Priest glanced back at the guard. He was lying on the ground, his hands to his face, rocking slightly. "Sure he will," Priest said.
"Wow."
"Let's go to Sacramento."
Melanie pulled away.
After a while she said: "Do you really think you can talk this Honeymoon guy around?"
"He's got to see sense," Priest said, sounding more confident than he felt. "Look at the choice he has. Number one, an earthquake that will do millions of dollars of damage. Or, number two, a sensible proposal to reduce pollution. Plus, if he picks number one, he faces the same choice all over again two days later. He has to take the easy road."
"I guess," Melanie said.
They reached Sacramento a few minutes before seven A.M. The state capital was quiet this early. A few cars and trucks moved unhurriedly along the broad, empty boulevards. Melanie parked near the Capitol Building. Priest put on a baseball cap and tucked his long hair up inside it. Then he donned sunglasses. "Wait for me right here," he said. "I may be a couple of hours."
Priest walked around the Capitol block. He had hoped there would be a surface-level parking lot, but he was disappointed. The ground around was all garden, with magnificent trees. On either side of the building, a ramp led down to an underground garage. Both ramps were monitored by security guards in sentry booths.
Priest approached one of the large, imposing doors. The building was open, and there was no security check at the entrance. He went into a grand hall with a mosaic-tiled floor.
He took off the sunglasses, which looked conspicuous indoors, and followed a staircase down to the basement. There was a coffee shop where a few early workers were getting a charge of caffeine. He walked past them, looking as if he belonged here, and followed a corridor he thought must lead to the parking garage. As he approached the end of the corridor, a door opened and a fat man in a blue blazer came through. Behind the man, Priest saw cars.
Bingo.
He slipped into the garage and looked around. It was almost empty. There were a few cars, a sport utility, and a sheriff's car parked in the marked spaces. He saw no one.
He slipped behind the back of the sport utility. It was a Dodge Durango. From here, peering through the car windows, he could see the entrance to the garage and the door that led inside the building. Other cars parked on either side of the Durango would shield him from the gaze of new arrivals.
He settled to wait. This is their last chance. There's still time to negotiate and avoid a catastrophe. But if this doesn't work ... boom.
Al Honeymoon was a workaholic, Priest figured. He would arrive early. But there was a lot that could go wrong. Honeymoon could be spending the day at the governor's residence. He might call in sick today. Perhaps he had meetings in Washington; maybe he was on a trip to Europe; his wife could be having a baby.
Priest did not think he would have a bodyguard. He was not an elected official, just a government employee. Would he have a chauffeur? Priest had no idea. That would spoil everything.
A car pulled in every few minutes. Priest studied the drivers from his hiding place. He did not have to wait long. At seven-thirty a smart dark blue Lincoln Continental drove in. Behind the wheel was a black man in a white shirt and tie. It was Honeymoon: Priest recognized him from the newspaper photos.
The car pulled into a slot near the Durango. Priest put on his sunglasses, crossed the garage swiftly, opened the nearside door of the Lincoln, and slid into the passenger seat before Honeymoon could get his seat belt off. He showed him the gun. "Pull out of the garage," he said.
Honeymoon stared at him. "Who the hell are you?"
Arrogant son of a bitch in a chalk-stripe suit with a pin through the collar of your shirt, I'll ask the frigging questions.
Priest cocked the hammer of the revolver. "I'm the maniac who's going to put a bullet in your guts unless you do as I say. Now drive."
"Fuck," Honeymoon said feelingly. "Fuck." Then he started the car and pulled out of the garage.
"Smile nicely at the security guard and drive slowly by," Priest said. "You say one word to him and I'll kill him."
Honeymoon did not reply. He slowed the car as it approached the sentry booth. For a moment, Priest thought he was going to try something. Then they saw the guard, a middle-aged black man with white hair. Priest said: "If you want this brother to die, just go ahead with what's on your mind."
Honeymoon cursed under his breath and drove on.
"Take Capitol Mall out of town," Priest told him.
Honeymoon drove around the Capitol Building and headed west on the broad avenue that led to the Sacramento River. "What do you want?" he said. He hardly seemed afraid--more impatient.
Priest would have liked to shoot him. This was the asshole who had made the dam possible. He had done his best to ruin Priest's life. And he was not a bit sorry. He really did not care. A bullet in the guts was hardly punishment enough.
Controlling his anger, Priest said: "I want to save people's lives."
"You're the Hammer of Eden guy, right?"
Priest did not answer. Honeymoon was staring at him. Priest guessed he was trying to memorize his features. Smart-ass. "Watch the goddamn road."
Honeymoon looked ahead.
They crossed the bridge. Priest said: "Take I-80 toward San Francisco."
"Where are we going?"
"You ain't going nowhere."
Honeymoon pulled onto the freeway.
"Drive at fifty in the slow lane. Why the hell won't you give me what I'm asking for?" Priest had intended to stay cool, but Honeymoon's arrogant calm enraged him. "Do you want a frigging earthquake?"
Honeymoon was deadpan. "The governor can't give in to blackmail, you must know that."
"You can get around that problem," Priest argued. "Give out that you were planning a freeze anyway."
"No one would believe us. It would be political suicide for the governor."
"It would like hell. You can fool the public. What are spin doctors for?"
"I'm the best there is, but I can't do miracles. This is too high-profile. You shouldn't have brought John Truth into it."
Priest said angrily: "No one listened to us until John Truth got on the case!"
"Well, whatever the reason, this is now a public face-off, and the governor can't back down. If he did, the state of California would be open to blackmail by every idiot with a hunting rifle in his hand and a bug up his ass about some damn cause. But you could back off."
The bastard is trying to talk me around!
Priest said: "Take the first exit and head back into town."
Honeymoon indicated right and went on talking: "Nobody knows who you people are or where to find you. If you drop the whole thing now, you can get away with it. No real harm has been done. But if you set off another earthquake, you'll have every law enforcement agency in the United States after you, and they won't give up until they find you. No one can hide forever."
Priest was angered. "Don't you threaten me!" he yelled. "I'm the one with the motherfucking gun!"
"I haven't forgotten that. I'm trying to get us both out of this without further damage."
Honeymoon had somehow taken control of the conversation. Priest felt sick with frustration. "You listen to me," he said. "There's only one way out of this. Make an announcement, today. No more power plant building in California."
"I can't do that."
"Pull over."
"We're on the freeway."
"Pull the fuck over!"
Honeymoon slowed the car and stopped on the shoulder of the road.
The temptation to shoot was strong, but Priest resisted it. "Get out of the car."
Honeymoon put the shift in park and got out.
Priest slid over behind the wheel. "You got until midnight to see sense," he said. He pulled away.
In the rearview mirror he saw Honeymoon try to wave down a passing car. It drove right by. He tried again. No one would stop.
Seeing the big man in
his expensive suit and shiny shoes, standing at the dusty roadside trying to get a ride, gave Priest a small measure of satisfaction and helped to quell the nagging suspicion that Honeymoon had somehow got the better of the encounter, even though Priest had held the gun.
Honeymoon gave up waving at cars and began to walk.
Priest smiled and drove on into town.
Melanie was waiting where he had left her. He parked the Lincoln, leaving the keys in, and got into the 'Cuda.
"What happened?" Melanie said.
Priest shook his head in disgust. "Nothing," he said angrily. "It was a waste of time. Let's go."
She started the car and pulled away.
*
Priest rejected the first location Melanie took him to.
It was a small seaside town fifty miles north of San Francisco. They parked on the cliff top, where a stiff breeze rocked the old 'Cuda on its tired springs. Priest rolled down the window to smell the sea. He would have liked to take off his boots and walk barefoot along the beach, feeling the damp sand between his toes, but there was no time.
The location was very exposed. The truck would be too conspicuous here. It was a long distance from the freeway, so there could be no quick getaway. Most important of all, there was not much of value here to be destroyed--just a few houses clustered around a harbor.
Melanie said: "An earthquake sometimes does the greatest damage many miles from its epicenter."
"But you can't be sure of that," Priest said.
"True. You can't be sure of anything."
"Still, the best way to bring down a skyscraper is to have an earthquake underneath it, am I right?"
"All other things being equal, yes."
They drove south through the green hills of Marin County and across the Golden Gate Bridge. Melanie's second location was in the heart of the city. They followed Route 1 through the Presidio and Golden Gate Park and pulled up not far from the San Francisco campus of Cal State University.
"This is better," Priest said immediately. All around him were homes and offices, stores and restaurants.
"A tremor with its epicenter here would cause the most damage at the marina," Melanie said.
"How come? That's miles away."
"It's all reclaimed land. The underlying sedimentary deposits are saturated with water. That amplifies the shaking. Whereas the ground here is probably solid. And these buildings look strong. Most buildings survive an earthquake. The ones that fall down are made of unreinforced masonry--typically low-income housing--or concrete-frame structures without bracing."
This was all quibbling, Priest decided. She was just nervous. An earthquake is a frigging earthquake, for Christ's sake. No one knows what's going to fall down. I don't care, so long as something does.
"Let's look at another place," he said.
Melanie directed him south on Interstate 280. "Right where the San Andreas fault crosses Route 101, there's a small town called Felicitas," she said.
They drove for twenty minutes. They almost passed the exit ramp for Felicitas. "Here, here!" Melanie yelled. "Didn't you see the sign?"
Priest wrenched the wheel to the right and made the ramp. "I wasn't looking," he said.
The exit led to a vantage point overlooking the town. Priest stopped the car and got out. Felicitas was laid out in front of him like a picture. Main Street ran from left to right across his field of vision, lined with low clapboard stores and offices, a few cars parked slantwise in front of the buildings. There was a small wooden church with a bell tower. North and south of the main drag was a neat grid of tree-lined streets. All the houses were one story. At either end of the town, the street became a pre-freeway country road and disappeared among fields. The landscape north of the town was split by a meandering river like a jagged crack in a window. In the distance was a railway track as straight as a draftsman's line from east to west. Behind Priest, the freeway ran along a viaduct on high concrete arches.
Stepping down the hill was a cluster of six huge bright blue pipes. They dipped under the freeway, passed the town to the west, and disappeared over the horizon, looking like an infinite xylophone. "What the hell is that?" Priest said.
Melanie thought for a moment. "I think it must be a gas pipeline."
Priest breathed a long sigh of satisfaction. "This place is perfect," he said.
*
They made one more stop that day.
After the earthquake, Priest would need to hide the seismic vibrator. His only weapon was the threat of more earthquakes. He had to make Honeymoon and Governor Robson believe he had the power to do this again and again until they gave in. So it was crucial that he kept the truck hidden away.
It was going to become more and more difficult to drive the vibrator on public roads, so he needed to hide it someplace where he could, if necessary, trigger a third earthquake without moving far.
Melanie directed him to Third Street, which ran parallel with the shore of the huge natural harbor that was San Francisco Bay. Between Third and the waterfront was a run-down industrial neighborhood. There were disused railway tracks along the potholed streets; rusting, derelict factories; empty warehouses with smashed windows; and dismal yards full of pallets, tires, and wrecked cars.
"This is good," Priest said. "It's only half an hour from Felicitas, and it's the kind of district where nobody takes much interest in their neighbors."
Realtors' signs were optimistically fixed to some of the buildings. Melanie, posing as Priest's secretary, called the number on one of the signs and asked if they had a warehouse to rent, real cheap, about fifteen hundred square feet.
An eager young salesman drove out to meet them an hour later. He showed them a crumbling cinder-block ruin with holes in the corrugated roof. There was a broken sign over the door, which Melanie read aloud: "Perpetua Diaries." There was plenty of room to park the seismic vibrator. The place also had a working bathroom and a small office with a hot plate and a big old Zenith TV left by the previous tenant.
Priest told the salesman he needed a place to store barrels of wine for a month or so. The man did not give a damn what Priest wanted to do with the space. He was delighted to get some rent on a near valueless property. He promised to have the power and water turned on by the following day. Priest paid him four weeks' rent in advance, cash, from the secret stash he kept in his old guitar.
The salesman looked like it was his lucky day. He gave Melanie the keys, shook hands, and hurried away before Priest could change his mind.
Priest and Melanie drove back to Silver River Valley.
*
Thursday evening, Judy Maddox took a bath. Lying in the water, she remembered the Santa Rosa earthquake that had so frightened her when she was in first grade. It came back to her as vividly as if it were yesterday. Nothing could be more terrifying than to find that the ground beneath your feet was not fixed and stable, but treacherous and deadly. Sometimes, in quiet moments, she saw nightmare visions of multiple car wrecks, bridges collapsing, buildings falling down, fires and floods--but none of these were as dreadful to her as the recollection of her own terror at six years of age.
She washed her hair and thrust the memory to the back of her mind. Then she packed an overnight bag and went back to the officers' club at ten P.M.
The command post was quiet, but the atmosphere was tense. Still no one knew for certain whether the Hammer of Eden could cause an earthquake. But since Ricky Granger had abducted Al Honeymoon at gunpoint in the garage of the Capitol Building and left him stranded on I-80, everyone was sure these terrorists were dead serious.
There were now more than a hundred people in the old ballroom. The on-scene commander was Stuart Cleever, the big shot who had flown in from Washington Tuesday night. Despite Honeymoon's orders, there was no way the Bureau was going to let a lowly agent take overall charge of something this big. Judy did not want total control, and she had not argued about it. However, she had been able to ensure that neither Brian Kincaid nor Marvin Hayes was
directly involved.
Judy's title was investigative operations coordinator. That gave her all the control she needed. Alongside her was Charlie Marsh, emergency operations coordinator, in command of the SWAT team on standby in the next room. Charlie was a man of about forty-five with a grizzled crewcut. He was ex-army, a fitness freak and a gun collector, not the type Judy normally liked, but he was straightforward and reliable, and she could work with him.
Between the head shed and the investigation team table were Michael Quercus and his young seismologists, sitting at their screens, watching for signs of earthquake activity. Michael had gone home for a couple of hours, like Judy. He came back wearing clean khakis and a black polo shirt, carrying a sports duffel, ready for a long spell.
They had talked, during the day, about practical matters as he set up his equipment and introduced his helpers. At first they had been awkward with each other, but Judy realized he was quickly getting over his feelings of anger and guilt about Tuesday's incident. She felt she ought to sulk about it for a day or two, but she was too busy. So the whole thing got shoved to the back of her mind, and she found herself enjoying having Michael around.
She was trying to think of an excuse to talk to him when the phone on her desk rang.
She picked it up. "Judy Maddox."
The operator said: "A call for you from Ricky Granger."
"Trace it!" she snapped. It would take the operator only seconds to contact Pacific Bell's twenty-four-hour security center. She waved at Cleever and Marsh, indicating that they should listen.
"You got it," the operator said. "Shall I connect you or leave him on hold?"
"Put him on. Tape the call." There was a click. "Judy Maddox here."
A male voice said: "You're smart, Agent Maddox. But are you smart enough to make the governor see sense?"
He sounded irate, frustrated. Judy imagined a man of about fifty, thin, badly dressed, but accustomed to being listened to. He was losing his grip on life and feeling resentful, she speculated.
She said: "Am I speaking to Ricky Granger?"
"You know who you're speaking to. Why are they forcing me to cause another earthquake?"
"Forcing you? Are you kidding yourself that all this is someone else's fault?"