APPOINTMENT AT ANGAHUAN

by James A. Kline and Richard S. Platz

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

Eric Johanson was tired and tense. The afternoon's drive had not been long, but the events of the past few days had left him over-wrought. As he took the second exit into Del Oro, he wondered if he would ever be able to relax as long as this Tarascan business was unfinished.

If only he could talk to Shimoko. She knew more about this than anyone. His daughter could answer the questions that were plaguing him. But those damned cultists would never let her talk on the phone. Tomorrow he'd drive down there and find out just what the hell was going on.

He sighed wearily as he turned the automobile into a familiar street lined with tall black walnut trees, but the sense of foreboding which hung over him refused to dissipate. A few minutes later he pulled through the murky twilight into his own driveway. Johanson clicked off the headlights and ignition and sat motionless in the gathering gloom, staring at the back entrance to his house. He felt old, older than his 54 years. Too old for all this fuss.

Johanson opened the car door, uttered a snort of resolve, and climbed out. He collected his briefcase and luggage from the trunk and set them down beside the back door. Holding the key poised to pierce the lock, he grasped the cold brass knob. The door was unlatched and creaked open before the key could find its niche. All the vague fears which had nagged at him for the past week coagulated suddenly in the pit of his stomach. A pain shot through his shoulder and down his left arm, the same sharp throbbing he had already felt several times earlier that day.

Warily Johanson reached inside and clicked on the hallway light. The entrance hall and kitchen were empty. He picked up his briefcase and overnight bag and pushed through the doorway into the kitchen, his heart pounding violently. He stepped to the center of the room, stopped, and listened. A bright dizziness swept over him, and he had to lean against the counter for a moment until it had passed. Nothing seemed to be out of place. He set down his bags and moved quietly through the door into the dining room. Something was amiss. Through the doorway of his study Johanson could see papers and books littering the floor.

Again he stood silently listening, waiting. Nothing. He tiptoed across the dining room, his mouth dry, his muscles tensed. Was this really happening to him? he wondered. Outside the door to the study he hesitated. He heard nothing, saw nothing. Johanson stepped carefully through the doorway.

Suddenly from his left a bare bronze-hued arm reached for him. His nervous system screamed for adrenaline as he watched a giant body appear behind the arm. Eric Johanson was face to face with a monstrous Indian who held him in an iron grip.

With the strength born of terror Johanson struggled to free himself. The two stumbled toward the ransacked desk across the room, and Johanson felt a sudden tightening in his chest, then a searing pain which took his breath away and buckled his knees.

The Indian spun him around and a powerful hand tightened on his throat. Johanson felt himself being lifted off the ground by his neck and slammed hard against the wall. He had never felt such a crushing pain as he now felt in his chest, but it was not caused by anything the Indian was doing!

"Where is it?" boomed an eerie voice through the faintness and nausea.

Johanson saw puzzlement creep into the giant Indian's eyes, but it seemed insignificant, of no concern to him anymore. He shut his own eyes and felt blackness closing in.

The overwhelming pain in his chest receded as abruptly as it had begun. It didn't diminish in intensity, but grew distant, as if it were happening to someone else. A forgotten peacefulness filled the vacuum. Is this death? he wondered. He felt himself sliding down the wall as the Indian loosened his grip. It didn't matter anymore. His daughter's face appeared clearly before his closed eyes, and he regretted he would never see her again. Nothing else really mattered now. All the pressing concerns of only a few moments before seemed so meaningless now. So silly. A silly map, a silly journey, a silly life. Now it was strangely silent within his pain, and Johanson realized that his heart was no longer beating. His body was dying. Had died. He would die.