TWO
February 28th
Robert Peters returned just after dark. Frank had expected the old man to park out back and come into the house through the kitchen, but he hadn't. Instead, he had parked his car out back, by a falling down gray-weathered old barn, and walked around to the front of the house. When he came in the front door, Frank quickly ushered the old man out into the kitchen area of the old house.
While waiting for Peters to return, Frank had watched the house across the street, but had not seen anything out of the ordinary occur. Even so the long wait had left him with an uneasy feeling that something would happen soon. Maybe after dark, he thought.
Peters seemed frightened, at first, when he opened the door and saw Frank standing just inside the shadowy living room: Frank had roughly pulled him the rest of the way into the room, quickly closed the door, and then took him into the kitchen
"I know I said to make yer'self to home," Peters said, once he had recovered from his initial shock, "t'other day when you was here. But in these parts it’s usually considered polite to ask, afore you move yer'self into a body's home."
As Peters talked, his voice became tinged with anger, which seemed to smooth out his accent.
"Christ, Frank, what were you thinking? You nearly gave me a damn heart attack."
Frank returned to the living room, and locked the old wooden door, before he came back into the kitchen and answered Peters question.
"I'm sorry about that, Robert, but I didn't have a whole hell of lot of choice," Frank replied.
He debated for a second about telling the old man what he suspected had transpired at the house across the street, and decided that if he were to enlist the man’s help, and advice, he would have to fill him in on what he knew.
"You were more right about what went on at the house I'm renting, than you know," Frank began. "I think that young friend of yours, Joe, I think you said his name was, was killed over there, and probably not long before I got there."
He waited for a second to let Peters digest what he had said.
"Yer shittin' me," Peters responded.
"I only wish that I was," Frank replied calmly. "I'm not though. After I left here last night, I thought I'd check out what you said. I pulled off some molding in the kitchen, and, well... somebody, even if it wasn't that kid, was either seriously hurt or killed in that kitchen, Robert."
Peters opened the door of the old refrigerator, handed Frank a beer; grabbed one for his-self, and sat down in one of the old wooden kitchen chairs, as Frank paused.
"That isn't all of it either," Frank said, once the old man had sat down.
"The rest of it is why I really came here."
Frank talked for almost thirty minutes, as Peters calmly sipped at the beer and listened. Frank like-wise filled him in on what he thought was going on in Watertown; in an effort to elicit some additional information on the area, as well as any insights the old man might have into what was really going on.
Peters had sat and quietly listened as Frank spoke, and when he finished, the old man shook his head, and sighed. He got up from the chair, walked to the refrigerator, and pulled two more cans of beer from the interior and then sat back down. He opened one, and handed the other to Frank before he spoke.
"I s'spected somethin' was going on over there," he said, "but I was hoping I was wrong."
He shook his head once more before he resumed talking.
"I s'spect the best thing to do, is to go to the source, to find out what's goin' on."
"How's that?" Frank asked.
"Easy, all you gotta do is git yer'self into those tunnels, right?"
Frank nodded in agreement, and asked, "But how?"
"Easy," Peters replied, "all ya gotta do is use one of the other entrances to the tunnel. There's quite a few ya know, and I doubt like hell anyone knows all of 'em."
Frank thought for a second, before he replied.
"I really doubt it would help me though... I wouldn't even know how to find my way around in there."
"Yup, that's true... but, I might know of someone who does," he said winking.
"You?" Frank asked.
"Don't see anyone else jumpin' up to volunteer do ya?" he responded.
" 'Sides, I know them caves in and out, and I ain't so old as I wouldn't be able to do a little walkin'. Fact is I'd also like to satisfy my own curiosity. I liked that kid a lot."
Frank thought about it for a moment. The old man seemed truly sincere, but did he really know another way in, and if so could he get Frank in? He seemed to know what he was talking about, but was the old guy really up for it? He was pretty damn old, and it wouldn't be an easy trek to make.
"What about the local police?" Frank asked, "Shouldn’t we at least tell them about the kid, or what we suspect happened to him?"
"It wouldn't make no difference," Peters replied. "Like I told ya, I called them bastards yesterday myself, and they never showed. Did they pop over today?"
"No," Frank admitted reluctantly.
"It’s like I told ya yesterday, that Alan Johnson ain't worth a fiddlers fuck," Peters stated flatly.
Frank thought for a second, and then made up his mind. He really didn't have any choice, did he,he reasoned? Peters knew the caves, and he didn't. It was that simple.
"I'm game if you're serious," Frank said, "but it isn't going to be an easy trip, Robert."
"I know that, but it don't concern me a hell of a lot," Peters said, "we kin leave tomorrow mornin', or tonight if'n ya want to."
"Listen, Robert," Frank said, "if they killed that kid, they probably wouldn't hesitate to kill either of us. I've got a friend; he's a reporter like me, who's missing as well. He was helping me investigate this whole thing, and I suspect he disappeared because he got too close to the truth... What I'm saying is, we could both end up dead."
"I know that, and I gave it a bit a thought as well," Peters said. "Jess let me go dig out my old shotgun, and make sure it still works, I ain't used it in a coon's age, and we kin take that with us. If some sum-bitch tries anything with me, I'll put a frigging deer slug in 'em."
Peters had gotten up from the kitchen table as he spoke, apparently, Frank thought, to get the shotgun, and Frank followed him into the living room as he finished speaking.
He supposed a shotgun, even an old one, was better than no weapon at all. He nodded in approval, and then wandered back out to the kitchen to grab himself another beer, as Peters shuffled off towards his bedroom to locate the old shotgun.
As he opened the refrigerator, he thought, good thing I brought some food with me, this thing is totally empty. Wonder what the hell the old guy eats? Cat food? He had noticed earlier when he had placed the sack in it, that the only other thing in the General Electric, had been a six pack of beer, a half-eaten pizza, and twelve unopened cans of cat food. In fact the whole house had a slip-shod appearance to it, like Peters maybe didn't spend a whole hell-of-a-lot of time in it, but where the hell else would he be, he asked himself, if he wasn't here?
Frank popped the top on a can of the beer; closed the door; and turned to head back into the living room, to see if Peters had located the shotgun. It was a good thing he turned when he did, he told himself later, re-playing the scene over and over again, Peters was standing in the doorway with the old shotgun leveled at him.
Frank instinctively dropped to the floor as the shotgun roared in the small kitchen. He rolled quickly to the left, and then just as quickly he jumped from the drop-roll, and tackled the old man’s legs, taking them both into the living room. Foam, from the dropped can of beer, had spread quickly across the worn kitchen floor; Frank had almost slipped in it and lost his balance as he lunged for Peters' legs.
His will to survive took over.
Frank wrestled the shotgun from the old man’s grip in the living room, with a well-placed punch to the throat, which caused the old man to release his grip and fall to the floor gasping for breath.
"What the fuck did you t
hink you were doing?" Frank yelled, as he gained his feet, and leveled the shotgun at the wheezing old man on the floor.
Peters glared back at him as he struggled to catch his breath, and said between gulps of air, "I kill you for that if I can, you bastard."
Franks eyes almost popped from his head as Peters spoke. He had almost convinced himself that it had been some sort of accident. Maybe the gun just went off accidentally, he reasoned, and maybe you nearly killed the old guy simply because the damn gun went off.
Peters was struggling to get up off the floor, and Frank kicked him hard in the stomach, driving him back down onto the worn carpet of the living room.
The display of bravado Peters had attempted ended, as Frank roared the question once again.
"What the fuck did you think you were doing? What the hell is going on here?"
Frank was in no mood to take any shit from Peters, and when he didn't immediately answer, he roared the question again, while pointing the shotgun threateningly at him.
"Okay... Okay," Peters said, gulping air. "You'll never make it anyway, you stupid fuck. We were wise to you before you got here."
Frank’s mouth dropped open as he finally realized, that the accent the old man had demonstrated was now gone along with any pretense that he hadn't known a thing about Frank’s situation, or why he was in Fort Drum.
"The only reason you're still alive," the old man continued, "is those stupid ass-holes that were sent to take care of you, killed the kid by mistake. If I hadn't wandered over to look the place over myself yesterday morning, we wouldn't even have known about it... Sincerely, you're fucked Franklin, you might as well just give me that shotgun and call it quits,"
Peters fixed Frank with his old gray eyes, before he continued.
"You're dead meat pal, this deal is much too big to allow some second rate reporter like you to screw it up. You think my supervisor doesn't know you're still alive? You think I'm that fucking stupid? If you don't hand that shotgun over, and let me up, you're gonna be in a world of shit."
The bravado was returning to his voice as he spoke.
"Sincerely buddy, give it up, it’s not like you can just kill me or something, and it won't make any difference at all. We'll still get you, there's nowhere to go."
Frank was incredulous, and was having a hard time digesting all of what Peters was saying.
They had known he was coming?
They had been waiting?
What the hell was so important that they were willing to kill me to stop me from finding out about it, he wondered. And if they had known before he had left Washington, did that mean they had possibly taken the kids? Or hurt them? Or worse? Had they gotten to Jimmy?
He turned his attention back to the old man on the floor.
"Who are you," he asked. "I mean who are you really?"
Peters just glared back from the floor.
"You had better speak if you intend to see the end of this day," Frank said, in a deadly calm voice.
"If you're thinking that I won't shoot, you're wrong buddy boy, I will. I'll shoot you and leave you laying here, now TALK!"
"CIA," Peters replied with a sneer. "Now, don't you think it might be smart to put that shotgun down?" Peters was trying for the false bravado again, but the fear was evident in his voice as he spoke, and he kept glancing nervously at the shotgun that Frank held.
"And?" Frank asked.
He jabbed the shotguns barrel into Peter’s ribs, and shoved him all the way back onto the floor.
"And what?" Peters asked.
"Don't you, and what, me, you son-of-a-bitch, what's the real deal here?" Frank struggled to bring his temper under control, before he continued, and he began to speak in a calm, but deadly serious voice once he did.
"Listen, I'm not in the mood to play your stupid games Peters, if that's really your name. I want the truth, and I want it...right...now." He punctuated his speech by once again jabbing the shotguns barrel into his ribs.
"Right." jab..."Now." jab.
Peters began to talk, and in the end, when Frank was sure he ought to just kill him, he hadn't been able to.
Instead he had kept the old man talking through the night, gleaning every detail he could. Then he had taken the old guy, whose real name it turned out was David Black, down into the cellar when the sun had come up, and securely bound him to one of the old kitchen chairs, he had brought down from the kitchen for just that purpose.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll stay there." Frank warned him. He settled his green eyes on him as he spoke.
"Because If I see you again... I'll kill you."
Frank climbed the rickety old cellar stairs to the kitchen, reached into the refrigerator, and plucked out a cold beer, considered, and then grabbed another and sat down at the table to think.
He wasn't sure whether he believed Black's story entirely or not. He desperately hoped he hadn't been lying when he had said that Patty and Tim were all right. Frank didn't think he had been, as he had rested the shotgun on his chest, and had told him he would just as soon kill him. The bravery had fled, and Black had looked pretty damned scared as well. Frank supposed he would have been too.
He hadn't seen a phone anywhere in the house, he realized, as he sipped the beer thoughtfully, and peered around the kitchen.
Wonder how he kept his supervisor up to speed on me, without a phone?
He left the kitchen and walked back down the cellar steps to where Black sat tied into the kitchen chair.
"Where's the phone?" he asked without any preamble.
Black looked confused.
"The phone, you piece of shit," Frank yelled. "You know, ring-a-ling-ling, a phone? You must have a phone here somewhere, if only to keep in touch with your supervisor, right?"
"In the car, under the front seat," Black replied quietly, and then continued.
"Look, nobody hurt your kids Frank, this thing was strictly aimed at you."
"Like I'm really gonna believe somebody like you?" Frank asked, as he turned and re-climbed the cellar stairs.
"Suit yourself," Black called from the basement behind him.
Frank walked out to the car, glad now that Black had parked it out back, and retrieved the cellular phone. He carried it back into the kitchen, and re-locked the door behind him. He wondered briefly whether the phone could be traced, or was maybe being monitored in some way, but he placed the call to Maggie anyway. He had to know that the kids were really okay, and he couldn't just take Black's word for it. In the same breath, he didn't want to scare the kids. So he made up his mind to only speak to Maggie, even though he desperately wanted to hear their voices, so that he could put his mind at ease.
In the kitchen of the old Edison farm, the phone rang twice before Maggie picked it up. Before Frank could say much more that hello, she spoke...
"I knew you'd be calling," Maggie said, "and don't worry, the kids are safe. Go do what you got to do, Frank."
Frank was caught entirely off guard by Maggie's remark, but with everything else that had transpired since he left Washington, he supposed it, at first, to be just an old woman's suspicions, and not of any great significance. In truth it hadn't really even clicked, until a few seconds after she said it.
"Do you believe in God?" she asked, before he had fully comprehended what she had said when she answered the phone.
"Of course I do, Maggie," he stammered, although in truth he was really not sure if he did or did not; she had expected that answer, so he had given it, as he had hundreds of times before when he had been asked. But to say he really did, or did not believe would have taken a great deal more thought, and he was pretty sure the answer would actually be no.
"Then you oughta do some prayin' fer yourself, and the kids too," she said, as he listened over the static on the cellular phone.
"But..." he started, when she cut back in.
"Just go, Frank," she said, "just go, before it's too late."
She hung up the phone on her end, befor
e Frank could say another word, but he had heard the childrens' laughter, as they had played in the background, and it eased his mind. He sat at the table, puzzling over what Maggie had said to him.
In all the time he had known her, he had never known her to be afraid of anything. She hadn't really sounded afraid this time either, but she had sounded upset, and her message had seemed so urgent.
The longer he sat at the table, the angrier he became. He had to control that anger before he got up from the table and went back down to the cellar and did something he might not be able to forgive himself for, he decided to leave. Enough was enough, there had to be answers, and he was through stepping around the edges of them.
The decision made, Frank got up from the table, and found the box of slugs for the shotgun in the bedroom. With the slugs slipped securely into his pocket, he locked up the house, and drove Black's car into the woods to conceal it. He then made the circuitous trip through the woods to the house across the road, where he now waited patiently for dusk to arrive.
After he was sure that the children were okay, he had begun to worry about making the phone call. While it was true that they hadn't done anything to the children, that didn't, Frank knew, mean they wouldn't. If they did go after the children, he was sure they would have one hell-of-a-fight on their hands from Maggie, and somehow, Frank told himself, he would find them, and kill them, no matter who they worked for, if they hurt the kids.
The other thing that may not have been smart about the phone call, he realized, was that if they had traced it, it would lead them directly to him, so it probably wouldn't be smart to hang around for long, Frank had decided.
Black had also told Frank, with some urging from the shotgun that he had kept tucked under his chin, about Jimmy.
They had killed him. Black had made no bones about it at all. They had taken him out, the same way they had intended to take Frank out. A couple of guys they kept around just for work like that. Weston had ordered it: Of course Weston never spoke for himself, his secretary, Alice Tetto did that for him. Tetto was a hired killer, nothing better, and she protected the Major right along with the nations best interests. Army non-com, and, Black had said, Frank did not want to mess with her.
Earth's Survivors Box Set [Books 1-7] Page 172
