"I need one more shot at him," I repeated.
Madden managed to somehow slouch down even deeper in the overtaxed little chair. It was protesting its burden. He shoved his hat back, folded his hands in front of him and shoved his legs out in front of him. "I don't have the slightest idea what the hell you're talkin' about," he muttered.
"I've already filled you in on what I think is happening here in Chambers Bay — that it's a continuation of a strange string of atrocities that have been happening every eleven years since 1943 and maybe even further back in time than that."
"That's what you told me," Jake grunted. He didn't say he was buying any of it. He simply acknowledged that it was, in fact, what I had told him. "Listen, Researcher, even you have to admit that whole yarn of yours sounds pretty far-fetched."
"If you think that's far-fetched, you may not want to hear the rest of my theory."
"Try me. I can always quit listenin'."
I sucked up my breath, finished off the Scotch and embarked. Jake was right. It was the first time I had heard it out loud, and it sounded pretty ludicrous, maybe even impossible, and definitely off the wall. But a funny thing was happening. The more I hauled it out, the more convinced I became I was on the right track. The terminology of the group that called themselves the true believers was sprinkled liberally throughout the lengthy dissertation, and by the time I ground to a finish, Big Jake had heard it all.
If the reality of the Vernice episode hadn't been weighing on his mind, I wouldn't have been surprised if that mountain-man face of his would have collapsed into a smile. Instead he scowled. I meandered over to the bureau, poured myself another drink and waited for his reaction.
It never came. His hard, thin lips were pursed into an expression I couldn't read.
"Well," I blustered, "say something."
Madden blinked a couple of times and carefully shifted his bulk in the overtaxed chair. "I guess I could see how you'd come up with most of that stuff. I ain't sayin' I buy it, mind you, but you sure do raise a whole bunch of questions."
"Like?"
"Like how did they get from there to here? And what the hell is this all about? And, if you can answer those for me, who is this Emissary they keep referring to? Beyond that, how many of these monsters are crawlin' around the countryside out there? One? Two? Ten? What the hell are we dealin' with?"
"The answer to your first question is all theory at this point. If the phones were working and I could get through to Lucy, I could get that part verified."
"You're outta luck," Madden pointed out needlessly. "Them phones are still out."
"The answer to your second question is a little more complex. We're dealing with a religious sect that goes back hundreds, maybe thousands of years. Some people would call it a cult. Others would call it Satanic. Whatever you call them and regardless of how long they've been around, we're dealing with some very, very committed people — committed to a cause we don't even begin to understand."
Jake was still listening.
"The answer to number three is — I don't know. I've got a hunch this so-called Emissary is someone we know. On top of that, I've got a hunch it's someone we would never suspect. Both Kelto and the Austin widow refer to the Emissary as some kind of priest."
Jake shifted in his chair, starting to get restless.
"As to how many of these things we're dealing with, your guess is as good as mine. Up until you and Kendall found the bodies of Everett and Forrester hanging in that tree this morning, I'd have given you ten to one odds there was only one of them. The only logical explanation I had up to that point was that we were dealing with some mutant, some prehistoric throwback, something that just never evolved beyond that stage where it crawled out of the slime of some pit."
Madden sighed deeply. It was obvious I hadn't convinced him. It was equally obvious the whole situation was too bizarre for him to comprehend. He was a practical man, trained to look at empirical data, and nothing that had transpired in Chambers Bay in the last 72 hours could be construed as practical, routine or normal. He was dealing with something far beyond the realm of drunks and poachers and traffic accidents and family squabbles. People were dying at an alarming rate. Chambers Bay was being terrorized by something that defied description. And to make matters worse, for all practical purposes, Chambers Bay was cut off from the rest of the outside world.
Finally the big man let out with one of his own half-growl, half-grunts. "Okay, Researcher, so now you've told me all of this. What do you expect me to do?"
"I want you to go back and convince Kendall to hold off on his plan until I've had one last chance to talk to this kid, Kelto."
"That's all?"
"That's all," I assured him. "All he has to do is delay his sweep an hour, maybe two, just enough time for me to find Kelto."
Madden waited impatiently while I rounded up my survival kit, then hustled us back to the old schoolhouse, grousing about Kendall, the sweep and the fog. He went into conference with the three RCMP officers and left me to my own devices. I had a hunch he didn't want them to hear what I had to say simply because he wasn't convinced himself. On the other hand, he wasn't ready to totally disregard everything I had told him.
While all of this was happening, Ferris ambled toward me, looking for all the world like a man with nothing of consequence on his mind. He reached into the pocket of his coat, hauled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was folded and stapled.
I recognized B.C.'s handwritten scrawl.
"E.G.:
Kelto came here to find you. He has finally been contacted by the Emissary. I'm going to the Austin widow's house with him.
Brenda."
"When did you get this?" I barked at the old man.
Ferris rolled his tired brown eyes, glanced at the wall clock and took a drag on his pipe. "Couldn't have been more than an hour ago," he drawled.
It didn't take me more than a few seconds to race across the room and cram the note under Madden's nose. In the same motion I had him by the arm, dragging him toward the door. Kendall was still voicing his objections to any delays in implementing his plan when we went out the door.
Jake stopped just long enough to shout back. "Don't start the sweep until we get back."
It wasn't until Big Jake was once again hurling the four-by-four down the fogchoked road toward the old woman's house that I started reflecting on the more mundane aspects of B.C.'s hasty communication. Where, when and how had Kelto received his marching orders? And probably the most mundane concern of all, how were they getting out to the old woman's house? Kelto didn't have a car, and B.C. had been totally dependent on the Z. But by the time Madden cranked his machine off the main road and started down the narrow, twisting strip of rocks, sand and gravel known as the Carson road, I had forgotten those matters and returned to the primary concern of getting out of this mess alive.
The Constable of Chambers Bay knew his territory a lot better than I did. We slid to an abrupt halt and bailed out, leaving the machine in the middle of the so-called road. "We're close," Jake panted.
I fell into step (limped is more accurate) beside the big man, and we searched along the west side of the road until we found the path that headed up the hill. Halfway up I had to stop to get my bearings. My run-in with the quarrelsome creature was taking its toll on me. The legs were working, all right, but not that well. While I caught my breath, Madden unstrapped his .38, twirled the chamber, gave the hunk of crafted metal a critical appraisal and slipped it back in his holster.