Gang graffiti was sprayed on the detached garage and the front lawn was dotted with weeds, but Gabriel never touched the exterior of the house. It was a disguise, like the rags worn by the lost princes. The previous summer, he had bought a bumper sticker from a religious group at a swap meet that announced "We Are Damned for Eternity Except for the Blood of Our Savior." Gabriel cut off everything but "Damned for Eternity" and slapped the sticker on the front door. When real estate agents and door-to-door salesmen avoided the house, he felt like he had won a small victory.
The inside of the house was clean and pleasant. Every morning, when the sun was at a certain angle, the rooms were filled with light. His mother said that plants cleansed the air and gave you positive thoughts, so he had more than thirty plants in the house, hanging from the ceiling or growing in pots on the floor. Gabriel slept on a futon in one of the bedrooms and kept all of his belongings in a few canvas duffel bags. His kempo helmet and armor were placed on a special frame next to the rack that held a bamboo shinai sword and the old Japanese sword left by his father. If he woke up during the night and opened his eyes, it looked like a samurai warrior was guarding him while he slept.
The second bedroom was empty except for several hundred books piled in stacks against the wall. Instead of getting a library card and searching for a particular book, Gabriel read any book that happened to find him. Several of his customers gave him books when they had finished them, and he would pick up discarded books in waiting rooms or on the shoulder of the freeway. There were mass-market paperbacks with lurid covers, technical reports about metal alloys, and three water-stained Dickens novels.
Gabriel didn't belong to a club or a political party. His strongest belief was that he should continue to live off the Grid. In the dictionary, a grid was defined as a network of evenly spaced horizontal and vertical lines that could be used for locating a particular object or point. If you looked at modem civilization in a certain way, it seemed like every commercial enterprise or government program was part of an enormous grid. The different lines and squares could track you down and fix your location; they could find out almost everything about you.
The grid was comprised of straight lines on a flat plain, but it was still possible to live a secret life. You could take a job in the underground economy or keep moving so fast that the lines would never fix your exact location. Gabriel didn't have a bank account or a credit card. He used his real first name but had a false last name on his driver's license. Although he carried two cell phones, one for personal business and one for work, they were both billed to his brother's real estate company.
Gabriel's only connection to the Grid was on a desk in the living room. A year ago, Michael had given him a home computer and arranged for a hookup to a DSL line. Going on the Internet enabled Gabriel to download trance musik from Germany, hypnotic loops of sound produced by DJs affiliated with a mysterious group called Die Neunen Primitiven. The music helped him go to sleep when he returned to the house for the night. As he closed his eyes, he heard a woman singing: Lotus eaters lost in New Babylon. Lonely pilgrim find your way home.
***
CAPTIVE I N HIS dream, he fell through darkness, fell through clouds and snow and rain. He hit the roof of a house and passed through the cedar shingles, the tar paper, and the wooden frame. Now he was a child again, standing in the hallway on the second floor of the farmhouse in South Dakota. And the house was burning, his parents' bed, the dresser, and the rocking chair in their room smoking and smoldering and bursting into flame. Get out, he told himself. Find Michael. Hide. But his child self, the small figure walking down the hallway, didn't seem to hear his adult warning.
Something exploded behind a wall, and there was a dull thumping sound. Then the fire roared up the stairway, flowing around the banisters and railing. Terrified, Gabriel stood in the hallway as fire rushed toward him in a wave of heat and pain.
***
THE CELL PHONE lying near the futon mattress started ringing. Gabriel pulled his head away from the pillow. It was six o'clock in the morning and sunlight pushed through a crack in the curtains. No fire, he told himself. Another day.
He answered the phone and heard his brother's voice. Michael sounded worried, but that was normal. Since childhood, Michael had played the role of the responsible older brother. Whenever he heard about a motorcycle accident on the radio, Michael called Gabriel on the cell phone just to make sure he was all right.
"Where are you?" Michael asked.
"Home. In bed."
"I called you five times yesterday. Why didn't you call me back?" "It was Sunday. I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I left the cell phones here and rode down to Hemet for a jump."
"Do whatever you want, Gabe, but tell me where you're going. I start to worry when I don't know where you are."
"Okay. I'll try to remember." Gabriel rolled onto his side and saw his steel-toed boots and riding leathers scattered across the floor. "How was your weekend?"
"The usual. I paid some bills and played golf with two real estate developers. Did you see Mom?"
"Yeah. I dropped by the hospice on Saturday."
"Is everything okay at this new place?"
"She's comfortable."
"It's got to be more than comfortable."
Two years ago, their mother had gone into the hospital for routine bladder surgery and the doctors had discovered a malignant tumor on her abdominal wall. Although she had gone through chemotherapy, the cancer had metastasized and spread throughout her body. Now she was living at a hospice in Tarzana, a suburb in the southwest San Fernando Valley.
The Corrigan brothers had divided up the responsibilities for their mother's care. Gabriel saw her every other day and talked to the hospice workers. His older brother dropped by once a week and paid for everything. Michael was always suspicious of doctors and nurses. Whenever he perceived a lack of diligence, he had their mother transferred to a new facility.
"She doesn't want to leave this place, Michael."
"No one is talking about leaving. I just want the doctors to do their job."
"The doctors aren't important now that she's stopped chemotherapy. It's the nurses and the aides who take care of her."
"If there's the slightest problem, you let me know immediately. And take care of yourself. Are you working today?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
"That fire in Malibu is getting worse and now there's a new fire in the east, near Lake Arrowhead. All the arsonists are out with their matches. Must be the weather.
"I dreamed about fire," Gabriel said. "We were back at our old house in South Dakota. It was burning down and I couldn't get out."
"You've got to stop thinking about that, Gabe. It's a waste of time."
"Don't you want to know who attacked us?"
"Mom has given us a dozen explanations. Pick one of them and get on with your life." A second phone rang in Michael's apartment. "Leave your cell on," he said. "We'll talk this afternoon."
***
GABRIEL TOOK A shower, pulled on running shorts and a T-shirt, and went into the kitchen. He mixed some milk, yogurt, and two bananas in a blender. Sipping the drink, he watered all the hanging plants, then returned to the bedroom and began to get dressed. When Gabriel was naked, you could see the scars from his last motorcycle accident: pale white lines on his left leg and arm. His curly brown hair and smooth skin gave him a boyish appearance, but that changed as he pulled on jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and heavy motorcycle boots. The boots were scuffed and scratched from the aggressive way he leaned into turns. His leather jacket was also scratched and machine oil darkened the cuffs and sleeves. Gabriel's two cell phones were attached to a headset with a built-in microphone. Work calls went into his left ear. Personal calls went to the right. While riding he could activate either phone by pressing his hand against an outside pocket.
Carrying one of his motorcycle helmets, Gabriel walked outside to the backyard. It was October in Southern California and a hot Sa
nta Ana wind flowed out of the northern canyons. The sky above him was clear, but when Gabriel looked west he saw a cloud of dark gray smoke from the Malibu fire. There was a closed, edgy feeling in the air, as if the entire city had become a windowless room.
Gabriel opened the garage door and inspected his three motorcycles. If he had to park in a strange neighborhood, he usually rode the Yamaha RD400. It was his smallest bike, dented and temperamental. Only the most deluded thief would think of stealing such a piece of garbage. He also owned a Moto Guzzi V11, a powerful Italian bike that had a shaft drive and a powerful engine. It was his weekend motorcycle that he used for long trips across the desert. This morning, he decided to ride his Honda 600, a midsize sport bike that could easily go over a hundred miles an hour. Gabriel jacked up the back wheel, sprayed the chain with an aerosol lube, and let the solvents seep into the pins and rollers. The Honda had problems with the drive chain, so he found a screwdriver and an adjustable wrench on the workbench and dropped them into his messenger bag.
He relaxed the moment he straddled the bike and started the engine. The motorcycle always made him feel like he could leave the house and the city forever, just ride and ride until he disappeared into the dark haze on the horizon.
***
WITH NO PARTICULAR destination, Gabriel turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard
and headed west. The morning rush hour had started. Women drinking from stainless steel travel mugs drove to work in their Land Rovers while school crossing guards wearing safety vests waited at the intersections. At a red light, Gabriel reached into his outside pocket and switched on his business cell phone.
He worked for two delivery services: Sir Speedy and its competitor, Blue Sky Messengers. Sir Speedy was owned by Artie Dressler, a 380-pound former attorney who rarely left his home in the Silver Lake District. Artie subscribed to several X-rated Web sites and took phone calls while he watched nude college girls paint their toenails. He loathed his competition, Blue Sky Messengers, and its owner, Laura Thompson. Laura had once worked as a film editor and now lived in a dome house up in Topanga Canyon. She believed in a clean colon and orange-colored food.
The phone rang as the light turned green and he heard Artie's raspy New Jersey accent coming out of his headset. "Gabe! It's me! Why'd you turn off your phone?"
"Sorry. I forgot."
"I'm watching a live-cam shot on my computer. Two girls are taking a shower together. It started out okay, but now the steam is messing up the lens."
"Sounds interesting."
"I've got a pickup for you in Santa Monica Canyon."
"Is that near the fire?"
"Nah. It's miles away. No problem. But there's a new fire in Simi Valley. That one's totally out of control."
The motorcycle's handlebars were short and the foot clips and seat were angled so that Gabriel was always leaning forward. He could feel the vibration of the motor and hear the gears changing. When he was going fast, the machine became part of him, an extension of his body. Sometimes the tips of his handlebars were only inches away from speeding cars as he followed the broken white line that separated the lanes. He looked down the street and saw stoplights, pedestrians, trucks making slow turns, and immediately knew if he should stop or speed up or swerve around the obstacles.
Santa Monica Canyon was an enclave of expensive houses built near a two-lane road that led down to the beach. Gabriel picked up a manila envelope lying on someone's doorstep and carried it to a mortgage broker in West Hollywood. When he reached the address, he removed his helmet and entered the office. He hated this part of the job. On the motorcycle, he was free to go anywhere. Standing in front of the receptionist, his body felt slow, weighed down by his heavy boots and jacket.
Back on the bike. Kick-start the engine. Keep moving. "Dear Gabriel, can you hear me?" It was Laura's soothing voice coming into his headset. "I hope you ate a good breakfast this morning. Complex carbohydrates can help stabilize blood sugar."
"Don't worry. I ate something."
"Good. I've got a pickup for you in Century City"
Gabriel knew this address fairly well. He had dated a few of the receptionists and secretaries he had met delivering packages, but he had made only one real friend, a criminal-defense attorney named Maggie Resnick. About a year ago, he had showed up at her office for a delivery, only to wait around while her secretaries looked for a misplaced legal document. Maggie had asked him about his job and they ended up talking for an hour—long after the document had been found. He volunteered to take her riding on his motorcycle and was surprised when she accepted his offer.
Maggie was in her sixties, a small energetic woman who liked to wear red dresses and expensive shoes. Artie said that she defended movie stars and other celebrities who got into trouble, but she rarely talked about her cases. She treated Gabriel like a favorite nephew who wasn't very responsible. "You should go to college," she told him. "Open a bank account. Buy some real estate." Gabriel never followed any of her advice, but he liked the fact that she worried about him.
When he got up to the twenty-second floor, the receptionist sent him down the hallway to Maggie's private office. He walked in and found her smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone.
"Sure you can meet with the district attorney, but there's no deal. And there's no deal because he doesn't have a case. Feel him out, and then call me back. I'll be at lunch but they'll patch it through to the cell." Maggie hung up and flicked some ash off her cigarette. "Bastards. They're all lying bastards."
"You got a package for me?"
"No package. I just wanted to see you. I'll pay Laura for a delivery"
Gabriel sat on the couch and unzipped his jacket. Bottled water was on the coffee table and he poured some into a glass.
Maggie leaned forward, looking very fierce. "If you're dealing drugs, Gabriel, I will personally kill you."
"I'm not dealing drugs."
"You've told me about your brother. You shouldn't get involved in his scams to make money."
"He's buying property, Maggie. That's all. Office buildings."
"I hope so, darling. I'll cut out his tongue if he drags you into something illegal."
"What's going on?"
"I work with an ex-cop turned security consultant. He helps me out if some crazy person is stalking one of my clients. Yesterday we were talking on the phone and, all of sudden, this man says: 'Don't you know a motorcycle messenger named Gabriel? I met him at your birthday party.' And, of course, I say, 'Yes.' And then, he says, `Some friends of mine asked me about him. Where he works. Where he lives.' "
"Who are these people?"
"He wouldn't tell me," Maggie said. "But you should watch out, darling. Someone powerful is interested in you. Were you involved in a car accident?"
"No."
"Any kind of lawsuit?"
"Of course not."
"What about girlfriends?" She stared at him intently. "Anyone wealthy? Some woman with a husband?"
"I took out that girl I met at your party. Andrea—"
"Andrea Scofield? Her father owns four wineries up in Napa Valley." Maggie laughed. "That's it. Dan Scofield is making sure you're all right."
"We went riding a few times."
"Don't worry, Gabriel. I'll talk to Dan and tell him not to be so protective. Now get out of here. I've got to prepare for an arraignment."
***
AS HE WALKED through the basement garage, Gabriel felt afraid and suspicious. Was someone watching him right now? The two men in the SUV? The woman with the briefcase walking to the elevators? He reached into his messenger bag and touched the heavy adjustable wrench. If necessary, he could use it as a weapon.
His parents would have run away the moment they heard someone was asking about them. But he had lived in Los Angeles for five years and no one had kicked in his door. Perhaps he should follow Maggie's advice: go to school and get a real job. If you were connected with the Grid, your life would become more substantial.
As
he kick-started the motorcycle, his mother's story returned to him with all its comforting power. He and Michael were the lost princes, disguised in rags, but resourceful and brave. Gabriel roared up the exit ramp, merged into traffic, and cut around a pickup truck. Second gear. Third gear. Faster. And he was moving again, always moving, a small spark of consciousness surrounded by machines.
Chapter 5
Michael Corrigan believed that the world was a battlefield in a continual state of war. This war included the high-tech military campaigns organized by America and its allies, but there were also smaller conflicts between Third World countries and genocidal attacks against various tribes, races, and religions. There were terrorist bombings and assassinations, crazy snipers shooting people for crazy reasons, street gangs, cults, and disgruntled scientists mailing out anthrax to strangers. Immigrants from the southern countries flooded across the borders to northern countries bringing horrible new viruses and bacteria that ate your flesh. Nature was so annoyed by overpopulation and pollution that it was fighting back with droughts and hurricanes. The ice cap was melting and the sea was rising while the ozone layer was being shredded by jet planes. Sometimes Michael lost track of a particular threat but stayed aware of the general danger. The war would never end. It was only growing larger and more pervasive, claiming new victims in subtle ways.
***
MICHAEL LIVED ON the eighth floor of a high-rise condominium in West Los Angeles. It had taken him four hours to decorate the place. The day he signed the lease, he drove over to a huge furniture store on Venice Boulevard
and picked out the suggested arrangements for a living room, a bedroom, and a home office. Michael had offered to rent an identical apartment for his brother in the same building and fill it with similar furniture, but Gabriel rejected the proposal. For some perverse reason, his younger brother wanted to live in what was probably the ugliest home in Los Angeles and breathe the exhaust from the freeway.