Day of the Delphi (23 page)
Authors: Jon Land
Sheriff Duncan Farlowe stepped back into Grand Mesa’s municipal offices Tuesday afternoon bone-weary and aching all over. He had barely slept at all since Kristen Kurcell had departed early Saturday evening, preferring instead to spend the last three nights in an old rocking chair with black coffee in his stomach and a twelve-gauge in his hands. The old chair faced his front door and gave him a clear view out windows on both sides of the house.
He had spent Sunday and Monday further retracing the trail of Kristen’s brother David. Farlowe started with the store a hundred miles down the road in Alfona where the kid had bought his camcorder. The clerk remembered he was in a rush, remembered him asking an off-the-cuff question about any nearby military bases. The clerk had mentioned Miravo but made sure to point out it had been shut down two years earlier.
Farlowe figured the kid must have glimpsed some of the trucks going by and then staked out the road waiting for others to follow. The next convoy must have come through on Thursday night and led David to Miravo. After that the only thing Farlowe knew for sure was that the kid ended up in Grand Mesa’s last operating motel. He had searched room 7 and the kid’s jeep thoroughly again on the chance that David might have hidden the videotape he had made, but the search turned up nothing. He got AT&T on the line Monday to learn that the only call charged to the kid’s credit card in the week prior to his death had been the one to his sister. Another dead end.
All Duncan Farlowe had to go on was whatever David Kurcell had seen at Miravo Air Force Base. The sheriff had returned there for another look yesterday afternoon to find the base up and active, cobwebs shed and none the worse for wear.
Farlowe turned his truck around on Old Canyon Road before, he hoped, the guards posted in front of the gate saw him. It followed that whoever was inside now had been party to his and Kristen’s near murders on Saturday; six or so men poorer thanks to the old mines and the Peacemaker, and Duncan didn’t want to give anybody a chance to even the score.
Back in town, the numbers Kristen Kurcell had given him to reach her went unanswered. Farlowe had spent Monday night in his chair with more black coffee and the Peacemaker stuck in his belt to supplement the twelve-gauge.
He had returned to Miravo again this morning, Tuesday, taking up a post in the same hills David Kurcell had; no camera, though, just his eyes. He couldn’t tell what was going on inside, other than to be sure it had nothing to do with SAC. For one thing, the troops inside were army, not air force, or at least they looked like army. He came back to town to collect his thoughts, determined to share his findings with
someone
. FBI maybe, or the state cops for starters. Sit down at his desk, jot down a few notes, and then make some calls.
someone
. FBI maybe, or the state cops for starters. Sit down at his desk, jot down a few notes, and then make some calls.
The explosion that came barely a minute after he had stepped inside engulfed the entire municipal offices building in a massive fireball. The blast’s percussion blew out most of the windows along Main Street. The wooden exteriors of the neighboring structures were creased by black, charred patches that bled smoke into the air. The street was littered with fragments coughed free by the explosion, including the sign MUNICIPAL OFFICES, which had somehow survived whole. An old-fashioned town fire alarm wailed to call in the volunteer fighters.
Squeezed between a pair of houses set well back from
what had been his office, Sheriff Duncan Farlowe watched the twenty-year-old red engine speed onto the scene and screech to a stop. He was more angry than scared, a part of him wanting to walk up to the two men he had glimpsed in the rented car parked down Main Street and blast away with his Peacemaker. He had walked into the front of the municipal building and then rushed out the back, hoping his instincts were wrong.
what had been his office, Sheriff Duncan Farlowe watched the twenty-year-old red engine speed onto the scene and screech to a stop. He was more angry than scared, a part of him wanting to walk up to the two men he had glimpsed in the rented car parked down Main Street and blast away with his Peacemaker. He had walked into the front of the municipal building and then rushed out the back, hoping his instincts were wrong.
They weren’t, of course, and now it was time to head for the hills. Literally. A cabin he owned in the mountains near a ski resort that was closed for the season. He had a shortwave radio and a phone to keep the outside world as close as he needed it. Hole up for a while and figure out what to do, who to call, and try to figure out what the hell was going on.
“You sure this is the place, Sal?” McCracken asked when Belamo stopped at the head of an alley.
“Abso-fucking-lutely, boss,” Belamo replied. “Checked it out myself ’fore I rode out west to meet up with you. Followed Bill Carlisle’s trail this far and found a dead end. Literally.”
The alley was located off Good Hope Street in Washington’s rundown Anacostia district just over the 11th Street Bridge. They walked the last stretch of the way through the Washington night, passing a number of dark figures standing about in clusters. Ordinarily outsiders would have been accosted instantly. But the presence of Johnny Wareagle bringing up the small group’s rear discouraged anything but stares and a few threatening comments.
McCracken led the way down the alley toward its cluttered rear. Belamo had managed to trace the last known residence of former Trilateral Commission member, and
chairman of its shadowy subcommittee, William Carlisle, to a suite of wooden crates at the far end. McCracken reckoned that Carlisle might well be the only man who could fill in the missing components of the plot he had uncovered.
chairman of its shadowy subcommittee, William Carlisle, to a suite of wooden crates at the far end. McCracken reckoned that Carlisle might well be the only man who could fill in the missing components of the plot he had uncovered.
They had come here straight from New Mexico, driving all the way out of concern that the forces behind Sandcastle One would be intent on tracking them down. They took a circuitous route, changing cars often and grabbing food on the run. They reached the Anacostia section of Washington just after ten P.M. Tuesday night and left their car in an auto body shop’s lot on Good Hope Street three blocks away from the alley so it wouldn’t be noticed.
“He ain’t in there,” Sal assured Blaine as McCracken poked his head into one of the crates with Kristen Kurcell peering over his shoulder.
“I don’t expect him to be,” McCracken returned. “In fact, I’m guessing he seldom ever was.”
“Come clean, boss.”
“Not until I’m sure. Excuse me,” Blaine said to Kristen and backed away from the crate.
He glanced briefly toward the head of the alley where Johnny Wareagle was maintaining his vigil. Then he stuck his head and shoulders through the opening of Carlisle’s second crate and rummaged about in the crinkled newspapers, feeling for the cement beneath them.
“I might have been wrong,” Blaine said, backing out once more.
“You ask me, we’re wasting our time here.”
“Wait a minute.”
McCracken moved to an ancient Porta-John resting against the side of an abandoned building. His hand reached down for a rusted handle.
“Wouldn’t go in there ’I was you, boss … . Shit,” Belamo added when he saw Blaine yank open the door in spite of his protestations.
“Right,” McCracken followed when the stench assaulted him.
Blaine pushed against the walls to see if they would give. He was about to summon Johnny from the head of the alley to help him move the rusted hulk aside when he felt the floor section shift slightly beneath his touch.
“Give me a hand, Sal.”
“There’s limits, boss.”
“I promise it won’t get dirty. Just hold on to the frame here … . That’s it.”
As Kristen Kurcell looked on intently, McCracken jimmied the Porta-John’s floor all the way free and wedged a hand beneath it. One wrench was all it took to lift the floor away. He tossed it behind him.
“Holy shit!” gasped Sal.
“Right again,” said Blaine, gazing through the missing floor into a dark hole that led into the sewers of Washington.
Actually, Blaine realized as he touched down at the bottom of the ladder, this was more likely an abandoned section of the Metro, the city’s subway system. Kristen Kurcell was slower in her descent, but nonetheless determined to accompany him. Sal Belamo was quite happy to remain topside with Johnny Wareagle to stand guard.
Kristen’s feet touched the murky bottom. “Thanks for letting me tag along. I really mean that. I know it would have been a lot easier for the rest of you if you had dropped me off along the way.”
“Then I wouldn’t have anyone to enjoy this lovely smell with.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So was I when I asked if you wanted to join me down here.”
“I thought you’d take Sal. I was ready to argue.”
“This isn’t about Sal, so I saved you the trouble. It’s your stake, Kris. You bought in when your brother got killed at the outset. You didn’t have a choice then. You deserve one now.”
Before she could answer, McCracken turned and started walking along the pathway.
The corridor before them bent in angular, almost mazelike fashion. In some spots the water was deep enough to cover their shoes. In others the concrete floor was bone dry and drew an echo from the clicking of their heels. Thin rows of work lights dangled from the ceiling to illuminate their path. Strangely, not a single bulb was burnt out. Once in a while a powerful rumbling shook the nearby walls, evidence of a functional Metro tunnel not too far off.
The farther they walked into the tunnel, the less they could smell the putrid sewer stench, and finally it dissipated altogether. The rumbling also abated, allowing a soft hum of voices to reach both their ears at the same time. Kristen stiffened. McCracken didn’t. She looked at him.
“The voices. You recognize them,” she said in what had started as a question.
“Listen, and so will you.”
McCracken had already moved on ahead of her and Kristen hurried to catch up. Another twenty yards down the unfinished tunnel, the air suddenly turned cool, almost fresh, as if drained of humidity.
“Air conditioning and filtration,” Blaine said by way of explanation.
“You were expecting this.”
“We’re almost there,” he told her.
“Almost
where?”
where?”
After another ten yards, the lighting directly in front of them changed dramatically. A bright spot like a beacon in the darkness lay dead ahead: barely a glow at first, but quickly sharpening into an even layer of light coming from what seemed to be the very end of the tunnel.
The tunnel narrowed toward a single doorway. The muted voices they had detected were coming from beyond it. Kristen followed McCracken through the doorway and her jaw dropped at what lay before them.
In a massive cavern that might have been a sewer reservoir
abandoned when the Metro encroached upon it, a luxurious residence had been erected. It was composed of two exquisitely furnished levels joined by a spiral staircase. On the first floor, a pair of matching Chesterfield sofas sat facing each other atop a lavish Oriental carpet. A Regency-style chair stood next to an elegant writing desk, which was perched upon another carpet of similar design. Behind the desk a fireplace burned with a gas-lit fire that threw more atmosphere than heat into the conditioned cool of the cavern. Shelves and shelves of books lined the walls to camouflage the concrete of the cavern, and Blaine and Kristen could see doors leading to what they assumed were other rooms. A priceless George III long-case clock stood opposite the fireplace, and a collection of Waterford crystal dominated an open breakfront.
abandoned when the Metro encroached upon it, a luxurious residence had been erected. It was composed of two exquisitely furnished levels joined by a spiral staircase. On the first floor, a pair of matching Chesterfield sofas sat facing each other atop a lavish Oriental carpet. A Regency-style chair stood next to an elegant writing desk, which was perched upon another carpet of similar design. Behind the desk a fireplace burned with a gas-lit fire that threw more atmosphere than heat into the conditioned cool of the cavern. Shelves and shelves of books lined the walls to camouflage the concrete of the cavern, and Blaine and Kristen could see doors leading to what they assumed were other rooms. A priceless George III long-case clock stood opposite the fireplace, and a collection of Waterford crystal dominated an open breakfront.
The second floor, more of an open loft actually, was supported by heavy post and beam construction. Part of a large canopied bed was visible, as well as even more bookshelves crammed with books, many of them bound in leather. Their pleasing aroma drifted throughout the cavern. Hanging on the few vacant stretches of wall were French impressionist paintings, mixed with statues and art in an Oriental motif.
“
This is CNN.”
This is CNN.”
The familiar voice and music that followed drew Kristen’s attention to an alcove just to the left of the Chesterfield sofas. She noticed McCracken too was staring that way, where the easily identifiable glow of a big-screen television shone outward.
A quick burst of rushing water on the second level was swiftly followed by a door closing, and then a man emerged from the master bedroom. “Ah, guests,” noted H. William Carlisle as he reached the top of the spiral staircase, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “If I had known you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion.”
In place of the tattered rags the former member of the Trilateral Commission had been wearing in Lafayette Park on Saturday, Carlisle was dressed in an old-fashioned smoking
jacket and bleated trousers. His slippers were fluffy and padded. His face was clean shaven and free of grime.
jacket and bleated trousers. His slippers were fluffy and padded. His face was clean shaven and free of grime.
“You look a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you,” McCracken noted.
“The disguise allows me to move freely in the streets, to mix in. Priceless.”
“I get the feeling you haven’t been out since you met me.”
“If you could find me, so could someone else. Not a good time to be seen, by all accounts.”
Blaine moved slowly forward, eyes sweeping the residence before him that seemed like a cross between the Phantom of the Opera’s lair and the rooms of Captain Nemo on board the submarine
Nautilus
. “I congratulate you on building yourself such an impressive hideout.”
Nautilus
. “I congratulate you on building yourself such an impressive hideout.”
“I prefer to call it a retirement home. Either way, it was no easy task, I assure you.”
“How did you manage to furnish it?”
“With the help of a pair of robberies staged at my house, one before my disappearance and one after. Alas, as it is with all home builders, I found my measurements were a bit off. Lots of empty space.”
Halfway into his walk down the spiral staircase, Carlisle seemed to notice Kristen for the first time. “I have not had the pleasure of your aquaintance, miss. H. William Carlisle,” he said, his head bowing slightly.
“You’re Billy the Kid,” responded Kristen, instead of introducing herself.
“You’ve heard of me, I see.”
“I
studied
you.”
studied
you.”
Carlisle reached the bottom of the staircase and stopped. “And that, my dear lady, is what I have been reduced to: a course requirement.”
“Not exactly,” noted Blaine.
“I furnished you with a piece of history, Mr. McCracken.”
“Current
history, Mr. Carlisle, because your subcommittee never stopped operating.”
history, Mr. Carlisle, because your subcommittee never stopped operating.”
“I was referring to Operation Yellow Rose.”
“So was I. You said your subcommittee was dissolved in 1978, when you dropped out. But the files in the bus station locker ran through 1980.”
Carlisle stood before Blaine rigidly, expressionless.
“You knew the subcommittee was still active,” McCracken continued. “You knew it was active then, and you knew it remained active to this day. I’m also betting that you knew all along what its members were up to. And even though you weren’t a part of it anymore, you pointed me in the wrong direction.”
An ironic smile inched across Carlisle’s face. “Because a part of me wanted to see if they could pull off such a grand and glorious scheme. A primitive and juvenile part, I admit, but I was there at the beginning, when discussions hatched the very fate I suspect is about to befall the country.”
“Then why tell me anything at all?”
“Simple. I thought telling you nothing might have helped you discover the truth faster than setting you on the wrong path did.”
“In other words, you wanted me to fail.”
“Because that same juvenile part of me honestly believes that what they offer is the only hope this nation has. Our conversation in Lafayette Park brought all the excitement back to me, made me long to be part of the loop again. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how close they were. I suspected, of course, but you provided confident confirmation.”
“You sound proud,” Kristen interjected bitterly.
“Perhaps regretful that I left when I did.”
“You must have had your reasons,” Blaine picked up. “And they must have been very good ones.”
Carlisle turned away from both Blaine and the question and moved stiffly toward the fake fireplace. McCracken stood by his side and the two stared into the gas-fueled, unwavering
flames. Carlisle rubbed his hands together before them, as if to ward off a chill.
flames. Carlisle rubbed his hands together before them, as if to ward off a chill.
“I walked away, Mr. McCracken, because I couldn’t go along with what our subcommittee became in the wake of Yellow Rose’s demise. You see, the Trilateralists themselves deemed the operation an unnecessary distraction. By 1976, after all, they had what they really wanted.”
“The presidency,” Blaine picked up. “Jimmy Carter was one of their own.”
“And he took plenty more into office with him, twenty-five major appointments by conservative estimates. Can you imagine a better, more favorable scenario for the commission? At last the Trilateralists were in a position to turn theory into policy.”
“A miserable failure by all accounts.”
“Of course, because history conspired against them.”
“The hostage crisis?” suggested Kristen.
Carlisle shook his head. “It was already over by then, miss. When faced with the true managing of government, they found themselves overwhelmed. They weren’t willing to go far enough; exposed and accountable for their actions, they didn’t dare take the risk.”
Other books
The Honey Trap by Lana Citron
Soul Love by Lynda Waterhouse
The Prince of West End Avenue by Alan Isler
Wings in the Night by Robert E. Howard
Kellan by Sienna Valentine
Reckless by Stephens, S.C.
His Dark Bond by Marsh, Anne
Skeletons by Al Sarrantonio
Don’t Look Twice by Carolyn Keene
Lasting Damage by Aren, Isabelle
