"Stop messing with it, okay? You look fine," Face chided Murdock as they climbed the steps of the little brick building whose sign read Constabulary, Town of Possum Lodge: To Protect and Serve. He wore a drab tweed suit much more dowdy than was his usual jaunty preference, along with a porkpie hat and a pair of round-frame glasses. He held a large leather case in his left hand. "Follow my lead and everything will be OK."
Murdock looked glum without his usual T-shirt and bomber jacket. He'd slicked back his hair in a halfhearted attempt to look "academic." He was currently tugging the lapels of his dark suit as if trying to ward off evil spirits. "What if they don't go for this, Faceman? And what if that doohickey the Big Guy was tinkerin' with doesn't work?"
"It will," Face assured him, with one last adjustment of his bow tie. "Shall we?"
"After you, Professor."
The two men stepped into the reception area, where a young brunette about Millie Rose's age was busily absorbed in an old issue of People. Tinny-sounding country music came from a transistor radio on her desk. Face cleared his throat discreetly, and the receptionist dropped the magazine and blinked in surprise.
"Well howdy, y'all. What can I do to help you boys?" "Can" came out sounding more like "kin."
"Good day to you, Miss," said Face, briefly doffing his hat. "I'm Professor Albert Colston, University of South Carolina, Department of Seismology. This gentleman's my graduate assistant, Chauncey Swain," he said, gesturing to Murdock. Face's faux-cultured southern accent was a curious cross between Rhett Butler and Foghorn Leghorn.
"Professor? Hoo, boy. I never even got my high school diploma," the girl said with awe in her voice. "What's a university fella like you doin' up here all the way from South Caroline?"
She didn't know, of course, that Face had previously played Colston last month, as a taciturn New Englander, to a room full of suspicious would-be land developers just outside Long Beach. Nor did she question for a moment his accent and manners. He smiled at her, seeing her flutter her mascaraed eyelashes and sigh. With his right hand, he opened the briefcase and dug out a manila file thick with paperwork.
"I'm afraid I've got both good news and bad news, Miss."
Her green eyes widened. "What's the bad news? And what kinda professor'd you say you were? Size-somethin'?"
"Seismology: the study of the movement and constant change of the earth's crust, Miss. I'm one of the foremost experts in the Southeast. Now, I won't bore you with all the technical jargon and so forth of my trade, but suffice to say I've been sent here on special assignment by the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development." Face continued, producing a sheaf of stapled papers. "We're here to investigate this building and the surrounding structures for architectural soundness, make sure y'all are properly up to date with building codes, asbestos regulations…"
The receptionist blinked, uncomprehending. "I'm not catchin' your drift, mister. What the heck're you talkin' about?"
Murdock spoke up, his eyes going wide in a look Face had seen many times over the last fifteen years. "Quakes. We're talking about earthquakes," he explained as if telling the girl that she'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
"Chauncey's quite right, Miss. Haven't you felt any tremors down here? Pictures shakin' on the walls, toothbrush rattlin' in its little holder?" When she shook her head no, Face gasped in horror. "Oh, no, that means y'all are due for the Big One. Could happen at any time. It might be the kind what'll make those big San Andreas quakes look like a kid's birthday party! Aren't you aware of the faultline?"
"Faultline?" Her face had gone an unhealthy shade of pale.
Face unrolled a map he'd brought with him showing Possum Lodge and the surrounding area. Before he came, he'd taken special care to trace several lines of red and blue Sharpie right through the valley. "This here," he pointed to the main red line, "is the Lower Cumberland Fault. Dormant since the dinosaurs bought the farm. But this one," he indicated a smaller blue line, "it's an offshoot, the Colston Fault…I discovered it in July…well, it's quite active. Been detecting up little hairline movements every now and then, probably too soft for y'all to even notice. But those could pick up in time, and…"
Murdock spread his arms, then flailed, mimicking a collapsing building.
"Good Lord…wh…what are we gonna do?" stammered the girl.
"First of all, as I said, there is good news. This constabulary was unknowingly built right over the Colston Fault," he said, holding up his hands as she started to open her mouth, "but with the necessary steps, we two will be able to fully inspect and certify y'all's facility as fully earthquake safe. We'll need to conduct a full sweep of the area, but seeing as this is the bull's eye, so to speak, y'all are our first priority."
The addled receptionist plopped back down in her chair. "Oh, then, please go right on ahead! I just can't imagine bein' in a building what's about to fall down, no sir. How, uh, how long you think you'll be? Mr. Prescott's out right now, chasin' them deer poachers up near Split Log Holler again."
Face pulled the phony glasses off and placed them in his breast pocket. "Never rush a scientist at work, Miss…?"
"I'm Frannie Nalen," she volunteered.
"Well, Miss Nalen, Chauncey and I are going to conduct a full and thorough analysis of this building's soundness. Probably just a few hours, give or take, and you'll be right as rain. Think of the peace of mind it'll bring y'all in the end," said Face smoothly.
"Oh, well, I suppose that ain't too bad. You want I should stay while y'all do, y'know, whatever it is?"
"No. Absolutely not!" interrupted Murdock, an intense look coming into his dark eyes. "Do you have any idea the sensitive nature of a pH test, young lady? How the exhalations of one individual can skew the measurements irrevocably?" He moved toward her, looking more like Dr. Frankenstein than Dr. Swain.
She gulped. "I don't reckon so, no sir."
Feeling satisfied, Face replaced his paperwork and snapped the briefcase shut. "If you're worried about compensation for lost time, Miss Nalen, the federal government will see to that. Meantime, why don't you relax and get yourself some coffee down at Honey B's," he referred to the little café they'd passed on the town square, "and we'll come let you know when our work here's finished? Now, there's only three rooms here, am I not mistaken?"
Frannie picked up her purse and the issue of People she'd been reading, and nodded. "Yessir, just this here room, and Mr. Trey's office and the holding cell in back. It's empty right now; no need to worry there."
"Much obliged, Miss Nalen. We thank you for your kind cooperation," said Face, emphasizing the first syllable of his last word to sound more genteel. As she headed out the door, he reached up to drop the porkpie hat along with his southern-fried persona. He pulled a placard from the case that read "Do Not Disturb: Inspection In Progress" and placed it inside the glass on the front door. "Okay, Murdock, let's get to work. You take the back office, and I'll start looking in here."
In the alley behind the Triple Shot Tavern, B.A. sat in the driver's seat of his parked van, bejeweled fingers hovering over the red button on an innocuous-looking remote control. "I wish that sucka Prescott'd show up. I've been wantin' to use this for real," he said.
"You're sure it'll work?" Hannibal asked, puffing on one of several cigars he'd bought earlier from Sweet Lou's Grocery. It wasn't his usual high-quality brand, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
"Yeah, man. Those guys gonna get a wake-up call they ain't never gonna forget," B.A. said, a smile beginning to form on his lips. "Courtesy of the A-Team."
"Just be patient, B.A. We've got to wait for Face's signal."
The big man looked for a moment like a child eagerly awaiting Christmas Eve. "If I gotta, then, all right…"
"I got their phone tapped just fine, Faceman, but I'm not findin' anything. Nada, zero, zip." called Murdock in frustration from the back of the constable's office. "No silver bullets, though," he added with some relief.
Face had already looked through the reception area with his well-trained eyes, and come up equally empty. Trey Prescott may have been just a country boy, but he appeared to be a cautious country boy. No documents, maps, bundles of cash, or anything else in the office was present to indicate that the lawman was secretly fronting a dogfighting ring and dabbling in drugs. Face had even brought B.A.'s portable metal detector with him, which hadn't indicated a safe in the walls or underneath the floor.
"Anywhere else you think they might have something stashed?" Face asked while looking under the cushions of a sofa for the second time. "I'm running out of ideas here."
Murdock rejoined his friend in the lobby. "I guess I could try and sniff somethin' out. My sense of smell is sure goin' haywire down here." He flung down onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair, which had already started to revert to its normal flyaway look. After a moment, he suddenly sat bolt upright. "I think I got it! Did you see that big ol' storage shed out back when we came in, Face?"
"Yeah…" Face stroked his chin nervously, trying to guess where Murdock's erratic train of thought was chugging this time. "What about it?"
"Sniffing, Faceman. What's a dog do when it wants to hide a nice meaty bone?"
Face grinned. "It's worth a look. I'm letting you dig, though…"
The familiar joyfully demented look crept back into Murdock's eyes. "I just knew Took was tryin' to tell me something important 'sides how to catch squirrels."
"You see anything yet?" It was probably the fourth time he'd said it, but Face had to check. He'd begun to sweat not just because the sun had come out in force, but for the simple fact that Murdock and his heaps of dirt stood in plain sight of several businesses in Possum Lodge. Luckily none of the few passersby had seemed to notice thus far.
Murdock stopped momentarily and leaned on the shovel he was using. "It'd help if I knew what I was lookin' for, muchacho." He squinted up into the sunlight.
"Maybe we should try another spot?" suggested Face. "We're gonna have to explain this, you know…"
"I have no doubt you'll enthrall and amaze these rustic varlets, O loquacious one." The other used his posh boarding school voice for the second time that day.
"Yeah. Getting these bumpkins to believe it is something else altogether."
"What about the shed?" Murdock pointed, as if noticing it for the first time. "You wanna look in there?"
Face let out a sigh. "There's a high-gauge lock on it. It's gonna take me a little time without the proper tools."
There seemed no other alternative, so he rummaged in his leather briefcase for a metal lockpick. As he did so, the little signaling device B.A. had given him began to beep. When he pulled it out, he saw it was illuminated with three small red lights. He swore under his breath and quickly stashed it back.
"Murdock, we got company. It's probably Prescott, so just let me handle this." He quickly re-adjusted his hat and tie.
The skreek of old brakes was audible as a blue pickup with chaser lights on top swung into the parking lot. Two men got out, each of whom wore .38s on their hips. One was a wiry redhead in his early thirties with a mean look on his narrow, foxlike face. His companion, a dark-haired man of medium height with high cheekbones and striking blue eyes, followed close behind.
"This here's private property," said the red-haired man, his country twang thicker than anyone they'd yet encountered in Possum Lodge. "You fellas got a permit, sump'm like that?"
Face, who'd been pretending to study a surveyor's map, slipped right back into his Albert Colston persona. "I should be askin' y'all the same question. Do you have any notion how hard it is to locate a main water line with these maps outta date like they are?"
"Water line?" The first man, whom Face noticed had a small skull tattoo on his neck, seemed confused. "Ain't you dressed a little fancy for diggin'?"
"Are you Constable Trey Prescott?"
"Yeah. Who the hell are you?" A flush came over Prescott's cheeks.
Face reached for his glasses again. "Professor Albert Colston, University of South Carolina. That fella there's Chauncey Swain, my graduate assistant. For your information, Constable, we're in the process of inspecting and certifying this building and the surrounding environs," he indicated the storage shed, "for seismological readiness and overall soundness. Which does, unfortunately, involve inspecting this here septic system as well." He shot an exasperated glance at Prescott.
The constable, taken aback, scratched his head. "Them county folks usually handle this kinda thing. I didn't hear nothin' 'bout an inspection."
"'Didn't hear about an inspection,'" Face said, stalling for time and throwing his hands in the air. "When I get back to Columbia, I'm gonna have a word with my secretary…"
"Look, mister, we got business to take care of. What the hell kinda inspection is this?" Prescott asked with irritation creeping into his thick drawl.
He didn't notice Face reaching into his pocket for the signaling device.
B.A. Baracus raised an eyebrow. The twin of the signaler he'd given Face beeped and glowed bright green. Then, he grinned from ear to ear.
"Ready, Hannibal?"
"Go for it, B.A."
He pushed the red button.
"Y'all don't seem to understand. I want y'all to pack on up and git outta here," Prescott continued to chide Face, who was now peering down into the fourth hole Murdock had created.
Face gave the man the kind of smile he normally reserved for his occasional roles as a man of the cloth. "Don't you worry, Mr. Prescott, soon as we find that mainline and make sure it's not cracked, or in danger of becoming so, we'll be out of y'all's hair and you can go about your business."
"You still ain't answered my question. What the hell y'all inspectin' for?"
It started as a deep rumble, as if a large aircraft were flying low somewhere in the vicinity. Then it started to get louder. The shovel Murdock was holding visibly began to vibrate, as did the pile of crates stacked outside the shed. Face, Murdock, and the two lawmen looked around with varying degrees of alarm. When he looked down, Face saw that the loose scree beside the hole was dancing like Mexican jumping beans.
"Oh, God, it's the Colston-Swain fault! We're all gonna die! RUN!" bellowed Murdock, abandoning his shovel and flinging his arms in the air. He started to dash back to the main building, but Face grabbed him by the collar and stood as firmly as he could in place.
"Holy shit! Is…is that a quake?" Prescott shouted as a few of the small glass windows in the shed shattered. His deputy, who hadn't yet said a word, uttered a low curse in a foreign tongue and tried to remain standing upright.
After thirty seconds or so, the rumbling and shaking stopped as quickly as it had started. Everyone looked around, stunned. Finally Face spoke.
"Sweet mother of Robert E. Lee!" he breathed. "The fault is active; I just knew it! Just a four-pointer, tops, but…remarkable!"
The tremor had stripped away most of Prescott's bravado. His complexion had blanched even further, leaving his scattering of freckles in stark relief. "F-fault?" he stammered.
"Yessir. You see, I was inspecting this here facility for precisely an event such as this. The Lord works in mysterious ways," said Face. "I didn't even know it until a few months ago myself, but the whole town of Possum Lodge lies right over an active fault. Forgive my bad manners." He beamed again, borrowing another clerical look.
"There hasn't been a quake in my thirty years here." It was the deputy, whom Face assumed must be Ike Redthorn. His Cherokee heritage was evident in the high cheekbones and raven-black hair. The bright blue eyes stared at Face and Murdock with equal parts suspicion and dislike.
"As I was tellin' your Miss Nalen earlier, these hairline faults can act without warning. Now, unless y'all want this entire town to collapse into a sinkhole, I suggest you let us complete our work so that we can certify this building." Face glanced at his watch. "I'll be needin' the keys to that storage shed."
Redthorn folded his arms across his chest. "Sorry. That shed's also our evidence locker. We're working an important case right now, and we can't risk contamination." There was almost no drawl to his voice, which was low and almost hypnotic.
Face's suspicions confirmed, he nodded and picked up his briefcase. "Very well. Mr. Swain, let's get on back to that delightful B&B. Gentlemen, we'll be needin' to complete this investigation pretty soon so I can report back to the chancellor at SC and the Secretary of HUD. If there's any more tremors, y'all don't hesitate to call. We'll be over at Miss Angelica's, but be sure to speak up nice and clear if she answers the phone. She's a lovely lady, but her hearing isn't what it used to be…"
"Go on and git!" spat Prescott, his measure of patience with Face gone.
"Your assistant there's sure a strange guy," remarked Redthorn as a still shocked-looking Murdock made his way toward the parking lot.
"Ah. Well, Chauncey was on vacation just outside Mexico City during that big nine-pointer. Scared him right green. If he hadn't been practicin' his 'duck and cover' drill, I don't know if he'd be with us today," said Face with a trace of amused irony. "I suggest y'all be rehearsing that drill. Just in case. You need a refresher course?"
"No. We can take care of ourselves," Redthorn answered, tight-lipped.
"Just asking. Never can hurt to take precautions. Anyhow, we'll be seein' you again soon. Call me if things start shakin' again, y'hear?" With a bright smile, Face left the constable and his deputy behind.
"Careful wit' that, fool! You got any idea how long it took me to build it?" B.A. snapped at Murdock, who was lifting what appeared to be an ordinary boom box with conical speakers into the back of the van.
"Relax, B.A. It worked like a charm, by the way. Ground trembling, windows breaking: it was a wonderful thing," Face assured him. With slight annoyance, he added, "If you'd have had this thing ready for those Beddington fat cats last month, it might have saved me getting pummeled by that one guy's bodyguard." He rubbed at his jaw as if in remembrance of the injuries.
Hannibal, an impish look on his face, leaned over the back seat. "And it really made an earthquake?"
B.A. could barely hide his smile even in the middle of chiding Murdock. "Yeah, that's an ultra-low frequency generator. Like when you're behind some sucka on the freeway wit' a big sub-woofer and you feel the shakin'?" Face and Hannibal nodded. "Same idea, only a lot more so. Feels jus' like a little four-pointer in the Valley."
With the machine safely back in place and covered with a blanket, Murdock looked up, panting. "All right, big guy, that's enough liftin' for one day. We got their phone line tapped, too."
"You did all right, Crazy Man." B.A. was in one of his rare good moods. "You guys find anythin' in that office?" he asked Face.
The con man shook his head. "No, but we're pretty sure they're hiding something in their storage shed. I may go back there with my tool kit later and see what I can, um, dig up," he said, noticing Murdock's stern glance.
There was a buzzing sound from the van, and Hannibal reached for a headset. "Looks like Trey Prescott's getting a call. Let's go ahead and listen in…"
After a brief click, Prescott's voice was audible. "Yeah?"
"Trey?"
"Orey? What the hell you callin' me here for?"
"Your old lady said you warn't home. Look, we got trouble, man. Some city boys jumped us down at the Catfish this mornin', made us look real bad."
Hannibal smiled.
"Cops?" Prescott's voice sounded as worried as it had right after the tremor.
"Naw, they didn't act or look like smokies. Might be FBI, though, sump'm like that…"
"They armed?"
"Not so far as I could tell. They fight pretty mean, though. Damn pretty boy o' theirs smashed a stool right over ol' Willie Purvis; he's still seein' stars."
Prescott's breathing was heavy as he hesitated for a moment. "You think they know?"
"I just ain't sure, Trey. They went on their way after bustin' up the place, God knows where."
Another moment of silence. Whatever cogs existed in Trey Prescott's brain were surely turning in an approximation of deep thought. "We better make a change of plans, throw 'em off the trail. You know the old Osborne farm, with that big ol' empty hay barn?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
"We're gonna fall back to there. Tonight. Spread the word. I don't want no damn feds breathin' down our necks. Wouldja recognize any of them boys if y'all saw 'em again?"
"Shit, Trey, we was hung over, man…"
"Shuddup, Orey. Just let all the guys know we're still on. Quit screwin' up, and if y'all see them Yankees again, holler. OK? Ike n' me'll be there, same as always."
"Awright."
Another click, and the line went dead. Hannibal removed the headset and pulled at his cigar pensively.
"Hannibal?" It was Face. "What's going on? What did they say?"
"Yeah, what's the plan?" B.A. asked, eager to use his earthquake machine again.
"The plan's the same as before. We've just got to work a little faster, that's all," said Hannibal with a broad smile.
"Tonight?" gasped Face. "You've gotta be kidding."
Murdock turned a shade lighter than even his usual pale complexion. "But, Hannibal, tonight's the full moon. Y'think it'll be safe?"
"It's never safe 'round here wit' you spoutin' crazy talk," B.A. shot back, his ration of good cheer for that day exhausted.
Hannibal patted the tripod-mounted rifle he'd always called "Baby" with the greatest of affection. "Guys, I sure don't expect it to be safe…for Prescott and those slimebag friends of his. Maybe we can even break out a pincer movement on 'em." His blue eyes twinkled. "Let's just hope all the crazies really do come out at the full moon, huh? No offense, Murdock…"
Murdock's face wore a suitably lupine expression. "None whatsoever taken, Colonel."