"Three hours," Dodge echoed with a weary sigh.
"Three hours until the Outpost is destroyed. By this time tomorrow, that column will be well over a thousand degrees Fahrenheit. And in a week, it will be as hot as the surface of the sun. More than hot enough to melt the Antarctic ice, which would probably flood half the world. I'm afraid we don't know enough about the Earth's interior to make more than an educated guess about the effects of something that hot sinking into the mantle, but it could conceivably get so hot that it begins to cause atomic fission or even fusion, to whatever it encounters.
"Of course," Newcombe added. "I could be wrong. It might be heating up faster than that."
"You're talking about the end of the world." Dodge suddenly felt light-headed, as if Newcombe's dire prediction had used up all the oxygen in the chamber. "Is this what he wanted all along? To destroy the world?"
"I think that's exactly what he wanted," commented Amelia.
Dodge glanced sidelong at the woman. "This doesn't make any sense. I thought he was just using me to find the Outpost, but if he had the Staff all along, then I can't imagine why he brought us here."
"He didn't have the Staff," said Newcombe in a forlorn voice. "Not until she gave it to him."
It took a moment for that to fully sink in. "What?"
"I didn't give it to him," protested Amelia. "He took it. You saw him take it from me, Findlay."
"You had the Staff?"
The blond woman turned to face him, her expression more annoyed than contrite. "His name isn't Fuller and he isn't an FBI agent, but I suppose you've figured that out already. I knew him as Schadel and I think he's working with the Nazis. Of course, I didn't recognize him. He usually wears a skull mask and is reputed to be a master of disguise. He hired me to steal the Staff from your laboratory in New York, but then he tried to renege on our arrangement. I don't take kindly to that sort of treatment.
"I knew he'd be coming after you, so I decided to tag along," she continued, reciting her tale as it were merely the latest gossip. "I had hoped to make him pay for his treachery. Little did I realize that you had already invited him into the fold."
Dodge was still struggling to keep up. "Wait. He hired you to steal it? A reporter?"
"She's not a reporter," Newcombe announced gravely. "She's Jocasta Palmer."
"Jo—" For a moment, the Dodge was dumbstruck. It was as though someone had scattered the pieces of the puzzle he had been struggling to assemble. He shook his head in despair. "Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse."
Even as he said it, the sound of shuffling feet reverberated in the domed chamber. More than a dozen men wearing olive-drab parkas and matching snow pants, their faces mostly obscured by goggles and scarves, advanced into the chamber, brandishing M-1 Garand rifles. Another man, similarly attired but armed only with a holstered pistol, stalked in behind them and advanced toward Dodge and the others.
"General Vaughn," muttered Newcombe, uncertainly.
The officer put his hands on his hips and fixed his gaze on Dodge. "Your little game is finished, Dalton. I'm taking command of the Outpost and placing all of you under arrest."
The woman Dodge now knew to be the notorious Fallen Angel cat burglar — and evidently more than just a character in one of Captain Falcon's adventures — leaned close and whispered, "There, you see? Things can always get worse."
CHAPTER 14 — SERVANTS OF THE SKULL
Almost as soon as they were seated, Molly felt an overwhelming urge to flee the room. Their host was the source of her anxiety. When she looked at him, she saw what she imagined her adopted father — truly the only man she ever thought of as a father — would one day become. Gaunt, ascetic, world-weary really, Edward Winterbourne looked like a man who was exhausted from the long journey of life and yet, having glimpsed the world beyond and recognizing that there was no great reward in the hereafter, clung desperately to his miserable mortal existence.
She stood as soon as the introductions were made. "Mr. Winterbourne, with your permission I'll put some water on for tea."
"Tea at this hour?" Winterbourne chuckled. "You Yanks really are an uncivilized lot. No, lass, for this conversation, something stronger is called for. There's a bottle in the breadbox and glasses in the cupboard."
Molly hastened into the adjoining hallway and through trial and error found the kitchen, but the flat was small enough that their low voices were still audible.
"So," Winterbourne sighed. "The prophecy of the Child of Skulls. You must already know something of it or you wouldn't have come a calling."
"Second-hand accounts only," Hobbs said. "I know that in the 1880's a psychic medium saw the birth of a child that would eventually usher in a time of great suffering. The vision was so terrifying, it killed her."
There was a long silence, long enough for Molly to arrange a bottle of single-malt whiskey and four old-fashioned glasses on a serving tray, before Winterbourne answered.
"It's funny the things that stay with you. It's been nearly fifty years, but I still remember everything about that night. To begin with, it didn't quite happen exactly as you were told. It wasn't the medium — Madame Adair — that uttered the prophecy. That was Nightjar's doing."
"Nightjar?" Hurricane's tone was faintly incredulous. "Is that someone's name? Sounds like something you'd—"
"Brian!" Hobbs cut him off before he could complete the thought. "It's a kind of bird."
Winterbourne laughed. "You were thinking it sounds like a sort of chamber pot, weren't you? I thought the same thing myself, when I first met him. Jerusalem Nightjar. A remarkable, astonishing man."
"Was he a member of the Trevayne Society?"
"No, not Nightjar. His motivations were… well, personal. You know how they say that men have their demons? Well, in Nightjar's case, that was the literal truth. He was driven to uncover the mysteries of the supernatural. More often than not, the mysteries were rather mundane, charlatans and hysterical old women, but once or twice…" He trailed off and the silence lingered as Molly entered the room with the tray.
"I was just back from the Far East — I was a military intelligence officer — when the Trevayne Society came for me. I was naive enough to think it was an honor." The last few words were filled with acid and his gaze focused on Christy.
"Trevayne was interested in Nightjar's investigations?" prompted Hobbs.
Winterbourne nodded. "Back then they were afraid of the things that go bump in the night."
"But not anymore?" intoned Hurley.
"Times change," murmured Christy. "And we have other more immediate concerns."
"Yes. Well, in any case, Trevayne assigned me to be Nightjar's minder. I accompanied him on dozens of investigations into claims of otherworldly activity. That's how I came to be with Nightjar on the evening of the twenty-first of June, 1883—"
"What?" The vehemence of Hobbs reaction, so out of character for him, startled Molly and she hastily set the tray down to avoid spilling it. "What date did you say?"
"Padre?" This note of concern came from Hurricane, who had not sat with the others, but was rather stationed near the door, ever vigilant. "Everything all right?"
Hobbs was quick to regain his composure. "I'm sorry. Please continue, Mr. Winterbourne."
Their host stared at Hobbs for an uncomfortable interval, then leaned forward and poured a copious amount of whiskey into a glass. He gulped it down in a single swallow and then began telling his tale.
The narrative was haunting, transporting the listeners into the past. Molly knew that if she closed her eyes, she would see the mysterious Jerusalem Nightjar, speaking as if from the spirit realm and not an old man recounting imperfect memories.