At the Outpost of Fate

CHAPTER 2 — A SUMMONS TO DANGER

The East River splashed over its banks like water in a bucket carried by a running man, generating enormous waves that washed across the surface of the Chrystie-Forsyth Parkway. The incessant storm surge had left more than a foot of water on the road, making travel on the scenic highway overlooking the river a precarious prospect for the low slung Auburn Speedster as it crept south toward the New York University and Bellevue Medical College Hospital building. The red sports car finally steered away from the river, turning onto Thirtieth Street to seek the relative shelter between the college buildings lining First Avenue. Its pace quickened as it approached the hospital and then swung into the drive designated "For Ambulance Only." Although the driver’s actions did not seem especially frantic, his reasons for making the perilous journey out into the storm seemed to qualify as an emergency.

The man that emerged from the cocoon-like interior of the boat-tailed Speedster seemed too massive to have been ensconced within. Indeed, at more than six and a half feet tall, he seemed like nothing less than a mountain in motion as he braved the driving rain to approach the hospital entrance. He paused in the foyer to shake the rain from his hat and trench coat, then hastened inside where he was greeted with shocked stares and silence. One woman, wearing the white uniform and cap of a nurse, pointed at him. "You’re…him!"

Brian "Hurricane" Hurley gave a tight smile. He always tried to be accommodating whenever a fan recognized him as one of the heroes of the syndicated Adventures of Captain Falcon, but tonight would have to be an exception. "I need to speak with Miss Molly Rose Shannon, please."

Before the receptionist could pick up the house phone to make the call, a younger woman, copper-red curls cascading onto the shoulders of her short white lab coat, burst into the lobby waving a yellow scrap of paper. "Hurricane! Did you get one?"

Hurley nodded. "I haven’t been able to reach Dodge, but your Dad got one too. He sent me to fetch you."

She pulled off the white coat and stuffed it under the reception counter. "Let’s go."

Although only a student, Molly was well on her way to becoming a board certified physician. What that would mean in practical terms was that the young woman would have a fancy piece of paper authorizing her to do what she had been doing since before she was a teenager: caring for the sick.

From the time that Molly was a very young girl, she had served as both nurse and doctor for the native African parishioners of her adopted father’s Congo River mission. For many of those impoverished and abused laborers, Molly’s ministrations were the only medical care available. The Belgian government gave little thought to the well-being of their indentured slaves who worked on the far-flung rubber plantations; indeed, the harsh treatment at the hands of the nominal law enforcement agency was more often than not the cause of the injuries Molly had treated.

All that had changed with the arrival of Dodge Dalton and Hurricane Hurley. Her father had elected to return to the United States and Molly, now a beautiful if quick-tempered young woman, had been thrust into a completely different culture. To cope with the shock of being transplanted into the modern world, she had naturally gravitated toward something she knew well — medicine — only to learn that her hard-won years of experience mattered little in the eyes of her peers. Fortunately, she had made some influential friends during the course of her adventures with Dodge and an extraordinary exception was made on her behalf; she had been granted admission to enter the University medical program, with the proviso that she continue her studies to satisfy all academic requirements. It made for a busy schedule, but in her work she found sanctuary from the unfamiliar pace of urban life. There was of course one other matter which occasionally occupied her time. Along with her father, Hurley and Dodge, she was one of a very few people who knew of the existence of the Outpost. The telegram from Prof. Pendleton, hinting that some matter of urgency required immediate attention, was not something that could be ignored or put off.

Molly pulled a bright yellow rain slicker, as might be favored by a Grand Banks dory fisherman, over her simple floral dress and followed Hurricane back out into the storm. She spied his sports car from the doorway. "You drove the Speedster?"

Hurley glanced back at her. "Why would I drive anything else?"

"It’s raining cats and dogs," she answered, eyes wide in disbelief. "Why didn’t you just hire a taxi?"

The big man shook his head sadly, as if frustrated by his inability to explain something so complex to someone of the fairer sex and then opened the car door to admit her. A copious amount of water had found its way through or around the heavy cloth convertible top, soaking the seats and accumulating to a depth of more than an inch in the foot well. The chassis tilted a little to one side as the massive Hurley slid behind the steering wheel. A few moments later, the straight-eight under the hood roared to life and the pin-tailed coupe was on the move again.

"So what do you think this is about?" She had to shout to be heard over the lash of rain on the fenders.

Hurricane shrugged. "Prof. Pendleton is an expert on Pre-Columbian art, mostly early South American civilizations. I don’t see any connection between the things we’ve seen at the Outpost and his area of study."

"Perhaps he’s found some reference in his other studies that explains the origin of the Outpost." Molly glanced at the now sodden telegram. "It says, ‘Urgent,’ though. I don’t see how anything could be so urgent that it can’t wait until the storm blows over. "

"Frankly, it's got me worried." Hurley steered the Speedster onto a cross street and accelerated toward mid-town.

"Worried?"

"I've never met the good doctor, but all of this seems a bit melodramatic. Either Pendleton is an alarmist and this is all a lot of hullabaloo about nothing or…"

"Or something really is wrong?" Molly frowned and gazed out the side window.

Hurricane wheeled the sports car onto Fifth Avenue and floored the accelerator. The 150 horsepower engine leaped off the mark like a rabbit. The sleek auto looked more like a rocket streaking through the night than any kind of wheeled vehicle.

In the stormy darkness, the artificial wilderness of Central Park was like something from the Brothers Grimm; an army of living trees waving their limbs angrily at anyone foolish enough to attempt its borders on this foulest of nights. Similarly, the imposing stone edifice that housed the American Museum of Natural History directly opposite the park looked like an abandoned castle fallen under the enchantment of an evil sorcerer.

"No lights," Molly observed.

"Streetlights are out too. There’s probably a line down somewhere." He steered the Speedster to the curb and braked to a halt.

"I can't imagine the Museum is even open at this hour." She got out, circled around the front of the car, and discovered Hurley rooting around for something behind the driver’s seat. Curious in spite of the inclement conditions, she hastened to see what he was doing. "You’re not getting an umbrella, are you?"

"You might say that." Hurley grinned, then held up a pair of gleaming, oversized pistols. The unique customized semi-automatic pistols had been designed by legendary gunsmith and inventor John Moses Browning specifically for Hurley. Each gun held a magazine with six hand-loaded .50 caliber cartridges. Molly blanched as he slid the hand cannons into holsters underneath his heavy coat; only now did she equate the tone of urgency in the telegram with the possibility of violence. "They’re just for insurance, Miss Molly."

She nodded dumbly and fell into line behind her mountainous companion as he crossed the street and ascended the steps to the main entrance at the recently christened Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Rotunda. A figure was visible just beyond the revolving glass doors — a man in an ill-fitting blue uniform illuminated in the beam of his flashlight — who gestured for them to enter the museum. Molly let Hurricane enter the pie-shaped wedge first and then slipped into the next door segment as it rotated to admit her.

The change of environments was as dramatic as being sealed in a tomb. Even in the relative shelter of the hospital, Molly had not felt so cut off from the outside world; the massive stone blocks that formed the walls of the Natural History museum effectively muffled the noise of the storm raging outside. The sudden silence only added to her apprehension, as did the demeanor of the security guard.

"We’re here to meet Prof. Pendleton," Hurricane ventured.

"You’re expected. Follow me."

"Are we the first to arrive?" Molly’s voice was pitched louder than she realized and she started at the echo of her own voice in the spacious lobby.

"No ma’am. The professor is already here. He’s waiting." The guard’s flashlight beam leaped ahead of them to show the way. Although Molly had previously visited the sprawling campus, the darkness and ominous atmosphere made it seem entirely foreign to her experience. It didn’t help that their guide led them immediately through a door marked "Museum Staff Only."

"How long have you been without power?" Hurley asked conversationally, but the watchman only grunted in reply, as if making small talk fell outside the scope of his duties.

Hurley abruptly skipped a step, causing Molly to crash into him. As she recoiled from the collision, she heard him whisper in her ear. "Something’s not right. Stay close to me, but be ready to run if I give the word."

The part of the museum into which they were led was reserved for offices and storerooms for items no longer on display. None of these proved to be their destination. Instead, the guard led them to a stairwell at the end of the corridor and then descended. Molly’s grip on the banister rail was white-knuckle tight as she brought up the rear of the group. Hurricane’s warning still echoed in her head.

The door on the landing of the lower level, what Molly took to be the basement, seemed ominously cold and as the watchman opened it, the howl of distant wind became once more audible. Beyond was an austere concrete walled room that appeared in the beam of the flashlight to be some kind of warehouse or loading dock. The uniformed man stood to one side and waved them on. "He’s right down there."

Hurley stopped in his tracks once more, this time drawing Molly close. "There’s no light. You’ll need to walk with us and show us the way."

Molly peered into the shadows wreathing the watchman’s face, looking for some hint of duplicity. She saw nothing to indicate malice or even anxiety. Instead, the man’s face was as bland and expressionless as if he were sleepwalking. Without another word, he turned and began walking in the direction he had indicated. Hurley held back a few paces, warily looking into the surrounding blackness for any signs of an ambush, but there was just enough light from the guard’s handheld beam to prevent his eyes from adapting to the dark conditions.

Their escort traveled only a dozen paces before stopping in front of an opened garage door. Rainwater was dripping down from the edges of the frame, but directly beyond the opening was an enclosed area which Molly correctly assumed to be the bed of a delivery truck. The cone of illumination from the guard’s light flashed into the mostly vacant space to reveal not cargo, but a lone passenger — a man with bushy gray hair and a mustache seated on the floor with his back to one wall. He started at the unexpected arrival and jumped to his feet.

"What the devil…?" Despite his own admonition, this unexpected revelation caught Hurley off guard. He whirled to face the watchman and his inquiry fell silent as he found himself staring into the barrel of a .38 caliber police service revolver.

The watchman’s face remained completely expressionless as he jabbed the gun forward meaningfully. "Get in."

Molly's gaze was transfixed on the pistol, but in the corner of her eye, she saw Hurley seeming to cower from the firearm as he gripped her protectively. However, his uncharacteristic timidity was merely a ploy. Molly abruptly found herself prone on the damp floor and, when she looked up, Hurricane had both of his enormous pistols drawn and aimed at the man's head.

"Don't," he warned. "I'm faster and you're not cocked."

The guard's dull gaze flickered toward the pistol in his hand and a quizzical look flashed over his countenance betraying unfamiliarity with the operation of the pistol. Then his thumb came up to draw down the hammer.

"Don't…"

Three guns fired simultaneously, but the pop of the little police special was lost in the thunder of Hurley's custom made fifty-caliber semi-automatics. The guard was knocked backward into the darkness and did not fire again. Hurricane, however, remained standing, both pistols poised for action. Molly's ears were ringing from the deafening concussion, but she felt something warm dripping on her hand and gave a little yelp. "You're hit!"

"I've had worse," the big man replied, holstering the guns and lifting her off the floor. He turned back to the figure huddled inside the truck. "Are you Prof. Pendleton?"

The gray-haired man raised his head. "They made me send for you."

"You're safe now. We'll get you out of…Wait a minute. They?"

Molly turned back to the loading dock. In the semi-circle of light cast by the fallen watchman's discarded flashlight, she saw several more figures emerging from places of concealment along the perimeter of the room. "Hurricane!"

"I see 'em." Hurley hoisted Pendleton to his feet. "Let's go, Doc!"

He brandished one of his pistols at the approaching horde, but none of the men and women appeared to be armed. It did not escape Molly's notice that each one of them wore the same emotionless expression as the guard; it was like they weren't really there.

Half-dragging the professor, Hurricane skirted the wall, guiding them back toward the stairwell. The others followed, but made no move to close the gap, almost as if attempting to herd them.

Hurley thrust Pendleton and Molly into the stairwell and then snapped off a single warning shot into the gloom before following them. "Care to give me a quick summary of what's going on, Professor? Who are those folks and what do they want?"

Pendleton, wheezing from the exertion of climbing the stairs only shook his head, evincing ignorance.

"They wanted us here," Molly intoned. "You, me, Dad, Dodge… And did you see their faces?"

"They didn't look like killers," Hurricane replied. "They looked almost like they were…"

"On vacation?"

"You saw it, too?" He stopped them from exiting the stairwell long enough to check the corridor for signs of an ambush. Below, the slap of footsteps on the stair treads was audible.

"Professor, what does any of this have to do with the Outpost?"

"I…Outpost…" Pendleton shook his head again, unable to catch his breath.

"So what now?" Molly asked.

"Let's keep moving." Hurley gestured to the hallway. "Professor, has anyone else been here tonight? Mr. Dalton or Father Hobbs?"

"No…see…any…"

"They might be coming here. We have to warn them!"

The big man nodded. "We will, little lady. We'll get to the bottom of…shhh!"

Molly froze in her tracks. Directly ahead, at the far end of the corridor, a faint light was visible. Hurley pulled them back and stopped in front of a locked office. He gave the door what looked like a gentle kick and it burst open. "Inside. Quickly!"

Molly fumbled through the dark space, barking her shins on a low table, but ultimately found the back wall. She continued probing the flat surface until her fingers found a familiar bulbous shape. "There's another door here."

Beyond the office was another corridor, which, like a secret passage in a gothic manor, permitted museum personnel to quickly get around the labyrinth of exhibition halls without going the long way. Neither she nor Hurley had any idea which direction to follow and the professor who probably knew the museum like the back of his hand wasn't much help. They chose to follow the passage to the left, hoping that it would bring them back around to the Central Park West entrance. A few moments later, the hall ended at a door, which opened into a cavernous room in which strange silhouettes seemed to hover in mid-air. One of these loomed overhead like an airplane coming in for a landing.

"I've been here before," Molly whispered, recognizing the enormous replica of a whale suspended from the ceilings. High overhead, the storm pounded the expansive crown of skylight windows, a unique feature of the grand exhibition area that had once been an open courtyard. "This is the Ocean Hall."

Hurley peered into the dark corners of the room. He pointed to a niche behind a tall display case. "Let's hide over there until some of the heat dies down. Besides, the Prof here needs a breather."

Despite his massive size, Hurricane seemed to slide effortlessly into the narrow recess. Molly and Pendleton followed suit, the latter collapsing to the floor and resting his head on his knees as he gasped for air. Molly on the other hand discovered that she had been unconsciously holding her breath.

It seemed that no time at all had passed when a dance of light on the wall signaled the approach of an unknown party. Molly’s heart was pounding in her chest and, as irrational as it was, she feared their pursuers would hear the thumping and the rush of blood that now filled her ears. Hurley’s low whisper cut through the panic. "Nice and easy. Not a sound."

The flashlight was visible now; the person holding it had entered the hall and was sweeping the corners of the exhibit with the beam. When the light played over the display case where they were concealed, Molly tried to compress herself further into the concealing darkness, but when it moved away, her curiosity got the better of her and she edged around the corner for a look at the searcher.

The man was an indistinguishable shape in the darkness. All she could see was the flashlight as it roamed back and forth, scanning the floor tiles. Molly felt a new surge of panic as she realized what the man was looking for — a trail of blood leaking from Hurley’s gunshot wound. She bit back the impulse to whisper a warning; the wily old warhorse had probably already realized the same thing and was no doubt hefting his prodigious pistols in anticipation of another shootout. But then, as swiftly as the man with the flashlight had arrived, he turned to leave the Hall of Oceans, evidently satisfied that this quarry had moved on.

Molly sagged back against the wall, drawing in a deep relieved breath. The moment was short-lived, for as the man approached the exit, a strident voice from right beside her screamed, "Here! They’re right here!"