by John Farris
"No. W-what time is it?"
"Time doesn't mean anything to you anymore, Geoff."
His eyes were smarting. He rubbed his throat, trying to ease the choking tension there. He turned away from Chauncey, seeing the flames on the rock again like radiant branches of a tree nourished by the consumed heart of his father.
"Oh, Geoff?"
He turned back to her. Chauncey's right hand was out. He saw a compact Glock automatic lying in her palm.
"This is yours, isn't it?"
He stared at the pistol for a few seconds, then waded three steps toward Chauncey. The surf beyond the misted bay was like the blood rushing through his heart. His fingers closed over the dull black slide of the Glock, fingertips grazing Chauncey's wrist. It was unexpected, that touch, comforting in a way. Imagining himself blind and finding a flower in the dark. A single beat of his heart said courage.
Geoff looked up and into her eyes.
"Thought I'd lost it," he told her. He lifted the Glock from her hand. Held it as he might've held a key poised at the threshold of a lock on a mysterious door. "Thanks."
"What you think is the end is only another place to go to."
"I wanted to see Eden again." There was no strain in his voice, no sorrowing notes. His mind felt clear, open to possibilities, raised remotely above the ruck and misery of self-pity and other merely human perceptions, immaculate as an observatory. The reality was clear as well, like the gleam of new stars; his purpose now etched plainly in firmament but only large enough to accommodate the humble event.
"I know," Chauncey said. "I can promise you this. If she ever needs our help, she'll have it."
Part Two
AND HAD I NOT THE FLAME RESERVED . . .
THERE'S NOTHING SPECIAL OF MY OWN TO SHOW.
-MEPHISTOPHELES, IN FAUST, PART I, SCENE 3
CHAPTER 1
WASHINGTON, D.C. • MAY 30 • 12:50 A.M. EDT
After talking to Victor Wilding, Rona toned up in the White House gym. Then she had a massage, a B-12 shot given to her by a protege of Clint Harvester's personal physician, and enjoyed a light supper just before midnight in her second-floor suite. The music on her Bose stereo system was up-tempo bluegrass: Ricky Skaggs, Alison Krauss. Various R-Team staffers came up to the residence from the First Lady's east wing offices, bringing files, departing with instructions. Some of them were a little bleary-eyed or had coffee nerves. They all were impressed and as usual slightly intimidated by Rona's crispness and energy level. Only one small tantrum resulted from the visits, when Rona found out she couldn't view the covers of three news magazines that had inserted coverage of Rona's Hawaiian dust-up at the eleventh hour.
Katharine Bellaver arrived at the White House at twelve-fifteen. Rona kept her waiting while she finished off a round of phone calls. Two minutes for the new young wife of a global media mogul whom she wanted to cultivate. Three and a half minutes for the President of France (Rona had been taking twice-a-week French lessons for five years, and she managed to pull off a mildly dirty joke in the language that he hadn't heard before). A minute and a half for Allen Dunbar, who seemed a little depressed by India's heat and the news that Clint was returning to the White House. And ten minutes for Barbara Walters.
The butler on duty in the executive mansion had parked Katharine in the solarium. Rona breezed in. She had deliberately dressed down for this meeting: off-the-rack Wrangler Riatas, huaraches, a loose-fitting linen shirt, and two ropes of Cheyenne Indian beads. She also wore, on a shirt pocket, her lucky Clint When It Counts button from his tailgate campaigning days for governor of Montana. Katharine had once remarked to someone who had told someone else, etc., that Rona seemed to have gone a little hog-wild after she moved into the White House, willingly making herself a victim of fashion overload. Titter, titter. Rona had established blood feuds over lesser slights. But she'd never needed a reason to dislike Katharine Bellaver. Her dislike was instinctive, a reaction against privilege and pedigree. And there was the fact that she'd been such a good friend of Clint's.
"Katharine, I am so sorry to keep you waiting!"
Katharine looked up from the book of Ansel Adams photographs she'd been slowly leafing through. "Not at all, Mrs. Harvester."
"Can I have Thomas bring you something? Coffee?"
"Thomas already asked. But I'm fine." She looked at Rona's bandaged head and bit her lower lip delicately. "How are you feeling, after that ordeal?"
"A little headache, still."
"Was it a bullet fragment? I didn't think those limos could be penetrated."
"We're not sure." It had been a small nail file Rona had ready for the occasion. In the slam-bang uproar none of the other occupants of her limousine had seen her gouging her forehead as she pressed both hands to her face. "It's really good of you to interrupt your holiday. I know you have so little time to relax these days, those endless dialogues over human rights violations. Which of course is a matter of deep concern to us all."
"Peach Boondecker suggested that it was urgent." Katharine regarded Rona with a half smile and the porcelain poker face that had been a part of Jackie Kennedy's superb defenses. Katharine made "urgent" sound a little ridiculous, but she was a professional diplomat. "Peach said that she couldn't tell me more. I assume she didn't know." Katharine's smile said, Up the ante or fold your hand.
"It's more in the nature of a personal matter," Rona said.
"Having to do with Clint? Is he here?"
"No. I expect him back soon. About two A.M."
"So late?"
"We wanted to avoid a fuss."
"Well, of course," Katharine said with a hint of derision in her eyes. "There's quite a crowd on Pennsylvania Avenue, for this hour. The WELCOME HOME CLINT signs." She didn't mention the WE LOVE RONA signs, outnumbering those addressed to the President.
"Nothing warms the heart like a spontaneous outpouring of affection," Rona observed.
"That couldn't be more true. But ... is Clint ready to go back to work?"
"As ready as he'll ever be."
"The pressure. I worry, Mrs. Harvester."
"No one could be more concerned about his health than I am. I can take quite a load off my husband's shoulders, and I'm prepared to do so. By the way, since you've been calling the President of the United States 'Clint,' just as if he were still one of your confidants and bedfellows—which I certainly don't begrudge anymore—would it break your patrician jaw to call me 'Rona'?"
"Well, no. I don't think so." Katharine paused significantly, and smiled. "Rona." She folded her hands comfortably in her lap, cocked her head slightly. "Your information—by the way—is both rancid and wrong. Clint and I always have respected each other too much to roll in the hay together. Now, what's up? Shall we?"
"I want you to tell me where your granddaughter is, and when you expect to see her."
Katharine glanced down, head dropping slightly as if she'd been rapped smartly on the back of her skull. When she looked up again she was okay, no fault lines showing in the porcelain, her smile correctly quizzical.
Rona yawned rudely. "Please spare us both the bullshit denials. I know everything about the circumstances of her birth, who Eden's father probably was. I'm sure you were present when she was born. Why did you give the kid away? Was Gillian too crazy at the time to take care of her own daughter? Or were you afraid of what she had brought into this world?"
"You asked me if I'd care for some ... refreshment. I believe I would now."
"Glass of sherry? Oh, that's right, you don't drink sherry. Neither do I. Let's see, this time of the night don't you favor Stoly over ice, once you've brushed and flossed and settled down to do some reading, usually about twenty minutes' worth, before tucking yourself in? I've never been able to read in bed. Gives me a stiff neck every time. Thomas!"
Katharine was thoughtfully silent; her eyes focused past Rona's head, until the butler had served the requested drinks, lowered the lights at Rona's suggestion to a shadowless twilight luster, and
departed.
"Drink up," Rona said cheerfully, rising to click her glass, filled with citrus punch, against Katharine's. She kicked off the huaraches before settling down again, small feet tucked under her on the love seat. Katharine was now gazing at nighttime Washington through the solarium windows, rolling the crystal tumbler between her hands.
"Secret Service didn't like us being up here at night," Rona told her. "Possibility of snipers, they said."
"Neither of us seems to be afforded much privacy by our circumstance."
"What a world," Rona said, drinking. "But I learned a long time ago to study all the pug marks around my waterhole, learn the habits of the ... creatures who make them."
"Until thirty-six hours ago, my granddaughter had led exactly the sort of life I wanted and hoped for her. It may be possible for Eden to find that life again."
"Oh, I don't think so."
"With difficulty. With the help of those who love her."
"Let's be realists, Katharine."
"Your view of 'reality' is appalling."
"Eden has come out, don't you understand? With her bloodlines she's one of a kind. You know Bob Hyde; he thinks psychics are potential enemies of the state. The Bureau screwed up badly on psi research and instead of going with the trend he snuffs all the psi-actives he comes across. Today Bob had his SWATs hunting Eden, probably with orders to shoot her on sight."
Katharine reacted as if Rona had dropped a burning match in her lap. Rona said soothingly, "From the information I have, Bob may have seriously underestimated our girl. The Air Force helos he co-opted for the hunt are long overdue at their base in California. Now let's get back to the point. Have you heard from Eden today?"
"No."
"Do you know where she is?"
"If I did—"
"You wouldn't tell me? Don't you understand how wrong you are? I thought I'd detected some concern for Eden. But with all of your money, your resources, you can't protect her. Hyde and the Bureau are relentless. So are the agents for a hundred nations eager to see this country fall. They would find Eden very useful to their purposes. There is only one place on this earth where the girl will be safe from now on. Here, Katharine. The White House. Under our sovereign protection."
Katharine sipped from her glass, eyes closing briefly.
"Turn Eden over to you?"
"Why not? You did it before. How do you think she'll feel about you once she knows this?"
"Eden has always known she was adopted."
"I call it abandonment," Rona said ruthlessly. "No justification. Cold-blooded. You didn't want her. That's how Eden will see it. Call me anything you like, but never say I don't know what makes human beings work. I've taken plenty of them apart in my time."
"Leaving the ruins where they fell," Katharine said. She shook her head grimly. "What matters ... is how we make amends for our mistakes. How we say we're truly sorry. Tom—"
Rona caught the misstep. Katharine looked into her glass, wincing slightly.
"You were going to say?"
"Nothing."
"Tom? Tom Sherard? Gillian's husband, yes? And another of your ex-lovers. That's what life is all about; interesting situations." Rona had a glow on; she was nearly vibrating, like a plucked cello string. "Oh. I get it. You sent him, didn't you? To fetch Eden home. See? There's another mistake. You should have gone to her right away, instead of sitting back, waiting for the girl to be brought to you. She's going to resent that, Kath."
"I think it's time we said good night."
"So soon? I was hoping you'd stay over. We have a vacant bed or two. Historical significance. Important people have bled and died in them."
"That's very gracious of you ... Rona. But I will be going."
"Clint'll be here in an hour. I thought you'd want to say hello." Rona paused to savor a moment of yearning in Katharine's eyes. "There is a slight possibility that he might remember you."
Katharine stood, setting her glass down. She stared at Rona until Rona's whimsical grin crept beneath her skin.
"It's beyond my comprehension how you can abuse him as you so obviously plan to do. And run the risk of ... turning Clint into a humiliated, pathetic figure before the eyes of the world."
"Believe me. There's no risk."
"What can you hope to gain?"
"Here at the White House we're all just doing our damnedest to get the ship of state back on an even keel. Protecting your vital interests, as well as mine. By the way, the polls tell me a majority of true-blue Americans think that the United Nations is obsolete, as well as a threat to our internal security and sovereignty. All of these half-assed little dictatorships with the GDP of a sidewalk hot-dog cart voting against the most powerful nation in the world on matters crucial to our economic development—I want to puke all over my Post when I read about it. You and I need to sit down soon and rap about the job you're doing up there. Good night, Katharine. I'll look forward to meeting Eden in the very near future. We'll get along great. I relate well to kids her age; my polls show they're my biggest support group."
"Your polls? It almost sounds as if you're running for office," Katharine said, pausing on her way out.
Rona had not bothered to uncurl from the love seat to walk Katharine to the door. She returned Katharine's looking-back stare with a blunt look of her own.
"Run for President? Why should I? I'm already there."
CHAPTER 2
MOBY BAY, CALIFORNIA • MAY 30 • 7:12 A.M. PDT
The eight California Air National Guard search and rescue helicopters, older-model Hueys with exterior tanks for extended-range flying, appeared shortly after sunrise in the vicinity of Moby Bay. Observers saw a town already preparing for a heavy influx of tourists. Delivery truck drivers were unloading cases of food and drink for the ice cream and doughnut shoppes and Moby Bay's two cafés, the Gray Whale and the Keg 'n' Burger. Merchants were hosing down the sidewalks in front of their establishments or replacing, red, white, and blue bunting that had been damaged in the late-afternoon storm of the previous day.
A convoy of government motor pool sedans and eight-passenger vans that had left Sacramento at two-thirty A.M. drove into town a short while later, escorted by highway patrol cars. Twenty-six FBI agents from the San Francisco and Sacramento field offices. They bought six dozen doughnuts and coffee and ate their breakfasts while they canvassed the town with photos of Eden Waring.
Chauncey McLain and her brother Roald were helping their father set up a sidewalk exhibition of paintings by local artists. Three FBI agents, led by Dolph Hackett from Sacramento, called on her. One of them was carrying an evidence bag. Hackett told Wick McLain they needed to ask Chauncey some questions, was there a place they could talk to her off the street? Wick blustered some, saying, What's this about? and, My daughter hasn't done anything, and Chauncey smiled reassuringly at him, Of course not, it'll be okay, Dad, and Wick said, Well all right why don't you use my office in the back but leave the door open please where I can see my daughter while you're talking to her.
They showed Chauncey a photo of Eden Waring. Chauncey studied it thoughtfully, then allowed the light to dawn. "Oh! Didn't I see her on TV? She's the girl who had a premonition about the plane crash over there in Innisfall, saved just a whole bunch of people, right?"
"But you don't know her personally?" Hackett asked.
"No. If I'd ever met her, I think I would remember. But, you know, when I'm on tour I meet so many people."
Hackett glanced at the agent with the evidence bag, who took out the wrinkled Mighty Ducks hockey jersey with Chauncey's name sewed in it. "Does this belong to you, Miss McLain?"
"I did have one like that. Number 12. I wore it sometimes on tour last fall."
"What tour are you talking about?"
"I'm with Pussy Whip. Do you guys listen to metal?" The youngest of the agents smiled but didn't commit himself in front of the boss. Chauncey liked his curly hair and forthright jaw. She addressed herself exclusively to him. "We've cut thr
ee albums. I don't think there's any around the gallery, but I could send you one. Feeding the Sharks is our latest." She turned the jersey inside out and peered closely at the name tag. "It's my shirt, all right, here's my name! Isn't that crazy? I don't have any idea where I might have left it; we played thirty-nine venues in forty-six days."
Dolph Hackett grilled her for another ten minutes concerning Eden. Chauncey remained charming, chatty, and uninformative. They wouldn't let her keep the hockey jersey. Hackett said it might be returned to her, eventually. As the G-men were leaving the young agent spoke for the first time.
"How did you get hurt?"
She was wearing a soft bulky cast from the ankle down on her left foot. Chauncey gave him her brightest smile of the morning.
"Oh, just horsing around. Bye, nice meeting all of you. And hey, good luck."
Chauncey watched them go, gathered up the used coffee cups and dumped them in a wastebasket. She yawned. No sleep at all last night. No sleep for any of the citizens of Moby Bay. There had been just a heck of a lot of tidying up to do. But her wrapped foot was one of two reminders of yesterday's encounter with attack helicopters and government men with hostile attitudes who would forever be unaccounted for no matter how long the search went on. Lost perhaps in a sparsely inhabited wilderness area, or deep down in the graveyard sea.
The other reminder, of course, was Eden herself. Not lost, just missing for now. Chauncey comforted herself with the thought. They would meet again.
CHAPTER 3
FLAMING RIVER RANCH, IVANHOE, CALIFORNIA • MAY 30 • 8:50 A.M. PDT
Eden heard voices outside and a good distance away; more distant than the voices were the sounds of sheep. She opened shuttered doors of her cavernous room and walked out onto a dark-floored veranda polished to a gleam. There was a sloping roof overhead with old-fashioned ceiling fans, red metal lanterns on the whitewashed walls, some rugged-looking, eighteenth-century mission-style furniture. Her eyes watered from the brilliance of a cloudless sky over low forested mountains. She saw a stable with a Mexican red tile roof, two windmills, sheepcotes, a small orchard, a few cottonwood trees along a river split by low sandbars into many streams like spilled molten silver, and a marshy pond with ducks coasting amid the cattails. Beyond the river cattle grazed on open foothill range. She saw a horseman and a pack of motley ranch dogs, led by a Great Dane, trotting beside the horse.