The Ancient Breed

by David Brookover

  41

  N

  ick dropped Neo off in front of the former New York Giants lineman’s condo in Manhattan and sped away toward La Guardia Airport to catch a chartered flight back to Washington. Neo still had plenty of his lucrative contract money and property left from his pro-football-playing days that more than adequately supplemented his paltry Orion Sector income.

  On the drive into the Big Apple from the asylum, they spoke to Rance Osborne, and the three fashioned a plan for investigating Aspirations, Inc. Tomorrow, Neo would check out the international corporation’s facilities on the Avenue of the Americas near Bryant Park. He would enter under the guise of a concerned son-in-law scrutinizing the company for his aging mother-in-law who required a few nips and tucks to regain her fading, youthful appearance, but who was adamant that the reconstruction be indiscernible to her friends. Cost was no object.

  Neo would, of course, insist on a complete tour while the staff members explained his mother-in-law’s options. While inside, Neo agreed to scout the place and plant as many miniature surveillance cameras as he could without being detected. For his part of the mission, Rance promised to obtain a wire-tap order from a friendly federal judge, claiming that the age-defying corporation was a grave national security risk. Orion Sector’s electronics team would install a wire tap on all the Aspirations, Inc., phone lines that same day.

  The procedure was routine, plucked from the plebian FBI Strategies 101 course. It had a low risk factor and a high rate of success. It was as safe as buttering toast in a bomb shelter. So, what could possibly go wrong?

  As Neo would discover, everything.

  After a restful, uneventful flight, Nick grabbed a taxi at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, and they sped north, exiting off Interstate 270 at Frederick, Maryland. He gave the cabbie directions to an all-night diner a block from his personal storage facility by Fort Detrick. No one else knew of his storage rental there, not even Rance. The facility housed what he liked to call his alter ego. He kept the stored items in pristine condition, but he hadn’t used them since the Mortal Eclipse investigation.

  After generously tipping the driver, Nick waited until the taxi’s taillights disappeared before he walked beneath the soft street lighting to the maze of brick storage structures. After making sure that he wasn’t observed, he quickly unlocked the overhead storage door and raised it. After yanking it down, he unlocked a tall cabinet and opened its airtight door. Inside, there was an assortment of clothing from tuxedos to fishing plaids as well as rows of secured drawers.

  The rattling air conditioner prevented the atmosphere from growing stale and musty during his long absences. Nick inspected his shimmering blue Jeep Cherokee. He paid the storage manager a monthly stipend to take the Cherokee for a long drive every week to maintain its operational integrity. The SUVs license plates were registered to Dave Findlay, a fictitious cover ID developed in great depth by Crow and Geronimo. Findlay was a top-level, NSA official who had the highest government security clearances and was considered an untouchable to all local law enforcement agencies throughout the country. This fabricated persona was validated in every major computer data bank in the world.

  Nick opened several drawers and pulled out the things he’d need for his road trip to Old Mother Hubbard’s. One of them was Dave Findlay’s scrambler cell phone. As he laid it on the bench behind him, it rang, startling him in the eerie silence. He waited until his nerves settled before answering the call.

  “Yeah?” he answered.

  It was Neo.

  “I got a message from headquarters for you. Seems your pretty little Florida State archeologist has been trying to reach you all day.” He yawned. “Why are they calling me and not you? Your sat phone busted?”

  “I turned it off before I entered the asylum, and since we used yours to conference with Rance, I never gave it a thought.”

  “Well, it’s a damn good thing I’ve got this number. Now can I please get some shut-eye?”

  “Absolutely, after you give me Lisa’s number.”

  “Oh yeah. Right.” He yawned again, and then recited her phone number.

  Nick committed it to memory. “Now you can hit the sack.”

  “That’s the plan, my man. If I go into Aspirations tomorrow looking like the half-dead zombie that’s starin’ at me from the mirror right this second, they’ll start shootin’ me full of botox.”

  Nick chuckled, hung up, and dialed Lisa Anders. He checked his watch at the first ring. 3:06 a.m. Bad timing.

  “Hello?” Her voice was peppy – high strung – not the groggy, froggy voice he expected.

  “It’s Nick. You needed to talk to me?”

  “Nick! Oh, thank God. Yes, I need to talk to you,” she burst out.

  He was immediately on edge. There was a hysterical undercurrent propelling that flood of words. “Okay, shoot,” he urged.

  “I can’t explain this over the phone. I have to show you some photos and drawings. Can we meet?”

  Nick was taken aback. This was definitely not what he had expected when he phoned her. “Now?”

  “Now would be great!”

  He hesitated. Meeting with Lisa would put him way behind schedule for his powwow with Crow later on.

  “Please,” Lisa begged, sensing his reluctance.

  “Well, I don’t know. I’m in the middle of something extremely important, and time is of the essence.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this, Nick,” she said mysteriously. “We’ve got more trouble than we thought down in Florida.”

  Nick’s curiosity was instantly aroused, as she no doubt figured it would be. He shook his head and grinned despite the situation. He had just struck her bait like a big mouth bass, and she would no doubt waste little time in setting the hook.

  “Okay.” He sighed his surrender. “Where?”

  “I’ll come to you,” she said. “This is really important.”

  Nick gave her the address and directions to the dingy, all-night diner down the street from his storage unit. Chances were that it would be fairly empty at this late hour, so they could have some privacy.

  “Can’t you give me a little hint?” he asked.

  “Sure. Seth Lewis and I have discovered a completely new, upright-walking species, and the preliminary genetic findings indicate that it’s not related to humans.”

  He wasn’t following her. “So, is this supposed to be wonderful news? Win you the Nobel prize?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Nick frowned. “All right, I give. What’s some old, extinct fossil got to do with me?”

  “It has everything to do with you, Nick, because thanks to the fountain of youth, this species is no longer extinct.”

  “C’mon,” he chuckled. “Just put any live specimens you find in a zoo, call it Jurassic Park, and charge admission to see the prehistoric freaks.”

  “Jesus! You don’t understand. They’re killing machines, Nick!” Lisa huffed. “I’ll tell you more when I see you. Bye.” Dial tone.

  Nick thoughtfully switched off the phone. He wasn’t certain that he wanted to know more. Between the demon guardian and the Walkingman creature, he’d seen enough in the asylum’s basement to last him a lifetime or two.

  42

  C

  row ordered Gabriella’s magical house to convey him to the front foyer, but nothing happened. Clay and Blossom sat tightly intertwined on the bed, their eyes wide with trepidation. Crow repeated his command a half dozen times, each effort louder than the one before, but it was to no avail. He remained in the bedroom.

  “You two stay here!” Crow shouted over his shoulder, as raced into the hall toward the stairs. His memory of last year’s battle with the fire demons inside the mansion spilled into his consciousness, and he suddenly remembered how to navigate the mansion’s complex layout.

  However, when he arrived at the spot where the stairs had been located on his previous visit, there was nothing but a wall.

 
; “Damn! This can’t be right,” he grumbled, panic seeping into his forced calm. Jill was in danger downstairs, and he needed to rescue her. Now! He glanced nervously at his watch. Jill’s scream occurred seven minutes ago. Time was running out for her. He sprinted from one end of the hallway to the other in search of the stairs, but there were none.

  It was obvious that the mansion was blocking his access to the lower floors.

  Crow swore in his native tongue as he stood there, bent at the waist, collecting his second wind and wits. He was a computer analyst and programmer, not a damn track star. Why was the mansion being so stubborn? Then it hit him. The mansion was under attack and automatically closed down lower-floor access to protect its occupants from whatever threat lurked downstairs.

  Crow glanced up, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, glanced down the hallway, and managed a slight grin. The mansion hadn’t covered all its bases. Grabbing a chair from the closest bedroom, Crow loped down the hallway as if he was still looking for the stairs, but when he reached the end, he heaved the heavy birch chair through the paned glass window. The fractured glass fell away into the darkness, tinkling like a diminutive wind chime as it rained upon the portico’s tile roof below.

  Before the mansion could repair the damage, Crow stepped through the window opening onto a narrow ledge that wrapped the third story. Menacing gargoyle sculptures blocked both front corners. Crow gazed down. A gray fog pillow obscured the portico roof, and while it appeared soft and inviting for a freefall landing, Crow realized that such a foolhardy stunt would snap his legs like twigs.

  The fog steadily rose like a flooding river, and he realized that he’d be totally blind to his surroundings within a minute. A crisp flapping to his left snagged his attention. The sound was repeated to his right. Crow turned toward the broken window, but it had been replaced by an ivy-covered, brick facade that blended seamlessly into the rest of the mansion’s exterior! He was trapped on the ledge, unarmed and unable to reach Jill.

  The fog rose to the bottom of the ledge. The flapping ceased and was displaced by a swooshing in the eerie stillness. The damp air chilled his flesh as he peered into the menacing mist to locate the source of the mysterious sound. He saw nothing.

  Suddenly, two invisible vises clamped his arms and whisked him off the ledge. His scream caught in his throat when he recognized his two attackers. The gargoyles on the ledge sprang to life to assist him; at least, he fervently hoped so!

  They descended into the pea soup where the gargoyles were merely a pair of spectral outlines. Crow was relieved when his shoes touched down on ole terra firma. The gargoyles released his arms, pushed him forward, and accompanied him up the steps to the portico.

  Crow’s determination to save Jill wavered. Whatever awaited them at the top of the steps was so powerful that the mansion needed all its power reserves to repel it. He pictured Jill again, and his trepidation dissolved. He was now prepared to go the limit to rescue her.

  As they ascended, the fog thinned and the night air beneath the roof appeared much darker than the surrounding blackness. Crow blinked. Was he confronting an earthly black hole, or was his imagination playing tricks on his eyes? But how would that be possible?

  He and the gargoyles halted abruptly at the edge of the shapeless black puddle. Sonorous growls rumbled from the gargoyles’ throats as their powerful wings curled against their notched spines. The air was surprisingly pungent with the malodor of scorched flesh. The hairs stiffened on his neck. Jill! Oh God, was that her burnt flesh that was turning his stomach?

  He leaped forward despite the danger, but the gargoyles yanked him back with them. As the three stared at the ominous presence, there was an immediate response to Crow’s ephemeral charge; the shapeless, black puddle suddenly shriveled into a featureless, humanoid form. Crow retreated a step as the gargoyles confronted their newly shaped adversary. Two blazing, malachite eyes materialized in the form’s top oval segment, and a curled slice of green light, filled with thorny silhouettes, appeared where a mouth would normally be. The cremator stench swelled.

  Suddenly, a singular lightning bolt struck the horrific form and instantly dispelled it. In its place stood the profile of a tall man wearing a wide-brimmed hat, with a single feather wedged into the band at a rakish angle. The gargoyles bristled at the stranger, but Crow ordered them to back off.

  The porch lights snapped to life, and the swirling fog enveloped them. Crow ran past the tall figure into the foyer where Jill lay sprawled on the floor unconscious. He cradled her limp body, rocked her, and gently spoke her name. The minutes passed like hours until her eyelids fluttered open, and she screamed.

  “It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “The boogie man’s gone.”

  She pointed at the tall man in the doorway, and Crow chuckled.

  “Jill, I’d like you to meet our tribal medicine man, Charlie Crowfeather,” he said.

  The seven-foot-tall Indian stepped into the light beneath the chandelier. Crow helped Jill to her feet, but she leaned heavily against him. He quickly explained that he had forgotten that he asked Charlie Crowfeather to stand in for him at the mansion while he rejoined Nick and Neo in the field. That was where he belonged.

  She smiled weakly at the giant. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowfeather.”

  He removed his hat. “Charlie, please. And the pleasure’s all mine.”

  Crow looked down into Jill’s pallid face. “What happened?”

  “I answered the door, and there was this big, blob thing hovering outside. I screamed, and then it felt like my soul was being sucked from my body. My skin got clammy, and that’s the last thing I can remember. It was like I was face-to-face with the Grim Reaper,” she explained.

  “You’d better go upstairs and rest,” Crow said.

  Jill frowned. “You’re coming, too, aren’t you?”

  He flashed her a devilish grin and gave her a peck on the cheek. “In a few minutes. You can count on it.”

  She disappeared, and Charlie Crowfeather’s jaw dropped as he shoved his hat back atop his head.

  “This is a magical place,” Crow said, chuckling. He described the house’s unique powers, and then sobered. “What was that thing out there?”

  Charlie’s eyes were hooded like a hawk, and the contour of his nose was a blunt axe. His mouth was wide and humorless, and his teeth were strikingly white against his red-bronzed face. His broad-shouldered, rangy frame stood tall and straight like a towering pine, and he conducted himself with an air of self-confidence. His unruly black hair was unbraided and flowed from beneath his hat brim like a midnight cataract.

  “A paradox,” he answered grimly.

  “Don’t feed me riddles, Charlie. Give it to me straight,” Crow demanded, having endured enough frustration for one night.

  Charlie shrugged. “All I can tell you was that it was death in the form of a living being, and that being was not of this world, Crow.”

  Crow massaged his temples. “A god?’

  “A devil. One that is planning to prey on our world.”

  Crow paced the foyer. “Can we prevent that from happening?”

  The big man shrugged again. “I don’t know enough to predict either way. All I know is that if we go head-to-head with that devil with all our Indian magic, we would be helpless against it. Its powers are too strong to defeat,” he responded.

  Crow remained silent, and then guided Charlie to his room the old-fashioned way – up the stairs. By the time Crow entered Jill’s bedroom, she was sleeping soundly. He covered her with a blanket and retreated to his own room. It was probably just as well she was asleep. After what Charlie had just told him, he wasn’t sure he could have mustered the sexual energy.

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost four, and he wasn’t tired. He decided to get an early start to Old Mother Hubbard’s and beat the daytime heat. There wasn’t anything more he could do there. Clay and Blossom were settled in, and Jill was safe.

  He slipped outside to the Town Car wi
thout being noticed, and slowly drove off the estate. He disliked abandoning Jill like this, but he and Geronimo had work to do that was critical to their case. He yawned. He could sleep when he arrived at Old Mother Hubbard’s. Until then, he looked forward to a relaxing trip on the lightly traveled roads.

  Crow turned on the radio, found a jazz station, and leaned back in the seat, completely unaware that he was driving into an ambush.

  43

  I

  n the sweeping history of stereotypical dives, the diner down the block from Nick’s storage facility took that genus to new depths. A choking, blue haze greeted Nick when he stepped inside, the results of a half-dozen cigarette chimneys seated at the counter and grease streaming into the air from the battery of deep fryers and grills. The round stools lining the counter were upholstered with cracked, red plastic, and the Formica countertop was chipped and badly stained. The booths fared little better, but at least they were semi-clean.

  Nick nearly slipped on the grease-slick tile, and the diner’s low-life clientele swiveled their heads in his direction to witness his balancing act. He swiftly slid into the closest booth, and regretted his poor choice of a meeting place. The tattooed, oily haired, and wire-bearded riffraff shot disapproving glances at his fashionably casual attire, and finally turned away to resume their quiet, cough-riddled conversations.

  A middle-aged waitress, who could have easily passed as a poster woman for worldwide starvation, sauntered to his booth. She had a cigarette clenched between her crooked, yellow teeth and was mouthing the words to the bluegrass song on the radio. She managed to croak a question that Nick assumed was a request for his order as Lisa strode in. The stool people’s necks twisted in her direction, and their dissolute eyes stalked her to the booth.

  Lisa tossed the guys a flirtatious smile, and then slid into the booth across from Nick.

  “Sickoes,” she commented to the waitress, as she placed her thin briefcase on the seat and ordered coffee, one egg over easy, and toast. Nick’s stomach grumbled at the mere thought of ingesting any of the diner’s food, so he ordered coffee, black, and a glass of ice water. When the smoke-suckers finally resumed their earnest conversations, Lisa snapped opened her briefcase and withdrew a legal-sized manila folder.