The man that emerged from the cocoon-like interior of the boat-tailed Speedster seemed too massive to have been ensconced within. Indeed, at more than six and a half feet tall, he seemed like nothing less than a mountain in motion as he braved the driving rain to approach the hospital entrance. He paused in the foyer to shake the rain from his hat and trench coat, then hastened inside where he was greeted with shocked stares and silence. One woman, wearing the white uniform and cap of a nurse, pointed at him. "You’re…him!"
Brian "Hurricane" Hurley gave a tight smile. He always tried to be accommodating whenever a fan recognized him as one of the heroes of the syndicated Adventures of Captain Falcon, but tonight would have to be an exception. "I need to speak with Miss Molly Rose Shannon, please."
Before the receptionist could pick up the house phone to make the call, a younger woman, copper-red curls cascading onto the shoulders of her short white lab coat, burst into the lobby waving a yellow scrap of paper. "Hurricane! Did you get one?"
Hurley nodded. "I haven’t been able to reach Dodge, but your Dad got one too. He sent me to fetch you."
She pulled off the white coat and stuffed it under the reception counter. "Let’s go."
Although only a student, Molly was well on her way to becoming a board certified physician. What that would mean in practical terms was that the young woman would have a fancy piece of paper authorizing her to do what she had been doing since before she was a teenager: caring for the sick.
From the time that Molly was a very young girl, she had served as both nurse and doctor for the native African parishioners of her adopted father’s Congo River mission. For many of those impoverished and abused laborers, Molly’s ministrations were the only medical care available. The Belgian government gave little thought to the well-being of their indentured slaves who worked on the far-flung rubber plantations; indeed, the harsh treatment at the hands of the nominal law enforcement agency was more often than not the cause of the injuries Molly had treated.
All that had changed with the arrival of Dodge Dalton and Hurricane Hurley. Her father had elected to return to the United States and Molly, now a beautiful if quick-tempered young woman, had been thrust into a completely different culture. To cope with the shock of being transplanted into the modern world, she had naturally gravitated toward something she knew well — medicine — only to learn that her hard-won years of experience mattered little in the eyes of her peers. Fortunately, she had made some influential friends during the course of her adventures with Dodge and an extraordinary exception was made on her behalf; she had been granted admission to enter the University medical program, with the proviso that she continue her studies to satisfy all academic requirements. It made for a busy schedule, but in her work she found sanctuary from the unfamiliar pace of urban life. There was of course one other matter which occasionally occupied her time. Along with her father, Hurley and Dodge, she was one of a very few people who knew of the existence of the Outpost. The telegram from Prof. Pendleton, hinting that some matter of urgency required immediate attention, was not something that could be ignored or put off.
Molly pulled a bright yellow rain slicker, as might be favored by a Grand Banks dory fisherman, over her simple floral dress and followed Hurricane back out into the storm. She spied his sports car from the doorway. "You drove the Speedster?"
Hurley glanced back at her. "Why would I drive anything else?"
"It’s raining cats and dogs," she answered, eyes wide in disbelief. "Why didn’t you just hire a taxi?"
The big man shook his head sadly, as if frustrated by his inability to explain something so complex to someone of the fairer sex and then opened the car door to admit her. A copious amount of water had found its way through or around the heavy cloth convertible top, soaking the seats and accumulating to a depth of more than an inch in the foot well. The chassis tilted a little to one side as the massive Hurley slid behind the steering wheel. A few moments later, the straight-eight under the hood roared to life and the pin-tailed coupe was on the move again.
"So what do you think this is about?" She had to shout to be heard over the lash of rain on the fenders.
Hurricane shrugged. "Prof. Pendleton is an expert on Pre-Columbian art, mostly early South American civilizations. I don’t see any connection between the things we’ve seen at the Outpost and his area of study."
"Perhaps he’s found some reference in his other studies that explains the origin of the Outpost." Molly glanced at the now sodden telegram. "It says, ‘Urgent,’ though. I don’t see how anything could be so urgent that it can’t wait until the storm blows over. "
"Frankly, it's got me worried." Hurley steered the Speedster onto a cross street and accelerated toward mid-town.
"Worried?"
"I've never met the good doctor, but all of this seems a bit melodramatic. Either Pendleton is an alarmist and this is all a lot of hullabaloo about nothing or…"
"Or something really is wrong?" Molly frowned and gazed out the side window.
Hurricane wheeled the sports car onto Fifth Avenue and floored the accelerator. The 150 horsepower engine leaped off the mark like a rabbit. The sleek auto looked more like a rocket streaking through the night than any kind of wheeled vehicle.
In the stormy darkness, the artificial wilderness of Central Park was like something from the Brothers Grimm; an army of living trees waving their limbs angrily at anyone foolish enough to attempt its borders on this foulest of nights. Similarly, the imposing stone edifice that housed the American Museum of Natural History directly opposite the park looked like an abandoned castle fallen under the enchantment of an evil sorcerer.
"No lights," Molly observed.
"Streetlights are out too. There’s probably a line down somewhere." He steered the Speedster to the curb and braked to a halt.
"I can't imagine the Museum is even open at this hour." She got out, circled around the front of the car, and discovered Hurley rooting around for something behind the driver’s seat. Curious in spite of the inclement conditions, she hastened to see what he was doing. "You’re not getting an umbrella, are you?"
"You might say that." Hurley grinned, then held up a pair of gleaming, oversized pistols. The unique customized semi-automatic pistols had been designed by legendary gunsmith and inventor John Moses Browning specifically for Hurley. Each gun held a magazine with six hand-loaded .50 caliber cartridges. Molly blanched as he slid the hand cannons into holsters underneath his heavy coat; only now did she equate the tone of urgency in the telegram with the possibility of violence. "They’re just for insurance, Miss Molly."
She nodded dumbly and fell into line behind her mountainous companion as he crossed the street and ascended the steps to the main entrance at the recently christened Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Rotunda. A figure was visible just beyond the revolving glass doors — a man in an ill-fitting blue uniform illuminated in the beam of his flashlight — who gestured for them to enter the museum. Molly let Hurricane enter the pie-shaped wedge first and then slipped into the next door segment as it rotated to admit her.