The Seventh Stone td-62

by Warren Murphy

  But there was no bomb inside. He should have asked the Indians. Why not before he killed them? The problem with killing someone was you always had to get everything you needed first. You never had a second chance.

  When Remo came out into the daylight, he had to keep his eyes shut because the sun felt like flamethrowers on his pupils. He heard chanting some distance away. It sounded like a protest.

  "No, no, no to death. No, no, no more chemicals. No, no, no to the USA. USA, go away. USA go away."

  Remo heard the outside guard move near him. "Are those Indians?" Remo said.

  "No, they come from Carmel, California. They're here to tell the government to stop pushing around the Indians."

  "Any Indians there?"

  "They don't tell us. They don't let us near them."

  When Remo's eyes lost their night sensitivity, he saw television cameras focusing on a line of men and women, some dressed quite fashionably. "USA, go away. USA, go away."

  Behind them was parked a ring of cars like a circle of covered wagons. The sky was just a kiss of blue with cotton-white clouds and the air was light. It felt good to be above ground. Perhaps that was why Remo thought the woman speaking to the television reporter looked so beautiful. She also looked familiar.

  He wondered whether he should warn people to evacuate. But evacuate for what? There was no bomb there. Why should anyone go to so much trouble to threaten the government with a bomb that wasn't there? Had he missed the bomb?

  He doubted it.

  And who would kill two Army Rangers for a bomb that wasn't there? And why wasn't there a demand for something? Free all prisoners or give them ten million dollars or something.

  Barrels meticulously cut apart under airretardant plastic gel, sent to the right people to get a response, those responding getting killed, and then no one touching him and no bomb there. What was it all about? Had they done what they set out to do? If so, what was it?

  The woman was a stunner. Rich black hair, sea-blue eyes and a body that could make a Trappist monk buy a hairpiece.

  She was talking about chemicals. She was talking about death. She represented MAC, Mothers and Actresses Against Chemicals. It was going to roll over people.

  "It's about time the United States government realized it can't come in here and push us around anymore. Get its murderous chemicals off our land."

  There were an awful lot of cameras focused on her. All of them but one, and it was focused on Remo, who smiled at it and gave the peace sign. The camera turned away. Apparently it was getting some sort of crowd shot.

  The spokesperson announced that she was not going to give any more interviews because everyone had driven several hundred miles to tell the government to get off their land and they were all very tired.

  "No," she said. "I'm not an Indian and I don't live here. But I do live in this world. And even though I am Kim Kiley, actress and star, I feel I owe the world my presence here. Poison gas does not discriminate about whose lungs it tears up. Women, children, the lame, crippled, insane, drug dependent, blacks and Hispanics. And yes, famous stars whose multimillion-dollar-gross movie is appearing now at all your neighborhood film theaters. It was beautifully filmed on exotic locations. Star Lust. At neighborhood theaters now, starring Kim Kiley."

  So that was why he recognized her. Behind one of the cars, a sharpshooter leveled a scope-sighted rifle at the thin man in the black T-shirt and black chinos. He aimed at the feet.

  Remo thought the man could have held up a lollipop and still advertised that he was trying to shoot someone. His entire body was tensed, as if it were in pain. Remo saw the light of the gun muzzle, the line of the bullet, and moved out of its low path as it kicked up dust in the land of the Pakeeta reservation. Then came the crack of the sound catching up. The man fired again, this time at Remo's chest.

  The bullet sang into the iron doors where the lead splattered with sledgehammer force. Two other gunmen joined, each behind one of the cars in the circle, putting Remo in a crossfire. Now they were aiming at him, not his feet.

  Now there was yelling and screaming from the demonstrators who, as it always happened, looked for gunfire a good two seconds after the sound of the first shot. They saw the bullets kicking up dust. They saw a figure in dark shirt and slacks seem to writhe in the rain of fire and as if he were dust himself somehow move across the prairie grass like a wave, a wave that the gunfire could not quite catch.

  Suddenly, as if the rifles were useless, the three snipers threw them to the ground. Each drew a .357 Magnum from his belt.

  They were large handguns, whose bullets could shoot out the support beam in a bungalow. While some bullets could go through a car door, a .357 Magnum could take it off. Each gunman knew that at close range with a slug that big, they had only to hit part of their target to disable him. A .357 Magnum bullet could catch a leg with such force that the spine would shatter.

  And each of the men had been given special shells.

  "You might have some difficulty hitting him," they had been told.

  "I took out the eye of a grape picker in Barcelona at a hundred yards," said one gunman.

  "This is not some grape picker who has displeased his patron."

  "I've shot kneecaps off running men," said another gunman.

  "Good. Then you will be all the more certain to kill this one. Now I want you first, to fire around him, his feet, near his head. Perhaps for several shots. Then go for the body and then if you continue to miss, I want you to use these special shells in your handguns."

  All three laughed. All three took the special shells. For the kind of money they were being paid, they would have taken a tank if the man had insisted. They had met him on a yacht off Little Exuma, a faggy kind of guy, but so were many rich Americans.

  And there was that strange requirement. The American had insisted that if he found out that they had used their rifles for a close-up kill, instead of the special shells in a handgun, they would not get their special bonus.

  No one asked Mr. Reginald Woburn III why he expected the victim to get close if they should miss him. In fact, after being shot at, the victim, if he weren't dead, would be running away and they would have a harder time finishing him with a pistol.

  After the first intentional miss, when they were trying to hit him with rifle fire, everything happened so quickly that they didn't have time to thank their good fortune when he actually charged them. It was like their bonus running right into their hands.

  They were going to be paid for every slug of the .357 ammunition that they put into his body. Each of the gunmen was sure that the skinny guy in the black T-shirt was going to end up with eighteen Magnum slugs in him. They wondered if the last bullets would have to be fired at bone fragments because that would be all that was left.

  They were so intent on firing all six slugs into the skinny guy that they didn't realize none of them got off the second shot.

  Out came the guns, level went the sights, squeeze went the trigger fingers and away went the heads of the gunmen. The guns exploded. To Remo it looked as if the three had blown themselves up. He looked around. The bodies were pieces of trunks. Their heads were off somewhere, in fragments across the rolling prairie. He heard the whir of the cameras. Some women were still screaming.

  Remo thought he knew what was happening. "Everyone," he yelled. "Get out of here. Get out of here. It's going to blow. Get out of here." He immediately faded back to the entrance to the underground storage of the gas drums.

  But the only ones there were the guards, lying on the ground covering their heads, their bodies in the way of the door. No one could have entered. It was not a diversion to get into the doors and shoot at the drums and explode them. The purpose of the snipers blowing themselves up had to be blowing themselves up. And there wasn't a bomb inside. Or outside. Just a bunch of people running around terrified now because he had told them to run for their lives.

  And they were running. Cars were starting up. Ladies were scrambling th
rough the grass with their shoes flying off their feet. Cameramen were diving into their vans and taking off and Remo was standing there, feeling very foolish as the two guards got up and brushed themselves off.

  "What's going to blow?" asked the guards, who knew no one had entered the underground storage area.

  "Nothing," said Remo.

  "You shouldn't scare people like that, mister, after all the shooting and everything."

  "You bastard," came the shriek of a woman's voice. It was Kim Kiley running at him. Her face was twisted, her teeth bared, and she raised a fist and then slickly moved into a nice smooth groin kick. Remo moved aside as the leg went by and caught her as she lost her balance. She had put her whole body into the kick and when her toe did not meet designated tender parts of the victim, her back headed for the ground.

  Remo stopped the fall and set her right. She scratched at his face. He caught her nails in his palms and pressed them back to her sides. She spat. He ducked. She swung. He stepped aside. "Will you stay still?" she screamed.

  "Okay," said Remo and she punched his chest. He let his chest muscles receive her knuckles and she let out a yell.

  "Ooooh, that was weird. It was like punching air." She wiped her punching hand off on her dress as if it had encountered something slimy.

  "Ooooh," she said again and shivered. "That was awful."

  "I'm sorry I made punching me unpleasant, Ms. Kiley," said Remo. He had seen one of her films and wondered at her great ability to look innocent. He had never seen her with this ferocious anger.

  She punched again, this time at the head. Remo kissed the knuckles coming at him. She didn't wipe it off, just looked at her hand wondering what had gone wrong. He should have had bloody lips by now. Her agent always bled when she punched him there and he knew karate and kung fu.

  "How could you do this to me? How could you do it?"

  "Do what?" asked Remo.

  "Ruin my demonstration. How could you do it? I'm Kim Kiley out here among these smellies, a full day's drive with major networks, all three, and the cable network, and you stage that shootout. Really, how could you?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Those men you had shoot at you to get all the publicity. I think they're dead. With three dead men, you could have gotten the same publicity on Hollywood and Vine. You didn't have to come out here. I came out here. I had to use the poison gas in there. I had to use this stinking reservation. Don't these people ever wash? I'm for Indian rights, but there are limits."

  The guards, who were Indians, glowered at Kim Kiley. Kim waved them away as if their glowers were uncalled for.

  "Ms. Kiley, this may come as a shock to you but I did not get myself shot at for publicity," Remo said.

  "Really? Then why did you have that highspeed camera trained on you? It wasn't network and it wasn't cable because they always have those symbols on their cameras to prove they were there. No symbols, and trained on you."

  "I did notice a camera," Remo said.

  "Oh, really now. You noticed it, eh? You suddenly noticed the camera focusing on you all the time?"

  "I noticed it focused on me. How did you know it was a high-speed camera?"

  "Didn't you look? The film magazine. It's three times as big as the networks'. They use more film because of the high speed. Don't tell me you don't know that with a high-speed camera you can get a finer image of yourself?"

  "Makes sense," said Remo. "But no, I didn't know that."

  "And it was my bad side too. Who are you going to deal the footage through?"

  "I'm not dealing any footage, whatever that is," Remo said.

  "C'mon. When's your movie coming out?"

  "I don't have a movie."

  "With your looks? What are you doing here then?"

  "I am," said Remo, remembering his identification, "with the Bureau of Indian Affairs."

  "Those cameramen weren't from a government firm. They were a commercial company. I saw their truck."

  "Did you see if the gunmen came from that truck?"

  "I just saw the dust kick up and heard noise. One network got me out of focus at that point but everyone else just turned away. I think they were using zoom lenses on you. You got close-ups, maybe four, four and a half seconds. It's going network."

  His face would be seen across the country. No matter, Remo thought. It would just be another face of someone being shot at. People saw so many faces, who would take note of his?

  "How can you fraction seconds of camera time while everyone else is running for their lives?" Remo asked.

  "I'm an actress. Are there any gunmen left where you hired those? It was a good move. It's going network. Getting shot at is network, prime time."

  "I didn't hire them. In fact, they were trying to kill me," Remo said.

  "Dead?"

  "Yes. That sort of thing."

  "Well, at least they didn't hurt your face." Kim Kiley caressed his cheeks with her palms, turning the head like a craftsman examining his work, then gave his cheek a friendly little pat. "Fine. A lovely face. Do you do anything with it?"

  "I see through it, eat through it, talk through it and breathe through it."

  "No, I mean anything important. I mean, are you doing any feature work? Television?"

  "I'm not an actor."

  "My Lord," gasped Kim Kiley, covering her mouth with a palm. "They were shooting at you."

  "I thought I had been telling you that."

  "Oh, this is terrible. Then what was that camera crew doing here shooting you with highspeed film?"

  "I don't know. I honestly don't know." Remo looked at the dust on the horizon. The crews were long gone now, but perhaps the networks had accidentally gotten a shot of those cameramen who were interested in Remo. There had been cameramen too when the President had been attacked. He could have been killed anytime, but only when there were cameras present was he attacked. "Do you remember anything else about those men with the high-speed cameras?" asked Remo. He moved the actress away from the guards. Off in the distance, he heard sirens. Police must have been notified.

  "Certainly," she said. "I wanted to buy some footage even though it wasn't my best side. It was Wonder Film, Palo Alto. I know them. They're reputable. They would never be involved in a shooting. They won't even film soft porn."

  "Wonder Films? Sounds like a porn shop to me," said Remo.

  "No. William and Ethel Wonder. They've been in the business for years. Totally reliable, totally honest. They almost went bankrupt a half-dozen times."

  "Maybe they needed the money?"

  "No. They can't be bought. Not everyone wants to deal with them. You know how eerie it is to know that the person you're dealing with has some things that he won't do for money. It makes my skin crawl."

  "Thank you and good-bye," said Remo, glancing at the police cruisers racing down the dirt prairie road like the cavalry.

  "Where are you going?" said Kim. "Cops don't pay for a personal appearance."

  "I've got business. Good-bye."

  "Well, so do I. I want that footage. Are you going there?" she asked.

  "If I find it, I'll get it for you," Remo said.

  "You wouldn't know what you're looking for. Besides, if there are going to be people shooting, I want a man around. Especially one with a nice face. What's your name?"

  "Remo."

  Kim Kiley squeezed his cheeks with her fingers as if she had the face of a baby in her hands. "You really shouldn't waste that face, Remo."

  "William Wonder?" said Remo. "Wonder. That's a funny name."

  "And Remo isn't?"

  Ethel Wonder didn't like what was going on. Even if William had never told her, she would have known it was his crazy family.

  "It's not crazy, Ethel. Do I call it crazy when your family takes an infant boy and cuts off part of his pecker?"

  "We've been doing it for thousands of years, William. It's a tradition."

  "Well, so have we," said William Wonder. The film was being flown back
to Palo Alto from the Pakeeta reservation outside Billings, Montana, by private jet. Wonder had the processing ready and refused to work on any other film until that arrived. The developing system had to be at the ready. He looked at his watch.

  "I never heard of your traditions," Ethel said. "Nobody I know has ever heard of your traditions either."

  "We like to keep to ourselves."

  "And your family meetings. I swear. A zoo."

  "We went to one family meeting."

  "I remember. The western United States. Who takes a family and divides up the world?" asked Ethel Wonder. She was a plump middle-aged woman who wore too-heavy makeup and a permanent frown. Sometimes she would smile when something really amused her but nothing had amused her since the television show Howdy Doody.

  "Howdy Doody, that was real humor," she said.

  William's family was not real humor. It wasn't even a real family. There wasn't any warmth and many of them didn't even share the same name, and they were all different races and religions. A writer had once said that relatives were like people you met in an elevator. You had no choice about them. William's family was exactly like people you met in an elevator. Strangers. Of course, if you ran into financial difficulty, they would help you out. They did that well.

  Of course, Ethel had always made sure she paid back the loans, with interest. She didn't like that bunch. The only good thing about them was that they didn't meet often. Maybe once every fifteen or twenty years. She was not quite sure what went on there, but whatever did, she was not a part of it.

  She loved William because in every other matter, he was a man she could respect. His word was iron; his life frugal and honest. And he didn't watch silly television shows.

  But then his family got involved in their business and they were doing crazy things. They had their best photographer shoot a presidential press conference at high speed. The kind of high speed you would use to stop a bullet in flight.

  "Listen, William," Ethel had said. "I know the President can talk fast, but faster than a speeding bullet?"

  "Ethel, it's family," William had answered. And that was supposed to settle things. The film was jetted back from Washington, processed and then jetted right out of Palo Alto again to a destination that had been kept from her.