They opened the door of the temple. Would they speak to the children, contrary to Priest's prediction? 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 his work. Maybe he figured it would look suspicious if he was friendly.
They came across Aneth hanging diapers out to dry. She refused to use disposable diapers. She was probably explaining this to the agents, saying, "There aren't enough trees in the world for every child to have disposable diapers."
They walked down to the stream and studied the stones in the shallow brook, seeming to contemplate crossing. The marijuana patches were all 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. Were they convinced, or had they seen something that made them suspicious? Aldritch seemed hostile, Ho friendly, but that could just be an act.
Aldritch spoke to Dale. "Y'all have some of these cabins tricked out kind of nice, for 'temporary accommodation,' don't you?"
Priest went cold. It was a skeptical question, suggesting that Aldritch did not buy their story. Priest began to wonder if there was any way he could kill both FBI men and get away with it.
"Yeah," Dale said. "Some of us come back year after year." He was improvising: none of this had been scripted. "And a few of us live here all year round." Dale was not a practiced liar. If this went on too long, he would give himself away.
Aldritch said: "I want a list of everyone who lives or works here."
Priest's mind raced. Dale could not use people's communal names, for that would give the game away--and anyway, the agents would insist on real names. But some of the communards had police records, including Priest himself. Would Dale think fast enough to realize he had to invent names for everyone? Would he have the nerve to do it?
Ho added: "We also need ages and permanent addresses." His tone was apologetic.
Shit! This is getting worse.
Dale said: "You could get those from the company's records."
No, they couldn't.
Ho said: "I'm sorry, we need them right now."
Dale looked nonplussed. "Gee, I guess you'll have to go round asking them all. I sure as heck don't know everyone's birthday. I'm their boss, not their granddad."
Priest's mind raced. This was dangerous. He could not allow the agents to question everyone. They would give themselves away a dozen times.
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, and how old they are."
Dale looked relieved to hand the responsibility back to Priest. "Okay, go ahead," he said.
"Why don't you come to the cookhouse?" Priest said to the agents. "If you won't drink wine, I bet you'd like a cup of coffee."
Ho smiled and said: "That'd be real good."
Priest led them back through the rows of vines 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 go on making that great-smelling pasta."
Ho offered Priest his notebook. "Why don't you just write down the names, ages, and addresses right here?"
Priest did not take the notebook. "Oh, my handwriting is the worst in the world," he said smoothly. "Now, you sit yourselves down and write the names while I make you coffee." He put a pot 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?"
"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 have been crushed; but they ain't the kind of folks 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 ...?"
"Silver River Valley Winery, Silver City, California. But people have their mail sent to the company in Napa, it's safer."
Aldritch was looking irritated and slightly bemused, as Priest intended. Querulous people did not have the patience to pursue minor inconsistencies.
He poured them coffee as he made up a list of names. To help him remember who was who, he used variations of their commune names: Dale Arnold, Peggy Star, Richard Priestley, Holly Goldman. He left out Melanie and Dusty, as they were not there--Dusty was at his father's place, and Melanie had gone to fetch him.
Aldritch interrupted him. "In my experience, most transient agricultural workers in this state are Mexican, or at least Hispanic."
"Yeah, and this bunch is everything but," Priest agreed. "The company has a few vineyards, and I guess the boss keeps the Hispanics all together in their own gangs, with Spanish-speaking foremen, and puts everyone else on our team. It ain't racism, you understand, just practical."
They seemed to accept that.
Priest went slowly, dragging out the session as long as possible. The agents could do no harm in the cookhouse. If they got bored and became impatient to leave, so much the better.
While he talked, Garden and Slow carried on cooking. Garden was silent and stone-faced and somehow managed to stir 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 took fifteen or twenty minutes to give them the names and ages of the commune's twenty-six adults. Ho was closing his notebook when Priest said: "Now, the children. Let me think. Gee, they grow up so fast, don't they?"
Aldritch gave a grunt of exasperation. "I don't think we need to know the children's names," he said.
"Okay," Priest said equably. "More coffee for you folks?"
"No thanks." Aldritch looked at Ho. "I think we're done here."
Ho said: "So this land is owned by the Napa Bottling Company?"
Priest saw a chance to cover up the slip Dale had made earlier. "No, that ain't exactly right," he said. "The company operates the winery, but I believe the land is owned by the government."
"So the name on the lease would be Napa Bottling."
Priest hesitated. Ho, the friendly one, was asking the really dangerous questions. But how was he to reply? It was too risky to lie. They could check this in seconds. Reluctantly he said: "Matter of fact, I think the name on the lease may be Stella Higgins." He hated to give Star's real name to the FBI. "She was the woman who started the vineyard, years ago." He hoped it would not be of any use to them. He could not see how it gave them any clues.
Ho wrote down the name. "That's all, I think," he said.
Priest hid his relief. "Well, good luck with the rest of your inquiries," he said as he led them out.
He took them through the vineyard. They stopped to thank Dale for his cooperation. "Who are you guys after, anyway?" Dale said.
"A terrorist group that's trying to blackmail the governor of California," Ho told him.
"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 ground, and disappeared into the trees.
"Well, that seemed to go pretty well," Dale said to Priest, looking pleased with himself.
Jesus Christ almighty, if only you knew.
12
Sunday afternoon, Judy took Bo to see the new Clint Eastwood movie at the A
lexandria Cinema on the corner of Geary and Eighteenth. To her surprise, she forgot about earthquakes for a couple of hours and had a good time. Afterward they went for a sandwich and a beer at one of Bo's joints, a cops' pub with a TV over the bar and a sign on the door saying "We cheat tourists."
Bo finished his cheeseburger and took a swig of Guinness. "Clint Eastwood should star in the story of my life," he said.
"Come on," Judy said. "Every detective in the world thinks that."
"Yeah, but I even look like Clint."
Judy grinned. Bo 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," Bo said, but he was laughing.
The news came on TV. When Judy saw footage of the raid on Los Alamos, she smiled sourly. Brian Kincaid had screamed at her for interfering--then he had adopted her plan.
However, there was no triumphal interview with Brian. There was film of a smashed five-bar gate, a sign that read "We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government," and a SWAT team in their flak jackets returning from the scene. Bo said: "Looks to me like they didn't find anything."
That puzzled Judy. "I'm surprised," she said. "Los Alamos seemed like really hot suspects." She was disappointed. It seemed her instinct had been completely wrong.
The newscaster was saying that no arrests had been made. "They don't even say they seized evidence," Bo said. "I wonder what the story is."
"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."
"That's what I thought."
"There are no computers on the premises, so it's hard to imagine they could have left a message on the Internet. Nobody there 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 our two female profiles--these girls are in their late teens and early twenties. And the vigilantes have no beef with the dam. They're happy with the compensation they're getting from Coastal Electric for their land, and they're looking forward to moving to their new place. Oh--and on Friday at two-twenty P.M., six of the seven men were at a store called Frank's Sporting Weapons in Silver City, buying ammunition."
Judy shook her head. "Well, whose dumb idea was it to raid them, anyway?"
It had been hers, of course. Simon said: "This morning at the briefing, Marvin claimed it was his."
"Serves him right that it was a flop." Judy frowned. "I don't get it. It seemed like such a good lead."
"Brian has another meeting with Mr. Honeymoon in Sacramento tomorrow afternoon. Looks like he'll go empty-handed."
"Mr. Honeymoon won't like that."
"I hear he's not a real touchy-feely type guy."
Judy smiled grimly. She had no sympathy for Kincaid, but she could not take pleasure in the failure of the raid. It meant the Hammer of Eden were still out there somewhere, planning another earthquake. "Thanks, Simon. See you tomorrow."
As soon as she hung up, the phone rang. It was the switchboard operator at the office. "A Professor Quercus called with a message he said was urgent. He has some important news for you."
Judy debated calling Marvin and passing the message to him. But she was too curious to know what Michael had to say. She dialed his home.
When he answered, she could hear the soundtrack of a TV cartoon in the background. Dusty was still there, she guessed. "This is Judy Maddox," she said.
"Hi, how are you?"
She raised her eyebrows. A weekend with Dusty had 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' in the Grapevine' by Marvin Hayes and the Haystacks."
Judy laughed.
Michael said: "But he doesn't return my calls, so I'm stuck with you."
That was more like Michael. "Okay, what have you got?"
"Can you come over? I really need to show you."
She found herself pleased, even a little excited, at the thought of seeing him again. "Do you have any more Cap'n 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 seismologist," she said to Bo. "Shall I drop you at the bus stop?"
"I can't ride the bus like Jim Rockford. I'm a San Francisco detective!"
"So? You're a human being."
"Yeah, but the street guys don't know that."
"They don't know 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 corner with vials of crack in the pockets of his bomber jacket was afraid of Bo 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," 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?" Bo sounded skeptical.
"He's arrogant and difficult. He's better when his kid's around, that softens him."
"He's married?"
"Separated."
"Separated is married."
Judy could sense Bo losing interest in Michael. It felt like a drop in the temperature. She smiled to herself. He was still eager to marry her off, but he had old-fashioned scruples.
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, Bo Maddox."
"Come in," Michael said abruptly.
His mood seemed to have changed in the short time it had taken to drive 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 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 female voice said: "I'll take care of him, thank you."
Judy stood up and turned around. The woman who had just walked in looked as if she had stepped off a couturier's catwalk. 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.
Until this moment Judy had felt smartly dressed in khaki shorts, tan loafers that showed off her pretty ankles, and a white polo shirt that gleamed against her cafe-au-lait skin. Now she felt dowdy, middle-aged, and out of date by comparison with this vision of street chic. And Michael was bound to notice that Judy had a big ass and small tits by comparison.
"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. Did he want Melanie to think Judy was a girlfriend?
"This is my father, Bo 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, voguish wife. She was annoyed with herself for the reaction. Why should I give a damn?
Melanie looked around the room and 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?"
"We'll have to meet somewhere out of town."
"I want him to stay with me. It's not the same if he doesn't sleep over."
"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, and his wife was so cold.
Melanie stuffed the rabbit into the Donald Duck bag and closed the zip. "We have to go."
"I'll carry him to your car." Michael picked up Dusty from the couch. "Come on, tiger, let's go."
When they had left, Bo looked at Judy and said: "Wow. Unhappy families."
She nodded. But she liked Michael better than before. She wanted to put her arms around him and say, You're doing your best, no one can do more.
"He's your type, though," Bo said.
"I have a type?"
"You like a challenge."
"That's because I grew up with one."
"Me?" He pretended to be outraged. "I spoiled you rotten."
She pecked his cheek. "You did, too."
When Michael returned he was grim faced and preoccupied. He did not offer Judy and Bo a drink or a cup of coffee, and he had forgotten all about Cap'n Crunch. He sat at his computer. "Look at this," he said without preamble.
Judy and Bo stood behind him and looked over his shoulder.
He put a chart on 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 typical earthquake of about the same magnitude. This has normal foreshocks. See the difference?"
"Yes." The normal foreshocks were uneven and sporadic, whereas the Owens Valley vibrations followed a pattern that seemed too regular to be natural.