by John Farris
Sherard said, "Can't do it. There's too much risk. We've reason to believe your host is bugged but doesn't have a clue."
After a few seconds Cheng said cautiously, "Some leading experts from a well-known private firm can negative that."
Sherard glanced at Bertie, who nodded.
"Put it this way. Tall Girl thinks a trusted and loyal aide of our friend may have had outpatient surgery recently, perhaps to remove a suspicious mole behind his left ear. Check his medical history. If there was a mole or even an ordinary wen and it was taken, something else quite unobtrusive might have replaced it. This could be confirmed at a good private clinic, say in Switzerland or Buenos Aires."
"Tall Girl?" Danny Cheng said, requesting an opinion.
"He seemed overworked to me, poor guy. He could use a vacation while having that checkup. I'd see that he was on a plane tonight."
"So those are his travel plans. What about yours? Not hanging around the hot zone, are you?"
"Waiting on a pizza," Sherard said. "And you're fading out."
"I got messed with pretty good last night. Somebody's going to suffer." He coughed hard again. "Need to go hawk up some more black stuff and catch a nap. We'll talk later. Like the melancholy hooker, I'm just too blue to blow right now."
Geoff McTyer reached the river bottom after twenty minutes of laborious descent, his toes bruised from being jammed to the front of his inappropriate running shoes while he braked his way downhill. The river was running briskly and loud beyond the thinning trees. He badly wanted water but even this far from civilization giardia was a hazard, no matter how pure the streams looked. He licked his dry swollen lips, tasted blood where the underlip had cracked open again, and stood within a dozen feet of the riverbank for a minute or so, catching his breath, getting used to the light. He had been traveling in deep shade most of the way down. Here the sunlight was stronger but subdued, as if it were filtered through greenhouse glass.
He heard voices, then a canoe suddenly went past him. If either of the occupants had looked up they would have seen him, but they were both busy navigating a shoal close to the bank. Laughing. Then the bottom of the battered aluminum canoe scraped rocks fifty feet downriver and slowed, listing slightly, swinging around sideways in a secondary current away from the main channel. The college kids, a girl and a boy, jumped out and dragged their canoe to shore. They wore flotation vests over long-sleeved athletic warmups and hiking shorts with low-topped boots. They were both wet; soaked, in her case. But having a great time. Watching them, Geoff felt as if he were looking back from the end of his life at the happiness he had known with Eden in similar circumstances. The girl grabbed a rucksack out of the canoe and said she was going to change. The look she gave the guy was an invitation to follow her, back into the trees where they wouldn't be disturbed.
Geoff figured they were giving him at least fifteen minutes, maybe longer, to steal their canoe. Depending on whether they were going to have stand-up sex or just fool around while getting into dry clothes. Then it might take them the rest of the afternoon to walk out of the wilderness and report the theft. If there was anything else in the canoe—food, bedrolls—he'd leave it for them.
Ten minutes later he was moving swiftly downstream toward the Valleyheart bridge. There were a couple of canoes and several kayaks beached near the bridge, where the roadblock was still in effect. But now they were letting vehicles pass through town after the deputies looked them over. He saw a helicopter on a baseball field, and FBI field agents everywhere. A tactical force, but not one he was familiar with. Probably from Impact Sector, the deep-cover group his father had begun as a partial answer to MORG. Geoff had never seen anything like the helicopter. It was a stealth fighter with rotors, huge and menacing.
For a few bad moments he thought the cops were stopping traffic on the river as they broadened their search for him. Then he realized the boats belonged to a church group on an outing. They'd paused for sandwiches and ice cream. None of the law enforcement personnel were paying attention to them.
The river was running rough and a little tricky above the bridge. He had to concentrate to maneuver the old canoe through some good-sized boulders. He was wearing a pair of taped-together sunglasses he'd found on the floor of the canoe and a spare yellow flotation vest. And he was wet, hair flattened and clinging to his forehead. They'd have photos of him by now, up on the bridge, but his official FBI ID picture was almost three years out-of-date. The more recent photo from Innisfall PD had never flattered him much anyway.
He'd reached the bridge, keeping his head down as much as possible. There could be another helicopter in the air, covering a wide area with its cameras. He was wary of technological marvels, the one-in-a million chance he could be nailed by a computer programmed to compare his facial bone structure, scanned from a quick snapshot, with measurements on file in his medical history.
But it wasn't lightning-fast technology that did Geoff in; it was pure chance. That, and a pair of borrowed, loose-fitting sunglasses.
CHAPTER 41
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA • MAY 29 • 3:47 P.M. PDT
The FBI building in Sacramento, the state capital, was ordinarily a somnolent place on a Sunday, particularly a Sunday before a national holiday, but Special Agent in Charge Dolph Hackett had canceled everyone's day or weekend off. Before the day was over the Director might be there, and Hackett, just thirty-two and on a fast track with the Review Board, was acting unusually tight-assed with those agents who had not been dispatched to Innisfall and the clerical staff as well. Not knowing precisely what was going down both annoyed Hackett and made him uneasy. He knew who Eden Waring was, but he didn't know why she was, unofficially, a fugitive, a subject of intense interest to Hyde himself. All of the Bureau's activities so far in tracking her down were, to Hackett's mind, extralegal. Or if they were not, he had yet to see the appropriate authorizations. They were acting at a level of wartime emergency. And what was so important about Geoff McTyer, Waring's boyfriend and a small-town police officer, that had earned him the designation "Runaway"?
Then there was this character from Impact Sector, this cross-dressing covert temporarily known as Phil Haman, sitting nearly mute in the interrogation room. Going on five and a half hours now. Drinking a lot of black coffee, making frequent trips to the bathroom, but refusing to scrub the disgusting makeup off his face, remove the wig and padded bra, put on a man's clothes. What was with the goddamn Rona Harvester impersonation, Hackett wondered, the mannerisms and dead-on voice?
Hackett was tempted to see if he could pry some useful information out of Haman (to use his current handle). But assassins bothered him, as they did most of the straight-edge, ambitious young agents the Bureau still managed to recruit and keep. All of them knew about Impact Sector, but avoided talking about it. There was occasional, very quiet speculation about who might be in charge there. Wherever there was. Impact Sector, some of the agents believed, was allied with the unit of the Special Operations Group exclusively devoted to MORG surveillance. Everyone with the Bureau accepted, as an article of faith, that MORG was relentless in its efforts to choke off funding to the Bureau, eventually bulldoze the J. Edgar Hoover Building to rubble and push the entire pile into the tidal basin. Only the efforts of Allen Dunbar, until very recently the dual chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and the Senate Judiciary Committee, had so far kept the powers of the rival intelligence agencies somewhat in balance.
Hackett's father had been Executive Assistant Director over investigations in the last years of Hoover's reign. He had known almost all there was to know about the founder's personal peculiarities and official derelictions. But "Hardball" Hackett had never uttered a disparaging word about either his boss or the Bureau while raising two of his sons to join him at the FBI. Charles had defected to the Blackwelder organization early on, but Dolph had his father's code of loyalty. He respected Robert Hyde, and could tolerate the covert stuff because everybody did it; you adopted the enemy's tactics
in order to survive. Still he didn't relish close contact with a stone killer like the cross-dressing Haman. And he'd been directed to leave Haman in isolation until further notice. A visit, possibly from the head of Impact Sector—whoever he was—could be in the works.
Hackett indulged his curiosity by dropping around to the viewing room where Haman, in the adjoining room, was under constant watch through one-way glass.
"What has he been doing?" Hackett asked the agent who was one of two men assigned in half-hour shifts to keep an eye on their covert.
"Crossword puzzles. About every fifteen minutes he gets up and pours another cup of coffee. Drinks it, goes to take a pee. Standing up, I might add. He doesn't close the door is how we know that. Comes back, does another crossword puzzle. Hasn't touched the sandwiches we provided. Oh, and watch this."
Haman had put down his pencil and book of puzzles. Something had come over him, a lurking fear. He raised a hand to his throat, where there was evidence of a rope burn. He looked left slowly, then right. Then he turned in his chair and studied the room in its entirety. Table, three wooden chairs, a freestanding bookcase with nothing on it but the Mr. Coffee machine and plastic bowls containing packets of artificial sweeteners and a nondairy creamer. There was a water cooler in one corner with a blue tinted five-gallon bottle upside down on it. Blinds on the east-facing windows. The door to the small bathroom stood open. Haman continued to massage his throat. Then he suddenly bent over and looked under the table. He straightened immediately and looked around again, moving his head and upper body instead of just his eyes.
Finally he was still. His gaze became fixed on the mirror behind which Hackett and the other FBI agent were watching. He seemed to know someone was there. A strange chilling smile appeared. Then he picked up his pencil and crossword puzzle magazine and settled back into his routine, sipping coffee while he worked a puzzle.
"What do you make of him?" the subordinate asked Hackett.
"Bit of a fidget, as my English nanny used to say."
"Yeah. Wonder what he looks like under all that makeup? Are you going to talk to him?"
"No. He's not our deal. Leave him be until IS takes him off our hands."
The water cooler in the interrogation room belched. The pencil in Haman's hand snapped in two. He looked at the cooler and then at the pieces, reached out and placed them on the table along with the puzzle book. He appeared to be making up his mind about something. Then he stood and began deliberately to undress, beginning with the Rona Harvester wig. The padded bra and Jockey shorts came off. Then the false eyelashes. He walked into the bathroom and began to remove the makeup with a damp towel. When he returned bare-assed and bare-faced to the interrogation room the agent watching with Hackett gasped.
"Jesus, look at that! He's all bone and scar tissue."
Hackett said with a grimace of disgust, "Tell Leona to go out and get him something to wear at Target. A pair of overalls, anything. One of those Stetsons with a bulldogger crease that'll hide some of his face."
The assassin temporarily known as Phil Haman sat down and folded his arms across his bony chest. His eyes closed almost immediately. He took three deep breaths by mouth and his head nodded forward. Just that quickly he was asleep. His mouth remained open. Some drool ran down from one corner and dripped from his chin. They heard a raspy snore.
Dolph Hackett shook his head and went back to the conference room in use as a command center while the Director was personally conducting an operation close to the Sacramento FO. The next time he had occasion to think about Haman, one of his agents had a separated shoulder and a concussion, another had a crushed larynx, and Haman was nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER 42
MOBY BAY • MAY 29 • 4:28 P.M. PDT
Chauncey had come to the door of her bedroom a couple of times to check on Eden while she was sobbing her heart out. On her third trip all was quiet inside. She knocked, and Eden answered in muffled tones that Chauncey interpreted as an invitation to come in. She shut the door behind her because the house was getting noisy, particularly in the kitchen. Nearly everyone in Moby Bay seemed to be arriving at the same time for the barbecue and, after dark, a patriotic fireworks display at the edge of the Pacific. The music on the outdoor speakers was loud and rocking: Linda Ronstadt's cover of Chuck Berry's Back in the USA.
Eden had curled up on Chauncey's bed. The shutters were closed. Chauncey slipped down beside Eden, dabbed under her eyes with a tissue, held her hand.
"What did you find out?" Eden asked.
"You know hospitals. They don't get specific. The computer has Betts listed as serious but stable. No visitors, no phone calls."
"I can't call her? Why not?"
"That's all the information I have."
Eden sat up. "But what about Dad?"
"I phoned all three funeral homes. He's at Brickalow's."
"Oh GodohGodmyGod, Riley. I can't, I just—I've got to go home, Chauncey! I want to see Betts, there're arrangements to be made. People to call, Riley's brothers and sister—"
Chauncey gripped her hand more tightly. "Eden, listen to me. I don't know how you found out something had happened to your mom and dad. I'm sure it's not my place to know because you're the Avatar and your powers are beyond my—"
"Will you stop? All I'm asking is for you to drive me to Innisfall, or if you don't want to, then loan me your wheels and I'll—"
"Something's going on, I get that much, and I think you may be in danger. The man I spoke to at the funeral home, he ... sounded surprised when I asked about Riley. Surprised, cautious. Then he had too many questions. Wanted to know who I was, asked me if I knew where you were. Asked three times, was I sure I didn't know how to contact you, and there was something about his tone, as if he thought I was lying."
"So what? It's a funeral home. They have my father. There are procedures to follow, I guess."
"He wanted to know how I knew Riley was, uh, deceased. Like it was privileged information. And why no visitors for Betts? If she were in critical care I could understand. I just have a creepy feeling about all this. What you might be walking into."
"Innisfall is my home. I was raised there. I have friends who will help me!"
"They were your friends yesterday. Before the plane crash. Are they your friends today?"
"That is an awful—what do you mean?"
"I think you know what I mean. The last time I looked at the news on TV, there was still a mob scene outside your house. I'll bet there are some interesting messages on your answering machine. You're an instant celebrity, Eden. But there's a kind of religious hysteria building around your celebrity. You've attracted followers already. You're a source of inspiration to the gullible or the devout. And you could be prey for the wrong kind of people, the Bad Souls. Some of them work for governments."
"Thanks, I needed the shit scared out of me." Eden fell silent, breathing slowly. Her eyes were red from crying, but alert. Chauncey studied her, concerned. Eden resumed in a subdued voice, "I know, Chauncey. A lot of what you've said is true. There's a guy I loved and made love to, he—he was spying on me all the time. I don't know what that's about. Who sent him to—to study and humiliate and betray me? But I will find out. And I swear none of them will get off easy." She looked up at Chauncey. "You're right. I need to be careful. I don't feel special but I know I'm different. Always have been. I've had dreams all of my life. Prophetic dreams. I dreamed about Portland. Three times. Then it happened. I couldn't do anything. Last night I dreamed about another city. For the third time. It's becoming clearer to me, but I still don't know where it is. There's a big university, close to downtown. A wide, wide river just outside of the city. Maybe it's a lake. Beautiful. The city is hilly and green, lots of churches. I think a bomb is on the way, right now, to this city. Thousands more will die. I can't allow that. I have to stop them, whoever they are. I'm so sick about Riley. Sad for Betts. But I know she'll be okay without me for a little while. And I have things to do. Things to do. Please
help me, Chauncey. I feel so alone."
CHAPTER 43
WESTBOUND/VALLEYHEART TO MOBY BAY • MAY 29 • 4:57 P.M. PDT
Two big, and largely unknown (to the general public), dark gray "Conan" I helicopters traveled seaward over the Humboldt redwoods southeast of Cape Mendocino, destination Moby Bay, California: specifically latitude 40° 28'19" N, longitude 124° 24'46" W, the precise location of a one-story, four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath home of redwood siding with a shake-shingle roof, one and three-quarter miles from the center of town, on a long, gently sloping, nearly treeless headland with an eye-filling vista of the ocean. The home of Wick and Mia McLain and their two children. Chauncey, twenty-one, and Roald, who has just turned thirteen.
The FBI did not have dossiers on either of the adult McLains. Routine stuff had turned up from the credit bureau computers. Wick, a self-employed artist, got behind on the Visa card occasionally, but he was punctual about his car and mortgage payments, so he maintained a fairly decent credit rating. The McLains appeared to be unremarkable small-town churchgoing Americans—except, oddly enough, Moby Bay had no church of any denomination.
The photo recon pictures generated by NSA's digital cameras aboard a K-234 satellite nicknamed "Jack Flash" and currently in geocentric orbit far above this two-acre plot of California coastline, showed a Memorial weekend cookout in progress at the McLains'. Sixty guests, with more arriving as the helos moved in: most of them were outside. Robert Hyde counted another dozen people circulating inside the spacious house; all of the bathrooms were occupied.