Chapter 9
Possum Lodge was sleeping soundly, held in the gentle arms of the sandman, save for one persistent hound baying away somewhere in the hills. In this pre-dawn witching hour, not so much as a single streetlight glowed. It was as if the whole valley had been swallowed by the mist which had begun to form at the beginning of the A-Team's current overnight operation, and existed in its own snowglobe reality, tucked away from the rest of the world.
B.A. drew the team to a halt on the hill just above the constabulary. His breath, and that of the horses, came out in short, staccato wisps of vapor. Beside him, Hannibal, a Coleman lantern in his hand, squinted into the gloom.
"They ain't here, man."
"Oh, they will be." The older man grinned. Much of his vim and vigor had been restored by the potion. "We mailed them invitations and told them to RSVP." He turned in the seat. "Face, you want to try and finish what you started earlier?"
There was a groan from the rear of the caisson. "Don't you ever get tired of tearing holes in the delicate fabric of my self-esteem?"
Hannibal's cheeky smile remained. "No. How long do you think it'll take?" he asked, pointing to the locked workshed, a vague rectangular form hunched in the darkness.
"Now that I have the right tools, oh, let's say six minutes, tops?" guessed Face.
"I'll hold you to it. Murdock?"
"Yeah, Colonel?" Murdock's brown eyes were still wide, but focused and in the moment.
"I need you to keep an eye out for any unexpected company," Hannibal said, lowering his voice. "This is a private party."
Murdock nodded. "If anybody crashes the gate, they're gonna get a little surprise." He cradled the 30.06 in his arms the way a little girl would her favorite doll.
"That's a little different from a Browning. You okay with it?"
Now the feral gleam returned. "If I run outta ammo, that's even better, 'cause then I'll vanquish my foes with razor-sharp fangs and claws, tearin' at their mortal flesh…"
"Enough!" snapped B.A., so loudly the horses shied in their traces. "You better quit this crazy rap before I start tearin' at somethin'!"
Face shook his head as he hopped down from the armored cart. "Murdock, I'd listen to B.A. if I were you. I think we've seen enough blood for one night, okay?"
Living up to his nickname, the rangy pilot sprinted into the fringe of woods, keening, the rifle held above his head like some pagan sacrifice. "Crazy fool ain't right," B.A. said, repeating one of his favorite mantras. "You think he's gonna be okay?" he asked Hannibal.
"Even if things start to get hairy, I have every confidence in Murdock."
"Hairy's what I'm worried about. You always gotta humor him, man?"
"If I didn't, he might actually go sane on me." B.A. scowled as Hannibal continued to smile lopsidedly.
From his crouched position beside the workshed, Face swore under his breath. "Must be one of those new Swiss models. I can't even get this thing to squeak," he admitted, pulling a different lockpick from his pouch and starting to tinker.
"'Swiss models?'" Hannibal quipped, injecting some needed sarcasm. "Didn't you get your certification for those last year?"
"That was the Belgian model," answered Face. "Ursula, remember her? I met her at the premiere of Ypres Creepers back in June." Despite the cold, a warm, broad smile appeared on his lips.
Hannibal hobbled toward him. "What happened to her?"
The smile vanished; a scowl took its place. "Ran off with that Portuguese tennis pro. I swear, I'll never understand those European girls. Maybe if I took a Berlitz course next time?"
"Only to a tennis player does love mean nothing," joked Hannibal.
"Yeah, don't remind me." He groaned, remembering Ursula's mane of shiny, upswept brunette hair, tapered waist and heavenly bustline.
"You gonna pick that lock, or what, Face?" B.A. asked with growing impatience.
On cue, the tumbler gave way under Face's expert hands. "There, easy as pie. Gentlemen, shall we have a look?" he gloated, making a gesture like a headwaiter seating VIPs in Beverly Hills. The three men, as one, pushed the double doors open.
The workshed was completely empty.
"Can't say as I didn't try," Face muttered, disappointment oozing from his voice. "Five minutes and fifty-four seconds, exactly. Now why would they go to so much trouble to put that kind of lock on an empty shed?"
B.A. pointed to the ground. "Look at all them boot prints, all heavy. Somebody been movin' stuff outta here, and not too long ago."
Hannibal nodded his head in agreement. "They probably hightailed it back here as soon as we mentioned the connection to the O'Faolan case. Redthorn's smart enough to try and hide any incriminating evidence, and who knows what kind of junk Prescott may have had in here. They can't have moved whatever it was very far, so let's spread out and see what we find. Shall we?"
They started back up the hill towards the caisson. To the east, the first faint glow of dawn nudged at the dark horizon. Face felt his stomach rumble, and tried not to think of a perfectly rich espresso with a biscotti on the side. Hannibal gamely continued along on his injured leg, and B.A. kept a watchful eye for any visitors. Somewhere from the treeline at ten o'clock came the faintest strains of Murdock's lupine whimpers.
"There. Back in the saddle again." Hannibal stretched out his leg, seated atop the caisson once more. "You guys wanna try and find an IHOP while we wait on these scumbags to show?"
"I don't think we gotta wait, man." B.A. answered back, his voice like the low growl of an alert Doberman. Through the mist emerged one tall silhouette, then another, and perhaps a dozen more. The men behind each carried a lit torch and a rifle. One of them, looking like a dog anticipating a beating, was Trey Prescott, his red hair on end. The leader's identity was revealed in the broad beam of Face's flashlight, and he held a hand to his forehead, squinting.
Hannibal waved cheerfully as if he were sitting atop a Rose Bowl float. "Heya, Ike. I think happy hour's still on, so you might want to go back to that barn and tell your boys, so they don't miss out on the two-for-one margaritas."
The Cherokee did not return the sentiment. He held his ground, arms crossed, aloof as ever. "Didn't I tell you what I enjoy doing with wise guys like you?"
"Probably something involving entrails. If they make the shape of the sun, you kill us, and if it's the moon, you tickle us and send us home to our mommies, right?"
Redthorn's lips twitched the way they had when Hannibal had insulted him earlier. "You're just about right, friend, but you forgot that it's your entrails, and you forgot the part about what happens to anyone who insults the ways of my people."
"Oh. You mean we have to go to our rooms and watch Captain Kangaroo reruns?" asked Hannibal, grinning more broadly than before.
As Ike Redthorn whistled shrilly and lifted one hand to his men, Hannibal interrupted him. "Ah-ah, Deputy, before you go and do that, you should know that we found Ronin O'Faolan's remains, and he sure didn't die by falling off a stepladder."
Even in the gloom, Hannibal, B.A. and Face could clearly see Redthorn's Adam's apple bobbing, and the movements his lips made as they formed the word 'impossible.' Beside him on the driver's seat, B.A. muttered, "You know what you're doin', man? We didn't find no remains."
"But we did get the reaction we wanted from him, and now he'll be able to take us right to 'em," Hannibal explained, his hands tightening on the stock of his rifle. "Face, get ready to roll here…"
"Yeah." Behind him, Face chambered a round and felt underneath the cloth sacking for one of the surprises B.A. had concocted back in the hay barn.
But Redthorn still did not budge. Instead, he spoke quietly in his low, sibilant voice. "Don't make any sudden moves. If you do, that little house over at First and Sycamore…and whoever's inside it at the moment…is gonna blow and not come down until somewhere over Atlanta, friend." To validate his claim he produced a remote control with a red button from his pocket. One finger hovered.
"Ain't nothin' but a coward that threatens defenseless old folks," roared B.A., employing every ounce of his restraint not to whip the horses into action.
"What's the plan now?" hissed Face from his position. "I don't think he's bluffing, Hannibal."
Hannibal's eyes were blue steel. "How long's it been since you fired one of those, Lieutenant? Remember your little bet with Franco back in 'Nam?"
Face groaned. "That was thirteen years ago! C'mon, Hannibal, this is no time for fun and games…"
"Just listen for your cue. And don't miss." Hannibal folded his arms, crossed his legs, and tried to look casual. "Well, friend, seems like you've got something we want, and we've got something you want. You guys ever hear of a Mexican standoff?"
"That's only in bad movies, and you've obviously seen your share of those," Redthorn huffed. "If you guys don't hightail it into the next county in twenty seconds, and forget everything you've seen tonight, I'll let your precious mayor and his wife live to see the sun rise."
Atop the caisson seat, B.A. held the reins tighter than a miser would a pack of newly minted twenties, while Hannibal cast his serene smile to the brightening eastern horizon. "What about us? After all we've been through, you're just going to let us go?"
"No, I never said that," Redthorn said. "I'll give you a head start, but then my brothers and I will hunt you down, punish your souls so that you'll never know rest, curse your houses for eternity, and then, maybe then, I'll kill you."
"Oh, good, I never liked my house much anyway," Hannibal admitted. "Way too much vacuuming to keep up with. Well, Deputy, it's been fun, but we'd better go. We'd hate to continue to be an albatross around your collective necks."
Redthorn blinked, stunned. "What the hell did he just say?" he said, turning to Cragan beside him.
"I said," Hannibal repeated himself emphatically, "we'd hate to be an albatross…"
The second time was a charm. Face sprung up from his hiding place, aimed the deer rifle, and fired true. Redthorn dropped the remote control with a shriek as the round zipped past his right hand.
"Hyah!" B.A. slapped the reins to the horses' hindquarters; they reared, then charged straight ahead into the line of Black Foxes, breaking their line. Next to him, Hannibal looked down the sights of his rifle and aimed at the closest target. Trey Prescott yelped and jumped a good three feet into the air as the round narrowly missed his left foot. B.A.'s heavy boot met the face of a Fox as the caisson thundered past; the man fell to earth like an empty grain sack.
Having pulled off his William Tell stunt for the night, Face reached for a more powerful weapon. Inside the dented, rusty can that still read Tillman's Green Beans was a heady mixture of kerosene and lawn fertilizer. He clicked open his Zippo, lit the Molotov cocktail's rag fuse, and let it fly.
Boom! The constable's blue pickup with the chaser lights on top erupted in a bright fireball and keeled over. With a boyish grin, Face handed another can, this one having once held creamed corn, to Hannibal, who lit it and flung it in the path of another pickup. A larger explosion this time; the tank must have been full.
"B.A., turn us around!" shouted Hannibal, shoving a fresh round into his rifle chamber. The caisson had, in perhaps fifteen seconds, reached the bottom of the hill and left a singular wake of destruction.
Several of the men who weren't fleeing into the woods or down the hill fired directly at the A-Team, but B.A., as always, had done his work thoroughly. The rounds pinged off the armor plating in tiny showers of sparks, leaving the shooters continuing on in vain. Meanwhile, B.A. a fierce grin on his face, wheeled the team about and lashed them into a gallop once more.
Hannibal didn't feel the throbbing pain in his thigh, or the chill he'd been fighting all night through his fatigues. Adrenaline surged through his body, a powerful, electric current. He drew his .45 and watched with satisfaction as the rounds found their marks at the feet of the enemy. The entire open meadow seemed to have turned into one big tap-dancing recital.
Another explosion rocked the pre-dawn silence; it was a wonder the whole town of Possum Lodge hadn't awoken by now and come to point and stare. Face, like B.A. and Hannibal, felt his veins throbbing in the midst of battle, but did not share their particular exhilaration. "That was the last of the Molotovs, Hannibal!" he shouted, loading the deer rifle with the second to last cartridge he carried. "Where's Redthorn?"
One of the rounds had found its mark in the deputy's lower leg, but he crawled along stubbornly on the bloodied ground, reaching for the detonator, which was currently just out of his reach.
"Face! Don't miss!" bellowed Hannibal.
Just before Face could squeeze the trigger, one of the Black Foxes, more out of luck than skill, thrust a sharpened staff into the path of the oncoming horses. In a terrifying instant the animals screamed, then stumbled and fell, sending the A-Team tumbling from their positions. Hannibal quickly righted himself to a kneeling position and sent his right fist hard into the midsection of the man carrying the staff.
"Now, Face!"
Redthorn almost had his fingers on the red button…
But it was not Templeton Peck who answered Hannibal's call. From the woods, like a maddened demon, came a blur of sable brown. Hannibal suddenly wondered what had been in the green potion, because the blur clearly had four legs.
And a long, bushy tail, and sharp fangs.
"NOOOOO!!!" Ike Redthorn's haughtiness and pride was gone; his was the cry of a man looking into the deepest recesses of hell. The creature, a huge, dark shadow, had its jaws fastened around Redthorn's shoulder and shook him back and forth like a rag doll. When the leader of the Black Foxes reached for the dagger at his waist, the beast raked his forearm with its claws, causing his wails of pain to reach a higher octave still. With freakish strength, he was dragged away, up the hill, by the nightmarish thing.
Face, from where he'd fallen, grabbed his rifle. When he saw the bizarre sight before him, he could only watch, mouth agape. Beside him, B.A. could only do the same.
"Man, it can't be," B.A. gasped, more out of sheer surprise than out of landing awkwardly on the ground. "That just ain't happenin'!"
"Get that caisson back up, Lieutenant! Sergeant, arm yourself!" Hannibal, despite his shock at the sequence of events, was all business. "Where's that detonator?"
In the fray, everyone had all but forgotten Trey Prescott. Favoring his uninjured side, the crooked constable limped up the hill and snatched the remote control from the ground, seeing the astonished faces of the A-Team before him.
"I guess this night ain't been too bad after all. I git that damn half-breed and his crazy-ass hoodoo cult outta my way, and I git to put away some damn meddlin' Yankees," he spouted maniacally, waving the device in the air. "I'm gonna be rich, yessirree…" As he continued to hop up and down in place, the first rays of sunlight bathed the valley in a golden glow.
"Pardon me?"
Prescott felt the tap on his shoulder, and turned around. His toothy grin morphed into an "O" of horror right just before the right hand of H.M. Murdock connected hard with his jaw. The tall pilot's face was a mask of fury; his dark hair stood on end. He threw punch after punch, each one with a tagline.
"That's for those poor dogs you guys killed…that one's for Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins…that one there's for that big ugly mudsucker right over yonder…"
Before Murdock could turn the constable's bloodied face into a modern version of a Picasso painting, Face ran over and forcibly restrained him.
"Murdock, for God's sake, don't kill him!"
The only other time Face had ever seen his friend like this, he'd just been booked for a one-week sojourn in the room with the rubber walls. Then, he finally noticed.
"Are you…okay?"
"Damn, fool!" B.A. managed the only two words that occurred to him.
Hannibal was silent. Then he spoke, a wry smile just underneath.
"Captain. At ease."
The sun had peeked over the first hill, and every inch of Murdock's skin that wasn't covered in some kind of debris was pale and streaked with cold sweat. He didn't look like a man to be trifled with, perhaps because of his lack of blue Woody Woodpecker boxers, or anything else, for that matter. His eyes were aglow with unearthly fire, which dimmed somewhat as he looked from Hannibal to B.A. to Face and their astonished expressions.
"Hey, fellas." One hand reached up to smooth down his ruffled hair. "I, uh, miss anything?"
"Did you miss anything? Did you miss anything?" spouted Face. "Well, other than…you know…teeth and claws? Fur?" Face mimicked the sounds of the creature that had dragged Redthorn screaming into the woods.
The mad gleam in Murdock's eyes had changed back to its familiar mischievous twinkle. "Honestly, Faceman, sometimes I think you're the one who needs intensive psychotherapy, not me."
B.A. was still too stunned to scowl. "Man, if you ain't no wolf, then what the hell was that?" He pointed one ring-encrusted finger towards the woods. "Ain't all three of us hallucinatin'. That thing was real." The last word was an oath.
Hannibal rubbed at his chin in thought. "I think maybe there is an explanation. A rational explanation," he said, reassuring Face and B.A. "Murdock wasn't alone out there. He had a little help."
"What you talkin' about, sucka! 'Course he was alone!"
"Yeah, Hannibal, just the four of us came out here, and…"
He trailed off, pointing, the words caught in a lump of terror in his mouth. Just behind the au naturel form of Murdock stood the creature. In the early morning light, it appeared less like a demon and more like what it really was: a huge, sable-brown wolf with streaks of silver through its shaggy fur. Amber eyes glowed in its strangely intelligent countenance, and its tongue lolled out in what looked like a friendly grin. It held up its left front paw as if to give a high-five.
The pinkie digit was gone.
"Good to see you," said Hannibal. "I was wondering whether you'd show."
The wolf gave a lupine version of an aw-shucks shrug and crouched down in a submissive, "pet-me" position.
"So…if that wasn't Murdock…" Face could still hardly believe what he was seeing, and kept his distance. "Why didn't you just tell us?"
Moira fixated him with one golden eye. Like ye'd have believed me, Sassenach, it seemed to say.
"And Murdock?"
"Colonel?"
Hannibal was clearly just a few pieces away from completing the massive mental jigsaw puzzle that had been their mission to Possum Lodge, and he smiled. "I've just got to know one thing."
"Yeah?"
"Why the…uh…natural look?"
Murdock straightened in a huff. "You know the lighter I am, the faster I can run."
"And why the hell were you runnin' when we was fightin', fool?" B.A. asked, raising one eyebrow.
"C'mon, big guy, when I heard Redthorn say that bomb was sittin' underneath the Hawkins' cute little bungalow, I couldn't just sit around and wait, now, could I?"
"And the bomb is where now?" interrupted Face, eyes wide.
"Let me guess." Hannibal smirked and picked up the remote control. He pushed the red button.
A final, thundering explosion sounded across the valley. Only one person in Possum Lodge lived at that precise location, and he wouldn't be very happy about it. Of course, his home would hopefully be elsewhere for a very long time, if not forever…
"I love it when a plan comes together! Face, you got a cigar?"
The younger man's lips quirked. "My reserves of reserves. Just for you." He held out a dry El Capitan, which Hannibal accepted.
Murdock felt warm fur rubbing against his bare legs. The she-wolf looked at him with sadness in her eyes, then to the sun, then to the form of the full moon, still hanging in the eastern sky.
"Okay, muchacha, I get it. You gotta go. But we'll always remember you." He dropped to one knee to offer a hug. She growled softly, showing her fangs.
"Or not. You just take care of your fine self, all right? Don't eat any baby bunnies, or squirrels, or…"
"Jus' let her go, fool!"
"Thanks for your help." Hannibal nodded curtly and smiled around his cigar. Face waved, not knowing exactly how to send off the strangest woman…wolf…whatever…that he'd ever met. B.A., skeptic of skeptics, held up one hand in salute.
Moira O'Faolan raised her head to the sky and sang, yelping. Then she loped back into the confines of her sylvan home, one more shadow among many. The A-Team stared at the spot where she had stood for a moment, each of them still awed in his own way.
"Face?"
"Yeah, Hannibal?"
"How far did you say the closest hospital was?"
"Colonel, I'm cold…"
"Man, what about my van?"
"And I can't wait to get something to eat."
Hannibal was running on fumes; his last reserves all but gone. He held up his hands like Richard Nixon and shushed his men.
"First things first, guys."
Face, B.A and Murdock leaned in eagerly.
"Just let me finish my cigar, okay?"
Almost Fini…Stay Tuned