Black Sun Rising

Chapter Five

"Mom! Mom, I can't find my iPod!" Henley yelled from the top of the stairs. Paige, who was busy checking the labels on the family's luggage, did not even look up before yelling back that she had no idea where it was and perhaps Henley should take better care of her belongings. As mother and daughter launched into the beginning of a full-blown argument, Sam tried to make himself inconspicuous. The past few days had been somewhat tense in the Daniels household.

The peace and quiet of Jefferson's study, where Sam had been conducting the interviews for the book, had frequently been shattered by the sound of Henley's protestations. It was her opinion, frequently and vehemently stated, that FireStorm was a cult, spirituality was nonsense, and she had no interest in being torn away from all her friends and her snowboard training to spend two weeks suffering in the Arizona heat. Julia Rose could not arrive to collect Sam soon enough.

Jefferson appeared from the driveway, his chiseled features twisted in suppressed frustration. Catching sight of Sam, he plastered a smile on his face. "Hey, buddy," he said, grabbing the first of the bags. "Both our rides are here. I really wish you'd let me buy you a plane ticket, though. Your intern's car is, well… it's kind of old. Have you seen it?"

Grabbing his bag, Sam strolled out to meet Julia Rose. It was true, he had never actually seen the car in daylight. It was a 1999 Toyota Camry that had clearly seen better days. Much better days. The red paint was shot thought with little sections of rust and discolored patches where old scratches had been touched up with spray paint that did not quite match. Julia Rose had clearly tried hard to make the car look less lived in, but Sam suspected that even if it had been freshly detailed it would have given that impression. There was little she could have done to reverse the damage done by several not-so-careful owners who had the car before her.

"That's your ride?" Henley appeared behind Sam, a tiny designer backpack slung over one shoulder. She peered over the top of her sunglasses at the car. "Cool. Can I come along with you? If I have to spend five hours on a plane next to my mom, someone's going to die." She stooped down to give Julia Rose her most winning smile through the driver's side window. "Hey. I'm Henley Daniels. You must be Sam's intern. You seem cool, may I get a ride?"

"Sorry, Henley," Sam said, placing a hand on her shoulder and gently steering her back toward the cab that was waiting for the Daniels family, "nothing doing. I don't think your mom and dad would be happy with us kidnapping you. First class awaits. Off you go."

As Henley slouched toward the cab, Sam threw his bag in the back of the Camry. "Sorry about that," he said, pulling a large bag of Jolly Rancher candies from his jacket pocket as they pulled out of the driveway. "Were these the ones you said you liked? They'd better be good — I've got three more bags after this one."

"I still can't believe you managed to get me into this thing," Julia Rose said, as the car clanked and groaned its way past signs for Wolf Creek and onto the Interstate. "How the hell did you do it?"

Sam shrugged and shifted his lanky frame, looking for a comfortable position for the long drive. "I didn't really expect it to work, to be honest with you. I'd have thought it was the kind of thing we had to arrange ages ago. I just said to Jefferson that there was a young American journalist that I'd been mentoring through email, and it occurred to me that it would be really beneficial if you could tag along with me for the experience and give me a hand. I told him that at such a big event, it would be handy to have a second pair of eyes to make sure I got a really clear sense of what was going on. Jefferson said he'd give Sara a call, and the next thing I heard was that you were in."

"Wow. I guess they must want his money really bad."

Sam thought back to that dinner with Sara and Cody. Yes, he thought, that must take a lot of cash to maintain. He tried to imagine the cost of Cody's exquisitely cut suit, and Sara's immaculately styled hair with her subtle, expensive perfume. He imagined that the aura of prosperity must be a key factor in promoting FireStorm — this was not a religion that welcomed the poor and underprivileged. It was a belief system that preached the rewards and righteousness of material wealth. For all their focus on "connection," Sam was yet to see the few FireStormers he knew connecting with anyone who did not at least appear prosperous.

The image of Sara Stromer danced before Sam's mind's eye. He could understand why she was so successful at what she did. Even just thinking about her made him think that he ought to be listening to her, following her instructions and letting her enlighten him. There was something about her that invited confidence, even obedience. An air of authority… she reminded him a little of Nina. Or, at least what Nina might have been if she'd had a little more gloss, a much better controlled temper, and a more manipulative, and perhaps more cynical temperament.

He wondered what Nina would make of these people. A small, mischievous part of Sam wished that the two women would meet, and that he would be there to watch. Many of his fondest memories of Nina were of her attempting to stifle her annoyance with the people around her.

"Coming up for Helena," Julia Rose announced. Sam snapped back to reality. If they were already close to Helena, his little reverie must have taken up the better part of an hour. "We'll make a quick coffee stop there," Julia Rose continued, "and maybe grab some breakfast. Then we'll just keep going until we hit Pocatello."

"How long's that?"

"Five hours? Maybe a little more. If we hit any holdups we might stop a little earlier, maybe around Idaho Falls or somewhere. We should get to Las Vegas before midnight."

Sam gave a long, low whistle. "Where I come from, if you drove for that long you'd end up in France. Does the radio work?"

"It's not great. Mostly it'll just pick up one station and the options are listen to it or turn it off. Shouldn't be too bad around here. There'll be some music or talk radio or something. Just wait until we get to Utah — bet your bottom dollar it'll only pick up some crazy Mormon religious show."

"Can't wait," said Sam. "At least the times when the radio isn't picking up anything good will give us a while to get our stories straight, if we're supposed to have been corresponding for months."

"You mean we're not just going with 'this is some crazy chick I found trespassing outside Jefferson Daniels' house'? Kinda disappointing." Julia Rose took a couple of sweets, deftly unwrapping them with one hand. "We're gonna have to come up with something just as interesting. I think we should tell people that we met on FetLife or something." Sam's head spun in disbelief, until he caught sight of her wide, wicked smile. She glanced over and burst out laughing at the look on his face. "You've got to loosen up, Sam! Ok, we'll figure it out. What did you have in mind?"

By the time they reached Salt Lake City, the radio had indeed started picking up only a minor religious station broadcasting nothing but the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. For a while they listened, but soon enough Julia Rose became bored and complained that it was not good driving music. They drove in silence, not a sound except the quiet munching as they continued to work their way through the large stockpile of snacks that Sam had picked up when they stopped in Pocatello. After a couple of weeks of hearty, healthy meals at Jefferson's, Sam intended to make the most of this opportunity for a junk fix before setting foot in the FireStorm compound.

During the previous eight hours, as they had rushed past nearly 600 miles of forest and farmland, they had agreed on a version of events that would, they hoped, convince anyone who asked that they had known each other online for months. Julia Rose would claim that she had approached numerous prize-winning journalists, sending out emails asking for any hints or tips they might have for a new graduate trying to make her way in the world of journalism. For the most part she had received no response or a form reply containing the standard recommendations that she work hard, hone her skills, network, and try to break an interesting news story.

Only Sam Cleave had come back with a proper, personal response — because, Sam claimed, her email had caught him in a moment of half-drunk nostalgia. He had told her what he could, but he made it clear that times had changed considerably since he had started out. He had read her blog posts, offered her writing tips, and given her permission to keep in contact and send him any major pieces to critique. When he had realized that he would be traveling to Montana, he had let her know and she had made plans to drive from Minnesota to Montana to meet her idol turned mentor.

The bit that Sam was most proud of was an idea of Julia Rose's, that he should claim it was meeting Sara and Cody and learning more about FireStorm that had prompted him to offer her this impromptu internship. "Tell them that they inspired you to give back to the journalistic community that made you what you are," she suggested with a smirk. "Say that they opened your eyes to the importance of connections. They'll eat it up."

Sam was increasingly glad that he had followed his instincts and taken a chance on Julia Rose. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she was a smart, savvy young woman. Peachy keen and a little egocentric, as all aspiring journalists tended to be, but with the spark of intelligence that made Sam think she'd press on even after reality started to bite. He had admired her tenacity from the moment he had learned that she was living in her car in pursuit of a story, but that was only the start of it.

She had a slight chip on her shoulder about what she perceived as her "late start" in the field — at twenty-five, she had just graduated. She evidently saw this as a serious disadvantage, but Sam thought otherwise. She had worked like hell to secure a place at the Missouri School of Journalism at the University of Missouri in Columbia, one of the best journalism programs in the country. But even with financial aid and her customary frugality, the cost of college had been high. In order to manage the size of her mountain of debt, she had held down two jobs and reduced her studies to part-time, sending money to her mother in Minneapolis to help support her younger brother.

Talking about her family had caused Julia Rose to make an unexpected stop somewhere in the vicinity of American Falls, Idaho. What had started out as a casual mention of her mother, while explaining her unusual education, had quickly become the story of what had happened to Julia Rose's father, which had left her shaking so hard with rage that Sam had suggested they pull over.

"I'm sorry," Julia Rose had said, trying to lay her hands in a flat, calm, steady gesture on the wheel. "This is why I don't usually talk about Dad. I get too angry. I'll give you the short version — he was a construction worker who got killed in an accident at work when I was thirteen. He was hit by a collapsing wall. The insurance company found a way to say it was his fault, so they only paid us a tiny compensation. Mom was pregnant at the time and ended up with all sorts of health problems, probably due to the stress. She lost her job, and we didn't have health insurance, so the money got eaten up by medical bills. It was really shitty all around, but it's kind of what got me into journalism. I had this big idea that I was going to be a ball-busting, take-no-prisoners, investigative journalist, and that I'd bring the company that killed my dad and the insurers who stiffed my family to justice."

"Is that still the plan?" Sam had asked.

She shook her head vehemently. "I grew out of that shit — got older and stopped reading comic books. But I'd put a lot of time into finding out how journalism worked and it looked like something I could do to make some money and have a decent life, so I stuck with it. Yeah, I know. There's no money in journalism any more. It's still better than flipping burgers or being someone's maid. And maybe I can do some good with it, even if that doesn't mean some stupid Batman shit about avenging my dad. So now you know why all this means so much to me. But if I sit here and indulge this crap all day we're never going to get to Vegas. So that's it. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

That had been her last word on the subject. Sam was intrigued — he wanted to know more about how she had managed to keep her head above water and what he could do to help her to catch a break. To hell with getting to Vegas on time. He was quite prepared to spring for a night's accommodation if she needed to stop. Yet every time he tried to gently raise the subject again, she would deftly change it. Before he knew it, they were approaching Cedar City and their cover story was in place.

"Last stop before Vegas," Julia Rose said, preparing to pull in at a gas station. "It shouldn't take us more than an hour-and-a-half from here; it'll be real quiet by now. So that means we'll get there at, what, eleven-thirty? Not bad going. Kind of sucks that we're this close to Parashant and we're just going to have to drive past it."

"True," said Sam, "but who's going to turn down a free trip to Vegas? You might make your fortune. I'm going to get a drink. Should I get you a coffee?"

"May I get a Red Bull instead? And maybe some aspirin, if that's ok. Do you want some cash for that?"

"No bother. It's all going on the Daniels account."

"Oh, ok. In that case, let's make it Advil!"

They rolled into Vegas slightly ahead of schedule. Julia Rose's feet seemed to be getting heavier on the gas pedal as they got closer to their destination. Sam consulted his scribbled notes for the address of their hotel, the Verbena. It took only a moderate amount of circling and swearing at each other to find it, at which point life suddenly became considerably easier. Despite Julia Rose's protestations that no hotel in Vegas would valet park her car, she handed the keys to Sam and let him toss them to the attendant. If the attendant judged them for arriving in a rust bucket, he did not let it show on his face but accepted Sam's tip, slipped behind the wheel, and told them to contact the reception desk when they wanted the car again.

At the reception counter they completed name tags identifying them as part of the FireStorm group and were handed keys to rooms 1850 and 1851. "Dinner service just got finished," the receptionist informed them, her smile unwavering, "but we have an extensive room service menu, so if you see anything you like, we'll send it right up. Your rooms are on the eighteenth floor. Are you sure you don't want someone to show you the way? Ok! Well, turn right as you get out of the elevator."

The elevators, like the rest of the Verbena, were a confection of white plastic and highly polished chrome. There were even a couple of glass lifts, like little bubbles that faced both the interior and exterior of the building, offering guests the opportunity to ride in full view of the lobby and the Las Vegas skyline. Sam could see why Sara had chosen this place as a meeting point for the Silicon Valley delegates. It felt like the whole place had been built out of iPhones. Selecting a floor could be achieved with a mundane push of a button, but there was also the option of speaking your destination to a voice recognition system, which cheerfully repeated Sam's words back to him.

"I see that you have just checked in!" the elevator voice said. "Please don't forget to check out our in-house casino, our award-winning restaurant, our world-famous champagne bar, our state-of-the-art gymnasium and spa facility, or any of the other extraordinary features we offer here at the Verbena! If you require anything during your stay or wish to personalize your Verbena experience, just speak into the microphone beside your bed and a member of our team will be right with you!"

Sam bit his tongue. He promised himself he would get through this first night, at least, without swearing at the technology. He thought fondly of some of the run-down bed and breakfast places he had stayed at through the years, places run by surly old couples who viewed their guests with anything from suspicion to open hostility. It seemed friendlier, somehow, than this mechanized place that offered a "personalized experience" while being utterly clinical.

He stepped out into the hallway of the eighteenth floor, Julia Rose behind him, and turned right as they had been instructed. Just as they set off down the corridor, another elevator pinged behind them. Instinctively, Sam turned around and saw the doors open to let out a well-dressed couple. The man was tall and heron-like, wearing small glasses and expert tailored clothing. Sam recognized him at once as Dave Purdue, the same thrill-seeking billionaire who had dragged him and Jefferson all the way to Antarctica in search of lost Nazi treasures. The obsessed magnate who had plummeted him into the dangers of sneaking into Tibet and desecrating temples to acquire the location of a religious item that drove men mad in its pursuit.

And the woman beside him was none other than Nina.