anywhere was really safe, but Bluecreek seemed like a pretty good bet. Rasche had been pleased to get the job offer. He’d sent out his resume from the hospital, and the reply from Bluecreek had been waiting when he was released. He’d grabbed it.
He’d asked Schaef to come with him, but the big man had refused. Rasche had even offered him a job as deputy, and Schaefer had smiled so broadly Rasche thought he might actually laugh which would have been a first, Schaefer actually laughing at anything Rasche said.
Rasche had to admit that the idea of Schaefer playing Barney Fife to Rasche’s Sheriff Taylor was pretty absurd, but he’d kept asking as long as he could.
It hadn’t worked. Schaefer had stayed in New York.
It wasn’t that Schaefer loved the city all that much; he didn’t. Sometimes Rasche thought Schaefer hated the place. And it wasn’t that he’d never lived anywhere else; Schaefer wasn’t a native New Yorker. Rasche thought he’d grown up in Pennsylvania somewhere, though he wasn’t sure-Schaefer had never really said where he came from.
No, Schaefer stayed in New York because he wa
sn’t going to let those alien things drive him out, and he wasn’t going to let the government order him around. Rasche knew that and understood it, other people had wanted Schaefer to go away, people Schaefer didn’t like, and that was the surest way there was to get Schaef to stay put. As long as the feds wanted Schaefer out of New York, he wasn’t going to leave the city-not for Rasche, not for anyone.
Besides, Rasche thought, Schaefer was still pissed off about the government covering up the mess, still pissed off that they hadn’t told him what had happened to his brother Dutch, the covert operative, after Dutch had disappeared on a rescue mission in Central America. Staying in New York meant that Schaefer would have more people to take that anger out on.
Rasche unlocked the front door of the split level that still didn’t quite feel like home, the split level that was about three times the size of their old place in Queens, and stepped inside. As he did, a photo of Schaefer and himself, standing on an end table in the living room, caught his eye; he ambled over and picked it up.
That was right after they’d taken down a vicious little bastard who had called himself Errol G. Rasche remembered it well as he looked down at his own face. There he was, a big grin making his mustache bristle while Schaefer’s face could have been carved out of stone.
He wondered what Schaefer was doing right at that moment. He wondered whether Schaefer still had nightmares about those creatures.
He wondered whether Schaefer ever had nightmares about anything. Schaefer didn’t seem the nightmare-having type, somehow.
Nightmare-causing, yeah; Rasche could think of a few people who might have nightmares about Schaefer. He smiled at the thought.
He’d have to call Schaef, just to chat, sometime soon.
The smile vanished. He needed to talk to somebody about those things, somebody other than the psychologists who thought the aliens were stress induced hallucinations, somebody other than Shari, who, sweet as she was, never knew what to say about the grimmer aspects of Rasche’s work.
Yeah, he’d call Schaefer soon.
Very soon.
Chapter 8
Detective Schaefer stepped into his own office and stopped dead, staring at the man seated behind the desk.
The stranger, caught off guard, stared back, frozen there with one hand reaching out for a framed photograph. His expression was smothered surprise.
He was a man in a conservative and expensive suit, with a conservative and expensive haircut, a man who looked as if he’d be more at home on Wall Street than Police Plaza. Right now, though, he was at 1 Police Plaza, in the headquarters of the New York Police Department, sitting in Schaefer’s chair, holding a photo of Schaefer and Rasche that was the only ornament on Schaefer’s desk, and staring at Schaefer.
After a moment of utter silence, Schaefer said, “Go ahead, make yourself at home. Take a look around. Maybe you’ll find some quarters under the seat cushion.”
”Ah,” the stranger said, carefully putting down the photo he’d been looking at. “My name is Smithers, Detective Schaefer.” He rose, holding out a hand to shake as he came around the desk. “I’ve been sent…”
Schaefer ignored the hand. He had recognized something about the other’s attitude. “You’re one of those army goons,” he interrupted. “Like Philips and the others. The ones who thought they could handle our friends on Third Avenue last summer:”
”I, ah…” Smithers began, quickly lowering the proffered hand.
He didn’t deny the connection, which was all the confirmation Schaefer needed. Schaefer cut him off. “I’ve got work to do, Smithers,” he said. “Real work. Whatever it is you came to say, spit it out. Then leave.” He pulled off his jacket.
”Yes, I…” Smithers said. Then he saw Schaefer’s face and cut to the chase. “There’s been an incident, Detective Schaefer. An entirely new occurrence. We believe your expertise, due to your previous experience in related matters, could prove invaluable should the event develop beyond current expectations…”
”Jesus, do you people spend your lunch hours memorizing a goddamn thesaurus?” Schaefer demanded as he turned and opened his locker. “Let me guess what you’re actually telling me, shall I? The boys are back in town and you’d like me to check it out, for old times’ sake.”
”Exactly,” Smithers said. “There are some new elements, however…”
”Fuck new elements,” Schaefer said as he hung up his jacket and slipped off his shoulder holster. “I’ve got a job to do here.”
”Of course, we would clear your status with your chief and any other applicable agencies…”
”I’ll bet you would.” Schaefer unbuttoned his shirt, speaking as he did. “You don’t seem to get it, Smithers, so let me spell it out. The Schaefer boys have put in their time as far as Philips and the rest of you are concerned. If you and the rest of your gang of hotshot special agents, or whatever you call yourselves, want to go for another tag-team match with those ugly mothers from outer space, you go right ahead, have at it.” He pulled off the shirt and slid it onto a hanger, exposing a body that would have done Arnold Schwarzenegger proud. “But you can leave me right out of it.”
”But, Detective…” Smithers began.
Schaefer taped a wire to his chest, holding a tiny microphone in place. “No,” he said.
”I’m sure that if…”
Schaefer continued to install the surveillance equipment as he said, “What part of ‘no’ didn’t you understand?”
”Damn it, Detective, will you let me finish a sentence?” Smithers shouted.
”Why should I?” Schaefer asked. “Besides, I just did.” With the wires securely in place, he reached in the locker and pulled out a gaudy pink-and-green shirt, the sort of thing the tackier pimps on Seventh Avenue wore.
Smithers fumed for a moment, then said, “I’d think you’d want a chance to get involved in this.”
Schaefer started buttoning the shirt, then looked at Smithers. “Why? Are they in New York again?”
”Well, no,” Smithers admitted.
”I knew it,” Schaefer said, looking back down at the buttons. “I’d have smelled them if they were here.” He finished buttoning the shirt, pulled a brown leather coat out of the locker, then turned to Smithers and said, “Listen up, army boy. If they aren’t in New York, I’m not interested. I don’t like those sons of bitches, but there are a lot of people in this world I don’t like, including you.” He tugged on one sleeve. “I’ve done my time, Smithers. So did my brother. He lost his entire squad to them; I got my city shot up and lost my partner. We took down a few of those ugly bastards along the way, we did our best, and I’m willing to call it even if they stay off my turf. You tell me they’re not on my turf, so you can just go to hell, and take General Philips with you.” He pulled on the other sleeve.
”Your ‘turf’ is just New York?”
”Damn right.” He straightened the coat. “I may think I’m pretty hot shit, but I’m not up to playing cop for the whole goddamned world. New York’s big enough for anyone.”
”So you won’t consider helping us?”
”I told you ‘no’ once already.”
”That’s your final word?”
”My real ‘final word’ would probably get me arrested,” Schaefer said, giving Smithers a shove toward the door. “Now get out of my office before I sprinkle you with salt and watch you melt on the sidewalk like the slug you are.” He pushed Smithers out and closed the door.
That done, he glanced at the clock. Despite that little chat he still had a few minutes to spare before he had to be in position.
He looked at the closed door. The man in the suit was making no effort to get back in, which was good-but that didn’t mean it was the end of the matter.
Even if Philips and his buddies were willing to let it drop, that didn’t mean Schaefer was. He’d been looking for Philips in his spare time for months, and hadn’t found him-but now he might have a fresh lead.
”Smithers, huh?” he
muttered to himself. “If that’s a real name, I just might want to look him up later. We might have a nice little chat about Dutch.” He fished a scrap of paper from the pile on his desk, found a pen, and scribbled a quick note to himself just two names, “Smithers” and “Philips,” with an arrow connecting them.
Schaefer’s brother Dutch had disappeared years ago while working for Philips. Schaefer was certain that Dutch had run up against one of those alien big-game hunters, down there in Central America where Philips and his boys had been playing around in the local politics. Dutch and his boys had walked right into its hunting ground, and the thing had butchered Dutch’s entire team-but Dutch had apparently killed it and gotten out alive.
And then he’d vanished, and Schaefer was pretty damn sure that Philips knew more about that disappearance than he’d admitted.
And after last summer’s debacle Philips had disappeared, too-into the Pentagon somewhere, probably. Schaefer had resented that; he had wanted to have a friendly little talk with Philips.
This Smithers might be able to lead him to Philips, and maybe they could make some kind of a deal. He might just help Philips out after all, if the two of them could agree on a few details. He didn’t like those big ugly bastards from outer space, and despite what he’d told Smithers, a rematch wasn’t completely out of the question.
Any deal they might make would have to be on Schaefer’s terms, though. He wasn’t going to come running whenever Philips called. And sending Smithers here to fetch him had just pissed him off.
Schaefer would deal with Smithers and his boss when and where he chose-which wasn’t here or now. For one thing, he wasn’t going to tackle any sort of serious negotiating here at Police Plaza, with a couple of hundred cops around who might have their own ideas about what was appropriate bargaining behavior. No, they’d meet somewhere private, at a time and place of Schaefer’s choosing, when he was good and ready, and when that happened the agenda was going to start with Dutch, not with those alien freaks.
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