Final Disposition (14 page)

      Cellars hesitated, then reached into his pants pocket, pulled out the wad of money he’d borrowed from MacGregor and Harthburn, and walked over to the slumped figure — who might or might not have been African-American, Cellars couldn’t tell because every inch of exposed skin was encased in dirt.  The old man’s eyes were closed and he could easily have been mistaken for being dead if it hadn’t been for the thin puffs of condensing vapor streaming out of his nose.

      “Hey, partner, you hungry?” Cellars called out.

      Seeming jarred out a peaceful slumber, the old man blinked his eyes open, looked up, and then pulled off the headset.

      “Wha ya say?” he rasped tiredly, his eyelids starting to close again.

      “I asked if you were —” Cellars started to say when the old man’s head snapped up, his watery eyes opening wide.

      “It’s you,” he declared.

      “I know it’s me,” Cellars agreed, thinking,
great, one psych-ward escapee talking to another wandering nut case.  Nurse Marcini will love this
.

      “No,” the old man shook his head firmly, “I mean it’s
you
, Sergeant Colin Cellars.”

      Cellars blinked in shock.

      “How could you possibly know —?” He started to demand, but the old man was way ahead of him.

      “I was listenin’ to you on the Sky Search Show,” he said, holding up his radio.  “That Ace Bellringer, he’s a real horse’s ass; but he gets some interestin’ people on the show … and you were sure one of them.  You didn’t say much, but you didn’t have to.  Got yourself a real distinctive voice, there, Sergeant.  No mistaking it — tone, rhythm, timbre — ‘specially with all that music Eleanor likes so much playin’ while you was talkin’.”

      “Music?”

      “You know, all them old love songs.  ‘
Time in a Bottle
’ … ‘
Wind Beneath My Wings
’ … ‘
Till the End Of Time
’.  Didn’t you hear them songs while you was on the air?”

      “I vaguely remembering hearing ... some kind of music, in the background,” Cellars said hesitantly.  “But it wasn’t distinct.”

      “Wasn’t ‘posed to be,” the old man said knowingly.  “Subliminal broadcasting … latest stuff … expensive as hell, but KMUD’s raking the dough in … and Eleanor’s got plenty of money to pay for her own system.  Good thing she does, too.  Gotta keep them secret weapons secret; otherwise they ain’t gonna work when you gotta have ‘em to keep the evil away.”

      “Evil?”

      “Damned right,” the old man nodded his head vigorously.  “Good thing you got yourself out of that studio when you did, too.  That Reverend Slogaan is a real nut-ball — evil fuck.  He and his people can be downright dangerous when they get riled up.  And, Lord knows, good old Ace sure pissed ‘em off tonight.”

      The old man chuckled loudly at what was apparently a cheerful memory, and then looked up at Cellars — who was staring at him blankly — with what appeared to be an unlikely degree of focus in his blurry eyes.

      “Now, then, Sergeant,” he said solemnly, “what was that you was asking me, ‘afore we got started on this here long-winded conversation?”

      “I was asking if you’re hungry,” Cellars said, wondering if he really was losing his mind. 
Plenty of evidence in support of the notion, and damned little opposed
, he thought sadly
.

      “Hell, yes, ‘course I’m hungry,” the old man growled.  “What the hell do I look like, one a’ them fat-cat politicians who ain’t never missed a meal?”

      “You don’t look like much of a fat-cat,” Cellars agreed.  “How about I buy you something to eat, and we continue our long-winded conversation?”

      “Fine by me, but we’ll have to go somewhere else.  No place to eat ‘round here.”

      “What about this restaurant you’re leaning against?” Cellars asked.  “The sign says they’re open, and they claim to serve decent food.”

      “Not to me, they don’t.”  The old man shook his head firmly.

      “Why not?  They got a racial problem around here?”

      “Nah, nothing like that,” the old man chuckled.  “They nice folks in that way.  They jes’ don’t like me in particular comin’ in there.  They say I smell, and never have no money … and they’re generally right about that.”

      “Well, you
are
pretty ripe,” Cellars said, making a quick assessment of the old man’s dirt-crusted and oil-stained clothes as he reached down with his right hand and helped pull him up to his feet.  “But I’m tired and hungry too, and I’ve got enough money for us to eat on, so let’s see if we can get somebody to change their mind.”

CHAPTER 9

      The single waitress — apparently assigned to all of the welcoming, serving, busing, cleaning and cash register duties on the restaurant’s graveyard shift — glanced up from her paperback novel when she hear the interior wood and glass door swing open.

      She took one look at the two men, stood up, and declared: 

      “He can’t come in this restaurant.”

      “See, I told you they was that way,” the old man growled, but Cellars ignored him.

      “Why not?” Cellars demanded as stepped up to the cash register counter and stared curiously at the determined waitress.  “Give me one good reason.”

      “Well, for one, because he smells to high heaven; two, he always annoys the other customers; and three, he never has any —”

      Cellars held the wad of bills up in his right hand.

      “First of all, I agree, he is a little ripe … but that’s not necessarily his fault.  If the odor bothers you that much, we’ll sit as far away from you as we possibly can, and I’ll pick up his food from the cook.”

      The waitress started to say something, but Cellars continued on.

      “Secondly, I’m the only other customer in here right now, and if he starts to annoy me, I’ll be happy to throw him out for you.  I’ll promise you that.”

      “And finally,” Cellars added before the waitress could try again, “The U.S. Army owes a debt to this man, and we fully intend to pay it … starting as soon as we can get him fed and then transferred to some decent VA quarters.”

      “Debt?” the old man and the waitress said in unison.

      “This man’s a decorated war veteran,” Cellars explained.  “It’s taken us almost a year to finally locate him, and I’m not about to lose track of him now.  He needs a bath and a shave, some new clothes, and a long talk with one of the VA shrinks … and I’m going to see to it that all of that happens ASAP.”

      “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” the waitress said softly.

      “Me neither,” the old man nodded sympathetically.

      “Perfectly understandable in both cases,” Cellars said evenly.  “So, ma’am, I do need to get this man to the VA hospital as quickly as I can; but it’s a long drive back to the base, and the weather’s suppose to start slackening off in an hour or so, and we’re both starving, so —”

      “You both can sit right there,” the waitress said, pointing to the booth nearest the register as she hurried around the counter, got them seated, and handed them a pair of menus.   “Coffee or hot chocolate?”

      “Both of them sound good to me,” Cellars said.”

      “Amen to that,” the old man agreed.

      Moments later, the waitress was back with a tray bearing four steaming mugs and a pair of water glasses.  “Okay,” she said as she quickly distributed the drinks, “you boys check out those menus, decide what it is you want to eat, while I go wake up the cook.”

      The old man took a cautious sip of the coffee, waited until the waitress disappeared behind the double doors leading into the kitchen, and then turned to Cellars.

      “That was a pretty damned good story, if I say so myself,” he rasped, a broad smile appearing on his deeply wrinkled face.  “Sure had me fooled there for a minute.”

      “What, about being a disabled vet?”

      “No, I’m surely disabled … and a vet to boot,” the old man said, “but I ain’t never been in no actual war, ‘less you want to count the three times I was married.  Couple a’ them years might count for combat pay.”

      Cellars started to say something, and then paused as the waitress came bustling back in from the kitchen.

      “The cook bailed out on us, probably figuring nobody was ever going to show up in this weather, so I’m all you’ve got … but I’m pretty good with a grill and frying pan, if I say so myself,” the waitress said.  “So, how about a couple of juicy steaks with a big scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy on the side?”

      Cellars and the old man looked at each other and winced.

      “Tell you what,” Cellars said, “I don’t think either of us are really up to digesting a big chunk of beef this time of night.  How about a couple plates of scrambled eggs with whatever looks good in the way of chopped-up vegetables tossed into the mix?”

      “And a couple a’ them hot biscuits, too, on the side?” the old man asked wistfully.

      “You got it, hon,” the waitress said.  She retrieved the menus, and then disappeared back into the kitchen.

      “You sure the U.S. Army’s gonna be okay paying for all that?” the old man asked.

      “Sure, why not?”  Cellars shrugged.  “They’ve got plenty of money.”

      “Oh, I believe that,” the old man said.  “I’ve seen ‘em spend it by the bucketfuls, Lord knows.  I’m just not sure what that has to do with you … and my meal.”

      “Why, you don‘t recognize the uniform?” Cellars asked.

      “The one you’re wearing looks different from the one I wore,” the old man conceded, “but the basics ain’t changed much.”

      “Maybe you’d like to see some ID?” Cellars suggested.  He reached into his shirt pocket and tossed the folded ID card onto the table.

      “Sure a lot more fancy than the one they issued me,” the old man said as he opened up the ID card and examined it closely.  “And it looks gen-u-ine.   Colin Cellars, Oh-four Major, Army seal and all.  Guess that’s a pretty good guarantee.”

      “Yet, I get the sense you have a problem with it … or with me, in general?”

      “Only problem I got with you, Mr. Cellars, is that ten — no, eleven –- days ago, you stood up in a little County auditorium outside Jasper Springs and claimed you was Detective Sergeant Colin Cellars, a senior crime scene investigator for the Oregon State Patrol.  Said you got sent down from Portland to take over this big deal investigation — one that everybody in Jasper County was really worried about, including me.  Gave one hell of an interestin’ lecture about crime scenes and evidence of extraterrestrial contact ’fore you got called out.”

      “And how would you know that?” Cellars demanded.

      “’Cause I was there, listenin’ to Jim Croche, Bette Midler, Mariah Carey, and all them other folks that Eleanor likes to play during the meetings, just like you was … only I bet you didn’t hear the music then neither, did you?”

      “You were … in Jasper Springs … eleven days ago?”

      “Yep.”

      “Why would
you
have been
there
, eleven days ago, in that particular auditorium?”

      “The Alliance of Believers has got a pretty big membership,” the old man replied.  “I’m not what you’d call a real
active
member.  Hell, I don’t even know if I’m an official one anymore.  But they always let us sit in on their meetings when my friends and I show up — usually put us less-social types off to the side, where we ain’t gonna bother nobody — and we do like to stay up on what them folks is doing.”

      “Why is that?” Cellars asked, finding the entire situation increasingly hard to believe.

      “Lots of people — me and my friends included — still think there’s a connection.  Think … hell, we
know
there’s a connection.  We just can’t prove it. That’s why everyone was so interested in what you had to say, ‘cause that’s what you do … you prove things.”

      “A connection?”

      “That’s right.”  Watery eyes glaring and defiant.

      “With what.”

      “The Krays … and those goddamned shadows.”

      The old man visibly shivered and Cellars felt a chill go down his spine.

      “Shadows?”  He put the word forward hesitantly.

      “Hell, you really think a body can sleep outdoors in these parts and not run into one a’ them damned things every now and then?  They don’t bother me no more, though, ‘cause I got my lucky charm.”

      He reached into his pocket and held up a filthy-looking radio and headset.

      “Ain’t as good as the system Eleanor’s got, but it works good enough.”

      “These shadows are afraid of a radio?”

      “Don’t know that they’re ‘xactly
afraid
of it; but they sure don’t like it none … especially when I turn the volume up.  ‘Course that uses up batteries a whole lot faster, especially when it’s cold, so I always gotta have a spare set handy.”

      He reached into his pocket against and came up with an extremely grimy pack of presumably fresh batteries.

      “So they don’t like the sound of loud voices?”

      “Don’t know as they mind loud voices much, but they definitely don’t like the singing or instrument playing.  Leastwise not the stuff I play.  Kinda act like it grates on their ears, if you know what I mean … ‘summing them things even got ears,” the old man added with a chuckle.

      “So you haven’t seen these shadows up close enough to know if they have ears or not?”

      “They keep their distance with me now-days,” the old man said evasively; “but they still give me the shakes every time I spot one a’ them sneakin’ around.  Why d’ya think I like to stay on the move … and always sleep in places what’s well lit?”

      “Because you’re trying to stay away from lurking shadows?”

      “Hey, man, don’t you go actin’ like you don’t know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, now,” the old man growled.  “You and your buddy Dawson, you took ‘em on — fought them bastards — and even put a bunch of ‘em down … we
know
you did.”