10: SANCTUARY

WESTERN MICHIGAN

Quinn’s aftershave carried a subtle old-money scent. Harley thus woke up amid a sudden burst of muffled droplets from the flight attendant’s sneeze.

“Gosh, Mr. Quinn, I’m so very sorry,” she looked appropriately contrite; his eyes told her nothing. “We’ve landed in Grand Rapids.”

“Yes, of course. Could you please step back a little?”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Tricia lost interest, watching the pilot exit the cabin.

“I need to get on the road,” Quinn said as he stood up to retrieve his attaché and the leather tote with his toiletries. The plane was empty. Only a few peanut wrappers and a stale smell from the close quarters remained.

Tricia stood at the doorway, ready to put on one of those plastic smiles as she assured him it was her pleasure to serve him. Quinn ignored her.

Thus, Harley Quinn, possibly a great valet but not a true assistant to Senator Willson, walked down the ramp and into the terminal as if he were the Secretary of State.

The terminal doors opened as Quinn approached. A rush of heavy August air hit his face. A baggage handler waited at the curb.

“I need a rental car. Can you help me?”

“I’m on a break,” the man muttered, cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Do you know who you’re speaking to?” Harley Quinn’s eyes shot through the man like a shard of danger.

The man thought, I need this job, as he flicked his cigarette aside.

“Come with me, Sir,” he said, feeling a bit worried after stealing items from the baggage area last week. “Here you go, just follow the yellow brick road.”

The signs were clear, and Quinn located the auto rental desk. The anxious agent appeared to be hopped up on something.

“I just think you should know,” he told the rental agent in a hushed tone, “you have an extremely rude baggage handler out there.” Harley eyed the fellow for a satisfactory response.

“Oh, you ran into Porky. He hates turtlenecks and briefcases. You want to give him a wide berth. He also pickpockets.” The agent dangled keys in Quinn’s direction. “Fill ‘er up before you return these.”

Harley Quinn drove the sedan along M-37. Familiar landmarks from his previous trip with the Senator guided him north toward Sanctuary. The meandering road was lined with orchards that turned into rolling pine-covered hills at the edge of the Manistee National Forest.

Harley daydreamed of greyhound races and cigars, and before he was ready, the dirt road to Sanctuary loomed. The driveway looked like any other two-track to a hunter’s cabin. The car bumped along the trail deep into national timberland. A Burma Shave pattern of NO TRESPASSING signs decorated the trees, drawing him into the depths of the forest.

Using a rustic cabin built by some pioneer to hide the entrance to a top-secret government facility was brilliant. In Harley’s opinion, the USA seldom achieved brilliance on its own.

Harley thought about the group of jerks he’d be facing. Last time, guards were hiding in the bushes with guns. Quinn’s boss was unaware, but he knew a lot about guns. He wasn’t eager to have weapons pointed at him.

The crunch of gravel alerted the guards of Sanctuary to Harley Quinn’s arrival. They had been tracking his progress as he passed the cameras mounted on each No Trespassing sign since the man had left M37.

Kowa sat with his coffee cup balanced on the window ledge, a rifle aimed at Harley’s head. Mr. Quinn was stylishly dressed in a black turtleneck and a suit that certainly wasn’t off the rack. He was weighed down by his attaché and a leather tote bag. Kowa laughed.

“Here comes a real fancy gentleman,” he sneered. His cohorts chuckled.

“He will be more entertaining than Holmstead’s thugs. I hate it when they show up.”

“Quiet. I’ve got a headache,” another man snarled from the top bunk bed.

Harley’s wingtips made snapping sounds on the pine needles. The woods were so quiet that the skittery noises around him seemed louder. A woodpecker’s rat-a-tat unnerved him as he stepped onto the porch.

A handsome man with striking auburn hair aimed his gun at Quinn’s midsection.

“ID,” Kowa snapped.

Harley reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open, revealing his ID card.

“That’s a credit card, mister. Was there anything specific you wanted to buy?”

“Oh. Excuse me,” Harley Quinn rummaged through the assorted cards and grabbed his ID.

Kowa ran a scanner over it.

“Harley Quinn.”

He nodded. He was nervous, and that was an unfamiliar feeling. Even the hairs on his arms were standing at attention.

“You got a password you want to share with me?”

“I’m terribly sorry. I’m not used to artillery at such close range,” Harley snapped.

“Mr. Quinn, I’d suggest you come up with a password pretty quickly, or you’re going to end up with some extra holes where your liver is now.”

Harley considered this.

“Gospel of Luke.”

Praying he would be wrong, Kowa was disappointed. His fun was over as he nodded at Quinn’s luggage.

“You can’t take that gear with you. If you’re authorized to stay, we’ll bring them down,” Kowa stepped aside. “Proceed at your leisure, Quinn.”

Harley entered the cabin, concealing his nerves well. The inside looked harmless, with bunk beds built into the walls, a pine trestle table, and mismatched wooden chairs. A fieldstone fireplace ran along one wall, and an icebox sat in the far corner. The smell of fresh coffee was tempting, but no one asked if he wanted a cup.

On his first trip, Willson showed him the ropes, so Harley knew what to do. But these clones were intimidating. Every damn one had that stupid red hair.

He quickly moved to the center of the room and lifted one end of the bearskin rug, revealing a trap door.

An extraordinary-looking guy, Onu, watched Harley’s every move. He offered Harley a harmless grin. Another handsome man with messy auburn hair was scratching himself vigorously as he observed Harley from an upper bunk. All the occupants were dressed like typical Michigan outdoorsmen, wearing red flannel shirts and jeans.

“Mr. Quinn, I’m coming with you. You seem a little confused.” Onu held the trap open, and Harley inserted his ID into the proper slot in the clasp. An LED display lit up, the clasp clicked, and the lock snapped open.

“Your name was?” He was reluctant to have a stranger behind him, especially one who was armed.

“You can call me Zippee.”

Kowa burst into a fit of raucous laughter, and Harley had no doubt the joke was on him.

“I was here a few months ago, with Senator Willson.” He didn’t add that they were picking up an odious bundle of joy.

“Yes, I know.” Onu’s face twisted with disdain.

Harley Quinn remembered the looks he got as he carried the squirming blue bundle to the car while the Senator patted a guard on the back and handed him a cigar.

“Are you coming back for another?”

“Not today. There is a big meeting that the Senator couldn’t attend. Probably a real bore,” Harley assured, though he wondered what awaited him. This place was creepy, and there were more redheaded creeps down below.

The door opened quietly, its hinges smoothly lubricated. Fluorescent lights illuminated the stone staircase. Willson’s valet nervously started down, and Onu followed. He didn’t appear to be very talkative.

The elevator had stainless steel walls broken up by a panel of two buttons. Onu pressed one, and the elevator activated. The doors silently closed.

“Thanks, Zippee.” Harley grasped the rail for support. The drop made his stomach flip-flop.

“It’s Onu… I lied before.”

“I figured.”

The doors opened to a bright, stark-white hallway, tiled and immaculate. The corridor was wide and tall, easing any fears of a claustrophobic traveler—no doors—just a vast expanse of space.

At the end of the corridor, a guard station with thick glass windows had a small opening for conversation. The guard sat still at his desk, watching until the men reached the booth.

“Harley Quinn, here representing Senator Willson.” He showed his ID. The man looked like he was on display in a wax museum or in a trance.

“Baylor,” Onu shouted. “Wake up.” The man’s open eyes suddenly blazed with life. The guard opened the doorway that had been invisible before.

“Onu, my man. I’ve got one hell of a headache. Are you my relief?”

“Not a chance, guy. It seems headaches are as common as mosquito bites these days.”

“Well, I think my head’s going to implode if I don’t find some aspirin,” Baylor said. “What makes you venture this far south of the earth’s crust?”

“I’m just helping Mr. Quinn. He doesn’t realize how much he wants to stay on the straight and narrow down here.”

“You tell him about General Almquist?” Baylor asked, giving him a conspiratorial wink.

“No, I didn’t. Thought I’d breeze through it and hope that Almquist doesn’t find out he’s really the Senator’s valet and not an administrative assistant. Bad enough that Willson played hooky.”

Baylor gestured for him to proceed to a setup resembling an airport security checkpoint.

“You want to step through there for me, son?”

Quinn obeyed, knowing unseen eyes observed everything, including his tattoos. A metal gate opened, granting entry into the most extensive and most secret military base in the free world.

Onu and Baylor were deep in a discussion about a mysterious infection spreading through Sanctuary. They appeared unaware of him, so he entered Sanctuary alone.

The wonder he felt when he was first introduced to this place hadn’t faded. Harley Quinn stepped into the light with just a moment of hesitation.