by Ken Follett
"Maybe the album itself will give us something."
Vinyl Vic's was a small store stuffed to bursting with old records. A few conventional sales racks in the middle of the floor had been swamped by cardboard boxes and fruit crates stacked to the ceiling. The place smelled like a dusty old library. There was one customer, a tattooed man in leather shorts, studying an early David Bowie album. At the back, a small, thin man in tight blue jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt stood beside a cash register, sipping coffee from a mug that said "Legalize it!"
Raja introduced himself. "You must be Vic. I spoke to you on the phone a few minutes ago."
Vic stared at them. He seemed surprised. He said: "Finally, the FBI hits my place, and it's two Asians? What happened?"
Raja said: "I'm the token nonwhite, and she's the token woman. Every FBI office has to have one of each, it's a rule. All the other agents are white men with short haircuts."
"Oh, right." Vic looked baffled. He didn't know whether Raja was kidding or not.
Judy said impatiently: "What about this record?"
"Here it is." Vic turned to one side, and Judy saw he had a turntable behind the cash register. He swung the arm over the disk and lowered the stylus. A burst of manic guitar introduced a surprisingly laid-back jazz-funk track with piano chords over a complex drumbeat. Then the woman's voice came in:
I am melting
Feel me melting
Liquefaction
Turning softer
"I think it's quite meaningful, actually," Vic said.
Judy thought it was crap, but she did not care. It was the voice on the John Truth tape, without question. Younger, clearer, gentler, but with that same unmistakable low, sexy tone. "Do you have the sleeve?" she said urgently.
"Sure." He handed it to her.
It was curling at the corners, and the transparent plastic coating was peeling off the glossy paper. The front had a swirling multicolored design that induced eyestrain. The words "Raining Fresh Daisies" could just be discerned. Judy turned it over. The back was grubby, and there was a coffee ring in the top right-hand corner.
The sleeve notes began: "Music opens the doors that lead to parallel universes...."
Judy skipped over the words. At the bottom was a row of five monochrome photographs, just head and shoulders, four men and a woman. She read the captions:
Dave Rolands, keyboards
Ian Kerry, guitar
Ross Muller, bass
Jerry Jones, drums
Stella Higgins, poetry
Judy frowned. "Stella Higgins," she said excitedly. "I believe I've heard that name before!" She felt sure, but she could not remember where. Maybe it was wishful thinking. She stared at the small black-and-white head shot. She saw a girl of about twenty with a smiling, sensual face framed by wavy dark hair and the wide, generous mouth Simon Sparrow had predicted. "She was beautiful," Judy murmured, almost to herself. She searched the face for the craziness that would make a person threaten an earthquake, but she could see no sign of it. All she saw was a young woman full of vitality and hope. What went wrong with your life?
"Can we borrow this?" Judy said.
Vic looked sulky. "I'm here to sell records, not lend them," he said.
She was not going to argue. "How much?"
"Fifty bucks."
"Okay."
He stopped the turntable, picked up the disk, and slipped it into its paper cover. Judy paid him. "Thank you, Vic. We appreciate your help."
Driving back in Raja's car, she said: "Stella Higgins. Where have I seen that name?"
Raja shook his head. "It doesn't ring any bells with me."
As they got out of the car, she gave him the album. "Make blowups of her photo and circulate them to police departments," she said. "Give the record to Simon Sparrow. You never know what he might come up with."
They entered into the command post. The big ballroom now looked crowded. The head shed had been augmented by another table. Among the people crowded around would be several more suits from FBI headquarters in Washington, Judy assumed, plus people from the city, state, and federal emergency management agencies.
She went to the investigation team table. Most of her people were working the phones, running down leads. Judy spoke to Carl Theobald. "What are you on?"
"Sightings of tan Plymouth 'Cudas."
"I've got something better for you. We have the California phone book on CD-ROM here somewhere. Look up the name Stella Higgins."
"And if I find her?"
"Call her and see if she sounds like the woman on the John Truth tape."
She sat at a computer and initiated a search of criminal records. There was a Stella Higgins in the files, she found. The woman had been fined for possession of marijuana and been given a suspended sentence for assaulting a police officer at a demonstration. Her date of birth was about right, and her address was on Haight Street. There was no picture in the database, but it sounded like the right woman.
Both convictions were dated 1968, and there was nothing since.
Stella's record was like that of Ricky Granger, who had dropped off the radar in the early seventies. Judy printed the file and pinned it to the suspect board. She sent an agent to check out the Haight Street address, though she felt sure Higgins would not be there thirty years later.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Bo. His eyes were full of concern. "My baby, what happened to your face?" He touched the bandage on her nose with gentle fingertips.
"I guess I was careless," she said.
He kissed the top of her head. "I'm on duty tonight, but I had to stop by and see how you are."
"Who told you I was hurt?"
"That married guy, Michael."
That married guy. She grinned. Reminding me that Michael belongs to someone else. "There's no real damage, but I guess I'm going to have two beautiful black eyes."
"You got to get some rest. When are you going home?"
"I don't know. I just made a breakthrough. Take a seat." She told him about Raining Fresh Daisies. "The way I see it, she's a beautiful girl living in San Francisco in the sixties, going on demos, smoking dope, and hanging out with rock bands. The sixties turn into the seventies, she becomes disillusioned or maybe just bored, and she hooks up with a charismatic guy who is on the run from the Mob. The two of them start a cult. Somehow the group survives, making jewelry or whatever, for three decades. Then something goes wrong. Somehow, their existence is threatened by a plan to build a power plant. As they face the ruin of everything they've worked for and built up over the years, they cast about for some way, any way, to block this power plant. Then a seismologist joins the group and comes up with a crazy idea."
Bo nodded. "It makes sense, or a kind of sense, the kind that appeals to wackos."
"Granger has the criminal experience to steal the seismic vibrator, and the personal magnetism to persuade other cult members to go along with the scheme."
Bo looked thoughtful. "They probably don't own their home," he said.
"Why?"
"Well, imagine they live someplace close to where this nuclear plant is going, so they have to move away. If they owned their house, or farm, or whatever, they'd get compensation, and they could start again somewhere else. So I'm guessing they have a short lease, or maybe they're squatters."
"You're probably right, but it doesn't help. There's no statewide database of land leases."
Carl Theobald came up with a notebook in his hand. "Three hits in the phone book. Stella Higgins in Los Angeles is a woman of about seventy with a quavery voice. Mrs. Higgins in Stockton has a strong accent from some African country, maybe Nigeria. And S. J. Higgins in Diamond Heights is a man called Sidney."
"Damn," Judy said. She explained to Bo: "Stella Higgins is the voice on the John Truth tape--and I'm sure I've seen the name before."
Bo said: "Try your own files."
"What?"
"If the name seems familiar, that could be because it has already come up during
this investigation. Search the case files."
"Good idea."
"I gotta go," he said. "With all these people getting out of the city and leaving their homes empty, the San Francisco PD is going to have a busy night. Good luck--and get some rest."
"Thanks, Bo." Judy activated the find function on the computer and had it search the entire Hammer of Eden directory for "Stella Higgins."
Carl watched over her shoulder. It was a big directory, and the search took a while.
Finally the screen flickered and said:
1 file(s) found
Judy felt a burst of elation.
Carl shouted: "Christ! The name is already in the computer!"
Oh, my God, I think I've found her.
Two more agents looked over Judy's shoulder as she opened the file.
It was a large document containing all the notes made by agents during the abortive raid on Los Alamos six days ago.
"What the hell?" Judy was mystified. "Was she at Los Alamos and we missed her?"
Stuart Cleever appeared at her side. "What's all the fuss about?"
"We've found the woman who called John Truth!" Judy said.
"Where?"
"Silver River Valley."
"How did she slip through your fingers?"
It was Marvin Hayes, not me, who organized that raid. "I don't know, I'm working on it, give me a minute!" She used the search function to locate the name in the notes.
Stella Higgins had not been at Los Alamos. That was why they had missed her.
Two agents had visited a winery a few miles up the valley. The site was rented from the federal government, and the name of the tenant was Stella Higgins.
"Damn, we were so close!" Judy cried in exasperation. "We almost had her a week ago!"
"Print this so everyone can see it," Cleever said.
Judy hit the print button and read on.
The agents had conscientiously noted the name and age of every adult at the winery. Some were couples with children, Judy saw, and most gave their address as that of the winery. So they were living there.
Maybe it was a cult, and the agents simply had not realized that.
Or the people had been careful to conceal the true nature of their community.
"We've got them!" Judy said. "We were sidetracked, the first time by Los Alamos, who seemed perfect suspects. Then, when they turned out to be clean, we thought we must be barking up the wrong tree. That made us careless about checking for other communes in that valley. So we overlooked the real perpetrators. But we've found them now."
Stuart Cleever said: "I think you're right." He turned to the SWAT team table. "Charlie, call the Sacramento office and organize a joint raid. Judy has the location. We'll hit them at first light."
Judy said: "We should raid them now. If we wait until morning, they may be gone."
"Why would they leave now?" Cleever shook his head. "Nighttime is too risky. The suspects can slip away in the darkness, especially in the countryside."
He had a point, but instinct told Judy not to wait. "I'd rather take that risk," she said. "Now that we know where they are, let's go get 'em."
"No," he said decisively. "No further discussion, please, Judy. We raid at dawn."
She hesitated. She was sure it was the wrong decision. But she was too tired to argue anymore. "So be it," she said. "What time do we head out, Charlie?"
Marsh looked at his watch. "Leaving here at two A.M."
"I may grab a couple of hours' rest."
She seemed to remember parking her car outside on the parade ground. It felt like months ago, but in fact it had been Thursday night, only forty-eight hours ago.
On the way out she met Michael. "You look exhausted," he said. "Let me drive you home."
"Then how will I get back here?"
"I'll nap on your couch and drive you back."
She stopped and looked at him. "I have to tell you, my face is so sore I don't think I could kiss, let alone anything else."
"I'll settle for holding your hand," he said with a smile.
I'm beginning to think this guy cares for me.
He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Well, what do you say?"
"Will you tuck me into bed, and bring me hot milk and aspirins?"
"Yes. Will you let me watch you sleep?"
Oh, boy, I'd like that better than anything in the world.
He read her expression. "I think I'm hearing yes," he said.
She smiled. "Yes."
*
Priest was mad as hell when he got back from Sacramento. He had been sure the governor was going to make a deal. He felt he was on the very brink of victory. He had been congratulating himself already. And it had all been a sham. Governor Robson had had no thought of making a deal. The whole thing had been a setup. The FBI had imagined they could catch him in a dumb-ass trap like some two-bit crook. It was the disrespect that really got to him. They thought he was some dope.
They would learn the truth. And the lesson would be dear.
It would cost them another earthquake.
Everyone at the commune was still stunned by the departure of Dale and Poem. It had reminded them of something they had been pretending to forget: that tomorrow they were all supposed to leave the valley.
Priest told the Rice Eaters how much pressure they had put on the governor. The freeways were still jammed with minivans full of kids and suitcases escaping from the earthquake to come. In the semideserted neighborhoods they had left behind, looters were walking out of suburban homes loaded with microwave ovens and CD players and computers.
But they also knew the governor showed no signs of giving in.
Although it was Saturday night, nobody wanted to party. After supper and evening worship, most of them retired to their cabins. Melanie went to the bunkhouse to read to the children. Priest sat outside his cabin, watching the moon go down over the valley, and slowly calmed down. He opened a five-year-old bottle of his own wine, a vintage with the smoky flavor he loved.
It was a battle of nerves, he told himself when he was able to think calmly. Who could tough it out longer, him or the governor? Which of them could best keep their people under control? Would the earthquakes bring the state government to its knees before the FBI could track Priest down to his mountain lair?
Star came into view, backlit by moonlight, walking barefoot and smoking a joint. She took a deep pull on the joint, bent over Priest, and kissed him, opening her mouth. He inhaled the intoxicating smoke from her lungs. He breathed out, smiled, and said: "I remember the first time you did that. It was the sexiest thing that ever happened to me."
"Really?" she said. "Sexier than a blow job?"
"A lot. Remember, when I was seven years old I saw my mother giving a blow job to a john. She never kissed them, though. I was the only person she kissed. She told me that."
"Priest, what a hell of a life you've had."
He frowned. "You make it sound as if it's over."
"This part of it is over, though, isn't it?"
"No!"
"It's almost midnight. Your deadline is about to run out. The governor isn't going to give in."
"He has to," Priest said. "It's only a matter of time." He stood up. "I have to listen to the radio news."
She walked with him as he crossed the vineyard in the moonlight and climbed the track to the cars. "Let's go away," she said suddenly. "Just you and me and Flower. Let's get in a car, right now, and leave. We won't say good-bye, or pack a bag, or even take spare clothes or anything. We'll just take off, the way I did when I left San Francisco in 1969. We'll go where the mood takes us--Oregon, or Las Vegas, or even New York. What about Charleston? I've always wanted to see the South."
Without answering, he got in the Cadillac and turned on the radio. Star sat beside him. Brenda Lee was singing "Let's Jump the Broomstick."
"Come on, Priest, what do you say?"
The news came on, and he turned up the volume.
"Suspected Hammer
of Eden terrorist leader Richard Granger slipped through the fingers of the FBI in Sacramento today. Meanwhile, residents fleeing neighborhoods near the San Andreas fault have brought traffic to a standstill on many freeways within the San Francisco Bay Area, with miles of cars blocking long sections of Interstate Routes 280, 580, 680, and 880. And a Haight-Ashbury rare-record dealer claims FBI agents bought from him an album with a photograph of another terrorist suspect."
"Album?" Star said. "What the fuck ...?"
"Store owner Vic Plumstead told reporters the FBI called him in to help track down a sixties album, which they believed featured the voice of one of the Hammer of Eden suspects. After days of effort, he said, he found the album, by an obscure rock band, Raining Fresh Daisies."
"Jesus Christ! I'd almost forgotten them myself!"
"The FBI would not confirm or deny they are seeking the vocalist, Stella Higgins."
"Shit!" Star burst out. "They know my name!"
Priest's mind was racing. How dangerous was this? The name was not much use to them. Star had not used it for almost thirty years. No one knew where Stella Higgins lived.
Yes, they did.
He suppressed a groan of despair. The name Stella Higgins was on the lease for this land. And he had said that to the two FBI agents who had come here on the day they raided Los Alamos.
This changed everything. Sooner or later someone at the FBI would make the connection.
And if by some mischance the FBI failed to figure it out, there was a Silver City sheriff's deputy, currently on vacation in the Bahamas, who had written the name "Stella Higgins" on a file that was due to come up in court in a couple of weeks' time.
Silver River Valley was a secret no more.
The thought made him unbearably sad.
What could he do?
Maybe he should run away with Star now. The keys were in the car. They could be in Nevada in a couple of hours. By midday tomorrow they would be five hundred miles away.
Hell, no. I'm not beat yet.
He could still hold things together.
His original plan had been that the authorities would never know who the Hammer of Eden were or why they had demanded a ban on new power plants. Now the FBI was about to find out--but maybe they could be forced to keep it secret. That could become part of Priest's demand. If they could bring themselves to agree to the freeze, they could swallow this, too.
Yes, it was outrageous--but this whole thing was outrageous. He could do it.
But he would have to stay out of the clutches of the FBI.