The headline read: Message to an Alien in Our Midst?

The photograph was of a message in smoke written across the sky, and it read: MONGO CALL HOME.

"Robby, I think you'd better call your brother," Harper said drily. "He seems anxious to talk to you."

"Cute, Garth. Really cute. Is something the matter with Phil?"

"Well, well, well." Garth's voice at the other end of the line carried more than a hint of exasperation. "No, nothing's the matter with Phil. What with Mary's cooking and a lot of walks along the river, I'd say he's looking quite healthy. I see you got my message."

"I got it, all right, along with a few million other people. Jesus Christ, Garth, just how many planes did you hire, and how much is all that skywriting and banner-towing going to cost Frederickson and Frederickson?"

"Don't ask. I wouldn't have had to spend any money if you'd simply checked in with me after a reasonable time, the way you're supposed to. How the h.e.l.l was I supposed to reach you? I thought we had a standard reporting procedure we're both to follow."

"Our mother is alive and well and living not too far from here, Garth, and you're not her. This is more of a vacation than an a.s.signment, for Christ's sake, and there's nothing dangerous involved."

"You should have checked in with me, Mongo," Garth said coldly. "You should have checked in within twenty-four hours. That's the procedure. We've agreed that we've made enough enemies over the years so that keeping tabs on each other, vacation or no, is a good idea."

"I've been distracted."

"Distracted, huh? You say you're in no danger? Well, I've got good news, and I've got bad news."

"Come on, Garth, get on with it. It's late."

"Oh-oh. Did I catch you in a bad mood?"

"Listen, brother, I'm the recipient of what's probably the most expensive three-word message in the history of communications, and I have to help pay for it. But am I in a bad mood? Not really. What I am is disappointed in recent events, and the previously mentioned distraction is waiting to give me comfort. So give me the good news first. Just thinking about what all that skywriting is going to cost us may be all the bad news I can take."

"I wouldn't have done it if I didn't think it was important, Mongo," Garth said evenly. "You don't think you're in any danger, and I think you could be. Have you been to that bank in Chicago yet?"

"No."

"Well, don't bother. I'd be very surprised if they tell you anything."

"That's your good news?"

"The good news is that I found out who bought that circus. The bad news is the owner. World Circus is a show you should steer clear of. There's no way you're going to be able to buy it, because they won't sell."

He'd gotten my attention. "Let's take it from the top, Garth. How did you find all this out?"

"The wonders of technology, brother. I thought I might be of some help, so while you've been traipsing all over America's heartland trying to find a circus to buy, I've been sitting in our air-conditioned offices punching up a few things on the computer and talking to some of our contacts. First, it seems that United States Savings and Loan got itself involved in the same financial difficulties and scandals that brought down a lot of other savings-and-loans operations a while back; there were lots of bad loans and a flirtation with bankruptcy. When it looked like they were going to have to accept federal receivership, all of their debts and a.s.sets went on the public record. I was able to access that information. It turns out that Statler Brothers Circus was picked up at auction by the Battle Eagle Corporation, an outfit operating out of Bern."

"Switzerland?"

"Yeah, that Bern."

"Who the h.e.l.l are they?"

"Not 'they'; 'he.' And Frederickson and Frederickson had to cash in a few IOUs in order to get the rest of this information. Battle Eagle is wholly owned by one Arlen Zelezian, a German Swiss."

"And a drug dealer."

"No," Garth said after a pause, sounding slightly puzzled. "At least, not that anyone I talked to knows of. What the h.e.l.l made you say that?"

"Just a wrong guess. Go ahead."

"Whatever reason Zelezian had for wanting a circus, it wasn't to flutter the hearts of ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages. He's not in the business of making people happy. Whatever's going on with that operation, I think it's a very good idea for you to steer clear of it. Your days of anonymity are long past, brother, and if Mongo Frederickson shows up on Arlen Zelezian's doorstep, out in the middle of nowhere, he's just likely to think you're checking up on him. That's why I was in such a hurry to get in touch with you; you're likely to put yourself in harm's way if you show up at World Circus. I'll fill you in on all the details when you get home."

"It's a little late for playing it safe now, Garth. Just go ahead and give me the gory details."

"s.h.i.t. You've been to the circus and talked to somebody?"

"I talked to one man. He told me World Circus is a kind of floating refugee camp for illegal aliens who've fled from the old communist bloc countries."

Garth snorted. "What bulls.h.i.t. Arlen Zelezian is rumored to get some very large payoffs from the Russians, Mongo-and from the Western countries, including the United States, as well. In fact, letting him run whatever it is he's really running in this country may be a payoff-or a down payment-from one of our ill.u.s.trious government agencies. Zelezian doesn't care who he does business with, and his customers obviously don't care either. Arlen Zelezian is definitely not in the humanitarian business."

"You've already belabored that point. Now tell me what business he is in."

"Bioweapons."

"Come again?"

"He's a combination super arms dealer and free-lance researcher whose specialty is biological weapons. I told you that there are rumors about his getting financing from both Western countries and the Soviets, primarily because they don't want to be shut out of the market if and when he comes up with more efficient methods of killing people. For the past decade, he's supposedly been holed up in Switzerland working on something really heavy, so it's a real surprise to find him-or one of his operations-here."

"Bioweapons. You mean like bugs? Diseases?"

"Yeah, but Zelezian works with bigger critters. I was told that the U.S. Navy stole-or bought-their idea of using dolphins to plant mines and attack enemy divers from Zelezian. Think of Hannibal using elephants to cross the Alps, attack dogs, that sort of thing. Bioweapons."

"Got it. Just what is this heavy thing that he's been working on for ten years?"

"n.o.body that I talked to knows. Zelezian happens to be one of the world's foremost authorities on dog breeding, and he's a specialist in a particularly vicious breed of dog called a kuvasz. His son works with him. Besides being a top-notch animal trainer a lot of people say is good enough to work in any circus, the son is a noted conservationist. He spends a lot of time in Africa."

I grunted. "Some conservationist. World Circus gives fifteen percent off the price of admission to NRA members."

"Well, what can I tell you? I haven't got the slightest idea what he had in mind when he bought Phil Statler's circus, or what he's doing in the United States, but it doesn't sound like anything you want to get close to."

I thought about it, and suddenly felt I knew precisely why Arlen Zelezian was in the United States. "He's field testing," I said distantly, almost to myself. My mouth had gone very dry. "Jesus Christ. Forget the Navy's killer dolphins. He's got himself a bigger and better bioweapon, and he's here to field-test it on a lot of innocent people."

"Huh? What did you say?"

"You said he's a specialist in a breed of dog called a kuvasz?"

"Yeah, that's right. What's the matter, Mongo? What were you saying about-?"

"Nothing. Garth, listen: fax me everything you have, will you? There must be a terminal around here somewhere that I can rent for a couple of hours. I'll call you in the morning, tell you where to send it."

"I'll fax you s.h.i.t, Mongo," Garth said tersely. "There's no need.

That circus isn't for sale, so there's no need for you to stick your nose into Arlen Zelezian's business. Some of the people I talked to think that his presence in this country may even have been approved by some Pentagon agency, or even the CIA, so we're talking heavy-duty business that you want no part of." He paused for a few moments, and when he spoke again, his tone had softened. "I know you're interested, brother, so as a reward for good behavior I'll have all the information I've gathered waiting for you on your desk. I even managed to come up with a photo of Arlen Zelezian, and you'll love it. That death merchant son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h looks just like Abraham Lincoln."

Chapter Seven.

My conversation with Garth had given me more food for thought than I could digest, and the information he'd given me rested like a sharp, hard lump in my mind. Something evil had been loosed on America's Great Plains, and I suspected there was more than a fifty-fifty chance that Arlen Zelezian was responsible. But without proof, my suspicions were virtually worthless-especially if it was true that he was operating under the auspices of some government agency with a vested interest in whatever he was up to. Without proof, my suspicions would be dismissed as being even loonier than the notion that there was a "werewolf" wandering over the vast prairie stretches, slaughtering people. If I was right, it was not something I could turn my back on. I needed to check out the situation. If I was wrong, the only thing I risked was making a fool of myself, and I'd certainly done that before and survived. But if I was right, the lives of any number of innocent people could depend on how quickly I could gather the necessary evidence and then get the right people to take me seriously.

However, none of these distractions was sufficient to lessen my l.u.s.t for Harper. When she slid into bed next to me, her naked flesh touching mine, my body mercifully paid no heed to what my mind was busy with-and soon my mind wasn't busy with anything but the enjoyment of the woman with me as we slid up and down each other, wallowing back and forth across the waterbed in our room.

Afterward, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, but I had set my mental alarm clock to wake me up sometime in the middle of the night. When I did awake, the luminous dial on my wrist.w.a.tch told me it was two in the morning. I very carefully withdrew my arm from under Harper's head, eased myself off the bed. I fumbled around in the dark until I found my suitcase, picked it up, and tiptoed into the bathroom, where I closed the door before turning on the light.

The darkest clothes I had with me consisted of a charcoal-gray business suit and black shoes, an ensemble I had brought in antic.i.p.ation of a visit with the officers of the bank in Chicago. I slipped on a navy-blue T-shirt, then dressed in the dark suit and shoes. Finally, I turned off the bathroom light, opened the door, and edged out into the darkness, once again tiptoeing across the room. I stopped to pick up the keys to the rented car off the dressing table, went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. Then I slowly closed the door behind me, grimacing in disgust when the latch clicked softly. The last thing in the world I wanted or needed was to awaken Harper.

It was a cloudless night, with a full, golden moon that didn't suit my purposes at all. I walked over to a rose bed planted in the middle of a concrete island separating our motel unit from the next, scooped up a handful of black topsoil, and rubbed it over my face, the back of my neck, and my hands. I wished I had a gun, but you don't carry a gun when you go shopping for a circus; as usual, my Beretta and Seecamp were at home, locked in the safe in my office. I walked to the car, opened the door-and started when the interior light came on.

"Jesus! What the h.e.l.l- ?"

Harper, dressed in jeans, untied sneakers, and a blue silk blouse that was only half b.u.t.toned, was sitting in the front seat on the pa.s.senger's side. Her long gray hair was uncombed, hastily pulled back into a ponytail held in place with a blue ribbon. Her face was still puffy with sleep, but her maroon eyes nonetheless glowed with curiosity-and what might have been a glint of triumph.

"It looks to me like you forgot to wash your face, Robby," she said wryly, stifling a yawn. "Or maybe you're on your way to a very kinky late night party. I like that dirt all over your face. Nice touch. You look like a very well dressed commando. But I'm afraid you're going to have to have that nice suit cleaned after the party."

I didn't get into the car. "Harper," I said with a deep sigh of exasperation, "what the h.e.l.l are you doing here? I thought you were asleep."

"Oh, I know you did. I was-but I'm a light sleeper. I woke up when you took your arm away. When you got up and took your suitcase into the bathroom, I figured you planned to do more than just pee. In fact, I got the notion that you might actually be planning to sneak off somewhere without me. As you see, I can get dressed pretty fast when I have to, especially when I'm afraid I might miss something. I've got a dark scarf I can use to cover my hair. Do you want me to rub some dirt on my face and hands?"

"No, I do not want you to rub dirt on your face and hands. What I want is for you to go back to bed."

"And have you slip off without me into the night with dirt on your face and hands? No way. This definitely looks to me like it's developing into one of those bizarre Mongo Frederickson cases you told me you don't get involved in any longer. If so, you think I'm going to miss out on all the fun and excitement? Uh-uh."

"Harper, this isn't a game."

"I'm aware of that," she replied evenly. "Robby, I think you fibbed to me earlier. That message from your brother involved more than the fact that he was p.i.s.sed off because you hadn't touched base with him, right? He told you something about World Circus that got you into that commando outfit. Right?"

"This isn't the time, Harper. Please go back in the room and wait for me."

"No, Robby," she said with a firm shake of her head. "If I can fly you all over the countryside in my plane, then I can go off with you on your post-midnight sojourns."

"It could be dangerous."

She narrowed her eyelids, thrust out her dimpled chin. "Robby, you're very close to sounding s.e.xist. Not only do I handle poisonous snakes, but I've been married four times. You don't think I can take care of myself?"

"Your husbands didn't shoot at you, I trust."

It was absolutely the wrong thing to say to Harper Rhys-Whitney. Her maroon eyes went wide, glowed even brighter. "Wow. It's that dangerous, is it?"

Seeing that there was no sense in arguing with her, I got in the car and started up the engine. "No, it's not that dangerous," I said, hoping it was the truth. I put the car into gear, pulled out of the motel parking lot onto the highway, and headed south, back toward the county fairgrounds and the circus. "There's not going to be any shooting. All I want to do is look around."

"What's this all about, Robby? What did your brother tell you?"

"Something that makes me suspect people in that circus may be hurting people. That's what I want to check out; I can't go home until I do. If they have been hurting people, then I want to try to get proof so that it can be stopped as quickly as possible. If I'm wrong, then all I've lost is a little sleep and the cost of having my suit dry-cleaned."

"Robby, you haven't told me a d.a.m.ned thing."

"Not now, Harper. Please. It has to do with concentration. To tell you the truth, I already feel more than a little foolish, and I'm going to feel even more foolish if I have to explain why I have to go back to the circus. After I've had my look-around, I'll explain my reasons. Okay?"

I thought she was going to argue. Instead, she simply said, "All right, Robby. I don't want to disturb your concentration, because I don't want you to be hurt."

We didn't talk any more during the remainder of the fifty-mile drive back to the fairgrounds. Something I'd said had seemed to make an impression on my traveling companion, or perhaps a full realization had come to her that I wasn't outfitted in my very-well-dressed-commando costume for fun and games. I could feel the tension in her. Once, I put my hand in hers, and she squeezed my fingers hard.

I pulled off the shoulder of the highway a quarter mile from where the darkened circus tents and midway rides stood out against the moon-washed sky like some ancient ruins.

"If the highway patrol comes by, tell them you stopped to rest for a few minutes. Drive off, and come back here to pick me up in an hour or so."

"Robby," Harper said in a tight voice, "what if something happens to you and you can't get back?"

"Don't worry."

"But how will I know?"

"I'll be back. But, just in case, if I'm not back in two hours-"

"One hour, Robby. The circus isn't that big."

"Ninety minutes. If I'm not here, call the highway patrol or the county sheriff."

"But what are you looking for, Robby? What am I supposed to tell them?"

"Tell them the person or persons responsible for the so-called werewolf killings travels with the circus, as well as the werewolf itself, and that they should come in to get me in a big hurry."

Harper's mouth dropped open, but before she could say anything I got out of the car, quickly closing the door so as to shut off the interior light, and walked across the highway. I hopped over a steel guardrail, navigated a water-filled ditch, and began running, keeping low, toward the circus.

I reached the midway, stayed in the moon shadows next to the huge Ferris wheel for two minutes, watching and listening for guards. There didn't appear to be any, at least not in my immediate vicinity. I made my way past the still rides and shuttered concession stands, angling around toward the penning area at the far side of the Big Top. I was more than a little curious to see what animals, if any, Arlen Zelezian was keeping in his pens or his semis, besides the usual circus menagerie. I was fairly certain Mabel was going to smell me, but I could only hope she wouldn't cause a fuss; it was definitely not the time for a reprise of our earlier reunion scene.

As I moved around the perimeter of the Big Top, I noticed a pale sliver of light spilling out into the night from beneath a loose flap. I could think of no reason why a light should be on in the tent in the middle of the night, and it seemed worthwhile investigating. I got down on my belly, crawled under the canvas flap, and found myself beneath a bank of bleachers. There was a single spotlight turned on in the rigging above, and it was shining directly down into the ring. I moved to the aisle between bleacher sections, eased myself up to where I could peer over the seats and get a clear view of what was happening in the ring. When I did, my heart began to pound in my chest.

Luther, dressed in jeans, brown leather boots, and a gray sweatshirt, was crouched in almost the exact center of the ring. He was facing and talking in low tones that were at once soothing and commanding to a creature that looked like a huge dog or wolf, but which I knew was neither.

For one thing, this animal had extended canines that Nate b.u.t.ton had never mentioned, saber teeth that reminded me somewhat of the kind of wax vampire fangs children wear at Halloween-except there was no doubt in my mind that these teeth were very real and very sharp. There was a cage on wheels, its door open, at the far end of the ring, and from the tension exuded by both man and beast, I suspected the creature had just been set free. The animal was about the size of a large mastiff, with a very broad rib cage, but it had the long, spindly legs and enormous paws of a wolf. Its coat was a rusty, buff color, and it had black stripes running lengthwise down its back. There was a thick ruff around its neck, like a lion's mane. It had a squarish face, a large muzzle marked by gaping, black leather nostrils, and a predator's close-set eyes.

Luther had faced bears and tigers without so much as a stick in his hand, but he now wore a .357 Magnum in a holster strapped around his waist.

I now regretted even more the fact that I didn't have a gun as the animal looked away from Luther-toward me.

The d.a.m.n thing knew I was there.