Dean Ing - Silent Thunder

by Silent Thunder(lit)

  Then Johnnie quit paddling and began kneading, stroking the bruised buttocks, speaking more softly. Nobody can hear us out here, Laurel. If you behave, I can make you feel good. Real good. Stop that, she lashed a single slap again at Laurie's renewed struggle. You're Johnnie's girl now, and you do as I tell you.

  A half-hour later, Johnnie taped the girl's mouth, wrists and ankles securely and locked her in the dark room. Soon after, Laurie heard the sounds of a door closing; a lock snapping. But long before that, while lying across the woman's lap, Laurie had begun to understand and to loathe exactly what it meant to be Johnnie's girl...

  Ramsay's phone did not ring again until he had greeted Pam and apologized. At first he would only tell her that Laurie had been taken by persons unknown. He said nothing of Kathleen's death, but Pam's lovely dark features remained frozen in horror for many long seconds as she stared, shaking her head. No, oh no, they couldn't, she moaned. Shaking, she buried her face against his chest.

  Touched at her reaction, he said, We just have to wait and hope. They did not have to wait long.

  He answered on the first ring. You're smart enough to follow orders, said the not-quite-male voice that was now familiar. Let's see if you're smart enough to keep the girl alive.

  Whatever it takes, Ramsay admitted. I'll trade myself for her if that's-

  Shut up and quit trying to keep me on the line. Go right now and check the battery in that yellow sportscar of yours.

  The battery? But- But he was talking to a dead line. He put the phone down with great care, fighting for self-control, and did not quite hear Pam's question. In any case, she had stammered. He asked her to repeat it.

  I asked you what he said.

  A two-beat pause while their gazes locked. Yes, it was natural to assume the caller was male. And it was almost a 'he' voice. But hadn't Pam almost asked 'what did she say'? Doubt, as heavy and cold as a fragment of a dead star, came to rest in Ramsay's chest as he turned away from Pam Garza. He said to check my car battery. Do you suppose they're watching to see if I'll follow orders?

  Pam grabbed her cardigan sweater, tossed his jacket to him, and crossed to the door expectantly. He took the jacket and followed her downstairs, watching the nape of her neck instead of the fine lilt of her racehorse legs. He wondered why Pam Garza had come into his life at this precise juncture; whether she had done it under orders; and then he wondered how he could touch her in pleasure while holding this suspicion.

  He let her stand beside him in the driveway while he pulled the inner hood release. She seemed ready to lift the hood herself until he warned her to move far away. If this was a booby trap, at least Pam was unaware of it, he thought. But instead, someone had placed a plastic bag atop his battery. She probably knew it was safe, he reflected, holding the clear bag up to study it in the glow of a distant streetlamp, unable to identify its contents.

  Hurrying back to his apartment, he said, They put this here during the past half-hour.

  God, but they're cocksure, Pam said.

  He swung the front door shut, ripped off his jacket, folded his arms. What's your conclusion from that? He half expected her to say, in awed tones, that his enemies were so all-powerful that he must obey their every whim. In that case he probably would have struck her.

  But Pam was emptying the plastic bag herself and did not seem to have heard him. Oh, she said softly in dismay, handing him the long curl of blonde hair that was Laurie's color but might, after all, have been anyone's. The keyring, however, was more conclusive: its charm was in the tiny spherical magnetic compass. Ramsay had given it to Laurie when she'd gone away to camp the year before. Pam held it up and looked her question silently.

  He nodded. Hers, he said, and took the note as Pam extracted it. Until this moment, I never realized I could kill in cold blood. Well, I could. Right now.

  From all appearances, Pam did not see the threat as directed at her. So could I, Alan. She pointed a tapering manicured finger at the folded note as if the paper were a black widow spider. Tell me if I should see that. Her finger, he noted, was shaking; the skin around her mouth and nostrils was unnaturally pale. She's not acting, he realized with a flood of relief and affection. Whatever she is, Pamela Garza is no kidnapper.

  The note had evidently been printed out on a common pocket memocomp. He read it, paused, then handed it to Pam. Once, while scanning it, she made a noise that was half moan, and the other half was growl. The note read:

  WITHOUT YOUR IDLE RUMORS, WINTOON AND THE WOMAN WOULD BE ALIVE. THE GIRL WILL STAY HEALTHY EXACTLY AS LONG AS YOU STAY SILENT. WE COULD SEND OTHER SNIPPETS INSTEAD OF HAIR, AND WE WILL, IF YOU CONFIDE IN POLICE. SOME NIGHTS THE GIRL WILL CALL YOU AT HOME. KEEP YOUR SILENCE AND NORMAL ROUTINES FOR A MONTH AND WE WILL RETURN HER SAFELY.

  MAN PROPOSES, GOD DISPOSES.

  THINK OF US AS GOD.

  Handing Ramsay the note, Pam rubbed gooseflesh from her forearms. Devils would be more like it. Alan, did they-is Laurie's mother-?

  Yes. With a handgun. While they were stuffing Laurie into a goddamn garbage can during rush hour today, if you can believe that.

  He watched as she traced circles on his carpet with a shoetip, her arms folded so she could grip her elbows. Simply to be doing something, Ramsay went to his kitchen and inventoried the stuff Pam had brought: among other things, soft avocadoes, brown sugar, and lamb chops. She was standing beside him before he finished, and he failed in his effort to smile. They embraced quietly in sexless mutual need. Finally: If you need to be alone, I can go, she whispered.

  He denied it; dared her to create New Mexico antojitos that might make him momentarily forget; and watched her small taloned fingers prepare a feast as they talked. The talons paused as he admitted, For all I knew, you could have been one of them.

  She'd thought of that, she said. I can't blame you; you really haven't known me that long. Just tell me how I can help, Alan, and grade me on how well I do it. But I don't think I want to know those rumors, if they're this deadly.

  She took chances, he replied, just being with him. No, I won't saddle you with what I know. Why don't they just zap me and be done with it?

  She set the microwave oven dial and shrugged as she faced him. I don't know, but I think we might be safe as long as you don't tell everything on national television. I suspect they're just a little afraid of what might happen if they tried to kill someone in your line of work, and got caught at it. I mean, you're a frequent houseguest to fifty million people, Alan. My big boss likes to say the media is an outlaw horse, you can't tame it, but if you tickle its cojones it might give you a good ride. Well, that's what he says, she ended, her cheeks the color of a ripe peach. Actually, he claims it was a quote from Showers.

  Evan Showers? His glance was keen. Showers, the President's press secretary, did his job well if unconventionally; just the sort of man needed to run media interference for a President whose public performances were reminiscent of an evangelist.

  Pam nodded. My boss's boss, if the truth be known-and that's just between you and me, she added quickly.

  I thought you worked for Elite Research, he began, and then smiled as she nodded. Ah; then Showers is one of Elite's clients. The practice of government's hiring independent research groups was not widely known, but increasingly common. Short-term jobs, or ongoing?

  Ongoing, she said. Elite does a lot of what we call unobtrusive measures. You know, computer analysis of talk show jokes, that sort of thing. Subtle measures of how well the administration is doing.

  Pretty sharp of Showers, he said.

  Walter Kalvin, you mean, she replied, opening the oven door. I gather from little things Tate says and does that Kalvin's the brains behind the stuff we check on.

  The son of subtle details he'd pick up in postgraduate work, Ramsay thought. Oh yes, Kalvin's had himself a hidden agenda for a long, long time. A regular little intelligence service, he said aloud, if Showers wants it run that way.

  She sniffed at the steaming casserole, gave a
judicial nod, and placed it on the table. Elite's first contract was directly through Kalvin; a real internal disaster, she admitted as they sat down. You know how Harry Rand likes to walk around with a hand-held mike instead of standing behind a lectern with armored glass?

  Ramsay snorted with amusement as he helped himself to fragments of pimiento, lamb, and cheese layered atop corn chips. It's the preacher in him, he said. A lot of us think it's as bush-league as Pop Warner ballgames, but it seems to work for him.

  Kalvin wanted a grass-roots opinion before the Presidential campaign, she said. Tate thought the habit would be a turn-off for a national audience. I'm afraid he cooked our data a little to bolster that opinion, she said ruefully, but it got harder to cook as time went on. The public just plain liked the President's style and Tate finally had to admit that, or provide outright false data. Don't you breathe word of this to anyone, Alan. I'd be in serious trouble.

  I didn't hear it, he said around a mouthful of delicious cholesterol, pantomiming a feeding frenzy. You cook food better than you cook data, he added.

  Oh, I'm what they call a field analyst; what I really do, mostly, is jolly people into giving us free information. A lot of legwork, she shrugged.

  You're highly qualified there, he leered, chewing happily.

  I don't always like what I have to do. But it's for a good cause, she said. And where else could I earn oodles of money, and meet people like Alan Ramsay?

  There's that. But what's the good cause?

  She colored slightly; busied herself with her fork. Harr-President Rand is a fine man. I grant you he's no genius, but he's a decent person. I've been a supporter since before he ran for the senate.

  Ramsay lowered his fork. You're kidding. You were hardly more than a kid.

  And he was on the evangelical circuit. I went out of curiosity and-oh, I suppose you had to be there. To see him striding across in front of an audience, full of love and hope and anger and joy for us, it just-I guess it was something like a religious experience, she said. For three thousand people.

  Ramsay began to eat again, nodding, chewing, thinking. That's a big audience. He saw her nod and went on, Did he use a wireless mike then?

  I don't remem-oh, she said, grinning. No, the mike had a cord. He tripped over it once; pulled the jack out of the socket. I remember because it's the only time I ever saw Walter Kalvin on his knees, scrambling to fix it.

  Probably still experimenting, Ramsay said, aloud but to himself. Then, snapping his attention to Pam and her entree, he took another helping. Quite a coincidence, your getting a job here and finding Rand's people are your clients, he said.

  She looked at him steadily. It was no coincidence. And I'd rather not peer down a gift horse's throat, Alan. They both fell silent, savoring the meal, until Pam said, Aren't there some things about your job that it would be unprofessional of you to talk about?

  Not many. Some, he admitted. Sure; a few.

  Same here. I wouldn't have shared any of this with you, especially considering the work you do, if I weren't sharing everything else with you. There are just some things I mustn't talk about.

  Professionally.

  Yes, professionally. What are you getting at?

  At the last morsel in this dish, he said, smiling at her abruptly, scraping with his fork.

  You're changing the subject. Finish what you were going to say.

  I'm not sure, he said, but I know it would involve using your position to help me.

  She reached out to touch his wrist gently, her gaze sad and steady. I have a commitment to you and Laurie now. That's not your decision, it's mine.

  They sat in silence while Ramsay considered the ways that Pam might help. It was not conviction but desperation that made him ask, Pam, if I asked you to deliver a note to Kalvin personally, could you do it? After some thought, she nodded. My career would be on the line if he didn't like it. Tate's my boss, and Showers is in between them, she reminded.

  Just an idea, he sighed. I'm not sure what I want to say. If Laurie comes to harm I'll blow you away during a press conference? Or more likely, Give me my kid now and I'll retire from the business. No, his best option for Laurie was to prove tractable, to do as the bastards said and keep quiet for a month. Why a month?

  He puzzled at that question fruitlessly, staring into space until Pam insinuated her toes between his feet beneath the table. She stroked his calf, smiling, and presently he felt arousal for her-a miracle in these horrendous circumstances.

  An hour later, after they had titillated each other through the kitchen cleanup and moved into his bedroom with busy hands, they lay spent on his bed. Perhaps not entirely spent, as she used one languid hand to stroke him to a passable erection. Ah yes, she murmured, the potency of the press. Would you say I'm holding the wand of power, love?

  I'll say anything you like if you promise not to stop.

  Her chuckle was salacious in the shadowed room. Then, as they lay together, she whispered into his ear: You're right, Alan. Don't trust anybody; not old friends, not even me entirely. But I'd like to know that you've written down everything for posterity, just in case.

  Mumbling: So you can read it?

  No. Because it might keep you alive.

  I already did, he said, kissing the long curve of her throat. He felt her relax then.

  They were half-asleep when the call came. Ramsay bounded into his study, grabbed the phone. Ramsay here; hello? Hello?

  This time he heard no adult voice, but a series of clatters and clicks and then, unmistakable, Laurie's voice: Daddy, she wants me to tell you what I saw on the news. Click, pause, click. There was this story about a train jumping off, uh, derailing. Click, pause, click. She tapes this so you'll know I'm okay but, click, pause. Click. I love you, Daddy and Mommy.

  He tried to reply but the line went dead. Obviously, someone had taped and deleted some of Laurie's message.

  Just as obviously, Laurie could watch NBN's local newscasts. That meant she was within the local coverage area, and she did not sound as if she was badly injured. Hell, she could be on the other side of Baltimore, he raged.

  Pam stood in the doorway, fetchingly disheveled, worry lines robbing her face of youth. He ran his phone recorder playback through its speaker for her; watched while she gnawed her fist in concentration and dismay. She doesn't know about her mother. They may even have some mercy.

  He nodded, sitting at his desk now, laying his cheek against her flank as she moved near. Maybe it won't be as hellish for Laurie as I thought, he said.

  Unspoken between them was the knowledge that his own daily routines were going to be utter and absolute hell.

  EIGHT

  The theatre in the west wing's basement had originally been quite small; scarcely larger than the Cabinet Room upstairs, dwarfed by the nearby Situation Room with its communications equipment. The enlarging of the theatre had been Kalvin's idea. The long narrow stage and the new ranks of plush seats, he had told Harrison Rand, would give the President the kind of room he needed when addressing a sizeable group in a private setting.

  Standing in the Situation Room with Rand, Kalvin tucked a gray wand under one arm as he reached up to straighten his President's tie. But it won't matter how he looks if he doesn't follow my script, Kalvin thought.

  Kalvin had spent years trying to account for every significant variable which created that public paragon, that potential monster, the charismatic leader. The Nazis had one thing bass-ackwards: you didn't begin with the characteristics of the leader, you began with the typical follower. The same voice qualities that hypnotized most people could generate doubt, or even subconscious hostility, in a few. The chief trick was to find what won over the maximum number of followers-especially in one-person, one-vote democracies where the decisions are made by a majority of meat, and not necessarily a majority of informed opinions. In 1930's Germany, a certain stridency in tone had done wonders. Americans, half a century later, responded better to deep resonances, among other things
.

  Kalvin had worked long and hard to identify those other things. He had microminiaturized a suitcase full of tubes and wires into a package that fitted into that gray wand under his arm, and finally made the whole thing wireless after a few harrowing accidents. Studying the latest advances in voice stress analysis, which often revealed when a speaker doubted his own truthfulness, Kalvin had added defeat circuits that simply eliminated those tonal tipoffs the stress analyzer was designed to identify. And because Kalvin never entirely trusted Harry Rand or anyone else to follow orders exactly-to stick to the script, as it were-Kalvin slaved the Donnersprache circuits to a wireless enable-disable unit in his own pocket. The instant Rand varied from what Kalvin wanted to hear, Harry Rand became only a regional orator, the mike only an amplifier, the formidable Donnersprache circuits only sleeping sorcery.