Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] (4 page)

Her slim fingers dancing on the keyboard, words began scrolling on the screen. “Established as a municipality in 1774,” Jess started, biting a lip in concentration. “Was a coal mining town until the vein was exhausted in 1905. Population dropped from 20,000 to 400. Wow. Big bootlegging operation in the ‘30's. Town converted to tourism in the 1950's. Built a luxury hotel specifically designed for conventions. They hold about one a month there: Local 149 plumbers union, Shriners, Elks, WesCon, which is some kind of a science fiction convention, all sorts of stuff."

She tapped a button and the screen scrolled some more. “Current mayor is a Eugene Synder, police chief is Steven Kissel. Owner-slash-manager of the hotel is a Lucia Read. Apparently the three of them pretty much run the place."

"Interesting,” Father Donaher remarked, sliding fresh shells into his Remington shotgun. “Sounds like your typical small town. Isolated, incestuous and innocent."

"Except it ain't there no more,” Jess noted, with just a trace of a Chicago accent roughing her silken tones.

True enough. We had already been on our way here when the telex came in from the state police and suddenly our recon mission to Hadleyville was elevated to Full Investigation. When any town stops answering every phone, CB, Ham radio, computer modem, Western Union telegraph, fax machine, email, etc., this raises suspicions. But when the event occurs at nigh exactly the same time as a transdimensional rift, bingo! We go in, hard, fast and with guns drawn. Showtime.

Sitting on the third couch in the rear of the RV, was a pale slim man softly cursing as he struggled to unfold a road map and making a major botch of the job. Nice to know there was something the mage wasn't good at doing. Dressed rather conservatively this morning, Raul Horta was wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt decorated with a starry picture of the Milky Way galaxy marked with a blinking red arrow indicating that ‘you are here'. Neon-blue jogging shorts displayed his incredibly pale legs and his bony feet sported tan yacht-style moccasins complete with ropes, portholes, anchors and a miniscule steering wheel.

"Only a few more miles to the Hadleyville exit,” announced Raul's voice from behind the map. He crossed his legs to the sound of crashing waves on the ocean. “Unless I'm reading this wrong and we're actually in Brazil."

"Okay, how about landmarks?” I requested, heroically trying not to tumble the RV off the inclined road. Geez, hadn't any of the builders heard of that swell new invention called a ruler?

"Landmarks?” Raul repeated, as if never hearing the word before. Turning the map turned around, he next tried sideways and then went upside-down. “Ah! There we are. Make a left past the next runaway-truck crash ramp."

"A major historical landmark,” George quipped from underneath a standard issue US Army camouflage cap. Uncrossing his arms, the gunner straightened his cloth headgear and sat upright. A proper soldier, Mr. Renault always tried to catch a nap before a possible battle. Appropriately, our plump killer was wearing mottled green Army fatigues, complete with high-top black GI boots and web-style gun belt holding a holstered Colt .45 automatic, and enough ammo to intimidate Mack Bolan. On the seat nearby was a banjo making an unnaturally large depression in the cushion.

"Not a real landmark,” Jessica denied, loading a clip of tranquilizer darts into a spare Nikon. Her cameras could shoot in more ways than one. Say cheese or die!

"In West Virginia, a truck crash is just another way of saying that tourists are in town,” she finished with a grin.

"Ha. I laugh,” George replied sleepily, and lowering the brim of the cap, he immediately started to snore. Sprawled on the floor, Amigo politely began to echo the soldier.

Depositing the Nikon into a cushioned bag full of telephoto lenses, Jessica began loading infrared film into an underwater camera. The love of my life had good balance and fine composition. Took nice pictures too.

"Here comes the Hadleyville exit,” Mindy said continuing to sharpen a long Japanese katana. As always, our lady ninja was sensibly dressed in combat sneakers and a muted gray jogging suit, which gave her maximum freedom of movement, plus could hold an arsenal of edged weapons. Which it did, and in the most amazing places.

Curiously, I squinted at the roadway ahead. “What? Where?"

Unconcerned, she continued to stroke the metal. “Wait."

Methodically, Ms. Jennings ran a rectangular block of depleted uranium along the edge of the blade causing ultra-thin strips of the superdense metal to curl up and tumble to the carpet in tiny thumps. The Ginsu people would kill to get a hold of that indestructible sword. Which would just about be the only possible way to remove it from the deadly hands of Mindy Jennings, girl ninja.

The road hummed by underneath the RV and about a minute later, as we rounded a bend, there was the exit. Someday, I would have to discover how the hell she did stuff like this. Smell the paint on the sign? Hear the wind on the asphalt? Surgically implanted GPD? All three were possible.

Just then, I noticed that we were passing a pair of empty wooden stakes on the side of the road, the pale clean wood at the top clearly announcing where a sign had formerly been located. Hmm. Was somebody trying to hide the very existence of the town, or just sidetrack the idle curious?

Slowing alongside, it was possible to see a green-and-white metallic sign lying partially hidden in the grass. And just beyond was a double line of rubber yellow cones closing off the exit ramp. A brand new sign said that the road was closed for repairs.

"Isn't this the only route in or out of town?” Father Donaher asked, tugging on the ends of his long red moustache.

Placing an ear against the colored paper, Raul briefly consulted the map. “Yes, it is,” he confirmed.

"Oh, Kathi!” I called out merrily.

On command, a plush recliner swiveled about to display the amazingly buxom Katrina ‘Kathi’ Somer. Wearing only denim short-shorts, ankle strap sandals and a skimpy red halter top that would have been declared illegal on a nude beach, the tan actress was a major traffic hazard in any civilized nation. A recent addition to her ensemble was a tiny tattoo of a butterfly decorating her right shoulder. The tattoo used to be on her left, and I was surprised to learn that butterflies migrate. Well, at least, Katrina's did.

Waving her fingers about as if saying goodbye to a friend, the wizard formed contrails of sparkling lights in the air.

"
Nyet
, Edwardo,” she said in heavily accented English. “Bridge intact is."

The lovely Russian mage had only recently joined our covert team and her knowledge of the language was nowhere good as her command of the occult arts. Hell of a tap dancer, though.

With a nod, I took turns loosening each of the S&W .357 Magnums in my double shoulder holster. “Okay, battle stations,” I ordered solemnly.

That statement was immediately followed by a series of metallic clacks as a wide variety of weapons were prepped for combat. Except, of course, for the two wizards. Gunpowder-and-magic mix about as well as sex-and-glue. But each mage held a long metallic staff. The wands were always present, only visible to the naked eye on command of the wizards. A master wizard, Raul's staff was four-feet-long and made of pure silver topped with gold. Just a beginner mage, Katrina's was only made of stainless steel. But since she possessed the stolen power of three adult wizards, it was also four-feet in length. Precisely as long as Raul's to the exact micron. Once in the middle of the night, I caught them drunk in the closet, measuring each like a couple of teenagers. Mages, sheesh! They're the main reason why antacids were invented.

With a mighty yawn, George awoke and grabbed his banjo to work the heavy arming bolt.

Wary of a possible trap, I carefully rotated the steering wheel and maneuvered onto the berm to bypass the safety barrier. For just a moment, a meter on the dashboard flickered to indicate that we were in the process of running over needle-tipped railroad spikes buried in the loose gravel. There was only the faintest burbling noise as our self-repairing tires handled the inconvenience.

As we spent most of our duty time traveling, aside from the standard amenities, the massive RV was equipped with: front-launched Amsterdam Mark IV All-Purpose missiles, side mounted .50-caliber machine guns, twin aft 40mm grenade launchers and miniature Claymore mines in the door handles. Moreover, the hull could be electrified, and the razor-edged door could instantly snap closed under 8,000 pounds of hydraulic pressure. The van could also change color, travel underwater, through fire, and sported a quadraphonic stereo with digital CD player. Although a true technological marvel, the upholstered fort got terrible gas mileage. Ah well, nothing was perfect.

Then a thought occurred and I turned to smile at my beautiful wife. She smiled back and the temperature of the van rapidly increased by twenty degrees. Correction. Almost nothing was perfect.

Maintaining an even speed, the long RV rolled onto the old country bridge, the wide oak beams rattling and clattering under our twenty-four tons of military armor. When we reached mid-span, another meter ticked, showing that a device underneath the bridge had just bombarded the van with an EM pulse which should have fried every working circuit in the vehicle. Interesting.

The wheels started humming again when we reached macadam and I increased the speed, only to hit the brakes. A tree was lying across the road blocking any possible advance. Annoyed murmurs arose from my team. Now, it may have only been my imagination, but it was certainly starting to appear as if somebody really didn't want any visitors going to Hadleyville. Maybe tourist season was finished for the spring?

"Brace yourselves,” I calmly announced, hitting the button for the nitrous-oxide injector and the automatic front jacks at the same time. With a roar, the gigantic van lurched forward and jerked upward to bound over the oak. We were airborne for just a few seconds before crashing back onto the ground with a moderate jar and rolling sedately onward. I tried to hide a smile and failed. God, I love doing that.

Moving at a slow pace, I studied the landscape for any more surprises as the RV barely crested another hill and the road leveled out nicely ahead. A couple of miles later, at the bottom of a low hill, I slammed onto the brakes so hard that Amigo almost went through the windshield. Sprawled in the middle of the road were dozens of dead bodies.

Or rather, what remained of them.

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Slow and easy, the team exited the van, watching where they stepped to not disturb anything of importance on the lonely country road. But with a sick stomach I knew it would be hard to find anything significant in all that blood.

Maybe a dozen bodies dotted the concrete, the limp forms sprawled flat in dry pools of caked brown. A buzzing cloud of insects darkened the sky, and I had smelled worse, but not in this universe. There was no sign of any cars.

Removing a lens cap, Jessica started clicking her camera, taking shots of the crime scene. Raul and Katrina put their heads together to confer, then majestically waved their wands. Instantly, the cloud of flies went buzzing away and we got a clear view of the bodies. The mutilated corpses had no hands or heads. Yuck.

As the last to leave the van, I flipped a switch activating our Dead Man box to record our conversations and armed the self-destruct. If anybody, or thing, tried to enter the vehicle without our consent they would suddenly be flying towards Mars in several large chunks.

"Raul, George, do a perimeter sweep,” I ordered, a Magnum in my hand. “Mindy on guard. Jess, photo everything. Katrina and Donaher stay with me."

Moving across the bloody ground, the team separated to their assigned tasks, George only pausing for a moment to unlimber a spare belt of linked .30 ammunition for his banjo before joining the others.

Pulling a fountain pen from inside his cassock, Donaher removed the cap and telescoped out a long surgical probe. Removing another pen from my own shirt pocket, I twisted the middle twice and gave it to him. Gazing through my miniature microscope pen, he prodded the ends of an arm and neck stump. He tried very hard not to step in the blood and almost succeeded. Steeling myself, I went through the pants, shirts and dresses of several corpses. But every pocket was clean, and not even lint remained. It was a very professional job.

"Well?” Katrina asked after a moment, her gaze nervously flicking from one corpse to another.

"Removed by amateurs,” the big priest stated coldly, furrowing his freckled brow.

Eh? “Explain, please,” I demanded, rocking back on my heels.

"They cut off the hands at the wrist, here, where the joint bones are their thickest,” Father Donaher demonstrated, tapping the bloody stump with the probe. “A classic beginner's mistake. Plus, while the wrists were done in one shot, the neck took two. I postulate the implement as a wedge of smooth steel, very sharp and thin. A butcher's cleaver would be perfect. Maybe a machete, but it would have to be new."

Her long hair stirred by secret winds, the Russian mage frowned. “How do you know that?” Katrina asked, puzzled.

"Machetes are manufactured from cheap steel,” Mindy answered, stooping over to inspect something on the ground. Whatever it was proved uninteresting and she tossed it away into the weeds. “They dull fast and sharpening always leaves irregularities in the blade length.” Dead bodies didn't bother our martial artist in the least. Lord knows she'd made enough of them.

Camera clicking steadily, Jessica involuntarily gave a shiver. “But why remove the heads and hands?” she asked. “Symbolism? Demonic ceremony?"

"Lunch?” Raul added somberly.

Zounds, what a deviant mind the man had.

"To hinder identification,” George mumbled around a spicy beef stick in his mouth. Hefting his heavy banjo to a more comfortable position, George suddenly seemed to realize the food was there, made a face, and threw the snack into the weeds.

"Sure be hard as hell to tell who is who, if the fools had also taken the feet along with the wallets and rings,” he said scrubbing his mouth with a handkerchief.