In her haste to leave, she almost forgot to retrieve the change. Pocketing it, she moved away. Best to make use of a different door in leaving, she thought, and made straight for an exit in the back of the building. She threw open the door and started out, muttering an apology to a man she had nearly collided with.
General Vladimir Raskowski smiled at her. He was holding a pistol aimed at her face.
“I trust your message to the General Secretary is on its way now,” he said. Then he stepped back so Natalya could see the armed men on either side of him before she had a chance to act rashly.
It was his tone that confused her more than anything. “You let me send it,” she realized. “You wanted me to send it….”
“Guilty as charged,” Raskowski said. His perfectly transplanted hair whipped in the wind as he turned to indicate a man standing directly behind him.
She recognized the man well enough to know what she was seeing was impossible. But within the impossible lay the heart of the madness.
The one-eyed Katlov smiled at her, no longer dressed in his monk’s attire and very much alive.
“You’re dead!” Natalya said quite surely. “I saw you shot!”
And General Raskowski began to laugh.
Part Three
Rounding Up the Usual Suspects
Pamosa Springs; Friday, five P.M.
Chapter 20
By five P.M. Friday the streets of Pamosa Springs were quiet. The town had been divided into sectors, and residents were allowed to venture out for supplies only in escorted groups. A number of guards patrolled the small commercial district on foot, while others made slow, careful loops in jeeps.
The work on the hillside, meanwhile, continued at a nonstop, frenetic pace. Whatever the invaders were mining was being transferred into the hidden gulley where even more labor was concentrated. At night huge sparks would dance into the air, evidence of massive welding equipment. Cables had been run from various power stations into the work area to provide the vast amounts of electricity needed. Something was being constructed in the gulley, the residents knew, and whatever it was, the fruits of the invaders’ mining labor must have had a great deal to do with it.
Mayor McCluskey and Sheriff Heep, en route to Doc Hatcher’s office, watched the sparks climbing toward the sky. A team of guards was escorting them there under orders from Colonel Quintell, leader of the occupying forces. Quintell met them in the waiting room. He looked harried and tired, eyes drawn, his beret off for the first time in the four days of occupation.
“We have problems,” were his first words.
“I’ll say,” returned Dog-ear.
“Why do you choose to make this so hard on yourselves?”
“It’s a tendency we have when some murdering bastards take over our town and steal what’s ours,” came Sheriff Junk’s reply.
“If we put aside our differences, we can get through this, all of us. I would be willing to go as far as to forget the events of the past two nights.”
“What events?” Dog-ear questioned.
“Please, gentlemen, do not insult my intelligence.”
“What events?” from Heep this time.
Colonel Quintell nodded to himself. “Follow me.”
He opened the door to Doc Hatcher’s examination room, and a pair of soldiers escorted Dog-ear and Sheriff Junk inside after him. There, laid out on three tables, were three sheet-covered corpses.
“Three of my men,” the colonel started with repressed rage. He drew back the first sheet. “This one was knifed in the back.” To the second corpse now. “This one had his throat cut.” And the third. “This one’s neck was snapped. It takes a tremendous amount of strength to break a man’s neck in this manner, strength and training. Do you have any idea who in your town has the training to do such things?”
“Yeah,” replied Dog-ear. “Hal Taggart, but I think we can safely rule him out.”
Quintell ignored the remark. “A victim was claimed Tuesday, a second on Wednesday, the third last night. If you won’t help me find the murderer, at least stop him on your own. I beg you. It would be for your own good.”
“Own good?” Sheriff Junk repeated. “What the fuck? You rode into town, and we came out into the street. A guy with a rifle that couldn’t shoot straight comes along after some rats, and you gun him down without a single word of warning. I’d call you the murderers.”
Quintell surprised them by nodding. “Denials on my part would be pointless at this stage.” The pain in his face seemed honest. “I loathe this sort of work. I loathe losing men even more, though, which is why you must understand that I cannot allow it to go on.”
“You want a list of suspects from us?” asked Dog-ear. “Just go to the town hall and read the rolls.”
“I want a list of men with recent military service or other training in weapons. This killer is an expert. After losing one man on each of our first two nights here, I doubled the patrols but he still managed to kill another. Men like that cannot go unnoticed in a town as small as yours.”
“Apparently they can,” Dog-ear told him.
“Maybe he’s just getting settled and hasn’t met many folks yet,” said Heep.
“This is nothing to joke about,” snapped the colonel. “Believe me when I say it is best for you and your town to cooperate with me. I’m simply an underling, just as frustrated and just as anxious as you are. If I do not produce the results my superiors desire, I will be replaced.” Quintell hesitated. “There is talk of a man being sent for, a man whose approach you will find considerably less cordial than mine. An enforcer, not a soldier.”
“You know this man?”
“I know his type and I hate it as much as I hate this type of work. Cooperate with me, help me find the murderer of my men. My superiors are not patient. There is no telling what steps they are liable to take. Please, I beg you, for both our sakes.”
“Don’t look to us to get your ass out of the fire,” Dog-ear said harshly.
“Your own asses will be charred far blacker than mine if the worst comes to pass.”
“Look, friend,” said the sheriff, “we couldn’t help you even if we wanted to. The killer you’re describing don’t exist in Pamosa Springs.”
Colonel Quintell stood over the third murdered soldier. His eyes were open, and a hideous grimace froze the instant of incredible agony when his neck was snapped.
“Tell that to my men,” the colonel said grimly.
A soldier appeared in the doorway and snapped to attention. “Sir, Post One reports that a man has arrived at the roadblock with clearance papers.”
“Clearance papers?” The dread in Quintell’s voice was obvious.
“Yes, sir.”
“Send him through,” the colonel ordered softly. He steadied himself against the table where the soldier lay.
“What’s it mean?” wondered Dog-ear McCluskey.
“That it just became too late for all of us.”
The President had listened to the General Secretary’s words in shocked silence. The fact that no interpreter had been employed, thanks to the Soviet leader’s fluency in English, made the tale even more startling and ominous.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me, Mr. Chernopolov, how your death-ray found its way onto our satellite.”
“It’s not our weapon. It belongs to General Raskowski, as I explained. Please, this has not been easy for me to admit.”