by Ken Follett
But she showed up at the end of the afternoon, to his great relief. He told her about Flower being arrested and warned her that one or two people wanted to put the blame on Melanie and her cute clothes. She said she would get some work clothes from the free shop.
After supper Priest went to Song's cabin and picked up her guitar. "Are you using this?" he said politely. He would never say, "May I borrow your guitar?" because in theory all property was communal, so the guitar was his as much as hers, even though she had made it. However, in practice everyone always asked.
He sat outside his cabin with Flower and tuned the guitar. Spirit, the dog, watched alertly, as if he, too, were going to learn to play. "Most songs have three chords," Priest began. "If you know three chords, you can play nine out of ten of the songs in the whole world."
He showed her the chord of C. As she struggled to press the strings with her soft fingertips, he studied her face in the evening light: her perfect skin, the dark hair, green eyes like Star's, the little frown as she concentrated. I have to stay alive, to take care of you.
He thought of himself at that age, already a criminal, experienced, skilled, hardened to violence, with a hatred of cops and a contempt for ordinary citizens who were dumb enough to let themselves get robbed. At thirteen I had already gone wrong. He was determined that Flower would not be like that. She had been brought up in a community of love and peace, untouched by the world that had corrupted little Ricky Granger and turned him into a hoodlum before he grew hair on his chin. You'll be okay, I'll make sure of it.
She played the chord, and Priest realized that a particular song had been running in his head ever since Bones arrived. It was a folkie number from the early sixties that Star had always liked.
Show me the prison
Show me the jail
Show me the prisoner
Whose life has gone stale
"I'll teach you a song your mommy used to sing to you when you were a baby," he said. He took the guitar from her. "Do you remember this?" He sang:
I'll show you a young man
With so many reasons why
In his head he heard Star's unmistakable voice, low and sexy then as now.
There, but for fortune
Go you or I
You or I.
Priest was about the same age as Bones, and Bones was dying. Priest had no doubt about that. Soon the girl and the baby would leave him. He would starve his body and feed his habit. He might overdose or poison himself with bad drugs, or he might just abuse his system until it gave up and he got pneumonia. One way or another, he was a dead man.
If I lose this place, I'll go the same way as Bones.
As Flower struggled to play the chord of A minor, Priest toyed with the idea of returning to normal society. He fantasized going every day to a job, buying socks and wingtip shoes, owning a TV set and a toaster. The thought made him queasy. He had never lived straight. He had been brought up in a whorehouse, educated on the streets, briefly the owner of a semilegitimate business, and for most of his life the leader of a hippie commune cut off from the world.
He recalled the one regular job he had ever had. At eighteen he had gone to work for the Jenkinsons, the couple who ran the liquor store down the street. He had thought of them as old, at the time, but now he guessed they had been in their fifties. His intention had been to work just long enough to figure out where they kept their money, then steal it. But then he learned something about himself.
He discovered he had a queer talent for arithmetic. Each morning Mr. Jenkinson put ten dollars' worth of change into the cash register. As customers bought liquor and paid and got change, Priest either served them himself or heard one of the Jenkinsons sing out the total, "Dollar twenty-nine, please, Mrs. Roberto," or "Three bucks even, sir." And the figures seemed to add themselves up in his head. All day long Priest always knew exactly how much money was in the till, and at the end of the day he could tell Mr. Jenkinson the total before he counted it.
He would hear Mr. Jenkinson talking to the salesmen who called, and he soon knew the wholesale and retail prices of every item in the store. From then on the automatic register in his brain calculated the profit on every transaction, and he was awestruck by how much the Jenkinsons were making without stealing from anyone.
He arranged for them to be robbed four times in a month, then made them an offer for the store. When they turned him down, he arranged a fifth robbery and made sure Mrs. Jenkinson got roughed up this time. After that Mr. Jenkinson accepted his offer.
Priest borrowed the deposit from the neighborhood loan shark and paid Mr. Jenkinson the installments out of the store's takings. Although he could not read or write, he always knew his financial position exactly. Nobody could cheat him. One time he employed a respectable-looking middle-aged woman who stole a dollar out of the register every day. At the end of the week he deducted five dollars from her pay, beat her up, and told her not to come back.
Within a year he had four stores; two years later he had a wholesale liquor warehouse; after three years he was a millionaire; and at the end of his fourth year he was on the run.
He sometimes wondered what might have happened if he had paid off the loan shark in full, given his accountant honest figures to report to the IRS, and made a plea-bargain deal with the LAPD on the fraud charges. Maybe today he would have a company as big as Coca-Cola and be living in one of those mansions in Beverly Hills with a gardener and a pool boy and a five-car garage.
But as he tried to imagine it, he knew it could never have happened. That was not him. The guy who came down the stairs of the mansion in a white bathrobe, and coolly ordered the maid to squeeze him a glass of orange juice, had someone else's face. Priest could never live in the square world. He had always had a problem with rules: he could never obey other people's. That was why he had to live here.
In Silver River Valley I make the rules, I change the rules, I am the rules.
Flower told him her fingers hurt.
"Then it's time to stop," Priest said. "If you like, I'll teach you another song tomorrow." If I'm still alive.
"Does it hurt you?"
"No, but that's only because I'm used to it. When you've practiced the guitar a little, your fingertips get hard pads on them, like the skin on your heel."
"Does Noel Gallagher have hard pads?"
"If Noel Gallagher is a pop guitarist ..."
"Of course! He's in Oasis!"
"Well, then he has hard pads. Do you think you might like to be a musician?"
"No."
"That was pretty definite. You have some other ideas?"
She looked guilty, as if she knew he was going to disapprove, but she screwed up her courage and said: "I want to be a writer."
He was not sure how he felt about that. Your daddy will never be able to read your work. But he pretended enthusiasm. "That's good! What kind?"
"For a magazine. Like Teen, maybe."
"Why?"
"You get to meet stars and interview them, and write about fashions and makeup."
Priest gritted his teeth and tried not to let his revulsion show. "Well, I like the idea that you might be a writer, anyway. If you wrote poetry and stories, instead of magazine articles, you could still live here in Silver River Valley."
"Yeah, maybe," she said doubtfully.
He could see that she was not planning to spend her life here. But she was too young to understand. By the time she was old enough to decide for herself, she would have a different view. I hope.
Star came over. "Time for Truth," she said.
Priest took the guitar from Flower. "Go and get ready for bed, now," he said.
He and Star headed for the parking circle, dropping off the guitar at Song's cabin on the way. They found Melanie already there, sitting in the backseat of the 'Cuda, listening to the radio. She had put on a bright yellow T-shirt and blue jeans from the free shop. Both were too big for her, and she had tucked in the T-shirt and pulled the jeans tight with a
belt, showing off her tiny waist. She still looked like sex on a stick.
John Truth had a flat nasal twang that could become hypnotic. His specialty was saying aloud the things his listeners believed in their hearts but were ashamed to admit to. It was mostly standard fascist-pig stuff: AIDS was a punishment for sin, intelligence was racially inherited, what the world needed was stricter discipline, all politicians were stupid and corrupt, and like that. Priest imagined that his audience was mostly the kind of fat white men who learned everything they knew in bars. "This guy," Star said. "He's everything I hate about America: prejudiced, sanctimonious, hypocritical, self-righteous, and really fucking stupid."
"That's a fact," Priest said. "Listen up."
Truth was saying: "I'm going to read once more that statement made by the governor's cabinet secretary, Mr. Honeymoon."
Priest's hackles rose, and Star said: "That son of a bitch!" Honeymoon was the man behind the scheme to flood Silver River Valley, and they hated him.
John Truth went on, speaking slowly and ponderously, as if every syllable was significant. "Listen to this. 'The FBI has investigated the threat which appeared on an Internet bulletin board on the first of May. That investigation has determined that there is no substance to the threat.' "
Priest's heart sank. This was what he had expected, but all the same he was dismayed. He had hoped for at least some slight hint of appeasement. But Honeymoon sounded completely intractable.
Truth carried on reading. " 'Governor Mike Robson, following the FBI's recommendation, has decided to take no further action.' That, my friends, is the statement in its entirety." Truth obviously felt it was outrageously short. "Are you satisfied? The terrorist deadline runs out tomorrow. Do you feel reassured? Call John Truth on this number now to tell the world what you think."
Priest said: "That means we have to do it."
Melanie said: "Well, I never expected the governor to cave in without a demonstration."
"Nor did I, I guess." He frowned. "The statement mentioned the FBI twice. It sounds to me like Mike Robson is getting ready to blame the feds if things go wrong. And that makes me wonder if in his heart he's not so sure."
"So if we give him proof that we really can cause an earthquake ..."
"Maybe he'll think again."
Star looked downcast. "Shit," she said. "I guess I've been hoping we wouldn't have to do this."
Priest was alarmed. He did not want Star to get cold feet at this point. Her support was necessary to carry the rest of the Rice Eaters. "We can do this without hurting anyone," he said. "Melanie has picked the perfect location." He turned to the backseat. "Tell Star what we talked about."
Melanie leaned forward and unfolded a map so that Star and Priest could see it. She did not know that Priest could not read maps. "Here's the Owens Valley fault," she said, pointing to a red streak. "There were major earthquakes in 1790 and 1872, so another one is overdue."
Star said: "Surely earthquakes don't happen according to a regular timetable?"
"No. But the history of the fault shows that enough pressure for an earthquake builds up over about a century. Which means we can cause one now if we give a nudge in the right place."
"Which is where?" Star said.
Melanie pointed to a spot on the map. "Round about here."
"You can't be exact?"
"Not until I get there. Michael's data gives us the location within about a mile. When I look at the landscape I should be able to pinpoint the spot."
"How?"
"Evidence of earlier earthquakes."
"Okay."
"Now, the best time, according to Michael's seismic window, will be between one-thirty and two-twenty."
"How can you be sure no one will get hurt?"
"Look at the map. Owens Valley is thinly populated, just a few small towns strung along a dried-up riverbed. The point I've chosen is miles from any human habitation."
Priest added: "We can be sure the earthquake will be minor. The effects will hardly be felt in the nearest town." He knew this was not certain, and so did Melanie; but he gave her a hard stare, and she did not contradict him.
Star said: "If the effects are hardly felt, no one's going to give a shit, so why do it?"
She was being contrary, but that was just a sign of how tense she was. Priest said: "We said we would cause an earthquake tomorrow. As soon as we've done it, we'll call John Truth on Melanie's mobile phone and tell him we kept our promise." What a moment that will be, what a feeling!
"Will he believe us?"
Melanie said: "He'll have to, when he checks the seismograph."
Priest said: "Imagine how Governor Robson and his people will feel." He could hear the exultation in his own voice. "Especially that asshole Honeymoon. They'll be, like, 'Shit! These people really can cause earthquakes, man! What the fuck we gonna do?' "
"And then what?" said Star.
"Then we threaten to do it again. But this time, we don't give them a month. We give them a week."
"How will we make the threat? Same way we did before?"
Melanie answered. "I don't think so. I'm sure they have a way of monitoring the bulletin board and tracing the phone call. And if we use a different bulletin board, there's always the chance that no one will notice our message. Remember, it was three weeks before John Truth picked up on our last one."
"So we call and threaten a second earthquake."
Priest put in: "But next time it won't be in a remote wilderness--it'll be someplace where real damage will be done." He caught an apprehensive look from Star. "We don't have to mean it," he added. "Once we've shown our power, just the threat ought to be enough."
Star said: "Inshallah." She had picked it up from Poem, who was Algerian. "If God wills."
*
It was pitch dark when they left the next morning.
The seismic vibrator had not been seen in daylight within a hundred miles of the valley, and Priest wanted to keep it that way. He planned to leave home and return in darkness. The round trip would be about five hundred miles, eleven hours driving in a truck with a top speed of forty-five. They would take the 'Cuda as a backup car, Priest had decided. Oaktree would come with them to share the driving.
Priest used a flashlight to illuminate the way through the trees to where the truck was concealed. The four of them were silent, anxious. It took them half an hour to remove the branches they had piled over the vehicle.
He was tense when at last he sat behind the wheel, slid the key into the ignition, and turned on the engine. It started the first time with a satisfying roar, and he felt exultant.
The commune's houses were more than a mile away, and he was sure no one would hear the engine at such a distance. The dense forest muffled sound. Later, of course, everyone would notice that four commune members were away. Aneth had been briefed to say they had gone to a vineyard in Napa that Paul Beale wanted them to see, where a new hybrid vine had been planted. It was unusual for people to make trips out of the commune; but there would be few questions, for no one liked to challenge Priest.
He turned on the headlights, and Melanie climbed into the truck beside him. He engaged low gear and steered the heavy vehicle through the trees to the dirt track, then turned uphill and headed for the road. The all-terrain tires coped easily with streambeds and mudslides.
Jesus, I wonder if this is going to work.
An earthquake? Come on!
But it has to work.
He got on the road and headed east. After twenty minutes they climbed out of Silver River Valley and hit Route 89. Priest turned south. He checked his mirrors and saw that Star and Oaktree were still behind in the 'Cuda.
Beside him, Melanie was very calm. Probing gently, he said: "Was Dusty okay last night?"
"Fine, he likes visiting his father. Michael could always find time for him, never for me."
Melanie's bitterness was familiar. What surprised Priest was her lack of fear. Unlike him, she was not agonizing over what would ha
ppen to her child if she died today. She seemed completely confident that nothing would go wrong, the earthquake would not harm her. Was it that she knew more than Priest? Or was she the type of person who just ignored uncomfortable facts? Priest was not sure.
As dawn broke they were looping around the north end of Lake Tahoe. The motionless water looked like a disk of polished steel fallen amid the mountains. The seismic vibrator was a conspicuous vehicle on the winding road that followed the pine-fringed shore; but the vacationers were still asleep, and the truck was seen only by a few bleary-eyed workers on their way to jobs in hotels and restaurants.
By sunup they were on U.S. 395, across the border in Nevada, bowling south through a flat desert landscape. They took a break at a truck stop, parking the seismic vibrator where it could not be seen from the road, and ate a breakfast of oily western omelets and watery coffee.
When the road swung back into California it climbed into the mountains, and for a couple of hours the scenery was majestic, with steep forested slopes, a grander version of Silver River Valley. They dropped down again beside a silvery sea that Melanie said was Mono Lake.
Soon afterward they were on a two-lane road that cut a straight line down a long, dusty valley. The valley widened until the mountains on the far side were just a blue haze, then it narrowed again. The ground on either side of the road was tan colored and stony, with a scattering of low brush. There was no river, but the salt flats looked like a distant sheet of water.
Melanie said: "This is Owens Valley."
The landscape gave Priest the feeling that some kind of disaster had blighted it. "What happened here?" he said.
"The river is dry because the water was diverted to Los Angeles years ago."
They passed through a sleepy small town every twenty miles or so. Now there was no way to be inconspicuous. There was little traffic, and the seismic vibrator was stared at every time they waited at a stoplight. Plenty of men would remember it. Yeah, I seen that rig. Looked like she might be for layin' blacktop or somethin'. What was she, anyway?
Melanie switched on her laptop and unfolded her map. She said musingly: "Somewhere beneath us, two vast slabs of the earth's crust are wedged together, stuck, straining to spring free."
The thought made Priest feel cold. He could hardly believe he aimed to release all that pent-up destructive force. I must be out of my mind.