It was finally dawn. As predicted Mr. Moon and Dag had arrived at the city limits of Carlston right at dawn. The sun shone splendidly in the rearview mirror, enough so that if Mr. Moon had looked at the mirror, he would have been blinded. The town itself was minuscule. Nothing more than a blip in the featureless expanse of prairies and rocky hills that was the Midwestern United States. If it hadn't been for the map Dag had folded away into the glove compartment, perhaps they would have never known about this place.
Carlston, as small as it was, failed to be in the usual depilated state that most tiny Midwestern towns often found themselves in. There was a quiet Main Street, a gas station, and even a bar – a rarity in a town as small as this. Most similar towns would only have a freezer or two of different beers in the gas station for residents to enjoy.
Then there was the police station. At once Mr. Moon fully understood why the town seemed rather quiet even for a small settlement such as itself. He’d heard about the incident from Mr. Sun, of course, and it was the main reason as to why they had stopped by this place, but the sight of yellow police tape, the flashing lights atop a handful of cruisers, and two officers standing near the front door were quite out of the ordinary. It was the most obvious sign that something terrible had happened during the night, something that this small town had never expected to see right on their doorstep.
As Mr. Moon pulled his car against the curb directly opposite the station, his eyes began to automatically rove around to tally up the situation. Two police cruisers were parked out front, their lights flashing wildly to add to the brightness of the dawn. There was a third cruiser parked near the doors. Its lights were off and its front driver's door was hanging open. It appeared as if the owner had left the vehicle in great haste. A local cop called in as backup during the raid? Or perhaps the owner had arrived in the middle of it by chance.
A pale blue Rambler was next. Backed up so that the trunk faced the doors, it looked completely out of place among the cop cars in the parking lot. It was either a civilian car or a secondary vehicle of an off-duty cop. He could also see that one of the windows right next to the door leading into the station was broken, and there was a faint chalk outline of a person drawn out on the ground near the cruiser with the extinguished lights.
Moreover, a glance down Main Street revealed that the door to the bar was cracked open, with no life showing from the other side. There was a car parked in front of it. No one sat in the driver’s seat to gape at the police presence at the station. An arms-length of bright yellow police tape was stuck in front of the door, its forlorn appearance looking utterly out of place next to the well-worn wooden walls of the bar.
“That might be the chief.” Dag’s muttered comment dragged Mr. Moon’s attention back over to the police station, where he could see a man with fiery red hair decked out in a crumpled black police uniform speaking to the other man on duty. The chief looked utterly exhausted, though perhaps saying that would be a bit of a disservice – he was still clearly doing his duty, even after weathering a full-on assault by the Russians. Judging from the uniform, which was quite different than the other officers, it was a fair assumption.
“Must be.” Mr. Moon replied. He’d seen everything he needed to. Now it was time to get a full report so that the entire situation could be understood. Hopefully the chief would be of at least some help. At the very least he was likely a man to be reckoned with. Otherwise the chief would have perished the night before.
Mr. Moon stepped away from the car, followed by the formidable bulk of Dag. Together they made their way across the street to the police station.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
A feeling of unease settled to the bottom of Chief Thomson's stomach. It was a feeling he'd learned to pay attention to. He wasn't sure what caused it, either simple unconscious thoughts, or the remains of some animalistic instinct that the ancient man had once used to stay alive in the days when everything was out to kill you. Nevertheless, that feeling had saved his life many times in the past.
He turned, just in time to see two men in pressed black business suits making their way across the street to the station. The man in the back was utterly massive. Clocking out at… it must have been over six feet in height and built like a linebacker on steroids. There were lumps under the man's suit jacket that spoke of multiple concealed weapons, stowed away but not discreet enough to the point that they were completely unnoticeable to the casual viewer. Clearly that man wanted anyone with watchful eyes to know that he was not a person to be treated lightly.
The second man, the man in front of the big guy, was almost unnoticeable in contrast. Tall, but not too tall. Perhaps a few inches under six feet? 5’10”, that was Chief Thomson’s best guess. An athletic figure but not to the point of extremity like his companion. Almost a scarecrow next to the giant, so great was their difference in size.
His face was stoney. Not in an angry way, but in an unreadable way that left the chief completely unable to find even a scrap of emotion, which in of itself was unusual. Often times the eyes, the mouth, and even the wrinkles on a face could tell a story or betray a slight amount of emotion.
There was none of that on the man’s face. It was as if he was empty. The realization alone was enough to set Chief Thomson on edge far more than the intimidating mass of the first man.
Nor did he have any obvious signs that he was packing heat. No lumps near the chest area or the waist. Was he confident in his larger friend picking up the slack? Or were his weapons concealed to the point that they escaped Chief Thomson’s experienced gaze?
In fact, that second man’s entire being was… forgettable. Especially standing next to the big guy. Chief Thomson could feel his own eyes sliding away in disinterest like the man's bland face didn't even exist.
That fact alone set Chief Thomson even more on edge. Almost unconsciously his right hand drifted downward to gently rest on the grip of the revolver holstered at his side. Paul, standing at the ready next to the door, caught the Chief's movement in the corner of his eye, discreetly clicking off the safety of his rifle just in case before moving to stand next to Chief Thomson.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Mr. Moon stepped over the police tape and walked until he stood about ten feet away from the man with the fiery hair. The fact that the chief’s hand was casually resting on the butt of his revolver, or that a second officer stood near the door with a lever-action rifle settled in his arms did not escape the notice of Mr. Moon.
It was another sign pointing toward a certain amount of competence. In the corner of his eye, Mr. Moon could see the chalk outline on the ground more clearly. Dried blood darkened the asphalt, but the body had been taken away. A dead man in the parking lot. Was it a Russian, or an officer?
Mr. Moon’s eyes then flicked over to the broken window. There was no glass on his side of the frame. All of it had landed inside of the building, which meant it was broken from the outside. He could see a few shards still littering the ground just inside the window, which almost meant that the break was very recent, to not have been cleaned up yet.
“Ah.” Mr. Moon blinked. He’d been taken up by his observations again. He turned back to the chief and nodded his head in a greeting. “Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am called Mr. Moon. My associate here,” Mr. Moon gestured with his palm toward Dag, “Is Dag Sterner. We represent the Federal Bureau of Investigation and have reason to believe the men who attacked your station are the same group that we have been tracking."
The red-haired man regarded them cautiously and then took his right hand off the butt of his handgun to offer Mr. Moon a handshake.
“Chief Thomson. You must’ve caught the broadcast when we radioed for backup. Is it just you two?”
Mr. Moon caught Chief Thomson’s hand in his and briskly shook it.
“Yes. Sitrep?”
Chief Thomson cleared his throat and turned to the other man near the door.
“Hold things down here a bit, Paul. I’ll show these boys around.”
Then he turned back to Mr. Moon and beckoned them to follow him.
“Fair warning - it’s a bit difficult to believe.” Chief Thomson began, leading Mr. Moon and Dag through the front doors to the inside of the building. The receptionist’s desk was right past the doors, the wooden object littered with bullet holes. Another chalk outline of a humanoid form was sketched onto the marble floor. “It all started when this strange creature showed up on our doorstep. Stick-thin, definitely not a human. It hardly breathed more than once a minute and didn’t respond to us.”
Mr. Moon’s eyes imperceptively widened. They’d found it. The creature was in this town. He could see Dag’s body straighten slightly as the man became even more alert. This meant Mr. Sun’s information was correct.
“Do you still have it?” Mr. Moon voiced the question, but Chief Thomson regretfully shook his head.
“It disappeared in the confusion. About a half-hour, maybe an hour after we found it, three men charged in here with guns. Poor Carlos didn’t even have time to react. They were well-armed, organized, and prepared. Two came in front, one through the back. He picked the lock.”
Mr. Moon stopped and stood still. Blood stained the wooden receptionist's desk. Judging from the proximity of the chalk outline, Carlos had been sitting at the desk when he died. Then his body fell to the floor. He moved over to the desk and leaned down slightly to observe the bullet holes.
“Shotgun.” Mr. Moon observed. “Close-ranged. Pellet shots, not slugs. The force of the shot blew him off his chair and to the floor.”
“So one man with a shotgun…” Dag muttered, then pointed at a stretch of the marble floor further on. “Grenades, too? Or was that marble shattered before.”
Chief Thomson nodded. “Yes. One man came through the front door with a shotgun. An Ithica 37 is my guess, but I didn’t get a good look at it. The second man took cover behind that window. Threw at least two explosives. Hard to tell if they were actual grenades or simple pipe bombs.”
Mr. Moon stood back up and began walking across the marble-floored room to the back, where the holding cells were.
“Likely grenades. Assuming this is the same group as we were tracking, those men are well-armed and extremely dangerous. You said there were three?”
“Aye.”
Mr. Moon stopped once he reached a chalk outline situated just passed the open back door.
“Then the location of the final two men in that group is still unknown. Is this where the third man appeared?”
“Yes. I… shot him as soon as I heard the door open.”
Chief Thomson’s voice was behind Mr. Moon, who was standing over the chalk outline. That was why the chief failed to see Mr. Moon’s eyes tighten as he noticed the faint hesitation in Thomson’s voice. It was barely there. Like a faint blip in a radio.
That faint blip was like klaxon alarms going off in front of Mr. Moon telling him that there was more to the story that Chief Thomson was unwilling to share.
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“I see.” Was Mr. Moon’s only response. His eyes flicked around. Blood coated part of the door around head height. Other than that the scene was clean. Except… in the corner, hidden partially by the shadows, was a shell casing. It was hard to say what caliber, though the rough size of it that Mr. Moon could see from where he stood appeared to be about the size of what a pistol would fire.
That meant either the dead man had fired his weapon at least one time before going down…
Or.
It was a headshot. Definitely. The placement of the blood spatter said no less than that. Right through the head, probably into the door. A headshot with a handgun was a bit tricky, even if one was close to the target.
“Where were you and your men situated during the firefight?” Mr. Moon abruptly asked, turning back to face Chief Thomson.
The chief pointed toward two desks, overturned to their sides, and a hallway.
“I flipped those desks for some cover, Paul was in the hall when it happened.”
Mr. Moon’s expression didn’t give a single thought away. The distance from the table to the back door was considerable in the context of a shot from a handgun during a high-stress situation. Mr. Moon considered himself a rather competent marksman. He consistently took first place in the yearly department shooting competitions that Mr. Sun found amusing to organize.
He was unsure if he could make that shot from that distance with the same weapon without serious luck.
“I see. Where are the bodies?” Mr. Moon changed track. No matter his suspicions, nothing could be confirmed until more evidence was available. Perhaps Chief Thomson was exceedingly lucky.
Or perhaps there was a third party present during the attack, one that the chief was unwilling to speak about for some reason.
“We have them on ice in the break room. Some boys from the next town over are scheduled to pick them up later today since we don’t have a morgue here.”
Dag appeared to note Mr. Moon’s curiosity and took over the conversation, gesturing with a hand for the chief to lead them on, while also using his much larger body to obscure Mr. Moon’s thinner figure from the chief’s eyesight.
As Chief Thomson began to lead Dag to the bodies, Mr. Moon hung back slightly, discreetly stooping downward to discreetly pick up the bullet casing and sliding it into his pocket before rejoining the other two men. This was only one clue, nothing more than a faint curiosity until more oddities presented themselves. However, the fact that there was already one oddity was enough to send Mr. Moon’s brain into high gear.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Chief Thomson pushed open the door to the break room, holding in a weary sigh as the dismal sight unfolded before them. Three bodies were lying on the floor, packed with as many bags of ice as Paul could buy from the gas station down the street. Anything to help slow the process of the bodies falling into disrepair, at least until the men from the morgue could arrive. The person he’d spoken to on the phone was unsure of the arrival time himself, so Chief Thomson figured they would be better off preparing for the worst.
That’s all he felt like he was doing lately. Sending Cass away so she wasn’t caught in the firefight, even though it pained him to not be able to ensure her safety himself. Bracing himself to call the families of Carlos and Bill, who were cruelly cut down long before they should have been. Dealing with the quite frankly unnerving presence of the FBI agents who had landed on his doorstep.
Oh, what he would have given to receive a crack SWAT team from the big city. Instead, all they had were the giant and the scarecrow. Dispatch refused to send anyone else, citing that all the other officers were too pressed with keeping order in their own jurisdiction. Bull crap. A police precinct gets attacked, and the other chiefs can't be bothered to help their comrades out.
"The man that came in the back is on the far left. A real John Doe. No identification. Then it’s Carlos and Bill, in that same order.” Chief Thomson pointed out. The bodies of his officers had been set away from the other man’s corpse. It would have left a bad taste in his mouth to let good men lay next to a murdering scumbag.
The massive mountain of a man, Dag, settled into the room like an avalanche ending its path at the bottom of a mountain. With his presence alone, the room felt unbearably small – and it was built to comfortably sit up to ten cops, with a fold-out cot to boot!
Mr. Moon, if that was even his real name, slid into the room next. Compared to the mountainous shape of Dag, that man was more like a faint cloud sliding across a night sky, almost unnoticeable. He was sharp, though. Already Chief Thomson had been forced into one lie in order to obscure Cass’s involvement. She didn’t need any of this. Not when two of his men were already dead. Not to mention Jackie over at the bar was dead, likely murdered by the same scum that attacked the station.
No, best for her name to remain unmentioned until all of this was cleared away. The very thought of her being involved made his gut twist in pure terror. It was something that had gripped him as soon as she brought that… thing into his office. He could only hope that wherever Cass had decided to hide, she would stay there. Carlos and Bill had already proved how dangerous this situation was.
“Poor Bill was on his way back from patrol.” Chief Thomson began to explain as Mr. Moon made his way over to Bill’s body. “We radioed him to be careful, but that just made him come back faster. One of those bastards got him in the parking lot. The shot cut clean through the door of his squad car.”
Mr. Moon made a noncommittal hum, moving on to Carlos’s body. He leaned down to observe the ruined remains of Carlos’s chest. There was nothing but sticky gore in the place of where there was once flesh and bone.
“Close range. I’m betting with that hypothetical Ithica.” Mr. Moon commented. “Likely stowed away under a coat until the assailant got… perhaps ten? Five feet away? Close enough to be lethal with buckshot.”
That sounded about right. Chief Thomson could still hear the shotgun blast in his mind. One moment it had been quiet. The next, he could hear Carlos greet someone coming in through the front door, and then the world went mad. It was nothing but a blur of motion after that.
Mr. Moon stood up, glancing between Carlos and Bill.
“Where are their service weapons?” He abruptly asked. Chief Thomson frowned. Now that he mentioned it…
His eyes shot wide open.
“They must have stolen them. Carlos had a revolver. It would have been holstered at his waist. Bill… I think he usually carried the same, and also a lever-action rifle in his patrol car. Probably a couple extra mags each added on top. The John Doe has a Colt. Snub-nosed, by the look of it.”
Mr. Moon kneeled right next to the unknown man. The space between his right eye and his ear was blown apart as if it had been shot at an incredibly short range. In addition, there were faint powder burns on his face. That was another point toward the short-range theory. There could be more, but he wasn't exactly a forensic scientist.
Once his initial examination was finished, Mr. Moon slipped on a pair of black gloves before lifting the revolver out of the holster attached to the man’s belt.
“A Colt Detective Special. Snub-nosed for easier concealment. Fires a .38 special cartridge, I believe.” Dag muttered, giving the pitch-black weapon in Mr. Moon’s hands a once-over. Mr. Moon, meanwhile, flicked the cylinder of the gun open to glance inside. Six bullets sat in the chamber, ready to fire. He flicked it closed and placed it back in the dead man’s holster.
“They took the chance to resupply. Not completely unexpected.” Mr. Moon concluded. Then he turned and headed out of the room. Dag followed him with Chief Thomson trailing behind.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Moon began, “it appears there are two heavily armed men hiding somewhere in this town. Two more are in an unknown location, assuming this is the same group we have been tracking. I imagine they will join our first two as soon as possible. Furthermore, it appears the creature is missing. Either the attackers now possess it or the creature walked off on its own.”
“I have a few more men in the department coming in. Should be here in an hour.” Chief Thomson added on.
Mr. Moon nodded, taking in those words and adding them to whatever plan was brewing behind his expressionless face.
“Very well. Once they arrive we will decide upon a search pattern. In a small town like this, there are only so many places for an unfamiliar face to hide.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
“So, do you think it walked off on its own?” Dag whispered into Mr. Moon’s ear from where they stood near the back of the hall, watching Chief Thomson pace back and forth from the door to the receptionist’s desk. It was the only outward sign that the chief was barely hanging on to his own composure.
Mr. Moon shook his head with the smallest of movements possible. “No. Not once has it moved on its own before. Why start now? The question remains, who moved it?”
“The Russians? Chief Thomson?” Dag said.
“Or our mystery third party.” Mr. Moon replied. He fished out the bullet casing from his pocket just far enough so that Dag could get a glimpse of it, but that it also didn’t clear very far past the edges of his pocket. If Chief Thomson truly did have something to hide, then it would be best for his suspicions to remain obscured for the time being. “The John Doe’s Colt still had six shots left in it.”
Dag’s eyes narrowed. His hands curled slightly into meaty, almost boulder-like fists, and then relaxed. “Then there is a third party.”
Mr. Moon nodded in agreement. Chief Thomson claimed that he had shot the John Doe who picked the lock to the back door to try and flank the officers. Normally that would have been fine, if not for the bullet casing on the floor.
Seeing as the John Doe never fired his gun, and both Chief Thomson and Paul were near the middle of the main hall, it was impossible for that casing to have come from either of their guns. Moreover, a headshot such as that would be nigh-impossible to reliably make from that distance. It would have to be closer. Close enough to leave faint powder burns on the dead man’s skin.
Several questions remained unanswered. Alone they would be less of a priority than everything else, but together they clumped into one piece to form a gigantic monolith. Who shot the Russian? Why was Chief Thomson unwilling to share that there was a third party in the station? Where was the alien – did the Russians have it, did the police hide it away, or did the third party make off with it instead?
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Tiny yet energetic hands shook her side, waking Cathy from her blessed sleep far earlier in the morning than any sane person would wish. She blearily cracked open an eye. It was little Ted. He must have been more eager than she thought to start opening presents.
Cathy glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to her head. Five in the morning. Well, she would have done the same when she was his age.
“Come on, Aunt Cathy! Grandma says we can’t start opening presents until all the adults are up! Tim got mom and dad, and Mary bounced on Uncle Mike’s bed until he threw her out! It’s just you! Come one come on come on! Christmas presents!”
“Yes, yes.” Cathy groaned. Her grasping hand searched around her nightstand until finally the switch to turn on the lamp was found. It clicked on, bathing the room in warm yellow light.
"Okay, Aunt Cathy!" Ted shouted, his voice feeling like it was blasting apart her ear drums this early in the morning. "Hurry and get ready! I'll race you to the living room!"
Before Cathy could even say another word, Ted was gone in the wind. She could almost swear he left afterimages in his wake… though perhaps that was her tired mind playing tricks on her.
Still, now that her nephew was gone, the guest room was quiet. It was just her in that room near the back of her parent's house. She'd never gotten around to finding a husband or having kids. With how wild her nieces and nephews ran, often times she didn't feel the need. They knew Aunt Cathy's house was a swift bike ride away, so they were around often enough for her to practically call them children of her own.
‘Christmas morning…” Cathy breathed out the words as she stood and stretched. A glance outside the window showed another snowless holiday. What a shame. The kids would have loved to play in it, but you couldn’t have everything in life. There would always be another year, another chance for a white Christmas.
She was just glad the family could come together to celebrate the holidays. And as the dawn light filled her vision, she let out a wide, cheerful smile.
Cathy’s eyes fluttered open. The light of dawn was tearing through the gaps in the curtains with all the grace of a drunk stumbling home after a night of debauchery.
“Morning, Ms. Miller.” Steve greeted her, glancing up from his newspaper from where he sat on a chair next to the door. The man seemed as unflappable and easygoing as ever, even considering the earliness of the day. “Coffee?”
Cathy nodded her thanks, swiveling her body out of the bed and calmly walking over to accept the offered mug in Steve's hands. She took a big gulp, swirling the piping-hot liquid around her mouth before swallowing. It was motel coffee. As expected, the quality left much to be desired. Still, coffee was coffee at the end of the day.
"Ol' Moonie came by a couple of hours ago. We got a name."
Cathy imperceptively raised an eyebrow. “You waited until dawn to say?”
“Well, our part in the play begins now.” Steve shrugged, draining the last of his coffee, throwing the newspaper in the trash can, and standing up. "No ordinary couple moving out to the Midwest for new opportunities would even think of leaving the motel in the middle of the night. At dawn, though, that's much more reasonable."
Cathy’s eyes grew cold. Steve’s words were expected, but the knowledge that the fieldwork was about to begin still struck a chord. She wasn’t in the office anymore, managing communications for agents halfway across the country. She was here, expected to run a mobile communications rig while also shoring up Steve’s cover as an ordinary man that simple townsfolk would be willing to speak with.
Only in the worst of circumstances, in which the situation became far too much for even Mr. Moon and Dag to handle would there be even the slightest chance for her to be in the line of fire. Until that happened, all Cathy needed to do was play the part of a dutiful housewife and make sure the men could keep in regular, secure radio contact with each other and Washington.
“Of course, husband dearest.” Cathy said, “What is the name of this charming new town you have found?”
Steve grinned. The action was sharklike, as if he was a sly predator spotting a target to sink his teeth in. Considering what she knew of his specialization, that thought likely was not far off from reality. Now all that would remain to be seen was if Mr. Moon’s paranoia was correct and an infiltration team, along with on-site communications, was actually needed.
“That’s the spirit.” Steve chuckled, “The name is Carlston, oh beloved of mine. Now, shall we depart in our completely ordinary rented van full of normal family possessions, like clocks, chests of drawers, and boxes of clothes?”
“Our van that is definitely not full of expensive communications equipment and auxiliary field gear?” Cathy replied with a rare smile, spending a brief glance at the bedside mirror to make sure her curly brown hair was still in order. Then she grabbed the keys to the van and lifted the familiar weight of her purse to settle it over her shoulder. “Let’s.”