The Beasts Of Valhalla

11

DREAMS of dragons and dungeons, tunnels and trolls, marched through my head; Orcs, elves, hobbits, and dwarfs. Magic swords and sashes. There were magnificent, sentient horses, brave Companies on heroic Quests battling against impossible odds with the salvation of the Earth hanging in the balance. There were vast treasure hordes, savage winds capable of stripping flesh from bone, poisonous spiders as big as boxcars, giant slinking beasts. There were Heroes and-of course-an abominable Prince of Evil so powerful it seemed nothing could stop his inexorable advance toward the conquest of the planet and the enslavement, forever, of its peoples. Only the Hero, usually frail and hopelessly outnumbered, could save the world; but time was running out, and the hoary legions of the Prince of Evil were closing in…

Whoopee.

And, of course, there was usually a Wizard with a magical staff around to bail the Hero out of really tacky situations. This particular Wizard looked like a Ku Klux Klansman in drag, but I knew he was a Wizard because his flowing black satin robe was ornately decorated with magical symbols woven out of sparkling gold and silver thread. He wore a peaked cap of black satin, and a black leather flap in which eyeholes had been cut out covered his face.

This Wizard was really Gandalf-on-the-spot, because he happened to be in my cell, bending over me and expertly probing my body for broken bones or torn ligaments and muscles. However, I had mixed feelings about the fact that the Wizard appeared to be a mere apprentice, despite his sartorial splendor; instead of a magic staff he carried a gun.

I tried to get up, intending to jab my fingers into his windpipe. I got about two inches off the mattress, uttered an ear-splitting yowl as pain washed over and through me like a tidal wave of boiling water; the scalding liquid sloshed around my ankles, swept up through my ribs, scorched my skull. I bent double, but somehow managed to sidle over on the cot and swing my feet to the floor.

The yell had frightened me more than it had the Wizard; also, in my present condition, he was a bit too fast for me. He'd calmly stepped back and was now standing across the cell, beside an unconscious deputy who was sprawled on the floor. My little show of aggression had obviously pissed off the Wizard, because he raised his gun and shot me in the chest.

I woke up to find that my tongue had grown a fur coat and I'd acquired a drug-induced hangover to go with all my other miseries. The dart had penetrated my right pectoral muscle, and the residual pain there was like an irritating bee sting sitting on the great swollen bruise that was the rest of my body. I grunted, tried to sit up, banged my forehead on something; a steering wheel. I grabbed it, pulled myself up into a sitting position.

The car I was in was a battered Ford sitting in the shade twenty-five yards or so off a major state highway. Cars whizzed by, their tires singing in the heat. I recognized the highway; I was at least halfway to the airport, perhaps an hour out of Peru County. In the woods to the right, a pair of jays were severely criticizing me for invading their territory. There was a note taped to the inside of the windshield. I peeled it off, waited for my eyes to focus, read it.

Peru County is no place for Hobbits; you're a dead man if you come back. Find a hole and hide in it. Nothing you can do in PC except get buried.

First I drained half the water in the canteen my savior had so thoughtfully provided. Then, holding my breath and tensing against all the aches and stabbing pains in me, I forced myself to get out of the car in order to test my moving parts. After grunting my way through a few very slow laps around the car, I was satisfied that Bolesh hadn't broken anything. Eventually I began to move a little better, and my head cleared some-although it continued to pound like a drunk beating a full set of out-of-tune tympani. I reversed direction, kept hobbling and groaning and stretching and trying to think.

The Wizard knew what he was talking about. The problem was that his magic spell had only managed to whisk me out of Peru County. Bolesh still had Garth in his possession, not to mention a county full of Fredericksons in assorted sizes waiting to be snatched off the shelf. Somehow, the people at Volsung had found out I'd been inside their complex and had seen things. I knew of the existence of the Valhalla Project, if not its objective, and there was no way they could give me a pass now. I could take the Wizard's advice and hide. I could even go back to New York, make some noise-and then wait for the fingers, toes, and maybe an ear or two, to start arriving in the mail. Indeed, an odd digit could well be waiting to greet me when I got back.

The car keys were in the ignition. I pulled the car back onto the highway, rumbled across the grass divider strip, and headed back toward Peru County. I stopped at the first pay phone on the highway With all the incredible luck I'd had so far, it was only natural that I continue my great roll; I found forty-three cents in the dirt and dustballs under the front seat. I used a greasy quarter to place a collect call to Omaha.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation. Agent Calder speaking."

A woman. "This is Dr. Robert Frederickson. I- "

"Just a moment, Dr. Frederickson!" the woman said excitedly. "We've been waiting for your call! I'll patch you through to Agent Randall. Just hang on. Don't hang up, all right?"

Agent Calder was making me very nervous-and I wasn't exactly the picture of calm to begin with. Calling the F.B.I, earlier hadn't given me great joy; it was simply the only option I'd been able to come up with. I trusted the federal agency even less now, but still couldn't think of anything else to do; one unarmed, busted-up dwarf wasn't going to be much of a match for Bolesh and his deputies, not to mention whoever-or whatever-else might be waiting to jump out at me from some closet.

"Dr. Frederickson…?"

"Mmmm."

"You're still there?"

"Mmmm."

"You'll hold on?"

"Until the bough breaks. Go ahead and do what you have to do, lady. I'm not going anywhere."

There was a series of whirs, whines, and clicks, and then Randall came on the line.

"Frederickson! I went to your parents' farm, but you never showed up! Where are you?"

"Just kind of floating around in a holding pattern. Where are you?"

"Sitting in Sheriff Jake Bolesh's broken swivel chair talking to you."

Randall sounded positively jovial. I said nothing, waited.

"Frederickson?"

"Mmmm."

"You don't sound anywhere near as happy as I thought you would."

"I've got a bruised smiler, and I'm a tough audience to begin with. Keep trying."

"It's over, Dr. Frederickson. I've got Bolesh and his deputies locked up in their own jail. Your nephew's computer equipment hasn't been damaged, and my agents are at this moment loading it all into a confiscated van. I've been sitting here for hours, drinking too many Cokes and waiting for you to call."

"If you're telling the truth, I'll pay all your dental bills."

"Why should I lie?" Randall asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "We got here and found Bolesh and his deputies unconscious on the floor. I still don't know the details of what happened, but Bolesh woke up and started babbling like a baby. After a few minutes of listening to him, I locked up the whole crew."

"Where's my brother?"

"Sorry, Frederickson," the agent said quietly. "Fractured skull. He's in the hospital, in a coma. He'll live, but he needs surgery. He'll be out of things for a while. Now, come on in. I know you'll want to be at the hospital when they operate on your brother, but I want to get you to Omaha as soon as possible. I've got an awful lot of questions, and you're the only one with the answers."

"Let me tell you something up front, Randall," I said slowly. "I need you, and you know I need you. But I'm not sure I can trust you. If you're bullshitting me and trying to close a trap, it's a big mistake. Too much has happened in Peru County for it to be hushed up for long, no matter how many powerful people are putting their fingers to their lips."

"You're telling me! Frederickson, listen- "

"Taking out Garth and me can't be sanctioned, Randall. If you're running a game on me, think about it some more."

"Frederickson," Randall said, exasperation creeping into his tone. "I guess you have a right to be paranoid. You've been beat up, and maybe that's why you're not making any sense. I really don't understand what you're talking about."

"If you're lying to me, someday-somehow-people will find out about it. You'll find yourself sweating under television lights while you're taken apart by a congressional committee. Remember Watergate? I've written letters."

Randall laughed, long and hard. "Good! Come in, Frederickson! It's over!"

"I'll be there in an hour or so."

The moment I saw Randall's face I knew I'd lost the gamble, crapped out; but it was too late to turn around and walk out. As soon as the office door closed behind me, Bolesh and his two deputies marched out of the cell block, riot guns aimed at me.

Randall had, at least, been telling the truth when he'd told me he was sitting in Bolesh's chair. He was still sitting there-a boyish-looking man in his late twenties or early thirties, brown hair cut very short, tan suit and matching vest. I couldn't tell the color of his eyes, because he wouldn't look at me.

"Where's Garth?"

Randall wouldn't answer. The F.B.I, agent looked ashen, but Bolesh was grinning. The county sheriff's hair was glued back in place, carefully combed and pomaded.

"For Christ's sake, Randall," I continued. "This man killed two kids, and he's going to kill Garth and me-if he hasn't already killed Garth. You don't want to be a part of this. Help me."

This time Randall squirmed a bit, but he still wouldn't answer.

"Listen to me, Randall; you lied your ass off to me, but I was telling the truth when I said I wrote letters. I can appreciate what top secret means, and Garth and I know how to keep our mouths shut. We're not interested in passing secrets, or in screwing the government in any other way. All I'm asking for is the right to take care of this crazy bastard, Bolesh, myself, and for you people to punish the men at Volsung who let him off his leash. It's not much, and it's fair. Give me those things, and our problem ends right here in this office. Tell Bolesh and his men to leave; he's not about to kill an F.B.I, agent. I'll make sure you get those letters back, unopened. We can deal, Randall."

Finally he spoke. His voice was tortured, and I could see the cords moving in his neck. "No. You didn't write any letters. You are a straight arrow; even if you'd had time to write letters, you'd have been concerned about who might have to pay the return postage." He rose, turned his head in Bolesh's direction. "Remember what you were told; I haven't been here."

The agent gave me a fleeting glance just before he walked out the door. His eyes were brown.

Bolesh pulled down the shade, took out his sap.

"Hey."

The word reverberated like a gong in the great empty cathedral that was located just behind my eyes. Sharp metal was biting into my wrists, holding my arms back around a square wooden object that was rough with splinters. Unable to move my hands or arms, I tried my head.

"Hey. Mongo."

My head worked; at least it moved. I tried my eyes. I panicked for a few moments when I couldn't see anything, but then relaxed when I caught sight of a shaft of moonlight. It was night. Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the dim glow of moonlight, and I could see that I was sitting on matted, filthy straw, chained to a support post inside what looked like Coop Lugmor's barn. Garth was chained to a second post, about twenty feet to my right.

"Hey, Mongo. You all right?"

"Of course I'm all right. I'm just sitting here filling in my empty spaces."

"Oh, I love it. That's good."

"And wondering why Bolesh hasn't added a few more. As long as you're up, signal the beach boy, will you? I can use a drink."

"Goddamn it, you're all right. How about asking if I'm all right?!"

"Are you all right?"

"No, I am not all right. I hurt. I cracked a knuckle on Bolesh's front teeth, and with all the stomping they did on me I do believe they managed to crack a couple of ribs and break a foot. I'll survive, but it was a shocking example of police brutality."

"What the hell's the matter with you? Didn't you realize you were supposed to beat the shit out of Bolesh and his deputies and rescue me?"

"I'm tired of rescuing you; it gets boring after a few years. I figured this time I'd let the villains keep you, just to see how it turns out."

"Well, you certainly have a front-floor seat."

"Yeah. I can't wait for the next reel."

"Seriously; from past experience, I've learned to view these little setbacks as character-building, consciousness-raising events."

Garth chuckled softly. When he spoke again, his deep voice was resonant with emotion. "It's good to see you, Mongo."

"It's good to see you, brother. Do you hurt bad?"

"No. I've got a very hard head, and the foot's numb. You?"

"No. Seeing you alive is the only painkiller I needed."

"Okay."

"Okay. Mom and Dad…?"

"They were all right the last time I saw them, aside from being worried out of their minds about you. Bolesh and his crew really trashed the house, but all the relatives are over there helping to put it back together again."

"By the way, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Janet called me after Bolesh snatched Tommy's computer. She thought you might need some help."

"You're a big help. You were afraid I might get lonesome in the afterlife, right?"

"I forgive you for that thoughtless remark, the same as I forgive you for being absolutely, congenitally unable to keep your dwarf ass out of the most fucking outrageous situations." He paused, and I could hear him breathing heavily. When he spoke again, his tone had changed and taken on a jagged edge of real anger. "I'll tell you what I won't forgive you for, Mongo; I won't forgive you for not calling me the second you knew things here weren't right, and you realized you were in trouble. I could have helped then. Forget the stupidity; I'm used to you doing stupid things. I know why you didn't want me here, but you had no right to try to protect me. Tommy was my nephew, too; my family lives here, and you just happen to be my brother. Reverse our positions and tell me how you'd feel. It was a bad insult, Mongo."

"You're right," I replied quietly. "I'm sorry, Garth."

"Your apology is accepted." The anger was gone as quickly as it had come, the boil lanced and drained. "You don't even look like the Lone Ranger."

"Other people have commented on that."

"What would you suggest we do?"

"Aw, hell, you were right about letting the villains keep me; this is kind of exciting. Why don't we just hang around, breathe the good country air, and wait to see what happens?"

"Why not? While we're waiting, why don't you tell me what the hell's been going on?"

"Sure. How do you feel about dragon stories? I mean, what's your general attitude?"

"About the same as toward stories about giant alligators in New York's sewers."

"Mad scientists?"

"I like shaggy dog stories. Get on with it, Mongo."

"You're going to love this one."

Bolesh showed up about an hour later. He snapped a wall switch, and a single naked light bulb hanging just above our heads came on. A pigeon in the loft, startled by the light, swooped down, brushing against the electric cord. The bulb jerked, then swung back and forth, casting shifting, chiaroscuro shadows, patterns of light and dark, across Bolesh's grim face. He was carrying a black leather satchel, and I was afraid I was about to find out what had killed Coop Lugmor.

"Hi, shithead," Garth said brightly. "How's your mouth?"

In our present position, it didn't seem like a good idea to talk like that to Bolesh; I tensed in anticipation of the terrible beating I was certain Garth was going to get.

Bolesh didn't even blanch. He smiled slowly-which made me even more nervous. Then he opened the satchel, took out a pint bottle full of an amber-colored liquid. Next came a hypodermic syringe. He punched the needle through the rubber sheeting covering the mouth of the bottle, depressed the plunger, filled the tube of the hypodermic. Then he came for me, angling around toward my back so I couldn't kick at him.

"I told you God didn't make you right, dwarf," Bolesh said in a fluttering voice that bubbled with unfinished, insane laughter. His upper lip kept catching on the edges of his broken teeth, giving him a very wet lisp. "Now I'm gong to fix you and your brother up good."

I winced and screwed my eyes shut as the needle sliced into the soft flesh of my left shoulder-reacting not to pain, but in terror of just what might be in the solution Bolesh was injecting into me, and what its effect would be; I had a gnawing suspicion it would make my memories of the rabies shots seem like morphine dreams.

Bolesh refilled the syringe, repeated the procedure with Garth. Then he went across the barn, sat down on the dirty straw about fifteen yards from us, and leaned back against another support pillar. Rolling the hypodermic like a cigar in his fingers, he drew his knees up to his chest, rested his forearms on them and stared at us with a childlike grin of anticipation on his face.

Garth and I stared back at him.

After a half hour or so Bolesh began to look unhappy. After another half hour he gave each of us a second shot. He'd emptied almost a quarter of the bottle into our veins.

More staring. Garth began to snore loudly, although I suspected he wasn't really asleep.

Finally, around what my stomach told me was lunchtime, Bolesh got up. He cursed, spat at us, then picked up his pharmaceutical outfit and stalked out of the barn.

"Hi, shithead," Garth announced in a determinedly cheerful tone as Bolesh and bag entered the barn in the afternoon. "Good to see you, Jake. We've really missed you. How about another shot of that happy juice? That's good stuff."

Bolesh's jaw muscles clenched tightly, and his eyes narrowed to slits. He didn't seem to be able to believe what he was seeing-or wasn't seeing. He set the bag down, came over and, still being careful to stay out of kicking range, tore off our shirts and examined the flesh of our necks and torsos. He looked like he wanted to take our pants off but was afraid of what we might be able to do with our feet.

Then he obliged Garth, gave us both another injection. This time he gave the shots directly in a vein in the neck, as if he wanted to make certain the fluid was entering our bloodstreams. Then he sat down against his pillar and stared.

We stared back.

This time it took him until dusk to get impatient. He gave us both still another shot, paced around until it got dark, left.

Bolesh brought us water, but no food. It was just as well; with nothing solid going in, nothing solid came out. Our keeper obviously wasn't worried about surprise visits from state health inspectors. "It's gone, you fuckers, all gone!" Bolesh shouted as he entered the barn on the morning of the next day.

"Come on, shithead," Garth replied. "Stop teasing us. I can see the bottle right there in your hand; there's lots of that good stuff left. Be a sport and give us another shot."

He did.

By late afternoon, something was starting to happen.

Garth had begun to suffer occasional muscle spasms which rippled up and down his body in undulating waves, causing his knees to knock and teeth to chatter. However, each time the spasms passed after two or three minutes and Garth assured me that he was all right, insisting there was nothing wrong with him that three steaks and a gallon of whiskey sours wouldn't cure.

I wasn't certain I believed him. His vicious and insistent defiance of Bolesh was no mere act of wasted macho or false bravado; it was, I knew, part of a ritual. Like a samurai, Garth was preparing to die, and refusal to give Bolesh the slightest bit of satisfaction was part of his death song.

My own symptoms were more subtle, but no less real. Although the sun was starting to go down, I noticed that I was squinting against the twilight. I realized I had been squinting all day and had suffered a hammering headache until an hour or so before, when it had begun to grow darker and cooler.

My eyes were becoming intensely photosensitive.

The symptoms were uncomfortable and distressing, but-even if Bolesh had been aware of them-I was certain they weren't what he seemed so anxious to write home about; our host was looking for something a lot more dramatic, and he was very annoyed by the fact that he wasn't getting it.

"It's gotta' work," Bolesh mumbled thickly as he injected the last of the solution into our veins. "I've seen it work."

Finding out what would happen when the stuff "worked" was not high on my list of priorities. I was no samurai.

The next morning it was clear that Bolesh was all out of patience. He arrived with a shotgun.

"Hi, shithead," Garth said. "If you've run out of happy juice, why don't you get the hell out of here so we won't have to look at your ugly face?"

"Yeah," I said wearily. "Jake, why don't you just unlock our handcuffs and go away?" I couldn't work up much enthusiasm for Garth's ritual, or hope to match his fanciful, New York City-detective type sense of humor. I had the most absurd yet insistent urge to take a bath, smell a rose, eat three eggs boiled for exactly three minutes, and drink one cup of coffee. Not necessarily in that order.

Bolesh propped up his shotgun by the door, came over to examine us once more. No sale. He cursed, kicked at us, stalked back toward his shotgun.

Fortunately, we had a visitor. A trim but solidly built man dressed in combat boots, khaki slacks, and matching tank top stepped silent as a flesh-colored shadow into the barn. He was totally bald, with large, almost soulful, brown eyes. There had been a time when he hadn't been able to walk around in the summer without a coat-a psychological malady caused by repeated dousings in Nazi ice baths. Our "mutual friend" had cured that. The man had to be pushing seventy, but you certainly couldn't tell by looking at his flat stomach, his toned, rippling muscles, or his eyes.

He could have used Bolesh's gun, but preferred to wield his own-a Remington 870 with modified choke and combat barrel designed to tighten the focus of a buckshot pattern. He shot from the hip. The charge caught Bolesh in the neck just below the jaw, permanently fixing his teeth as it blew his head off.

Garth's astonished shout pierced the deafening echo of the blast. "Lippitt!"

"Oh, yeah," I breathed, staring transfixed at Bolesh's decapitated body and the shiny mop of greasy, blood-stained hair that had somehow managed to land on a wall peg fifteen yards away. I would dearly have loved to kill Bolesh myself, but I decided I was willing to settle for the status quo. "I forgot to tell you about him. He's been playing chauffeur for the Volsung Corporation."

"Jesus," Garth gasped. "Jesus!" He had expected to die, had prepared himself for it from the moment he had found himself handcuffed to the post. Now, like me, he wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact that he was going to live.

"Where the hell have you been, Lippitt?" I said, still unable to take my eyes off Bolesh's twitching corpse. "You took your sweet time getting here. We've been sitting here pissing our pants in anticipation."

Lippitt stared at me hard, a single question in his eyes; he wanted to know if I had broken our pact, with Garth or anyone else. I shook my head slightly. He grunted softly, put his Remington aside, and searched through Bolesh's pockets until he found the keys to the handcuffs. He came around behind us, unlocked the cuffs.

"It took me a while to find you. You two threw Bolesh off his feed; he's been holed-up in the farmhouse."

"Where's your wizard costume, Lippitt?" I asked. "I rather liked that. Nice touch."

"Being currently unemployed, I don't need a disguise any longer."

Our handcuffs off, Garth and I slowly got up, stretched to the accompaniment of cracking joints, rubbed our raw wrists.

"Mongo's told me half the story," Garth said softly to Lippitt, a slight threatening edge to his voice. After an afternoon of smoke and gunfire a few years before on a New York dock, Garth had never much cared for Lippitt. "Why don't you give us the punch line?"

"Later," Lippitt replied evenly as he walked to a corner where Bolesh had thrown the valise, empty bottle, and syringe. He knelt down and tore the rubber sheeting off the top of the bottle. He sniffed at the inside of the bottle, rubbed his index finger around the rim, put the tip of his finger on his tongue. He spat, bowed his head, sighed. "How much of this stuff did he give you?"

"The whole Goddamn bottle," I said. "Half in me, half in Garth. I lost track of the number of shots."

"Over how long a period of time?"

"He started Thursday. This must be"- I paused to think about it- "Sunday. Three days."

Lippitt, obviously very concerned, straightened up, looked over at us and frowned. "And?"

"And what?"

"How do you feel?"

"Like shit."

"Come on, Frederickson!" Lippitt snapped. "Tell me precisely how you feel!"

"I thought I did. My eyes have become very photosensitive. You've got a halo around you-as unlikely as that may seem. Everything seems very bright, and this amount of light hurts my eyes. Garth has been having intermittent muscle spasms for about a day and a half."

"They're painful," Garth said in a flat voice. "What was that shit, Lippitt?"

Lippitt nodded toward Garth's left foot, which was raised slightly in the air. "Bad?"

Garth shrugged. "Broken metatarsal. I can hop."

"Anything else broken?"

"Cracked ribs on the right. You haven't answered- "

"Come on," Lippitt said as he abruptly walked up to Garth. The Defense Intelligence Agency operative put his arm around Garth's waist, planted his shoulder in my brother's left armpit.

I took the side with the cracked ribs, supporting Garth as best I could by his belt. Together we formed a six-legged beast that hobbled uncertainly out of the barn into bright morning sunlight that hit my eyes and burned me like golden acid.

Lippitt had the black Cadillac from Volsung, and we drove in silence. Lippitt seemed deep in thought, and Garth and I were-for the time-content not to speak; we were intoxicated with the sensation of being alive, the feel of the wind from the open window whipping our hair and caressing our faces, the song of churchbells in the distance.

Lippitt knew exactly where he wanted to go. The ride took forty-five minutes, and we ended up in Sagemoon, the county seat of Ogden County, where there was a large and sophisticated medical laboratory complex serving doctors and hospitals in a three-county area.

Lippitt parked the Cadillac in back of the complex, opened a rear entrance with a lock pick. We went inside, walked up a flight of stairs, through a waiting room, and into a receptionist's office. Lippitt stepped behind a desk and began thumbing rapidly through a Rolodex file.

"You two go inside and get cleaned up," the agent said as he tore three cards out of the file, put them in his pocket. "There must be some clean lab smocks around here someplace that you can put on. Drink all the water you want, but don't take anything else. Rip out all the telephones; make sure you don't miss any."

"Lippitt!" I croaked. "What's wrong with us?"

"Don't call anyone. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"What's wrong with us?"

"That's what I'm going to try and find out," he said, heading for the stairs.