Desert Assassin (15 page)

The motel appeared to have seen its better days. The exterior was weather beaten and offered little promise that the rooms would be much of an improvement over tents. However, the rooms had been completely remodeled and proved to be a pleasant surprise. Attached to the motel was a restaurant with excellent food – another surprise. Upon the finishing of the meals, Morgan showed the picture of Morales which he had on file in his tablet to the waitress. She did not recognize him.

It was on to the bar. During the course of drinking one bottle each of Chicken Killer, Morgan questioned five customers, the bartender and the waitress. None of them recognized Morales. Shortly before they were about to leave, Fowler struck up a conversation with the waitress, who was in her late thirties, attractive and divorced.

“I hope he doesn’t think he has time for that,” said Morgan.

The conversation lasted about five minutes and ended with her giving Fowler a slip of paper.

Back in the Pathfinder and heading to the motel, Fowler said, “We may have something.”

“She’s got two friends?” asked Williams.

“Who knows?” replied Fowler. “She gave me two numbers. One is hers. I told her I’d give her a call when I finished my assignment. The other is for some guy named Floyd. He lives on the north edge of town, is retired and spends a lot of time horseback riding through the hills. Sally thought he might know something.”

“What’s his number?” asked Morgan.

Fowler passed him the slip of paper. Morgan keyed the number into his tablet. “Got the address. It’s Floyd Westerlind.”

“We’ll check him out in the morning,” said Williams.

Morgan added, “Good work, Art.”

Directly following breakfast at the motel attached restaurant, the three headed out to find Westerlind.

“Bill, I suggest that you carry the conversation as he’s retired Army – twenty-six years.”

“What rank?”

“E-7.”

“Any combat?”

“Gulf War.”

“Wounded?”

“No.”

By the look of it with an old, faded white house and a large barn with the beginnings of a concave roof, Westerlind’s property had once been a farm or a ranch. Those days were gone as, other than two horses, there were no animals or crops in sight. Less than a mile from the property and extending in every direction except that of Reserve was a thick strand of evergreen trees, part of the Gila National Forest.

“If there are any Assassin juniors out there,” observed Fowler, “it would be all but impossible to find them. They could multiply into hundreds or thousands in short order.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Morgan.

As they approached the house, the door opened and out stepped a heavy set, tall figure with a shotgun. “What do you fellas want?”

“Sergeant Westerlind?”

There was no response.

“I’m Major Bill Williams, U.S. Army. A young lady named Sally at the bar in town said you might be able to help us. It’s a national security issue.”

“Who are these two with you?”

“Jesse Morgan, FBI, and Arthur Fowler, ex-United States Army.”

Westerlind could see that none of the three were armed. “Let me see your identification, Major.”

Williams slowly pulled out a leather license holder from his shirt pocket and tossed it toward Westerlind. Keeping the shotgun pointed directly at Williams, Westerlind picked up the holder and examined the contents. He lowered the shotgun to his side. “Can’t be too careful these days.”

“My apologies, Sergeant, we should have called first.”

“What can I do for you fellas?”

“We understand you do a lot of riding up in the hills. We are trying to track down an illegal who disappeared a while back.”

“Who the hell cares about an illegal? What about Bottomly?”

“That was a ways from here.”

“Lotta land, Major. Not many folks. News travels. Anyone looking for him?”

“It’s being worked on. Would you mind looking at a photo of the illegal?”

“Won’t do you any good. Haven’t seen anybody out there and no one around here I don’t know except you three.”

“Seen anything unusual?”

“About twenty miles northeast of here, a black bear torn to shreds. Can’t imagine what kind of animal could’ve done that.”

Looking back at his Pathfinder, Williams asked if they could drive to it.

“Impossible.”

“Could you get us there by horse? We’ll pay for your time and expenses.”

“I’ve only got two horses and that was a week ago. There’s probably not much left of it now.”

“Bill, if Sergeant Westerlind is willing, I’d like to go. If there is anything there, I’ll let Mitchell know. He can pass it on to the General.

“This is that important?” asked Westerlind.

“Yes,” replied Williams.

Westerlind looked at Morgan. “Any time you’re ready, FBI.”

Williams and Fowler spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon canvassing Reserve with no luck. Morgan called shortly after one o’clock to say that he and Westerlind were on their way back and were about five miles from Westerlind’s property. They found what little was left of the bear. Mitchell had been contacted and provided with the site coordinates.

Back in the Pathfinder, Morgan said, “There was very little that was visible, but hopefully they can scoop up something of use. Also, on the way back in, I told Westerlind to be careful out there. When I did, he said, ‘Why, the devil beast?’”

“So, that’s leaked out,” said Fowler.

“Local cops let it out. Also, I gave him a hundred from my budget. Now, how about some lunch?”

Following lunch, they decided to spend another night at the motel, but to first drive south to Glenwood, and spend the afternoon and, if necessary, the evening questioning the locals.

Ling and Henderson were greeted by The General upon their return to Williams’ property. Following a hug from the General, Henderson asked, “Where’s Bill?”

“Searching for possible human like versions of Assassin west of here along Route 180. Arthur and Morgan are with him.”

“Morgan?”

“Yes, Morgan.”

The General proceeded to give them a briefing of Morgan’s latest visit and ended by saying, “His ‘conversion’ appears to be genuine.”

“I hope so,” said Henderson.

“Regardless of his motivation, Morgan does bring with him valuable assets. If they are able to work together, the three of them make a helluva team.”

Ling couldn’t help but envy Williams’ combat abilities and toughness. Having seen the size of Assassin and its fearsome appearance, he knew that, unlike Williams, he would have had no chance against it. He also understood that his envy was irrational, but his love for Alice and fear of losing her made it impossible to feel otherwise.

After explaining the two front search efforts underway, the General indicated they would find new equipment in the van along with Kevin Pezeshki, the tech man. “Also, two scientists will be arriving shortly to assist you. You will turn over to them the information I asked you to bring. However, do not under any circumstances tell them where we have Assassin.”

“What is our role here?” asked Ling.

“Until and if we find anything, wait and watch. Also, let me know if Morgan’s men have anything we can use.”

“Stan,” said Henderson, “who does Cyclo remind you of?”

“A know-it-all.”

“Well, there’s that, but I’m talking about physical appearance.”

Ling thought about it and came up empty.

“You are a typical male. Morgan, he’s got to be Morgan’s son.”

“Now that you mention it, I think you are right.”

Cyclo was one of the two men who Morgan had assigned to work with Ling and Henderson. The other was a biologist, Dr. Norman Saunders, who Henderson had met several years earlier at a conference in Atlanta. Cyclo was dressed in one of the identification-less black uniforms used by Morgan and his men. He was twenty-six years old and may or may not have graduated from high school. He never attended college. In grade seven, aided by a photographic memory, he began a sequential reading of the Encylopaedia Britannica. He was one of those rare individuals blessed with the ability to look at a page of writing and instantly remember its contents. It was from this that Cyclo earned his name.

It had taken but a few minutes after his arrival for Ling and Henderson to find out what everyone who knew Cyclo had learned. The breath and scope of his knowledge seemed boundless. Saunders told Ling that Cyclo probably understood String Theory as well as Brian Greene, but that Greene probably could not rattle off, as could Cyclo, the batting averages of just about every major league baseball player, past and present. Saunders told this to Ling in the presence of Cyclo.

Unable to resist, Ling, who had become a Cincinnati Reds fan in his early days of being stationed at Wright Patterson, asked Cyclo, “What was the lifetime batting average of Gookie Dawkins?” Ling had seen Dawkins play in a Reds’ game back in 2002. He also knew that thousands upon thousands of individuals had played one game or more in the majors and that there very little chance that Cyclo had ever heard of Dawkins, let alone know his batting average.

Before Cyclo could answer, Saunders said, “I’ve got twenty says he knows the answer.”

Ling immediately accepted the bet.

“Majors or minors,” asked Cyclo.

“Uh-oh!” exclaimed Henderson, who then said, “Stan, I think you better take out your wallet.”

“Majors,” replied Ling.

“In ninety-eight at bats spanning 1999 through 2003, he batted .163.”

Ling went to a computer, typed Dawkins name into the MLB official site player search and, while reaching for his wallet, said, “Damn!”

“If you have two tens,” said Saunders, “I would appreciate it.”

When Henderson finally was able to stop laughing, she said, “Stan, I suspect you are not the first person to be taken by these two.”

While Saunders smiled broadly, Cyclo remained expressionless.

Directly after Ling handed over to Saunders and Cyclo copies of all the research done on the remains of Assassin, Cyclo walked out of the van. He returned fifty minutes later. “Interesting.” Holding up the copies he had been given, he continued, “As your team has noted, Assassin appears to have been a long way from being fully matured. I suspect that if there are others left in its wake, unchecked they will eventually be able to take over the identity of other organisms, including humans, by doing nothing more than transferring the virus into those organisms. The virus it was carrying is like nothing known here on Earth. In fact, I’m not certain that it is a virus.”

Before anyone could respond, the General walked in, “Get your gear together, we are taking a trip. Pezeshki will man the van.”

Ten minutes later, the five of them, along with two MPs and a pilot, were in a helicopter on their way to inspect what little was left of what once was a bear. While en route, the General detailed what he had been told by Morgan, specifically Westerlind’s description to Williams, Morgan and Fowler of the decimated bear.

“Looks like coyotes had a feast,” said Cyclo as he looked over the few shards of bone which were left.

“If it weren’t for the description of what he saw that the horseback rider gave to Bill, we wouldn’t be giving this a second thought,” added Henderson.

Ling thought to himself, “Why did she mention only Williams and not Morgan and Fowler?”

“It certainly is disappointing, but maybe we will come up with something when we bring it back,” said Saunders.

Henderson and Saunders had just started to collect samples when Cyclo yelled, “Get down!” Immediately, he began firing into the distance. The General and the MPs joined him.

After several rounds had been expended, the General called for a cease fire. Whatever it was had disappeared into the trees. “Everybody in the chopper, now!” He then ordered the pilot to lift off and try to follow the “bloody thing.”

The bloody thing, as the General called it, appeared to be a normal bear in every respect except one. It was covered with what seemed to be tarantula bristles.

Next was a call to Rappaport, who was told to bring everything he had. Finally, he contacted Mitchell and asked him to let Morgan know what was happening.

Three hours later with darkness approaching, a fleet of helicopters, a drone and satellite imagery had yielded nothing.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

“W
E ARE MISSING OUT ON THE FUN.”

“I can’t disagree with that, Art,” replied Morgan.

“Morgan,” said Williams, “any objections if Art and I see if we can find it? We’ll give it three days and then rejoin you. Meanwhile, you can continue the search here.”

“I’d prefer to go after it, but it’s your call and the two of you have more experience with this sort of thing. Just make sure you take some scotch with you.”

“Thanks. I’ll have the General send out a chopper and drop us off near where the remains of the bear were found. That will leave you with the Pathfinder.”

The plan was roughly a shortened version of the first one which resulted in the killing of Assassin. They planned to start near the site where the bear-like Assassin had been spotted and move on foot in the direction it had fled when fired upon. Williams requested that no helicopters fly in the area during the search.

Starting at six in the morning, Williams and Fowler moved slowly through the thickly wooded area. They were focused on looking for evidence of a trail that may have been created by the fleeing beast. Two hundred feet or so into the woods, they spotted a fresh trail which gave every indication of being that of a bear. Unfortunately, the trail disappeared a little less than two miles later at a clearing. During the trek, Williams received two calls from Morgan who stated each time that he had come up with nothing new, either from his area search or from the drone and the satellite.

As the two were searching the perimeter of the clearing looking for a continuation of the trail, Fowler pulled field glasses out of his backpack and peered through them looking low in the horizon toward the north.

“Bill, when is the only time you’ll see golden eagles flying in a pack?”

“When they are migrating. Why?”

Handing the field glasses to Williams, Fowler said, “Take a look at this,” while pointing in the direction he had been looking. “Also, look at the size of them. The wingspans must be at least ten feet.”

“Trouble,” said Williams as he watched four of them circling slowly together no more than two hundred feet off the ground. “They are moving in our direction. Looks like you may have asked the right question when you asked what would happen if an Assassin nailed an eagle.”

“What’s the plan?”

“If they get close enough, shoot them down.”

“You want me to commit a felony?” laughed Fowler. “If so, you owe me fifty for every one I drop.”

“You’re on. Also, bring one down alive and I’ll double the fifty.”

“Pay me up front and I’ll give you a ten percent discount.”

“Payment on delivery. They are almost within range. Get under cover. Don’t fire until you see me start to raise my rifle. I want to see if they’ll come after me when they spot me.”

“Maybe they’ve already spotted us.”

“They wouldn’t be circling. Get under cover now.”

Fowler dashed under the nearest trees, while Williams sat down with his rifle at his side. The eagles ceased circling two minutes later and headed toward Williams while simultaneously gaining altitude. Williams continued to watch and wait. Finally, when he estimated they were about five hundred feet away both in height and lateral distance, all four went into a dive aimed directly at him. The second Williams grabbed his rifle, Fowler opened fire. Two were hit. The other two reversed direction moving rapidly up and away.

One of the two plummeted downward, while the other went into a spiral struggling to stay in flight. Shortly after the first one smashed into the ground, the second landed some three hundred feet away. Its right wing was damaged.

“Got my hundred fifty?”

Ling was alone in the van – agonizing. He had been agonizing ever since Cyclo had yelled out, “Get down.”

Over and over he replayed in his mind what had happened. He could vividly see the General and the MPs reacting by drawing and firing their weapons, while he dropped to the ground with Alice and Saunders. No one who was there said a word to him about it, but he knew what all of them, especially Alice, must be thinking. And then he pictured what Williams would have done. He imagined him not only firing, but also giving chase.

Just when he thought the comparison between Williams and him couldn’t get any worse, the General bolted into the van. Addressing Ling, he said, “You, Alice and Saunders are going back to Texas. Bill and Arthur have just downed two oversized golden eagles. They are sure the eagles are the products of Assassin. One is alive.”

Ling was stunned and speechless.

“Mitchell and Cyclo are going with me to get the eagles to send to the lab in Texas. Jim and McBride are already on their way there.”

Before Ling could respond, the General turned and left.

Seconds may have passed, or minutes may have passed, before Ling’s mind cleared enough to allow him to ask, “What do I tell Alice?”

“You should have seem him, General! Tells me to hide behind some trees and then sits down waiting for the eagles to attack.”

Williams looked at Fowler and then at the General. “The crook just took me for a hundred fifty.”

The General shook his head.

A group of fifteen armed men had formed a circle about thirty feet from the wounded eagle. Two others were approaching the circle with a large metal cage.

“Don’t use that cage,” yelled Cyclo. “It will probably kill itself trying to get out of it.”

“Then what are we supposed to use?” asked Rappaport.

Cyclo was holding two large blankets. Both of his hands and lower arms were protected with thick gloves.

“That’s being taken care of,” said the General. “Before we left, Cyclo asked if we could get the type of cardboard box used for new refrigerators or stoves. We should have one here in half-an-hour. Cyclo, would you explain?”

“Even if it has Assassin’s thinking ability, it will probably have an eagle’s instinct. In this case, the instinct to escape. We need to get it in a totally dark environment and one in which it can’t further damage itself. Those types of boxes are strong enough to hold it. We’ll wrap it in the blankets. Once we get it inside the box and close it, it should become docile.”

“If anybody would know about this, it’s Cyclo,” said Mitchell.

A few minutes passed and what had been a group in which no sounds louder than whispers could be heard became totally quiet. Williams slowly walked toward the eagle taking one step at a time – pausing ten to twenty seconds in between steps. He stopped five feet away. Absent from him were any weapons. The eagle became totally still as Williams gradually brought himself to a sitting position. Wounded as it was, had the eagle chosen to attack Williams, it might have inflicted severe damage. Worse yet, if it were to pierce his skin with its beak, would it have passed on its virus?

For the next fifteen minutes, Williams and the eagle stared at one another until the sound of an incoming helicopter could be heard in the distance. Williams stood up and walked up to the eagle and extended his right hand. Minutes passed until what was unquestionably an Eagle Assassin extended its left wing and briefly touched Williams’ hand with the tip of its wing.

Williams turned around and slowly walked to the General. “Have someone bring me the box.” Turning to Cyclo, he said, “Give me the blankets.”

The General quietly ordered two soldiers to get the box as Cyclo turned over the blankets. The box – a large refrigerator box – was handed over to Williams. First he brought the blankets to within a few feet of the eagle. Then he carried out the box. Placing it on its side, he removed the top and put the blankets inside. Sitting next to the opening, he looked at the eagle and then at the opening. The eagle slowly made its way into the box.

Once the eagle was inside the box, Williams gave the eagle a salute and proceeded to slide the cover into place. Walking back to the General, he said, “Have them secure the box. Make sure whoever is in charge of transporting Assassin does it with care.”