The Puppet Master

by John Dalmas

  The police lab verified the injection, and Scheele, in the hospital with his injuries, was charged with attempted chemical rape. Meanwhile the local and university media had a ball with the story, making him a laughingstock. Taking advantage of Scheele's injuries and humiliation, his lawyer had gotten him off with a suspended sentence and two hundred hours of community service. Scheele was already wealthy by ordinary standards, from playing the stock market with money his father had given him, and he'd paid the coed an unknown sum to settle her civil suit out of court.

  He'd dropped out of school then, and over the years since, had gotten or applied for seven major patents for industrial processes. Which presumably added considerably to his wealth, because he'd built a home on five acres in a very expensive, high-security development near Montecito. I knew the area from the Arthur Ashkenazi murder case.

  I couldn't help wondering what Scheele might have invented and kept secret.

  * * *

  So I sent a weasel into the Web again, to learn who Scheele communicated with besides Ballenger. I was particularly interested in scientists and engineers, but anything was welcome. The Web, of course, has botphages circulating constantly, to destroy bots in restricted areas, but they'd ignore my weasel with its instantly verifiable forensic code. Someone like Scheele, though, would probably post cyberpickets to detect, report, and/or destroy bots interested in him, at the same time letting Scheele know someone was snooping him. Really sophisticated pickets could even trace their origins.

  On the other hand, if a picket did intercept my weasel, I'd know where, in the convoluted "space-time" of the cybermatrix, it had happened. Which would give me a good idea of whether the picket was actually Scheele's.

  9

  Meanwhile Scheele seemed to be the man who somehow or other could split time lines to order. Or whatever had been done; I had a real problem with the concept of splitting time lines, and memories jumping from one to the other. If I was susceptible to headaches, this case would give me one.

  I went to Carlos' office and told him what I'd learned. Then he called Joe, and I went over it again. We didn't have anything either the police or Haugen could go to court with, and none of us could see any prospects, but you never know. So Joe applied to the Justice Department for a contingency contract, on the basis that the Defense Department's William Harford might have been the victim of a criminal conspiracy.

  The department's regional director for California, along with the head of the FBI's LA office, arrived the next morning to examine the evidence. We didn't show what we'd learned from Innocenza, which might prejudice them against us. Even as it was, they acted as if we were shrink cases, but two days later, Washington faxed Joe a contract. Prudential's reputation had come through again. There was nothing in it for us, of course, unless we came up with something that contributed to an arrest, indictment, or conviction.

  10

  Charles Scheele sat back in his chair and stared at the monitor. When his picket had intercepted the bogie, his beeper had alerted him, and he'd sent out a highly advanced bot of his own design, which he called "the snake." Through it he'd learned not only that he was being investigated, but by whom, and even who the agent was.

  The name Martti Seppanen had been vaguely familiar, and a brief search in the Web told him the man was sharp, very sharp. And clearly Seppanen knew something, but how much could it be? Ballenger didn't know much. How many targets had Seppanen found, besides Innocenza? Only Innocenza could have identified the customer, unless Harwood . . . Harwood would explain the Justice Department's interest.

  It seemed to Scheele he needed to find out just what Seppanen knew, and where he'd learned it, making no mistakes. Then do whatever he needed to do.

  He felt pumped. He loved challenges, and this one was unlike any he'd dealt with before.

  11

  The next couple of days I tried every approach I could think of to get a lead on how someone might do what Scheele had seemingly done. I talked to half a dozen big-name theoretical physicists, including a couple with a reputation for being over the edge. Telling them only that my interest was part of a criminal investigation. I even visited Winifred Sproule at the Hypernumbers Institute.

  No one had anything to suggest.

  Next I phoned Ballenger, again identifying myself as Mr. Smith. He seemed unlikely to know much, but anything would help. And whether he knew anything or not, he'd probably call Scheele again, which might break something loose.

  Ballenger sounded wary, but didn't complain about my standing him up. We agreed to meet at the same place—Leon's, at Marina del Rey—this time at 9:00 p.m. When I asked why so late, he said he'd be in Santa Monica doing a television interview from 7 till 7:30.

  I went armed, of course. Ballenger might be more dangerous than he seemed, and according to Misti he had a bodyguard who probably served as all-purpose muscle. But a public place like a restaurant was a poor choice for a hit.

  It was a miserable evening, with soggy air rolling in off the ocean. As I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard, it began to drizzle, and by the time I reached Marina del Rey, it was thick, if fine, blowing in off the Pacific. Late in the year for it, but in L.A. you take your rain when you get it. Through the murk, the argon sign marking Leon's glowed fuzzy blue, and as I ran from my car to the restaurant, I thought what this was going to do to the press in my suit.

  Leon's had a nautical motif, the aisle ropes rough manila instead of velvet. Pictures of yachts and racing sloops were scattered over the varnished walls. There were only two couples in the room; given the weather, I wasn't surprised. The host who met me wore a jacket you might find on the steward of a third-rate cruise ship. His name tag said Adolphe.

  "Good evening M'sieur," he said, "smoking or nonsmoking?"

  I hadn't heard enough Frenchmen to know if his accent was genuine. "I'm supposed to meet Reverend Buddy Ballenger," I told him. "He said he'd have reservations."

  "Ah! M'sieur Ballenger! Of course. If you will follow me, please . . ." He turned away, and I tagged along down a short hall, where he showed me into a room maybe 15 by 20 feet in size, with a table that might seat six, set now for two. The floor was wide gray planks that looked like sand-smoothed driftwood, but the throw rug looked like a rice-straw mat from a dojo. On the walls were large pictures of nudes, eighteenth-century style, but showing more. The nudes were being carried off by large grinning satyrs, or over the shoulders of soldiers. One was disporting with a stallion. Along two walls were backless couches upholstered in velvet, too wide for comfortable sitting. I had no trouble at all understanding why the good reverend liked this place.

  Adolphe gestured at a chair. "If you'd care to be seated, I expect Reverend Ballenger shortly. He phoned to say he would be a few minutes late." Then he left me with the menu.

  This wasn't the situation I'd expected, so I rechecked my shoulder holster; its clip released easily as I drew. There was a side door that opened onto a dressing room with rods, hangers, and hooks. Connected with it were a shower room at one end and a toilet at the other. The shower room had wooden benches and four showerheads. Interesting restaurant.

  I went back to the table and sat down. My chair was close to a window overlooking the marina, and through the thick drizzle, sloops and cabin cruisers were vaguely visible at their moorings. I wondered if anyone would be boating on a night like that. The menu was limited, featuring seafood and Mexican. Nothing was French but Adolphe, and I wasn't sure about him.

  Ballenger arrived ten minutes later, led by Adolphe, who announced he'd be our waiter. Ballenger's suit was dry and neatly pressed, even the trouser legs, which raised my antennae right away. He asked if I'd eaten, and when I said it had been a few hours, he recommended the taco salad and tawny port. I took his advice.

  Adolphe said it would be about five minutes, and missed by only two. Meanwhile Ballenger was in no hurry to talk business. Instead he told me how much he loved boating and the sea. I avoided asking if that included the Sea Islands.
I could bring that up later, after we'd eaten.

  Then Adolphe returned, put our salads and wine glasses in front of us, poured, and left again. The taco salad may or may not have been good, but the salsa was almost hot enough to numb your mouth, which may have been deliberate. After one bite, I turned to the wine, and hadn't much more than wet my upper lip when I realized two things, and put the glass down. First, my drink was doped. Adolphe had filled both glasses from the same bottle, so he must have put some powder in mine ahead of time. And that being true, Ballenger would have muscle standing by, probably with heat in a shoulder holster. Fortunately I'd barely tasted the wine.

  "Watch out," I said. "That salsa is pure jalapeño." Then I picked up the glass again, pretended to drink, took another bite of the salad and sat blankly for a moment. "I believe," I said slowly, "that I had better go to the men's room. I don't feel good."

  "You don't look good," Ballenger said. "Let me get someone to help you." He looked toward the door. "Billy!" he called.

  Billy. The name Misti had mentioned. The door opened.

  "Yessir, reverend?"

  "Help my guest to the men's room, will you Billy? He's feelin' a little unsteady."

  "Sure thing, reverend."

  Billy was as big as Ballenger, and looked a lot more solid. Unsteady as I felt, he could no doubt take me. "Here," he said. "Y'all look green around the gills."

  I felt weak, but for someone who'd behaved like a patsy, my wits seemed okay. I wondered if Good Old Billy was really southern, or faking it. I'd heard that "y'all" was only used for two or more people. He got a shoulder under my left arm, with his right arm around me; I could have walked, wobbled at least, but as he lifted, I let myself go limp. "Thank you, Billy," I said, deliberately slurring.

  "Reverend," he said, "this is a heavy dude. I'm gonna need a hand with him."

  "Set him back down on the chair then. Mr. Smith, just rest your head on the table and we'll help you in a minute."

  I did, cradling my head on an arm. After a few seconds I opened one eye a slit. Ballenger was bent over, his head lower than the tabletop, with Billy half crouched beside him, his back to me. I switched wine glasses while Ballenger pulled the throw rug back, and Billy raised a trapdoor in the floor. The room was built over the water; with the trapdoor open, I could hear small waves chuckling on pilings. It didn't sound good at all.

  Then they were back at the table. I lolled loosely while they got me to the trapdoor and laid me beside it. One of them fished out my wallet, and the Walther from my shoulder holster. Billy went partway down the ladder, grabbed my feet, and got me started after him, Ballenger working from above, till they had me laid out on a little dock, I guess you could call it—two planks side by side, about the width of a wide bench. A rowboat was tied to it.

  From there they dumped me into the boat, fortunately in the bow. "Not now, Billy!" Ballenger said. "You know I can't stand violence! Take him out to the Simon Peter and do it on the fishin' deck; it gets blood on it all the time anyway. But please, no more blood than need be. Just hit him on the head." He paused. "You gonna need help gettin' him loaded?"

  "No sir, reverend. It's only 'bout four feet. He's a heavy son of a bitch, but I got this length of rope . . ." He paused as if doing something—maybe bending and holding a rope up. "Everything's took care of. I'll tie it under his arms and just hoist him in."

  "You get that anchor like I told you?"

  "Yessir. No need to fret. Like I said, I took care of everything." Billy was starting to sound impatient.

  The reverend sighed heavily. "I don't know why this had to come up," he complained, as if to the Lord. Nothing more was said then. After maybe ten seconds, I heard the trapdoor thump quietly shut; Ballenger had taken his sensitivities back into Leon's. I hoped the first thing he did was take a big drink. Through slitted eyes I saw Billy crouch and push off from the dock, then sit down with his back to me, seat the oars, and start to row. I took a deep quiet breath, exhaled, repeated it two or three times and took stock of how I felt. Mentally I seemed okay, but physically I felt out of sync.

  There was a gaff beside me in the bottom, that I suspect was used as a small boathook. Along with the fact that Billy thought I was helpless, it gave me a promising chance, but I didn't have much time. When we got to the Simon Peter, good old Billy would come up front with me to tie the painter to a cleat; I needed to act while his back was to me, meanwhile avoiding any movement he might feel. Hopefully he wouldn't look back over his shoulder at the wrong time, correcting course. Very carefully I turned on my side, carefully drew up my legs, and carefully got the little Beretta out of the holster by my left calf, all while keeping my eyes on Billy. Holding the Beretta in my left hand, I carefully sat up and gripped the gaff with my right. He hadn't felt the movements at all.

  Gathering myself, I got to my knees, and that movement he did feel. As he turned, I hit him hard with the gaff handle. He didn't make a sound, just fell backward. I pulled on him till his legs were off the rowing seat, then crawled over him and took his place. Hard as I'd hit him, I'd still rather have dragged him into the stern, where he'd be easier to watch. I wasn't up to it though, so I sat facing the bow and push-rowed. It was slow and awkward, but it kept Billy in front of me.

  It occurred to me that Ballenger might not have drunk any more wine, might even be watching us through the window. Given all the city lights, the night was as dark as it gets in L.A., and thick with drizzle, but even so . . . With a gun, maybe my gun, could Adolphe serve as muscle? Instead of rowing back to Leon's, I tied to a wharf farther along the street. After rapping Billy again with the gaff handle, I frisked him and found my Walther, my wallet, and a Colt .32 he'd carried. The Colt and the gaff I threw in the marina. By then I was pretty bedraggled. Good Old Billy, though, would be soggy to the bone when he woke up. I hoped he got pneumonia.

  Meanwhile the rowing had done me good; I was still a little unsteady, but had no real problem climbing onto the low wharf and up some steps to the sidewalk. It was abandoned, just me and the drizzle, but I had the Walther in my fist as I walked to the parking lot. My unmarked company car was still there. Powering up, I turned the heater on high to dry me out, and drove back to headquarters. I keyed open the garage beneath the building, and parked in the properly numbered space. Prudential had the security contract, and Ramon, the garage guard, had come over as I parked. "Bad night," he said, eyeing me as I climbed out. "Worse where you were, looks like. You need help?"

  "Not now," I said, "but a while ago . . . Would you believe I got drugged and tossed in the bottom of a boat?"

  His eyes were round. "Jesus!" he said. "Will I read about it in tomorrow's Times?"

  "I hope not. I hope I didn't hit him that hard."

  I really just wanted to get in my own car, which was parked outside in the rain, and drive home. But I made myself go to the elevator, key it, and go upstairs. There I summarized the evening into the computer, printed out a copy, and left it on Carlos' desk, along with my planned activities for the next day. I also checked something I should have checked sooner, and through the Data Center, learned that Leon's was owned by Robert Lee Ballenger. Buddy.

  Then I went home. Tuuli was still up, and over a hot brandy I told her how my evening had gone. She knows how to comfort me after a tough day.

  12

  The next morning I slept late, then drove to the North Hollywood Shuttle Station and grabbed a flight to Santa Barbara. Frank Grady, from our office there, was waiting with the equipment I'd asked for. From there we drove to Montecito and out the Rhubarb Charley Road. Rhubarb Charley wouldn't recognize the area. His slab and tarpaper wickiup was torn down after he died in 1937, and the Rhubarb Canyon development is "vee double-X"—very expensive and very exclusive. And very secure, with a twelve-foot perimeter fence of expensive HardSteel mesh, electrified at the top. Except near the road, where it's reinforced concrete with stone facings. And like a lot of V-XX developments, it has a slim, HardSteel mast, with instruments that mon
itor floater and scooter overflights, recording the continuous identification signals, or the lack thereof.

  Prudential had the security contract there, too, but the odds were that Scheele didn't know it. I didn't picture him interested in community affairs, and the Rhubarb Canyon Corporation required that our vehicles, equipment, and badges there all be marked "Rhubarb Canyon Security," not "Prudential." The car we were in had no markings at all, but the gate guards recognized Frank and waved us through.

  Scheele's place had its own HardSteel fence—not that uncommon in the development. Signs and my instruments warned that the fence was electrified, and protected by alarm beams. Seen from the road, the large house was handsome, the external walls of sandstone slabs. Probably, I thought, overlying reinforced concrete.

  What I'd hoped to find was radiation of unusual frequencies or intensities—something I could describe to engineers and physicists—and there wasn't a sign of anything like that. I said "hoped to find." I hadn't actually expected to, so I was surprised at how disappointed I felt. But I don't discourage as easily as I used to. I'd learned and relearned that a case can break when you wouldn't think there's a chance in the world.

  * * *

  With the fast and frequent shuttle flights, I was back at the North Hollywood Station before 1300 hours, and half an hour later, parked my car outside the office. I updated Carlos, and the only thing he could suggest was to keep groping till something broke. We could always cancel of course—tell Haugen it was hopeless. But it wasn't yet, and it wasn't what Haugen wanted to hear. It wasn't good PR, either. Giving up on cases buys bad word of mouth, and might get to be a habit.