Prophet Of Doom td-111

by Warren Murphy

  ' 'Then let your final days in my service end as they began. Here, at Folcroft. I will have your old rooms reopened and I will send for your things in Massachusetts."

  Chiun considered. "You are gracious to the end, Emperor Smith," he said with a polite bow.

  "And you honor me with your presence, Master of Sinanju," Smith replied. He returned the bow.

  "Let's hold the frigging phone for a minute, shall we?" Remo countered, shocked by Smith's easy acceptance of Chiun's resignation. "You're just going to let him up and hi-de-ho out the door?"

  "I don't seem to have a choice," Smith said.

  "Wisdom flows like honey from your delicate lips," Chiun said, nodding serenely.

  "Bulldookey," Remo snapped. "Each one of you thinks you're scamming the other, and whenever that happens I'm the one that always winds up holding the stinky end of the stick."

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  "Forgive him, Emperor," Chiun said. "He is crass and does not understand an agreement between his betters."

  "Of course," Smith replied. He retook his seat. "I will make the preparations for your departure." And with the promise made, Smith once more began typing swiftly at his keyboard.

  "Come, Remo," Chiun commanded. "We shall retire to our rooms." And with that the Master of Sin-anju breezed from the office.

  Remo watched Chiun go and then glanced back at Smith. The CURE director was hunched diligently over his hidden computer console.

  "Right smack in the middle, every time," he muttered to himself. He slowly pulled the door closed.

  Once Remo was gone, Smith peered up over the top of his rimless glasses.

  His promise to Chiun of a submarine had been a delaying tactic.

  While Smith ordinarily didn't like to proceed on instinct, at the moment his instincts were screaming that something big was happening in Wyoming. This was not the time for hardball contract negotiations.

  Whatever Chiun's game was, Smith had to move fast. He had effectively stalled the Master of Sinanju for a few days. He hoped it would be enough.

  Smith attacked the keyboard with renewed vigor. Time was of the essence.

  Chapter Eleven

  Candy Clay was hiking through town on her way home from the movies.

  It was late—much later than Candy was supposed to be out alone—but Heidi Lovell's father had gotten called away on an emergency job, so he wasn't able to give Candy a ride home like he'd promised. He left a note on the kitchen table telling Candy that she was welcome to stay overnight if she wanted and that he'd pick up the tab next time the two girls went to the movies together.

  But Candy had swimming lessons early in the morning, so even though her father would kill her when he found out, she decided to walk the three miles home. Her father would have to leam that he couldn't treat her like a kid anymore. After all, she was starting fourth grade in the fall.

  Arapahoe Street in Thermopolis was quieter than on most nights. Folks were worn-out after the big weekend rally. There was barely any traffic as Candy crossed the street. She saw a sign advertising the upcoming Hot Springs State Fair on the first weekend in May and she was a little embarrassed that she was as excited about the event as she had been when she was

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  little. Passing the fair advertisement, she cut through the park toward the west side of town.

  There were still signs and banners everywhere left over from the Jackson Cole rally, and when Candy saw his big owlish head staring at her from a poster in Pumpernick's restaurant window, she wondered what the big deal was. Everyone in town seemed to worship the senator. Heck, it was practically a public sin to say you were voting for T. Rex Calhoun.

  She wondered what her father would say if she told him that Heidi's dad was voting for Calhoun.

  Candy cut across the new construction site at Canyon Hills Road onto Shoshoni Street.

  Shoshoni was still mostly wooded, though a few washed-out flecks of light in the distant blackness hinted that two or three new homes had been constructed at the far end of the street.

  The city had recently sold this stretch of land to a private contractor, and development was supposed to begin in September.

  Candy remembered hearing that there had been a big fight about the Thermopolis city council approving the sale, and now there was an even bigger fight about the lack of streetlights on this stretch of Shoshoni.

  The city had a policy of not putting streetlights in wooded areas, and that was going to stand until the new houses were complete.

  Candy knew her father had been upset about that decision. He railed about how dangerous Shoshoni Street was and how a lot of high-school kids used the area for a drag-racing strip weekend nights. Over and over he vowed that there was going to be hell to pay the day somebody got killed.

  (

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  Her father could be such a drip sometimes.

  Candy picked up a stick and dragged it in the powdery dirt at the edge of the road.

  As she walked deeper into the enveloping darkness, she noticed for the first time a car parked in the shadows at the side of the road.

  Candy heard the vehicle before she had really become aware of it, for, though its lights were off, the engine was running.

  The car didn't move as she approached.

  Candy couldn't see anyone inside, and when she was a few feet away from the vehicle, she stepped up onto the grassy embankment so she wouldn't get hit if the car drove off in a hurry. She was also a little curious to see what the car's occupants were doing hidden down behind the dashboard.

  When she had gotten high enough up on the embankment and had drawn parallel to the car, she peered carefully down into the vehicle.

  In spite of the darkness she could see the front and back seats of the big blue car clearly. But to Candy's great disappointment there was no one visible inside.

  There was something spooky about the abandoned car.

  Candy Clay was about to run home to tell her father about the parked car with its engine running, when something happened that would confirm the elder Clay's worst fears about the darkness on Shoshoni Street.

  Someone suddenly raced out of the woods and grabbed Candy from behind.

  Candy tried to fight as she felt a strong hand wrap around her neck. All at once she felt herself lifted into

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  the air and she realized with horror that she was being carried bodily to the phantom car.

  She thrashed and twisted frantically in the air. A hand covered her mouth, its thumb and forefinger clamped firmly over her nose. Candy tried, but couldn't pull in a breath.

  The young girl twisted her head hard to the side one last time, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of her attacker, but her kidnapper jerked the head back. A little too hard.

  There was a hideous snap, and Candy Clay's head lolled lifelessly to one side.

  Candy's attacker propped the girl—now deadweight—against the side of the quietly purring car and spun her around. A pair of small, dead eyes stared blankly back at her.

  "Shit," said Esther Clear-Seer. She shook Candy Clay a few times. The little girl's head flopped from side to side like a rag doll that had lost all the stuffing in its neck.

  She dropped Candy Clay into the litter-strewed gutter and climbed quickly behind the wheel of her car, muttering all the way.

  "Spit, shit and double shit," Esther Clear-Seer hissed angrily. She drove away, leaving the body of Candy Clay at the roadside. Esther needed another virgin. Fast. She hoped the nine-o'clock show at the local movie theater hadn't gotten out yet.

  Ten-year-old Candy Clay lay in the filth of the gutter for almost six hours until she was spotted by a police cruiser. They would have found her sooner, a police spokesman said the next day, but they were already busy, what with the abduction of the eleven-

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  year-old Forrester girl near the Wishy-Washy Wash-ateria.

  Also, the sheriffs office complained, Shoshoni Street was way too dark. Somebody ought to se
e about putting up some lights.

  When they read the report in the papers the next day, the residents agreed that the sensible thing would be to get some streetlights put up on Shoshoni.

  Apollo had claimed numbers three and four.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Pythia writhed on the tripod as the yellow smoke swirled around her head. Curls of chestnut brown hair rippled across her porcelain skin as she tossed her head back and forth in ecstasy.

  "Your life will be changed in the near future," the Pythia intoned.

  Beside her, Kaspar smiled. "The meaning of that is obvious," he called down to the well-dressed man at the base of the hill.

  "Can she be more specific?" the man called up hopefully. He glanced around the torchlit chamber but saw only the woman who had led him through the tunnel to this place.

  "You have made your future your own," the Pythia rasped.

  The man's face became a puzzled frown. He wore a political button on his expensive gray flannel jacket. It said Vote Calhoun.

  "The result of the campaign," Kaspar explained. "My master has proclaimed it a foregone conclusion."

  A flicker of a smile toyed nervously with the corners of the man's broad lips. "You're telling me I'm going to win?" he asked.

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  "All will be as I have foreseen," the Pythia announced with finality.

  With that the smoke from the crevice puffed to a near stop—as if someone had doused a fire—and the Pythia's writhing slowed to a jumble of tiny, spastic nervous tics. The young girl's chin dropped lazily to her chest.

  Kaspar tapped the blunt end of his wooden staff ceremoniously against the metal grate beneath the tripod twice before descending the rocky steps to the earthen floor.

  This was T. Rex Calhoun's second visit to the Pythia Pit. He had been advised to stop here by his party's bigwigs in Washington before Senator Cole availed himself of the infallible predictions of the Rag-narok Oracle. If he was the first in the water at Rag-narok, it was suggested by the higher-ups, perhaps the enigmatic Kaspar would see to it that Jackson Cole was excluded from the Pythia's oracles altogether.

  "The future is secure," Kaspar said as he approached Calhoun.

  "That's great. That's really, really great." He sounded more like an excited teenager than a serious senatorial candidate. "By the way, it's very kind of you to waive the fee," Calhoun added with a nervous smile.

  Kaspar waved the staff in a dismissive arc. "My only interest is that the right man represent our fine state."

  Calhoun was still apologetic. "The campaign has limited funds," he said with an awkward shrug.

  "Of course."

  Kaspar knew full well that Calhoun had married a

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  young woman with a trust fund in excess of three million dollars. Not included in this amount were her family's vast real-estate holdings and a burgeoning stock portfolio that she stood to inherit when her father passed away. The only thing the old man insisted on was that T. Rex Calhoun make something of himself. It was this that had motivated his father-in-law to manipulate the opposition party's political apparatus in order to ensure that his son-in-law became the candidate that would face off against Jackson Cole in the fall. Compared to the huge chunk of change the old man had already pumped into Calhoun's campaign coffers, the fifty-thousand-dollar fee for the services of the Ragnarok Oracle had been a mere trifle.

  T. Rex Calhoun, however, had learned from the brightest stars in his party that it was best to talk poor, even if by comparison your personal wealth made the income of your opponent look like that of an unsuccessful paperboy.

  "I'm glad I could do you a little favor," Calhoun said with the idiotic giggle his handlers had been unable to quash. "It sort of makes me feel like I'm pulling my weight."

  "Quite," Kaspar said flatly. He glanced over at Esther Clear-Seer, who stood silently in the shadows near the door tapestry. "You have spoken to your friend on my behalf?" he said quietly to Calhoun.

  "Absotively," T. Rex said in a feeble attempt at jocularity.

  Kaspar's features remained bland.

  Calhoun sobered slightly. "He'll be expecting you in Washington a week from Wednesday," he said,

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  clearing his throat. "They start at nine, but they'll want you there at least an hour before."

  "Excellent."

  The Pythia let out a sudden yelp, flinging her head up and staring wildly around the chamber, then her chin settled back down to her chest. It was a movement that Kaspar had witnessed in all of the Pythias at one time or another—a not uncommon aftereffect of the sulphur smoke's power.

  Calhoun watched the girl shudder a few times, as if chilled. All at once the tension seemed to drain from her body and she was still, save the occasional labored intake of air. Her rhythmic breathing sounded like a softly squeaking door.

  "Is she okay?" Calhoun asked Kaspar.

  "She is too young," Kaspar said loudly.

  He seemed to direct that last comment at the woman over by the door. There was an edge to his voice, and T. Rex Calhoun realized that he must have stumbled into a private argument.

  Calhoun squinted up at the tiny figure on the tripod. "That's not the same girl that was here the other day," he said.

  "The Pythia periodically demands a new vessel," Kaspar explained.

  "Ah," Calhoun said, nodding even though he did not understand what the strange little man was saying. "She looks kind of familiar," he added.

  "Doubtless you read about her in the papers," Kaspar said with a tiny smile.

  And T. Rex Calhoun realized with a sudden flash of horror that he did indeed recognize the girl. She and three others had had their pictures plastered across

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  the front pages of papers from Cody to Cheyenne. He knew with a feeling of dread that the girl who had prophesied for him a few short days before had been another of Thermopolis's kidnapping victims. This girl—who looked drugged out of her mind and sounded like an eighty-year-old emphysema sufferer—was the latest victim. He even remembered her name. Allison Forrester. It was her disappearance, as well as the death of another girl named Clay, that had brought the kidnapping spree to the attention of the national media.

  When he was finally able to tear his eyes away from the girl, Calhoun was unable to mask his look of abject fear from Kaspar.

  "In case you were considering contacting the authorities for some reason," Kaspar said smugly, waving his staff in Allison Forrester's direction, "I would find it difficult to remain silent about your unusual... appetites."

  Calhoun puffed up his chest. "What do you mean?" he bluffed.

  Kaspar drew his tongue lazily across his teeth, making a peculiar sucking noise. "I have heard from an unimpeachable source that you have certain animal cravings," he said with an evil smile. "Tell me, how young must the boys be? Twelve? Thirteen? Younger? Your father-in-law is a powerful man indeed, to hide something so explosive from the public."

  In the most pragmatic part of his near dormant brain, T. Rex Calhoun did some rapid calculations.

  Kaspar, through the Pythia, knew everything and was threatening to spill the beans if Calhoun opened his mouth.

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  If the news got out, his father-in-law would go ape-shit; his wife would divorce him; he probably couldn't, if his life depended on it, get his partnership back at the law firm where he'd met the soon-to-be-former Mrs. Calhoun; and he'd be flat, dead busted broke.

  On the other hand, he could screw his lips up tighter than a Mafia clam and land in Washington come January.

  So what if this man was responsible for the disappearance or death of at least four young girls? So what if T. Rex Calhoun could blow the case wide open? And so what if T. Rex Calhoun was responsible for brokering a deal that was going to get this vile kidnapper national attention?

  In a matter of seconds T. Rex Calhoun reached a decision that was more firmly set in stone than any in the history of politics. And that decision was: differe
nt strokes for different folks.

  "So you kidnap a little," Calhoun said with a magnanimous shrug. "It's not like you're killing anyone." He thought of Candy Clay. "It's not like you're killing all of them," he added with oily smoothness. "I knew you'd see it my way." Calhoun glanced up at the Pythia. The dead eyes of the girl were aimed down at him, boring into the blackest depths of his soul. He felt an icy frisson race

  up his spine.

  "I bet you did," T. Rex Calhoun said. And he

  meant it.

  "If it eases your conscience, you will be pleased to know that they are serving a much higher purpose,"

  Kaspar said.

  "Doesn't interest me," Calhoun said. "Look, I've

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  got to go." He started for the tapestry door but stopped suddenly. "Oh, I forgot to give you this." He dug deep in his pants pocket and removed a sweaty scrap of paper, handing it over to Kaspar. "That's the private Washington number. They want you to call this week for the preinterview."

  "Thank you," Kaspar said with a graciousness that was all condescension. "You are most kind."

  "Don't mention it," Calhoun said. "Please." He headed for the door.

  Esther Clear-Seer hefted aside the tapestry at his approach.

  "I'll see my own way out," Calhoun growled.

  The candidate passed beneath the tapestry, and Esther let it slip from her fingers. The heavy cloth flapped dully against the cinder block door frame.

  With a blank glance at Esther Clear-Seer, Kaspar proceeded to follow Calhoun. She barred his way.

  "What's your game, Kaspar?" Esther asked.

  He paused impatiently. "Do not concern yourself with the affairs of gods you do not acknowledge," he said to her.

  Kaspar started to move around her, but she slipped her hand beneath the tapestry and planted it against the door frame, blocking his path with her forearm. "Three kidnappings and a murder make me concerned," she said. "Not to mention your accomplice."

  Slowly Kaspar trained his penetrating reptilian eyes on her. "Pangs of conscience do not suit you," he said.

  "It's not conscience, Kaspar, just simple business sense. This ranch is already the center of all evil as far as those hicks in Thermopolis are concerned. I'm