The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  “It’s being taken care of,” answered Sedgewick, who turned to Votapek. “You know the same applies to Alison now.”

  “That is entirely untrue. He knew what he was doing,” said Votapek. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

  “Yes, but the rationale is the same. Any connection among us and the entire agenda blows up in our faces.” Sedgewick paused. “Not all of us care to wait another thirty years before getting the chance to try again.”

  “And I suppose you mean Tempsten was all my fault—”

  “I don’t mean anything. All I’m saying is that we can’t take any chances this time. We leave her out there and we could very well sacrifice what we’re on the verge of creating. Wittingly or not, Alison could draw those connections. Would you choose her over that future?”

  Votapek remained by the window, not bothering to look at the other men in the room. “Would you let me?”

  They had backtracked a good twenty miles, cutting through roads that Jeff had promised were too obscure even for the local police. Sarah had told him that her friends would no doubt try the same sort of ruse they had plotted in Glendon, and she had therefore convinced him to travel north, away from the city, so that she could avoid another run-in. At first, the mechanic had been reluctant, insisting that he drive her all the way to Mexico, but, after careful explanation, she had made it quite clear that Menace—though a fine piece of machinery—was perhaps a shade too conspicuous to make it all the way south of the border without further interruptions. A few minutes of silent consideration had brought Jeff to the same conclusion. He had turned off the road and opted for the more scenic approach to the town of Palametto.

  Now, about a mile outside the village, still safe within the cover of a backwoods trail, Sarah asked him to stop. Opening the door, she stepped down from the cab.

  “You’re gonna what?” he said, snapping his head in her direction to emphasize his amazement. “It’s over a mile from here. Maybe two. There’s no reason for you to walk. I said it’s no problem for me—”

  “I’d like to get into town without too much of an entrance. You know, slip in, slip out. That kind of thing. Catch the next train.”

  “Jeez, you guys take this game seriously. You know he’s halfway to Carmel by now, and you’re gonna start walking?”

  “Trust me,” answered Sarah, “I’ve played with him before.” Such are the sacrifices we make. Ever the rationale. Ever Pritchard’s modus operandi. And now he wanted her out. Why? Or had that been part of the ruse? Another prod to make certain she would see it through to the end. To Tempsten and Senator Schenten. She recalled a phrase from Feric’s message: “cut off the head and the whole thing falls apart.” Again, Pritchard had left her so few choices. Disappear now and ensure the sacrifice. Or become the assassin. It was the only way she knew to save Xander.

  “Hey, it’s your thing,” answered Jeff. She could tell his interest was waning, speed a vital component to his enthusiasm. He revved the car. “Just thought you might want the help.”

  She nodded. “You’ve been really great.” She reached into her pocket and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from the wallet she had taken from Tieg’s man. “I want you to have this.”

  “What the—”

  “It’s … your share if I win,” she explained. “I wouldn’t feel right winning the five thousand knowing I’d still be at the garage if not for you.” The boy’s eyes responded a moment later, his cheeks a little flushed as he coyly reached across the seat.

  “Five thousand?” His eyes widened. “Well … I guess that’s okay, then. And we did outgun that little sedan.”

  “We sure did,” replied Sarah. “Oh, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t get back to Mick’s until, say, late this afternoon. You know, just in case my friends are there and want to know where I headed.”

  Jeff was busy cramming the hundred into his pocket. “Right, right,” he nodded. “Get yourself a head start. I can understand that. I’ll drive out to a friend’s, play some vid. I can handle that.”

  “And Mick won’t mind?”

  “Nah, we’re slow right now. Two Beemers by next Friday. Nothing much. Hey, it’ll serve him right for treating me like an idiot.” He smiled and reached over to pull the door shut. “A hundred bucks and some great driving. I should be thanking you. …” He stopped and looked at Sarah through the window. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Susan,” she said.

  “Cool, Susan. Hope you win.” With that, he gunned the engine and tore off down the trail, his hand waving out the window as Menace disappeared around a curve. Sarah waited a minute and then headed for town.

  Twenty minutes later, she stood in the ladies’ room of the Palametto station, a tiny cubicle about halfway down the platform. The train had been her only option—no way quicker or less obtrusive to the Sacramento airport. If all went well, she would be on the first flight to points east within the next hour, then a connector to upstate New York. And Schenten.

  And somehow she knew Jaspers would be there. He had to be. She needed him there, needed to see that he had survived, more for her own sake than for his. The gentle, decent man who had tried to reach out to her, who had seen her lose herself in those tunnels, and whom she had sent out into the madness. And all with just a smile. Don’t let me down, Feric.

  The question now was whether they would recognize her once she arrived. In a short leather skirt, silk blouse, and suede jacket, she was a far cry from the Firenzan Signora Fabrizzi. The tight-fitting ensemble had come courtesy of The Fashion Plate, Palametto’s only women’s clothing store, and duly stocked with all the latest styles—or so the sign had said. Exactly whose idea of style, though, remained something of a mystery. The new clothes—including a pair of dark green kneesocks, a rather daring pair of lace bikini underwear, and a set of climbing boots—had transformed Sarah into a poster child for northern California chic.

  Now, standing in front of yet another mirror, Sarah was making the most of the few items she had picked up at the local pharmacy to finish the job. With slow, even strokes, she was carefully smoothing a few dollops of Ultra-Tan into her face and neck. Bathing her hands, forearms, and thighs in the oily concoction, she decided not to worry about the aftereffects. All that mattered were the few age lines and scrapes from her tumble down Tieg’s hillside. Within a minute, they were gone, and with them a good seven years, transporting Sarah to somewhere in her mid-twenties. All right, late twenties. The clothes would have to work a little overtime. Next came the clippers, to make quick work of her hair, cropped to chin length and trimmed to as straight a line as possible. She hoped the six hours of flying time—and several packets of blond dye—would be enough to damage the hair to perfection. If nothing else, her costume was sufficient to get her as far as the airport.

  With one final check in the mirror, she pulled the door open, only to be met by two discrete sounds in the distance. The first was the train’s horn, a blaring burst to inform everyone in Ballard county that the 9:40 had arrived two minutes ahead of schedule. The second was the rumble of an oversized engine, its familiar groan causing Sarah to step back. It was eerily familiar, the hiccup in the engine unmistakable. She had heard it too many times while barreling along overgrown trails not to recognize the sound of the four-by-four.

  They had found Jeff. Had Pritchard been clever enough to place a homing device on the truck? It was a foolish question; Sarah knew those were exactly the sorts of details he never missed. And now, because of that, Menace was somewhere behind her, stalking the streets of Palametto.

  The train screeched to a stop, momentarily returning her focus to the platform. Almost in unison, the car let out a final growl. Sarah froze, expecting to hear steps, the soft pitter-pat of prowling feet. But nothing. Only silence. A moment later, a few leaves swirled overhead as the train doors slid open, the intrusion snapping her head up, the empty cabin beckoning not ten feet in front of her. And still only silence. Think! Consider the options! For ne
arly half a minute, she waited, until, springing from her alcove, she darted across the platform and into the cabin just as the doors slid shut behind her. Seconds later, the platform began to slip by as she moved to the window, trying to catch a glimpse of her would-be pursuers. All she saw was an empty cement strip glide by. She stepped away as a swath of wooded countryside swept up in front of her, leaves and branches tunneling the train along through an arc of greens and browns. Where are they?

  And then it dawned on her. They were on the train.

  Bob Stein ran his hand along the bed frame, the dust cascading to the pillow in a cloud of gray mist. Across the room, O’Connell—until only minutes ago buried in the bed’s yellowed sheets—swung his head from tap to tap, cold then hot, in a strange ritual of midafternoon rousing. The shirt he wore was sleeveless, ribbed at the chest, and in equal need of a good wash. As to his pants, they were too short, too wide at the ankle, too tight at the stomach. Stein had seen him like this only once before. After Amman. The sight was enough to force Bob to look around the room, take in the dilapidated space, its chipped plaster, crumbling Sheetrock scattered all about. As O’Connell stepped away to dry himself, the sink came into view, its pipes straining against the wall, its entire metal heft threatening to plummet to the floor with the least bit of prodding. All in all, it was a squalid little hole that conjured images of the worst of the ThirdWorld. Hard to believe it could be rented for a week at a time less than three blocks south of Union Square in New York.

  It hadn’t been hard to track him. In fact, O’Connell had left a rather obvious trail—a fact that had comforted Bob. As with Sarah, he seemed to have been asking to be found. Naturally, Bob had complied.

  A mucal cough brought his attention back to O’Connell, who had draped the towel around his neck and who was now busy with the cap on the bottle.

  “It’s a fine stock, Bobby,” he said, the voice still hampered by sleep. “Only the best for you.” The Irish lilt had grown somehow more exaggerated.

  “I’ll pass,” answered Stein. “Maybe later.” O’Connell shrugged his mammoth shoulders and took a long swig of the chestnut liquid. “How many of those do you go through in a day?”

  “A day?” O’Connell laughed, cut off by another eruption of phlegm in his throat. He spat in no particular direction and settled onto a short metal stool by the door. “An hour, Bobby. An hour. When I’m good, it’s two. When I’m not …” He winked and smiled. “What do you want? As you can see, I’m very busy. Not much time for the likes of you. A meeting at Rock Center for tea and crumpets.” He laughed and took another drink.

  “You left the trail. I just followed it,” answered Stein. “You’re usually quicker than this, Gael. It’s beginning to look a little sloppy.”

  “I’m sure it is, Mr. Stein. I’m sure it is.” He thought about another swig, then stopped the bottle halfway to his lips. “But what’s a few days between friends?” The smile disappeared. The bottle continued up, the liquid rushing down along the glass. O’Connell wiped his mouth against his bare shoulder. “Sometimes, though, you need a little … privacy. A little time to think the great thoughts.” Again, he drank.

  “I didn’t know you had any.”

  O’Connell winked, the smile returning. “At least you’re honest.”

  Watching him drink, Stein continued. “I’ve never understood why you do this. They pay you enough—”

  “Worth every penny,” he broke in, raising the bottle in a mock toast.

  “Yes, every penny,” agreed Stein, “but why this? Why not Maryland, the farm? Why not do your thinking there? See the pooch—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Bobby.” The words carried no malice. “I do my thinking where I choose.” He took another drink, his eyes blinking in a slow, unconnected rhythm. “The dog’s dead. Did you know that? Yah, some fuckin’ kid. Driving a truck or something. I told them to keep her inside at night—simplest fuckin’ thing to do—but you can’t trust any of them, stupid bastards. They let a fuckin’ dog run wild in the dark. Served the old bitch right anyway.” He finished off the bottle and tossed it against the far wall. It refused to break, landing with a thud on the wooden floor.

  “I hadn’t heard.” Stein took in a deep breath and slid a girlie magazine out from under the pillow. Flipping through the pages, he added, “Then again, she wasn’t going to live that much longer anyway.”

  Gael smiled, his chin dropping to his chest, elbows on knees for support. “Fuck you, Bobby. She wasn’t as old as your fat ass.”

  “I need you to dry out.” Stein tossed the magazine onto the far side of the bed and placed his hands on the soft mattress. “Sarah’s in trouble and it looks like you’re the only one she trusts.”

  “And that surprises you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  For a few seconds, O’Connell’s eyes seemed to clear before slipping back into the easy drunk. He looked away, his hand fiddling with a loose piece of plaster. “Yah, well … how is our little Miss Trent?”

  “They’ve gotten hold of her files,” replied Stein. “Everything. And Arthur’s been … unreachable.”

  At the mention of Pritchard’s name, O’Connell’s face suddenly became tight, the eyes narrower as they sought out Stein. “The ever-popular Arthur C. Pritchard.”

  “No C,” he corrected. “That’s Clarke. Ours has no middle initial.”

  “Fuck you, Bobby.” O’Connell stood and walked across to the sink. He turned on the faucet and scooped up a mouthful of water. Swallowing, he added, “You have no idea what’s going on, do you?” He laughed to himself. “He promised, you know. She was gone, out. His solemn word.” He slammed his hand into the wall and screamed, “Yah, well, fuck you, Arthur Pritchard!” He turned to Stein. “Said she was done. Except, he didn’t have to go in after her, did he? He didn’t have to scrape those bastard boys off the street, see her standing in that hotel room, her hand so tight around that gun, you’d have … I don’t know.” He shut his eyes and dropped his head back. “She was a good kid, you know that?” The voice was almost a whisper. “And a great shot. Cool. That’s what she was.” He opened his eyes and looked at Stein. “Thought she could get back for the girl, you know that? As if she’d had a choice.” Again he laughed to himself, then drifted back to the stool, taking a deep breath as he sat. “She blamed herself, and he brought her back. Why’d he do that, Bob? Why?” Once more, he let his chin drop to his chest. Then, with no kindness in his eyes, he stared up at his colleague. “We should’ve known better. We should’ve left her alone. We should’ve seen it.”

  Stein waited for him to sink deeper into the chair. “Not my call.”

  “That’s good, Bobby. You believe that.” The bitterness now boiled up. “Pass the buck. Good for you, Bobby. Good for you.”

  “You really think that’s what I wanted?” Again he paused. “Then you can go straight to hell. This isn’t about Arthur; this is about her.”

  The onetime operative blinked several times. After a minute, he sat up, took in another deep breath, and then rubbed his hands through his hair and over his face. He stretched his neck and coughed. “Ya, well, I’m not as bad as I look. Not more than half a bottle a day. Tops.”

  “You never could hold this stuff.”

  A different smile returned. “Don’t push your luck, Mr. Stein.”

  “I need you to walk out of here with me tonight.”

  O’Connell tried to shake the booze from his head. “And into what?”

  “That,” he replied, “depends on you.”

  The Irishman looked up. “Where is she, Bobby? And where, by the way, is our Mr. Pritchard? Or wouldn’t you know that?”

  Stein stared at O’Connell. “Is there something I should know?”

  “Little problem of whom you can trust.” O’Connell stood and again moved to the sink, flipping the tap before gulping down several handfuls of water.

  “Meaning?”

  He doused his head before speaking. “So they know who she is.
Where?”

  “Tieg’s. San Francisco.”

  “When?”

  “Within the last twelve hours.”

  O’Connell turned off the faucet and looked back at Stein, patting the towel against his neck and face. “And she’s still there?”

  Stein shook his head. “I … I’m not sure.”

  “That’s not good, Bobby. That’s not good at all.”

  Sarah scanned the aisle in front of her, the fifteen or so rows mercifully full, a few empty pockets here and there, but enough bodies to offer some semblance of cover. Behind her, an equally dense collection of commuters and vacationers sat side by side, several lost in papers, others in conversations, most, she noticed, in identical ties and scarves. On closer inspection, she discovered that the pants and skirts were similarly coordinated, neatly creased gray flannels, everyone in loafers or pumps. So much for blending in. That notwithstanding, she ventured to her left, steadying herself against the edge of the seats as she moved farther into the cabin. With each new row came another set of ties, another flock of pants and skirts to add to the mystery. The aisle, though, remained clear of any other noncostumed arrivals. If Pritchard’s men were on the train, they had yet to make it to the clone car.

  Swaying from side to side, Sarah caught sight of a single empty space in the last row of seats, a pair of loafers from an unseen passenger resting comfortably on the vacant spot. To their left, a man in his late thirties—also in full attire—slouched over a crossword puzzle, the cap of his pen weathering the worst of a gnawing concentration. By the window, back up against the wall. Half a minute later, Sarah politely slid past him, watched as the shoes on her seat found the floor, and sat, her bag at her side.