Black Sun Rising

Chapter Three

The money that Sam collected from the other journalists for winning the bet paid for several pouches of Whiskas cat food for Bruichladdich, a final round at Dagda, a trashy airport novel, and a small packet of mini pretzels on the plane to America. It had been no surprise that the severance package offered by the Post was not particularly generous, and it was equally unsurprising to learn that there were no newspapers within commuting distance of Edinburgh currently looking to expand their staff.

With unemployment looming just a fortnight away, Sam had found himself facing a choice between living off his savings, while he pursued a probably fruitless quest for a new job, and taking Jefferson Daniels up on his offer. The money was excellent and the work looked likely to be easy, so Sam bit the bullet, sent the cat on his holidays to Uncle Paddy's house again, and booked a flight.

As annoyed as he was by the situation, Sam had to admit that it was not all bad. Jefferson had been keen to get going and wanted to immediately bring Sam to where he lived in Montana. When Sam had demurred, citing the additional expense of plane tickets bought on short notice, Jefferson had added a clause to the contract stating that he would pay all of Sam's travel and living expenses for the six weeks they were to spend working on the book. "It'll be worth it," he had said, flashing his toothpaste-commercial grin while they Skyped. "If you're here for the Mind Meld, you'll get a real flavor of what I've been doing. I think it'll really add something to the book."

So Sam had agreed. The plan was that he would fly to Great Falls and spend some time with Jefferson and his family, observing them in their natural habitat, then accompany them to Arizona to watch Jefferson's initiation as some kind of official within his little group of New Agers — or FireStormers, as this lot preferred to be called. Sam shook his head as he recalled the conversation. It had been difficult enough keeping a straight face on Skype, and he was concerned that during his five weeks in Arizona he might accidentally allow his cynicism to show through. It would certainly be a test of his professionalism.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our descent into Great Falls, Montana!" The voice of a flight attendant crackled over the speaker, perkily dictatorial. In accordance with her demands, Sam flipped his tray table back into place, kicked his rucksack under the seat in front, and then looked idly out of the window as the voice reeled off the local time and temperature. The landscape was a patchwork of brownish fields, broken up with frequent canyons that put Sam in mind of scarred, puckered skin. The Missouri River, immense and blue-green, snaked its way toward Great Falls.

Well, it might not be what I had in mind, Sam thought, but it sure as hell beats sitting around the flat all day trying to job hunt.

"Mr. Cleave?"

Stumbling out of the international arrivals gate, Sam glanced around in search of the owner of the voice calling his name. Standing at the opening, waving delicately, was a tall, willowy woman with carefully highlighted caramel blonde hair and perfectly subtle makeup. She was dressed in a pale blue cashmere sweater and gray slacks, with a pearl necklace and pearl ear studs. Sam knew at once who she was. A woman such as this could only be Jefferson's wife. She had clearly been born and raised to sport a name like Paige.

"I'm so pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Cleave." Paige Daniels extended a slender hand for Sam to shake. He could not help but feel clumsy and slovenly next to her, especially considering the state of his clothes after a full day's travel. "My husband has told me so much about you. Jefferson will be here any minute; he's just gone to bring the car around. How was the flight? You must be exhausted. Jefferson told me that you wouldn't let him upgrade you to business class, though I simply can't imagine why not! This way — he's picking us up right out here."

Sure enough, just as they stepped into the warm evening air, a dark blue Lexus SUV pulled up, Jefferson at the wheel. With blithe indifference for the No Stopping sign, he leaped down from the driver's seat, strode round, and pulled Sam into a hearty bear hug. Were we this friendly? Sam wondered.

"Sam, buddy!" Jefferson boomed. "Good to see you! You've met Paige — isn't she great? Wait until you see what she's got on the stove; she is just the best cook! Oh, honey, let me get that for you." He turned around to open the passenger door for Paige, then took Sam's luggage and swung it into the back seat. Sam climbed in after it and dutifully answered Jefferson's questions about what he had been up to since they had last seen each other, naturally withholding the more intense events. He thought he detected a hint of disapproval from Paige when he confirmed that the Post had, indeed, let him go. She suppressed it quickly, and Sam wondered whether he had read too much into her tone. Fortunately, Jefferson changed the subject at that moment, pointing out a few local sightseeing spots along the route to their house.

Mile after mile of pale beige farmland stretched out under a pinkish sky. Sam watched for the falls that gave Cascade County its name, but saw none. Instead they headed toward what Sam took to be nearby hills, gradually realizing that he was in fact catching his first glimpse of the distant Rocky Mountains. Jefferson chatted away about Freezeout Lake and the local nature reserve, and how a man could just walk for hours and forget about everything. Sam could imagine that it was true. The land certainly lived up to all the "Big Sky" hype. Sam had dismissed that at first, because the sky could hardly be different sizes in different places, but now that he saw the place, he felt the difference in perception.

After an hour, just as darkness fell, they sped past a sign reading "Welcome to Choteau: Gateway to the Rocky Mountain Front." Sam caught a brief glimpse of the town up ahead before the car swung off down a road with a sign marked "Deep Creek." Sam thought Jefferson had gone crazy and driven them off the road, before he realized they were on a dirt track. "It's a short cut!" Jefferson assured him, catching sign of Sam's perplexed expression in the rearview mirror. "This way we don't have to go through Choteau to get to the cottage."

Hearing the word "cottage" in their earlier discussions, Sam had prepared himself for living in close proximity with the Daniels family. He had braced himself for cheek-by-jowl living, despite never wanting to do that again after those nights spent in a tent in Antarctica. He had not considered that Jefferson's idea of a cottage might be different from his own.

When the car stopped it was not a cottage that Sam saw, but a sprawling farmhouse with a handful of outbuildings. There was a barn that had been converted into a triple garage, a paddock and stable, and along a short path stood a small house that was more in line with Sam's idea of a cottage.

"I hope you're ok with the guest suite," Jefferson said, pointing to the small house. "It's small, but it's kind of cozy. I'll drop your stuff in there. You go with Paige and she'll get you a drink."

Obediently Sam followed Paige into the house. It was immaculately presented, with fresh flowers in crystal vases on every surface. A tall trophy case stood in the hallway, surrounded by carefully curated family photographs, so that any casual visitor would be immediately impressed with the family's high achievement levels. Set slightly apart, just far enough to be conspicuous without being distasteful, was a perfect candid shot of Jefferson and Paige, apparently sharing a joke with George Bush Sr. in the White House Rose Garden.

"Nice glasses," Sam said, as Paige pressed an Old Fashioned in a monogrammed tumbler into his hand.

"Thanks," she smiled sweetly. "They came from my grandmother. Those are her initials, Mary Hammersmith Cassidy. She always believed in the importance of good crystal." At once, Sam felt under immense pressure not to drop the glass or accidentally grip it too tightly.

"Hey, Mom, where's mine?"

Jefferson's daughter appeared in the doorway, slouching against the doorframe. She was as tall and slim as her mother, though her dress sense was certainly different. She wore layer on layer of wispy black garments, and her messy blonde ponytail contained a couple of clipped-in strands of red and purple streaks. Sam tried to suppress a smile as he caught sight of Paige's pursed lips.

"Henley, dear, we have company. Why don't you go and put on something more appropriate?"

"What's wrong with this?" Henley demanded, striding across the room so that her trailing sleeves and scarves fluttered behind her. "You said no skin. I'm not showing skin. Now can I have a drink?"

"Henley, we've discussed this." Paige turned to Sam apologetically. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Cleave. My daughter thinks she's an adult already. Henley, you are seventeen years old."

"Dad lets me drink." She reached for the nearest bottle in the liquor cabinet, but her mother slapped her hands away.

"Dad lets you have one glass of wine with dinner." Jefferson walked into the room and ruffled his daughter's hair. "Stop tormenting your mother. Have you said hello to Mr. Cleave yet?"

"Please, call me Sam," Being addressed so formally was starting to make him feel uneasy.

Henley grudgingly accepted the glass of lemonade that her mother handed her before retreating to the kitchen. She reached for a breadstick from the plate that sat in front of the liquor bottles, placed it between her perfect teeth and looked Sam in the eye as she bit down. "You're the guy who's going to write my dad's next book?" She frankly looked him up and down. "Cool. Let me help you with that. These FireStorm freaks? They're crazy. Like, worse than Scientology. Mom and Dad like it because it's like going to the country club but with added spirituality, but it's totally insane. One big money spinner with a side order of social control."

"Hey, Henley!" Jefferson laughed and threw an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Whoa there, honey! Isn't she great? She's my little warrior for justice — aren't you, sweetie? But you'll see for yourself, Sam. It's a really interesting new way of thinking. But you don't want to hear about all that right now! You just relax tonight. Tomorrow we'll go out for dinner, just the two of us, and we can make a start then."

Henley rolled her eyes hard. "Daaaaaad, you're not taking him to that stupid mermaid place, are you?"

"Sssshh, honey, you'll ruin the surprise! Now come on, let's show Mr. Cleave through to the dining room. You know your mother won't appreciate it if we let the pot roast get cold."

The "stupid mermaid place" turned out to be a kitschy tiki bar by the name of Sip 'n' Dip, where the daiquiris were accompanied by the sound of live jazz piano and the walls were lined with large fish tanks with attractive young women in mermaid costumes swimming around.

"It's not really Paige's kind of place," Jefferson said, slipping the bartender a generous tip. "But I kind of love it. My dad brought me here on my twenty-first birthday; bought me my first legal drink! I thought I was in girl heaven." He watched appreciatively as a mermaid with long dark hair and a red tail performed a lazy flip in front of them. "Now, let's get down to business. Did you get a chance to look at the information I sent you about FireStorm?"

Sam nodded. He had spent much of the previous day's plane journey looking through printouts of the FireStorm website. It was not yet live, but Jefferson had sent him screenshots of the "About FireStorm" section. In truth, he had struggled to understand it. All he had seen was a page full of platitudes about the Age of Aquarius, heightened consciousness, and the bringing together of peoples and cultures. So far there had been nothing to set it apart from any of the multitude of fashionable beliefs espoused by wealthy individuals. However, Sam was surprised that it had appealed to someone so conservative in his views as Jefferson, and he had spent the small hours of the previous night plagued by jet lag and trying to figure out a tactful way of phrasing the question.

"It was really interesting material," Sam erred on the side of diplomacy. "There's going to be a lot to discuss as we go forward, just so we can make sure everything's absolutely clear. But the first thing I'd like to know is exactly how you got involved. Things seem to have happened really quickly. You weren't involved with this group before you went to Antarctica, were you?"

"That's correct, I was not." Jefferson sighed deeply, staring at his drink. "I haven't spoken much to my family about this, Sam, but you were there, you'll understand. Something broke inside of me in Antarctica. I mean, I'm used to harsh environments, and I've been in some situations where I didn't think I was going to get out alive, but… nothing like that. I've never felt so… powerless. Like I didn't know what was going on, and nothing was what it was supposed to be. I decided I was done with polar expeditions before we even got home from Ushuaia.

I thought I'd come home and maybe try something new, stay here and make a difference, maybe go into politics. I'm getting a little old for exploring." Sam caught him sneaking a glance at his reflection in the mermaid tanks. "So I started spending a lot more time at the country club, building up some old friendships with people who could help me, and that's how I met Sara Stromer, the mind behind FireStorm. She was in town doing the groundwork for the Montana base. We got to talking, and I was able to introduce her to a few people who helped her find a site, and then got her applications and licenses fast-tracked. And as she told me more about what she was doing, I just kind of got interested and thought this might be the new purpose I was looking for.

Then I introduced her to Paige and they got on really well, so we flew down to the main base at Parashant and spent a weekend doing an introductory Mind Meld. It really worked for us, so I got initiated and we've kept going back. Then eventually Sara asked if I wanted to get involved with running the Montana base. I said yes, and now they're going to give me an official role. It's really straightforward. You'll pick it up quickly. Boy, I can't wait for you to meet Sara! She's great. You'll like her!"

"Can't wait," Sam said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. His mind conjured up an image of a dowdy, schoolmarmish middle-aged lady, trying desperately to look bohemian and New Age in a hot pink caftan with orange scarves tied round her neck and wrists. Or perhaps some wispy youngster, barely older than Henley, luring older men with the power of a killer midriff. Either way, Sam was sure, he would be unlikely to be taken with Sara Stromer.