Olympus: It's Not Just a Game

Chapter 49

The officer of the day had dozed off, tilted back in cracked green vinyl swivel chair. It wasn't easy to do, but he had had a lot of practice. Salmon Falls tended to be quiet after sunset, and it was a little after three a.m.. He woke to the urgent ringing of the little silver bell on the countertop. He sat up, startled, and discovered three dark and efficient men in expensive suits staring at him. "We're here to swear out a warrant on CyberCamp," the first one announced with intimidating calmness.

"We can't just do that," the officer began to protest, but three briefcases materialized on the countertop, and he found himself facing a sheaf of official looking papers.

"These affidavits provide all the evidence you will need to swear out the warrant on CyberCamp and the adjoining property," the first lawyer snapped.

"Here is a surveyor's map of the areas to be searched," the second lawyer announced. He spread it out under the officer's nose. "As you will see, we have sufficient evidence to show that at least one teenager is being held captive at this general location."

"I've been through this before!" the officer protested.

"No, you only searched CyberCamp, itself. We intend to search not only be CyberCamp building, but also these storage sheds adjoining it."

"Storage sheds?" the officer hooked startled. "The U-Store-It place? Why would you want to search there?"

"As you will see from these documents," the third lawyer explained, "both the CyberCamp building and storage sheds are owned by the same shell corporation. The ultimate ownership lies in the hands of Olympus, Inc.. We obtained financial records for the storage shed business, and we have found that their total receipts for storage are virtually zero." He looked condescending. "Apparently, there isn't that much storage business here in Salmon Falls," he sniffed. "Despite this, records on file here at City Hall indicate that they have somehow turned a very tidy profit despite a complete absence of any legitimate business. We feel sure that they are storing something in the sheds that is worth a great deal of money." He looked grim. "We have probable cause to believe they are storing human beings."

The officer's mouth opened and closed like fish. "I'll have to call the magistrate," he stalled. "This is out of my league!"

Emergency warrants were part of the magistrate's job, but he always resented them, nevertheless. He was grumbling when his battered Chevy pickup pulled up to the police station, but his eyes bulged to find it surrounded by sleek dark cars and dangerous looking men. He stumbled into the dayroom, blustering in protest. "What's all this?"

The first lawyer sized him up with a cold look. "We took the liberty of bringing a few security guards and private investigators," he announced. The detachment from the FBI should arrive shortly, but it will be important to secure the perimeter, and we did not want to overburden the resources of the Salmon Falls Police Force." His voice was so smooth that it was impossible to tell whether he was expressing sarcasm, contempt, or respectful concern.

"This is highly irregular," the magistrate protested.

"Your honor," the lawyer replied, "we have sworn testimony that indicates that at least one teenager has been kidnapped and is being held in slavery right here in Salmon Falls. We reasonably believe there may be hundreds of other teens locked up in the storage sheds adjoining CyberCamp. Is your police force prepared to cope with hundreds of teenagers, simultaneously?"

"No," the magistrate croaked, "but I refuse to believe such things are going on in our little town!"

"Your job is not to believe or disbelieve," the lawyer answered coldly. "Your job is to review the evidence, and determine whether it is credible. If there is probable cause to believe a crime has occurred or is occurring on the premises, your job is to issue a search warrant. Here are the papers."

The magistrate felt trapped. After that last bungled search, Ms. Sparrow had taken him aside and had a long, heart-to-heart talk about making sure that he protected the civil rights of CyberCamp. She had warned him of the consequences if he were to issue another warrant. She had also promised substantial support if he chose to run for the New Hampshire Senate next year, if, as she put it, he proved his "commitment to protecting the rights of property holders in his district." When he had asked how much "support" she had in mind, he was dumbfounded at the figure she had named.

His hopes for a Senate seat flashed before his eyes now, but the mention of the FBI terrified him. They could get a federal warrant without his help, and he doubted whether Ms. Sparrow had had a similar chat with the federal agents in Concord. With trembling fingers, he signed the warrant.

The intruders moved into action. Sleek black cars sped into the night, and soon stern and athletic men were spreading through the New Hampshire woods to cordon off the perimeter. One van pulled up in front of the the storage facility, and two men emerged with oxyacetylene torches and wicked-looking tools. A panel truck pulled up behind them, and a brace of bloodhounds emerged. Their handler held out some of Karl's clothing, and eager noses snuffled over the worn sweatshirt.

The Salmon Falls police car finally arrived. The officer stepped out, and the lead lawyer leaped out of the passenger's door. "Read the warrant," he snapped.

"But there's nobody here!" the officer argued. "I can't just read a warrant to the empty air."

"Do your job," lawyer snapped, "and we'll do ours." The officer shrugged and read the warrant out loud. As soon as he had finished, the cutting torches flamed on, and Lord Peter's crew began dismantling the main gate of the facility. As soon as there was a gap wide enough, the bloodhounds surged through it, racing on heavy paws down the roadways between the concrete buildings.

The torches reached the first locked storage unit. "Open it!" the attorney barked. Fire blazed through the metal door. Molten aluminum spattered and trickled down, setting the black asphalt of the pavement on fire. When the opening was almost cut through, the workmen seized the red hot, jagged panel with pliers and wrenched it free.

The lawyer peered through the opening into blackness lit by flickering flames. A dim shape hung suspended in the gloom. Then a beam of intense white light flicked on, and then another, as the workmen pulled powerful flashlights out of their toolboxes. A criss-cross glare of whites illuminated a figure in a cybersuit, twisting about blindly. Moments later, they pulled a terrified fourteen-year-old girl out of the cybersuit.

The cutting torches moved on to the next unit as the bloodhounds raced up and down the pavement. Time and again, the dogs' noses snuffled up against the doorways of the storage units, but then moved on, unsatisfied. Then, suddenly, both dogs broke into yelping as they approached unit B-73. They slobbered over the locked entrance to the shed and then sat back on their haunches, lifted their muzzles toward Heaven, and howled.

Mr. Huber was still wearing a prison uniform when they drove him out to the U-Store-It sheds. Police searchlights flooded the scene, and dozens of teenagers in flimsy cotton garments shivered in the New Hampshire night. A police van was shuttling the children over to the Salmon Falls Congregational Church, which had been hastily converted into a shelter for these refugees from Olympus. One of Peter Antipas' lawyers met him at the front gate, and led him quickly and silently through the chaos of the crime scene to unit B-73.

Karl's father was not prepared for what he saw.