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 earsplitting 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.