by Ken Follett
"I have to go check on Dusty," Melanie said. She was close to tears. "Oh, Priest, he's so sick--we won't have to leave the valley, will we? I'm scared. I'll never find another place where we can be happy, I know it."
Priest hugged her to give her courage. "I'm not beaten yet, not by a long shot. What else does the article say?"
She picked up the paper. "There was a demonstration outside the Federal Building in San Francisco." She smiled through her tears. "A group of people who say the Hammer of Eden are right, the FBI should leave us alone, and Governor Robson should stop building power plants."
Priest was pleased. "Well, what do you know. There are still a few Californians who can think straight!" Then he became solemn again. "But that doesn't help me figure out how to drive the truck without getting pulled over by the first cop who sees it."
"I'm going to Dusty," she said.
Priest went with her. In her cabin, Dusty lay on the bed, eyes streaming, face red, panting for breath. Flower sat beside him, reading aloud from a book with a picture of a giant peach on the cover. Priest touched his daughter's hair. She looked up at him and smiled without pausing in her reading.
Melanie got a glass of water and gave Dusty a pill. Priest felt sorry for Dusty, but he could not help remembering that the boy's illness was a lucky break for the commune. Melanie was caught in a trap. She believed she had to live where the air was pure, but she could not get a job outside the city. The commune was the only answer. If she had to leave here, she might find another, similar commune to take her in--but she might not, and anyway, she was too exhausted and discouraged to hit the road again.
And there was more to it than that, he thought. Deep inside her was a terrible rage. He did not know the source of it, but it was strong enough to make her yearn to shake the earth and burn cities and cause people to run screaming from their homes. Most of the time it was hidden beneath the facade of a sexy but disorganized young woman. But sometimes, when her will was thwarted and she felt frustrated and powerless, the anger showed.
He left them and headed for Star's cabin, worrying over the problem of the truck. Star might have some ideas. Maybe there was a way they could disguise the seismic vibrator so that it looked like some other kind of vehicle, a Coke truck or a crane or something.
He stepped into the cabin. Star was putting a Band-Aid on Ringo's knee, something she had to do about once a day. Priest smiled at his ten-year-old son and said: "What did you do this time, cowboy?" Then he noticed Bones.
He was lying on the bed, fully clothed but fast asleep--or more likely passed out. There was an empty bottle of Silver River Valley chardonnay on the rough wooden table. Bones's mouth was open, and he was snoring softly.
Ringo began to tell Priest a long story about trying to cross the stream by swinging from a tree, but Priest hardly listened. The sight of Bones had given him inspiration, and his mind was working feverishly.
When Ringo's grazed knee had been attended to, and the boy ran out, Priest told Star about the problem of the seismic vibrator. Then he told her the solution.
*
Priest, Star, and Oaktree helped Bones pull the big tarpaulin off the carnival ride. The vehicle stood revealed in its glorious, gaudy colors: a green dragon breathing red-and-yellow fire over three screaming girls in a spinning seat, and the gaudy lettering that, Bones had told Priest, said "The Dragon's Mouth."
Priest spoke to Oaktree. "We drive this vehicle up the track a way and park it next to the seismic vibrator. Then we take off these painted panels and fix them to our truck, covering the machinery. The cops are looking for a seismic vibrator, not a carnival ride."
Oaktree, who was carrying his toolbox, looked closely at the panels, examining the way they were fixed. "No problem," he said after a minute. "I can do it in a day, with one or two people helping me."
"And can you put the panels back afterward, so that Bones's ride will look the same?"
"Good as new," Oaktree promised.
Priest looked at Bones. The great snag with this scheme was that Bones had to be in on it. In the old days Priest would have trusted Bones with his life. He was a Rice Eater, after all. Perhaps he could not be relied upon to show up for his own wedding, but he could keep a secret. However, since Bones had become a junkie, all bets were off. Heroin lobotomized people. A junkie would steal his mother's wedding ring.
But Priest had to take the risk. He was desperate. He had promised an earthquake four days from now, and he had to carry out his threat. Otherwise all was lost.
Bones agreed readily to the plan. Priest had half expected him to demand payment. However, he had been living free at the commune for four days, so it was too late for him to put his relationship with Priest on a commercial footing. Besides, as a communard Bones knew that the greatest imaginable sin was to value things in money terms.
Bones would be more subtle. In a day or two he would ask Priest for cash to go score some smack. Priest would cross that bridge when he came to it.
"Let's get to it," he said.
Oaktree and Star climbed into the cab of the carnival ride with Bones. Melanie and Priest took the 'Cuda for the mile-long ride to where the seismic vibrator was hidden.
Priest wondered what else the FBI knew. They had figured out that the earthquake had been triggered using a seismic vibrator. Had they progressed any further? He turned on the car radio, hoping for a bulletin. He got Connie Francis singing "Breakin' in a Brand New Broken Heart," an oldie even by his standards.
The 'Cuda bumped along the muddy track through the forest behind Bones's truck. Bones handled the big rig confidently, Priest observed, even though he had only just been roused from a drunken sleep. There was a moment when Priest felt sure the carnival ride was going to get stuck in a mudslide, but it pulled through without stopping.
The news came on just as they drew near the hiding place of the seismic vibrator. Priest turned up the volume.
What he heard turned him pale with shock.
"Federal agents investigating the Hammer of Eden terrorist group have issued a photographic likeness of a suspect," the newsreader said. "He has been named as Richard or Ricky Granger, aged forty-eight, formerly of Los Angeles."
Priest said: "Jesus Christ!" and slammed on the brakes.
"Granger is also wanted for a murder in Shiloh, Texas, nine days ago."
"What?" No one knew he had killed Mario, not even Star.
The Rice Eaters were desperately keen to cause an earthquake that might kill hundreds, but all the same they would be appalled to know he had battered a man to death with a wrench. People were inconsistent.
"That's not true," Priest said to Melanie. "I didn't kill anyone."
Melanie was staring at him. "Is that your real name?" she said. "Ricky Granger?"
He had forgotten that she did not know. "Yeah," he said. He racked his brains to think who knew his real name. He had not used it for twenty-five years, except in Shiloh. Suddenly he remembered that he had gone to the sheriff's office in Silver City, to get Flower out of jail, and his heart stopped for a moment; then he recalled that the deputy had assumed he had the same name as Star and called him Mr. Higgins. Thank God.
Melanie said: "How did they get a photo of you?"
"Not a photo," he said. "A photographic likeness. That must mean one of those Identikit pictures that they make up."
"I know what you mean," she said. "Only they use a computer program now."
"There's a computer program for every goddamn thing," Priest muttered. He was now very glad he had changed his appearance before taking the job in Shiloh. It had been worth the time it took to grow a beard, the bother of pinning up his hair every day, and the nuisance of having to wear a hat all the time. With luck, the photographic likeness would not remotely resemble the way he looked now.
But he needed to be sure.
"I need to get to a TV," he said.
He jumped out of the car. The carnival ride had pulled over near the hiding place of the seismic vibr
ator, and Oaktree and Star were getting out. In a few words he explained the situation to them. "You make a start here while I drive into Silver City," he said. "I'll take Melanie--I want her opinion, too."
He got back in the car, drove out of the woods, and headed for Silver City.
On the outskirts of the small town there was an electronics store. Priest parked and they got out.
Priest looked around nervously. It was still light. What if he should meet someone who had seen his face on TV? Everything hung on whether the picture was like him. He had to know. He had to take a chance. He approached the store.
The window displayed several TV sets all showing the same picture. The program was some kind of game show. A silver-haired host in a powder blue suit was joshing a middle-aged woman wearing too much eyeliner.
Priest glanced up and down the sidewalk. There was no one else about. He looked at his watch: almost seven. The news would be on in a few seconds.
The silver-haired host put his arm around the woman and spoke to the camera. There was a shot of an audience applauding with hysterical enthusiasm. Then the news came on. There were two anchors, a man and a woman. They spoke for a few seconds.
Then the multiple screens showed a black-and-white picture of a heavily bearded man in a cowboy hat.
Priest stared at it.
The picture did not look like him at all.
"What do you think?" he said.
"Even I wouldn't know it was supposed to be you," Melanie said.
Relief washed over him in a tidal wave. His disguise had worked. The beard changed the shape of his face, and the hat hid his most distinctive feature, the long, thick, wavy hair. Even he might not have recognized the picture if he had not known it was supposed to be him.
He relaxed. "Thank you, god of the hippies," he said.
The screens all flickered, and another picture appeared. Priest was shocked to see, reproduced a dozen times, a police photo of himself at nineteen. He was so thin, his face looked like a skull. He was trim now, but in those days, doping and drinking and never eating a regular meal, he had been a skeleton. His face was drawn, his expression sullen. His hair was lank and dull, with a Beatles haircut that must have been out of date even then.
Priest said: "Would you recognize me?"
"Yes," she said. "By the nose."
He looked again. She was right; the picture showed his distinctive narrow nose, like a curved knife.
Melanie added: "But I don't think anyone else would know you, certainly not strangers."
"That's what I thought."
She put an arm around his waist and squeezed affectionately. "You looked like such a bad boy when you were young."
"I guess I was."
"Where did they get that picture, anyway?"
"From my police record, I'm assuming."
She looked up at him. "I didn't know you had a police record. What did you do?"
"You want a list?"
She seemed shocked and disapproving. Don't get moral on me, baby--remember who told us how to cause an earthquake. "I gave up the life of crime when I came to the valley," he said. "I didn't do anything wrong for the next twenty-five years--until I met you."
A frown wrinkled her brow. She did not think of herself as a criminal, he realized. In her own eyes she was a normally respectable citizen who had been driven to commit a desperate act. She still believed she was of a different race from people who robbed and murdered.
Work it out any way you like, honey--just stay with the plan.
The two anchors reappeared, then the scene shifted to a skyscraper. A line of words appeared at the bottom of the screen. Priest did not need to be able to read them: he recognized the place. It was the Federal Building, where the FBI had its San Francisco office. A demonstration was going on, and Priest recalled Melanie reading about it in the newspaper. They were demonstrating in support of the Hammer of Eden, she had said. A bunch of people with placards and bullhorns were haranguing a group entering the building.
The camera focused on a young woman with an Asian cast to her features. She caught Priest's eye because she was beautiful in the exotic way that strongly appealed to him. She was slender and dressed in an elegant dark pantsuit, but she had a formidable don't-fuck-with-me look on her face, and she elbowed her way through the crowd with a calm ruthlessness.
Melanie said: "Oh, my God, it's her!"
Priest was startled. "You know that woman?"
"I met her on Sunday!"
"Where?"
"At Michael's apartment, when I went to get Dusty."
"Who is she?"
"Michael just introduced her as Judy Maddox, he didn't say anything about her."
"What's she doing at the Federal Building?"
"It says, right there on the screen: 'FBI agent Judy Maddox, in charge of Hammer of Eden case.' She's the detective who's after us!"
Priest was fascinated. Was this his enemy? She was gorgeous. Just looking at her on TV made him want to touch her golden skin with his fingertips.
I should be scared, not turned on. She's a hell of a detective. She caught on about the seismic vibrator, found out where it came from, and got my name and picture. She's smart and she works fast.
"And you met her at Michael's place?"
"Yes."
Priest was spooked. She was too close. She had met Melanie! His intuition told him he was in great danger from this agent. The fact that he was so attracted to her, after seeing her only briefly on TV, made it worse. It was as if she had some kind of power over him.
Melanie went on: "Michael didn't say she was with the FBI. I thought she was a new girlfriend, so I kind of froze her out. She brought this older guy with her, said he was her father, though he didn't look Asian."
"Girlfriend or not, I don't like her getting this close to us!" He turned away from the store and walked slowly back to the car. His brain was racing. Maybe it was not so surprising that the agent on the case had consulted a leading seismologist. Agent Maddox had talked to Michael for the same reason Priest had: he knew about earthquakes. Priest guessed it was Michael who had helped her make the link to the seismic vibrator.
What else had he told her?
They sat in the car, but Priest did not start the engine. "This is bad for us," he said. "Very bad."
"What's bad?" Melanie said defensively. "It's okay if Michael wants to screw around with an FBI agent. Maybe she sticks her gun up his ass. I don't care."
It was not like her to talk dirty. She's really shook. "What's bad is, Michael could give her the same information he gave us."
Melanie frowned. "I don't get it."
"Think about it. What's on Agent Maddox's mind? She's asking: 'Where will the Hammer of Eden strike next?' Michael can help her with that. He can look at his data, same way you did, and figure out the most likely places for an earthquake. Then the FBI can stake out those locations and watch for a seismic vibrator."
"I never thought of that." Melanie stared at him. "My fucking bastard husband and his FBI floozie are going to screw this up for us, is that what you're telling me?"
Priest glanced at her. She looked about ready to cut his throat. "Calm down, will you?"
"God damn."
"Wait a minute." Priest was getting an idea. Melanie was the link. Maybe she could find out what Michael had told the beautiful FBI agent. "There could be a way around this. Tell me something, how do you feel about Michael now?"
"Like, nothing. It's over, and I'm glad. I just hope we can work out our divorce without too much hostility, is all."
Priest studied her. He did not believe her. What she felt for Michael was rage. "We have to know whether the FBI has staked out possible earthquake locations--and if so, which ones. I think he might tell you."
"Why would he do that?"
"I believe he's still carrying a torch for you, sort of."
She stared at him. "Priest, what the hell is this about?"
Priest took a deep breath. "He'd tell you anyth
ing, if you slept with him."
"Fuck you, Priest, I won't do it. Fuck you!"
"I hate to ask you." It was true. He did not want her to sleep with Michael. He believed that no one should have sex unless they wanted to. He had learned from Star that the most disgusting thing about marriage was the right it gave one person to have sex with another. So this whole scheme was a betrayal of his beliefs. "But I have no choice."
"Forget it," Melanie said.
"Okay," he said. "I'm sorry I asked." He started the car. "I just wish I could think of some other way."
They were silent for a few minutes, driving through the mountains.
"I'm sorry, Priest," she said eventually. "I just can't do it."
"I told you, don't worry about it."
They turned off the road and drove down the long, rough track toward the commune. The carnival ride was no longer visible from the track; Priest guessed that Oaktree and Star had concealed it for the night.
He parked in the cleared circle at the end of the track. As they walked through the woods to the village in the twilight, he took Melanie's hand. After a moment's hesitation she moved closer to him and squeezed his hand fondly.
Work in the vineyard was over. Because of the warm weather, the big table had been dragged out of the cookhouse into the yard. Some of the children were putting out plates and cutlery while Slow sliced a long loaf of home-baked bread. There were bottles of the commune's own wine on the table, and a spicy aroma was drifting over the scene.
Priest and Melanie went to Melanie's hut to check on Dusty. They saw immediately that he was better. He was sleeping peacefully. The swelling had gone down, his nose had stopped running, and he was breathing normally. Flower had gone to sleep in the chair beside the bed, with the book open on her lap.
Priest watched as Melanie tucked in the sheet around the sleeping boy and kissed his forehead. She looked up at Priest and whispered: "This is the only place he's ever been okay."
"It's the only place I've ever been okay," Priest said quietly. "It's the only place the world has ever been okay. That's why we have to save it."
"I know," she said. "I know."
14
The Domestic Terrorism squad of the San Francisco FBI worked in a narrow room along one side of the Federal Building. With its desks and room dividers it looked like a million other offices, except that the shirtsleeved young men and smart-suited women wore guns in holsters on their hips or under their arms.