The Kalispell Run Page 13

  Blade remembered an incident on the run to the Twin Cities. “What would one of these satellites look like if you saw it?”

  “Saw it? They’re hard to spot with the naked eye, but if you did see one it would look like a dot of light moving across the sky. Why?”

  “I saw one once,” Blade told him. All the time, so many of the answers were right in front of his face and he failed to realize it. “What’s a parabolic ear?”

  “A parabolic microphone.”

  “A microphone?” Blade repeated.

  “Yeah. They can hear sounds at great distances. I’ve used one that would detect a whisper at five hundred yards.”

  “So that’s how you did it,” Blade said. “You set up one of your listening posts in the forest surrounding the Home. And we never knew!”

  “How were you to know?” Angier remarked. “Like I said, I’ve seen the file on your Family. We’ve been monitoring you for years. That wall of yours presented a problem…”

  “Your microphones can’t listen through brick?” Blade said, interrupting.

  “Not very well, no. But I remember you people have a…” Angier paused, striving to recollect the word he wanted.

  “A drawbridge,” Blade finished for him. “And whenever we had the drawbridge down, like for working outside the Home clearing the perimeter or whatever, you simply aimed this parabolic thing at the opening in the wall.”

  “Exactly.” Angier nodded. “We’ve recorded hours and hours of monitored conversations. You wouldn’t believe how much we learned.”

  “Yes, I would,” Blade commented.

  “Hey! Don’t take it so hard. Your group isn’t the only one, you know. We have files on inhabited towns and communities in your state of Minnesota, in North and South Dakota, and Montana. Samuel intends to take them over first because they’re the least populated. Well do it one community at a time, until eventually well reconquer the entire United States,” Angier said proudly.

  “I take it you’ve already started?”

  “You mean the Flatheads? Yes. They were the largest group in the target states. Samuel apparently plans to take the big fish first, then work our way down to the little minnows like your Family.”

  “You sound happy about it,” Blade mentioned. “I thought you didn’t like the guy.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Angler said. “I don’t much like living under a dictator, but at least our society is orderly. It’s progressive, unlike this mess you’ve got out here. I know my family is safe when I’m sent on field duty, and I also know the Government will take care of them if something should happen to me.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve traded freedom for security,” Blade observed.

  Angier straightened, his jaw muscles clenching.

  Blade knew he’d struck a nerve. He couldn’t afford to antagonize the man now! He had to keep the conversation going. “I want to thank you for taking the time to explain all of this to me. It has really opened my eyes. But there are still some things I don’t understand.”

  “Like what?”

  “Lake Gremlin and the Doktor,” Blade said. “How do they fit in?”

  Angier quickly glanced outside, ensuring Gremlin was still off sleeping.

  “Why do you get so antsy around him?” Blade asked.

  “I’ve got to be sure I’m out of range of that damn collar,” Angier answered.

  “The collar?”

  “That’s how the Doktor control his freaks, his creations. Gremlin is a G.R.D.,” Angier stated, as if that would account for everything.

  “What’s a G.R.D.?”

  “It stands for Genetic Research Division,” Angier responded. “The Doktor’s personal unit. They give me the creeps!” he reiterated.

  “What does the Doktor use this Genetic Research Division for?” Blade inquired, eager to keep the momentum going, afraid Angier would decide he’d talked enough and clam up.

  “Anything he wants,” Angier answered. “He makes ’em, he can do whatever he wants with the damned things.”

  “What do you mean, he makes them?”

  “Just what I said. He creates them in his lab.”

  “You’re joking,” Blade remarked. “No one can create life.”

  Angier fixed Blade with a steady gaze. “Believe me, Warrior, you haven’t the slightest idea of the Doktor’s capabilities. You shouldn’t doubt me. If memory serves, you and your friends are responsible for wasting four of the Doktor’s pets in Thief River Falls.”

  “What?” Blade recalled the four hairy monstrosities Angier alluded to, one of which almost killed him. “You mean the Brutes?”

  “We call them Rovers,” the Lieutenant explained. “We use them for tracking and patrol duties. They’re some of the Doktor’s earlier handiwork. Not very bright, but loyal and obedient. Gremlin is a different story. He’s one of the recent models. As you saw for yourself, the Doktor’s made a lot of improvements.” Angier’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “The man is a devil, maybe the Devil! I’ll never understand why Samuel took him into his confidence, into his inner circle of advisers.”

  “Do others feel the same way about the Doktor as you do?”

  “Some, yes,” Angier said. “Not everyone. The man is an inhuman genius. He’s the brains behind the chemical clouds.”

  “The chemical clouds?”

  Angier suddenly motioned for silence. “Did you just hear something?”

  “No,” Blade replied. “Like what?”

  “Movement,” Angier said, glancing outside and scanning the nearest vegetation, several trees and bushes, for signs of life. “If that freak transmits any of this, I’m as good as dead.”

  “Transmits? How?”

  “I told you before. That damn collar!”

  “The collar is a transmitter?”

  “That metal collar is how the Doktor controls his freaks,” Angier detailed. “His earlier creatures, like the Rovers, just wore leather collars.

  But the newer ones are intelligent, capable of thinking for themselves. To keep them in line, to ensure they’ll always do his bidding, he fits them with special collars. The collars somehow carry an electronic impulse of some kind to the freaks from the Doktor’s headquarters. I heard they can pick it up right through their skin. He tells them what to do, and if they don’t do it the way he wants, he zaps them, causes intense pain and agony. The collars also transmit sound to the Doktor, so he can keep tabs on what’s going on around his little pets. Of course, he’s got almost fifteen hundred of the things, and he can’t monitor them all at once, but you never know which ones he might be monitoring at any given moment. You never know if the Doktor is listening to you.”

  Blade took notice of the darkening evening sky. It was about time to make his move. “Why don’t these creatures simply remove the collars?”

  “Some tried. But they were killed by an electric shock. Now they all know better. They may want to make a break for it, to gain their freedom, but the collars contain a sensing device. If the collar senses someone is trying to take it off, there’s a crackling and a burst of white light and the creature’s head is fried to a crisp. I know. Saw it happen once.” Angier shuddered at the repulsive memory.

  Blade’s arms were dripping sweat and his wrists felt bloody, but at long last his efforts were rewarded. “I want to thank you, again, for taking all this time to talk to me.”

  “It was nothing,” Angier gruffly responded. “You guessed right. I was bored to tears. Now I want you to answer some questions for me.”

  “Sorry.”

  The Lieutenant faced Blade. “What the hell do you mean, you’re sorry? I took the time…”

  “And I appreciate it,” Blade interjected, “more than you’ll ever know.”

  “…so why aren’t you going to give me the courtesy of answering my questions?”

  “Because I have something else for you.”

  “Like what?”

  “You see,” Blade said, leaning forward, flexing
his arm muscles to restore the circulation, “the whole time you were talking, I was working on this big surprise for you. I’d never have been able to do it without your help.”

  “What the hell are you babbling about? What surprise?” Angier demanded.

  “This,” Blade stated, bringing his torn and chafed hands around in front of his massive chest, the rope dangling from his left arm. “Surprise!” he grinned.

  Angier lunged for his M-16.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “How far do you figure we’ve walked?” the gunman asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe five or six miles.”

  “I wonder how far underground we are?”

  “If you don’t shut up,” Goldman snapped, “I’ll plant you underground right here!”

  “You know something, pard,” Hickok said to Goldman, “you’re all mouth!”

  Goldman glared over his left shoulder at the Warrior, but he kept walking.

  Hickok laughed, taunting him. They were in a well-lit tunnel, on their way to an audience with Wolfe, the Mole leader. Goldman led their column, followed by Watson, Silvester, Sherry, and himself. Behind him, ten armed Moles provided an escort.

  “It seems like we’ve been down here for hours,” Sherry wearily remarked.

  “We’re really not that far under the surface,” Silvester mentioned. “Only a couple of dozen feet. We found if we dig too deep, our air shafts don’t work too well.”

  “I’m still amazed at what you’ve accomplished,” Sherry said.

  Watson glanced back at her. “Remember, we’ve had about a hundred years to work on this.”

  “It shows,” Sherry told him.

  Hickok had to agree. It certainly did show. The area under the Mound, and apparently for miles in either direction, was a veritable maze of tunnels, an elaborate network of shafts. Each tunnel was named, indicated by signs at the junctions, exactly as the streets in any city or town. The ceilings and the floors of the tunnels were boarded over; sometimes the side walls would be, sometimes they wouldn’t. Lighting was provided by crude candles placed in recessed receptacles at regular intervals. Hickok recognized the type of candle used; the Family employed a similar one, prepared by heating great, reeking gobs of animal fat until it liquified, then filtering the substance through dried grasses or reeds until you refined the pure tallow. Before the tallow hardened, you inserted a rope wick. Crude, yes, but effective. The candles did have one definite drawback; they stank to high heaven.

  “Where do you get all this wood?” Sherry was asking.

  “Do you realize how much forest there is in Minnesota?” Watson jokingly responded.

  Rooms and larger chambers opened off the tunnels periodically. Some seemed to be public meeting places; others were apparently private domiciles. Children played in the tunnels, giggling and contented. Older Moles stared curiously at the newcomers as they marched to meet Wolfe.

  Whatever he might think of their aggressive tactics and the sheer stupidity of living underground when there was abundant sunlight and fresh air up above, Hickok had to admit their system worked for them. As old Plato might say, the Moles had a viable social order, even if it was basically parasitical. He wondered how Plato was faring, whether the senility was continuing to debilitate the beloved Family Leader.

  They reached a major intersection, four tunnels meeting at one point, and stopped. Huge wooden beams supported the arched roof.

  “This way,” Goldman announced, and led them to the right.

  “How much farther is it?” Sherry complained. “I could use some rest.”

  “Not much farther,” Goldman replied. He turned, grinning. “In fact, we’re here.”

  Their forward path was completely blocked by a ponderous wooden wall. In the center of the wall, flanked by six armed Moles, was a door.

  Watson glanced at Hickok and Sherry. “Whatever you do,” he said, his voice low, “don’t antagonize Wolfe. He may let you live.”

  “You got it backward, pard,” Hickok stated.

  “Hickok, please!” Sherry pleaded. “Don’t pull another lame-brained stunt like you did with Goldman.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” the gunman remarked.

  Goldman addressed one of the door guards, and the guard promptly opened the door and stood to one side, at attention.

  Goldman motioned at the doorway. “After you,” he directed.

  Watson went first, followed by Hickok and Sherry. Silvester nervously hung back, reluctant to enter, until Goldman grabbed him by the right arm and shoved him through the doorway.

  “Incredible!” Sherry exclaimed as they entered.

  The chamber was immense, the walls, floor, and ceiling all constructed of smooth stone and mortar. A skylight fitted into the top of a vaulted roof served to adequately illuminate the audience room.

  “Took us about two years to build this,” Watson said to Sherry. “We found an abandoned quarry with a lime deposit, and mixed the lime with sand from a former highway-construction site. The water needed to achieve the bonding blend was easy to acquire.” He proudly surveyed the chamber. “Yes, the mortar was easy compared to the arduous task of carting tons of stone here. We salvaged the skylight from a building in Bemidji.”

  Hickok estimated four dozen Moles occupied the audience room, most of them congregated at the foot of a series of cement stairs leading up to a circular dais. The exact middle of the dais was occupied by an enormous purple chair. But it was the man seated on the chair, scanning the chamber like a great, grim bird of prey, who drew Hickok’s gaze.

  Wolfe.

  The Mole leader was exceptionally tall, a giant of a man, but as abnormally thin as he was tall. An unruly mane of red hair crowned a craggy countenance, resembling, more than anything else, the visage of a mighty eagle. His eyes were an intense blue hue, ever in motion, conveying the impression he saw everything going on around him. He wore clean clothes, both a purple shirt and purple slacks, and polished black leather boots. Strapped to his waist were a pair of pearl-handled revolvers, and leaning against the purple chair was a heavy-caliber rifle.

  Hickok suppressed an impulse to charge up the steps and seize the revolvers and the rifle, his Pythons and the Henry. Well, at least he knew where to find them when the time came.

  All eyes were on the prisoners as Goldman marched them to the base of the stairs. He bowed and smiled. “I have brought the new captives, as ordered.”

  “And they have been checked?” This question, spoken directly to Watson, came in an eerie, sibilant tone, remarkable in its uncanny projection and resonance.

  Watson dutifully bowed. “They have, sir, and I can safely report they are clean.”

  “They better be.”

  “Your orders, sir?” Goldman requested.

  Wolfe shot a stony stare at Goldman. “When I am ready.”

  Goldman bowed and averted his eyes.

  “These are yours?” Wolfe looked at Hickok and patted the revolver on his right hip.

  “You bet your ass,” Hickok arrogantly replied, and Sherry abruptly groaned.

  “I want to thank you,” Wolfe said, ignoring the barb. “It isn’t often we find weapons in such superb condition, of such excellent… caliber.” The Mole leader snickered at his own joke.

  “Enjoy ’em while you got ‘em,” Hickok advised. “You won’t have them for long.”

  “Oh?” Wolfe’s eyebrows arched upward. “Is that a fact?”

  “It sure is,” Hickok vowed. “The last son of a bitch who took my guns wound up as rat food. I don’t like it when someone takes my guns,” he added, speaking slowly, deliberately.

  “You’re scaring me to death,” Wolfe commented drolly.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” Hickok promised. He climbed the first step, then froze as guards materialized, ringing him, their weapons trained on his chest.

  “No hasty moves, please,” Wolfe directed. “My men might decide you pose a threat, and one of them might shoot before I
could stop him. I wouldn’t want that to happen. We have a lot to discuss.”

  “There’s only one thing we have to talk about,” Hickok disagreed.

  “Indeed? And what is that?”

  “I’m looking for a pard of mine, a kid wearing black clothes. I’m told he’s here and I want him.”

  Wolfe, frowning, stood. “Goldman told me about your mouth, but I still can’t believe anyone could be so inane.” He walked to the edge of the dais and glared at Hickok. “No one talks to me the way you just did!” he growled. “No one!”

  “Maybe you’re hard of hearing,” Hickok stated. “Want me to do it again?”

  A deathly silence descended on the audience chamber as the assembled Moles awaited Wolfe’s reaction to Hickok’s taunt.

  The Mole leader studied the gunman from head to toe. “You have courage, I’ll grant you that. A remarkable lack of intellect, but courage.

  Just like the youth you seek. Very well!” He glanced at Goldman. “He wants to see his friend so much, we’ll let him. Take him to the cells!”

  “And the woman?” Goldman inquired.

  Wolfe’s blue eyes rested on Sherry’s voluptuous body. “I see she is not without certain… talents,” he announced, mentally undressing her. “I claim her for mine!”

  “As you wish, sir,” Goldman said, bowing, disguising his disappointment. He’d hoped Sherry would be offered on the public auction block, but among the special privileges enjoyed by the Mole leader was the prerogative of first rights to any new female.

  Hickok quickly caught Sherry’s eye and smiled reassuringly. “Hang in there,” he urged her. “I’m coming for you soon.”

  Sherry bravely returned his smile and reached for his hand, but a guard grabbed her and spun her around.

  Hickok leaped, diving from the first step, catching the guard across the lower legs and knocking him to the stone floor. He rolled past the guard and jumped to his feet, taking Sherry’s hand in his. “Keep the faith, gorgeous!” he said, winking.

  The stock of Goldman’s Winchester slammed into Hickok’s head from behind.

  The Warrior dropped to his knees, weaving.