Dodge sighed. "There's no sign of Hobbs. Do you think he…?"
"If they fell out the window in this storm, there's no telling where the wind would blow them. They might have landed several blocks from here… if they fell out."
Dodge felt numb. The white-haired Hobbs had been a regular fixture in his weekly syndicated feature for more than three years. Though he had only known the taciturn priest for a few months, he felt as though he had lost a brother.
"He might still be alive," Fuller continued. "The bomb would have knocked him back, away from the window. Perhaps he continued the pursuit. Believe me when I say this thief would have planned out every detail of the operation, including the escape plan."
"Then they might still be in the building?"
"Possibly, but I would hazard to guess that the reason that window was blown in the first place was to create an alternative exit. I think we have to face the possibility that our enemy, whoever he is, has won this round."
"So what now?"
Fuller angled the beam of his light so that Dodge could see his expression and vice versa. "That depends on whether or not you're going to trust me. I still don't even know what exactly was stolen here."
"It was the key to the Outpost."
"The key? Then they'll be going there next?"
"I don't think it will be quite that simple. God, I wish the Padre was here; he'd know what to do." Dodge swiped a hand through his hair in an unconscious gesture of frustration, then abruptly snapped his fingers. "Hurricane must have gotten the summons as well. He'll be walking into a trap at the museum."
Fuller nodded. "Let's go."
The elevator descent took longer than the car ride from the Empire State Building to the American Museum of Natural History. Fuller drove like a madman, but there was little danger to himself and Dodge or to any innocent bystanders; the city seemed deserted. The G-man only touched the brakes once during the trip and that was as he screeched to a stop directly behind parked car on Central Park West — a familiar red sports car. Fuller did not fail to notice Dodge's look of chagrinned recognition. "That's Hurley's car? I wouldn't be too worried, Mr. Dalton. I've read your stories often enough to know that Hurricane Hurley is a match for anything."
Dodge nodded, but the sentiment brought little comfort. This night was turning into a disaster of epic proportions and the avalanche of woe had yet to complete its dire cascade. Steeling himself for a grisly discovery, he disembarked once more and hastened toward the museum entrance.
The fortress-like structure was dark and seemingly abandoned, but both men were wary as they pushed through the revolving glass entrance. Dodge noted that Fuller’s hand was resting on the butt of a holstered sidearm. "I don’t like this one bit," the G-man confessed after scanning the empty foyer.
"Well, if Hurricane was here and there was trouble, I have a feeling we’d see some pretty obvious signs. He doesn’t exactly tread softly."
"Speaking of treading, look…" Fuller pointed to a track of wet spots leading from the entry and straight ahead into the maze-like exhibition area and directed the beam of his flashlight along the path delineated by the trail of moist footprints.
Dodge seized on the discovery and hastened into the depths of the museum, ignoring Fuller’s hoarse whispered warning, for he had seen something in the tell-tale puddles that had escaped even the FBI agent’s notice. There were two distinct tread patterns, moving side by side, but at decidedly different gaits; the quick, short steps of the person with small feet could only belong to Molly Rose Shannon and that realization had awakened Dodge to a whole new spectrum of anxiety.
In a corridor leading away from the common area, Dodge found unmistakable evidence of Hurley’s deft touch. An office door swung open on its hinges, innocent enough, but the doorjamb has splintered away from the latch bolt. Directly on the threshold of the room, Dodge also spied a dark circle the size of a half-dollar coin. In the glow of Fuller’s flashlight, its crimson hue confirmed his worst suspicions.
"The trail splits here," Fuller pointed out. "Which way?"
"The footprints leading into the office are almost dry, but the blood is still…" The statement caught inexplicably in Dodge’s throat. He gestured weakly into the office and then continued along that path, following the spattered trail. More than a few of the droplets had been smeared by the passage of another set of footprints; Hurricane and Molly had been running and their pursuers had not been far behind. Yet, for all his dire premonitions, he was still ill-prepared for the discovery of the body lying prone on the floor of the Hall of Ocean Life. The unnatural cant of his head confirmed what Dodge somehow already knew.
"It’s Pendleton," Fuller observed, kneeling beside Dodge.
Something about the tone seemed faintly accusatory and Dodge knew why; it would have taken extraordinary physical strength to break the Professor’s neck this way — the sort of strength he had attributed to Captain Falcon’s number one sidekick. "None of us have ever met him," he answered. "If Hurricane did this—"
But Fuller wasn’t listening. He sprang erect and in a fluid motion drew his pistol and stabbed its muzzle into a shadowy corner of the room. "Hold it right there!"
Dodge recoiled instinctively as a figure emerged from the dark, wielding a pistol almost identical to Fuller’s police special. Not surprisingly, Dodge barely saw the gunman; his eyes were fixed on the revolver. The weapon was held indifferently, as if the man was barely aware of the lethal power in his hands.
"I said ‘Stop!’ Drop it."
Dodge’s heart thumped once in his chest as the man took another step forward, then a thunderclap exploded beside him. Fire spurted from Fuller’s hands, then repeated twice more. The gunman staggered back with the first impact, but otherwise seemed unaffected. Only the third shot, which struck dead center in the man’s forehead, halted the relentless advance. Fuller, breathing rapidly, kept his gun trained on the fallen foe as he moved closer. He gave a sigh of recognition as his flashlight beam illuminated the man’s face.
"Another one of the passengers from the Bermuda flight?"
The G-man nodded. "What happened to them, Dalton? What in God’s name happened to them?"
Something moved in the same spot from which the gunman had emerged and Fuller quickly shifted the flashlight to expose another stranger, this time a woman in a simple sundress and floppy hat; but for her vacant stare, she might simply have been a tourist on her way to the beach. There was no menace evident in her demeanor; in fact, she seemed completely unaware of her environment. Nevertheless, she ambled forward like an automaton bent on destruction.
"Stop or I’ll shoot," Fuller warned, but once more his threat was ineffectual.
"Fuller, she’s unarmed!" Without thinking, Dodge knocked the lawman’s arm aside and interposed between them. His forbearance did not go unpunished. Without even breaking stride, the woman grasped his shoulders and lifted him bodily over her head. He had only a moment to ponder the impossibility of the situation before the marble floor rushed up at him and the breath was driven from his lungs.
Fuller did not hesitate. His pistol discharged twice at point blank range and the woman in the sundress was punched backward as two .38 caliber rounds blasted into her torso.
Dodge pushed up to his hands and knees, gasping for air. In the corner of his eye, he saw Fuller make a quarter-turn and then the gun sounded once more. The G-man deftly flipped out the cylinder and dropped his spent brass onto the floor, but before he could reload, yet another assailant had emerged and tackled him to the floor.
Dodge felt a breath enter his semi-paralyzed lungs, just enough to get him up and moving again. He dove onto Fuller’s attacker and began raining down punches at the base of the man’s neck. The first few blows seemed to bounce off impotently, but then a lucky strike caught a nerve cluster and the man collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Dodge rolled the motionless form off the FBI agent and helped Fuller get to his feet. In the darkened recesses of the room however, the shadows continued to stir and resolved into a host of expressionless faces.