Avenging Fury

by John Farris

  “No. Tom had to—leave Vegas suddenly. On business.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I—He didn’t tell me. A couple of days. Don’t think what you’re thinking.”

  “What about those private detectives who are standin’ watch outside your villa at Bahìa? Tom hire them?”

  “Yes. They’re from Blackwelder. Very reliable. So you see, Cody—”

  “Why do you need them? Is it just the paparazzi? I understand how you don’t want more of the publicity you’ve had already, some of it real tacky if you don’t mind my sayin’.”

  “For sure I don’t want any more publicity. Didn’t ask for what I’ve had already.”

  “I figured that, changin’ your name and appearance.” He studied her. “You look tuckered, Eden, and I know I am.” He took out his handkerchief and whisked it over his mustache to dislodge the flakes of doughnut icing. “I could shave this off if you’re wanting me to.”

  “Oh, no. Please. Not on my account.”

  “What we both need is to get a good night’s sleep. Maybe play some hoops in the mornin’ if your knee’s up to it. Then—”

  “Cody? Listen to me? I have a friend in the hospital who I have to look out for, and some of her family is in town.”

  “I’m real good at not gettin’ in anybody’s way. It’s not just that you’re publicity shy, is it?”

  “Cody, I am going to find myself a cab in a couple of minutes and, no hard feelings, our relationship ends when the door of that cab closes.”

  “You truly are in some kind of danger, aren’t you?”

  Eden turned away from Cody, not angry, just giving up on trying to talk to him. She walked toward the gallery’s mall entrance, an echo to her footsteps, then faltered. Remembering that she had left Simba, her walking stick, in the gallery’s office, leaning against a desk. She took a couple of more steps, favoring her knee, then stopped and shook her head.

  “Bet it hurts more than you’ve let on,” Cody observed.

  She turned back to him and shrugged, exasperated. “My knee’s okay. I can make all the moves I need to.”

  “One of those paparazzi outside the hotel took an interest in you when we got here. The new-look Eden didn’t appear to fool him. He was snapping away until I stepped between you and his camera.”

  Eden’s lips compressed. The implication dug into her like a biting fly.

  “They know, then. They know I’m still here.”

  He watched her trying to get a grip and making a bad job of it.

  “Who knows?”

  “Can’t tell you that, Cody. Just some bad guys. I mean really, really bad guys. Do the Navajo believe in evil spirits?”

  “Not a matter of belief. They just are; they exist.”

  “Las Vegas is a fun place to visit, I guess. But there are people—giving them the benefit of the doubt—who live here and who are evil in ways beyond your comprehension. Maybe thousands of them, Cody. And they probably all believe their world would be a better, safer place without Eden Waring in it.”

  “How’s that?” Cody asked, moving slowly toward her now.

  “Because two nights ago I killed their son-of-a-bitch unholy leader. Their so-called Great One.”

  “This some kind of cult you’re talking about?”

  “Was the Third Reich a cult?”

  “How did you—”

  “I just took it to him. Big time. I was a hit. Man, I brought the h-house down.” She trembled and her eyes lost luster and she seemed about to keel over on her weak side but by then Cody had her, taking her weight against him while Eden rattled on. “And your notion of protecting me from the wrath of Mordaunt’s legion is very dear and I will always cherish you for it but, Cody, no, you can’t, I won’t let you! I did have my doubts a little while ago but now I don’t think you’re in the least delusional.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I do some dreaming myself, you see, and some of those dreams can be doozies. Las Vegas is doomed, by the way. It will be destroyed. That little landslide out there on the mountain was just a prelude. And we’ll all go down with it.”

  “Should I skip next month’s payment on my condo?”

  “What’s happened, I think something has touched you, Cody. Supernatural, whatever. I have a hunch about what or who it was but they shouldn’t have involved you even though Bertie’s down and helpless and Tom, damn him, has gone to Christ knows where and probably he’s in danger himself. You are innocent and proud and tough but when they come after me they will kill you with no fuss and no quarter. You would not have a prayer against some of the powerful forces gathering in this place. The plagues of Egypt were bad, or so I was taught in Sunday school: but trust me, what Vegas has in store would make Pharaoh feel like a lottery winner.”

  “Real biblical, huh?”

  “Yes. Now please let me go. I can take care of myself.”

  “Maybe once you explain how, I’ll believe it. Meantime I’m stickin’ by you.”

  Eden’s left eye was turning in. She chewed her lower lip.

  “Did you dope my milk?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Can’t you even look insulted that I’d think such a thing?”

  “You don’t mean it,” Cody said peaceably.

  “Please please please. I want—I think I—I feel so dopey! What do I have to say to get through to you?”

  “Just take it a little easy, now. Got yourself worked up to a near frazzle. Natural-born grit, which I see you have a-plenty of, darlin’, will only carry you so far. Then you’re smart if you just call it quits for a while. Already half past quittin’ time tonight. Now what you should do is come along home with me. I’m supposin’ that villa at Bahìa is not as safe for you as it might oughta be. Nothing against those Blackwelders. From what I know about them they’re a first-rate organization. But you need to have yourself a restful undisturbed night in a location I can personally guarantee. Tomorrow we’ll talk more about pesky bad-hat guys.”

  “Pesky bad-hat guys?” Eden laughed dismally, then blinked tears for a few moments. “Somehow . . . everything you say just sounds so damn reassuring, so—so reasonable. And you’re way too big for me to beat up.” Eden shook her head, perplexed and forlorn. “I can’t insult you and I sure can’t fight you. And . . . I’m all through trying to argue with you. So I’ll go. You’re a fool to get involved with me, but I won’t say it again.” Instead she said, through clenched teeth, “God, stubborn; no wonder you don’t get along with women.”

  He smiled. “Who said I didn’t?”

  “And get this straight, Wild Bill Bufferlo. Even though I admire your . . . artistic ability, I’m no pushover groper. Grouper. You know.”

  “Who said you were?”

  OCTOBER 29 • 12:37 A.M.

  Harlee Nations had all the key cards to pass through the high gates of Lincoln Grayle’s estate on the western heights of Charleston Mountain, and thereafter to bum around inside all she pleased. Her privileges included access to the Magician’s living quarters. The two guards on night patrol knew Harlee and didn’t challenge her or Devon. The household staff was asleep or watching late-night television on their floor. The interminable, annoying Christmas music had been turned off. They heard only the high wail of the wind, a lament at this hour, punctuated by the yowl of a cougar in deep forest nearby.

  Devon had visited the stacked house on the high slope on other occasions and was past being in awe of its size and architectural ingenuity. The views remained fresh to her eye. Stars were clustered on the bowl of heaven like bright rain about to fall.

  Devon watched Conan O’Brien, whom she cherished for his cowlick, while Harlee prowled the two levels of Grayle’s suite, unlocking cabinets, exploring walk-in closets. Trepidation became frustration when she failed to locate the red crystal skull.

  “Did you and Linc ever?” Devon said, looking at the large bed, dozens of pillows, that was made for romping. Gold and black motif, a script G in the center of
the flashy silk spread.

  “Silly. I told you he couldn’t get it on with women. Not while he’s in his human persona.”

  “Well, then?” Devon said, giving Harlee an arch look.

  “No, thankew. He was like way too furry for me in one of his alter shapes. I mean, Jesus, you saw what was on those surveillance tapes. Take one for the team and all that, but shit you not I have my limits. Besides, Linc can’t go there all that often. Shape-shifting’s not an exact science. Every time he has to make a shift it drains his life force, not to mention adds years to his face. If he wants to maintain icon status in Las Vegas, he’d better keep his good body and his looks. Wayne and Tony can’t sing a lick anymore and Tom must be swiveling on his second set of hip joints, but their wills to survive are strong. Long as they can pile on the suntan makeup, their celebrity knoweth not the grave.”

  “Oh, are those still the originals? I heard that they were cloned. Rumor has it that Tom is planning a sibling act.”

  “Jones and the Clones?”

  Devon made a running jump and bounced giddily in the center of the Great One’s bed. Harlee frowned slightly but didn’t scold her. She continued to look around the excessively mirrored chamber, the tip of a little finger between her teeth as she nibbled the nail. A habit that had accompanied the structuring of her own, teen persona. Bit her nails, had weepy spells.

  “I could use a N-A-P,” Devon said. She blissfully closed her eyes.

  Before long Harlee crept onto the bed with her. They held hands, lying side by side, Harlee looking at herself in a smoke-toned ceiling mirror, each panel, twenty in all, flecked with pure gold.

  “So what do we do N-O-W?” Devon murmured.

  “Shhh.” Harlee’s heart was racing, which it often did when she was this close to Devon. But this time it wasn’t an urge to smooch and tickle and drive each other bats with their fluent tongues. Her mind had a late-hour blankness, but her body was totally alive, mysteriously vibrant. The Magician had lain there only a day or so ago. And he was not the only one. She sensed a recent, reluctant female presence. Hostility. The vibes all a-jangle, riling her nerves.

  Harlee continued to look up, as if the expanse of mirror held a world of answers. And—for sure—it was almost as if she could see him: the familiar form of Lincoln Grayle, but shadow-stretched. She might have been viewing him through a murky prism.

  Staring wearied her eyes; Harlee covered them with her free hand. Tiny pips of light grew faint and disappeared as a growing power emanated from the cup of her palm. Refreshing her vision, spreading inward to the brain, the subconscious of Seeing. When she lifted her hand from her face she discovered that she had risen a couple of feet above the silk-covered bed, still lightly tethered by Devon’s hand. Devon was fast asleep.

  Above Harlee the bits of gold in the mirror twinkled; she could see more clearly what was going on inside the smoky surface. Not unlike sitting in the last seat of the front row watching a movie at an uncomfortably oblique angle. The dialogue was coming through okay. Because now there were two of them, the Magician slim in black jeans and a Harlequin-style black-and-gold sweater.

  The girl lying on the bed in the vision that fully absorbed Harlee as she drifted closer to the mirrored ceiling was (she thought) none other than Eden Waring. Dressed in designer pj’s a little large on her graceful body. They must have belonged to the Magician.

  Harlee hovered, nose almost against the cool glass, watching them as she might have watched a show of exotic one-dimensional fish in an aquarium.

  The Avatar wasn’t peaceful in the ultraviolet light that illuminated her; she writhed in elongated misery, pajama tops riding up over her breasts.

  Harlee heard her say, Just turn the lamp off for a little while. I promise I’ll—

  The Magician said, Stay? But you can’t make promises to me, Gwen. Can you?

  (Gwen? Harlee thought, at first confused, then astounded. But she was the exact image of—)

  And the Magician said, It’s Eden who makes all of the decisions for her dpg.

  (Dpg? . . . A doppelganger! Harlee felt such a jolt at this revelation that it seemed for an instant she would decompress or something, yield to the grab of gravity and tumble twelve feet back to the bed where Devon lay obliviously in slumber. She took a deep steadying breath and resumed her clairvoyant, dreambody float.)

  Sure. You have it all figured out. Without Eden I’m a big nothing!

  And you hate the restrictions of your situation. You even hate your homebody, at times.

  (Gwen didn’t reply. Harlee assumed from her expression that, imprisoned by black light and too weak to blink away her tears, she hated everybody.)

  What if we can get you free of Eden, so that you can be Gwen in more than name only? That’s a promise I can make.

  Like hell you can! You don’t understand doppelgangers at all. Neither does your so-called expert, whoever that is.

  Someone you know well, I believe. Maybe it’s time for him to come in.

  (Harlee was intrigued by Gwen’s new visitors. She knew one of them: Dr. Marcus Woolwine, in residence at the Magician’s house. Gwen obviously knew him as well, and reacted badly to his presence.)

  Oh! God!

  Hello, Gwen. Such a great pleasure to see you again. I would like to apologize for some of the things I once said to you. “A soulless facade, a fake, a nonbeing.” But, after all. It wasn’t easy being forced to consume humble pie—a man of my stature in the remodeling business.

  (The man who had followed Woolwine into the bedroom was a Chinese nurse or physician. Harlee could only verify that he wore OR scrubs. He had with him a hospital cart that seemed to be loaded with meds and bags of IV solutions that hung from a short pole. Gwen looked horrified. Harlee couldn’t blame her, sympathized in fact, considering what she’d seen of and heard about Marcus Woolwine: a scientist/necromancer who wore vaguely sinister mirror sunglasses. Like, so decades ago, Harlee thought contemptuously. Archvillain in a James Bond oldie. Aside from his lack of fashion sense, Woolwine was unpleasantly squat and bowlegged and the shape of his gleaming bald head made Harlee think of a bronzed horse turd.

  And Dr. Woolwine wouldn’t stop talking.)

  From the day we both, ah, found it sensible to flee from Plenty Coups, my interest in you has grown with each passing hour. I have the good fortune now to be in the employ of a man who shares my fascination with doppelgangers.

  Gwen screamed, What are you going to do to me?

  (The Magician sat on the bed and affectionately ran a hand over Gwen’s head. Harlee felt a hot pang of jealousy where she lay flat to the glitzy ceiling, on the outside looking in.)

  You’ll soon have the life you’ve always wanted. Disengaged at last, freed from the tyranny of a homebody. For your freedom, ALL I ask in return is a favor.

  Do you a favor? I’d rather vomit in my own eyes!

  But we’ll talk more about that when I see you tomorrow.

  2:24 A.M.

  The thirty-car freight train, with all cars of the rolling stock built to the specifications of bunkers on wheels, approaches the outer limits of North Las Vegas at a sedate thirty miles per hour, in a light mist that has begun to fall on the high desert. It is a long, somber, unmarked, and funereal train, en route from the eastern United States for nearly a week, bearing hives of radioactive ghosts to an earthly Acheron called the Yucca Mountain repository.

  Not the first such train to reach the Vegas area. In the past few months others have traveled here through nearly every state: metropolitan centers like Rochester, Cincinnati, KC, Spokane, Denver. Never moving faster than fifty miles an hour, the trains are preceded by mobile track and rail X-ray equipment, observed by spotter airplanes or helicopter gunships that watch over them every mile of the way. All the trains are unscheduled; for security reasons they travel mostly at night. Every precaution is taken to prevent accidents, which the DOE knows inevitably will occur: at least twenty thousand shipments will be necessary to dispose of eighty-five thous
and metric tons of waste, a figure that increases yearly.

  Yucca Mountain is located on federal land about 100 miles northwest of Dazzle City, an area of approximately 230 square miles under the control of the U.S. Department of Energy, the U.S. Air Force, and the Bureau of Land Management. Yucca Mountain, cresting at just under five thousand feet, is, in geological terminology, a ridge formed by layers of volcanic rock, or tuff. Tuff is compressed ash deposited by the eruptions of local volcanoes between eleven and fourteen million years ago. The volcanoes are now extinct. Yucca Mountain, from any vantage point, is totally nondescript.

  In the 1950s this portion of the Nellis Air Force Range was used as an underground test site for low-to-medium-yield nuclear devices.

  After testing activity was suspended, more than six thousand seismic “events” around Yucca Mountain were recorded over three decades. One was a magnitude 5.2 on the Richter scale. In 1992 that earthquake caused at least a million dollars’ worth of damage to government buildings on the site.

  Nevertheless, proceeding from House Resolution 1270, the Nuclear Waste Policy Act of 1997, Yucca Mountain, Nevada, was designated as the permanent repository for pyramiding stockpiles of high-level nuclear waste from decades of bomb-making or reactor operations throughout the United States.

  Yucca Mountain has not (as of this night in October) officially been certified by the federal government. But political reality being what it is (Nevada is severely underrepresented in Washington), this is pretty much a fait accompli. Nevada, you’ve got the desert, we’ve got the waste. Enjoy.

  Three hundred miles of seamless rails extending from the Union Pacific main line at a dot on the map called Caliente, near the Utah border, are planned for the final hauling of the waste from everywhere in the United States to lonely if earthquake-prone Yucca. Meanwhile, urgent demands created by unreported “incidents” related to stockpiles of spent fuel rods close to major urban areas and an equally urgent need to test storage and transfer facilities have prompted these premature, clandestine (and illegal) midnight runs through the heart of populous Clark County to a rail yard where the hazardous materials are off-loaded onto trucks for the final one-hundred-mile trip up U.S. 95 to the still-under-construction repository. About $7 billion of a proposed $29 billion budget has already been spent far below the surface of Yucca Mountain.