by John Farris
Victor Wilding spent little time on this aspect of his briefing. The countdown for the bombing of another midsized American city was under way.
Wilding had made only one change, albeit a crucial change, in the last twenty-four hours, based on weather forecasts for the upper Midwest. It seemed that on the morning the bomb was to be detonated, a cold front out of Canada would be near the original target, which was Madison, Wisconsin, with prevailing winds that would carry what was left of the hot stuff (up to a lethal 800 REM) down to Chicago in a matter of hours. MORG's Homefolks department maintained a large base of operations near Chicago. Also Victor Wilding had had some good times there. He liked that toddlin' town, and didn't wish to contaminate it.
On the other hand, he'd never been to Nashville and hated country music as much as Rona enjoyed it. Nashville was in store for some nice late-spring weather at the zero hour; the anticipated fallout, according to MORG's meteorologists, would be confined to sparsely populated lower Appalachia.
So Randy and Herb were on their way to Nashville. A new site for the chemodan, the Russian name for their highly portable nukes, had been selected. Ease of access was guaranteed. Nashville was a done deal.
"Now let's talk about the assassination," Wilding said to Bronc Skarbeck.
CHAPTER 12
PINATA HOT SPRINGS, CALIFORNIA • JUNE 2 • 7:45 P.M. PDT
There was a trace of sunset remaining when Tom Sherard saw the Greyhound sign near the southern end of the main drag of Piñata Hot Springs. He pulled off the road onto the gravel parking lot around the adobe-style cafe that also served as a bus station. His bad leg was hurting fiercely. Too many hours on the road, driving more or less aimlessly, until he was satisfied that he hadn't been followed. Around noon, after leaving the funeral home in Holbrook, he had turned over the Ford Expedition to the rental agency at Fresno's airport and picked up another SUV.
As the name indicated, Piñata Hot Springs was a spa and resort town in a valley between dusty dry mountains about seventy miles northwest of L.A. The café, called Mintoro's, seemed to be a popular spot with locals, most of whom drove pickups. The kind of pickups loaded with options. There were no buses around.
Sherard found a place to leave the SUV and got out with his cane. The coming night held a promise of high-desert chill. Inside the cafe there was a small crowd waiting for tables, but he saw her as soon as he came in, sitting toward the back of a snug corner booth, head down, a hand to one cheek as she listlessly turned the pages of a fashion magazine. There was an uneaten sandwich on a plate in front of her, a cup of coffee.
She flinched when he eased into the seat opposite her, then smiled wanly. He saw with a slight shock of remembrance that her left eye was turning in, as Gillian's eye had done when she was overly tired and under severe strain. Eden wore a pale yellow shirt and khakis with cargo pockets, clothing that she had taken with her in her shoulder bag to the funeral home in Holbrook.
"Hello, Eden."
"Hi. Thought I was going to be stood up. In the middle of nowhere."
"Just watching my back, in case."
"You must have learned a lot about stalking, or being stalked, in your profession."
"Vanishing profession, I'm afraid. When did you arrive?"
"Seven, seven-fifteen. Bus was late." She stifled a yawn. "Sorry. I've had six cups of coffee since noon, and I still can't keep my eyes open. They must have done something to my dpg." Eden glanced around as she spoke, fearing eavesdroppers. "Doped her, even though she knew we wanted her to be cooperative."
"Yes, they probably would take that precaution." He smiled, but the smile didn't feel right to him. He shrugged uncomfortably, watching her. "I rather imagine it's as if one has a twin. An emotional kinship."
"Not the same. There really isn't a relationship. I don't think about her that much, any more than you think about your own shadow. We get along, although she has a lot of attitude. Suppose I do too. I've always known my dpg existed, and that if I needed her ... like today ..."
"How did you pull it off? I left, according to plan, but I spent the rest of the day worrying that something might have gone wrong."
"No big deal. I don't have to meditate. I don't fall into a trance. There has to be a problem I can't solve by myself. A crisis. I get a buzzing sensation, like there's a bee in my navel. Then she's there, but not for everyone to see. She has to put some clothes on first." Eden lowered her head, as if she found this embarrassing. "I went into Sandy Proffit's bathroom—black marble and gold fixtures, by the way—and she was waiting. She was a blonde too, that was a shock. I guess I was expecting my old face. I gave her my dress and put on the things I'd brought with me. We talked about what could happen, where she might be taken. Then the MORG guys showed up like we thought they would, you know the rest. I waited an hour and hiked to the bus station. I was careful. I doubt if anyone saw me leave the funeral home. I placed a call to Bertie, that pay phone we chose yesterday, to let her know I was okay."
"Do you know if your doppelganger is at Plenty Coups?"
Eden shook her head. "If I had the mental energy I could locate her, see what she sees when she's conscious. But I'm exhausted. I'm not sure how long I can keep going without a firm sense of reality."
She looked around the cafe again, slowly, with sad eyes. Sherard held her hand.
"We'll leave in a minute. How long have you been aware that there are two of you?"
"Two that I know of," Eden said with a slight shudder. "If there are any more of me, probably I'm schizoid. I don't have the power to guarantee my sanity." She smiled painfully. "When did I find out? It was one of the Dreamtime lessons the Good . . . that my mother taught me, when I was a child."
"Gillian," Sherard said, smiling tautly. Then, although he knew it was a bad time he had to ask, "Can you take me to her, Eden?"
"Bertie thinks so. But I have to ask Gillian. Muth-er. Don't know why it's so hard for me to say. Not used to thinking of her that way. Tom, won't it just keep the hurt going on forever? Gillian has let go. She'd want you to do the shame. Same. God, I'm tongue-tied. And so tired. Please Tom. No more for now. You said we could get out of here. Anywhere. I don't care where we bed down for the night." Her eyes closed momentarily, her head nodded sleepily. Then she looked up, alarmed. "But we can't . . . you can't . . . Peter Sandza . I don't want to do what Gillian did."
"I've had no such thoughts, Eden," he said stiffly.
"I'm not talking about sex. Of course not. I know you and Bertie... Tom, Gillian caused Peter to hemorrhage. He had a stroke because he spent that one night next to her, and she dreamed. She killed her best friend while dreaming. The girl was prone to nosebleeds. I was never allowed to have sleepovers when I was growing up. I had to insist on a single room when the basketball team traveled. My room at home couldn't be near Betts and Riley's room, because Betts knew about me. I never let myself fall asleep when I was with my boyfriend. I can make people bleed when I'm dreaming true dreams. Seeing the future. I noticed there were a lot of bloody noses graduation day, and it wasn't the plane crash that caused them; it was me seeing the crash before it happened."
"I know about the bleeding. Gillian and I always slept together. But by the time we were married that aspect of her power was much diminished."
"Thank God, then there's some hope for me."
"There's every hope for you, Eden."
They spent the night in the VIP suite of the golf resort near Piñata Hot Springs that was owned by a long-time friend of Buck Hannafin's. Eden must have passed a relatively peaceful night. When Sherard knocked on her door at eight-fifteen she was already up and gone.
Eden had left him a note and an i.o.u. that made him smile. She had borrowed two hundred dollars from his wallet to buy a few things. He found her on one of the tennis courts wearing a new outfit from the pro shop and playing the resort's resident pro. She had a somewhat erratic but ferocious game; apparently basketball was not the only sport at which she excelled. The pro was Hispanic, short
and wiry, on the backside of fifty. He still had most of his game but his legs were about gone, so Eden gave him all he could handle. Sherard ate breakfast on the terrace overlooking the courts and glanced through the L.A. Times while he kept an eye on Eden.
After the match she stopped by his table, towel around her neck, face damp, a sparkle in her eyes he hadn't seen before.
"Hope you didn't mind about the money."
"Of course not. You looked good out there. Are you ready to eat?"
"I'm starved, but I want to swim first. Do you play golf, Tom?"
"Eight handicap, usually."
She looked in the direction of the first tee. "They rent clubs here. I could reserve us for nine holes around four-thirty, when it's not so hot."
"Good."
She picked up a glass of water from the table and drained it. Sherard smiled. Eden looked around again. "Nice here."
"Yes, it is."
"Can we stay another night, do you think?"
"That's up to you."
Eden lowered her voice. "When is Bertie leaving for Wisconsin?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, by corporate jet. Another good friend of the Senator's. The plane also will be at our disposal, when you're refreshed and ready to go."
Eden nodded, and he saw tension returning to her body until she threw it off with a shrug.
"Don't think about it yet," he cautioned her. "Play hard, sleep well, recharge the batteries."
"Hard not to think. I'm not so sure I can find it, even with Bertie helping. I couldn't locate the one in Portland during Dreamtime. I don't even know what the fuckin' thing looks like. I can't visualize it. If I miss, we could all die."
"You're everything Gillian was, and more. You will succeed."
"You know that you don't have to go with me, Tom."
"Don't be ridiculous. I may be useless on your playing field, but I have my own talents. Did you dream last night?"
"I always dream."
"Bad dreams?"
"No. Peaceful. I was leading Portia Darkfeather's horse home for her. His name is Dark Valiant. I wouldn't mind owning him. I'd like having a horse and living in Montana. What wonderful skies they have there. Days can go by with nothing to listen to but the wind. I wouldn't mind that kind of loneliness. It's a place where I could feel secure."
"Don't forget that something not so wonderful lies beneath the grasslands."
"Plenty Coups. Where Darkfeather worked, and trained. I'm sorry she's gone. She could've showed me one of those devices. If that's where they keep them. Showed me how to disarm the bastard. By the way, it's Russian."
"How do you know that?"
Eden threw up her hands. "I know a lot of things without knowing how I know them! I've been thinking about it, so—"
"So now it may be up to what your doppelganger can spy out for us. Do you have confidence in her?"
Eden shrugged again, turned away abruptly.
"Last time I sent her out, I had to get her loose from a pit bull. God only knows what she'll be up to this time. She's me; which means she has all of my, ah, shortcomings. Where she stumbles, there I fall. I'd better go change now." She looked back at him, a quick smile. "See ya later."
Sherard watched Eden jog away and mulled over a useful piece of information. If she was right and the nuclear device was of Russian origin, perhaps stolen from their stockpile of portable bombs, Buck Hannafin might be able to quietly obtain an exact description of what the ad hoc NESTers (for Nuclear Energy Search Team) would be looking for, once they all had assembled in Madison, Wisconsin. Buck had considered, then reluctantly ruled out, alerting the government agencies involved in counterterrorism to the potential threat to America's Dairyland. Because MORG would be one of the agencies so informed. MORG would then either cancel the delivery or move their device somewhere else.
Thinking about what they were up against, the deadly risk not only to themselves but to upward of three million innocent people, ruined Sherard's digestion. He left the terrace to find a pay phone from which to call Hannafin.
CHAPTER 13
SAUSALITO, CALIFORNIA • MAY 30 – JUNE 1
The assassin once known as Phil Haman had obtained new identities for himself within a couple of hours of making a violent exit from the interrogation room at the FBI's Sacramento field office. Not the least of his talents was picking pockets. As for disguises, a quick trip through a Kmart provided everything he needed for a radical change in appearance, which he accomplished in the handicapped stall of the men's room in a Burger King down the street. He had every confidence that the Bureau would consider his defection and apprehension an in-house project. He traveled south in a rented car charged to a pharmaceutical salesman from Seattle, abandoned it in Oakland, and took a taxi into Berkeley. There he changed identities once more in a third-rate hotel. BART took him across the bay to San Francisco. A Hyde Street cable car delivered him within two blocks of the Sausalito ferry, and by sunset he was walking the six blocks to Poppa Too Sweets', a barge-based waterfront bistro that he owned through a dummy corporation. He maintained an aerie above the restaurant, small but ultra-secure, where he discarded identity number two, showered, drank half a bottle of the North Coast's finest Pinot Noir, and took a nap that lasted for fourteen hours.
He dreamed about killing Eden Waring. When he woke up in his safe house she was the first thing on his mind. It was early afternoon, mistily overcast. He looked up through a gray oblong of skylight over his narrow bed. He smelled the sea, heard voices on the nearby wharf, heard the moan of the incoming ferry. He felt calm and secure, not inclined to brood about his predicament and potential disgrace. Even though it was clear to him what he was up against. He had killed the girl, that was a fact, because he didn't miss. She was dead, then she'd come back from the dead. He was willing to accept that now. Supernatural intervention. She'd been resurrected. She had wanted her revenge, but the assassin had seen, looking into the kid's eyes, that Geoff McTyer didn't have murder in him. What a pussy.
So it would be up to Eden Waring's ghost, or whatever it was, if it chose to pursue him. For now, the assassin felt sure, he had eluded it. He did not feel its presence in the safe house. Matter of time, he assumed. He knew he would see Eden Waring, or Eden's shade, again. What then? How could he lay a ghost for good?
In the meantime the assassin was more concerned about his professional reputation. His standing with Impact Sector. Given the opportunity, he could explain about Eden Waring's death and subsequent resurrection. But that wasn't going to happen. They never debriefed him. He had no direct contact with them. There was no phone number to call. They would not bring him in. But they already would know about the botched assignment. They had judged him. It would go into his jacket.
The fear of a less than perfect approval rating burned like a branding iron held to his heart.
Would Impact Sector intercede for him, smooth things over with the Sacramento field office? He'd been a little rough on a couple of the agents while taking his leave. So he couldn't return to Vegas anytime soon. Face was upset about that. Face needed the limelight to survive. All the assassin needed was a clean approval rating.
He got up and took another shower. He felt like being young again.
The assassin selected from his own cache of false identities a new face, a name. The appropriate hairpiece with matching eyebrows and mustache came out of the wardrobe and makeup trunk Face had provided for the safe house. He filled in the lunar wasteland he saw in his lighted makeup mirror. Using the old skills soothed him. When he was finished he looked, in the magnifying mirror, no older than thirty-five. Attractive. His name was now Corey. Corey DeSales.
He fed himself and after dark picked up one of the boys who worked the waterfront and took him back to the aerie, where the lights were seductively low. The boy was winsome and experienced, but although the assassin had given himself a new face neither of them in spite of their labors could give him a sustainable hard-on.
Corey paid the boy off and reti
red with another bottle of wine, candlelight on his new, lugubrious face, thin chest, and flaccid pecker. He didn't need sleep. He needed an opportunity to redeem himself. But Impact Sector might choose to punish him.
The worst punishment he could conceive would be never to hear from them again.
CHAPTER 14
WASHINGTON, D.C. • JUNE 3 • 7:45 P.M. EDT
Buck Hannafin met with a select group of people whom he had reason to believe he could trust, i.e., important Washington insiders and members of Congress who had no professional blemishes or personal peccadilloes on their records: illegal campaign contributions, vote fraud, perjury, bribery, misappropriation of funds, drug addiction, ill-advised love affairs, or sex with a minor. Anything Rona Harvester could know about and use to her advantage. The meeting was on neutral ground, at a farm near Middleburg, Virginia. The farm was the weekend retreat of Roswell Fullmer, senior partner of a major East Coast law firm. Fullmer had once served the nation capably as Attorney General. His expertise was important, and Hannafin had, invited him to attend.