Hickok knelt and opened the right cabinet, double-checking.
Nothing but the stereo, some glasses, and metal trays.
He stepped to the second cabinet and opened the door.
This time he found forks, spoons, knives, and plastic plates and cups.
So much for his brainstorm!
Hickok rested his elbows on the counter and sighed.
Where to look next? Downstairs? Or upstairs? There was nowhere else in this room the transmitter could be hidden, unless it was recessed into one of the walls. Maybe he…
Whoa!
Hickok straightened and stared at the back of the bar again. Very odd.
The two cabinets extended a good two and a half feet from the front of the bar, allowing ample space for whatever was being stored inside. Made sense. But the middle of the bar also extended the same distance, and that definitely did not make sense. The person behind the bar would be constantly cracking his knees on the center wooden panel. Wouldn’t it be smarter to have the middle of the bar recessed?
Of course it would!
Hickok crouched and tapped the knuckles of his right hand against the center panel. It sounded hollow, but that might not mean a thing. There was only one way to be positive.
Hickok ran his fingers around the edges of the panel. If his assumption was correct, there should be a hidden latch or a knob or… grooves. There was a narrow groove on each side of the panel. He pressed his fingers into the grooves and lifted.
The panel slid up and out.
Hickok leaned the panel against the right cabinet and smiled. What was the name of that dude he’d read about years ago? Sherlock Holmes, wasn’t it? Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eat your heart out!
The portable transmitter was green, about a foot square, and covered with switches, dials, and several meters.
“Got ya!” Hickok elated.
“Did you find it?” Bertha called from the door.
“Of course,” Hickok replied. He lifted the transmitter and carefully placed it on the counter.
“Can I come see?” Bertha asked eagerly.
“Stay by that door,” Hickok directed.
Joshua slowly stood, stretching. “Is it my turn to pull guard duty?” he inquired, yawning. His eyes fell on the transmitter and widened. “What have you got there?”
“A transmitter.” Hickok peered at the white lettering below each switch and dial. “If I only knew how to work this blasted thing!”
Joshua came around the bar. “Let me have a look.”
“You know how to operate one of these?” Hickok asked.
“Although the ones we have at the Home no longer function,” Joshua explained, “my curiosity was aroused when I saw them for the first time. I distinctly recall reading the instruction sheets and wishing they were still operational. My memory isn’t perfect, but…” He tried reading the labels.
“If we only had some light in here.”
“Want me to turn on the lights?” Bertha offered.
“No way,” Hickok retorted. “The Watchers might decide to take some potshots at us.”
“I know!” Joshua abruptly exclaimed. He returned to the front of the bar, bent over, and stood, holding his pouch aloft. “I think I have them in here.”
“What?” Hickok asked.
“You’ll see,” Joshua said excitedly. “I know I put them in here after I used them to heat Bertha’s can of food.”
“What?” Hickok repeated.
“These.” Joshua opened his left palm, revealing the box of matches taken from the motorcyclist.
“Way to go, pard!” Hickok grinned.
Joshua rejoined Hickok, opened the box, and ignited one of the all-purpose matches by striking it against the counter top. He held the match up and squinted at the transmitter, reading the labels aloud.
“Modulation. Charging. Transmit Mode. Receive Mode. Here it is!” he happily declared. “Power.” He flicked a toggle switch and the unit suddenly hummed. One of the meters above the power switch lit up, illuminating a small scale. A thin black needle hovered at the left side of the needle.
“What we want to do,” Hickok informed Joshua, “is listen in on the Watchers without them being any the wiser. Can we do it?”
“Easily,” Joshua replied. “This should do it.” He flicked another switch, this one marked Receive Mode.
Abrupt crackling and static emanated from a speaker in the upper right of the unit.
“There’s nothing there,” Hickok commented, disappointed.
“Possibly they are not broadcasting,” Joshua reasoned. “Or we could be on the wrong frequency.”
“Doubt it,” Hickok disagreed. “They would have this gizmo set for their frequency, all right. Who else would they listen to?”
“Then all we can do is wait,” Joshua stated.
“And you know how Hickok is at waiting,” Bertha chuckled.
“If patience was gold,” Joshua remarked, “Hickok would be the poorest man alive.”
Bertha laughed. “Hey, that’s pretty good, Josh! You’re learning!”
Hickok shook his head. “Just great! It isn’t bad enough I have Geronimo on my case all the time, but now I’ll have to put up with you too?”
Joshua grinned.
“First you blow away a brute,” Hickok stated, “and now you’re telling jokes. You’re changing, pard.”
Joshua’s expression altered, a cloud seeming to cross his face. “I certainly am, aren’t I?” he stated wistfully.
“So what’s our next move?” Bertha inquired, hastily attempting to change the subject.
“Like Josh said,” Hickok answered sighing, “there’s nothing we can do but wait. The next move is theirs.”
Joshua, deep in thought, noticed the match was extinguished. He dropped it to the floor, wondering if, come morning, their lives would be snuffed out as easily as the flame from the match.
“We haven’t heard anything in a while,” Bertha mentioned. “I hope Blade is all right.”
“I told you not to worry about him,” Hickok said. “If I know Blade, he’s relaxing right now, working on a plan to get us out of this mess.”
“Relaxing?” Bertha repeated doubtfully.
“Sure. He’s probably hiding in the park somewhere, or in one of the nearby houses, taking it easy, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Blade isn’t the kind to sweat the small stuff.”
“You call this mess we’re in small stuff?” Bertha asked.
“It’s no big deal.” Hickok shrugged.
“You’re crazy, White Meat,” Bertha stated. “If you think this is small stuff, I’d hate to see what you’d call big trouble.”
Chapter Fifteen
I’m in big trouble here, Blade mentally told himself as he jogged along the darkened streets of Thief River Falls. He’d run over four miles at least, always staying within the town limits, crisscrossing and zigzagging, first one street for a few blocks, then, at random, another avenue for several more blocks, but never for any great distance in a straight line. He wouldn’t give Krill the advantage of predicting his direction, of being able to race ahead and ambush him.
So far, so good. It appeared to be working. But combined with his injuries, the strain was taking a severe toll.
Blade’s breathing was becoming labored, and an excruciating pang periodically seared his right side. The pain in his shoulder was a constant, agonizing presence. He required rest, but could he afford to stop? There had been no sign of Krill since the intersection. Had the brute abandoned the chase? Why would it hang back so long? If it was simply an unthinking animal, craving revenge for Aria, surely it would have attacked by now?
He had to rest!
Blade paused, listening. The wind was increasing, rustling the leaves on a stand of trees to his right. An owl hooted. The night seemed perfectly normal.
Ahead, maybe fifteen yards away, was a brick house, one of the few with a front door still intact.
Blade ran t
o the door and stopped, scanning for any indication Krill was in the area.
Nothing.
Another spasm rocked his body. What was going on? Was one of his ribs broken? Aria had gripped him around the waist, though, not his chest. Was there internal damage from the bullet or Aria’s crushing grasp? Whatever, he felt a compelling need to lie down.
Blade gingerly opened the door and entered the house, closing the door behind him. The air was stale and musty. He successfully resisted another impulse to sneeze.
Two doors opened into the room he was in, a former living room containing dust-covered furniture and furnishings. Both doors were ajar.
He walked to the front door and pushed it open, revealing a bedroom. The second door was to the kitchen. Neither displayed any evidence of recent habitation. The window in the bedroom was gone, but a small window in the kitchen was intact and closed. He shut both doors and moved to the sofa. Tiny particles of dust rose into the air as he sat down and rested his head on the back of the creaking sofa.
Now, if Krill tried to attack, the brute would need to come through one of the three doors. It wouldn’t be much of a warning, but it would give him a few precious moments to bring the Commando to bear.
Blade closed his tired eyes, his thoughts drifting. What was his beloved Jenny doing? Was she moping, pining for his safe return? How he wished he could be with her, holding her in his arms, listening to her tender words of affection!
What was that?
Blade snapped to attention. He was positive he’d heard a scraping noise. Was it Krill? He waited and waited, but the house was filled with soothing quiet, with a comforting sense of solitude.
Must be my nerves, he reflected.
Blade leaned back and closed his eyes again. Memories of his parents flooded his mind. His mother he’d never known; she had died giving birth to him. His father had served as Family Leader until four years ago, when he was killed by a mutate. Blade relived the incident again. His father was on a hunting expedition with two other men. They fell behind, while one of them removed a stone from his boot. Without warning, a mutate, a former mountain lion, charged from the brush and ripped his father to shreds.
The mutate vanished into the woods, leaving a torn and bloody body and a profound mystery in its wake.
Mutates! How he hated them! What could possibly transform your average puma into a hairless horror, covered with large blistering sores, oozing pus everywhere, its skin split and shriveled? Mutates were insatiably ravenous, devouring anything and everything they saw, even other mutates.
Everyone knew that fact.
And yet…
The mutate responsible for his father’s demise did not devour the body.
It did not even try to. Nor did it go after the other two Family men.
Odd.
Even odder was the story the two men had told. They had claimed this particular mutate wore a wide leather collar. Imagine! Although they were respected members of the Family, no one had really believed they had actually seen a collar.
Blade missed his father. Plato had assumed leadership of the Family after his father’s death, and he knew Plato expected him to become Leader some day. He recalled the pressures and problems his father was forced to face daily, and he sincerely doubted he wanted any part of it. Let someone else be Leader. He would devote himself to raising a family of his own, to enjoying a peaceful existence, married to Jenny, living in one of the cabins reserved for the couples. He’d relinquish his Warrior rank and…
Something scratched nearby.
Blade, fatigued, slowly opened his eyes, then froze, involuntarily gawking.
Krill was standing in the bedroom doorway, a hulking monstrosity with his massive body tensed for a leap.
How the…?
Move! Blade’s mind screamed at him, and he swept the Commando up even as Krill jumped, firing, the slugs ripping into Krill’s thick torso, slowing the brute’s momentum, enabling Blade to roll aside and fall to the floor as Krill crashed onto the sofa.
Damn!
Blade pressed the trigger as Krill lunged at him, the brute’s left arm connecting with the Commando barrel and sending it flying from Blade’s desperate hands.
Krill snarled and grabbed for Blade’s legs.
Blade rolled to his left and swiftly rose to his feet, drawing the Vegas, as Krill stood and came toward him, hissing and growling. Come and get it, sucker! He aimed the automatics at the brute’s furious face, intent on doing to Krill exactly as he had done to Aria.
Fate, however, had other plans.
Blade took two steps backward, wanting to be sure of his aim, his entire attention concentrated on Krill. His feet collided with something hard and, startled, he glanced down, too late, as he tripped over a wooden chair and tumbled to the floor.
Krill roared and closed in.
Before Blade could regain his balance, Krill stood over him and grabbed his wrists. Blade vainly struggled to free his arms as the brute applied pressure, twisting his wrists and squeezing, forcing his wrists to bend at an unnatural angle.
Krill’s pointed fangs were exposed as the brute grinned at its enemy.
Blade had no other choice. He was forced to drop the Vegas.
Krill released Blade’s wrists and straightened, glaring, confident of impending victory.
I’m not finished yet, bastard! Blade drew his knees up to his chest and drove his legs upward, slamming his feet into the brute’s crotch.
He connected.
Krill shrieked and gurgled, almost falling, his huge hands cupping his groin area as he staggered away from Blade. The brute stumbled against the sofa and stopped, whining.
Blade heaved erect, whipping his Bowies out, and charged. He must act now, before Krill recovered!
Krill attempted to sidestep, unsuccessfully.
Blade barreled into the brute, bowling him over, and both of them fell onto the sofa.
Krill swung his right fist at Blade’s head.
Blade ducked, raised his right Bowie, and buried it to the hilt in Krill’s brawny chest.
Krill surged upward, roaring, enraged, trying to dislodge the man pinning him down.
Blade swept the left Bowie up, tensed, and plunged the blade into Krill’s body within an inch of his other knife.
Krill’s arms flapped wildly, his left catching Blade a glancing blow on the side of his head and knocking him onto the floor.
Blade rose, reaching for one of the Solingen throwing knives strapped to the small of his back. He’d lost one in the rat he’d killed in Bertha’s room. That left him with two throwing knives. One of his daggers was imbedded in Aria’s gut, leaving him with his last dagger, tied to his right calf.
Krill was motionless.
Was the brute faking?
Blade cautiously moved closer.
Krill’s eyes were closed, his body immobile. Blood was pouring from the bullet wounds inflicted by the Commando, and oozing around the Bowie knives, still protruding from the brute’s chest.
The damn thing was finally dead!
Blade sighed in relief and sat on the arm of the sofa, absently gazing at his fallen foe. Where did the brutes come from? How were the Watchers able to control them? A simple leash couldn’t be…
He stopped, staring.
In the heat of their conflict, he had never noticed Krill was still wearing the leash. It was draped over his left shoulder and dangled down his broad back. Krill, Blade surmised, must have broken loose from the Watchers, wanting revenge for Aria. So! The Watchers did not exercise complete domination over their savage charges.
What should he do now? Return to Hickok, Geronimo, and the others and warn them reinforcements were coming?
Blade’s eyes drifted across Krill’s neck as he began to rise, then suddenly he stiffened and leaned forward, peering closely at the brute.
It couldn’t be!
Dear Spirit! No!
But it was.
The leash was attached to Krill’s neck, affixed
to a… wide… leather…
collar!
Blade, stunned, his mind spinning, sat up, pondering the incredible implications.
Was it possible? Was the story true after all? The mutate responsible for his father’s death reportedly wore a leather collar. Was there a connection between the Watchers and…
Blade abruptly realized Krill’s eyes were open, staring at him, gleaming with feral intensity. He tried to bring one of the Solingen knives into play, his reaction sluggish.
Krill snarled, bringing both of his granite fists sweeping in, crashing them against Blade’s head, boxing him on the ears.
Blade endeavored to rise, but his eyes rolled and he slipped from the sofa and landed prone on the floor.
The brute stood. It roared and gazed at Blade, licking its thick lips.
Krill bent over the prostrate Warrior.
Chapter Sixteen
Joshua was pulling guard duty at the door. Hickok and Bertha were resting near the bar. Morning was still an hour away, but already some of the early birds were chirping their optimistic greeting to a new day.
Something was going on near the park.
Joshua could see a flurry of activity at the edge of the park, but he couldn’t quite make out what they were up to. He turned toward the sleeping duo.
“Hickok!” Joshua called.
The gunman was instantly awake, his senses fully alert. He crossed the room and crouched next to Joshua. “What’s up?”
“The Watchers are engaged in a bustle of movement,” Joshua replied.
“Their motivation and intention are not readily apparent.”
“When’s your birthday?” Hickok unexpectedly inquired.
“What’s that have to do with anything?” Joshua demanded, surprised at the query.
“Oh, nothing much.” Hickok grinned. “Just thought I’d get you a dictionary from the library for your birthday. Your vocabulary is pitiful.”
“I do evince a certain propensity for rather grandiose forms of expression at times,” Joshua seriously admitted.
Thief River Falls Run Page 18
