The Hammer of Eden

  "But you took him to doctors."

  "Michael insisted. I knew they'd do no good. They gave us drugs that suppressed his immune system in order to inhibit the reaction to allergens. What kind of a way is that to treat his condition? He needed pure water and clean air and a healthy way of life. I guess I've been searching, ever since he was born, for a place like this."

  "It was hard for you."

  "You have no idea. A single woman with a sick kid can't hold down a job, can't get a decent apartment, can't live. You think America's a big place, but it's all the damn same."

  "You were in a bad way when I met you."

  "I was about to kill myself, and Dusty, too." Tears came to her eyes.

  "Then you found this place."

  Her face darkened with anger. "And now they want to take it away from me."

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

  "The hell with them, we'll have to do it again! Only this time make sure they can't ignore it."

  That was what he wanted her to say. "It would have to cause real damage, bring down some buildings. People might get hurt."

  "But we have no choice!"

  "We could leave the valley, break up the commune, go back to the old way of life: regular jobs, money, poisoned air, greed, jealousy, and hate."

  He had her frightened. "No!" she cried. "Don't say that!"

  "I guess you're right. We can't go back now."

  "I sure can't."

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

  She closed her eyes in relief 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 said: "Are you going to pick up Dusty from San Francisco today?"

  "Yeah, I'll leave after breakfast."

  Priest heard a strange noise over the asthmatic throb of the ancient V8 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 northward.

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

  "What's a helicopter doing here?"

  "Oh, my God," she said shakily. "You think it's looking for us?"

  The noise faded, then came back. The chopper reappeared suddenly over the trees, flying low.

  "I think it's the feds," Priest said. "Damn!" After yesterday's lackluster press conference, he had felt safe for a few more days. Kincaid and Hayes had seemed a long way from tracking him down. Now they were here, in the valley.

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

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

  "How do you know?"

  "I made sure of it."

  She became tearful. "Priest, why do you keep talking in riddles?"

  "I'm sorry." He remembered that he needed her for what he had to do. That meant he had to explain things to her. He gathered his thoughts. "They can't be coming for us because they don't know about us. The commune doesn't appear on any government records--our land is rented by Star. It's not on police or FBI files because we've never come to their attention. There has never been a newspaper article or TV program about us. We're not registered with the IRS. Our vineyard isn't on any map."

  "So why are they here?"

  "I think they've come for Los Alamos. Those nutcases must be on file with every law enforcement agency in the continental United States. For God's sake, they stand at their gate holding high-powered rifles, just to make sure that everyone knows there's a bunch of dangerous frigging lunatics in there."

  "How can you be sure the FBI are after them?"

  "I made certain of it. When Star called the John Truth show, I had her say the Los Alamos slogan: 'We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government.' I laid a false trail."

  "Are we safe, then?"

  "Not quite. After they draw a blank at Los Alamos, the feds may take a look at the other people in the valley. They'll see the vineyard from the chopper and pay us a visit. So we'd better get home to warn the others."

  He jumped into the car. As soon as Melanie was in, he floored the pedal. But the car was twenty-five years old and had not been designed for speed on winding mountain roads. He cursed its wheezy carburetors and lurching suspension.

  As he struggled to maintain speed on the twisting road, he wondered fretfully who at the FBI had ordered this raid. He had not expected Kincaid or Hayes to make the necessary intuitive jump. There had to be someone else on the case. He wondered who.

  A black car came up behind, going fast, headlights blazing although it was 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, dressed in casual clothes but clean shaven and short haired.

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

  "Fuck this," Priest said. When the FBI was in a hurry, it was best to get out of the way. He braked and pulled over. The nearside wheels of the 'Cuda bumped over the roadside grass. The second car flashed by, and a third came up. Priest brought his car to a halt.

  He and Melanie sat and watched a stream of vehicles race past. As well as cars, there were two armored trucks and three minivans full of grim-faced men and a few women. "It's a raid," Melanie said woefully.

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

  She did not seem to notice.

  Then a car peeled off from the convoy and pulled up right behind the 'Cuda.

  Priest was suddenly afraid. He stared at the car in his rearview mirror. It was a dark green Buick Regal. The driver was speaking into a phone. There was another man in the passenger seat. Priest could not make out their faces.

  He wished with all his heart that he had not gone to the press conference. One of the guys in the Buick might have been there yesterday. If so, he would be sure to ask what a lawyer from Oakland was doing in Silver River Valley. It could hardly be a coincidence. Any agent with half a brain would immediately put Priest at the top of the suspect list.

  The last of the convoy flashed by. In the Buick, the driver put down his phone. Any second now the agents would get out of the car. Priest cast about desperately for a plausible story. I got so interested in this case, and I remembered a TV show on this vigilante group and their slogan, about not recognizing the government, the same thing the woman said on John Truth's answering machine, so I thought I would, you know, play detective, and check them out myself.... But they would not take his word for it. No matter how plausible his story, they would question him so thoroughly that he could not possibly fool them.

  The two agents got out of the car. Priest stared hard at them in his mirror.

  He did not recognize either one.

  He relaxed a little. There was a film of sweat on his face. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  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 I'm real, real interested in them. That'll make them want to get rid of us as fast as they can. Reverse psychology." He jumped out of the car.

  "Hey, are you the police?" he said enthusiastically. "Is there something big going down?"

  The driver, a thin man with black-framed glasses, said: "We're federal agents. Sir, we checked your plates, and your car is registered to the Napa Bottling Company."

  Paul Beale took care of getting the car insured and smogged and other paperwork. "That's my employer."

  "May I see your driver's license?"

  "Oh, sure." Priest took the license out of his back pocket. "Was that your chopper I saw?"

  "Yes, sir, it was." The agent checked his license and hand
ed it back. "And where are you headed this morning?"

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

  "And where have you been this morning?"

  "We were at a party in Silver City last night. It went on kind of late. But I'm sober, don't worry!"

  "That's okay."

  "Listen, I write paragraphs for the local paper, 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 realized this 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 say anything," the agent said. "You'll have to call the press person at the Sacramento office of the Bureau."

  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."

  The agents returned to their car.

  They didn't make a note of my name.

  Priest jumped back in his car. In his mirror he watched the agents as they got into their car. Neither one appeared to write anything down.

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

  He pulled away, and the Buick followed.

  As he approached the entrance to the Los Alamos spread a few minutes later, Priest rolled down his window, listening for gunfire. He heard none. It seemed the FBI had caught Los Alamos sleeping.

  He rounded a bend and saw two cars parked near the entrance to the place. The wooden five-bar gate that had blocked the track was smashed to splinters: he guessed the FBI had driven their armored trucks right through it without stopping. The gate was normally guarded--where was the sentry? Then he saw a man in camouflage pants, facedown on the grass, hands cuffed behind his back, guarded by four agents. The feds were taking no chances.

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

  Priest drove slowly, like a curious passerby.

  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.

  *

  When he got back to the commune he went straight to Star's cabin, to tell her about the FBI.

  He found her in bed with Bones.

  He touched her shoulder to wake her, then said: "We need to talk. I'll wait outside."

  She nodded. Bones did not stir.

  Priest stepped outside while she got dressed. He had no objection to Star renewing her relationship with Bones, of course. Priest was sleeping with Melanie regularly, and Star had the right to amuse herself with an old flame. All the same he felt a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. In bed together, were they passionate, hungry for each other--or relaxed and playful? Did Star think of Priest while she was making love to Bones, or did she put all other lovers out of her mind and think only of the one she was with? Did she compare them in her head and notice that one was more energetic, or more tender, or more skillful? These questions were not new. He recalled having the same thoughts whenever Star had a lover. This was just like the early days, except that they were all so much older.

  He knew that his commune was not like others. Paul Beale followed the fortunes of other groups. They had all started with similar ideals, but most had compromised. They generally still worshiped together, following a guru or a religious discipline of some kind, but they had reverted to private property and the use of money and no longer practiced complete sexual freedom. They were weak, Priest figured. They had not had the strength of will to stick to their ideals and make them work. In self-satisfied moments he told himself it was a question of leadership.

  Star came out in her jeans and a baggy bright blue sweatshirt. For someone who had just got up, she looked great. Priest told her so. "A good fuck does wonders for my complexion," she said. There was just enough of an edge in her voice to make Priest think that Bones was some kind of revenge for Melanie. Was this going to be a destabilizing factor? He already had too much to worry about.

  He put that thought aside for the moment. Walking to the cookhouse, he told Star about the FBI raid on Los Alamos. "They may decide to check out the other residences in the valley, and if so, they'll probably find their way here. They won't be suspicious so long as we don't let them know we're a commune. We just have to maintain our usual pretense. If we're itinerant workers, with no long-term interest in the valley, there's no reason we should care about the dam."

  She nodded. "You'd better remind everyone at breakfast. The Rice Eaters will know what's really on your mind. The others will think it's just our normal policy of not saying anything that might attract attention. What about the children?"

  "They won't question kids. They're the FBI, not the Gestapo."

  "Okay."

  They went into the cookhouse and started coffee.

  It was midmorning when two agents stumbled down the hill with mud on their loafers and weeds clinging to the cuffs of their pants. Priest was watching from the barn. If he recognized anyone from yesterday, he planned to slip away through the cabins and disappear into the woods. But he had never seen these two before. The younger man was tall and broad, with a Nordic look, pale blond hair and fair skin. The older was an Asian man with black hair thinning on top. They were not the two who had questioned him this morning, and he was sure neither had been at the press conference.

  Most of the adults were in the vineyard, spraying the vines with diluted hot sauce to keep the deer from eating the new shoots. The children were in the temple, having a Sunday school lesson from Star, who was telling them the story of Moses in the bullrushes.

  Despite the careful preparations he had made, Priest felt a stab of sheer terror as the agents approached. For twenty-five years this place had been a secret sanctuary. Until last Thursday, when a cop had come looking for the parents of Flower, no official had ever set foot here: no county surveyor, no mailman, not even a garbage collector. And here was the FBI. If he could have called down a bolt of lightning to strike the agents 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. Dale greeted the two agents, as arranged. Priest filled a watering can with the pepper mixture and began to spray, moving toward Dale so that he could hear the conversation.

  The Asian man spoke in a friendly tone. "We're FBI agents, making some routine inquiries in the neighborhood. I'm Bill Ho, and this is John Aldritch."

  That was encouraging, Priest told himself. It sounded as though they had no special interest in the vineyard: they were just looking around, hoping to pick up clues. It was a fishing expedition. But the thought did not make him feel much less tense.

  Ho looked around appreciatively, taking in the valley. "What a beautiful spot."

  Dale nodded. "We're very attached to it."

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

  Aldritch, the younger agent, said impatiently: "Are you in charge here?" He had a southern accent.

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

  Ho said: "Do you folks live here?"

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

  "Most of us are seasonal workers," Dale said, following the script agreed upon with Priest. "The company provides accommodation because this place is so far from anywhere."

  Aldritch said: "Strange place for a fruit farm."

  "It's not a fruit farm, it's a winery. Would you like to try a glass of last year's vintage? It's really very good."

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

  "No, sorry. Just the real thing."

  "Who owns the place?"
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  "The Napa Bottling Company."

  Aldritch made a note.

  Ho glanced toward the cluster of buildings on the far side of the vineyard. "Mind if we take a look around?"

  Dale shrugged. "Sure, go ahead." He resumed his work.

  Priest watched anxiously as the agents headed off. On the surface, it was a plausible story that these people were badly paid workers living in low-grade accommodation provided by a stingy management. But there were clues here that might make a smart 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 why the schoolroom was a round building with no windows and no furniture.

  Also, there were marijuana patches in the woods nearby. The FBI agents were not interested in small-time doping, but cultivation did not fit in with the fiction 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 register.

  There might be a hundred other ways the pretense would fall apart under thorough investigation, but Priest was hoping the FBI was focused on Los Alamos and just checking out the neighbors as a matter of routine.

  He had to fight the temptation to follow the agents. 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 keep spraying, 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 instructions and started to jabber enthusiastically about daily meditation?

  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. Priest could not guess whether anything they saw would make them suspect that this was anything more than a wine farm.

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