"There's something you should see," Dale said.
Priest noticed a quick interchange between the girls. Flower shot an accusing glare at Pearl, who looked frightened and guilty.
"What now?" said Star.
Dale led them all to the one empty cabin. At present it was used as a study room by the older children. There was a rough table, some chairs, and a cupboard containing books and pencils. The ceiling had a trapdoor leading to a crawl space under the sloping roof. Now the trapdoor was open and a stepladder stood beneath it.
Priest had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming.
Dale lit a candle and went up the ladder. Priest and Star followed. In the roof space, illuminated by the flickering candle, they saw the girls' secret cache: a box full of cheap jewelry, makeup, fashionable clothes, and teen magazines.
Priest said quietly: "All the things we brought them up to consider worthless."
Dale said: "They've been hitchhiking to Silver City. They've done it three times in the past four weeks. They take these clothes and change out of their jeans and workshirts when they get there."
Star said: "What do they do there?"
"Hang out on the street, talk to boys, and steal from stores."
Priest put his hand into the box and pulled out a narrow-bodied T-shirt, blue with a single orange stripe. It was made of nylon and felt thin and trashy. It was the kind of clothing he despised: it gave no warmth or protection, and it did nothing but cover the beauty of the human body with a layer of ugliness.
With the shirt in his hand, he retreated down the stepladder. Star and Dale followed.
The two girls looked mortified.
Priest said: "Let's go to the temple and discuss this with the group."
By the time they got there, everyone else had assembled, children included. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, waiting.
Priest sat in the middle, as always. The discussions were democratic in theory, and the commune had no leaders, but in practice he and Star dominated all meetings. Priest would steer the dialogue toward the outcome he wanted, usually by asking questions rather than stating a point of view. If he liked an idea, he would encourage a discussion of its benefits; if he wanted to squash a proposal, he would ask how they could be sure it would work. And if the mood of the meeting was against him, he would pretend to be persuaded, then subvert the decision later.
"Who wants to begin?" he said.
Aneth spoke up. She was a motherly type in her forties, and she believed in understanding rather than condemning. She said: "Maybe Flower and Pearl should begin, by telling us why they wanted to go to Silver City."
"To meet people," Flower said defiantly.
Aneth smiled. "Boys, you mean?"
Flower shrugged.
Aneth said: "Well, I guess that's understandable ... but why did you have to steal?"
"To look nice!"
Star gave an exasperated sigh. "What's wrong with your regular clothes?"
"Mom, be serious," Flower said scornfully.
Star leaned forward and slapped her face.
Flower gasped. A red mark appeared on her cheek.
"Don't you dare speak to me that way," Star said. "You've just been caught stealing, and I've had to get you out of jail, so don't talk as if I'm the stupid one."
Pearl started to cry.
Priest sighed. He should have seen this coming. There was nothing wrong with the clothes in the free shop. They had jeans in blue, black, or tan; denim workshirts; T-shirts in white, gray, red, and yellow; sandals and boots; heavy wool sweaters for the winter; waterproof coats for working in the rain. But the same clothes were worn by everyone, and had been for years. Of course the children wanted something different. Thirty-five years ago Priest had stolen a Beatle jacket from a boutique called Rave on San Pedro Street.
Poem said to her daughter: "Pearl, cherie, you don't like your clothes?"
Between sobs she said: "We wanted to look like Melanie."
"Ah," Priest said, and he saw it all.
Melanie was still wearing the clothes she had brought here: skimpy tops that showed her midriff, miniskirts and short shorts, funky shoes and cute caps. She looked chic and sexy. It was not surprising the girls had adopted her as a role model.
Dale said: "We need to talk about Melanie." He sounded apprehensive. Most of them were nervous about saying anything that might be seen as a criticism of Priest.
Priest felt defensive. He had brought Melanie here, and he was her lover. And she was crucial to the plan. She was the only one who could interpret the data from Michael's disk, which had now been copied onto her laptop. Priest could not let them turn on her. "We never make people change their clothes when they join us," he said. "They wear out their old stuff first, it's always been the rule."
Alaska spoke up. A former schoolteacher, she had come here with her lover, Juice, ten years ago, after they had been ostracized in the small town where they lived for coming out as lesbians. "It's not just her clothes," Alaska said. "She doesn't do much work." Juice nodded agreement.
Priest argued: "I've seen her in the kitchen, washing dishes and baking cookies."
Alaska looked scared, but she persisted. "Some light domestic chores. She doesn't work in the vineyard. She's a passenger, Priest."
Star saw Priest coming under attack and weighed in on his side. "We've had a lot of people like that. Remember what Holly was like when she first came?"
Holly had been a bit like Melanie, a pretty girl who was attracted first to Priest and then to the commune.
Holly grinned ruefully. "I admit it. I was lazy. But eventually I started to feel bad about not pulling my weight. Nobody said anything to me. I just realized I'd be happier doing my fair share."
Now Garden spoke. A former junkie, she was twenty-five but looked forty. "Melanie's a bad influence. She talks to the kids about pop records and TV shows and trash like that."
Priest said: "Obviously we need to have a discussion with Melanie about this when she gets back from San Francisco. I know she's going to be very upset when she hears what Flower and Pearl have done."
Dale was not satisfied. "What bugs a lot of us ..."
Priest frowned. This sounded as if a group of them had been talking behind his back. Jesus, have I got a full-scale rebellion on my hands? He let his displeasure show in his voice. "Well? What bugs a lot of you?"
Dale swallowed. "Her mobile phone and computer."
There was no power line into the valley, so they had few electrical appliances; and there had grown up a kind of puritanism about things like TV and videotapes. Priest had to listen to his car radio to hear the news. They had come to look down on anything electrical. Melanie's equipment, which she recharged at the public library in Silver City by plugging into an outlet normally used for the vacuum cleaner, had drawn some disapproving stares. Now several people nodded agreement with Dale's complaint.
There was a special reason why Melanie had to keep her mobile and her computer. But Priest could not explain it to Dale. He was not a Rice Eater. Although he was a full member of the group and had been here for years, Priest could not be sure he would go along with the earthquake plan. He might freak.
Priest realized he had to end this. It was getting out of control. Discontented people had to be dealt with one by one, not in a collective discussion where they reinforced one another.
But before he could say anything, Poem weighed in. "Priest, is there something going on? Something you're not telling us about? I never really understood why you and Star had to go away for two and a half weeks."
Song, supporting Priest, said: "Wow, that's such a mistrustful question!"
The group was falling apart, Priest could see. It was the imminent prospect of having to leave the valley. There was no sign of the miracle he had hinted at. They saw their world coming to an end.
Star said: "I thought I told everyone. I had an uncle who died and left his affairs in a tangle, and I was his only relative, so I had to
help the lawyers straighten everything out."
Enough.
Priest knew how to choke off a protest. He spoke decisively. "I feel we're discussing these things in a bad atmosphere," he said. "Does anyone agree with me?"
They all did, of course. Most of them nodded.
"What do we do about it?" Priest looked at his ten-year-old son, a dark-eyed, serious child. "What do you say, Ringo?"
"We meditate together," the boy said. It was the answer any of them would give.
Priest looked around. "Does everyone approve of Ringo's idea?"
They did.
"Then let's make ourselves ready."
Each of them assumed the position they liked. Some lay flat on their backs, others bent into a fetal curl, one or two lay as if sleeping. Priest and several others sat cross-legged, hands loose on their knees, eyes closed, faces raised to heaven.
"Relax the small toe of your left foot," Priest said in a quiet, penetrating voice. "Then the fourth toe, then the third, then the second, then the big toe. Relax your whole foot ... and your ankle ... and then your calf." As he went slowly around the body, a contemplative peace descended on the room. People's breathing slowed and became even, their bodies grew more and more still, and their faces gradually took on the tranquillity of meditation.
Finally Priest said a slow, deep syllable: "Om."
With one voice the congregation replied: "Omm ..."
My people.
May they live here forever.
6
The meeting at the governor's office was scheduled for twelve noon. Sacramento, the state capital, was a couple of hours' drive from San Francisco. Judy left home at nine forty-five to allow for heavy traffic getting out of the city.
The aide she was to meet, Al Honeymoon, was a well-known figure in California politics. Officially cabinet secretary, he was in fact hatchet man. Any time Governor Robson needed to run a new highway through a beauty spot, build a nuclear power station, fire a thousand government employees, or betray a faithful friend, he got Honeymoon to do the dirty work.
The two men had been colleagues for twenty years. When they met, Mike Robson was still only a state assemblyman and Honeymoon was fresh out of law school. Honeymoon had been selected for his bad-guy role because he was black, and the governor had shrewdly calculated that the press would hesitate to vilify a black man. Those liberal days were long gone, but Honeymoon had matured into a political operator of great skill and utter ruthlessness. No one liked him, but plenty of people were scared of him.
For the sake of the Bureau, Judy wanted to make a good impression on him. It was not often that political types had a direct personal interest in an FBI case. Judy knew that her handling of this assignment would forever color Honeymoon's attitude to the Bureau and to law enforcement agencies in general. Personal experience always had more impact than reports and statistics.
The FBI liked to appear all-powerful and infallible. But she had made so little progress with the case that it would be kind of difficult to play that part, especially to a hard-ass like Honeymoon. Anyway, it was not her style. Her plan was simply to appear efficient and inspire confidence.
And she had another reason for giving a good account of herself. She wanted Governor Robson's statement to open the door to a dialogue with the Hammer of Eden. A hint that the governor might negotiate could just persuade them to hold off. And if they responded by trying to communicate, that might give Judy new clues to who they were. Right now it was the only way she could think of to catch them. All other lines of inquiry had led to dead ends.
She thought it might be difficult to persuade the governor to give this hint. He would not want to give the impression he would listen to terrorist demands, for fear of encouraging others. But there should be a way to word the statement so that the message was clear only to the Hammer of Eden people.
She was not wearing her Armani power suit. Instinct told her that Honeymoon was more likely to warm to someone who came on as a working Joe, so she had put on a steel gray pantsuit, tied her hair back in a neat knot, and carried her gun in a holster on her hip. In case that was too severe, she wore small pearl earrings that called attention to her long neck. It never did any harm to look attractive.
She wondered idly whether Michael Quercus found her attractive. He was a dish; shame he was so irritating. Her mother would have approved of him. Judy could remember her saying: "I like a man who takes charge." Quercus dressed nicely, in an understated kind of way. She wondered what his body was like under his clothes. Maybe he was covered with dark hair, like a monkey: she did not like hairy men. Maybe he was pale and soft, but she thought not: he seemed fit. She realized she was fantasizing about Quercus in the nude, and she felt annoyed with herself. The last thing I need is a bad-tempered matinee idol.
She decided to call ahead and check the parking. She dialed the governor's office on her cell phone and got Honeymoon's secretary. "I have a twelve noon meeting with Mr. Honeymoon, and I'm wondering if I can park at the Capitol Building. I've never been to Sacramento before."
The secretary was a young man. "We have no visitor parking at the building, but there's a parking garage on the next block."
"Where exactly is that?"
"The entrance is on Tenth Street between K Street and L. The Capitol Building is on Tenth between L and M. It's literally a minute away. But your meeting isn't at noon, it's at eleven-thirty."
"What?"
"Your meeting is scheduled for eleven-thirty."
"Has it been changed?"
"No, ma'am, it always was eleven-thirty."
Judy was furious. To arrive late would create a bad impression even before she opened her mouth. This was already going wrong.
She controlled her anger. "I guess someone made a mistake." She checked her watch. If she drove like hell, she could be there in ninety minutes. "It's no problem, I'm running ahead of schedule," she lied. "I'll be there."
"Very good."
She put her foot down and watched the Monte Carlo's speedometer climb to a hundred. Fortunately the road was not busy. Most of the morning traffic was headed the other way, into San Francisco.
Brian Kincaid had told her the time of the meeting, so he would be late, too. They were traveling separately because he had a second appointment in Sacramento, at the FBI field office there. Judy dialed the San Francisco office and spoke to the SAC's secretary. "Linda, this is Judy. Would you call Brian and tell him the governor's aide is expecting us at eleven-thirty, not twelve noon, please?"
"I think he knows that," Linda said.
"No, he doesn't. He told me twelve. See if you can reach him and warn him."
"Sure will."
"Thanks." Judy hung up and concentrated on her driving.
A few minutes later she heard a police siren.
She looked in her mirror and saw the familiar tan paint job of a California Highway Patrol car.
"I do not fucking believe this," she said.
She pulled over and braked hard. The patrol car pulled in behind her. She opened her door.
An amplified voice said: "STAY IN THE CAR."
She took our her FBI shield, held it at arm's length so the cop could see it, then got out.
"STAY IN THE CAR!"
She heard a note of fear in the voice and saw that the patrolman was alone. She sighed. She could just imagine some rookie cop pulling a gun and shooting her out of nervousness.
She held out her shield so he could see it. "FBI!" she shouted. "Look, for Christ's sake!"
"GET BACK IN THE CAR!"
She looked at her watch. It was ten-thirty. Shaking with frustration, she sat in her car. She left the door open.
There was a maddeningly long wait.
At last the patrolman approached her. "The reason I stopped you is that you were doing ninety-nine miles per hour--"
"Just look at this," she said, holding out her shield.
"What's that?"
"For Christ's sake, it's an FBI shield! I'm
an agent on urgent business and you've just delayed me!"
"Well, you sure don't look like--"
She jumped out of the car, startling him, and waved a finger under his chin. "Don't you tell me I don't look like a fucking agent. You don't recognize an FBI shield, so how would you know what an agent looks like?" She put her hands on her hips, pushing her jacket back so that he could see her holster.
"Can I see your license, please?"
"Hell, no. I'm leaving now, and I'm going to drive to Sacramento at ninety-nine miles per hour, do you understand?" She got back into the car.
"You can't do that," he said.
"Write your congressman," she said, and she slammed the door and drove off.
She moved into the fast lane, accelerated to a hundred, then checked her watch. She had wasted about five minutes. She could still make it.
She had lost her temper with the patrolman. He would tell his superior, who would complain to the FBI. Judy would get a reprimand. But if she had been polite to the guy, she would still be there. "Shit," she said feelingly.
She reached the turnoff for downtown Sacramento at eleven-twenty. By eleven twenty-five she was entering the parking garage on Tenth Street. It took her a couple of minutes to find a slot. She ran down the staircase and across the street.
The Capitol Building was a white stone palace like a wedding cake, set in immaculate gardens bordered by giant palm trees. She hurried along a marble hall to a large doorway with GOVERNOR carved over it. She stopped, took a couple of calming breaths, and checked her watch.
It was exactly eleven-thirty. She had got there on time. The Bureau would not look incompetent.
She opened the double doors and stepped inside.
She found herself in a large lobby presided over by a secretary behind an enormous desk. On one side was a row of chairs where, to her surprise, she saw Brian Kincaid waiting, looking cool and relaxed in a crisp dark gray suit, his white hair combed neatly, not at all like someone who had rushed to get here. She was suddenly conscious that she was perspiring.
When Kincaid caught her eye, she saw a flash of surprise in his expression, swiftly suppressed.
She said: "Uh ... hi, Brian."