The Traveler fr-1

by John Twelve Hawks

  “A friend told me that you know a great many things.”

  “Maybe I do or maybe I don’t. That’s for you to decide.”

  Maya kept looking around the yard; no one else was in the area. “And now you build sweat lodges?”

  “That’s right. I usually have one going every weekend. For the last few years, I’ve organized sweat lodge weekends for divorced men and women. After two days of sweating and pounding a drum, people decide they don’t hate their ex-spouse anymore.” Thomas smiled and gestured with his hands. “It’s not a big thing, but it helps the world. All of us fight a battle every day, but we just don’t know it. Love tries to defeat hatred. Bravery destroys fear.”

  “My friend said you could tell me how the Tabula got their name.”

  Thomas glanced at a portable cooler and a folded-up sweatshirt on the dirt. That was where the weapon was hidden. Probably a handgun.

  “The Tabula. Right. I might have heard something about that.” Thomas yawned and scratched his stomach as if she had just asked him about a group of Boy Scouts. “Tabula comes from the Latin phrase tabula rasa-which means ‘a blank slate.’ The Tabula think the human mind is a blank slate when you’re born. That means the men in power can fill up your brain with selected information. If you do this to large numbers of people you can control most of world’s population. The Tabula hate anyone who can show that there’s a different reality.”

  “Like a Traveler?”

  Once again, Thomas looked at his hidden weapon. He hesitated, and then seemed to decide that he couldn’t grab it in time to save himself.

  “Listen, Jane-or whatever your name is-if you want to kill me, go ahead. I don’t give a damn. One of my uncles was a Traveler, but I don’t have the power to cross over. When my uncle came back to this world, he tried to organize the tribes so that we would turn away from alcohol and take control of our lives. The men in power didn’t like that. Land was involved. Oil leases. Six months after my uncle started preaching, someone ran him down on the road. You made it look like an accident, didn’t you? A hit-and-run driver and no witnesses.”

  “Do you know what a Harlequin is?”

  “Maybe…”

  “You met a French Harlequin named Linden several years ago. He used your address to obtain fake passports. Right now, I’m in trouble. Linden said that you could help me.”

  “I’m not fighting for the Harlequins. That’s not who I am.”

  “I need a car or a truck, some kind of vehicle that can’t be tracked by the Vast Machine.”

  Thomas Walks the Ground stared at her for a long time, and she felt the power in his eyes. “All right,” he said slowly. “I can do that.”

  21

  Gabriel walked up the drainage ditch that ran alongside the San Diego Freeway. It was almost dawn. A thin line of orange sunlight glowed on the eastern horizon. Cars and trailer trucks raced past him, heading south.

  Whoever had attacked Mr. Bubble’s clothing factory was probably waiting for him to return to the house in West Los Angeles. Gabriel had left his Honda back at the factory and needed another bike. In New York or Hong Kong-any vertical city-he could lose himself on the subway or in the crowd. But only homeless people and illegal immigrants walked in Los Angeles. If he were on a motorcycle, he would be absorbed by the traffic that flowed from the surface streets into the anonymous confusion of the freeways.

  An old man named Foster lived two doors down from Gabriel’s house. Foster had a toolshed with an aluminum roof in his backyard. Gabriel climbed up on the concrete wall that separated the freeway from the houses on his street, and then jumped onto the toolshed. Looking over the rooftops, he saw that a repair truck from the power company was parked across the street. He stood there for a few minutes, wondering what to do, and a yellow flame flashed inside the truck cab. Someone sitting in the shadows had just lit a cigarette.

  Gabriel jumped off the shed and scrambled over the wall to the freeway. Now the sun was up, emerging like a dirty balloon from behind a line of warehouses. Better do it now, he thought. If they’ve been waiting all night, they’re probably half asleep.

  He returned to the wall, grabbed the top, and pulled himself over to his weed-filled backyard. Without hesitation, he ran to the garage and kicked in the side door. His Italian-made Moto Guzzi was parked in the middle of the garage. Its large engine, black fuel tank, and short racing handlebars had always reminded him of a fighting bull waiting for a toreador.

  Gabriel slammed his fist on the button that activated the electric garage-door opener, straddled the motorcycle, and kick-started the engine. The metal garage door made a grinding sound as it rolled upward. The moment Gabriel saw five feet of clearance, he gunned the accelerator.

  Three men jumped out of the truck and sprinted toward him. As Gabriel roared down the driveway, a man wearing a blue jacket raised a weapon that looked like a shotgun with a grenade attached to the muzzle. Gabriel bumped across the sidewalk to the street and the man fired his weapon. The grenade turned out to be a thick plastic bag filled with something heavy. It hit the side of the motorcycle and the bike lurched sideways.

  Don’t stop, Gabriel thought. Don’t slow down. He jerked the handlebars to the left, recovered his balance, and roared down the street to the end of the block. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the three men running to the repair truck.

  Gabriel turned the corner at a steep angle, the Guzzi’s back wheel spitting up gravel. He gunned the engine and a burst of speed pulled him back on the seat. His body seemed to become part of the machinery, an extension of its power, as he held on tightly and raced through a red light.

  ***

  HE STAYED ON surface streets, traveling south to Compton, then turned around and rode back to Los Angeles. At noon, he cruised past the corner of Wilshire and Bundy, but Michael wasn’t there. Gabriel rode his motorcycle north to Santa Barbara and spent the night in a run-down motel several miles from the beach. He returned to Los Angeles the following day, but Michael still wasn’t at the street corner.

  Gabriel bought several newspapers and read every article. There was no mention of the shooting at the clothing factory. He knew that newspapers and television announcers reported on a certain level of reality. What was happening to him was on another level, like a parallel universe. All around him, different societies were growing larger or being destroyed, forming new traditions or breaking the rules while citizens pretended that the faces shown on television were the only important stories.

  For the rest of the day, he stayed on the motorcycle, stopping only once for fuel and drinking water. Gabriel knew that he should find a hiding place, but a nervous energy kept him moving. As he got tired, Los Angeles broke apart into fragments: isolated images with no tissue connecting them. Dead palm fronds in the gutter. A giant plaster chicken. The wanted poster for a lost dog. Signs were everywhere: PRICES SLASHED! NO OFFER REFUSED! WE WILL DELIVER! An old man reading the Bible. A teenage girl chattering on her cell phone. Then the stoplight clicked green and he raced off to nowhere.

  Gabriel had gone out with several women in Los Angeles, but the relationships rarely lasted more than one or two months. They wouldn’t know how to help if he showed up at their apartments looking for shelter. He had a few male friends who liked skydiving and others who raced motorcycles, but there wasn’t a strong bond between them. In order to avoid the Grid, he had cut himself off from everyone but his brother.

  Riding east on Sunset Boulevard, he thought about Maggie Resnick. She was an attorney and he trusted her; she would know what to do. Turning off Sunset, he followed the winding road that led up through Coldwater Canyon.

  Maggie’s house was built on the side of a steep slope. A garage door was at the base of the house, then three glass-and-steel floors of diminishing size were stacked on top of each other like the tiers of a wedding cake. It was almost midnight, but the lights were still on inside. Gabriel rang the bell and Maggie opened the door wearing a red flannel bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.
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  “I hope you’re not here to offer me a motorcycle ride. It’s cold and dark and I’m tired. I’ve got to read three more depositions.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “What happened? Are you in trouble?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  Maggie stepped away from the doorway. “Then come on in. Virtue is admirable, but boring. I guess that’s why I practice criminal law.”

  Although Maggie hated to cook, she had told her architect to design an extra-large kitchen. Copper pots hung from ceiling hooks. Crystal wineglasses were in a wood rack on the shelf. There was a huge stainless-steel refrigerator that held four bottles of champagne and a takeout carton of Chinese food. While Maggie brewed some tea, Gabriel sat at the kitchen counter. Just his being here might be dangerous for her, but he desperately needed to tell someone what had happened. Now that everything was so volatile, memories from his childhood began to force their way into his thoughts.

  Maggie poured him a cup of tea, then sat on the opposite side of the counter and lit a cigarette. “All right. At this moment, I’m your lawyer. That means that everything you say to me is confidential unless you’re contemplating a future crime.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  She waved her hand and a line of cigarette smoke drifted through the air. “Of course you have, Gabriel. We’ve all committed crimes. The first question is: Are the police looking for you?”

  Gabriel gave her a brief description of his mother’s death, and then described the men who had attacked Michael on the freeway, the meeting with Mr. Bubble, and the incident at the clothing factory. For the most part, Maggie just let him talk, but occasionally she asked how he knew a certain fact.

  “I thought Michael might get you into trouble,” she said. “People who hide their money from the government are usually involved in other kinds of criminal activity. If Michael stopped paying them rent on his office building, they wouldn’t contact the police. They’d hire some muscle to track him down.”

  “It might be something else,” Gabriel said. “When we were growing up in South Dakota, men came looking for my father. They burned down our house and my father disappeared, but we never learned why it happened. My mother told us this wild story before she died.”

  Gabriel had avoided telling anyone about his family, but now he couldn’t stop talking. He gave a few details about their life in South Dakota and described what his mother had said on her deathbed. Maggie had spent most of her life listening to her clients explain their crimes. She had trained herself not to reveal any skepticism until the story was finished.

  “Is that all, Gabriel? Any other details?”

  “That’s all I can remember.”

  “You want some cognac?”

  “Not right now.”

  Maggie took out a bottle of French cognac and poured herself a drink. “I’m not going to discount what your mother told you, but it doesn’t relate to what I know. People usually get into trouble because of sex, pride, or money. Sometimes it’s all three things at the same time. This gangster Michael told you about-Vincent Torrelli-was killed in Atlantic City. From what you’ve told me about Michael, I think he might be tempted to accept some illegal financing and then figure out a way not to pay it back.”

  “Do you think Michael’s all right?”

  “Probably. They need to keep him alive if they want to protect their investment.”

  “What can I do to help him?”

  “You can’t do much of anything,” Maggie said. “So the question is-am I going to get involved in this? I don’t suppose you have any money?”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “I do like you, Gabriel. You’ve never lied to me and that’s been a pleasure. I spend most of my time dealing with professional liars. It gets tiring after a while.”

  “I just wanted some advice, Maggie. I’m not asking you to get involved with something that could be dangerous.”

  “Life is dangerous. That’s what makes it interesting.” She finished her brandy and made a decision. “All right. I’ll help you. It’s a mitzvah, and I can display my unused maternal instincts.” Maggie opened a kitchen cabinet and took out a pill container. “Now humor me and take some vitamins.”

  22

  When Victory From Sin Fraser was eight years old, a cousin visiting Los Angeles told her about the brave Harlequin who had sacrificed himself for the Prophet. The story was so dramatic that she felt an immediate connection to this mysterious group of defenders. As Vicki grew older, her mother, Josetta, and her pastor, Reverend J. T. Morganfield, had tried to guide her away from an allegiance to Debt Not Paid. Vicki Fraser was usually an obedient servant of the church, but she refused to change her views on this one issue. Debt Not Paid became her substitute for drinking alcohol and sneaking out at night; it was her only real act of rebellion.

  Josetta was furious when her daughter confessed that she had met a Harlequin at the airport. “You should be ashamed,” she said. “The Prophet said that it’s a sin to disobey your parents.”

  “The Prophet also said that one can disobey small rules when following the larger will of God.”

  “Harlequins have nothing to do with the will of God,” Josetta said. “They’ll slit your throat, then get angry because you’re bleeding on their shoes.”

  The day after Vicki went to the airport, a truck from the electric power company appeared on their street. A black man and his two white partners began climbing poles and checking transmission lines, but Josetta wasn’t fooled. The fake employees took two-hour lunches and never seemed to finish their work. Throughout the day, one of them was always standing around, watching the Frasers’ house. Josetta ordered her daughter to stay inside and away from the telephone. Reverend Morganfield and other members of the church put on their best clothes and began to drop by the house for prayer meetings. No one was going to bust down the door and kidnap this maiden of the Lord.

  Vicki was in trouble because she had helped Maya, but she didn’t regret it. People rarely listened to her, and now the whole congregation was talking about what she had done. Since she couldn’t go out, she spent most of her time thinking about Maya. Was the Harlequin safe? Had someone killed her?

  Three days after her act of disobedience she was looking out the back window when Maya leaped over the fence. For a moment Vicki felt as if she had conjured up the Harlequin from her dreams.

  As Maya walked across the lawn, she pulled an automatic pistol out of her coat pocket. Vicki pushed open the sliding glass door and waved her hand. “Be careful,” she said. “Three men are working out on the street. They act like they’re with the power company, but we think they’re Tabula.”

  “Have they been inside the house?”

  “No.”

  Maya took off her sunglasses when she moved from the living room into the kitchen. The handgun disappeared into her pocket, but her right hand touched the top of the metal sword case hanging from her shoulder.

  “Are you hungry?” Vicki asked Maya. “Can I make you breakfast?”

  The Harlequin stood by the sink, her eyes scanning every object in the room. And Vicki saw the kitchen differently, as if for the first time in her life. The avocado green pots and pans. The plastic wall clock. The cute little farm girl standing at the ceramic well. Everything was ordinary and safe.

  “Shepherd was a traitor,” Maya said. “He’s working for the Tabula. And you helped him. Which means you might be a traitor, too.”

  “I didn’t betray you, Maya. I swear that in the name of the Prophet.”

  The Harlequin looked tired and vulnerable. She kept glancing around the kitchen as if someone was going to attack her at any moment. “I don’t really trust you, but I don’t have many options at this point. I’m willing to pay for your assistance.”

  “I don’t want Harlequin money.”

  “It guarantees some loyalty.”

  “I’ll help you for free, Maya. Just ask me.”

  Looking at May
a’s eyes, Vicki realized that she was asking for something that was very difficult for a Harlequin to give. To ask for another person’s help required some degree of humility and an acknowledgment of your own weakness. The Harlequins were sustained by pride and their unshakable confidence.

  Maya mumbled a few words, and then tried again, speaking very precisely. “I want you to help me.”

  “Yes. I’d be glad to. Do you have a plan?”

  “I have to find these two brothers before the Tabula capture them. You won’t have to touch a gun or a knife. You won’t have to hurt anyone. Just help me hire a mercenary who won’t betray me. The Tabula are very powerful in this country and Shepherd is helping them. I can’t do this alone.”

  “Vicki?” Her mother had heard their voices. “What’s going on? Do we have visitors?”

  Josetta was a big woman with a broad face. That morning she wore a forest green pants suit and the heart locket that held her deceased husband’s photograph. She entered the doorway, and then stopped when she saw the stranger. The two women glared at each other and, once again, Maya touched the sword case.

  “Mother, this is-”

  “I know who she is-a murderous sinner who has brought death into our lives.”

  “I’m trying to find two brothers,” Maya said. “They might be Travelers.”

  “Isaac T. Jones was the last Traveler. There are no others.”

  Maya touched Vicki’s arm. “The Tabula are watching this house. Sometimes they have equipment that allows them to look through walls. I can’t stay here any longer. It’s dangerous for all of us.”

  Vicki stood between her mother and the Harlequin. So much of her life had seemed hazy and vague until that moment, like an out-of-focus photograph in which blurry figures ran away from the camera. But now, right now, she had a real choice in her life. Walking is easy, said the Prophet. But it requires faith to find the right path.