203

He gave a shit-eating grin and prayed they would buy his story.

The agents looked at the white-haired guy, confirming Priest's impression that he was in charge.

There was an awful moment of hesitation.

Hell, boy, you ain't no schoolteacher! You're Ricky Granger, used to wholesale amphetamines through a bunch ofliquor stores in Los Angeles back in the sixties-are you mixed up in this earthquake shit? Frisk him, boys; and cuffhis little girl, too. Let's take 'em in, find out what they know.

"We'd be delighted to have you join us, Florence," said the agent.

So far, so good

"Thank you, sir," Flower said.

Priest had been careful not to over-prepare Flower. If she appeared shy, or fumbled her questions, it would only seem natural, he thought; whereas if she were completely poised and professional she might arouse suspicion.

She hesitated, then blurted: "Um ... what's your name?"

"I'm Associate Special Agent in Charge Brian Kincaid. I'm boss of the San Francisco field office ofthe FBI."

Flower opened her notebook and wrote that down. Gaining confidence, she said: "So you're in charge of the investigation?"

"This is only one of many inquiries that I have to keep an eye on." He pointed to the man with the black moustache. "Special Agent Marvin Hayes has the Stop Now assignment."

Flower turned to Hayes. "I think our class would like to know what kind of person you 204 are, Mr Hayes. Could I ask you some questions about yourself?"

Priest was shocked to see a hint of coquettishness in the way she smiled at Hayes and tilted her head. She 's too young to flirt with grown men, for god's sake!

But Hayes bought it. He looked pleased and said: "Sure, go ahead."

"Are you married?"

"Yes. I have two children, a boy your age and a girl a little younger."

"Do you have any hobbies?"

"I collect boxing memorabilia."

"That's unusual."

"I guess it is."

Priest was both pleased and dismayed by how naturally Flower fell into the role. She 's good at this. Hell, I hope I haven't raised her all these years to become a cheap magazine journalist.

He studied Hayes while the agent answered Flower's innocent questions. This was his opponent. Hayes was carefully dressed in conventional style. His tan lightweight suit, white button-down shirt and red silk tie had probably come from Brooks Brothers. He wore black oxford shoes, highly shined and tightly laced. His hair and moustache were neatly trimmed.

Yet Priest sensed immediately that the ultraconservative look was a fake. The tie was a little too striking, there was an over-large ruby ring on the little finger of his left hand, and the moustache was a raffish touch. Also, Priest thought that the kind of American brahmin Hayes was trying to imitate would not have dressed so formally on a Saturday morning, even for a press conference. 205

"What's your favourite restaurant?" Flower asked.

"Well, we don't make fancy salaries here at the FBI, so I rarely eat at swanky places. We quite often go to Everton's-it's really more of a pub."

The conference room was filling up. Men and women with notebooks and miniature cassette recorders, photographers encumbered with cameras and flashguns, radio reporters with large microphones, and a couple of TV crews with hand-held video cameras were taking up positions. As they came in, a secretary asked them to sign a book. Priest had not been asked to sign in. He preferred it that way, although it was no big deal.

Kincaid, the boss, touched Hayes' elbow. "We need to prepare for our press conference now, Florence. I hope you'll stay to hear what we have to announce."

"Yes, thank you," she said.

Priest beamed at him and said: "You've really been very kind, Mr Hayes. The class will be truly grateful."

The agents moved to the table at the far end of the room. Priest and Flower sat near the back and waited for the formal proceedings to begin. Priest's tension eased a little. He seemed to have got away with it.

I knew I would.

He had not gained much hard information yet, but that would come. What he did have was a sense of the people he was dealing with. He was reassured by what he had learned. Neither

Kincaid nor Hayes struck him as brilliant. They seemed like ordinary plodding cops, the kind who got by with a mixture of dogged routine and occasional corruption. He had little to fear from them. 206

Kincaid stood up and introduced himself. He seemed assertive and confident, yet

something about his manner gave Priest the feeling he had not long been chief of the San

Francisco office. He said: "I would like to begin by making one thing very clear. The FBI does

not believe that yesterday's small earthquake was triggered by a terrorist group."

The flashguns popped, the video cameras whirred, and the reporters scribbled notes.

Priest tried not to let his anger show on his face. The bastards were refusing to take him

seriously-still!

"This is also the opinion of the state seismologist, who I believe is available for interview

in Sacramento this morning."

What do I have to do to convince you? I threatened an earthquake, then I made it happen, and still you don't believe I can do it! Must I kill people before you 'I/ take me seriously?

Kincaid went on: "Nevertheless, a terrorist threat has been made, and although it is an

implausible threat, the Bureau intends to catch the people who have made it. Our investigation

is headed by Special Agent Marvin Hayes. Over to you, Marvin."

Hayes stood up. He was much more nervous than Kincaid, Priest saw at once. He read

mechanically from a prepared statement. "Using arrest warrants obtained early this morning,

federal agents today visited the homes of all five paid employees of the Green California

Campaign and brought them in for questioning on suspicion of terrorist acts."

Priest was pleased about that. He had deliberately laid a false trail and the Feds were

following it.

Hayes went on: "Agents also visited the headquarters of the Green California Campaign,

here in San Francisco, with the authorisation of search warrants. We took away a large number 206

Kincaid stood up and introduced himself. He seemed assertive and confident, yet

something about his manner gave Priest the feeling he had not long been chief of the San

Francisco office. He said: "I would like to begin by making one thing very clear. The FBI does

not believe that yesterday's small earthquake was triggered by a terrorist group."

The flashguns popped, the video cameras whirred, and the reporters scribbled notes.

Priest tried not to let his anger show on his face. The bastards were refusing to take him

seriously-still!

"This is also the opinion of the state seismologist, who I believe is available for interview

in Sacramento this morning."

What do I have to do to convince you? I threatened an earthquake, then I made it happen, and still you don't believe I can do it! Must I kill people before you 'I/ take me seriously?

Kincaid went on: "Nevertheless, a terrorist threat has been made, and although it is an

implausible threat, the Bureau intends to catch the people who have made it. Our investigation

is headed by Special Agent Marvin Hayes. Over to you, Marvin."

Hayes stood up. He was much more nervous than Kincaid, Priest saw at once. He read

mechanically from a prepared statement. "Using arrest warrants obtained early this morning,

federal agents today visited the homes of all five paid employees of the Green California

Campaign and brought them in for questioning on suspicion of terrorist acts."

Priest was pleased about that. He had deliberately laid a false trail and the Feds were

following it.

Hayes went on: "Agents also visited the headquarters of the Green California Campaign,

here in San Francisco, with the authorisation of search warrants. We took away a large number 207 of computer records, including the organisation's mailing list. Agents are in the process of combing those documents for clues as to the identities of the people calling themselves Stop

Now."

There was more, but it was repetitive. The assembled journalists asked questions which added detail and colour but did not change the basic story. Priest's tension grew again as he sat waiting impatiently for a chance to leave inconspicuously. He was pleased that the FBI investigation was so far off course-they had not even reached his second false trail-but he felt angry and frustrated that they still refused to credit his threat of an earthquake.

At last Kincaid drew the session to a close and the journalists began to get to their feet and pack up their gear.

Priest and Flower made for the door immediately, but they were stopped by the secretary, who smiled brightly and said: "I don't think you two signed in, did you?" She handed Priest a clipboard and a pen. "Just put your names and the organisation you represent."

Priest suffered a moment of panic. He could sign his name, but he could not write anything else.

The panic passed and calm returned. "I think Florence Difiori should fill out the form, she's the journalist," he said, reminding Flower of her false name. He handed her the clipboard.

It occurred to him that she might have forgotten the school she was supposed to attend. "Put your name, and ' Eisenhower High School'."

She coolly took the clipboard, filled out the form, and handed it back to the secretary.

"You too, sir, please," said the secretary.

Priest signed his name and gave her back the clipboard. 208

"And you're from Eisenhower High too?" she said.

"Yes."

"I'll just write that in. Thank you."

"A pleasure," Priest said. Now, for Christ 's sake, can we go?

Before they reached the door, Kincaid stopped them. "I hope that was interesting for you,

Florence," he said.

"Yes, sir, it was."

"Will you remember to send me a copy of your class newspaper when it's printed?"

"Yes, of course."

"You'll need an address." He took a business card from the breast pocket ofhis suit coat.

"There you go."

"Thank you."

Priest said: "I'll make sure Florence remembers."

Kincaid shook hands with them both.

At last they left the room.

As they got into the car for the journey back to Silver River Valley, Flower said: "Are you mad at me, Daddy?"

Priest realised he had been silent since they left the press conference. "No, honey, not at all," he said. "You were really very good."

"Well, I'm mad at you," she said.

"Why?"

"I'll never forgive you for calling me Florence," she said. 209

Priest stared at her for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.

"Come on, honey," Priest said at last. "Let's go home." 210 10

Judy went to the supermarket on Saturday afternoon. The familiar chore soothed her. She was furious with Brian Kincaid for taking the Stop Now case away from her, but there was nothing she could do about it, so she stomped up and down the aisles and tried to turn her mind to Nice

'N Fluffy fabric softener, Cheez Curls, and kitchen roll printed with yellow flowers. In the breakfast cereal aisle she thought of Michael Quercus's son, Dusty, and bought a box of Captain

Crunch.

But her thoughts kept returning to the case. Is there really someone out there who can make earthquakes happen? Or am I nuts?

Back at home, Ba helped her unload the groceries and asked her about the investigation.

"I heard Marvin Hayes rounded up the Green California Campaign-all five of 'em."

Judy had dropped by the office around midday to pick up the latest news. "It didn't do him much good," she said. "They're all clean as could be. Two men and three women, all over fifty . No criminal records-not a speeding ticket between them-and no association with any suspected persons. If they're terrorists, I'm Kojak."

"It said he seized their records."

"Right. That's a list of everyone who ever wrote asking them for information, including

Jane Fonda. There are eighteen thousand names and addresses. Now Marvin's team has to run 211 each individual name through the FBI computer to see who's worth interviewing. It could take a month."

The doorbell rang. Judy opened the door to Simon Sparrow.

He was wearing black cycling shorts and a muscles T -shirt with Nike trainers and wraparound sunglasses. However, he had not come by bicycle: his emerald green Honda Del Sol was parked at the kerb with the roof down.

Ba shook hands with Simon then clandestinely gave Judy a look that said Who the hell is this fruit? Judy shocked him by saying: "Simon is one of the FBI's top psycholinguistic analysts."

Somewhat bemused, Ba said: "Well, Simon, I'm sure glad to meet you."

Simon was carrying a cassette tape and a manilla envelope. Impatiently, Judy said: "Got anything good?"

"The voices on the tape don't match any in our acoustic files, if that's what you mean."

Judy was disappointed. "No names, then."

"No. But some other interesting stuff. I've got a written report here."

Judy frowned. "You said 'voices' . I only heard one."

"No, there are two. Would you like me to talk you through the tape?"

"I'm off the case," Judy told him despondently. "Brian gave it to Marvin."

"Aw, hell," Simon said. "I'm sorry." He gave her an appraising look. "Has Brian got something against you?"

"I think it's just that he wants to promote Marvin. They've been close for years."

Simon shrugged. "That shouldn't affect his professional judgement. Anyway, do you want 212

to go through the tape with me, just out of curiosity?"

"Sure."

They went into the den to play the cassette on Ba's hi-fi system, which was normally used to play The Greatest Hits ofthe Everly Brothers. Simon put the tape in and turned the volume

up loud.

The voice of the woman said: "This is Stop Now with a message for the governor of

California."

Simon stopped the tape. "What did you visualise when you first heard that?"

Judy said: "I pictured a large woman, middle aged, a little kooky."

Ba grinned and said: "Yeah, that's right-and a big smile. Kind of sexy. I remember I

thought I'd like to .... " He glanced at Judy and finished: " ...meet her."

Judy said: "Father! Behave yourself."

Simon nodded. "Your instincts are reliable. Ordinary people can tell a lot about a speaker just by hearing them. You almost always know if you're listening to a man or a woman, or

course. But you can also tell how old they are, and you can generally guess their height and build

pretty accurately. Sometimes you can even estimate their medical fitness."

"You're right," Judy said. "Whenever I hear a voice on the phone I picture the person,

even ifim listening to a taped announcement. But how is it we can do that?"

"It's because the sound of a voice-pitch, loudness, resonance, huskiness, all

that----comes from the body. Tall people have a longer vocal tract, old people have stiff tissues

and creaky cartilage, sick people have inflamed throats."

"That makes sense," Judy said. "Though I never really thought about it before." 213

"My computer picks up the same cues as people do, and is just a little more accurate."

Simon took a typed report out of the envelope he had been carrying. "1bis woman is between 4 7 and 52 years old. She's tall, within an inch of six foot. She's overweight, but not obese: probably just kind of generously built. She's a drinker and a cigarette smoker, but she's healthy despite that."

Judy felt excited. She still had no idea how they were going to catch this woman, but it was fascinating to learn all about her.

Simon looked at Ba. "And you're right about the big smile: she has a large mouth cavity, and her speech is under-labialized-she doesn't purse her lips."

Ba said: "I think I like this woman. Is she good in bed?"

Simon smiled. "The reason you think she's sexy is that her voice has a whispery quality.

This can be a sign of sexual arousal. But when it's a permanent feature, it doesn't necessarily indicate sexiness."

"I think you're wrong," Ba said. "Sexy women have sexy voices."

"So do heavy smokers."

"Okay, that's true."

Simon wound the tape back to the beginning. "Now listen to her accent."

This time he played the first two sentences. "This is Stop Now with a message for the governor of California. Shit, I didn't expect to be talking to a tape recorder."

He stopped the tape. "It's a northern Califorpia accent, of course. But did you notice anything else?"

Judy said: "She sounds middle-class." 214

"No," Ba said. "She's upper-class."

"You're both right," Simon said. "Her accent changes between the first sentence and the second."

"Is that unusual?" Judy asked.

''No. Most of us get our basic accent from the social group we grow up with, then modify it later in life. Usually, people try to upgrade: lower-class people make themselves sound more affluent, and the nouveau riche try to talk like old money. Occasionally it goes the other way: an upper-class politician, for example, may make his accent more down-home, to seem like a man of the people, yuh know what I'm sayin'?"

"You betcher ass," Judy said.

He rewound the tape again. "The learned accent is used in formal situations. It comes into play when the speaker is poised and in control. But sometimes we revert to our childhood speech patterns-when we're off guard, or drunk, or under stress. Okay so far?"

"Yes."

"This woman has downgraded her speech. Her basic accent is upper-class, but she's made

herself sound more low-class."

Judy was fascinated. "You think she's a kind of Patty Hearst figure?"

"In that area, yes. She begins with a rehearsed formal sentence, spoken in her acquired,

average-person voice. Now, in American speech, the more high-class you are, the more you

pronounce the letter R. With that in mind, listen to the way she says 'governor of California'

now." He played the tape.

"This is Stop Now with a message for the governor of California." 215

"Hear the way she runs the words together? She says 'guv nuh Cal foh nyuh'. This is a lower-class accent. But listen to the next bit. The voicemail machine has put her off her guard, and she speaks more naturally."

"Shit, I didn't expect to be talking to a tape recorder."

"Although she says 'Shit,' she pronounces the word 'recorder' very correctly. A lower­ class American would normally say 'recawduh', pronouncing only the first R. A middle-class person says 'recorduh', pronouncing the second R as well. Only very superior Americans say

'recorder' the way she does, carefully pronouncing all three Rs."

"Isn't this fascinating?" Judy said. "She's an upper-class woman who has learned to disguise her accent."

"Exactly."

Ba said: "Who would have thought you could learn so much from the way she speaks?"

Simon looked pleased. "And we've considered only two sentences! Actually, the things

I'm telling you are confirmed by other signs throughout the recording. But did you notice

anything about the vocabulary?"

Ba shook his head. "Nothing I can put my finger on."

"What's a tape recorder?"

Ba laughed. "A machine the size of a small suitcase, with two reels on the top."

Judy said: "Nobody uses that term any more."

"Exactly," Simon said. He pointed to Ba's hi-fi. "This is a cassette deck, right? The

woman has an old-fashioned turn of phrase. And most people know that voicemail is recorded

on a computer's hard disk, not a piece of magnetic tape. She's living in a sixties timewarp. I 216 don't know what it signifies-you detectives will have to figure that out."

Judy said: "It makes me think Patty Hearst again. What happened to her, anyway?"

Ba said: "She served her time, came out of jail, wrote a book and appeared on Geraldo.

Welcome to America."

Simon said: "Listen to the next sentence."

He started the tape. "Like we promised, we caused an earthquake today, exactly four weeks on."

Simon said: "Like we promised? Does that sound upper-class to you?"

Judy said: "It's another example of her making herself sound more ordinary."

"Perhaps," Simons said. "Or it might be that someone with a more street-level turn of phrase has told her what to say. Listen to some more."

"It happened in Owens Valley a little after two o'clock, you can check it." There was a faint background noise, and she hesitated.

Simon paused the tape. "I've enhanced that odd little murmur in the back ground. Here

it is reconstructed."

He released the pause switch. Judy heard a man's voice, distorted with a lot of

background hiss, but clear enough to understand. The voice said: "We do not recognise the jurisdiction of the United States government." The background noise returned to normal, and the

woman's voice repeated the same phrase. "We do not recognise the jurisdiction of the United

States government." She went on: "Now you know we can do what we say, you'd better think

again about our demand."

Simon stopped the tape. 217

Judy said: "He prompted her. Like she forgot what she had to say next and he reminded her."

Simon nodded. "That's what it sounds like to me."

"So she was just speaking words he had given her to say."

Ba said: "Didn't you figure the original Internet message had been dictated by an older guy and typed by an educated woman?"

"Yes."

Judy said: "It's the same thing!"

"Different woman," Simon said. "We figured the first one for a seismologist. This woman may be upper class, but she's not educated. And she's older."

Ba spoke slowly and thoughtfully: "So, this streetwise guy has a bunch of middle-class women to take dictation from him .... What kind of situation are we looking at here?"

"It's a cult!" Judy said. "That's what it is, a damn cult. I was right to think Patty Hearst."

Ba nodded. "I have to agree."

"Me, too," said Simon. "And I'll tell you something else. I think he's illiterate."

Judy said: "How do you get to that?"

"If he wanted this woman to read his message over the phone, why didn't he write it down for her? Then he wouldn't have had to prompt her."

Ba said: "That would also explain why he didn't type the original Internet message himself."

"That could be sheer laziness," Judy said. "Not many men like to type."

"Come on," said Ba, who had typed thousands of police reports with two fingers. 218

Simon said: "It's only a speculation, but it fits all the evidence."

A frightening picture was emerging, Judy felt. The man behind all this was a charismatic figure with power over women. Although uneducated, he was bold and resourceful, and he had smart people working with him, carrying out his orders. And he was threatening another earthquake.

She shivered.

She was fmding out more and more about Stop Now-but none of it seemed to offer the prospect of finding these people. It was great to know that one woman was a seismologist and another had a big smile, and the guy was illiterate, but the FBI needed some names and addresses.

Simon played the next sentence. "Announce a freeze on construction of new power plant in California."

Judy shook her head in puzzlement. "Something's not right about that demand. It's just not wacky enough. I expect a cult to say that everybody in Marin County must be forced to wear rope-soled sandals, or San Francisco cops have to trade in their cars for mountain bikes."

"I agree," Ba said. "The demand isn't showy enough to be purely political. These people aren't making some abstract point. It's practical. I think they have some down-to-earth selfish reason to want the freeze."

"I wonder," Judy said thoughtfully. "Maybe they have an interest in one particular power plant."

Simon said: "You mean, like, it's going to spoil the view from their terrace, or pollute their salmon river, or something?"

"In there somewhere. Probably a less trivial reason." 219

Ba stood up. "Damn, Judy, I think you've got it. The freeze on all power plant construction is a cover story. If they named the one they're really after, it might lead us to them."

"Right," Judy said excitedly. "So if we can guess which one they're interested in we might be on the way to finding them."

"But how do we guess?"

Simon said: "Let's begin by finding out how many possibilities there are. Any proposal to build a power plant in California is likely to have been reported in the newspapers. Do you have Lexis-Nexis on your home computer?"

"Sure." Judy's laptop was on a side table. She sometimes wrote reports in here while Ba was watching sports on TV: the television did not distract her and she liked to be near him.

She switched the machine on. Waiting for it to boot up, she said: "We can run the locations through the FBI computer to see if there is a cult in the neighbourhood of one of these sites."

She accessed Lexis-Nexis, thought for a moment, then ordered it to search for articles featuring both the phrase "power plant" and the word "California".

The search engine produced forty-nine separate newspaper and magazine articles. Judy

scanned titles. "Okay, there have been four proposals for power plants in the news in the last three years," she said. "There's a scheme for a nuclear plant in the Mojave Desert, a hydro­

electric dam in Sierra county, and two smaller oil-fired plants up near the Oregon border."

Ba said: "Sierra county? That rings some kind of bell. Got a precise location?"

Judy clicked on an article. "Yeah ... the proposal is to dam the Silver River Valley."

He frowned. "Silver River Valley .... " 220

Judy clicked her fingers. "I've got it! There's a vigilante group called Los Alamos that has a big spread there."

"That's right!" Ba said. "Run by a speed freak called Poco Latella who originally came from Daly City, that's how I know about them."

"Right. They're armed to the teeth and they refuse to recognise the United States government .... Jesus, they even used that sentence on the tape: 'We do not recognise the jurisdiction of the United States government.' Ba, I think we've got 'em."

"You're offthe case, remember?"

Judy's heart sank. "Yeah. Okay, I'd better pass all this on to Kincaid." She looked at

Simon. "Unless you want to?"

"No way," Simon said. "I was up all night working on the tape."

Judy was struck by guilt. "And I didn't even offer you a cup of coffee!"

"It's okay. I've had too much coffee. I'm going to sleep."

"Then I guess I'll go into the office. Brian and Marvin will still be there."

She strapped on her gun, slipped into a light jacket, kissed Ba's forehead, and went out with Simon. As he got into his sports car, Judy said: " I'll just tell Kincaid you sent your report to me because no one told you the assignment had been transferred."

"Good thinking."

"Drive carefully, Simon. Your reflexes are poor when you're tired."

He grinned. "Don't worry, Mother."

She watched him drive away, then got into her Monte Carlo and headed for FBI headquarters. 221

She felt pleased and excited. She was sure she had broken the case. Whether Stop Now could really cause earthquakes or not, they belonged behind bars.

She drove fast, impatient to get to the office with the news. Marvin might be ticked off that she was responsible for such a big break, but he was a professional. He would pick up her idea and run with it, if he had any sense.

He would need to organise a raid on Silver River Valley. The thought made her anxious.

There might be trouble: vigilantes were crazy. The raid would have to be heavily manned and meticulously organised. Brian Kincaid would make sure of that. The Bureau was terrified of another Waco. Every agent in the office would be drafted in for it. They would probably strike at dawn tomorrow.

She went straight to Brian's office. His secretary was in the outer room, working at her computer, wearing a Saturday outfit of white jeans and a pink T -shirt. She picked up the phone and said: "Judy Maddox would like to see you." After a moment she hung up and said to Judy:

"Go right in."

Judy hesitated at the entrance to the inner sanctum. The last two times she had passed through this door, she had suffered humiliation and disappointment inside. But she was not superstitious. Anyway, today she brought nothing but good news. She opened the door and went m.

It still jarred her to see the barrel-chested figure of Brian Kincaid in the chair that used to belong to the slight, dapper Milton Lestrange. She had not yet visited Milt in hospital, she realised. She made a mental note to go tonight or tomorrow.

Brian's greeting was chilly. "What can I do for you, Judy?" 222

"I brought you Simon Sparrow's report on the message from Stop Now. He sent it to me because he didn't know you'd reassigned the case to Marvin." She dropped the envelope and the cassette tape on Brian's desk.

"Thanks," he said.

"I took a look at the report."

"You did, huh?"

"The envelope is addressed to me. It looks like Stop Now is a cult that feels somehow threatened by a planned building project for a power plant."

Brian looked annoyed. "I'll pass this to Marvin," he said impatiently.

Judy ploughed on. "There are four power plant schemes in California right now, I checked. And one of them is in the Silver River Valley-where there is a right-wing vigilante group called Los Alamos. Brian, I think Los Alamos are Stop Now. I think we should raid them."

"Is that what you think?"

She frowned. What the hell was the matter with him? "Do you disagree?" she said. "Is there some flaw in my logic?"

"You bet there is," he said angrily. He stood up. "The flaw is, you're not on the goddamn

case!"

"Oh, shit," Judy muttered in despair.

Brian stretched out his arm across his big desk and pointed an aggressive finger at her

face. "You've intercepted the psycholinguistic report and you're trying to sneak your way back

on to the case-and I know why! You think it's going to get a lot of attention. It's obvious what

you're after, you're just chasing personal publicity for yourself." 223

"I am not!" she said indignantly.

"You just listen up. You are off this case. Do you understand me? 0, F, F-<>ff. You don't read reports. You don't check power plant schemes. And you don't propose raids on vigilante hangouts."

"Jesus Christ!"

"This is what you do. You go home. And you leave this case to Marvin and me."

"Brian-"

"Goodbye, Judy. Have a nice weekend."

Judy stared at him. He was stony-faced. She felt furious but helpless. She fought back the angry retorts that sprang to her lips. She had been forced to apologise for swearing at him once already, she did not need that humiliation again. She bit her lip. After a long moment she turned on her heel and walked out of the room. 224 11

Priest parked the Mustang at the side of the road in the faint light of early dawn. He took

Melanie's hand and led her into the forest. The mountain air was cool, and they shivered in their

T -shirts until the exercise of walking warmed their bodies. After a few minutes they emerged on a high bluff that looked over the width of the valley.

"This is where they want to build the dam," Priest said.

At this point the valley narrowed to a bottleneck, so that the far side was no more than four or five hundred yards away. It was still too dark to see the Silver River, but in the morning silence they heard it rushing along the bottom of the valley. As the light strengthened, they could distinguish the dark shapes of cranes and giant earthmoving machines below them, silent and still, like sleeping dinosaurs.

Priest had almost given up hope that the governor would yield to his demands. It was the morning of the second day since the Owens Valley earthquake, and still there was no word. Priest could not figure out the governor's strategy, but it was not capitulation.

There would have to be another earthquake.

But he was anxious. Melanie and Star might shrink from a second tremor, especially as it would have to do more damage than the first. He needed to confirm their commitment. He was starting with Melanie. 225

"It will create a lake ten miles long, all the way up the valley," he told her. He could see her pale oval face become taut with sadness and anger at his words. "Upstream from here, everything you can see will be under water."

Above the bottleneck, there was a broad valley floor. As the details became visible, they could see a scatter of houses and some neat cultivated fields, all connected by dirt tracks. Melanie said quietly: "All those people will lose their homes."

"Plus a pony trekking center, a wildlife camp, some holiday cabins, and the best vineyard between Napa Valley and Bordeaux."

"And the only place I ever felt at peace."

Priest gave a murmur of sympathy. This was the way he wanted the conversation to go.

"Has Dusty always had these allergies?"

She nodded. "From birth. He was actually allergic to milk-breast milk, formula, even cow's milk. He survived on goat's milk. That was when I realised. The human race must be doing something wrong, if the world is so polluted that my own breast milk is poisonous to my child."

"But you took him to doctors."

"Michael insisted. I knew they would do no good. They gave us these drugs to suppress his immune system. What kind of way is that to treat his condition? He needed pure water and clean air and a healthy way oflife. I guess I've been searching, ever since he was born, for a place like Silver Valley."

"No." Priest shook his head. "You've been searching since you were born." He took both her hands and gave her The Look. "You're a spiritual person, Melanie. Your quest for a place where the air is clean symbolises your inner yearning for somewhere people can live together in 226 peace." He sighed. "Such a place is hard to find. There aren't many. You're lucky it only took you thirty years to discover us."

She closed her eyes and leaned on him. He put his arms around her. "It's okay, now," he murmured. "You've found us." He changed his voice slightly. ''Now all we have to do is make sure we survive."

She pulled away from him, looking troubled. "Surely someone tried to stop them building this dam?"

Priest nodded. "There was a big legal battle. The commune didn't take any part-going to court isn't our bag. And the last thing we want is reporters and TV crews swarming all over our place. But there are some rich people, down there, in the big houses." He inclined his head toward the valley. "They could afford to pay lawyers."

This was not true. Most of the legal bills had been paid, secretly, out of the commune's credit with the bottler. Priest had spent everything they had accumulated over the years. That was why they could not afford to buy a new vineyard. But no one knew this, not even Star.

He added: "And the environmentalists sided with the residents and argued against the dam, every step of the way."

"So how come they lost?"

"The governor backed the dam and put this guy AI Honeymoon on the case." Priest hated

Honeymoon. He had lied and cheated and manipulated the press with complete ruthlessness. "He

got the whole thing turned around so that the media portrayed the protestors as a handful of

selfish people who wanted to deny electric power to every hospital and school in California."

"Like it's your fault that people in Los Angeles put lights in their swimming pools and 227 have electric motors to close their drapes."

"Right. So, Honeymoon won every battle, and Coastal Electric got permission to build their dam. All the property owners were paid compensation-but we got nothing. We don't own our land. It's leased from the federal government on an annual contract. So the commune is ruined."

"That's so unfair."

"I was desperate, trying to think of some way to stop it happening, when you started talking about tectonic plates, and I said: Yes-this woman was sent to me by God."

Melanie spoke in hushed tones. "Do you really think so?"

"I believe in God," said Priest. "Don't you?"

"Yeah," she said hesitantly. "Something. I don't know, a controlling intelligence."

"And God always sides with people like us, who are just trying to lead a good life, against people who only want to make money." Priest suffered a sudden embarrassing memory of a caustic Bob Dylan lyric, With God on our Side, about people who claim heavenly backing for earthly wars. He hoped Melanie was too young to know the song. He went on hastily: "But now

I'm wondering if our plan has failed."

"It can't fail!"

"The FBI is saying we didn't cause the earthquake, and the governor hasn't even reacted."

"But we can't give up."

"I know." He looked at her as if he was not sure what to say next. The truth was that he wanted her to say it.

She did what he wanted. "Do you think we'll have to cause another earthquake?" she 228 said. "As we threatened?"

He pretended reluctance. "It would have to be some place where it would cause real damage. Owens Valley was too remote and unpopulated. We'd have to bring down some buildings." He hesitated, then decided to push her an important inch farther. Quietly he added:

"People might get hurt."

She looked tom. "But the alternative is to just..."

"Leave the valley. Break up the commune. Go back to the old way oflife: regular jobs, poisoned air, money, jealousy and greed and hate."

"I can't go back," she whispered.

He pretended she had persuaded him. "You're right. We have to do it. We have no choice."

She nodded dumbly.

Priest made doubly certain of her commitment. "Are you sure you can go through with it?"

"I think so."

"Okay. We' ll do it." He smiled.

She showed the relief that he felt. His purpose was achieved.

He took another look up and down the valley. "We' ll make sure it stays the way God made it," he said.

She closed her eyes briefly and said: "Amen."

He took her hand and led her through the trees back to the car.

Driving along the narrow road up the valley, Priest thought he heard a strange noise over 229 the asthmatic throb of the ancient Ford engine. He glanced up out of the side window and saw a helicopter.

"Shit," he said, and stamped on the brake.

Melanie was thrown forward. "What is it?" she said in a frightened voice

Priest stopped the car and jumped out. The chopper was disappearing to the north.

Melanie got out of the car. "What's the matter?"

"What's a helicopter doing here?"

"Oh, my god," she said apprehensively. Her voice was shaky. "You think it's looking for us?"

Priest did not answer.

The noise faded then came back. The chopper reappeared suddenly over the trees, flying low. It was now full daylight. To his dismay, Priest saw that the helicopter had "F.B.I." painted in large letters on its side.

"Jesus Christ, it's the Feds," he said.

Melanie had seen it too. "They may be looking for the seismic vibrator," she said. "Thank

God we hid it so carefully."

Priest was irrationally infuriated with her for saying that. "They don't know we have a

seismic vibrator," he snapped. "How could they?"

"I don't know."

He frowned. After the lacklustre press conference he had felt safe. Yesterday they seemed

to be a hundred years away from tracking him down. Now they were here, in the valley."

Melanie said: "What are we going to do?" 230

"Keep calm. They haven't come for us."

"How do you know?"

"I made sure of it."

"Priest, stop talking in riddles, please!"

"Sorry." He remembered that he needed her support. He had to explain things to her. He gathered his thoughts. "They're not coming for us because they don't know about us. We don't appear on any government records, we're not in any police or FBI files, we have no official existence. Our vineyard doesn't even appear on any map."

"So why are they here?''

"They've come for Los Alamos. That crew ofnutcases must be on file with every law enforcement agency in the continental United States. For god's sake, they put up a sign saying

'We do not recognise the jurisdiction of the United States government,' and they stand at their gate holding high-powered rifles, so that if some dumb country policeman who has never heard of them should happen to drive by, he'll know there's a bunch of dangerous frigging lunatics in there."

"What if you're wrong?"

"I made sure of it," Priest said. "When Star called the John Truth Show, I had her say the

Los Alamos slogan, ' We do not recognise the jurisdiction of the United States government."'

"You knew the FBI would come here?''

"I thought someone might ask where power plants were being planned, and sniff around

the area for suspects. So I laid a false trail, just in case. I can't say I knew it was going to happen.

In fact, after going to that press conference yesterday I was pretty sure they had no one on the 231 team smart enough to figure it out. But I underestimated them. Someone there has a brain."

"Are we safe, then?"

"Now that they've come here, they may take a look at the other residents of the valley.

If they do, they're sure to pay a visit to the vineyard-they'll have seen it from the chopper. We need to get home, to warn the others. Come on!"

He jumped into the car. As soon as Melanie was in, he pulled away, not even waiting for her to close the door. He floored the pedal. But the car was twenty-five years old, and had never been designed for high speed on winding mountain bends. He cursed its wheezy turbocharger and lurching suspension.

As he struggled to maintain speed on the twisting road, he wondered fretfully who at the

FBI had ordered this visit. Thinking about the two men he had met at the press conference, he could not quite see either of them making the necessary intuitive jump. There had to be someone else on the case. He wondered who.

A black car came up behind, travelling very fast, headlights blazing although it was long past daybreak. They were approaching a bend, but the driver honked and pulled out to pass. As it went by, Priest saw the driver and his companion, two burly young men in dark suits and ties.

Immediately afterwards, a second car came up behind, honking and flashing.

"Fuck this," Priest said. He braked and pulled over. The nearside wheels of the Mustang

bumped over the roadside grass. The second car flashed by and a third came up. Priest brought

his car to a halt and killed the engine.

He and Melanie sat and watched a stream of vehicles race past. As well as cars, there

were a couple of armored trucks and several minivans full of grim-faced men and a few women. 232

"It's a raid," Melanie said woefully.

''No fucking kidding," Priest said, the tension making him sarcastic.

She did not seem to notice.

Now Priest wished he had not exposed himself by going to the press conference. What if one of the agents he had spoken to yesterday should happen to see him today? The man would naturally wonder what a schoolteacher from Oakland was doing in Silver River Valley. It could hardly be a coincidence. Any agent with half a brain would immediately suspect Priest of being the type of perpetrator who insinuates himself into the investigation.

"I need to get out of the valley," he said. "You'll have to come with me.

But it was too late.

One of the cars peeled off from the convoy and pulled up right behind the Mustang.

Priest stared at it in his rear-view mirror. It was a dark green Buick Regal. The driver was speaking into a phone. There was another man in the passenger seat. They were like all the others, broad-shouldered men in business suits, obviously agents, but Priest could not make out their faces. He prayed neither had been at the press conference. Otherwise he was finished.

The last of the convoy flashed by. The driver put down his phone and the two men got out of the car.

Priest relaxed. Neither man was familiar. He realised there was a fllm of sweat on his face. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

Melanie said: "Oh, Jesus, what do they want?"

"Stay cool," Priest said. "Don't seem like you want to hurry away. I'm going to pretend to be really interested in what they're doing. That'll make them want to get rid of us as fast as 233 they can." He jumped out of the car.

"Hey, are you the FBI?" he said enthusiastically. "Was that your chopper I saw?"

"Yes, sir, we're federal agents," one of them said solemnly. "Where are you headed?"

"Oh, we work at the wine farm up the valley a way. Hey, I hope you've come after those goddarnn vigilantes. They got everyone around here scared half to death. They-"

"And where have you been this morning, sir?"

"We were at a party in Silver City last night. It went on kind oflate. Oh-but I'm sober.

Don't worry!"

"That's okay."

"Listen, I write paragraphs for the local newspaper, you know, the Silver City Chronicle?

Could I get a quote from you, about this raid? It's going to be the biggest news in Sierra county for years!" As the words came out of his mouth he realised it was a risky pose for a man who could not read or write. He slapped his pockets. "Gee, I don't even have a pencil."

"We can't give you a quote anyway," the agent said. "You'll have to call our press person at the San Francisco office."

He pretended disappointment. "Oh. Oh, sure, I understand."

"You said you were headed home."

"Yes. Okay, I guess we'll be on our way. Good luck with those vigilantes!"

"Thank you."

Priest jumped back into the car.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed gratefully. "They bought my story."

But he was not yet off the hook. 234

The agents got into their Buick, but did not move off. They seemed to be waiting for him, so he pulled away first.

They followed him slowly up the valley.

As the car approached the entrance to the Los Alamos spread, Priest rolled down his window, listening for gunfire. He heard none. It seemed the F eds had caught Los Alamos sleeping.

He rounded a bend and saw four cars parked near the entrance to the Los Alamos place.

The wooden five-bar gate that had blocked the track was smashed to splinters: he guessed they had driven their armored trucks right through it without stopping. The gate was normally guarded: where were the sentries? Then he saw them, two men in camouflage pants, face down on the grass, hands cuffed behind their backs, guarded by eight agents in immaculate dark suits.

The F eds were taking no chances.

The agents looked up alertly at the Mustang, then relaxed when they saw the green Buick following it.

Priest drove slowly, like a curious passer-by.

Behind him, the Buick pulled over and stopped near the busted gate.

As soon as he was out of sight, Priest stepped on the gas.

They had to hide from the FBI the fact that they were a commune. The Bureau, having

presumably drawn a blank at Los Alamos, might seize on another community of nonconformists

as an alternative. Priest wanted the group to appear as normal vineyard workers, with no special

way of life and no long-term interest in Silver River Valley. 235

Most of the communards did not know about the earthquake, of course. Priest needed a cover story for them. He told them he did not want the FBI or anyone else to find out that they were a commune because that would attract attention from the police, the media, and all kinds of unpleasant government agencies. It was a credible pretext-and in any case it did not take much to persuade the communards that they should lie to the FBI.

It was mid-morning when two agents stumbled down the hill into the communal village, with weeds clinging to the cuffs of their gray suit pants and dust on their black wingtip shoes.

Priest was watching from the bam. If he saw anyone who might recognise him from yesterday, he could slip away through the cabins and disappear into the woods. But he had not seen either agent before. The younger man was tall and beefy, with a Nordic look, pale blond hair and fair skin. The older was an Asian man with thinning black hair. They were not the two who had questioned him this morning, and he was quite sure neither had been at yesterday's press conference.

Everyone was ready. There had been plenty of time to prepare.

Despite his preparations, Priest felt a stab of sheer terror when he saw the agents. For twenty-five years this place had been a secret sanctuary. Until last week, when a cop had come looking for the parents of Flower, no official had ever set foot here: no county surveyor, no government inspector, not even a garbage collector. And here was the FBI. If he could have called down a bolt of lightning to strike them dead he would have done it without a second thought.

He took a deep breath, then walked across the slope of the hillside to the vineyard. Most of the communards were working there. The children were in the temple, having a Sunday school 236 lesson from Star. Priest joined a team constructing a trellis to support the new shoots of the vines.

When the agents reached the vineyard, Priest stayed in the background, by arrangement, while Dale greeted them.

The Asian man spoke. "We're FBI agents, making some routine inquiries in the neighbourhood."

That was encouraging, Priest told himself. It sounded like these men had no special interest in the commune: they were just looking around, hoping to pick up clues. They were on a fishing expedition. But the thought failed to make him feel better.

The agent looked around, taking in the valley. "This is certainly a beautiful spot."

Dale nodded. "We're very attached to it," he said.

Take care, Dale-drop the heavy irony. This is not a frigging game.

The agent showed his shield. "Are you in charge, sir?"

"I'm the foreman," Dale said. "How can I help you?"

"Do you folks live here?'' the agent asked.

Priest pretended to go on working, but his heart was thumping, and he strained to hear the conversation.

"Most of us are seasonal workers," Dale said, following the script devised by Priest. "The

company provides accommodation because this place is so far from anywhere."

"Strange place for a fruit farm."

"It's not a fruit farm, it's a winery. Would you like to try a glass oflast year's vintage?

It's really very good."

"No, thanks. Unless you have an alcohol-free product." 237

"No, sorry. Just the real thing."

"Who owns the place?''

"The Napa Bottling Company in San Francisco."

The agent made a note.

Priest hoped they would not check this out. NBC did not own the vineyard, though it bought all the commune's wine, bottled it, and sold it under the Silver River label. It was a legitimate company. Its boss and owner, Nick Halsey, went along with Priest's peculiar demands because he wanted the excellent wine; but he would not tell lies to the FBI. If the Bureau questioned Halsey aggressively, the pretence would fall apart. But Priest was betting they would not check the story out unless they had some other reason to be suspicious.

The agent glanced towards the cluster of buildings on the far side of the vineayrd. "Mind if we take a look around?"

Dale shrugged. "Sure, go ahead."

The two agents wandered off, and Dale resumed his work.

Priest watched the agents anxiously. It was a superficially plausible pretence that the communards were badly-paid itinerant workers living in low-grade accommodation provided by a parsimonious management. However, there were several clues that might make a perceptive agent ask more questions.

The temple was the most obvious. Star had folded up the old banner bearing the Five

Paradoxes of Baghram. All the same, someone with an inquiring mind might ask what was the function of the round building with no windows. There were several marijuana patches in the woods nearby. They could belong to anyone, and these guys were not interested in small-time 238 doping; but the evidence of cultivation did not really fit in with the notion of a transient population. The free shop looked like any other shop until you noticed that there were no prices on anything and no cash till. And the children had not been briefed: everyone felt it was wrong to ask them to carry the burden of lying about their lives to outsiders.

There were probably a hundred other ways the pretence would reveal itself to a determined questioner. But Priest was hoping that the agents were focussed on Los Alamos, and were checking out other residents just as a matter of routine.

He had to fight the temptation to follow the FBI men around. He was desperate to see what they looked at, and hear what they said to each other, as they poked around his home. But he forced himself to work on in the vineyard, glancing up from the vines every minute or two to see where they were and what they were doing.

They went into the cookhouse. Garden and Slow were there, making lasagne for the midday meal. What were the agents saying to them? Was Garden chattering nervously and giving herself away? Had Slow forgotten his briefing and started to talk enthusiastically about daily worship?

The agents emerged from the cookhouse. Priest looked hard at them, trying to guess their thoughts; but they were too far away for him to read their faces, and their body language gave nothing away.

They began to wander around the cabins, peeking in through the doors. Priest could not guess whether anything they saw would make them suspect that this was not just a vineyard but a hippie commune.

They checked out the grape press, the barns where the wine was fermented, and the 239 barrels of last year's vintage waiting to be bottled. Had they noticed that nothing was powered by electricity?

They opened the door of the temple. Would they speak to the children? Would Star blow her cool and call them Fascist pigs? Priest held his breath.

The agents closed the door without going inside.

They spoke to Oaktree, who was cutting barrel staves in the yard. He looked up at them and answered curtly without stopping in his work. Maybe he figured it would look suspicious if he were friendly.

They came across Aneth hanging diapers out to dry. Most people used disposable diapers now, but Aneth refused. She was probably explaining this to the agents, saying: "There aren't enough trees in the world for everyone to use disposable diapers."

They walked down to the stream, and studied the stones in the shallow brook, seeming to contemplate crossing. The marijuana patches were mostly on the far side. But the agents apparently did not want to get their feet wet, for they turned around and came back.

At last they returned to the vineyard. Priest tried to study their faces without staring at them. Were they convinced, or had they seen something that made them suspicious? He thought they looked bored, but maybe that was a pose.

This time it was the younger, Nordic-looking agent who spoke. He turned out to have a southern accent. "Y'all have some of these cabins tricked out kind of nice, for 'temporary accommodation', don't you?" he said.

Priest went cold. It was a sceptical question, suggesting that the agent did not buy their story. Priest began to wonder if there was any way he could kill both FBI men without the other 240 communards knowing.

"Yeah," Dale said. "Some people come back year after year." He was improvising now.

None of this had been pre-scripted. "And a couple of us live here all the year round." Dale was not practised at deception. If this went on too long, he would give himself away.

The blond agent said: "We need a list of everyone who lives and/or works here."

Priest's mind raced. Dale could not use people's commune names, for that would give the game away-and anyway the agents would naturally demand real names. But some of the communards had police records, including Priest himself. Would Dale think fast enough to realise he had to invent names for everyone? Would he dare to do it?

The agent added: "We also need ages and permanent addresses."

Shit! This is getting worse.

"You could get those from the company's records in San Francisco."

No, they couldn't.

The agent shook his head. "I need the information right now," he said, politely but firmly.

Dale looked nonplussed. "Gee, I guess you'll have to go round asking them all," he said.

"I sure as heck don't know everyone's birthday. I'm their boss, not their grandad."

Priest's heart sank. That was the worst possible idea. He did not want the agents questioning everyone in the commune: it would create too many opportunities for people to make revealing mistakes. He made a snap decision, and stepped forward. "Mr Arnold?" he said, inventing a name for Dale on the spur of the moment. "Maybe I could assist the gentlemen."

Without planning it, he had adopted the persona of a friendly dope, eager to help but not very

bright. He addressed the agents. "I've been coming here a few years, I guess I know everybody, 241 and how old they are."

Dale looked relieved. "Okay, go ahead," he said.

"Come to the cookhouse," Priest said to the agents. "If you won't drink wine, I bet you'd like a cup of coffee."

The younger agent smiled and said: "That'd be real good."

Priest led them through the vineyard to the village and took them into the cookhouse. "We got some paperwork to do," he explained to Garden and Slow. "You two take no notice of us, just carry on making that great-smelling dinner."

The younger agent offered Priest a notebook. "Why don't you just write down the names, ages and addresses right here."

"Oh, my handwriting is the worst in the world," Priest said smoothly. "Now, you sit yourselves down and write these names in your book while I make you coffee." He put a pan of water on the fire and the agents sat at the long pine table.

"The foreman is Dale Arnold, he's forty-two." These guys would never be able to check.

No one here was in the phone book or on any kind of register.

"Permanent address?" said the agent.

"He lives here. Everyone does."

"I thought you were seasonal workers."

"That's right. Most of them will leave, come November, when the harvest is in and the

grapes are crushed; but they ain't the kind of folk who keep two homes. Why pay rent on a place

when you're living somewhere else?"

"So the permanent address for everyone here would be ... ?" 242

"Silver River Valley Winery, Rural Delivery Two, Silver City, California. But I have my mail sent to the company in San Francisco, it's safer."

The young agent was looking irritated and slightly bewildered, as Priest wanted.

Querulous people did not take time to pursue minor inconsistencies.

He poured them coffee as he made up a list of names. To help him remember who was who, Priest used variations of their commune names: Dale Arnold, Peggy Star, Richard Priestley,

Holly Goldman. He knew most people's birthdays but he pretended not to, and the agents were satisfied with their ages to the nearest year.

Priest went slowly, dragging out the session as long as possible. The agents could do no harm in the cookhouse, and if they got bored and impatient they would start to feel they had spent more time at the commune than was truly necessary.

While he talked, Garden and Slow carried on cooking. Garden was silent and stone-faced, and somehow succeeded in stirring pots in a haughty manner. Slow was jumpy, and kept darting terrified glances at the agents, but they did not seem to care: maybe they were used to people being frightened of them. Maybe they liked it.

Priest managed to take fifteen minutes to give them the names of the commune's twenty­ six adults. The blond agent was closing his notebook when Priest said: "Now, the children. Let me think. Gee, they grow up so fast, don't they?"

"I don't think we need to know the children's names," the agent said impatiently.

"Okay," Priest said. "More coffee for you folks?"

"No, thanks." He looked at his colleague. "I think we're done here."

The other man said: "So this land is owned by the Napa Bottling Company?" 243

Priest saw a chance to cover up the slip Dale had made earlier. "No, that's not exactly right," he said. "The company operates the winery, but the land is owned by the federal government. "

"So the name on the lease would be Napa Bottling."

Priest hesitated. They could check this in seconds. It was too risky to tell a lie. "Matter of fact, I think the name on the lease is Stella Higgins. She was the woman who started the vineyard." He was sorry to have to give Star's real name, but he could not imagine how it could be useful to them.

The agent seemed satisfied. He wrote down the name. "That's all, I think," he said to his colleague.

Priest concealed his relief. "Well, good luck with the rest of your inquiries," he said as he led them out.

He took them through the vineyard, heading for the exit. They stopped to thank Dale for his co-operation. "Who are you guys after, anyway?" Dale said.

"A terrorist group that's trying to blackmail the governor of California," said the older man.

"Well, I sure hope you catch them," Dale said sincerely.

No, you don 't.

At last the two agents walked away across the field, stumbling occasionally on the uneven dusty ground, and disappeared into the trees, heading for the dirt track that led to the road.

"Well, that seemed to go pretty well," Dale said to Priest, looking pleased with himself.

Jesus Christ Almighty, if only you knew. 244 12

Sunday afternoon, Judy took Ba to see the new Clint Eastwood movie at the Metro Theatre(./) on Union Street. Afterwards they went for a sandwich and a beer at one ofBa's favourite joints, a cops' pub with a TV over the bar. "Clint Eastwood should star in the story of my life," Ba said when he had finished his cheeseburger.

"Come on," Judy said. "Every detective in the world thinks that."

"Yeah, but I even look like Clint."

Judy grinned. Ba had a round face with a snub nose. She said: "I like Mickey Rooney for the part."

"I think people should be able to divorce their kids," Ba said, but he was laughing.

The news came on the TV. When Judy saw footage of the raid on Los Alamos, she smiled sourly. Brian had screamed at her for interfering with the case-then he had adopted her plan.

However, there was no triumphal interview with Brian in the news report. There was film of the sign that read "We do not recognise the jurisdiction of the United States government", the smashed gate, and the SWAT team in their flak jackets retiring from the scene. Ba said: "Looks to me like they didn't find anything."

The newscaster said the Bureau had taken three people in for further questioning. "But they don't say they seized any evidence," Ba pointed out. 245

"If you're about done here, we can go find out," Judy said.

They left the bar and got into Judy's car. She picked up her car phone and called Simon

Sparrow's home number. "What do you hear about the raid?" she asked him.

"We got zip," he said.

"That's what I thought."

"There's not a single computer on the premises, so it's hard to imagine they could leave a message on the Internet. Nobody in the group even has a college degree, and I doubt if any one of them could spell seismologist. There are four women in the group, but none of them matches either of the two female profiles we have: these girls are all in their late teens and early twenties.

Finally, the vigilantes are happy with the price they're getting from Coastal Electric for their land, and they're looking forward to moving to their new place. Oh-and on Friday afternoon at two pm, six of the seven men were at a store called Frank's Sporting Weapons in Silver City, buying ammunition."

Judy laughed. "Well, whose dumb idea was it to raid them, anyway?"

"This morning, Marvin said it was his."

"Then he can take the blame."

"Someone will have to. Brian has another meeting with Mr Honeymoon tomorrow afternoon. On present performance, he'll go empty-handed."

"Mr Honeymoon won't like that."

"I hear he's not a real touchy-feely type guy."

Judy laughed again. "See you tomorrow."

As soon as she hung up, the phone rang. It was the switchboard operator at FBI 246 headquarters. "A Professor Quercus called with a message he said was urgent," the man said. "He has some important news for you."

Judy debated calling Marvin and passing the message to him. But if he was busy interrogating the Los Alamos people he might not be able to get back to Michael for a while

Anyway, she was desperately curious. She dialled Michael's home.

When he answered, she could hear in the background the soundtrack of a TV cartoon.

Dusty must still be there.

"This is Judy Maddox," she said.

"Hi, how are you?"

She raised her eyebrows. A weekend with Dusty had really mellowed him out. "I'm fine, but I'm off the case," she said.

"I know that. I've been trying to reach the guy who's taken over, man with a name like a soul singer .. .."

"Marvin Hayes."

"Right. Like, Dancin ' on the Grapevine by Marvin Hayes and the Haystacks."

Judy laughed.

Michael said: "But he doesn't return my calls, so I'm calling you."

"Okay, what have you got?"

"Can you come to my place? I really need to show you."

"Do you have any more Captain Crunch?"

"I think there's a little left."

"Okay. I'll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes." She hung up. "I have to go see my 247 seismologist," she said to Ba. "Shall I drop you at the bus stop?"

"I can't ride the bus, I'm a San Francisco detective!"

"So? You're a human being."

"Yeah, but the street guys don't know that."

"They don't think you're human?"

"To them I'm a demigod."

He was kidding, but there was some truth in it, Judy knew. He had been putting hoodlums behind bars in this city for almost thirty years. Every kid on a street comer with the pockets of his bomber jacket bulging with vials of crack cocaine was afraid ofBa Maddox.

"So, you want to ride to Berkeley with me?"

"Sure, why not? I'm curious to meet your handsome seismologist."

She made a U-turn and headed for the Bay Bridge. "What makes you think he's handsome?"

He grinned. "From the way you talked to him on the phone," he said smugly.

"You shouldn't use cop psychology on your own family."

"Cop, schmop. You're my daughter, I can read your mind."

"Well, you're right, he' s a hunk. But I don't much like him."

"You don't?" Ba sounded sceptical.

"He' s arrogant and he can be a real awkward customer. He' s better when his kid is around, that softens him."

"He' s married?"

"Separated." 248

"Oh."

Judy could sense Ba losing interest. It felt like a drop in the temperature. She smiled to herself. He was still trying to marry her off.

They reached Berkeley and drove down Euclid Street. There was an orange Subaru parked in Judy's usual space under the magnolia tree. She found another slot.

When Michael opened the door of his apartment Judy thought he looked strained.

"Hi, Michael," she said. "This is my father, Ba Maddox."

"Come in," Michael said abruptly.

His mood seemed to have changed in the short time it had taken her to driver here. When they entered the living room, Judy saw why.

Dusty was on the couch, looking terrible. His eyes were red and watering, and his eyeballs seemed swollen. His nose was running and he was breathing noisily. A cartoon was playing on the TV, but he was hardly paying attention.

Judy knelt beside him and touched his hair. "Poor Dusty!" she said. "What happened?"

"He gets allergy attacks," Michael explained.

"Did you call the doctor?"

"No need. I've given him the drug he needs to suppress the reaction."

"How fast does it work?"

"It's already working. He's past the worst. But he may stay like this for days."

"I wish I could do something for you, little man," Judy said to Dusty.

A woman's voice said: "I'll take care of him, thank you."

Judy stood up and turned around. The woman who had spoken looked like a supermodel. 249

She had a pale oval face and straight red hair that fell past her shoulders. Although she was tall and thin, her bust was generous and her hips curvy. Her long legs were clad in close-fitting tan jeans and she wore a fashionable lime-green top with a V -neck.

Judy immediately felt short and lumpy. She wished she had not worn her old blue jogging pants and faded red polo shirt.

"This is Melanie, Dusty's mom," Michael said. "Melanie, meet my friend Judy Maddox."

Melanie nodded curtly.

So that's his wife.

Michael had not mentioned the FBI. Maybe he wanted Melanie to think Judy was a girlfriend.

"This is my father, Ba Maddox," Judy said.

Melanie did not trouble to make small talk. "I was just leaving," she said. She was carrying a small duffel bag with a picture of Donald Duck on the side, obviously Dusty's.

Judy felt put down by Michael's tall, thin, beautiful wife. She was annoyed with herself for her reaction. Why do I give a damn?

Melanie looked around the room then said: "Michael, where's the rabbit?"

"Here." Michael picked up a grubby soft toy from his desk and gave it to her.

She looked at the child on the couch. "This never happens in the mountains," she said coldly.

Michael looked anguished. "What am I going to do, not see him?"

"You'll have to come to us."

"I want him to stay with me. It's not the same if he doesn't sleep over." 250

"If he doesn't sleep over, he won't get like this."

"I know, I know."

Judy's heart went out to Michael. He was obviously in distress, but his wife was so cold.

Melanie stuffed the rabbit into the Donald Duck bag and closed the zip. "We have to go."

"I'll bring him to your car." Michael picked up Dusty from the couch. "Come on, tiger, let's go."

When they had left the room, Ba looked at Judy and said: "Wow. Unhappy families."

She nodded. But she liked Michael better than she had. He came on as a grouch, but that was his reaction to hurt. She wanted to put her arms around him and say You 're doing your best, no one can do more.

When he came back he was grim-faced and preoccupied. He did not offer Judy and Ba a drink or a cup of coffee, and he had forgotten about the Captain Crunch. He sat at his computer.

"Look at this," he said without preamble.

Judy and Ba stood behind him and looked over his shoulder.

He pulled a chart on to the screen. "Here' s the seismograph of the Owens Valley tremor, with the mysterious preliminary vibrations I couldn't understand-remember?"

"I sure do," Judy said.

"Here's a regular earthquake of about the same size. This has normal pre-shocks. See the difference?"

"Yes." The normal pre-shocks were uneven and sporadic, whereas the Owens Valley vibrations followed a pattern that seemed too regular to be natural.

"Now look at this." He brought a third chart up on the screen. It showed even vibrations 251 in a neat pattern, just like the Owens Valley chart.

"What made those vibrations?" Judy said.

"A seismic vibrator," Michael said triumphantly.

Ba said: "What the hell is that?"

Judy giggled. "I don't know, but I think I want one."

Ba protested: "Judy! Behave yourself."

Michael said: "It's a machine used by the oil industry to explore underground. Basically, it's a huge steel hammer mounted on the back of a truck. It sends vibrations through the earth's crust."

"And those vibrations triggered the earthquake?"

"I don't think it can be a coincidence, do you?"

Judy nodded solemnly. "That's it, then. They really can cause earthquakes."

Ba said: "Jesus, I hope they don't come to San Francisco."

"Or Berkeley," said Michael. "You know, although I told you it was possible, I never really believed in my heart that these people could do it."

Judy said: "The Owens Valley earthquake was quite small."

Michael shook his head. "You can't take comfort from that. The size ofthe earthquake bears no relation to the strength of the triggering vibration. That depends on the tension in the fault at the time. The seismic vibrator could trigger anything from a barely perceptible tremor to another Lorna Prieta."

"Shit. What are we going to do?"

Ba said: "You're offthe case, Judy." 252

Michael frowned, puzzled. "Why did they do that?"

Judy said: "There's been some internal conflict in the office over this case. We have a new boss who doesn't like me and reassigned the case to someone he prefers."

"I don't believe this!" Michael said angrily. "A terrorist group is causing earthquakes and the FBI is having a family spat about who gets to chase after the perpetrator!"

"I knew you'd see it that way ... and you're right. What can I tell you? Do scientists ever allow petty personal squabbles to get in the way of their search for the truth?"

Michael grinned suddenly. "You bet your ass they do. But, listen. Surely you can pass on this information to Marvin Whatever?"

"When I told my boss about Los Alamos, he said he would fire me if I interfered again."

"This is incredible!" Michael said, becoming angry again. "You can't just ignore what

I've told you!"

"Don't worry, we won't do that," Judy said curtly. "Let's keep cool and just think for a moment. What's the first thing we need to do with this information? If we can find out where the seismic vibrator came from, we may have a lead on Stop Now."

"Right," Ba said. "Either they bought it, or more likely they stole it."

Judy asked Michael: "How many of these machines are there in America? A hundred?

A thousand?"

"In there somewhere," he said.

"Anyhow, not many. So the people who manufacture them probably have a record of every sale they ever made. I could track them down tonight, get them to make a list." Judy turned to her father. "And the San Francisco P.D. could put out a nationwide query, asking if a seismic 253 vibrator has been reported lost or stolen in the last few weeks."

"Sure could. And I could get the newspapers to print a picture of one of these trucks in case anyone has seen it around lately."

"Wait a minute," Judy said. "I don't want Marvin and Brian to know I'm doing this."

Michael rolled up his eyes in an expression of despair.

"Don't worry," Ba said. "I don't need to tell the newspapers that this is connected with the earthquake. I'll just saying we're looking for a stolen seismic vibrator. It's kind of an unusual auto theft, they'll like the story. And the FBI won't know there's any connection with the Stop

Now case."

"That's great," Judy said. "Michael, could I have a printout of the two graphs?"

"Sure." He pressed a key on his computer and the printer whirred.

Michael said: "Uh, maybe you should give me your home phone number, so I can contact you a little faster, if necessary."

"Good idea."

He handed her a ballpoint and a scratch pad, and she wrote down her number.

The charts came out of the printer. Judy took them and went to the door.

Michael said: "After you two have made these phone calls .... " He hesitated. "Would you

like to meet for a drink, or maybe dinner? I'd really like to hear how you get on."

"Not me," Ba said. "I have a bowling match."

"Judy, how about you?"

Is he asking me for a date?

"I was planning to visit someone in hospital," Judy said. 253 vibrator has been reported lost or stolen in the last few weeks."

"Sure could. And I could get the newspapers to print a picture of one of these trucks in case anyone has seen it around lately."

"Wait a minute," Judy said. "I don't want Marvin and Brian to know I'm doing this."

Michael rolled up his eyes in an expression of despair.

"Don't worry," Ba said. "I don't need to tell the newspapers that this is connected with the earthquake. I'll just saying we're looking for a stolen seismic vibrator. It's kind of an unusual auto theft, they'lllike the story. And the FBI won't know there's any connection with the Stop

Now case."

"That's great," Judy said. "Michael, could I have a printout of the two graphs?"

"Sure." He pressed a key on his computer and the printer whirred.

Michael said: "Uh, maybe you should give me your home phone number, so I can contact you a little faster, if necessary."

"Good idea."

He handed her a ballpoint and a scratch pad, and she wrote down her number.

The charts came out of the printer. Judy took them and went to the door.

Michael said: "After you two have made these phone calls .... " He hesitated. "Would you like to meet for a drink, or maybe dinner? I'd really like to hear how you get on."

"Not me," Ba said. "I have a bowling match."

"Judy, how about you?"

Is he asking me for a date?

"I was planning to visit someone in hospital," Judy said. 254

Michael looked crestfallen.

She changed her mind. "But I guess that won't take me all night. Okay, sure."

It was only a week since Milton Lestrange's cancer had been diagnosed, but already he looked thinner and older. Perhaps it was the effect of the hospital setting: the instruments, the bed, the white sheets. Or maybe it was the baby-blue pajamas that revealed a triangle of pale chest below the neck. He had lost all his power symbols: his big desk, his Rolex watch, his striped silk tie.

Judy was shocked to see him like this, and she let it show. "Gee, Milt, you don't look so great," she blurted.

He smiled. "I knew you wouldn't lie to me, Judy."

She felt embarrassed. "I'm sorry, it just came out."

"Don't blush. You're right. I'm in bad shape."

"What are they doing?"

"They'll operate this week, they haven't said what day. Until they get inside they don't really know what my chances are."

"Shit."

"Stella, my first wife, came to see me yesterday. She told me you had called her."

"I had no idea whether she'd want to see you, but I figured she'd like to know you were

in hospital."

He took Judy's hand and squeezed it. "Thank you. Not many people would have thought

of that. I don't know how you got to be so wise, so young."

"I'm glad she came." 255

Milt changed the subject. "Take my mind off my troubles, tell me about the office."

"You shouldn't be concerning yourself.... "

"Hell, I won't. Work doesn't worry you much when you think you might be dying. I'm just curious."

"Well, I won my case. The Foong brothers are going to spend most of the next decade in jail."

"Well done!"

"You always had faith in me."

"I knew you could do it."

"But Brian recommended Marvin Hayes as the new ASAC."

"Marvin? Shit. Brian knows you were supposed to get that job."

"Tell me about it."

"Marvin's a tough guy, but his work is slipshod. He cuts corners."

"I'm baffled," Judy said. "Why does Brian rate him so highly? What is it with those two-are they lovers, or something?"

Milt laughed. "No, not lovers. But one time, years ago, Marvin saved Brian's life."

"No kidding?"

"It was a shootout. I was there. We ambushed a boat unloading heroin on a beach up in

Marin County. It was early one morning in February, and the sea was so cold it hurt. There was no jetty, so the bad guys were stacking kilos ofhorse on a rubber dingy to bring them ashore. We let them land the entire cargo, then we moved in." Milt sighed, and a faraway look came into his blue eyes. It occurred to Judy that he would probably never see another dawn shootout. 256

After a moment he went on. "Brian made a mistake: he let one of them get too close to him. This little Italian grabbed him and pointed a gun at his head. We all had our guns out, but if we shot the Italian, he would probably have pulled the trigger before he died. Brian was really scared." Milt lowered his voice. "He pissed himself, we could see the stain on his suit pants. But

Marvin was cool as the devil himself. He starts walking towards them and says: 'Shoot me instead, it won't make any difference.' I've never seen anything like it. The Italian fell for it. He swung his gun arm around to aim at Marvin. In that split second, five of our people shot the guy."

Judy nodded. It was typical of the stories the agents told after a few beers in Everton's bar. But she did not dismiss it as a piece of macho bravado. She had been in shootouts. You felt intensely close to people who had lived through such danger with you. She could imagine that

Brian felt eternally indebted to Marvin for that piece ofbravery. "Well, that explains the trouble

I've been having," she said. "Brian gave me a bullshit assignment; then when it turned out to be not so bullshit he took it from me and gave it to Marvin."

"What assignment?"

"Stop Now, the people who cause earthquakes."

"The people who say they cause earthquakes."

"That' s what Marvin thinks. But he's wrong."

Milt frowned. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as cancer. Oh, Christ, I'm sorry."

"Forget it. If you're right about Stop Now, they could get me before the cancer."

"Well, I'm working on the case behind Brian' s back."

Milt looked troubled. "That's dangerous." 257

"Yeah," Judy said. "But not as dangerous as a goddamn earthquake."

Michael wore a navy blue cotton suit over a plain white shirt, open at the neck, and no tie. Had he thrown on this ensemble without a moment's thought, Judy wondered, or did he realise it made him look good enough to eat?

He took her to a small downtown restaurant that served vegetarian Indian dishes. She had never tasted Indian food so she let him order for her. The restaurant had no liquor licence, but

Michael had brought a cold bottle of Silver River Valley chardonnay.

She put her mobile phone on the table. "I know it's considered bad manners, but Ba promised to call me if he got any response to his request for information about stolen seismic vibrators."

"Okay by me," Michael said. "Did you call the manufacturers?""

"Yeah. They promised me a list of purchasers some time tomorrow." She took a folded sheet of paper from her purse. "Meanwhile, they faxed me a picture." She showed it to him.

He shrugged. "It's just a big truck, with that piece of machinery on the back."

"But after the newspapers carry this photograph tomorrow morning, every cop in

California will be looking out for one."

The food came. It was spicy but delicious. Judy ate with gusto. After a few minutes she

caught Michael looking at her with a faint smile. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Did I say

something witty?"

"I'm pleased that you're enjoying the cuisine."

She grinned. "Was I letting it show?" 258

"Yeah."

"I'll try to be more dainty."

"Please don't. It's a pleasure to watch you."

That made her feel self-conscious. She felt herself flush. She took a sip of wine and changed the subject. "We're assuming that Stop Now have access to data similar to yours about tensions in the San Andreas fault."

"They must have, to pick the locations where a tremor may be triggered."

"Could you go through the same exercise? Study the data and figure out the best place to trigger an earthquake?"

"I guess I could. Probably there would be a cluster of five or six potential sites." He saw the direction her thoughts were taking. "Then, I guess, the FBI could stake out the sites and watch for a seismic vibrator."

"Yes-ifl were in charge of the case."

"I'll make the list anyway. Maybe I'll fax it to the governor."

"Don't let too many people see it. You might cause a panic."

"But if my forecast turned out to be right, it could give my business a shot in the arm."

"Does it need one?"

"And how. It's hard to do business with insurance companies. They could use what I have to offer, but there's no pressure on them. In the end they can always make someone else pay for their mistakes. But ifl predicted an earthquake and turned out to be right, they might have to sit up and take notice."

"All the same, I hope you' ll be discreet. If everyone tries to leave San Francisco at the 259 same time, there'll be riots."

He gave a devil-may-care grin that was infuriatingly attractive. "Got you rattled, haven't

I?"

She shrugged. "I'll admit it. My position at the Bureau is very vulnerable right now. If I were associated with an outbreak of mass hysteria, I don't think I could survive there."

"Is that important to you?"

"Yes and no. Sooner or later I plan to get out and have children. But I want to quit by my timetable, not someone else's."

"Do you have anyone in mind to have the children with?"

"No." She gave him a direct look. "A good man is hard to find."

"I'd imagine there'd be a waiting list."

She thought for a moment. "That's a compliment, isn't it?"

"Yes."

She felt embarrassed again. "Well, thank you kindly," she said.

He offered her more wine.

"No, thanks. I'd like a cup of coffee."

He waved at a waiter. "Having a child can be painful, but you never regret it."

"Tell me about Dusty."

He sighed. "I have no pets, no flowers in the apartment, very little dust because of my computers. All the windows are closed tight and the place is air-conditioned. But we went to

Burger King for lunch and on the way home he petted a cat. An hour later he was the way you saw him." 260

"It's too bad. The poor kid."

"His mother recently moved to a place in the mountains, up near the Oregon border, and since then he's been okay-until today. If he can't visit me without having an attack, I don't know what we'll do. I can't go and live in fucking Oregon, there are no earthquakes there."

He looked so troubled that she reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "You'll work something out. You love him, that's obvious."

He smiled. "Yeah, I do."

They drank their coffee and he paid the bill. He walked her to her car. "This evening has gone so fast," he said.

Another compliment, she thought. "I enjoyed it."

"Would you like to go to a movie some time?''

She realised that she would. "Okay," she said.

"Maybe one night this week?"

"Sure."

"May I call you?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you goodnight?"

"Yes." She grinned. "Yes, please."

He bent his face to hers. It was a soft, tentative kiss. His lips moved gently against hers, but he did not open his mouth. She kissed him back the same way. Her breasts felt sensitive.

Without thinking, she pressed her body against his. He squeezed her briefly, then broke away.

"Good night," he said. 261

He watched her get into her car, and waved as she pulled away from the curb.

She turned a comer and pulled up at a stop light.

"Wow," she said. +

Anxious and impatient, Judy spent Monday morning pretending to review outstanding cases her team was working on. It was a job she needed to do: at some point, she imagined, Marvin would

get to grips with his new job as Assistant Special Agent in Charge and start asking the

supervisors under him what they were doing with their time. But she could not concentrate properly.

At lunchtime she called Ba but he still had nothing. She called the manufacturers, who

irritably said they had almost completed the list and it would be on her fax machine by the end of the business day.

After lunch she dropped by Simon Sparrow's office. He was wearing a natty English-style

shirt, blue with pink stripes. He ignored the unofficial FBI dress code and got away with it,

probably because he was so good at his job.

He was talking on the phone and watching the screen of a wave analyser at the same time.

"This may seem like an odd question, Mrs Gorky, but would you tell me what you can see from

the front window of your house?" As he listened to the reply, he watched the spectrum of Mrs

Gorky's voice, comparing it with a printout he had taped to the side of the monitor. After a few

moments he drew a line through a name on a list. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs Gorky.

I don't need to trouble you any farther. Goodbye."

Judy said: "This may seem like an odd question, Mr Sparrow, but why do you need to 262 know what Mrs Gorky sees when she looks out the window?"

"I don't," Simon said. "That question generally elicits a response of about the length I need to analyse the voice. By the time she's finished I know whether she's the woman I'm looking for."

"And who's that?"

"The one who called the John Truth show, of course." He tapped the ring-binder on his desk. "The Bureau, the police and the radio stations have so far received a total of one thousand two hundred and twenty-nine calls telling us who she is."

Judy picked up the file and leafed through it. Simon had got his secretary to collate the tip-off calls. In most cases there was a name, address and phone number for the tipster and the same for the suspect. In some cases there was a quote from the caller:

I've always suspected she had Mob connections.

She 's one of those subversive types, I'm not surprised she 's involved in

something like this.

She seems like a regular Mom, but it's her voice, I'd swear on the Bible.

One particularly useless tip gave no name but said:

I know I've heard her voice on the radio, or something. It was so sexy I

remembered it. But it was a long time ago. Maybe it was a record album.

It was a sexy voice, Judy recalled. She had noticed it at the time. With a voice like that, the woman could be a hotshot telephone salesperson, getting middle-aged executives to buy advertising space they did not need.

Simon said: "So far today I've eliminated one hundred of them. I think I'm going to need 263 some assistance."

Judy continued leafing through the file. "I don't have much to do," she said. "I'd help you ifl could. But I've been warned off the case."

"Gee, thanks. That sure makes me feel better."

"Do you hear how it's going?"

"This morning they released the three people they brought in yesterday. Now Marvin's team are calling everyone on the mailing list of the Green California Campaign. He and Brian just left for Sacramento, but I can't imagine what they're going to tell the famous Mr

Honeymoon."

Judy frowned, looking at the file. She had come across another call that mentioned a record. As before, there was no name for the suspect, but the caller had said:

I've heard the voice on a record album, I'm darn sure. Something from

way back, like the sixties.

Judy asked Simon: "Did you notice that two of the tip-offs mention a record album?"

"Hell, no!" he said.

"They think they've heard her voice on an old record."

"They wouldn't recognise the voice if she was smgmg. It must be an album of speech-bedtime stories, or Shakespeare, or something."

"I guess so."

"This is intriguing. But how can I follow it up?"

Judy shook her head. "That's a tough one."

Her secretary passed the open door on her way to the restroom. "Oh, Judy, your father 264 called, I thought you were at lunch."

Suddenly Judy felt breathless. She left Simon without a word and rushed back to her office. Without sitting down, she picked up her phone and dialled Ba's number.

He picked up right away. "Lieutenant Maddox here."

"What have you got?"

"A suspect."

"Jesus-that's great!"

"Get this. A seismic vibrator went missing two weeks ago somewhere between Liberty,

Texas, and Clovis, New Mexico. The regular driver of the machine disappeared at the same time, and his burned-out car was found at the local garbage dump, containing what appear to be his ashes."

"He was murdered for his damn truck? These people don't take prisoners, do they?"

"The prime suspect is one Richard Granger, aged forty-nine. They called him Ricky, and they thought he was Hispanic, but with a name like that he could be a Caucasian with a tan.

And-wait for it-he has a record."

"You're a genius, Ba!"

"A copy should be coming out of your fax machine about now. He was a big-time hoodlum in South Central Los Angeles back in the early seventies. Convictions for assault, burglary, grand theft auto. Questioned about three murders, also drug dealing. But he disappeared from sight in 1973. The LAPD thought he had been whacked by the Mob-he owed them money-but they never found a body, so they didn't close the file."

"I get it. Ricky ran from the Mob, got religion, and started a cult." 265

"Unfortunately, we don't know where."

"Except that it's not in Silver River Valley."

"The LAPD can check out his last know address. It's probably a waste of time, but I'll ask them anyway. Guy in homicide there owes me a favour."

"Do we have a picture of Ricky?"

"There's one in his file, but it's a photo of a nineteen-year-old. The guy is now pushing fifty, he could look completely different. Fortunately, the sheriff in Liberty prepared an E-fit likeness." E-fit was the computer program that had replaced the old-style police artist. "He promised to fax it to me, but it hasn't arrived yet."

"Refax it to me as soon as you get it, would you?"

"Sure. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to Sacramento."

It was four-fifteen when Judy stepped through the door that had GOVERNOR carved over it.

The same secretary sat behind the big desk. She recognised Judy and registered surprise.

"You're one of the FBI people, aren't you? Have you come for the meeting with Mr

Honeymoon? It started ten minutes ago."

"That's okay," Judy said. "I've brought some very important information that came in at the last moment. But before I go into the meeting, did a fax arrive here for me within the last few minutes?''

"I'll check." She spoke into the phone. "Yes, your fax is here." A moment later a young woman appeared from a side door with a sheet of paper. 266

Judy stared at the face on the fax. This was her enemy.

She saw a handsome man who had gone to some trouble to hide the true shape of his face.

Obviously he had anticipated this moment. His head was covered by a cowboy hat. That suggested that the witnesses who had helped the sheriff create the computer picture had never seen the suspect without a hat. Consequently there was no indication of what his hair was like.

If he was bald, or grizzled, or curly, or long-haired, he would look quite different from this picture. And the bottom half of his face was equally well concealed by a bushy beard and moustache. There could be any kind of jaw under there. By now, she guessed, he was clean­ shaven again.

The man had deep-set eyes that stared hypnotically out of the picture. But to the general public, all criminals had staring eyes.

The picture told her a few things. Ricky Granger did not habitually wear spectacles, he was evidently not Afro-American or Oriental, and since his beard was dark and luxuriant he probably had plenty of dark hair. From the attached description she learned, in addition, that he was about six foot tall, slim built, and fit-looking, with no noticeable accent. It was not much, but it was better than nothing.

And nothing was what Brian and Marvin had.

Honeymoon's assistant appeared and ushered Judy into the "horseshoe" where the governor and his staff had their offices.

Judy bit her lip. She was about to break the first rule of bureaucracy and make a fool of her boss. It would probably be the end of her career.

Screw it. 267

They passed the entrance to the governor's personal office, then the assistant opened the door to Honeymoon's office.

Judy stepped inside.

For a moment she allowed herself to enjoy the shocked and dismayed expressions on the faces of Brian Kincaid and Marvin Hayes.

Then she looked at Honeymoon.

The cabinet secretary was wearing a pale gray shirt with a subdued black-and-white dotted tie and dark gray patterned suspenders. He looked at Judy with raised eyebrows and said:

"Agent Maddox! Mr Kincaid just got through telling me he took you offthe case because you're

a ditz."

Okay, Mr Honeymoon, ifyou want to pitch hardballs, I 'II go in to bat.

Judy said to Honeymoon: "Brian's full of shit. I'm the best agent he has, and I just proved

it."

"You did?"

"While Marvin has been sitting around with his thumb up his ass pretending there's

nothing to worry about, I've solved this case."

Brian stood up, his face angry. "Maddox, just what the hell do you think you're doing

here?''

She ignored him. "I know who's sending terrorist threats to the governor of California,"

she said. "Marvin doesn't. You can make your own decision about which of us is a ditz."

Marvin flushed red. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Honeymoon said: "Let's all sit down. Now that Ms Maddox has interrupted us, we may 268 as well hear what she has to say." He nodded to his assistant. "Close the door, John." Now, Agent

Maddox. Did I hear you say you know who's making the threats?"

"Correct." She put the fax picture on Honeymoon's desk. "This is Richard Granger, a hoodlum from Los Angeles who was believed, wrongly, to have been killed by the Mob in 1973."

"And what connects him with this case?"

"Look at this." She handed him another piece of paper. "That's the seismograph of the

Owens Valley earthquake. Note the series of regular vibrations that precede the actual tremor."

Marvin interrupted: "No one can figure out what those are."

Judy said: "You couldn't figure it out, but I did." She put another sheet on the desk. "Look at this chart."

Honeymoon said: "Regular vibrations, just like the Owens Valley graph. I take it you know what made the second set."

"A machine called a seismic vibrator."

"What the hell is that?"

"One of these." She gave him the picture sent to her by the manufacturers.

Honeymoon looked sceptical. "Are you saying the earthquake was man-made?"

"No. I'm saying a seismic vibrator was used in that location immediately before the earthquake took place. You can make your own judgement about cause and effect."

"Okay. How does that lead you to this guy with the beard?"

"I checked whether a seismic vibrator had gone missing recently. I discovered that one was stolen two weeks ago in Liberty, Texas."

She heard Marvin Hayes say: "Oh, shit." 269

Honeymoon said: "And the guy in the picture ... ?"

"Richard Granger is the prime suspect in the theft and the murder of the truck's regular driver. He was working for the oil exploration team that was using the vibrator. I guess he had to use his real name in case he needed to show his driving licence. Once I had his name, I was able to pull his police record." Judy was taking credit for Ba's work, but she knew he wouldn't mind. "The picture in Granger's file is old, but this E-fit likeness is based on the recollections of people who worked with him in Liberty."

Honeymoon nodded. "Is that it?"

"Isn't it enough?" she expostulated.

Honeymoon did not respond to that. He turned to Brian. "What have you got to say about all this?"

Brian gave him a shit-eating grin. "I don't think we should bother you with internal

Bureau disciplinary matters .... "

"Oh, I want to be bothered," Honeymoon said. There was a dangerous note in his voice, and the temperature in the room seemed to fall. "Look at it from my angle. You come here and tell me the earthquake definitely was not man-made." His voice became louder. ''Now it appears, from this evidence, that it very likely was. So we have a group out there that could cause a major disaster." He stood up. "You tell me you can't fmd the perpetrators, then in walks Agent Maddox with a name, a police record, and a fucking picture."

"I think I should say-"

"I feel like you've been dicking me around, Special Agent Kincaid," said Honeymoon, overriding Brian. His face darkened with anger. "And when people dick me around I get kind of 270

tetchy."

Ifthis is what you're like when you're kind oftetchy, I'd hate to see you when you're real mad.

Brian tried again. "I'm sorry if-"

"I also hate people who apologise," Honeymoon said. "An apology is designed to make the offender feel okay so that he can do it again. Don't be sorry."

Brian tried to gather together the shreds of his dignity. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to put Agent Maddox in charge of this case."

Brian looked as ifhe had been asked to strip naked in Union Square. He swallowed.

Honeymoon said: "If you have a problem with that, just say so, and I'll have the governor call the Director of the FBI in Washington. They have been friends for about forty years, by the way. The governor can explain to the director the reasons why we're making this request."

"That won't be necessary," Brian said.

"So put Maddox in charge."

"Okay."

"No, not okay. I want you to say it to her, right here, right now."

Brian refused to look at Judy, but he said: "Agent Maddox, you are now in charge of the

Stop Now investigation."

"Thank you," Judy said.

"Now get out of here," said Honeymoon.

They all got up.

Honeymoon said: "Maddox." 271

She turned at the door. "Yes."

"Call me once a day."

"You got it."

As they were leaving the horseshoe, Judy gave Brian a sweet smile and repeated the words he had said to her the last time they were in this building, five days ago: "You did just fme in there, Brian. Don't you worry about a thing."

Judy had always imagined John Truth looking a bit like Newt Gingrich. In fact he was an attractive young man with a fashionably shaved head and an earring. Chatting to him in his

Sacramento studio, watching him make the final preparations before going on air live, Judy summed him up as a showbusiness professional, focussed on entertainment and sensation, with little real interest in current affairs or serious politics. He sat at his console like the pilot of an aircraft, familiar with the controls, running down a checklist, occasionally addressing a question to a young woman whom he referred to as his producer but who acted more like a secretary and researcher.

When he went on the air, at the top of the hour, his voice took on a thrilling, dramatic tone. "Here on the John Truth show, live tonight, the FBI agent in charge of the Stop Now earthquake threat case is waiting to tell us the very latest developments in this ongoing story.

That's after the news."

Judy had never done much personal publicity. There had once been an article about her and Ba in a magazine aimed at police officers, and her face had sometimes appeared in news footage of FBI stories, but she had never done interviews for radio or television. "I'm a little 272 nervous," she said to Truth during the news.

"Just talk in a natural, conversational style," he said. "Not too fast, but without long pauses. Don't be afraid to use your hands, or smile or frown: even though they can't see your gestures, you'll sound more friendly."

She had not asked anyone at the FBI for permission to do this. She was in charge of the case, and she judged that some publicity was needed right now, so she was just going ahead.

Brian Kincaid would not like it, but he was already mad at her, so there was no point in worrying about him.

After the news, Truth introduced Judy, giving her a somewhat embarrassing babe-with-a­ gun buildup. Then he said: "Tonight's hot news is that you have a suspect. Please tell us about that."

Judy described Ricky Granger. "The police likeness of him will be on the TV news tonight and in all the newspapers tomorrow morning," she added. She had already arranged that with a phone call to the office. "But he may have shaved off his beard, so he could look a little different. And he may not be using his real name. But, if listeners think they recognise him, they should please call the FBI. We're in the phone book."

Truth said: "Now the other question on everyone' s mind is: Can the people who call themselves Stop Now really cause earthquakes?"

Judy knew that if she answered Yes she might cause a mass panic. "Most seismologists think it's out of the question," she said. That was true: only Michael Quercus had said it was possible. "All I can do, as a law enforcement officer, is try to catch the people who are making the threats." 273

"And speaking of that, I believe you have one more clue you'd like to share with us."

"That's right, John. Many thousands oflisteners to your show heard the recorded voice of a woman from Stop Now threatening a second earthquake."

"That's right, we played her message over the air."

"We've had a lot of calls from people who think they recognise the voice."

"Wow! Any good leads?"

"So far, unfortunately, none of the tip-offs have come to anything. But two people mentioned that they thought they had heard this woman's voice on an old record album."

"She's a singer?"

"No. It's her speaking voice they remember-maybe reading stories or acting in a play.

I'd like to ask your listeners to rack their brains and see if they can recall a record with that voice on it."

"And if they do ...?"

"Once again, please call the FBI."

"Agent Maddox, I know you have to get back to San Francisco to continue your investigation. Thank you for being on the John Truth show tonight."

"My pleasure."

"And, hey-you catch these creeps, you hear?''

"Don't worry, John. I intend to." 274 13

Dusty was sick all day Monday.

Melanie drove into Silver City to pick up more of the allergy drug he needed. She left

Dusty being cared for by Flower, who was going through a sudden maternal phase.

She came back in a panic.

Priest was in the bam with Dale, tasting the blend oflast year's wine. It was going to be a nutty vintage, slow to mature but long-lived. Priest suggested using more of the lighter pressing from the lower, shadier slopes of the valley, to make the wine more immediately appealing, but

Dale resisted. "This is a connoisseur's wine now," he said. "We don't have to pander to the supermarket buyer. Our customers like to keep the wine in their cellars for a few years before drinking it."

Priest was about to argue with him when Melanie burst in with a newspaper in her hand.

"I have to talk to you," she said breathlessly.

Priest guessed it was about the earthquakes. Dale knew nothing of all that, and Priest wanted to keep him in ignorance. There was no telling how Dale might react if he learned the truth. Priest gave him a grin that said Ain't women peculiar? and led Melanie out of the bam.

He began: "For Christ's sake-"

"Look at this!" she said, waving the newspaper in front of his eyes. 275

He was shocked to see a picture of a seismic vibrator.

He hastily scanned the yard outside the bam and the nearby buildings, but there was no one around. All the same he did not want to have this conversation with Melanie out in the open.

''Not here!" he said fiercely. "Put the damn newspaper under your arm and let's go to my cabin."

She got a grip on herself. They walked through the village to his cabin. As soon as they were inside he took the newspaper from her and looked at the picture again. There was no doubt about it. He could not read the caption or the accompanying story, but the photograph was of a truck just like the one he had stolen.

"Shit," he said, and threw the newspaper on the table.

"Read it!" Melanie said.

"It's too dim in here," he replied. "Tell me what it says."

"The police are looking for a seismic vibrator that was stolen in Texas two weeks ago, and they think it's in California."

"Damn." That would make it difficult, if not impossible, to drive the truck on public roads. Every Highway Patrolman in the state would be on the lookout for it. Even if Priest set out after dark and returned home before dawn-which would severely restrict his choice of locations-there would still be a grave risk.

Melanie looked frightened. "Priest, the paper says the person who stole the truck also killed a man called Mario Sanchez."

"The paper's wrong," Priest lied. His facility for instant improvisation came to the rescue.

"Mario was killed by Julio Picarda because he was screwing Julio's fifteen-year-old daughter and wouldn't stop. That's how come Mario failed to show up for work and I got the job of driving 276 his truck."

"That's terrible," she said, and looked away.

Priest had a suspicion she did not believe him.

"It's all history, anyway," he said. "Right now we have to figure out how we can drive the truck without getting arrested by the first cop who sees us."

Melanie shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "How can you disguise a truck?"

"That's an idea," Priest said. "If we could find some way to cover up the machinery, make it look like something completely different.. .. "

She became more animated. "Yeah, a Coke truck or a crane, or something."

Priest had a brainwave. "I've got it!" he said.

The carnival ride was still in the same place, parked in the field beside Route 89, with one comer jacked up and the wheel removed.

Priest and Oaktree got out of the Mustang, leaving Melanie in the car. Priest had let

Oaktree in on the secret: he had no choice. He needed a carpenter and Oaktree could be trusted.

They passed through a five-barred gate and crossed the rough pasture to the big truck with the gaily painted panels that said: "The Dragon's Mouth".

On the far side, hidden from the road, they found Bones.

He was alone, sitting on a lawn chair, cowboy hat pulled low to keep the sun out of his eyes, wrapped in a blanket. There was a can of Budweiser in his hand and another, empty, on the ground at his feet.

Priest said: "Hey, Bones." 277

He was startled, and jumped as ifhe had been stuck with a pin. "What the fuck-" Then he recognised Priest and pulled himself together. "Hey, Priest!" He got to his feet, still holding the beer. "Good to see you, man! Hey, Oaktree-how's it hanging?"

Priest looked around. "Where's the chick?"

Bones tried to look mournful. "Gone, man. Run out on me. Took my last twenty, went to get some groceries, never came back. The kid, too. That was, uh, yesterday, or maybe the day before." He shivered and pulled the blanket around himself, as if he was cold, although it was a warm evenmg.

"You sick?" Priest said.

"I just need a little fix to get me straight, that's all."

"You didn't sell the ride, then."

"Not yet."

Priest took out his money. It was the secret stash he kept hidden in his room for

emergencies. "Look at this," he said to Bones. "It's a thousand dollars. It's all I've got. You can

have it-for the carnival ride."

"A lousy grand!" Bones looked heartbroken. "I paid twenty!"

And you told me it was worth fifty, you thieving son ofa bitch.

"Gee, Bones, ifl had twenty I'd give it to you, you know that," Priest said. "But this is

what I've got. If it's no use to you .... "

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." Bones' face contorted with the effort of thinking. "Maybe

this could be a down payment. Give me the other nine at the end of the summer."

"I could say Yes just to kid you along, but I know we're not going to have another nine 278 grand in September or any time." Priest put the money back in his pocket. "I hear there's a place in Florida where carnival people hang out. They call it Carnie Town, but its real name is

Gibsonton." Priest could always remember names. "You can buy all kinds of stuff there, rides and elephants and cotton candy machines, the whole nine yards." He looked at Oaktree. "Maybe we should go there."

"You don't need to go to Florida," Bones said. He gave Priest a shrewd look, and for a moment there was a flash of the old Bones. "Boy, Priest, you're a son of a bitch to bargain with, even if you are an old hippie," he said with bitterness in his voice. "Come on, gimme the fucking grand."

Priest pretended to hesitate. "Will you help us put the wheel back on? We can't drive it away like this."

"Sure, sure."

Priest gave him the wad of bills.

Bones counted them, then he looked up. "Key's in the dash," he said.

"Okay, let's get to work."

Bones put the wad of hundreds in the hip pocket of his jeans. "Hey, I got an idea," he said. "I'm going down to the gas station to get us some coffee and donuts. We'll put the wheel on when I get back."

Priest nodded, saying nothing.

Bones hurried away, across the field to the road, and disappeared.

Oaktree said: "You don't really plan to wait for him, do you?"

"Hell, no," Priest replied. "I don't expect I'll ever see him again." 279

Priest drove the carnival ride back to Silver River Valley. Oaktree rode with him and Melanie followed in the Mustang.

Priest listened to country music on the truck' s radio and worried about the FBI. Although the newspaper report had not mentioned earthquakes, Priest reckoned someone must have figured out that the Owens Valley tremor was caused by a seismic vibrator, and had made the connection to the truck stolen in Liberty. Priest had solved that problem. Oaktree would dismantle the carnival ride and use its gaily painted panels to disguise the seismic vibrator. But what else did the FBI know?

He recalled Flower's interview with the agent in charge of the investigation, Marvin

Hayes. Maybe the Civic Responsibility teacher from Eisenhower High School should run into

Hayes again and talk to him about the progress of the case. Hayes had mentioned a bar he frequented. Priest concentrated for a moment and the name came back into his head: Everton' s.

Maybe he should pay a visit to Everton' s. A Perrier, please, barman. ... Excuse me, sir, I think we met on Saturday. You 're Agent Hayes, aren 't you? I'm Ronald Goodwin. The whole class was thrilled by young Florence 's account ofher meeting with you. You were very kind So, how 's the investigation progressing? The thought scared Priest, but at the same time he was intensely curious about the people he was up against. He would have liked to know all about them: to see their homes and meet their families, find out what they had on their desks and in their closets, see them eat and drink and play sports. He could deal with people, manipulate them and outwit them, but only if he knew them.

The news came on the radio. He turned up the volume, hoping for some clue to how the 280

FBI were thinking.

He got more than he expected.

"Federal agents investigating the Stop Now terrorist group have issued a photographic likeness of a suspect," the newsreader said. "He has been named as Richard or Ricky Granger, aged forty-nine, formerly ofLos Angeles."

Priest said: "Jesus Christ!" and slammed on the brakes.

Oaktree stayed cool. "Don't tell me your real name is Richard Granger?"

Priest did not reply. He was listening.

"Granger is also wanted for questioning about a murder in Liberty, Texas, seventeen days ago."

"Did you off some guy, Priest?" Oaktree said with surprise and a note in his voice that sounded close to admiration.

''No," said Priest. "But they thought I did, and I decided not to stick around and explain."

Oaktree laughed. "Good thinking."

Priest was not worried about Oaktree. He could be trusted not to blab to the others. A military man was useful in a situation like this, ironically.

But Priest was worried about that picture. He had to see it. If it was good, he might need to disguise himself as well as the seismic vibrator.

Melanie had stopped the Mustang behind the truck, and now she appeared at the nearside window. "What's going on, guys?"

Priest said to Oaktree: "Take this thing home and park it where I showed you, in the woods next to the seismic vibrator. Start taking the panels down." 281

Oaktree was imperturbable. "No problem," he said.

Priest opened the door and jumped out.

Melanie followed him back to the Mustang. He got in on the passenger side, and she took the wheel. "The radio says the Feds have put out a picture of me," he told her.

She paled. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know."

"What are you going to do?''

"First thing is to get to a TV set and see if it looks like me or not. Take me to Silver City."

Melanie put the car in Drive and pulled away, passing the carnival ride.

"It could be an old photograph, from around 1970," Priest mused.

"How would the police have an old photo of you?"

"From my police record."

Melanie swallowed. "I didn't know you had a police record."

"But they said on the radio it was a photographic likeness. That sounds like it's a drawing made by a police artist, based on witness reports."

"I know what you mean," she said. "Only they don't use artists any more, there's a computer program."

"There's computer program for every fucking thing," Priest muttered distractedly. He scratched his head. He was now profoundly glad that he had changed his appearance before taking the job in Liberty. It had been worth the time it took to grow a beard, the bother of pinning up his hair every day, and the nuisance of always having to wear a hat. But he could not be sure he was unrecognisable until he saw the picture. 282

On the outskirts of the small town there was a strip mall. "There's a TV store," Priest said."Give it a try."

Melanie parked. Priest got out and looked around nervously. It was still light. The mall was not busy, but there were a few people shopping. What if one of them should see his picture then, a second later, see him? Everything depended on whether the picture was like him or not.

He had to know. He had to take the risk. He crossed the parking lot, with Melanie beside him, and approached the TV store.

The window had around twenty sets, all switched on and tuned to the same channel. It was showing some kind of game show. Priest watched for a minute. A silver-haired host in a powder-blue suit was joshing a middle-aged woman wearing too much eyeliner.

"What's the time?'' Priest said. He could not stand in front of the window for an hour.

"Almost seven," Melanie said. "The news will come on in a few seconds."

The silver-haired host put his arm around the woman and spoke to the camera. There was a shot of an audience applauding with hysterical enthusiasm. Then the news came on. There were two anchors, a man and a woman. They spoke for a few seconds.

Then the multiple screens showed a black-and-white photograph of a heavily bearded man in a cowboy hat.

Priest stared at it.

The picture did not look like him at all.

Relief washed over him in a tidal wave. His disguise had been hugely successful. The beard completely altered the shape of his face and the hat concealed the most distinctive feature of his appearance, the long, wavy, thick dark hair. In a different context he would not have 283 recognised this as a picture of himself.

He felt enormously relieved.

The screens all flickered and another picture appeared. Priest was shocked to see, reproduced twenty times, a police photograph of himself at the age of nineteen. He was so thin, his face looked like a skull. He was trim now, but in those days, doping and drinking and never eating a regular meal, he had been a skeleton. His face was drawn, his expression sullen. His hair was lank and dull, with a Beatie haircut that must have been out of date even then.

Priest said: "Would you recognise me?"

"Yes," she said. "By the nose."

He looked again. She was right, the picture showed his distinctive narrow nose, like a curved knife.

Melanie added: "But I don't think anyone else would know you, certainly not strangers."

That was Priest's conclusion, and he was glad to have it corroborated.

The two anchors reappeared, then a new face, a beautiful woman with an Oriental cast to her features, maybe Vietnamese. A line of words appeared at the bottom of the screen, but

Priest could not read them.

The woman was interviewed by the male anchor. She was animated, using her hands, her face expressive. Priest was mesmerised. He wanted to meet her.

Melanie said: "Oh, my god, it's her!"

Priest was startled. "You know that woman?"

"I met her on Sunday!"

"Where?" 284

"At Michael's apartment, when I went to get Dusty."

"Who is she?"

"It says, right there on the screen."

"I can't read that, the print's too small."

"'FBI Agent Judy Maddox, in charge of Stop Now case.' She's the detective who's after you."

Priest was fascinated. Was this his enemy? Just looking at her on TV made him want to touch her golden skin with his fingertips.

He should be scared, not turned on, he told himself. She was a hell of a detective. She had discovered that the earthquake was caused by a seismic vibrator, and then had rapidly established where the vibrator came from and who stole it. She was smart and she worked fast.

"And you met her at Michael's apartment?"

"Yes."

Priest was dismayed.

Melanie went on: "He didn't say she was from the FBI. I thought she was a new

girlfriend, so I kind of ignored her. She brought this older guy with her, said he was her father, though he didn't look Oriental."

"Girlfriend or not, it sounds like they're getting close."

"Yeah, no question, I saw the way he looked at her, he likes her."

"And does she like him?"

"Harder to tell."

"She' s inscrutable?" 285

"Defended. What you'd expect. A cop."

"I wonder how much they talk." Priest's brain was racing. It was not surprising that the agent on the case had consulted Michael. He was one of the leading seismologists in the state.

Agent Maddox had gone to see him for the same reason Priest had: he was a source of

information. Priest guessed that Michael Quercus had helped Agent Maddox make the link to the

seismic vibrator. What else had he told her?

He turned away from the TV store and walked slowly back to the car. As Melanie steered out of the parking lot, Priest said: "This is bad for us. Very bad."

"What's bad?" Melanie said defensively. "It's okay if Michael wants to screw around with an FBI agent. I don't care."

"But she can get from him the same information we got."

Melanie frowned. "You've lost me."

"Look. They know about the seismic vibrator. That means they believe we're causing earthquakes, even if the governor doesn't, and they know how we do it. Agent Maddox's first

question has to be: Where will Stop Now strike next? Michael can help her with that. He can

look at his data, just as you did, and figure out the likeliest sites for an earthquake to be triggered

by a seismic vibrator. Then the FBI can stake out those locations and just wait for us to come

along."

"I never thought of that." Melanie stared at him. "You know, you're one of the two

smartest people I've ever met."

"Who's the other?"

"Michael." 286

"Gee, thanks."

"I must have a weakness for clever men."

Priest began to see a way to get the answer to his question. Melanie was the lin1c She could fmd out what Michael had told the beautiful Vietnamese FBI agent. "Tell me, how do you feel about Michael now?"

"Nothing. It's over, and I'm glad. I just hope we can work out our divorce without too much hostility."

Priest studied her. He thought she was telling the truth, broadly. He suspected she might still have a lingering trace of fondness for Michael, but nothing serious. "Could you sleep with him again?"

"No way!"

"Even if I asked you?"

She stared at him. "Priest, what the hell is this about?"

"We have to know whether the FBI has staked out possible earthquake locations-and if so, which ones. Michael knows, I think. I also think he's still carrying a torch for you, sort of.

I believe he would tell you what he's told the FBI, if he trusted you. And he'd trust you if you slept with him again."

"Fuck you, Priest. I won't do it."

Sure you will.

"Okay," Priest said. "Forget I suggested it."

"I will."

They were silent for a few minutes, driving through the mountains. Melanie drove badly, 287 taking bends too fast then slowing down on the straight. Her mind was elsewhere. Priest just waited, letting her agonise.

"I'm sorry, Priest," she said eventually. "I just can't do it."

Sure you can.

"I told you, don't worry about it."

They turned off the road and drove down the long, rough track towards the commune.

Melanie parked the car in the clearing at the end of the track. Together they walked through the woods to the village in the twilight.

Work had stopped. Because of the warm weather, the big table had been dragged out of the cookhouse into the yard. Some of the children were putting out plates and cutlery while Slow sliced a long loaf of home-baked bread. There were bottles of the commune's own wine on the table, and a spicy aroma was drifting over the scene.

Priest and Melanie went to Melanie's hut to check on Dusty. Flower was with him, reading aloud to him from a book called Tell Me How Much You Love Me. Dusty was back to his usual self. The swelling had gone down, his nose had stopped running, and he was breathing normally.

Priest watched as Melanie put her arms around the boy and hugged him. There were tears in her eyes. She looked up at Priest. "This is the only place he's ever been okay," she said.

"It's the only place I've ever been okay," he said. "It's the only place the world has ever been okay. That' s why we have to save it," he said.

"I know," she said. "I know." 288 14

Judy Maddox's team of nine agents worked in a long, narrow room along one side of the building. With its desks and room dividers it looked like a million other offices, except that the shirtsleeved young men and smart-suited women wore guns in holsters on their hips or under their arms.

At seven o'clock on Tuesday morning they were standing, sitting on desk comers, or leaning against the wall, some sipping coffee from Styrofoam containers, one or two smoking cigarettes, others holding pens and pads ready to take notes. A low buzz of conversation died away when Judy stood up and said: "Pay attention, everyone."

She looked over the group for a moment, and experienced a familiar thrill. They were all fit, hard-working, well-dressed, honest, and smart, the smartest young people in America. She felt proud to work with them.

She began to speak. "We're going to divide into two teams. Peter, Jack, Sally and Lee will check out tips based on the photographs of Ricky Granger." She handed out a briefing sheet that she had worked on until late last night. A list of questions would enable the agents to eliminate most of the tips and assess which ones merited a visit by an agent or neighbourhood cop. Many of the people identified as "Ricky Granger" could be ruled out fast: black men, men with foreign accents, twenty-year-olds, short men. On the other hand, the agents would be quick 289 to visit any suspect who fit the description and had been absent from his usual home for the two­ week period during which Ricky Granger had worked in Texas.

"Dave, Louise, Steve and Ashok will form the second team. You'll work with Simon

Sparrow, checking tip-offs based on the recorded voice of the woman who phoned the John Truth show." She handed out a second briefing sheet with another set of questions.

"Raja."

Her youngest team member grinned his cocky grin. "I was afraid you'd forgotten about me."

"In my dreams," she said, and they all laughed. "Raja, I want you to prepare a short briefing to go out to all police departments and especially the Highway Patrol telling them how to identify a seismic vibrator." She held up a hand. "And no vibrator jokes, please." They laughed agam.

''Now I'm going to try and get you some extra manpower and a bigger room. Meanwhile,

I know you'll do your best. One more thing."

She paused, choosing her words. She needed to impress them with the importance of their

work-but she felt she had to avoid coming right out and saying that she believed Stop Now

could cause an earthquake.

"These people are trying to blackmail the governor of California. They say they can cause

earthquakes." She shrugged. "I'm not telling you they can. But it's not as impossible as it sounds.

I'm also not telling you they can't. Either way, you need to understand that this assignment is

deadly serious." She paused again, then finished: "Let's get to it."

They all moved to their seats. Judy left the room and walked briskly along the corridor 290 to the SAC's office. His secretary was not yet at her desk in the outer room. Brian Kincaid normally started work around nine, but Judy was betting he had arrived early today. He would have heard that she had called her team to a seven o'clock briefmg and he would want to know what was happening. She was about to tell him. She knocked on his door and he called: "Come in."

He was sitting in the big chair with his suit coat on, looking as if he had nothing to do.

The only items on his desk were a bran muffin with one bite taken out of it and the paper bag it had come in. He was smoking a cigarette. He gave Judy a hostile glare and said: "If I asked you to make coffee, I guess you'd call me a sexist pig."

She was not going to make him coffee. He would take it as a sign he could bully her. But she wanted to be conciliatory. "I'll get you a cup of coffee," she said. She picked up the phone on his desk, called her secretary, and said: "Rosa, would you come to the SAC's office and put on a pot of coffee? Thank you."

He still looked angry. Her gesture had done nothing to soften him. She realised that by getting him coffee without actually making it herself she had in a way outwitted him.

Bottom line, I can 't win.

She got down to business. "I'm pursuing two lines of inquiry," she began briskly. "One is the voice of the woman on the John Truth tape. We have more than a thousand leads to follow up on that. The second is the picture of Ricky Granger. I'm guessing we'll get even more calls on that. I can't even evaluate them all with eight people. I need twenty more agents."

Brian laughed. "I'm not putting twenty people on this bullshit assignment."

"Also, from sundown on Thursday, I'll need to stake out the likeliest locations for the 291 next earthquake."

"There isn't going to be one!"

"I'll need extra personnel for that, too."

"Forget it."

Judy sighed. Now she would have to get tough with him, and that would make him even angrier. "I have to call Mr Honeymoon once a day," she said wearily. "Do you want me to tell him you're refusing me the manpower I need?"

Brian was silently furious. He stared at Judy as if he would like to pull out his gun and blow her away. At last he said: "Your FBI career is over, you know that?"

He was probably right, but it angered her to hear him say it. "I never wanted to fight with you, Brian," she said, striving to keep her voice low and reasonable. "But you dicked me around.

I deserved a promotion after putting the Foong brothers in jail, but instead you promoted your friend and gave me a bullshit assignment. You shouldn't have done that. It was unprofessional.

"Don't tell me how to--"

She overrode him. "When the bullshit assignment unexpectedly turned out to be a big case, you took it away from me then screwed it up. Every bad thing that has happened to you is your own damn fault. Now you're sulking. Well, I know your pride is wounded, and I know your feelings are hurt, and I just want you to understand that I don't give a flying fuck."

He stared at her with his mouth half open. He seemed speechless.

She went to the door.

"Now I'm going to talk to Honeymoon at nine-thirty," she said. "Ifl don't have twenty extra agents and the use of the Emergency Operations Center by then I'll tell him to call 292

Washington. Your move." She went out and slammed the door.

She felt the sense of exhilaration that comes from a reckless act. She was going to have to fight Brian every step of the way, and she might as well fight hard. She would never be able to work with him again. The Bureau's hierarchy would side with the superior officer in a situation like this. She was almost certainly finished. But she was going to crack this case before she quit.

Rosa was filling the coffee machine in the SAC's outer office. Judy returned to her own office. The phone was ringing. She picked up. "Judy Maddox."

"John Truth here."

"Good morning! You're at work early."

"I'm at home, but my producer just called me. My voicemail at the radio station was maxed with overnight calls about the Stop Now woman.

"We've had some, too. I have four people checking them out."

"Did you get the name of the record?"

"What? The record she made? No!" Judy was excited. This was a break. "I hardly expected to-it seemed like a long shot."

"I got two callers who remembered it."

"That's great!"

"The Stop Now woman was reading poetry over a background of psychedelic music."

"Yuck!"

"Yeah." He laughed. "The album was called Raining Fresh Daisies. That also appears to be the name of the group." 293

"I've never heard of them."

"Me either. Before my time, I guess. And we sure don't have the disc at the radio station."

"Did either of your callers give you a disc number, or even the label that issued the album?"

''Nope. My producer called both people back, but they don't actually have the record, they just remember it."

Judy's elation began to fade. "Damn. How am I going to find out more?"

"You could call every record label."

"I will. But they may not keep files that far back."

You're right. Anyway, the album might have come out on a minor label that no longer exists-it sounds like that kind of avant-garde stuff.

"I'm going to have to find a surviving copy."

Truth was doubtful. "Could be tough."

"I'll start someone calling rare record stores."

"I'll ask around at the station in case anyone else remembers it."

"Thanks."

"You're very welcome-but I want something in return."

"What?"

"A live interview on the show tonight."

"I can't go to Sacramento today."

"No problem, we can do it by phone."

Judy did not really want to. Right now there was nothing she needed to say to the public. 294

She was focussed on the investigation, and a radio interview would be an unwelcome distraction.

But Truth had been helpful and he might be so again, so she decided to oblige him. "Okay, why not?"

"Will you be at this number?"

"Probably. If not, I'll call you at the top of the show."

"Thanks, Judy, I appreciate it."

"Talk to you later." Judy hung up.

There was a tap at her door and Raja Khan walked in with a sheet of paper in his hand.

"Would you like to see this before it goes out? It' s the note to police officers, telling them how to recognise a seismic vibrator if they see one."

That was quick. "What took you so long?" Judy said.

"I had to look up how to spell 'seismic'."

She smiled and glanced over what he had written. It was fine. "Great. Now I have another job for you. We're looking for an album called Raining Fresh Daisies. It's from the sixties."

"No kidding."

She grinned. "Yeah, it does have kind of a hippy feel to it. The voice on the album is our

Stop Now woman, and I'm hoping we' ll get a name for her. If the record company is still in existence we might even get a last known address. I want you to start calling stores that sell rare records."

"Okay." He looked at his watch. "It's almost nine."

"It is?" Judy felt as if she had only been at work a few minutes.

"Those kind of stores don't general open until ten or eleven, but I'll try anyway." 295

"Good luck." As Raja left, Judy picked up the phone and called police headquarters.

"Lieutenant Maddox, please." A moment later he came on the line. She said: "Hello, Ba, it's me."

"Hi, Judy."

"Cast your mind back to the late sixties, when you knew what music was hip."

"I'd have to go farther back. Early sixties, late fifties, that's my era."

"Too bad. I think the Stop Now woman made a record with a band called Raining Fresh

Daisies."

"My favourite bands were called things like Frankie Rock and the Rockabillies. I never liked acts with flowers in their names. Sorry, Jude. I never heard of your outfit."

"Well, it was worth a try."

"Listen, I've been thinking about your guy Ricky Granger. He's the man behind the women, right?"

"Yeah."

"You know, he's so careful, he's such a planner. He must be dying to know what you're up to."

"Makes sense."

"I think the FBI has probably talked to him already."

"You do?" That was hopeful, ifBa was right. There was a type of perpetrator who always insinuated himself into the investigation: he approached the police as a witness, or as a friendly neighbour offering coffee, and chatted to them about the progress of the case. "But Granger

seems so cautious."

"There's probably a war going on inside him between caution and curiosity. But look at 296 his behaviour: he's as daring as all hell. Curiosity will defeat caution."

Judy nodded into the phone. Ba's intuitions were worth listening to: they came from thirty years of police experience. "I'm going to review every interview in the case."

"Look for something off the wall. This guy never does the normal thing. He'll be a psychic offering to divine where the next earthquake will come, or like that. He's imaginative."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"What do you want for supper?"

"I probably won't be home."

"Don't get overtired. If you do, you'll miss the crucial clue. Take breaks, eat lunch, get the sleep you need."

"Like you always did, huh, Ba?''

He laughed. "Good luck."

"Bye." She hung up, frowning. She would have to look over every interview Marvin's team had done with the Green California Campaign people, plus all the notes from the raid on

Los Alamos. The entire file should be on the office computer network. She touched her computer keyboard and called up the directory. As she scanned the material, she realised there was far too much for her to review. They had interviewed every householder in Silver River Valley, more than a hundred people. When she got her extra personnel she would put a small team on it. She made a note.

What else? She had to arrange for stakeouts on likely earthquake sites from Thursday night. Michael had said he could make a list. She was glad to have an excuse to talk to him. She was getting to like him. She thought of that kiss, and the comers of her mouth twitched in a 297 private smile. I'll take another one ofthose , any time. She dialled his number.

He sounded pleased to hear from her. "How are you, Agent Judy?"

"Pretty good."

"I'm looking forward to our date tonight."

"Me, too. I don't know that I'm going to be in the mood for a movie, though. I kind of feel too involved in real life."

"Speaking of which, how's the case?"

"I haven't caught the bad guys yet. Do you recall saying you could make a list of likely earthquake sites?"

"Sure. You got very anxious about the information getting out to the public."

"Did you make the list?"

''No. I guess you convinced me it was dangerous."

"Now I need it."

"Okay, I'll look at the data."

"Could you bring the list with you tonight?"

"Sure. What shall we do? We could have dinner. You've got to eat."

"Sounds good."

"Do you know Morton's?"

"Yes."

"I' 11 meet you in the bar at eight."

"Okay."

"I can't wait." 298

She smiled. I think this guy likes me. "Bye."

As she hung up, her secretary put her head around the door. "There are twenty agents in the Emergency Operations Center, waiting for you to tell them what to do."

"Hallelujah!" She had her reinforcements. Now we're getting somewhere. +

By mid-afternoon, the Emergency Operations Center was humming.

It was a big room with tables arranged in a U shape in the middle and equipment all around the sides: a Motorola switchboard, file cabinets, photocopiers, situation boards, videos,

TV monitors, and laser printers. Agents seated at the tables were murmuring into phones, tapping keyboards and reading files on their screens. Judy had divided them into teams, each with a leader who monitored the others, so that she could keep track of progress by talking to three people instead of thirty.

She sat next to Carl Theobald, the leader of the team reviewing Marvin Hayes' files.

"Anything?" she said.

He shook his head. "We don't really know what we're looking for, but whatever it is, we haven't found it yet."

She nodded. She had given this team a vague task, but she could not help that. They had to scan the files for anything out of the ordinary. A lot depended on the intuition of the individual agent. Some people could smell deceit even in a computer.

"Are we sure we have everything on file?'' she said.

Carl shrugged. "We should."

"Check whether they kept any paper records." 299

"They're not supposed to .... "

"But people do."

"Okay."

Carl's phone rang. He picked it up. After a moment he said: "It's for you. Do you want to talk to a Michael Quercus?"

"Ask him to hold. I'll take it in my office."

"Sure."

She returned to her own office and picked up the call. "Hi, Michael."

"Hi. I've got a problem tonight. I can't make it."

She was taken aback by his tone. He was curt and unfriendly. This was the original

Michael, the one who had turned her away from his door and told her to make an appointment.

"What is it?" she said.

"Something came up. I'm sorry to cancel on you."

"Michael, what the hell is wrong?"

"I'm in kind of a rush. I'll call you."

"Okay," she said, though it was not okay.

"Bye," he said, and he hung up.

She cradled the phone. Raja. "Now what the hell was that all about?" she said wonderingly.

She headed for the Emergency Operations Center. As she walked around the quiet, carpeted corridor, she puzzled over the converstaion. Just as I was beginning to like the guy.

What is it with him? Why can 't he stay the way he was on Sunday? Or even when he called me I

300

this morning?

She found Carl Theobald looking troubled. "Marvin Hayes is giving me a hard time," he

explained. "They do have some paper records, I found out from Micky Kempinski. But when I

told Marvin what you said, he pretty much told me to shove it."

"Don't worry, Carl," Judy said. "These things are sent by heaven to teach us patience and

tolerance. I'll just go and tear his balls off."

The agents nearby heard her and laughed.

"I'll remember that," Carl said with a grin. "Patience and tolerance."

Judy headed for Marvin's office. In fact she was not sure whether to be aggressive or

conciliatory with Marvin. Although she had said she would tear his balls off, that was mainly for

the benefit of her team, who liked to think their leader was belligerent on their behalf. In truth,

she preferred the cooperative approach. But it only worked if the other party was willing in his

heart to be friends. With Marvin Hayes she had probably gone past that point forever.

She hesitated in the corridor outside his door. Boadicea, she thought.

In a small outer office was his secretary, Sally, a dated beauty with heavy make-up and

a stiffly sprayed coiffure. Judy liked her. Without pausing in her stride, Judy said: "Hi, Sally, how

are you?" and barged into Marvin's room. "What is this crap you're giving Carl Theobald?" she

said abruptly.

Marvin was speaking on the phone. He wore a fashionable peacock-blue shirt. The coat

of his pinstriped suit was not thrown across the back of his chair but carefully draped over a

hanger on the wall. He wore an alligator belt. "I'll get back to you," he said into the mouthpiece.

"Someone just interrupted me." He hung up. "Please come in," he said sarcastically.