Alien Caller (47 page)

It was amazing
how many of the FBI's cars and computers had simply stopped
working, and how often their investigators were abducted in the
middle of the night, and abandoned in the most remote locations
imaginable. And as to the physical evidence, it kept disappearing
as quickly as it was collected.

In such
auspicious company, the local and state police barely got a look
in. They manned the road blocks and got short shrift from
everybody. Yet they were the ones most affected, having lost over a
dozen of their colleagues to the madman. They too wanted answers,
and their lawyers were having a field day with the Governor who was
naturally enough, being told nothing. He was too far down the food
chain even if he didn’t know it.

Meanwhile,
trackers by the score were out trying to find any trace of Dimock
in the valleys twenty miles north, but the carefully laid tracks
always ended up taking them nowhere. But at least they found
tracks, and some of Dimock’s blood which had been carefully
sprinkled around. Every time they found some more, they sent back
the happy news and everybody would wait nervously, hoping for a
body. But it never came.

In the
meantime, the DOD, armed services and CIA had together settled on a
typical cover story. They claimed that a maverick pilot having
accidentally crashed his plane had gotten lost, and despite an
extensive rescue mission, was currently believed missing or dead.
Debris from the stricken jet had caused extensive damage to a local
house. His neighbours of course, got a slightly more complete
version, running a little closer to what he’d told the agents. They
also got a stiff warning not to mention anything about air battles
or stolen jets or face spending the rest of their lives in jail.
They in turn however, didn’t tell the agents about the Leinians. It
seemed only fair.

For his trouble
David got to spend a week in hospital, recovering from wounds he’d
had to get specifically put back in by the Leinians. They’d even
put back the bullets into his leg. Better that than finding them
missing on an x-ray. It was something the doctors had objected to
strenuously, but in the end he’d convinced them they had no choice.
And it worked out well. The wounds the Leinians put back in him
healed faster and more cleanly than would real ones. The bullets
too, while close to where they had been originally, this time
didn’t interfere with his movement at all. He looked crippled but
wasn’t.

On being
discharged from the hospital he got three more weeks of
accommodation in the town’s most comfortable motel, which
coincidentally happened to be its most private. No-one would admit
who was paying the bill, which was par for the course. But then
no-one had admitted to making the phone call warning him either. He
even managed to get an agreement to pay for the costs of repairing
his home. Or rather, he asked everybody, got no answer as he should
have expected, and then one day simply found the extra money in his
accounts. Over three hundred thousand dollars of it. No one of
course was ever going to own up to that either but he wouldn’t
complain. After all his actual insurance would only extend as far
as normal building construction, not armour plate.

His main regret
was that he had to spend so long apart from Cyrea, though sometimes
she still managed to call him. They couldn’t say much knowing the
phone was bugged, but at least they could talk, and the agency was
happy with the explanation that she was only a casual love interest
and a teacher living out of state most of the year but spending her
holidays with him. That was the sort of relationship they expected
of a man in his line of work, even after he’d retired. Casual,
discreet and relatively impersonal.

By the end of a
month the bulk of the agents had left town in defeat and he was
officially allowed to return to what remained of his home. It was a
heart breaking return.

As he’d known
the house had taken a hammering, with several walls broken almost
in two, and large chunks of the roof having collapsed. The logs,
which formed the structural frame of the house, had for the most
part become little more than kindling. Internal supporting walls
had failed, and nearly everything he owned inside it had been
destroyed. From the outside it looked like a tornado had struck it,
but the inside was worse. Fire had consumed the lounge, kitchen and
decks, and his underground escape tunnel had collapsed. But as he
had intended to build another with a new exit, that at least wasn’t
too sad.

It was a
strange thing for him to realise. When he’d moved in and first had
the house rebuilt to his specifications, he’d thought of it as just
a safe house similar to hundreds all over the world. It was neither
too showy nor too run down. It wasn’t architecturally proud, nor
exceptionally box like. In short it was as nondescript a house as
he could find but one in which he could create secret rooms and
hidden exits and which also had good lines of sight for mounting a
solid defence. A house with zero targeting ability.

But over the
years it had changed. His house had slowly been transformed into a
home and he hadn’t even noticed. Then again, he’d never stayed in
any single place as long as he had here. He hadn’t realized how
much his cottage had come to mean to him, until he saw it in ruins.
But in that moment he understood everything that it was, and all
that he’d lost.

It made him
angry at first. Angry at Dimock of course, not just for stabbing
him, and trying to destroy his life, but for violating his home. It
made him sad too, as he saw his house and his life in ruins. But
eventually it made him determined to rebuild. Probably he should
have moved, changed his name and vanished from public view. Then he
could have found a new place somewhere else, and begun the painful
job of turning it into another fortress. It was the correct thing
to do for an agent who had been exposed. But even if it wasn’t for
the fact that he wanted to remain close to Cyrea, he didn’t want a
new home. Right or wrong, his house was his home and his castle and
he was determined it would be again.

With his bank
accounts suddenly flooded with new money from an unidentified
source, he started hiring contractors to begin the painstaking
process of rebuilding it. This time though, having seen Dimock’s
former approach and having the money, he upgraded the metal in the
walls to five layer armour plate and had it once more resin bonded
to the logs. It was expensive, but he wasn’t paying for it, and the
more money and effort he spent the more the agents believed he was
still concerned about Dimock returning someday, which added weight
to his tale of a missing but not confirmed dead superman.

Besides, even
though he knew, or at least hoped that Dimock wouldn’t be returning
any time soon, there were others to worry about. None in his league
thankfully as Dimock was unique, but they were still dangerous. The
armour would also give the house better insulation and storm
protection. Actually it should even survive a direct strike from a
tornado.

Having had his
tree mounted defence posts taken down with extreme prejudice and
been threatened with prosecution by the Feds if he ever did
something so reckless again, he added in four mini-gun stations in
the four corners of the house, each spaced just above the ceiling
in the roof space, and with the newest high speed servos and full
270 degree coverage. He didn’t actually have the mini-guns, but the
agents didn’t know that and they assumed he either had them or knew
where to get some. Naturally they said nothing lest they upset the
Feds. Besides, on the remote chance that Dimock had survived, a
mini-gun was probably the best way to slow him down and they knew
that.

On impulse he
also decided to add an extra room and en suite. He’d wanted a
fourth bedroom for ages as the gym and the office had taken up the
two spare ones, but until then he hadn’t been willing to part with
the cash for one. Now he had the money spare and the opportunity to
do it without having to alter the house as it was already being
completely rebuilt, and he took it. No-one he guessed would
complain and he was right. Nor did they mind the furnace he had
installed in the remains of his basement. Winter in these northern
latitudes was bitter and even the sub floor insulation he’d
installed had been barely enough with the fire going. Now some
under floor heating and good thick carpet would help keep his toes
warm in the morning.

The agents had
stared at him as they’d watched the plans being drawn up and then
the parts being moved in, wondering if he’d truly lost it. After
all, the location of the house was now public knowledge, and Dimock
knew where he lived. Its ability to conceal him was lost. But they
said nothing, probably realizing it would be futile. Though they
had to admit that while its previous defences had proved strong,
perhaps when it was finished if and when Dimock returned, it would
be the fortress they needed to kill him. Besides, while he stayed
there, they knew where Dimock would go if and when he was able.
David was the perfect bait.

David spent the
days, watching the slow rebuild like a hawk, speaking with the
agents as they called daily with their interminable questions, and
resetting his cameras and stocking up more guns. It added to his
credibility, and gave him something to do. The FBI was of course
completely opposed to his doing any such thing, especially when he
didn’t own all of the surrounding land, but they said nothing.
Someone high up he guessed, had spoken to their bosses again, and
he had become off limits to them. They didn’t even object while he
carried around a machine gun or two, complete with armour piercing
clips. After all, the army and other agents were all equally well
armed. In fact they had started carrying heavy artillery of their
own, and the Feds were doubtless wondering why.

At night he set
up camp in what remained of his bedroom, and dreamed of Cyrea,
waiting for the time when they could be together again. But sadly
they both knew it would be a while. He was still being followed or
guarded, depending on one’s perspective, by at least three
agencies. The FBI were determined to interrogate him about Dimock,
the CIA and the DOD were even more determined to prevent him from
saying anything to them, and all three were secretly worried that
the madman might return. The army of course thought it was all a
waste of time, but just in case Dimock did return they kept a
couple of trackers on him as well.

And so it
continued for the better part of a second month and then into a
third. He watched them as they scouted the area, and was in turn
spied upon. Meanwhile his neighbours who he rarely saw, discovered
the joys of living in a police state, and complained long and loud.
Of course they were told it was for their own good, even if they
weren’t all told why. The few times David did manage to run into
them, he couldn’t help but feel it was his fault they were
prisoners in their own land. They were always polite of course, but
it didn’t help.

The Leinians
themselves, were still in hiding. With so many agents about they
had no choice but to retreat to their ship and wait it out. That
had significantly greater consequences for the local community then
David would have expected. It was as though everyone had suddenly
started suffering from depression.

Business in the
town was slow to say the least. There were no paying visitors any
more other than the press who kept poking their noses into
everything. And they quickly vanished when the stories dried up.
Then of course, hunting, fishing and tramping had also been hit
hard, as the agencies had stopped all movement through the woods.
The agency people having all brought their own support chose not to
spend a dime locally.

It seemed another large chunk of
the local economy had vanished with the visitors. The Leinians had
been pumping in money for computers and various research projects
for years and had been paying the locals for their time and
services with precious metals and some cash. They’d opened up the
old gold mine, using a couple of locals as a front, and then
manufactured the gold themselves, giving themselves some liquid
capital. But the gold mining was also off for the while. There was
no transport either in or out and the locals who had become their
front, weren’t allowed to return to
the mine
.

The end result
was that Redwood Falls was doing a slow starve. Shops were slowly
emptying of produce, the tour guides without cabins had set up a
semi-permanent camping ground just out of town where they could
live for free, motels were shutting down and laying off staff, and
even the taverns were becoming quiet.

To add insult
to injury the Feds had imposed a curfew on the town, effectively
closing down the only tavern and both theatres. After nine at night
the place resembled a ghost town, with only a few soldiers
patrolling the streets. The army of course, brought its own
entertainment.

Worst of all
was that the entire town knew one way or another that it was his
fault. That Dimock had come because of him. As had the legion of
agents, the police state, and the general depression. He couldn’t
walk the street without feeling the weight of their accusing
stares, and retreated to the remains of his house for day after
day.

For the longest
time David thought he would never get out of his mess. That he
would spend his life in this police state.