As he reached the sidewalk, he caught a glimpse of a Checker Cab sidling along with its flag up. Dodge thrust out a hand to hail the taxi and hurriedly opened the door, but as he started to get in, someone called his name. He drew back and peered in every direction through the watery veil. There wasn't another living soul for blocks.
Shrugging, he got inside. Must be hearing things.
The rain was drumming a staccato pattern on the metal roof, making it difficult to hear his own voice, much less the sound of someone calling for him. "Museum of Natural History," he shouted over the back of the driver's seat. The fellow in the front of the cab nodded and pulled back into the deserted streets.
The headline on the sodden newspaper — HURRICANE BEARS DOWN ON CITY — was still visible, but the interior of the cab was too dark to read the smaller print below. Dodge tossed the tabloid aside and gazed out the window, thinking more about Prof. Pendleton and the Outpost than the imminent storm.
Dodge, along with Brian "Hurricane" Hurley, Father Nathan Hobbs and Miss Molly Rose Shannon were together the de facto owners of the Outpost, though it was situated in a place where land deeds had little value. Those among the scientific and military communities respectively who knew of its existence had demanded that such a prize must be shared, but the four people who actually knew where it was had demurred. There were things in the Outpost that humans were not meant to see; technologies that might be used for evil purposes by nefarious men or even by well-intentioned souls who could not see past their immediate concerns to the future peril that possession of such awesome power might awaken. Dodge, as spokesman for the group, had offered to share some of the knowledge with the scientists in exchange for custodianship of the Outpost. The deal had received unexpected support from the highest authority in the land; the President had been the victim of a plot by the first discoverer of the Outpost and had been rescued from certain death by Dodge’s last-second heroics. Not only did he owe Dodge and his companions an enormous debt, but he also knew firsthand how the ancient science locked away in the Outpost might be perverted.
The taxi stopped at a traffic signal and Dodge glanced up to see where they were. He noticed that the meter on driver’s side fender was silent. He leaned over the seat. "Hey pal. I don’t mind if the ride’s free tonight, but I’m only paying for what’s on the meter."
The driver grunted as he fumbled for the lever that would activate the device for tallying mileage. Something about the scene struck Dodge as odd, but his musings about the Outpost and Pendleton’s summons quickly drew him back.
A lot had happened in the weeks since they had rescued the President from the diabolical schemes of a madman who had, in discovering the secrets of the Outpost, believed himself a god. Dodge and Hurley, already public figures because of Dodge’s weekly feature — an adventure serial based loosely on the real exploits of Hurley’s Army unit — had received the lion’s share of the acclaim. Father Hobbs and his adopted daughter Molly had also been briefly thrust into the spotlight, until the fickle attention of newspaper readers was distracted by something newer and shinier. None of them missed being a celebrity one bit. Dodge and Hurley went back to work on the Falcon stories, newly inspired by recent events, while Father Hobbs contemplated his next move. Prior to the crisis, he had supervised a Congo River mission for the better part of a decade, but all that was gone now, destroyed by a fiendish river pirate. Now that his daughter had grown into a lovely young woman, the idea of returning to a life of austerity on the Dark Continent was not quite so appealing. For her sake alone or so he claimed, he had elected to take a teaching position at the St. Joseph’s Seminary in Dunwoodie, exchanging the rough life of a missionary for the cerebral challenges of academia. Dodge however wondered if the man they called "the Padre" didn’t have a different motive.
Hobbs had also been one of Captain Falcon’s soldiers; a member of a special unit nicknamed ‘the Fighting Falcons’ whose mission had been to stem the rise of criminal empires in the aftermath of the Great War. Hobbs had walked a fine line between soldier and priest during those years. Though he had eschewed the use of weapons, his actions had nonetheless contributed to loss of life, both of the enemy and his own comrades. When the Great Depression ended the mission of the Fighting Falcons, Hobbs had immersed himself in helping the oppressed natives of the Congo Basin, a desperate attempt to atone for his perceived sins. But Dodge had shown him that there were other ways to find solace and better ways to make use of the superior intellectual gifts which God had granted him, for Nathan Hobbs knew more about ancient religions and the occult world than anyone. In the tapestry of myths and superstitions, Hobbs had glimpsed a more credible origin for the Outpost than anything proposed by the President’s brain trust. Given the choice, Dodge would rather have the Padre at his side than any of those eggheads.
And then of course there was Molly.
Dodge glanced at the street again, but the signposts were obscured by the film of rain on the glass. He lowered his window, taking the full fury of the storm on his face as he stuck his head out and squinted at the street marker they had just passed. He didn’t recognize the name on the cross street, but before he could ask the driver about it, the headlights of the vehicle directly behind the taxi abruptly receded as if the driver of that car had been spooked to find Dodge leaning out into the night.
He drew back inside, but continued to gaze through the small rear window at the trailing vehicle. There were hardly any cars on the streets tonight; sane people had returned to their homes hours before to batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. While there was nothing inherently strange about two cars sharing the same destination, Dodge had an uneasy feeling about the car that had dropped back half a block.
"Hey," he said without turning. "Can you take the next right and circle the block?"
"Are you serious?" answered the driver.
"Do it," Dodge affirmed. "I just want to test a theory."
"It’s your money." The cabbie whipped the car down a side street and accelerated toward the next intersection.
Dodge held his breath as the other car reached the corner behind them and then made the same turn. Once is coincidence, he thought, but what had been a nagging suspicion now reached the level of a claxon ringing in his head. The taxi made another right hand turn and a few seconds later, the headlights were back.
"That car is following us," observed the driver, peering into his side mirror, stating what Dodge now believed to be the absolute truth. The man’s comment was strange, almost emotionless, but Dodge’s attention was fixed on what he perceived to be the more immediate concern.
Okay, he’s following us. And I thought I heard someone call my name back at the Clarion Building. But why did he pull back when he saw me?