“Oh, shit,” Terry said, a stunned exhalation of breath.
“That’s not the kicker.” Allen’s cool blue eyes scanned his audience. “He used his credit card again on the night of the 20th, to pay for a room at the Lariat Motel.”
Berke made a noise, kind of a soft gasp, but no one looked at her.
Nomad said with a mixture of shock and anger, “The fucker was right in the motel with us? Christ, man! What the fuck have we done to him?”
Roger Chester stood up. “Take it easy, John.” The real reason he’d stood up was that his hemorrhoids had flared on the flight from Austin and his folding chair wasn’t making him feel any better. He looked at Truitt Allen. “It’s got to be more than a video. Who kills somebody because they don’t like a video?”
“I can’t say. But I do know from experience that people can create extraordinary circumstances in their own minds. Especially disturbed individuals, which I think is fair to say is the case here. They can create scenarios that would boggle the imagination of anyone we consider ‘normal’. Do you remember the Beltway sniper shootings in 2002? In Washington DC, Virginia and Maryland?”
“I do.”
“Ten people were killed and three critically injured,” Allen went on. “Four people were killed in a single morning, during a two-hour time span. As you may recall, it turned out to be the work of one man and a boy. The man was an Army sergeant in the Gulf War, qualified as an expert with the M16 rifle. After he was caught, he explained his motives. He’d planned to kill six people a day for thirty days. He was going to extort millions of dollars from the government to stop the killings, and then he was planning on travelling to Canada, stopping at YMCAs and orphanages to recruit children who could also be trained as snipers.” He raised his black eyebrows. “He was going to be a father figure to an army of young snipers. They would then be sent to major cities across the United States to carry out mass shootings. Insane? To us, yes, but to him it made perfect sense. It was an achievable goal. It gave him something to—shall I say—shoot for.”
That’s not fucking funny, Nomad wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut.
“I’ll point out that a check of Jeremy Pett’s firearms licenses shows that he owns a Remington Model 700 SPS rifle, which fires the same .308 Winchester caliber long-range bullet that killed Mike Davis and hit George Emerson. The rifle is similar to what he would’ve used in Iraq, and with a decent scope and an open field he can make shots at over five-hundred yards. Maybe not every shot, because he’s lost some of his ability and he doesn’t have a spotter. He also owns a .45 automatic, so he can be deadly at close range too, but I think he trusts his sniper skills more than his pistol ability.” Allen managed a sad smile. “It’s what he’s good at.”
“So find him, then!” Nomad realized his voice was a little too strident. “Trace his credit card or something! Do you know what kind of car he’s driving?”
“Just before I came to get you, his license tag number and a description of both him and his pickup truck were released to the media. It should start showing up on the local channels this afternoon and on the national broadcasts as soon as they’re ready to put it in rotation. As for the credit card, he’s stopped using it. The last credit purchase was again for gasoline in El Paso, on the afternoon of the 23rd. He’s gotten himself some money. Maybe pawned the pistol…who knows?”
“Okay, great,” said Terry. “But can’t you…like…call around to the front desk of every motel in town and try to find him? I mean, could it be that hard?”
“We’re working on that. Nothing’s turned up yet,” Allen answered. “I love my town, but I’ll be the first to tell you that there are some pay-by-the-hour holes here he can disappear into, and if he’s paying up front with cash nobody’s going to ask for an ID or write down his plate number. He might have decided not to use his real name. Understand that this man may not be who he once was, but he still has his Marine training and he knows how to improvise.”
“Maybe he’s gone,” Ariel ventured. “Maybe shooting Mike and George was enough.”
“Maybe. It depends on what’s happening in his head.”
“But he could be gone?” Roger Chester’s gaze had sharpened. “It’s a possibility?”
“A possibility,” Allen agreed, but cautiously. “He could be in Mexico by now.”
“That would be a good thing for The Five.” Chester looked at the bandmembers in turn and then directed his attention to Nomad, because Ashwatthama had briefed him on who the leader and decision-maker was. “John, are you aware that in the last forty-eight hours, your band has sold almost twenty thousand CDs?”
Nomad couldn’t speak. He thought he’d heard a voice talking to him from another world.
“Twenty thousand?” It was Berke, sounding choked. Her throat was not used to such a number.
“Eighteen thousand, three hundred and forty-six at last count about an hour ago, and that’s just the new CD,” Chester said. His voice was growing muscles, taking over the room once more. “We’re getting orders from all over the country, Canada and Mexico. We’re starting now to see orders from England, France, the Netherlands and Germany. Your backlist has picked up and is also selling in the thousands, and your single downloads on iTunes at nine o’clock this morning was more than forty thousand. Your YouTube and MySpace hits are off the chart and your website crashed with the traffic on Sunday night. You’re a lead story—most viewed and most emailed—on Yahoo. It’s in newspapers everywhere. People magazine called the office this morning. Yesterday the sniper story was running every hour on CNN and Fox News. It’s on the World News Network.” He paused to catch his breath; his face had become flushed. “I don’t have to tell you what national—correction: international—media exposure can do for product and for artists,” he said. “We’re all lucky you guys look so good on television.”
Nomad felt light-headed and woozy. He felt a little bit sick, really. How could he be happy, at a time like this? He realized that The Five was suddenly a success, though the only thing that had changed in two days was the fact that a sniper was after them, the media had jumped on it and the public was intrigued. He figured a lot of those CDs were being sold as morbid collector’s items, or to be resold on eBay after…what? After all of them were dead?
That damned Little Genius, Nomad thought. Got that media shine going bigtime, but I don’t want it this way.
“Can’t you people say anything?” Ash prompted, and Nomad nearly got up and smashed him in his bag of curried nuts.
“What do you want us to say?” Ariel stood up. For a few seconds the glint of volcanic flame beneath the sea in her eyes made Nomad think she was going to do the job of smashing Ash herself, which amazed him so much all he could do was sit there and gape. “Thank you? For what? We did all the work. And the thing is, we’re no different a band than we were on Saturday night, but suddenly we’re famous? Because Mike is dead and George is in the ICU? What are we supposed to say?”
Roger Chester cleared his throat to get her attention. “You can say,” he answered calmly, “that you’ll keep going to the end of your tour. You have…what?…eight more dates? What’s the schedule, Ash? San Diego on Friday and Los Angeles on Saturday, I think you said.”
“Yes sir…but there’s the other thing, if they want it.”
“What other thing?” Berke asked.
“Stone Church.” Ash chose to look at Nomad instead of the woman. “An invitation to play Stone Church came into the office yesterday afternoon. They’re offering—”
“No,” Ariel interrupted. “Not Stone Church.”
“May I finish?”
“Not Stone Church,” Ariel said again, defiantly. “I won’t play there.”
Nomad realized something of what he’d said to her over the phone had taken hold. You ought to go out on your own. Put your own band together. You could’ve done it straight out of The Blessed Hours, if you’d wanted to.
He saw in her face—the set of her jaw, the
new fire in her eyes—that she believed him.
But the new Ariel Collier wasn’t yet ready to take the stage on her own after all, because the old one peered out like a little child and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Chester.”
“I’ve heard of Stone Church,” Allen said. “Used to be a mining town, wasn’t it? Up near Gila Bend?”
“Yeah, now it’s an outdoors music festival.” Nomad gave him a sardonic glance. “If your idea of a music festival includes badass biker gangs, death cultists and Satan worshippers, that’s your nirvana.”
“What are we talking about?” Berke demanded. “Somebody’s trying to kill us and we’re just going to go out and play more gigs? Not me. I’m heading—” She abruptly stopped. To San Diego, she realized she was about to say. To open Floyd fucking Fisk’s boxes in her mother’s garage. Her mother was going mental; she’d been calling Berke every few hours to make sure she was okay.
When it was apparent Berke was not about to finish her declaration, Roger Chester said, “Let me spread this out for you. They’re offering six hundred dollars for one show. The festival opens up on noon Thursday. You’ll be the headliner on Thursday night. We can negotiate with them on the merchandise split.” He aimed his attention at Nomad. “One show, six hundred dollars. Local and national media will be there. You play an hour and a half and you’re done. They need to know by two o’clock today, to put you on the promos. We’ll find you a new road manager. You say the word, and Ash goes out to buy a new van; you just tell me what you need.”
The Scumbucket belonged to George. There would be no more Scumbucket in the lives of The Five. Nomad didn’t know what to say. He could feel Ariel urging him to reject it. “The only reason they want us there,” he said, meeting Chester’s gaze, “is because of the death thing. You know that.”
“They won’t like our kind of music,” Ariel added. “We don’t play what they want to hear.”
“Garth Brickenfield wants you there.” Chester was unyielding. “He’s asked for you personally.”
“Who’s Garth Brickenfield?” Allen asked.
Chester told him. Nomad knew that Garth Brickenfield was the Big Dipper in the Southwest promoter’s sky; he ran his business out of Tucson and had created the Stone Church festival. He was in his sixties, a hermit in his sunset years, and legend had it he’d twice attempted to climb Mt. Everest, he had a private airstrip and a collection of vintage planes, and he owned an alligator farm in Louisiana. When he was a top gun in the record business, he’d had long-standing bad blood with Bob Dylan and once had challenged Mick Jagger to a swordfight.
“Let me ask you a question.” Allen was speaking not only to Nomad but to Terry and Berke. “If I can get you eight hundred dollars and I can provide security, would you play? And we’re talking about an afternoon spot, not night time.”
“Sir?” The tone of Roger Chester’s voice was a little frosty. “We’re in control of this, thank you. I’ve dealt with Garth Brickenfield many times, and when he makes a money offer, that’s it. Also, no way in Hell is he going to pay that much for an afternoon…spot, as you call it. Those are for the hasbeens and wannabees. The Five is star material.”
“How about letting the stars talk?” Nomad asked, dripping acid. He got to his feet, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Ariel. “What’s this about, man?” He was addressing Roger Chester. He’d been gentleman enough to leave out the old. “A crazy guy’s killed one of us and almost killed another, and he may be in Mexico or he may still be after our asses, and you’re wanting us to finish our tour? Why? Because we’re worth more to you dead than we are alive?”
Berke and Terry remained seated; one was thinking about the contents of three boxes in San Diego, the other about a rock legend with a strange keyboard in a house outside Albuquerque.
“Continuing your tour is my idea.” Truitt Allen was speaking to the floor. “I ran all this past Mr. Chester this morning.” He looked up into Nomad’s eyes. “Why do you think I got you out of jail? I told you already, I need your help to catch Jeremy Pett.”
“Oh, I get it! We’re supposed to be fucking bait, right?”
“Cheese for a mousetrap,” Allen said.
“I’m allergic to cheese,” said Nomad. “Especially the kind that can get me—us—killed.”
Allen shrugged. “Okay, so you go back to Austin. Go back to your routines. If Pett’s still hunting you, how does that make you any safer? He can pick you off one by one, when you’re alone. Until he’s found, believe me…you’re safer together, on the road. Especially if you do what I say.”
Nomad scowled. “Yeah, right! What are you gonna do, be our new road manager?”
The man scratched his perfectly-shaved chin. “Well,” he said, “that would solve one of your problems.”
This was too much for Berke. “You’re a whackjob, man! We don’t need an FBI agent as a road manager!” It had taken all her willpower not to drop the f-bomb on him.
“Yes,” Allen answered, “you do. Because you need the security I can put together for you. You need a team of my men trailing you on the highway, watching your backs. You need a team travelling in front of you, to check out where you’re going. And this Stone Church thing…you need to play there on Thursday afternoon, and there need to be promos flooding local TV and radio and items on the newscasts building it up, so Jeremy Pett will see them and bring his rifle to Gila Bend, where I’ll have tac teams up in the hills waiting for him. That’s why you need to play in daylight. And that’s why I jumped through hoops to get you released into my custody…Mr. Charles,” he finished.
“Un…fucking…real,” said Berke, but she sounded resigned to whatever lay ahead.
Ariel tried her protest again. It, too, had weakened. “That’s not our kind of crowd. We shouldn’t play there. Not Stone Church.”
“Your being their road manager aside,” said Roger Chester to Allen. “The elephant in this room is that Garth Brickenfield wants them at night. Once he makes up his mind, it’s done.”
Allen nodded thoughtfully. “How about if I give him a call and ask him? And while I’m at it, I also ask for eight hundred dollars instead of six? Just to show I can do my new job.”
Ash gave a mocking laugh. “Nobody calls Garth Brickenfield! You call his office and talk to his people!”
“Really?” Allen looked at the young man standing next to the door. “Ken?”
“Yes sir?”
“Get the home phone number of Garth Brickenfield. Then get him on the phone for me, please,” Allen told the young man, who started talking to someone on his Bluetooth.
“That’s ridiculous!” Ash said. “You’re not going to find a number for him. It’s unlisted and his people make sure that no one gets through without—”
“They’re bringing it up now, sir,” Ken announced. “Garth Orwell Brickenfield, on North Summer Moon Place. Call’s going through.”
“He owns several houses,” Roger Chester said; his face had gotten flushed again. “I doubt if—”
“Hello ma’am, I’m Agent Kenneth McGuire with the Federal Bureau of Investigation here in Tucson. I’m trying to reach Mr. Garth Orwell Brickenfield. Is he in?” There was just a short pause. “Would you tell him that Special Agent Truitt Allen would like to speak with him, please? It’s very important.” Ken gave a nod to his boss. “Yes ma’am, I’ll hold.” He said to Allen, “She’s calling him out at the hangar; he’s been working on his planes today. She says it should just be a few minutes.”
The door opened.
A young auburn-haired woman wearing blue scrubs looked in. “Excuse me,” she said. “Mr. Emerson is awake. He’s asking to speak to his friends.”
They knew who they were.
On the way to the ICU, they were briefed that they were not to touch anything in George’s room and that they could stay only a few minutes. They came to a middle-aged man and woman standing in the hallway just outside the unit’s cream-colored doors. Nomad stopped to speak to them in his most decent and
caring tone of voice. They thanked him for what he said about their son. Nomad would’ve recognized George’s father anywhere: not by his short stature, but by the shiny pennies in his loafers.
Nomad, Ariel, Terry and Berke followed the young woman through the doors. It was cooler and quieter in this area of the hospital. There was the low hiss of respirators in action and the electronic beep of crucial machines, but otherwise everything was hushed. Doctors and nurses in scrubs moved about, either talking calmly to each other or checking their clipboards. Along the corridor between rooms separated by closed curtains there was a blue-cast underwater light.
“This way,” said their escort. She took them to one of the rooms on the left and drew aside the curtain.
They moved into the room, Nomad first and Ariel right behind him. Terry was last in, and his thought when he saw George lying in the bed at the center of all the monitor screens and gray wires and IV drips and black rubber cables was that George was now more machine than man.
Nomad had the feeling that he was not looking at George, but at a wax replica of the Little Genius. Surely this moon-colored face wasn’t the real thing. George was wearing an oxygen mask, he was packed into the bed with the sheet up to his neck and there was something over his chest, bandages or medical dressings or whatever, that made it bulge like a muscle man’s. Tubes snaked out of the bed to and from various receptacles. Clear fluid was dripping in and yellow fluid was dripping out. A vertical bank of monitors about six feet tall stood next to the bed. Things chirped and beeped and suddenly George’s legs rustled the sheet—a heavy, painful sound—and he looked at them with his bleary, swollen red eyes and said in a voice like the scrape of a dead leaf blown by the wind along a sidewalk, “Hi, team.”
Ariel turned away from the bed. Berke put a hand on her shoulder and left it there like a steel clamp until Ariel could get control of herself again.