George Chesbro: The Beasts Of Valhalla

My first stop was Coop Lugmor's farm. Not a creature was stirring in the house, so I parked my sister's car in the driveway and hiked back of the barn in the general direction Lugmor had indicated the night before. I had no trouble finding the creek, or the area where the killings had taken place; there was only one willow tree, and there were still bloodstains on its trunk. But that was all I found. It had rained hard, twice, since the killings, and not even the depression in the bank where Tommy had fallen was left. If there had been footprints, they had been washed away. Just for form I searched around in the grass and poked with a stick in the mud, but found nothing.

Here, by myself, I sat down on a log for a few minutes and, lasting the salt of my own sorrow, honored the memory of a slight, beaming boy with boundless energy who had looked upon New York City as a vast amusement park and thought of death merely as something his uncle always seemed to be involved with.

Lugmor still wasn't up by the time I came back. I pounded on the door until I heard him shuffling around inside, then shouted something through the door to the effect that I'd castrate him if he wasn't cleaned up and on his way to welfare in Peru City within the hour.

I got into the car, checked the map, then drove southwest on the highway toward the small town of Duck Pond and the prairie beyond. There was no indication on the map, but the Volsung Corporation turned out to be just about where my sister had said it would be, about twenty miles west of the town.

Somebody went in and out of Volsung on land; on a barely discernible dirt road cutting off the main highway there were tire tracks and crushed weeds. I drove up the road three-quarters of a mile, came over a rise, braked hard, and backed up. I turned off the engine, got out of the car and walked slowly to the crest of the rise.

Below me, perhaps three hundred yards away, was one of the strangest sights I had ever seen. The building housing the Volsung Corporation appeared to be a single windowless cube covering at least a half dozen acres and painted the color of the prairie. There were no signs, no company logo, just the brownish-green structure. To the east, I could just make out a section of a concrete landing strip, inside a double fence.

There were no guards, only the whistling of the prairie wind to challenge me as I walked down the dirt road to a mammoth steel gate that rose perhaps fifteen feet into the air. The gate was very strong, very solid; where there should have been a bolt plate or keyhole there was only a single rectangular notch.

A fifteen-minute walk in either direction convinced me that the Volsung Corporation was impregnable to anything on legs with the possible exception of a monster kangaroo. The entire complex was surrounded by an electrified fence. There were signs, in English, every twenty yards or so warning of danger, along with skulls and crossbones for the benefit of the illiterate. There was a second fence inside the first, also electrified, topped with barbed wire. What looked like small car antennas sticking up from the ground at random intervals inside the no-man's-land between the fences made me strongly suspect that the area was laced with sensory devices. It was all very neat, very simple, very effective, and-I assumed-astronomically expensive.

I walked back to the car and drove to Peru City, the county seat. After a brief stop at what passed for the local deli, I headed for the county sheriff's office. Jake Bolesh was in.

"Hello, Robby," Bolesh said, rising from the padded swivel chair behind his desk and extending his hand. "I heard you were in town."

I hadn't really expected to see all of my old enemies brought low in the fashion of Coop Lugmor, but I couldn't help but be slightly disappointed at seeing how good Jake Bolesh looked. But then, I reminded myself, Bolesh had always been smarter than Lugmor. This man was not the beady-eyed, club-fisted creature that had lurked for so many years in my memories. Bolesh had lost a lot of weight since elementary and high school; he looked tough and trim in his tailored uniform. The only remnant of the sixties in his appearance was his hair; he had kept most of it, and he still wore it in a large, wavy, out-of-date pompadour held in place with greasy pomade that gave off a slightly sweet odor. Good genes, lousy sensibility. The loss of weight made his coal-black eyes seem larger than I remembered. He still had a scar high on his right cheekbone where Garth had hit him with a two-by-four after Bolesh had worked me over in a bathroom.

"Hello, Jake," I replied, taking his hand. Bolesh was Power in Peru County, the man who probably had the answers to all my questions. There was absolutely no percentage in not accepting his gesture of truce. "It's been a time."

"Better than seventeen years, as I reckon it. I'm glad you stopped in. Sorry about your nephew."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Where's Garth?"

"He had to get back to New York." I opened the paper bag I was carrying, took out two containers of coffee, handed one to Bolesh. "Research has shown that it's impossible to remain in police work without becoming addicted to coffee. I thought you might like a fix."

Bolesh smiled thinly, opened the container. "Thanks, Robby."

"You take cream or sugar?"

Bolesh shook his head, then absently patted the sides of his head as though the motion might have messed his hair. "I like it black. Sit down, Robby."

I sat, opened my container, sipped my coffee. "You're looking good, Jake."

"You too. You've done pretty well for yourself since you left Peru County. From here to college on a scholarship, then on to star in the Statler Brothers' Circus. I saw you perform once. Did you know that?"

I shook my head.

"It was in Chicago. I was at a police convention, and your show was in town. You had a great act-especially that stunt with the rings of fire. You always were a fast little critter."

"Not always fast enough," I said in what I hoped was a neutral tone.

Bolesh shrugged. "Sorry about that. I sure was one mean son-of-a-bitch as a kid. Anyway, Garth always gave me as good as I gave you." He paused, stared at me over the rim of his coffee container. It struck me how his eyes, viewed by themselves, glowed with a strange, muted light, as though the thoughts moving behind them had nothing to do with the chitchat coming out of his mouth. It occurred to me that, for some reason, I had Jake Bolesh worried.

"'Mongo the Magnificent,'" Bolesh continued. "That was your billing, right?"

"Right. You seem to know a lot about me, Jake."

"Every time the local paper needs to fill up space, it runs a piece on the famous dwarf from Peru County. Also, I've seen you written up in Time and Newsweek. You earned your PhD while you were with the circus. Now you're a college professor. Criminology. Also, of course, you hire out as a private detective."

"You have my dossier up to date."

"Do I? It occurs to rite to ask what you might be investigating at the moment."

Again I reached down into the bag at my feet, drew out a jar of honey and placed it on the desk in front of Bolesh.

"First coffee, now honey," Bolesh said with a sharp, brittle laugh. "Cute."

"I thought you'd see the point."

"Sharpen it for me."

"My family still has a few questions about Tommy's death. I'm sure you understand."

"Not really. Why didn't John or Janet come to me?"

"Maybe they would have eventually. Things have happened pretty quickly. The funeral was just yesterday, and they're still pretty much in shock."

"But you're not."

"It seems to me that it would be in everyone's interest to get some of the fine points cleared up quickly so the whole matter can be laid to rest for good."