Hell's Gate

CHAPTER 1
        
        The Puppet came awake beneath budding apple trees, lying prone in a patch of twisted weeds and dry brown grass. He was a big man, well over six feet and considerably more than two hundred pounds, though none of the weight seemed to be fat. When he was still, his body was a chiseled hulk of rugged muscles, as if a crude but heroic-minded sculpture had hacked out his uneven version of Ulysses. When he moved just the slightest, the sharp edges melted away, and the chiseled look gave way to the sleek, oiled smoothness of a cat. The muscles no longer jutted, but rippled. He had the look of a trained fighter, a mercenary.
        He was dressed in a black suit of tough nylon that looked vaguely like leather and fitted as well as a scuba suit bought a size too small. There was a black hood that fitted over his head, holding his white-blond hair back from his forehead. He carried a pack on his back, but hardly seemed aware of the added weight. He gave the impression that, had the pack been a two ton Buick, he would still only slightly feel its weight.
        He rolled onto his back and looked up through the nearly bare branches to the dully gleaming stars that managed to cut through the soft haze of the early spring fog. His head ached, and one place behind his right ear throbbed as if a small man were inside methodically kicking his way out. There was a curious feeling of déjŕ vu, of having been to this place before, but he could not place it. And how had he gotten here? Where was ''here"? Why?
        Moving carefully so he would not excite the little man in his head, he sat up and looked around him. In front and to both sides, the skeletal branches of unadorned trees scratched at the sky and rattled bony fingers at him, as if they were threatening him. There was nothing there to tell him anything. He came to his feet, somewhat wobbly. The little man in his head protested the change of position by kicking with both feet. He felt hairline cracks beginning to spread outwards across his skull from his right temple. In a moment, his head would split like a mush mellon, and it would be all over. He turned to look behind, expecting more trees, and he saw the house.
        It was an old place, perhaps constructed in the late 1880's or early 1890's. There were many gables, a bay window, porches around all sides. Despite its age, it had been maintained in excellent condition. Even in the dim, fog-filtered moonlight, he could see the new paint, heavy storm doors, the manicured look of the shrubbery. The moment he set eyes on the house, the strange throbbing ceased in his head. The uneasy dizziness dissipated; he felt whole. This was the sight that keyed him. For a moment, he had been only a confused man, wondering about his circumstance. Now he was a full-fledged Puppet… moving according to program.
        At the sight of the house, he dropped once again to the grass, as if seeking concealment, though the night and fog and the dark clothes he wore should have been insurance enough against discovery. After taking time to study the structure and the surrounding landscape, he came to his feet again, crouching like an animal on the prowl. There were no lights on in the house; its occupants were asleep. Exactly as had been planned.
        He didn't stop to wonder who had planned it this way, or what else there was to this operation. Presently, there was no part of his mind able to experience curiosity or doubt. He only knew that this much was good.
        Still hunched like an ape, he loped from the shelter of the apple trees and up the long, sloping lawn toward the back of the house which was open to him from this side. Once, he almost fell on the dewy grass but regained his balance as swiftly as a tightrope walker would recover from a slide on a banana peel. Through all of this, he moved with uncanny silence, without even the quick rush of his breath to disturb the peaceful night,
        Seconds after leaving the trees, he slid against the railing of the back porch and knelt in the shadows, breathing heavily. When there was no outcry, he moved along the railing, found the steps, moved quietly up them and across the porch to the door.
        The storm door was a solid aluminum piece that fitted its molding snugly. The glass had not yet been replaced with screens, which made entering the place much more difficult. Though not anywhere near impossible. Nothing was impossible for him. He had