Joshua’s mattress was positioned against the bar, and as Hickok’s eyes roved over the wooden front panels near Joshua’s head, an idea struck him.
Why not?
Hickok moved around the bar and studied it closely. Under the counter top were two rows of shelves, each shelf filled with various bottles of liquor. Under the shelves, the center section of the bar was empty, consisting of a wooden panel. To the right and the left, though, were cabinets with closed doors. The stereo was in the lower right cabinet, as he’d discovered earlier.
Hickok knelt and opened the right cabinet, double-checking.
Nothing but the stereo, some glasses, and metal trays.
He stepped to the second cabinet and opened the door.
This time he found forks, spoons, knives, and plastic plates and cups.
So much for his brainstorm!
Hickok rested his elbows on the counter and sighed.
Where to look next? Downstairs? Or upstairs? There was nowhere else in this room the transmitter could be hidden, unless it was recessed into one of the walls. Maybe he…
Whoa!
Hickok straightened and stared at the back of the bar again. Very odd.
The two cabinets extended a good two and a half feet from the front of the bar, allowing ample space for whatever was being stored inside. Made sense. But the middle of the bar also extended the same distance, and that definitely did not make sense. The person behind the bar would be constantly cracking his knees on the center wooden panel. Wouldn’t it be smarter to have the middle of the bar recessed?
Of course it would!
Hickok crouched and tapped the knuckles of his right hand against the center panel. It sounded hollow, but that might not mean a thing. There was only one way to be positive.
Hickok ran his fingers around the edges of the panel. If his assumption was correct, there should be a hidden latch or a knob or… grooves. There was a narrow groove on each side of the panel. He pressed his fingers into the grooves and lifted.
The panel slid up and out.
Hickok leaned the panel against the right cabinet and smiled. What was the name of that dude he’d read about years ago? Sherlock Holmes, wasn’t it? Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eat your heart out!
The portable transmitter was green, about a foot square, and covered with switches, dials, and several meters.
“Got ya!” Hickok elated.
“Did you find it?” Bertha called from the door.
“Of course,” Hickok replied. He lifted the transmitter and carefully placed it on the counter.
“Can I come see?” Bertha asked eagerly.
“Stay by that door,” Hickok directed.
Joshua slowly stood, stretching. “Is it my turn to pull guard duty?” he inquired, yawning. His eyes fell on the transmitter and widened. “What have you got there?”
“A transmitter.” Hickok peered at the white lettering below each switch and dial. “If I only knew how to work this blasted thing!”
Joshua came around the bar. “Let me have a look.”
“You know how to operate one of these?” Hickok asked.
“Although the ones we have at the Home no longer function,” Joshua explained, “my curiosity was aroused when I saw them for the first time. I distinctly recall reading the instruction sheets and wishing they were still operational. My memory isn’t perfect, but…” He tried reading the labels.
“If we only had some light in here.”
“Want me to turn on the lights?” Bertha offered.
“No way,” Hickok retorted. “The Watchers might decide to take some potshots at us.”
“I know!” Joshua abruptly exclaimed. He returned to the front of the bar, bent over, and stood, holding his pouch aloft. “I think I have them in here.”
“What?” Hickok asked.
“You’ll see,” Joshua said excitedly. “I know I put them in here after I used them to heat Bertha’s can of food.”
“What?” Hickok repeated.
“These.” Joshua opened his left palm, revealing the box of matches taken from the motorcyclist.
“Way to go, pard!” Hickok grinned.
Joshua rejoined Hickok, opened the box, and ignited one of the all-purpose matches by striking it against the counter top. He held the match up and squinted at the transmitter, reading the labels aloud.
“Modulation. Charging. Transmit Mode. Receive Mode. Here it is!” he happily declared. “Power.” He flicked a toggle switch and the unit suddenly hummed. One of the meters above the power switch lit up, illuminating a small scale. A thin black needle hovered at the left side of the needle.
“What we want to do,” Hickok informed Joshua, “is listen in on the Watchers without them being any the wiser. Can we do it?”
“Easily,” Joshua replied. “This should do it.” He flicked another switch, this one marked Receive Mode.
Abrupt crackling and static emanated from a speaker in the upper right of the unit.
“There’s nothing there,” Hickok commented, disappointed.
“Possibly they are not broadcasting,” Joshua reasoned. “Or we could be on the wrong frequency.”
“Doubt it,” Hickok disagreed. “They would have this gizmo set for their frequency, all right. Who else would they listen to?”
“Then all we can do is wait,” Joshua stated.
“And you know how Hickok is at waiting,” Bertha chuckled.
“If patience was gold,” Joshua remarked, “Hickok would be the poorest man alive.”
Bertha laughed. “Hey, that’s pretty good, Josh! You’re learning!”
Hickok shook his head. “Just great! It isn’t bad enough I have Geronimo on my case all the time, but now I’ll have to put up with you too?”
Joshua grinned.
“First you blow away a brute,” Hickok stated, “and now you’re telling jokes. You’re changing, pard.”
Joshua’s expression altered, a cloud seeming to cross his face. “I certainly am, aren’t I?” he stated wistfully.
“So what’s our next move?” Bertha inquired, hastily attempting to change the subject.
“Like Josh said,” Hickok answered sighing, “there’s nothing we can do but wait. The next move is theirs.”
Joshua, deep in thought, noticed the match was extinguished. He dropped it to the floor, wondering if, come morning, their lives would be snuffed out as easily as the flame from the match.
“We haven’t heard anything in a while,” Bertha mentioned. “I hope Blade is all right.”
“I told you not to worry about him,” Hickok said. “If I know Blade, he’s relaxing right now, working on a plan to get us out of this mess.”
“Relaxing?” Bertha repeated doubtfully.
“Sure. He’s probably hiding in the park somewhere, or in one of the nearby houses, taking it easy, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Blade isn’t the kind to sweat the small stuff.”
“You call this mess we’re in small stuff?” Bertha asked.
“It’s no big deal.” Hickok shrugged.
“You’re crazy, White Meat,” Bertha stated. “If you think this is small stuff, I’d hate to see what you’d call big trouble.”
Chapter Fifteen
I’m in big trouble here, Blade mentally told himself as he jogged along the darkened streets of Thief River Falls. He’d run over four miles at least, always staying within the town limits, crisscrossing and zigzagging, first one street for a few blocks, then, at random, another avenue for several more blocks, but never for any great distance in a straight line. He wouldn’t give Krill the advantage of predicting his direction, of being able to race ahead and ambush him.
So far, so good. It appeared to be working. But combined with his injuries, the strain was taking a severe toll.
Blade’s breathing was becoming labored, and an excruciating pang periodically seared his right side. The pain in his shoulder was a constant, agonizing presence. He required rest, but could he afford to stop? There had been no sign of Krill since the intersection. Had the brute abandoned the chase? Why would it hang back so long? If it was simply an unthinking animal, craving revenge for Aria, surely it would have attacked by now?