His long, black braids glistened beneath the mercury vapor lights in the parking lot. Though it was early afternoon, the electronic sensor controls had activated the pinkish glows beneath the turbulent, gray skies. Rain sluiced across his face, rushing off his nose and bottom lip like miniature cataracts, as he broke into a tan SUV. After hot-wiring the ignition, he drove slowly across the flooded parking lot to avoid arousing suspicion from the lone security man huddled in the brick guardhouse. It wouldn’t do to get sloppy at this juncture of the operation.
Jay braked at the sliding window, paid the rent-a-cop, and drove south on I-75 toward Sarasota where he planned to abandon the SUV and steal another car. From Sarasota, he would head north on the interstate toward his ultimate destination - New York City. Along his chosen route, he planned to steal a new car every three to four hours, because when one car got too hot, he’d ditch it for another to keep the cops from drawing a bead on his position.
Hopefully, the FBI would find his motorcycle and assume he had escaped by train. When they figured out that he had stolen the SUV instead and ditched it in Sarasota, their obvious conclusion would be that their terrorist suspect was headed south. Those two misdirection ploys, alone, would buy him a day’s head start, and by the time the feds connected all the dots, he’d be safely hidden away in the Big Apple.
His thumbs beat an up-tempo tattoo on the steering wheel in time with a blistering, heavy metal rock tune. However, Jay was blissfully unaware that there was another about to track him, and it wouldn’t need to connect any dots to pin down his location.
It would come straight for him.
Three and half hours later, one of Neo’s operatives assigned to identifying all the possible transportation routes out of Tampa stumbled upon Walkingman’s motorcycle at the train station. It took over a dozen agents two more hours to stop, board, and search the trains that had departed the station that afternoon. By the time Neo learned that the tan SUV had been stolen from the train station, the hour hand on the wall clock inside the situation room at Tampa’s FBI headquarters nudged past midnight.
Things were not running smoothly for Neo. He dug his knuckles into his temples and kneaded the hammering pain. The terrorist had outfoxed him at every turn, just as he did at the VA Medical Center. Nick was particularly concerned after the hospital blood test results indicated that the First Lady and her four companions were infected with an unknown, virus-like organism. They were immediately flown up to the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland for observation and treatment.
Leaving Neo in charge, Nick strode petulantly out of the situation room and drove through the heavy rain to Blossom’s private hospital to arrange for her transportation to Duneden. When he arrived at her room, she was gone. The bed was made, and all the medical equipment had been removed. Nick rushed to the nurses’ station. A young, willowy woman glanced up.
“May I help you?”
He flashed his identification. “Where’s Blossom Smith?”
“She checked out a couple hours ago,” the nurse replied.
“Who checked her out?”
“Her grandfather,” she replied uneasily, reacting to his stressed voice.
“How did they leave?”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“Car? Taxi? What?”
“I . . . don’t know. The doctor signed the release forms and told me to start the patient paperwork. By the time I printed out the forms and rounded up a wheelchair to transport her downstairs to the exit, she and her grandfather were gone. I was only away from the desk for a minute to check on another patient and must’ve missed them somehow. Is something wrong?”
“Everything,” he muttered, and flew down the stairs to the lobby. He found a isolated corner and phoned Crow.
“Yeah?” Crow sounded half-asleep.
“This is Nick. Grandfather checked Blossom out of the hospital, and no one seems to know where they went. Do you?” he asked gruffly.
“Can’t a red man get his warrior rest around here?”
“Not on my shift. Give.”
“Okay, okay, I know where Grandfather took her. They’re back in Nebraska at the reservation,” Crow replied in a husky voice, then added, “inside a tunnel.”
“Reservation! Tunnel!” Nick exclaimed, and then quickly lowered his voice to conciliate the angry stares from other visitors seated in the lobby. “How the hell can he protect her from the demon guardian there?”
“Indian magic.”
“C’mon, Crow, get real. Only Duneden has magic that powerful.”
“Never underestimate Grandfather,” Crow retorted.
“So how’s he planning to protect Blossom? Chants? Indian warrior ghosts? What?”
“How do you palefaces protect yourselves from vampires?”
“What?” Nick was in no mood to play games.
“I’m talking about stringing garlic and holding crucifixes,” he answered.
Nick leaned heavily against the wall and rested his forehead on the cool plaster. “That’s all he’s got?”
“Not literally, but . . .”
“I know, I know. He’s got other low-tech, superstitious magical shit.”
“Hey, Custer, it works.”
Nick searched his mind for an epiphany that might convince Crow to take Blossom to Duneden, instead.
“I thought you loved your niece,” he said at last. It was a lame tack, but it was all his weary brain could muster.
“Hey, no fair hitting below the belt,” Crow grumbled.
“Answer the question. Would you want your Grandfather protecting you with his hoodoo, voodoo magic in a one-on-one confrontation with the demon guardian?”
Silence.
Nick waited.
“Damn you, Nick.”
“Well?”
“No. You satisfied?”
“Not until you go out there and get Blossom to Duneden.”
“I’ll have to catch a plane in the morning.”
“What! You mean you don’t know how to . . .”
“Wind walk?”
“Yeah, wind walk. You still can’t do it after all of Grandfather’s training?”
“He gave up on me. He said I’m a hopeless case and a blight on our tribal pride.”
Nick nearly burst out laughing, despite the situation. “Do you know when he might get around to taking another crack at coaching you?”
Crow lowered his voice. “Yeah. After he’s a resident of the Happy Hunting Ground.”
Nick rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Just call me in the morning with your flight number.” He hung up.
Now that Grandfather had taken matters into his own hands and was responsible for Blossom’s protection, Nick was officially off the hook. But, that didn’t stop him from worrying about Crow’s niece. He desperately hoped that his friend would arrive at the reservation and pull them out of there before the demon guardian appeared.
Nick refused to consider the consequences if Crow failed to reach them in time.
30
A
terrified Mindy Landers awoke in a strange, creepy place. Her wrists and ankles were secured to a ladder-back chair by wide metal cuffs; the chair was bolted securely to the concrete floor. Terror riled her stomach, and a wave of scorching acid surged into her throat. The pain moistened her eyes, blurring her vision for several minutes. When her vision regained its clarity, the view of her prison raised goose bumps on her flesh.
A distant yellow glow revealed the shadowy cubicle surrounding her like a doorless outhouse. The back of her chair was positioned a foot from a moldy cement-block wall. Two plywood walls, extending six feet from the back wall on each side of her, blocked her view in either direction. The unseen, murky unknown heightened her trepidation. What was this place?
She glanced up. Sagging, water-stained timbers, connected by tangled gossamer webs, supported the fractured, wooden ceiling above her. Gargantuan, fleshy spiders roamed the gauzy highways, continually ch
ecking their webbed traps for meals. She quickly looked away and inspected the open area in front of her cubicle. The acid rose into her throat again. Dismembered, human bones were haphazardly stacked in cobwebbed piles below rusted manacles protruding from the facing wall. She swallowed another wave of acid and prayed she wouldn’t puke. In her immobile condition, spraying herself with vomit and being unable to clean away the horrible stench was the last thing she wanted to happen.
The entire area was dank with mold and mildew, and a faint malodor of rot and death assailed her nostrils. The floor was thick with ancient dust, disturbed only by recent shoe imprints that circled her chair. Beyond her three-walled chamber, there were narrow, crisscrossing rat trails. She shuddered and nearly blacked out from the implications. Was she about to become rat food?
Water trickled into a distant puddle, razing the ominous silence with a piercing, tinny echo. An occasional braying of a ship’s horn indicated that she wasn’t far from one of New York’s harbors. Just where was she? And why was she there? Didn’t her kidnapper know that she was merely a homeless bag lady? There was no one who would pay a ransom for her release. No one! Even in its muzzy state, her imagination conjured various frightening scenarios. Was she about to become a slasher’s victim? Even worse, a cannibal slasher? Or was she to be tortured and killed by some crazy serial killer?
Suddenly, a high-pitched screech to her left shattered the stillness, like that of a mortally wounded dog. Her goose bumps exploded into violent shivers. She wasn’t alone!
“Hello? Who’s there?” Mindy ventured, her questions barely audible.
The wailing intensified, but there was no response to her inquiry.
“Hello,” Mindy said again, the word more distinct this time.
The wailing mixed with frantic, metallic jangling, suggesting there was another prisoner like her who was struggling to escape.
“Hello?” The word had been spoken to her right. It was a woman’s voice.
Mindy twisted her head in that direction. “Who are you?”
“None of your damn business!” came a curt reply.
The response rankled Mindy. “Then fuck you and the horse you rode in on!”
“Eat shit!”
Mindy reined in her temper. Trading insults with that bitch wasn’t helping her escape. “I’m Mindy,” she offered a few minutes later. “I’m shackled to this goddammed chair. What about you, honey?”
“I ain’t your honey!” the woman snapped.
The wailing to Mindy’s left subsided, displaced by raspy muttering. The words were strident, but unintelligible. Nothing like Mindy had ever heard before. She wondered if there was a human in the cubicle next to hers or a talking ape. Or, maybe something worse. Far worse.
The squeak of an opening door quelled her speculations. The sound was rapidly followed by a menacing thump that jolted the concrete floor. Mindy stiffened, alert and scared out of her wits. Dust dropped from the ceiling with each earthshaking thud and clouded the air like a foul fog. There was another thud, then another. What on God’s green Earth could possibly be making that horrible noise? she asked herself.
Each bone-jarring thud grew louder. Closer to Mindy’s cubicle. Perspiration oozed from her uncleansed pores and drenched her body with a squalid stench. Could they be footfalls? Not even her morbid imagination could muster an answer to that question.
Finally, the thudding ceased. Mindy listened to deep, raucous breathing nearby. Too close for comfort. She held her breath, hoping against hope that whatever was out there wouldn’t sense her presence. An earsplitting growl deflated Mindy’s lungs. Her arms and legs quivered badly. She squeezed her eyelids shut and pressed her arms and legs against the chair to prevent her manacles from rattling. A warm wetness spread beneath her, and a strong, fetid odor drifted up to her face. Mindy silently chastised herself for pissing in her pants. Panic triggered another volcanic stomach acid attack that blistered her throat. She clenched her teeth to dam her cries.
The wailing and metallic jangling in the next cubicle was louder now. Frenzied! The wailing escalated to violent screams. The prisoner thrashed wildly in the chair as the heavy-footed arrival attacked the wailer with a predator’s roar. The victim’s screams rose to an unearthly crescendo for a split second before abruptly dying away.
Mindy tried to block out the disgusting, flesh-ripping sounds that were followed by a series of sharp snaps, like fracturing dry turkey wishbones on the day after Thanksgiving, but she couldn’t. She swooned once but caught herself before she rattled her manacles. Suddenly, she saw an indistinct shape sail across the gloom in front of her cubicle and splatter against the wall with a splintering thump. It dropped on the existing bone piles.
Mindy squinted into the dusty air. Her mouth flew open, and a cry escaped her quivering lips. The shredded and twisted body of the poor soul from the next cubicle was now a blood-washed, lifeless lump.
Without a head!
The concealed killer nudged the thin plywood partition separating it and Mindy; the wood groaned and bowed toward her. Her eyes rolled to white cue balls as her mind plummeted into a black, yawning pit.
31
C
row arranged a privately chartered flight to Sioux City, and then hopped aboard a helicopter to cover the final thirty miles to the Omaha Indian Reservation, tucked in the northeast corner of Nebraska. To the west, he watched as angry swirls of charcoal and white merged into a nasty squall front. Stormy stalactites drooped below the darkening sky like a parade of swollen udders inside a reservation milking barn.
Crow slid into the rented Santa Fe that awaited him at Walthill, squealed onto Route 94, and headed east toward Grandfather’s modest rural home near the Missouri River. His small farm was situated on twenty-four gently undulating, wooded acres inside the Reservation’s 2,594 square miles that easily accommodated the Omaha Tribe’s five thousand residents.
Crow’s chest was tight and his mouth dry. He prayed that he would arrive in time to save the old man and Blossom, but he couldn’t shake the bad vibes that eroded his hope. He drove faster.
Grandfather’s single-story dwelling sat atop a modest rise and concealed the opening to an ancient tunnel system where sacred tribal powwows and other traditional tribal ceremonies had taken place for centuries. Grandfather knew the tunnel maze like the back his hand. He inherited the family responsibility of keeping the site safe and intact. The tribe bestowed the title of medicine man on every male elder in his family, along with the necessary magical powers to ward off evil spirits from the holy site. Grandfather might have the opportunity to test the strength of his powers today if Crow didn’t get Grandfather and Blossom to Duneden before the demon guardian made its appearance.
Earlier that morning, Blossom felt a tremor of trepidation as she followed Grandfather into the tunnel. She was about to be the first woman to visit the sacred tribal ceremonial site.
The tunnel was damp and cool, and smelled of earth and smoke. Torches exploded into flames ahead of them and dispelled some of the oppressive darkness. Her nerves short-circuited each time they passed a murky entrance to an adjoining tunnel. Where did all those foreboding passages lead, and what kind of secret ceremonies took place there? Her imagination conjured images that chilled her flesh, so she ignored the other intersections. She really didn’t want to know what went on in there.
They walked silently, each with their own thoughts and concerns. Blossom realized from the start that this was not going to be a guided tour. Grandfather didn’t identify curious wall markings and paintings they passed, or explain their significance. This was strictly business. Life and death. No frills. No merriment. She wasn’t that little girl of long ago who visited her grandfather and grandmother for a fun vacation.
As they descended deeper into that ghostly realm, Blossom’s fond childhood memories became more troubling. She sensed that this might be the end of her close, warm relationship with Grandfather, and just the thought of enduring that enormous emptiness broug
ht her to tears.
At last, they came upon a vast chamber with an enormous ceremonial fire pit in the center below a ventilation shaft. Small rocks formed three concentric circles about the fire pit, and the site reminded Blossom of a large bull’s-eye. Grandfather turned and faced his granddaughter for the first time since they had entered the tunnels.
His expression was solemn. “Blossom, I am going to hide you away in a connecting chamber where no evil can touch you,” he announced. “I, alone, will challenge the great demon beast that’s tracking you, and hopefully my powers will be strong enough to destroy it.”
Blossom went to him and hugged him tightly. “I won’t leave you here alone,” she said stubbornly. “I’ll fight the demon with you.”
“You don’t possess the skill to survive such a confrontation. You must go into the safe chamber,” he replied firmly.
Blossom folded her arms across her chest. “And what if I won’t go?”
“Then you will die.”
Her defiance softened a bit. “Dying doesn’t scare me,” she said, but the old man saw through her brave facade.
“I am old and have lived a full, rich life. You are young and have everything to live for.”
She stepped away. “I have nothing to live for! Clay’s dead, and if you die, I’ll be completely alone. I’d rather be dead than live like that.”
“There’s always Crow. He loves you as much as your parents did.”
“My parents. They died before I was ten. I hardly remember them.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “You’re the only one who means anything to me, Grandfather. I won’t let you face that demon alone, and that’s that.”
Grandfather pulled her to him. “What if I tell you that your precious Clay is still alive?” he whispered into her ear.
She pushed him away. “How could you lie to me like that, Grandfather? Clay’s dead, and you know it!”
The old man shook his head. “It was Nick’s idea to falsely publicize Clay’s death, and it was a good idea. That would keep your old beau, Jay Walkingman, from finding Clay and murdering his only witness.”
The Ancient Breed Page 20
