by John Farris
Rona coughed blood from her throat. "Victor! It doesn't matter! You know it doesn't matter that Robin is dead! Don't do this to yourself! Victor, Godddd, I need you!"
The cardiologist with the med team recommended a sedative. Two of them held Rona while the intramuscular dose was administered. Rona still wouldn't stop screaming, when she wasn't spitting gobbets of blood. Her hysteria, the window-rattling thunder, and the big flaring bolts that turned the room's every face and object into a gothic frieze scraped their nerves.
Clint Harvester, however, didn't seem to be upset. He sat patiently in a chair while everyone else was running for something. His eyes went to Victor Wilding's flushed, engorged head on which his features were etched like an intaglio to the scary display outside. Part of his demeanor may have been due to Buck Hannafin, who stood behind Clint with a hand on his shoulder. Until he heard another helicopter coming down through the torrent, miraculously unstruck by lightning, Buck didn't know where Courtney Shyla had disappeared to.
With the IV in and Wilding packed in bags of ice, he was rushed outside. A second medevac helicopter had landed a hundred yards away in a clearing uphill from the house. Nearly everyone in the Harvester household—MORG agents included—followed the stretcher bearers as far as the deck outside the front entrance, where they were pelted with rain and hail and flying leaves.
Courtney had reentered the house by another door. She was wearing a poncho with a hood that dripped rain. From the hall outside the dining room she silently got Buck's attention and when he turned she used hand signals to tell him what she wanted. The paramedic and nurse who were trying to get Rona to lie down on another stretcher failed to notice when Buck left the room with Clint Harvester.
The MORG agent whose job it was to keep his eyes on both Rona and Clint moved to intercept them. "Sir—"
Buck said with a wave of his hand, "For God's sake, I'm just gonna get the President looking decent. You stick with Miss Rona, lend a hand if need be. We'll be back in a jiffy."
Outside the four men taking Victor Wilding down the series of right-angle steps from the house dropped him when lightning sheared the top out of a larch tree fifty feet from them, a torrent of sparks shooting through the low clouds. A smoking bough sailed onto the lower deck of the house, burying a MORG agent and a couple of houseboys. Windows were shattered.
Wilding's stretcher skittered down another twenty steps, where it stopped falling and stood, momentarily, upright. Wilding's face appeared to glow with a pale blue light, like the corona of a gas flame. His heavy-lidded eyes were expressionless. His temple bones stood out, and there were swollen veins across his forehead, in his neck. With his dark sodden clothing and rain-slicked hair, his wrists and ankles in leather restraints, he had more than a passing resemblance to the just-unwrapped monster in the classic movie version of Frankenstein.
No one who saw it was sure of what happened next. Most witnesses believed that another lightning strike to the metal frame of the stretcher had electrocuted Victor Wilding.
Lightning has the power to stop hearts and carbonize lungs, just as it had the theoretical power to animate the fanciful creature in James Whale's movie. But no one had ever seen or heard of a victim of lightning almost fully consumed within his clothing—not just burned beyond recognition but gone, except for a few bits of heel and toe bones in his Timberland hiking boots. The boots, like Wilding's clothing, were otherwise intact, not a single lace singed by heat that had, for seconds, reached several thousand degrees Fahrenheit. A spontaneous combustion as bright and hot as an exploding star.
Courtney Shyla escorted the stretcher on which Rona Harvester lay, covered against the fury of the storm and quieted by an intramuscular shot of Adavan, to the second medevac helicopter, a venerable Jolly Green Giant that could accommodate up to fifteen stretchers. The MORG agent assigned to Rona climbed in after her and was greeted with a blow to the back of the neck by one of Royce Destrahan's paramilitary operatives.
Courtney returned to the house by a side door, walked up the steps to the bedroom floor, and found another MORG agent outside the President's suite. He looked overexcited. He was holding a bullpup, but the safety was on. D-U-M-B, she thought.
"President's getting dressed. What are you doing up here?"
Courtney didn't want to go hand-to-hand even with an obvious incompetent. She shot him in the knee with the silenced HK Mark 23 she was holding beneath the poncho, and when he collapsed, in so much pain he couldn't scream, she used her slap-daddy, a leather truncheon filled with double-aught buck, to anesthetize him, dragged him into another bedroom and shut the door.
Buck Hannafin had appeared with Clint Harvester after getting him dressed and into his boots. Courtney gave each of them a hooded poncho.
Buck clamped a Stetson on Clint's head and they went downstairs, Courtney with her finger on the trigger of the .45. But nobody showed up to challenge them. They left by the side door and walked a hundred yards through drenched woods to the waiting helicopter. The rain had lost some of its sideways sting and fury.
"Shame we won't get to ride tonight," Buck said to Courtney as they boarded the helo. "But this works out better."
Rona Harvester looked at them with dulled eyes from her stretcher on the deck. Clint got on first, glancing at her. There was a clear shield taped down from cheek to cheek to prevent more damage to her nose. Behind the shield her eyes were swelling shut, turning black.
"Shame," Clint said. To no one in particular; he was just mimicking what Buck had said. He was led to a seat. Nick Grella helped him into his harness.
"Okay, Mr. President?"
Clint looked up at him with a faint smile, but not as if he knew who Nick was. "Candy?" he said.
One of the paramilitaries aboard came up with some M&Ms for the President. He sat there munching contentedly.
"Any serious change in plans?" Buck asked.
Royce Destrahan looked back at them from the right-hand seat in the cockpit. "No, sir. We'll change aircraft in Bozeman, shoot down across the Bitterroots to Hailey."
The rotors were turning. Buck said, "Idaho. Isn't there a first-class private hospital over Sun Valley way? Sure. They do some of the best reconstructive surgery you'll find this side of Lausanne, Switzerland. Guess that's a plus for Miss Rona. What's all the uproar out front?"
"Lightning hit a tree. Also the dude on the stretcher, according to the radio."
"Victor Wilding," Courtney cut in.
"That a fact? Well, they're gonna be looking for a new head of operations around Plenty Coups."
Rona moaned from the depths of the twilight to which she'd been consigned.
"MORG won't need nobody," Buck said grimly. "Once I get done rolling the rock off that nest of vipers. Maybe we need to wait 'nother few minutes until this Montana monsoon passes through."
"Can't wait long. They see the President's missing; we'll have shit for rain. Amazing how these storms just blow up out of nowhere."
"Fortuitous," Buck said, settling into a seat with a winded sigh, smiling sideways at Clint Harvester. He resisted an urge to reach out and wipe a gob of chocolate from the soon to be ex-President's chin. Not that Clint would recognize what an indignity the gesture represented. But Buck knew, and his heart felt hollow enough already.
CHAPTER 33
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE • JUNE 7 • 9:22 P.M. CDT
Carlisle tied up his cruiser at the marina by Adelphia Coliseum across the Cumberland River from downtown Nashville. The blended voices of Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood singing "In Another's Eyes" seemed to float on the bright cloud of light above the stadium bowl.
There were two parking lots that they could see, and a six-level parking structure that looked to be full. Thousands of cars, campers, trucks of all types. For a few moments after they'd left the boat they all simply stood unmoving on the riverbank, staring, disheartened.
Tom Sherard saw Metro police cars on the street. He had turned up the collar of his jacket so his bloody neck and
shirt collar wouldn't be too obvious. He had shifted the lion's-head cane to his left hand, because his right hand had gone numb and there was no feeling in the forearm almost to his elbow. Every move he made seemed to press the bullet closer to his spinal cord. But he could still walk.
"How long do these shows usually last?" Tom Sherard asked Carlisle.
"Hard to say. Probably started at seven-thirty. Garth likes to give 'em their money's worth. Reckon he's good for another twenty minutes."
"Where do we start?" Bertie asked, with a slow benumbed shake of her head. The parking lots seemed infinite from their perspective. The stadium was huge.
"There's five of us," Carlisle said. He had become part of the team, and now he felt called upon to make a contribution. "We could split up, each take a section of the lots and the decks. What about the police?"
Alex was carrying the dummy device in its case. "Leave them out of this. Too much to explain. No time."
"I need Alex with me," Eden said. She nodded toward the case. "And that. The rest of you—" She couldn't stop a jet of tears. "Get back in Carlisle's boat. Clear out of here. Tom, you should be in the hospital. Alex and I—we can do this."
"Not a chance," Bertie said. "Alex is right, no time. Carlisle, where's your flashlight?" He held up a three-battery steel Maglite. "Good. You take the lot over there. If you find the truck first, climb on the roof and signal. Three short flashes. Tom and I will take the other lot. Alex and Eden—"
"Let's go," Eden said.
On the first floor of the parking decks Alex said, "Up or down?" Eden was silent for a few moments, then pushed the elevator button for the roof.
"Start at the top."
Garth Brooks was singing "Ain't Goin' Down 'Til the Sun Comes Up."
The concrete and steel decks seemed to be vibrating slightly from the power of his amps.
In the slow elevator Eden rubbed her temples and fidgeted.
Alex said, "You have a boyfriend?"
"Not anymore."
"Maybe you and me, then."
"Oh, great, Alex, is that all you have on your mind right now?"
"Better than the alternative," he said with a shrug.
They stepped off the elevator onto the roof under sodium vapor lights.
The stadium was rocking. Eden closed her eyes briefly, turning her head slowly.
"Better start looking," Alex advised.
"I am. Shut up. Please."
She was rubbing the thumb of her right hand back and forth over her fingertips. Then her head nodded forward.
Alex took out a pack of cigarettes. Eden straightened and opened her eyes.
"Don't smoke, it'll mess me up."
"I thought you were falling asleep."
"It's not up here. Let's go down."
They took the stairs to the next level. There was wild cheering from the stadium.
Eden repeated the exercise she had begun on the roof. Results negative.
"Maybe," Alex said, "they changed trucks somewhere. Then how could you know what you are looking for? Or they might have dropped the device into a trash can."
"It would leave a signature. What do you want from me, Alex?"
"You are already an angel. Me,I would have some explaining to do if I go boom tonight."
Eden was already out the door and down the steps to the next level.
Alex took a deep breath, decided to smoke after all. Probably they were doomed. He thought about Eden, and shrugged again. Too bad they couldn't die while making love. American bitches, too many hang-ups
"Alexxx!"
He banged a shin with the metal case getting down the steps to the level below. When he opened the door he didn't see her.
"Where are you?"
"Over here!" Her voice reverberated; he couldn't tell where it was coming from.
"That's no help!" he shouted.
"We're on the blue level and, uh, section G. To your left from the stairs." Alex hobbled in that direction with his case.
The red club cab pickup had been parked at an angle in a corner of the deck, facing the river and the lights of Nashville on the other side. Eden was looking at the left front fender, but she didn't touch it. She glanced at him, pointed.
"Scraped. And the parking light is broken." She was going through her pockets. "Now what did I do with that piece of—"
"Never mind, if you are sure." Alex set the titanium case down. The bed of the deluxe pickup had a removable metal cover that matched the rest of the truck for a streamlined effect. There was a key-entry lock.
Alex took a folder of tools and a small flashlight from his jacket pocket. He selected a lock pick. His hand was trembling. He leaned against the back of the truck and there was a crackling sound, a blue flash. Alex was thrown back five feet to the concrete floor. His eyes were closed but the lids twitched. He didn't make a sound.
"Alex!" Eden knelt beside him. Was he breathing? She put a hand to her damp forehead, looked up at numerals on a post with a blue stripe.
Bertie. Get here fast.
She didn't waste time trying to find a pulse. She put the heel of her right hand on the lower third of Alex's sternum, covered it with her left, the approved position for CPR. She began to rapidly compress Alex's chest. Five compressions, pause to ventilate, resume compression. So they'd booby-trapped the truck before abandoning it. She settled into the routine of CPR, sweat stinging her eyes. I'm yours, Alex; you want me, I'm yours. Just breathe, God damn it!
Eden couldn't have said how long she'd been working on Alex when she heard the stairwell door bang open, heard running footsteps.
"Bertie!"
Her shoulders ached as she continued the routine of trying to bring Alex around, glanced up as Bertie arrived.
"What happened?"
"Don't touch the truck. Electrified."
Alex suddenly trembled under her hands, gasped, and retched. Bertie reached down and moved his head to one side so he wouldn't aspirate his vomit.
Eden sat up and wiped her face. "Where's Tom and Carlisle?"
"Coming. Alex? Hey, Alex! Do you hear me?"
"Huh."
Bertie helped him sit up.
"Thirsty. Where am I?"
"Truck zapped you," Eden said.
"Headache," he complained.
"I just got your heart started; you'll have to deal with the headache yourself."
They propped Alex against a pillar and conferred.
"Is the device in the truck?" Bertie asked.
"I'm sure of it. But there's an electrical field in my way. A shield. I can't break through to find the device."
"What if I could, you know, push that shield out of your way? Hold it back for a little while?"
"But if you let it slip—"
"I know. The shield will bounce your chi straight back at you, and you'll wind up on the deck like Alex. Or worse."
"Gotta do it. Alex! Need your help."
They heard the elevator door.
Eden said, "I hope that's Tom. Stadium will be emptying out any minute now. Once this building fills up with people getting their cars, there'll be so much noise neither one of us can function."
"Right back," Bertie said, and she sprinted in the direction of the elevator.
"What do you want, honey? Alex doesn't feel good."
"I know. I'm sorry. But you have to get the duplicate device up and running for me. Can you manage that?"
"Sure. No problem."
"Set the timer, let's make it four minutes from now."
"Timer, sure." Alex opened the titanium case and took out the yellow carrier bag with the dummy nuke inside. He was fumbling, bleary-eyed.
"What do you do then, honey?"
"I follow my usual procedure for disarming nuclear bombs."
"Bravo. Did I tell you I want you to be my woman?"
"Yes, Alex. Stop staring at me and set the damn timer."
Bertie came running back.
"Carlisle says Brooks is halfway through his encore number
, and he only does one. He and Tom will try to keep people off this floor, by virture of the absolute authority invested in Carlisle through the Wildlife Resources Agency."
Eden grinned tautly. "Let's do this."
Bertie faced the red truck. She extended her hands, not quite touching metal. Then she placed her steepled hands against her face, bowed her head slightly as if in prayer. She trembled.
"Ready," she said to Eden. "Say when."
Eden said, "Alex?"
"One little jiffy. Okay ... timer is set. Four minutes and counting. So what?"
Eden ignored him. "Go, Bertie," she said softly.
Bertie made an incomprehensible sound. She appeared to be straining forward, under excruciating tension. The planes of her face glistened, and it seemed as if every bone in her skull were aglow beneath the stretched skin.
"Yeah!" she screamed.
Eden saw the high-energy field around the truck. A writhing, pulsating entity. She was afraid of it. But she had to channel her own force, slip through that net of enormous power into the neutral zone Bertie was providing at huge cost to herself.
"How do you do that?" Alex said. His hair was standing on end. He backed away as if he were looking at Death Itself.
Eden probed, was pushed back. Afraid, afraid. Ten days ago all she'd been thinking about was getting her diploma. Bertie moaned sorrowfully, holding on, keeping the gap in the field open. Couldn't let Bertie down, even if it meant the destruction of her own mind.
She heard it ticking. Backseat of the club cab. She pressed closer. There it was. A twin of the other device, with one lethal exception.
Just a little more time, Bertie.
Mentally Eden pounced on the dummy device outside the truck. The timer read two minutes fifty-eight seconds.