Authors: John Tigges
“Then,” Trina said, cutting into the conversation, “we should be able to help Jon before anything happens. Liemen will need Jon to show him where the gold is. Isn’t that correct?”
“From what we know, that’s exactly right,” he agreed.
Taxiing to the end of the runway, the plane swept into the night. Within ninety minutes, it would touch earth again at Albuquerque.
Fifty miles north of Gallup, the blue Impala sped through the blackness. Howie, clutching the steering wheel, stared straight ahead at the broken white line dividing the blacktop road. His normal, haggard appearance had long since been replaced by a wild, intense expression.
Mumbling under his breath for the last hour, the only comprehensible words Tory had caught were, “Gold—all mine—no one else’s.” She had given up trying to make conversation with him and now found herself wishing she were back in her studio apartment where she had lived before meeting him. Her reflections convinced her she had been a fool to live with him, working for him, doing whatever he had ordered. Never had he made a request or suggested something she might like to do. Everything she had done since meeting him had been for him at his demand.
She felt a growing terror spreading through her body, not unlike a chill. She had no concept of his plans at this point. Would he include her? She hoped not. She didn’t love him anymore. Suddenly, she found herself wondering about her own safety. Cowering back in her seat, she fought her natural instinct to cry. Did he plan something awful for her? Oh, God! She sniffled once before tears ran down her quivering cheeks.
Ramming the car into the night, Howie chose to ignore the woman in the back and the man who sat next to him in the front seat. Jon’s face, illuminated by the eerie halflight of the dashboard, slowly swelled, an iniquitous smile twitching the edges of his mouth. His eyes darting about, he turned his head to study the driver of the auto.
CHAPTER 18
As TWA flight 347 rolled to a stop close to the satellite terminal at ten-twenty-one, Sam, Marie and Trina loosened their seat belts, quickly standing to leave. Making their way to the back of the cabin, they waited until Kate Manrey had supervised the lowering of the steps from beneath the plane’s rear. She stepped out onto the top of the stairs, signaling Sam to come forward.
“Doctor Dayton, this man says he’s to meet you,” she said, indicating a tall, muscular man dressed in a leather jacket and billed cap who stood several steps down.
Moving up a step, the man said, “I’m Chuck Bergan, Doctor. I have a Jeep waiting for you and your party on the other side of the building. Are you ready?”
“Let’s go,” he said, turning to his women companions. Hurrying down the steps, they followed the pilot around the building and got into an open Jeep.
Bergan wrenched the gears into low and floored the accelerator. Turning in a half circle, the car raced away from the jetliner and the terminal. “You really want to go to Cistern tonight?” Chuck yelled above the roar of the Jeep’s motor and the rushing air that swept over them.
“Absolutely,” Sam cried. “It’s of the utmost importance. A man’s life could depend on you getting us there in time.”
“But Cistern’s a ghost town. Deserted. Nobody’s lived there for over fifty, sixty years.” Slowing the Jeep, he approached a helicopter parked near a low, flat-roofed building. The pilot leaped from the driver’s seat, motioning for them to follow, and ran to the Bell Helicopter. Opening the door, he climbed aboard with Sam following him into the front seat. Chuck motioned for the women to sit behind them.
“The man we’re trying to help is being taken there against his will,” Sam explained while the engine turned over. The huge blades on top of the fuselage began turning, slowly speeding up. Taking advantage of the moment, he quickly explained those details necessary to have Chuck assist them to the best of his ability. He avoided mention of Hitler’s spirit, stressing instead Jon’s mesmerized state.
Chuck shook his head. When the blades whirled faster and faster over their heads, he said, “I don’t understand, but I’ll help you in any way I can, Doctor.” He picked up the mike.
“Fine,” Sam said above the increasing volume of the motor and swooshing rotor. Turning, he found a look of relief on the women’s faces.
“Here we go,” Chuck said, the helicopter rising gently from the concrete apron. When he had attained sufficient altitude, he pitched the rotor and the helicopter moved forward over the pinpoints of light below.
“I wish there were a moon tonight,” Sam said.
“There will be later on but not much of a one. Why?”
“It would help us see better, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ve got a pretty powerful spotlight under the fuselage. I use it to light neighborhoods whenever the police department presses me into night patrol. They’ve got several of their own but utilize me and a couple of others whenever they need us.”
Sam and the women watched Albuquerque passing beneath them. From four thousand feet, the lights resembled stars against the blackness of space. Solid bars of light marking main thoroughfares interrupted the upside down universe like densely populated Milky Ways.
“It’s quite a town,” Chuck said. “Lots of transients moving in and out, but a good place to live. I’m kind of a rare bird. I was born here. Wouldn’t think of living anyplace else.”
The chopper continued flying in a northwesterly direction. Thirty minutes after leaving the airport, Albuquerque lay behind them and only occasional, lonely pricks of light twinkled forlornly against the gloomy sea of night below. Overhead, the canopy of stars beckoned, reminding them they were not alone.
“How did Cistern become a ghost town?” Sam asked, breaking through the
whump, whump, whump
of the rotor.
“Most of the deserted towns in the southwest petered out and died when the reason for starting the town petered out and died. Like a mine would stop giving ore, or an industry would be moved.”
“Industry?”
“Yeah. For instance, the railroad started a lot of little towns to care for their locomotives, and people offering different services would move into the area. But when the engines were able to go longer distances without stopping for fuel or water, those facilities were let go to hell. Eventually, the stations were the only thing keeping a town on the map. Oh, maybe a house or two.”
“What about Cistern?” he asked Chuck, who seemed to revel in talking about his home state.
“Cistern was named Cistern because of a deep hole in the ground a few yards north of the town. Because of its location, it naturally collected rain water and snow runoff from the mountains, but it was primarily fed by underground streams.”
“So?”
“The damned thing went dry about seventy or eighty years ago and when that town’s main water supply went, so did it. The hole is about two hundred feet deep with straight up and down walls. It’s almost a perfect circle, too. Just like a—”
“Cistern,” Sam finished.
The helicopter continued through the night, the pilot checking landmarks he knew he could rely on in the dark.
Seventy miles ahead, the Impala’s headlights struck through the dark like bright knives slicing black velvet. Once the car passed, the tear repaired immediately. Howie’s eyes, wide open, glancing from side to side, studied the road passing beneath the automobile. According to his calculations and the odometer, they should be reaching the remains of Cistern soon. Burnham, the last outpost of civilization they would pass through before reaching their destination, lay ten miles behind them. Off in the distance, at the extreme edge of the headlights’ beam, a post appeared, apparently racing toward the Chevrolet. Slamming on the brakes so he would be able to read the sign hanging from it, he brought the car to a swerving stop fifty feet beyond. Throwing the gears into reverse, he backed up. Squinting to read the shadow of paint remaining in the form of letters that spelled,
Cistern, New Mexico,
he smiled.
“We’ve arrived,” he said triumphantly. “Not bad time either. What time you got, Jon, old boy?” Howie grabbed his arm, turning the face of the watch right side up to him. “Ten past twelve in Chicago, huh? That’s some pretty fancy moving.” He dropped the gear shift into drive, sending the car forward until he reached the crossroads and stopped.
“Wait here,” he ordered, getting out. Moving to the front of the car, he looked around. Where should he begin looking? Someplace around here he knew he would find a landmark shaped like a swastika. If he couldn’t find it right away, he’d wait until sunup. Cursing the fact he didn’t have a flashlight, he returned to the car. He steered onto the road to his right, which led north, moving forward slowly.
“Will we be able to find the marker in the dark?” Tory asked from the back seat, breaking her self-imposed silence since chastising herself for her involvement with him. Maybe she would be able to get some of the gold, steal it, and somehow get away from him. She knew she had to if she were to survive.
“If we’re lucky,” he growled, looking at Jon who stared straight ahead, “old
Schicklgruber
here will show me!” Moving off the road, he slammed on the brakes a hundred feet from the blacktop. He killed the motor and jumped from the car. Racing around to the front of the vehicle, through the splash of brilliance from the headlights, he went to Jon’s door, tearing it open. “Out, Ward,” he snapped.
Jon mechanically obeyed, getting out of the car while Tory slipped from the back seat to move around behind Howie.
“Show me where it is,” he demanded, staring at the hypnotized man.
Jon’s face, puffed since leaving Gallup, reflected the evil contained for twenty-eight years. “I have no idea where the marker is,” he said harshly, his voice changing to that of Adolf Hitler.
“You do, you sonofabitch!” Howie screamed, not noticing the difference in voices. “You’re trying to ace me out of it. I’ll be goddamned if that’s gonna happen. Now tell me before I beat the fucking piss out of you.”
“If I knew where to look, I’d probably show you. But I don’t. I’ve never been here before. I was told of the landmark resembling a swastika by an agent many years ago, but I have no idea how to find it. I was the one who devised the plan to bury gold. I was the one who manipulated the execution of the plan and made certain everyone involved died so I would ultimately be the only one with the information. But, as far as knowing where to look, I have no idea,” Hitler’s voice said, distinctly forming each word.
“Show me, goddamnit,” Howie shrieked. “Tell me what to look for.”
“Look for a landmark in the shape of a swastika,” Hitler said, smiling pitilessly. “That’s all I know.”
“Yeah!” Howie cried. “I’ll find it and then it’ll be all mine. All mine!” He continued shouting, “All mine,” running around in circles while he searched for the marker.
Stifling a sob, Tory ran into the flood of light at the car’s front end. “Howie! Howie, come back! You can’t find the marker in the dark. Move the car and look in the light of the headlights. Please, come back, honey.”
She could still hear him shouting as he moved laterally away from the car, the words, “all mine,” filtering back to her through the still night. Turning to Jon, she shuddered when his eyes, burning into her very soul, locked with hers momentarily. She gasped, tearing her gaze from his, and moved out of the light toward the sound of Howie’s retreating voice.
Then she stopped. Scarcely breathing, she listened intently. Had she heard a noise? An animal? Some animal breathing, stalking her this very minute? Her eyes darted from side to side. Each time she moved them, her peripheral vision made out grotesque shapes and shadows. Where were the buildings, the man-made canyons, to which she had become accustomed?
A shudder ran through her frame when she realized she had never been in almost total darkness over which she had absolutely no control. In the city, whenever she had been afraid of the nighttime, all she had to do was flick a switch to be bathed in light. Revealing, truthful light. Light that showed her no ghosts or monsters existed, lurking in her room to destroy her.
But here—out here in this God-forsaken wilderness—there were no switches to turn on. No flood of welcome brightness to put her frightened mind at ease. Only blackness. A blackness hiding the monsters of her imagination. Beasts ready to devour her at any moment.
Forcing one foot to move ahead of the other, she stopped, holding her breath again. She could only hear the pulse in her own temples pounding. She moved the other foot and stopped. Again, she heard the fast surf of her own heartbeat.
Feeling cold sweat ooze from her clammy skin, she moved slowly back toward the car. At least there she would be able to hide in the automobile if attacked. Jon had made no indication of harming her since they had called him to the office. When? When had they done that? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Forcing herself to determine the time, she gasped, realizing it had been only nine hours before. It seemed more like nine days.
“All mine,” grew in volume as Howie made his way back toward the car. The noise she had heard before became louder. Looking about wildly, she saw a pinpoint of light moving out of the sky toward her. She sucked in her breath, holding it to hear better. It sounded like a helicopter.
“Howie!” she screamed. “Come on! Someone’s coming! Hurry, honey. Please?”
“We’re almost there,” Chuck said.
“How the hell can you tell?”
“Besides instruments helping, I know the state like the back of my hand. That group of lights we flew over a few minutes ago was a little town, Chaco Canyon. Cistern is almost dead in the middle between it and Shiprock. I’m flying a heading that would take me to Shiprock. By watching the time and airspeed, and drifting a degree or two to the west, I’ll be able to set you down in the middle of Cistern. All four buildings of it.”
“How come they only had four buildings in town?” Sam asked.
“There were more but these four were made from adobe. That stuff lasts forever and three days. There’s adobe ruins around the state that are hundreds, maybe thousands, of years old. Just sunbaked earth in the shape of whatever. It lasts.”