The Avenger 30 - Black Chariots (3 page)

The agent said, “Might be.”

“Is it the black chariots? Is that what you’re digging into, Early?”

Early reached out and got hold ol the car’s door handle. “Got your address, where you’re staying. I’ll let you know what I can about Lieutenant Stevenson.” He climbed into his auto.

“I won’t quit,” promised Smitty as the car drove away.

She was lost.

The flickering midday desert surrounded her, made her feel like a very small pebble on a very large beach.

Jennifer Hamblin was fairly positive she’d taken the right turn, back at the crossroads. But now, literally in the middle of nowhere, she was starting to have her doubts. This couldn’t be the way to the Manzana Oasis resort.

Everything around her was brown, shades of earth brown. The land, the strange trees, the rocks, even the birds.

Jennifer slowed her car as the road grew even narrower. Dust and grit flew up, and pebbles clattered against the fenders. The roadway climbed, up through sandy orange-brown cliffs.

“Better turn around, Jenny,” the blond girl told herself.

She was stubborn, though. She’d picked this road, and she was going to stick with it. Eventually it might lead to the resort.

Stubbornness. That was—admit it, Jenny—what was behind this whole trip. A trip all the way across America to the Southern California desert. Well, she’d always been stubborn and impulsive, doing things no polite Boston girl ought to do. Uncle Val had always called her . . .

“I know he’s out here,” she said aloud. “He has to be.”

The narrow road continued to climb, higher into the rocky hills.

A proper Boston girl would have accepted the facts. Uncle Val was probably dead. He’d been missing for over a year. No one, not the police or the FBI, had found one trace of him. Nothing to indicate where he’d gone when he’d left his office on campus that night. He’d walked away, into nowhere.

“But I know something they don’t know,” she said.

What Jennifer knew, coupled with one single story in the back pages of the
Boston Herald,
had prompted this trip. The story had been about the first sightings of the disk-like black chariots over the desert. One small story had made it out across the country before all mention of the black chariots was stopped.

The car, huffing, crested the hill. There in front of her rose a high fence. It cut across the road, blocking any further progress.

“I guess I’ll have to concede that this isn’t going to turn into the right road after all.”

Far beyond the wire fence, shimmering like a heat mirage, stood a castle. It was vast, pale yellow, with towers and spires thrusting up into the bright day. On the fence itself were bolted two signs, neatly lettered. The first read: THIS FENCE GOT ENOUGH ELECTRICITY TO KILL YOU DEAD! KEEP AWAY! The other sign announced: I DON’T SEE NOBODY. (Signed) OLD MAN GUPTILL.

Jennifer, her stubbornness taking over, pulled her car over to the roadside. Getting out of the machine, she walked over to the electrified fence. “I don’t see why they can’t at least tell me how to get to the Manzana Oasis.”

The girl halted a foot in front of the wire gate and cupped her slender hands to her mouth. “Hello, can anyone help me?”

Five seconds passed.

Then someone started shooting at her with a high-powered rifle.

He stood on the street corner, an umbrella in one hand and a shepherd’s staff in the other. He was long and thin, wearing a homespun robe. His beard, blue-black in color, reached nearly to his waist. In his deeply tanned, weathered face his pale blue eyes glowed. “We are all wayfarers,” he shouted at the few people who had stopped to listen to him, “all wayfarers on the thorny path of life.” He pointed his staff at his audience, most of whom were slouched in the shade of a barbershop awning. “I bring you good news, friends, yes, good news. The journey will soon be over. Yes, soon over, and we will be wayfarers no more. We will be dwellers in a far better place—”

“Hope it’s cooler than Manzana,” remarked one of the listeners.

The bearded man went on. “Yes, friends, a better place than this, a better world. You have the solemn word of Prester Ambrose that this old world will soon be over. How do I know? Ah, I know, friends, because the signs have been sent. Signs in the heavens, which I have witnessed with my own eyes. Yes, I have seen the black chariots, and I know, friends. The end is nigh. Will you be ready?” His head suddenly bent, indicating his sermon had finished. From within his robe he produced a pewter mug which he set on the hot sidewalk next to his sandaled foot.

Two of those who’d been listening came forward to drop coins into the cup; the rest shuffled away.

All but one man. He remained in the shadows of the striped awning, watching Prester Ambrose. He stepped into the light now. “I’d like to talk to you,” said Smitty.

The robed man bent and picked up his cup. It rattled.

Smitty dug out a quarter and plunked it into the mug. “I want to know about the black chariots.”

“They are a sign, friend, a sign sure and true that the longed-for end is—”

“I don’t want the philosophical angle,” interrupted the giant. “I want specific details on what the damn things look like.”

Prester Ambrose scanned him with his pale blue eyes. “Come to the Sacred City tonight,” he said. “A small donation, say twenty bucks, wouldn’t be out of order.” He bowed to Smitty and walked away, umbrella held high, staff tapping the pavement.

Jennifer ran, getting her car between herself and the rifleman. Another bullet went whistling overhead.

She was on the passenger side of the car. Cautiously she took hold of the handle. “Locked.”

And the key in the ignition. So she would have to work her way around the machine. All the way around, then dive into the driver’s seat and back away from here.

“Even if he doesn’t shoot me,” she thought, “there’s a good chance he’ll plug one of the tires. Or maybe even the gas tank.”

There weren’t too many alternatives. She had to get away. Old Man Guptill, whoever he might be, didn’t seem to be the kind of person you could reason with.

“If you get out of this mess, Jenny, you’re really going to have to—”

“Hey there, girl!”

On the other side of the fence stood a white-haired man. He was big, wide-shouldered, wearing a dirt-streaked white suit. He held a rifle under his right arm.

“I lost my way,” she called.

“Can’t you read, girl?”

“I didn’t touch your fence.”

“The part about Old Man Guptill don’t see anybody. Means what it says.”

“I have absolutely no desire to see him, whoever he is.” Jennifer decided she could step out from the protection of the auto. “What I want is someone to tell me how to get to the Manzana Oasis.”

“Other road is what you want, girl.”

“You mean back at the crossroads?”

“Left-handed road.”

“But I did take the road on the left.”

“Damnation, girl don’t you even know your left from your right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Go back and give it another try.”

Jennifer took several steps toward the fence. “You must be the one who shot at me.”

“Dang right I am.”

“Would you be Old Man Guptill himself?”

“I might,” answered the old man. “Or I might only be one of the dozen guards Old Man Guptill got on his payroll. Fierce bunch, they are.”

She walked nearer. “What is it you’re guarding? I know some people value their privacy a good deal, but—”

“Where you hail from, girl?”

“Boston.”

Scratching his standup white hair, the old man said, “You mean to stand there and tell me they ain’t never heard of Old Man Guptill in Boston, Mass?”

“Perhaps someone has,” replied the blond girl, “but I haven’t.”

“Well now, girl, Old Man Guptill used to be nothing more than a drifting prospector, about nine cents short of owning one thin dime,” said the old man. “Then one day, so the story goes, he struck it rich. Found a cache of gold that’d been hidden in the desert by the Spanish way back when.”

“And you built this fortress with the money?”

“Some of the dough Old Man Guptill used to construct himself a showplace. Since he’d roamed the desert all his miserable days, he built his mansion right here in the desert.”

“The fence, and the guards, that’s to protect the treasure?”

“Everybody wants Old Man Guptill’s treasure.”

Jennifer said, “Thank you for the directions, and the story, Mr. Guptill.”

“Never said I was Old Man Guptill.”

Jennifer reached the resort at two o’clock that afternoon. The Oasis consisted of three large adobe and tile buildings and a dozen smaller cottages built around a huge oval swimming pool. Trees, ferns, and flowering bushes walled in the Manzana Oasis’s nine acres. Despite its name, the resort was eight miles this side of the town of Manzana. It was, like a real oasis, the only spot of green for miles around.

An attendant in a scarlet coat came trotting toward Jennifer’s car as she turned into the parking area.

“Afraid there are no vacancies, miss,” he told her.

“I have a reservation.”

The young man put a hand on the window edge. “We’re full up, I’m pretty sure.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go in and find out for myself.”

After a few seconds the attendant said, “Certainly, miss. I’ll park your automobile for you.”

“Thanks.”

The lobby of the Oasis, all tinted glass and turquoise tile, was extremely cool, almost chill. Behind the curving tile-fronted registration desk was a small stiff man in a polo shirt and blazer.

“Yes?”

“My name is Jennifer Hamblin. I have a reservation.”

“I’m afraid not, miss. We have absolutely no vacancies at the Oasis.”

“But the reservation was made by a travel agency in Boston, and confirmed.”

The clerk sighed sympathetically. “These days, with so many wartime stresses, miss, it’s really no longer possible to be certain of anything. I assure you we have no reservation for you, and no accommodation.”

“Don’t you even have to check to find out?” she said. “Look won’t you? My name is Jennifer Hamblin.”

“There’s no need to look because—”

“One moment, Joel.” A thin dark man had stepped out of a rear office behind the desk. He beckoned to the clerk.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Jennifer pretended to be studying the chill lobby, although she was really trying to hear what the two men were saying. She had no luck at that.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Hamblin,” said the returning clerk, “I find we do have your reservation, after all. If you will simply sign the registration card, I’ll summon a bellboy.”

The dark man remained in the doorway, watching Jennifer.

She gave him a tentative smile.

He turned away, went into the office, and closed the door.

The twilight was full of barking dogs. Smitty could see their silhouettes all along the side of the winding hill road. The big man was driving Dipper’s car. His friend considered an interview with Prester Ambrose a waste of time and had remained at the inn.

“He’s taking this whole thing pretty light,” Smitty said to himself.

Another dark dog showed in the dusk. A hunched, growling police dog. A thin young man in overalls was restraining the anxious animal with a hand clutching its heavy collar.

The two of them were standing in front of the plank fence against which the road ended.

Stopping the borrowed car, Smitty got out. “I’ve come to see Prester Ambrose.”

“You a convert, friend?” The young man asked, his voice harsh and nasal. “All converts are always welcome here at Sacred City. Other kinds of folks, though—”

The bristling dog snarled and tried to get free to attack Smitty.

“It’s a business deal,” said Smitty. “I’m buying something.”

“Oh, yeah, he told me about you.” Struggling to keep the dog with him, the young man walked to the gate in the wooden fence and, one-handed, pulled it open. “Come on in, mister.”

Smitty, ignoring the snarling dog, walked onto the grounds of Sacred City.

The city covered about three acres. It was set in a small gulley in the rocky hills ten miles beyond Manzana, a collection of ramshackle wood houses, forlorn trees, and dry weedy ground. There were more dogs on this side of the fence, smaller and less vicious. Most of them didn’t even bother to bark at the passing giant. Lights were on in half of the ten houses, from kerosene lamps since there was no electricity.