The Hammer of Eden

8

Judy Maddox was driving home on Friday at the end of the worst week in her FBI career.

She could not figure out what she had done to deserve this. Okay, she had yelled at her boss, but he had been hostile to her before she blew her cool, so there had to be another reason. She had gone to Sacramento yesterday with every intention of making the Bureau look efficient and competent, and somehow she had ended up giving an impression of muddle and impotence. She felt frustrated and depressed.

Nothing good had happened since her meeting with Al Honeymoon. She had been calling seismology professors and interviewing them by phone. She would ask whether the professor was working on locations of critically stressed points on fault lines. If so, who had access to their data? And did any of those people have connections with terrorist groups?

The seismologists had not been helpful. Most of today’s academics had been students in the sixties and seventies, when the FBI had paid every creep on campus to spy on the protest movement. It was a long time ago, but they had not forgotten. To them the Bureau was the enemy. Judy understood how they felt, but she wished they would not be passive-aggressive with agents who were working in the public interest.

The Hammer of Eden’s deadline ran out today, and there had been no earthquake. Judy was deeply relieved, even though it suggested she had been wrong to take the threat seriously. Maybe this would be the end of the whole thing. She told herself she should have a relaxing weekend. The weather was great, sunny and warm. Tonight she would make stir-fried chicken for Bo and open a bottle of wine. Tomorrow she would have to go to the supermarket, but on Sunday she could drive up the coast to Bodega Bay and sit on the beach reading a book like a normal person. On Monday she would probably be given a new assignment. Maybe she could make a fresh start.

She wondered whether to call her girlfriend Virginia and see if she wanted to go to the beach. Ginny was her oldest friend. Also the daughter of a cop, and the same age as Judy, she was sales director of a security firm. But, Judy realized, it was not feminine company she wanted. It would be nice to lie on the beach beside something with hairy legs and a deep voice. It was a year since she had split up with Don: this was the longest time she had been without a lover since her teens. At college she had been a little wild, almost promiscuous; working at Mutual American Insurance, she had had an affair with her boss; then she had lived with Steve Dolen for seven years and almost married him. She often thought about Steve. He was attractive and smart and kind — too kind, maybe, for in the end she came to think of him as weak. Maybe she asked the impossible. Perhaps all considerate, attentive men were weak, and all the strong ones, like Don Riley, ended up shtupping their secretaries.

Her car phone rang. She did not need to pick up the handset: after two rings it connected automatically in hands-free mode. “Hello,” she said. “This is Judy Maddox.”

“This is your father.”

“Hi, Bo. Will you be home for supper? We could have—”

He interrupted her. “Turn on your car radio, quick,” he said. “Tune to John Truth.”

Christ, what now? She touched the power switch. A rock music station came on. She jabbed at a preset button and got the San Francisco station that broadcast John Truth Live. His nasal twang filled the car.

He was speaking in the ponderously dramatic manner he used to suggest that what he had to say was world-shakingly important. “The California State seismologist has now confirmed that there was an earthquake today — the very day the Hammer of Eden promised it. It took place at twenty minutes after two P.M. in Owens Valley, just as the Hammer of Eden said when they called this show a few minutes ago.”

My God — they did it.

Judy was electrified. She forgot her frustration, and her depression vanished. She felt alive again.

John Truth was saying: “But the same state seismologist denied that this or any other earthquake could have been caused by a terrorist group.”

Was that true? Judy had to know. What did other seismologists think? She needed to make some calls. Then she heard John Truth say: “In a moment we will play you a recording of the message left by the Hammer of Eden.”

They’re on tape!

That could be a crucial mistake by the terrorists. They would not know it, but a voice on tape would provide a mass of information when analyzed by Simon Sparrow.

Truth went on: “Meanwhile, what do you think? Do you believe the state seismologist? Or do you think he’s whistling past the graveyard? Maybe you are a seismologist and you have an opinion on the technical possibilities here. Or maybe you’re just a concerned citizen and you think the authorities ought to be as worried as you are. Call John Truth Live on this number now to tell the world what you think.”

A commercial for a furniture warehouse came on, and Judy muted the volume. “Are you still there, Bo?”

“Sure.”

“They did it, didn’t they?”

“Sure looks like it.”

She wondered whether he was genuinely uncertain or just being cautious. “What does your instinct say?”

He gave her another ambiguous answer. “That these people are very dangerous.”

Judy tried to calm her racing heart and turn her mind to what she should do next. “I’d better call Brian Kincaid—”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“The news … Wait a minute.” Bo was making a point. “You don’t think I should call him.”

“I think you should call your boss when you can give him something he can’t get from the radio.”

“You’re right.” Judy began to feel calmer as she ran over the possibilities. “I guess I’m going back to work.” She made a right turn.

“Okay. I’ll be home in an hour or so. Call me if you want supper.”

She felt a sudden rush of affection for him. “Thanks, Bo. You’re a great daddy.”

He laughed. “You’re a great kid, too. Later.”

“Later.” She touched the button that terminated the call, then she turned up the volume on the radio.

She heard a low, sexy voice saying: “This is the Hammer of Eden with a message for Governor Mike Robson.”

The picture that came into her mind was of a mature woman with large breasts and a wide smile, likable but kind of off-the-wall.

That’s my enemy?

The tone changed, and the woman muttered: “Shit, I didn’t expect to be talking to a tape recorder.”

She’s not the organizational brain behind all this. She’s too ditzy. She’s taking instructions from someone else.

The woman resumed her formal voice and continued: “Like we promised, we caused an earthquake today, four weeks after our last message. It happened in Owens Valley a little after two o’clock, you can check it out.”

A faint background noise caused her to hesitate.

What was that?

Simon will find out.

A second later she carried on. “We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government. Now that you know we can do what we say, you’d better think again about our demand. Announce a freeze on construction of new power plants in California. You have seven days to make up your mind.”

Seven days! Last time they gave us four weeks.

“After that we will trigger another earthquake. But the next one won’t be out in the middle of nowhere. If you force us, we’ll do real damage.”

A carefully calculated escalation of the threat. Jesus, these people scare me.

“We don’t like it, but it’s the only way. Please do as we say so that this nightmare can end.”

John Truth came on. “There it is, the voice of the Hammer of Eden, the group that claims to have triggered the earthquake that shook Owens Valley today.”

Judy had to have that tape. She turned down the volume again and dialed Raja’s home number. He was single, he could give up his Friday evening.

When he answered she said: “Hi, this is Judy.”

He said immediately: “I can’t, I have tickets for the opera!”

She hesitated, then decided to play along. “What’s on?”

“Uh … Macbeth’s Wedding.”

She suppressed a laugh. “By Ludwig Sebastian Wagner?”

“Right.”

“No such opera, no such composer. You’re working tonight.”

“Shit.”

“Why didn’t you invent a rock group? I would have believed you.”

“I keep forgetting how old you are.”

She laughed. Raja was twenty-six, Judy was thirty-six. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“What’s the assignment?” He did not sound too reluctant.

Judy became serious again. “Okay, here it is. There was an earthquake in the eastern part of the state this afternoon, and the Hammer of Eden claim they triggered it.”

“Wow! Maybe these people are for real after all!” He sounded pleased rather than scared. He was young and keen, and he had not thought through the implications.

“John Truth just played a recorded message from the perpetrators. I need you to go to the radio station and get the tape.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Make sure you get the original, not a copy. If they give you a hard time, tell them we can get a court order in an hour.”

“Nobody gives me a hard time. This is Raja, remember?”

It was true. He was a charmer. “Take the tape to Simon Sparrow and tell him I need something in the morning.”

“You got it.”

She broke the connection and turned John Truth up again. He was saying: “… a minor earthquake, by the way, magnitude five to six.”

How the hell did they do it?

“No one injured, no damage to buildings or other property, but a tremor that was quite definitely felt by the residents of Bishop, Bigpine, Independence, and Lone Pine.”

Some of those people must have seen the perpetrators within the last few hours, Judy realized. She had to get over there and start interviewing them as soon as possible.

Where exactly was the earthquake? She needed to talk to an expert.

The obvious choice was the state seismologist. However, he seemed to have a closed mind. He had already ruled out the possibility of a human-made earthquake. That bothered her. She wanted someone who was willing to entertain all possibilities. She thought of Michael Quercus. He could be a pain in the ass, but he was not afraid to speculate. Plus he was just across the bay in Berkeley, whereas the state seismologist was in Sacramento.

If she showed up without an appointment, he would refuse to see her. She sighed and dialed his number.

For a while there was no answer, and she thought he must be out. He picked up after six rings. “Quercus.” He sounded annoyed at the interruption.

“This is Judy Maddox from the FBI. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent, and I’d like to come to your place right away.”

“It’s out of the question. I’m with someone.”

I might have known you’d be difficult. “Maybe after your meeting is over?”

“It’s not a meeting, and it won’t be over till Sunday.”

Yeah, right.

He had a woman there, Judy guessed. But he had told her at the first meeting that he was not seeing anyone. For some reason she remembered his exact words: “I’m separated from my wife, and I don’t have a girlfriend.” Perhaps he had lied. Or perhaps this was someone new. It did not sound like a new relationship, if he was expecting her to stay the weekend. On the other hand, he was arrogant enough to assume that a girl would go to bed with him on the first date, and attractive enough that lots of girls probably would.

I don’t know why I’m so interested in his love life.

“Have you been listening to the radio?” she asked him. “There’s been an earthquake, and the terrorist group we talked about claims to have triggered it.”

“Is that so?” He sounded intrigued despite himself. “Are they telling the truth?”

“That’s what I need to discuss with you.”

“I see.”

Come on, you stubborn son of a gun — give in, for once in your life.

“This is really important, Professor.”

“I’d like to help you … but it’s really not possible tonight.… No, wait.” His voice became muffled as he covered the mouthpiece with his hand, but she could still distinguish his words. “Hey, have you ever met a real-live FBI agent?” She could not hear the reply, but after a moment he said to her: “Okay, my guest would like to meet you. Come on over.”

She did not like the idea of being paraded like some kind of circus freak, but at this point she was not going to say so. “Thanks, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” She broke the connection.

As she drove over the bridge, she reflected that neither Raja nor Michael had seemed scared. Raja was excited, Michael intrigued. She, too, was electrified by the sudden reanimation of the case; but when she remembered the earthquake of 1989, and the television pictures of rescue workers bringing corpses out of the collapsed double-deck Nimitz Freeway right here in Oakland, and she contemplated the possibility of a terrorist group having the power to do that, her heart felt cold and heavy with foreboding.

To clear her mind she tried to guess what Michael Quercus’s girlfriend would be like. She had seen a picture of his wife, a striking redhead with a supermodel figure and a sulky pout. He seems to like the exotic. But they had broken up, so perhaps she was not really his type. Judy could see him with a woman professor, in fashionable thin-framed spectacles, with well-cut short hair but no makeup. On the other hand, that type of woman would not cross the street to meet an FBI agent. Most likely he had picked up a sexy airhead who was easily impressed. Judy visualized a girl in tight clothes, smoking and chewing gum at the same time, looking around his apartment and saying: “Have you read all these books?”

I don’t know why I’m obsessing about his girlfriend when I’ve got so much else to worry about.

She found Euclid Street and parked under the same magnolia tree as last time. She rang his bell, and he buzzed her into the building. He came to the apartment door barefoot, looking pleasantly weekendish in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. A girl could have fun spending the weekend fooling around with him. She followed him into his office-cum-living room.

There, to her astonishment, she saw a little boy of about five, with freckles and fair hair, dressed in pajamas with dinosaurs all over them. After a moment she recognized him as the child in the photograph on the desk. Michael’s son. This was his weekend guest. She felt embarrassed about the dumb blonde she had imagined. I was a little unfair to you, Professor.

Michael said: “Dusty, meet Special Agent Judy Maddox.”

The boy shook hands politely and said: “Are you really in the FBI?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Wow.”

“Want to see my badge?” She took her shield from her shoulder bag and gave it to him. He held it reverently.

Michael said: “Dusty likes to watch The X-Files.”

Judy smiled. “I don’t work in the Alien Spacecraft Department, I just catch regular earth criminals.”

Dusty said: “Can I see your gun?”

Judy hesitated. She knew that boys were fascinated by weapons, but she did not like to encourage such an interest. She glanced at Michael, who shrugged. She unbuttoned her jacket and took the weapon out of its shoulder holster.

As she did so, she caught Michael looking at her breasts, and she felt a sudden sexual frisson. Now that he was not being curmudgeonly, he was kind of appealing, with his bare feet and his T-shirt untucked.

She said: “Guns are pretty dangerous, Dusty, so I’m going to hold it, but you can look.”

Dusty’s face as he stared at the pistol wore the same expression as Michael’s when she opened her jacket. The thought made her grin.

After a minute she holstered the gun.

Dusty said with elaborate politeness: “We were just going to have some Cap’n Crunch. Would you care to join us?”

Judy was impatient to question Michael, but she sensed he would be more forthcoming if she was patient and played along. “How nice of you,” she said. “I’m real hungry, I’d love some Cap’n Crunch.”

“Come into the kitchen.”

The three of them sat at a plastic-topped table in the little kitchen and ate breakfast cereal and milk out of bright blue pottery bowls. Judy realized she was hungry: it was past suppertime. “My goodness,” she said. “I’d forgotten how good Cap’n Crunch is.”

Michael laughed. Judy was amazed at the difference in him. He was relaxed and amiable. He seemed a different person from the grouch who had forced her to drive back to the office and phone him for an appointment. She was beginning to like him.

When supper was eaten, Michael got Dusty ready for bed. Dusty said to his father: “Can Agent Judy tell me a story?”

Judy suppressed her impatience. I’ve got seven days, I can wait another five minutes. She said: “I think your daddy wants to tell you a story, because he doesn’t get to do it as often as he’d like.”

“It’s okay,” Michael said with a smile. “I’ll listen in.”

They went into the bedroom. “I don’t know many stories, but I remember one my mommy used to tell me,” Judy said. “It’s the legend of the kindly dragon. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, please,” said Dusty.

“Me too,” said Michael.

“Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a kindly dragon who lived in China, where all dragons come from. One day the kindly dragon went wandering. He wandered so far that he left China and got lost in the wilderness.

“After many days he came to another land, far to the south. It was the most beautiful country he had ever seen, with forests and mountains and fertile valleys, and rivers for him to splash about in. There were banana palms and mulberry trees laden with ripe fruit. The weather was always warm with a pleasant breeze.

“But there was one thing wrong. It was an empty land. No one lived there: no people, and no dragons. So although the kindly dragon loved the new land, he was terribly lonely.

“However, he didn’t know the way home, so he roamed all around, looking for someone to keep him company. At last, one lucky day, he found the one person who lived there — a fairy princess. She was so beautiful that he fell in love with her at once. Now, the princess was lonely, too, and although the dragon looked fearsome, he had a kind heart, and so she married him.

“The kindly dragon and the fairy princess loved each other, and they had a hundred children. All the children were brave and kindly like their dragon father, and beautiful like their fairy mother.

“The kindly dragon and the fairy princess looked after their children until they were all grown up. Then, suddenly, both parents vanished. They went away to live in love and harmony in the spirit world for all eternity. And their children became the brave, kindly, beautiful people of Vietnam. And that’s where my mommy came from.”

Dusty was wide-eyed. “Is it true?”

Judy smiled. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“It’s a beautiful story anyway,” Michael said. He kissed Dusty good night.

As Judy left the room, she heard Dusty whisper: “She’s really nice, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Michael replied.

Back in the living room, Michael said: “Thank you for that. You were great with him.”

“It wasn’t difficult. He’s a charmer.”

Michael nodded. “Gets it from his mother.”

Judy smiled.

Michael grinned and said: “I notice you don’t argue with that.”

“I’ve never met your wife. In the picture she looks very beautiful.”

“She is. And … faithless.”

That was an unexpected confidence, coming so suddenly from a man she took to be proud. She warmed to him. But she did not know what to say in reply.

They were both silent for a moment. Then Michael said: “You’ve had enough of the Quercus family. Tell me about the earthquake.”

At last. “It took place in Owens Valley this afternoon at twenty minutes past two.”

“Let’s get the seismograph.” Michael sat at his desk and tapped the keys of his computer. She found herself looking at his bare feet. Some men had ugly feet, but his were well shaped and strong looking, with neatly clipped toenails. The skin was white, and there was a small tuft of dark hair on each big toe.

He did not notice her scrutiny. “When your terrorists made their threat four weeks ago, did they specify the location?”

“No.”

“Hmm. In the scientific community, we say that a successful earthquake forecast would have to specify date, location, and magnitude. Your people only gave the date. That’s not very convincing. There’s an earthquake somewhere in California more or less every day. Maybe they just claimed responsibility for something that happened naturally.”

“Can you tell me exactly where today’s tremor took place?”

“Yes. I can calculate the epicenter by triangulation. Actually, the computer does it automatically. I’ll just print out the coordinates.” After a moment his printer whirred.

Judy said: “Is there any way of knowing how the earthquake was triggered?”

“You mean, can I tell from the graph whether it was caused by human agency? Yes, I should be able to.”

“How?”

He clicked his mouse and turned from the screen to face her. “A normal earthquake is preceded by a gradual buildup of foreshocks, or lesser tremors, which we can see on the seismograph. By contrast, when the earthquake is triggered by an explosion, there is no buildup — the graph begins with a characteristic spike.” He turned back to his computer.

He was probably a good teacher, Judy thought. He explained things clearly. But he would be mercilessly intolerant of student foibles. He would give surprise tests and refuse to admit latecomers to his lectures.

“That’s odd,” he said.

Judy looked over his shoulder at the screen. “What’s odd?”

“The seismograph.”

“I don’t see a spike.”

“No. There was no explosion.”

Judy did not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. “So the earthquake happened naturally?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure. There are foreshocks, yes. But I’ve never seen foreshocks like this.”

Judy was frustrated. He had promised to tell her whether the Hammer of Eden’s claim was plausible. Now he was maddeningly uncertain. “What’s peculiar about the foreshocks?” she asked.

“They’re too regular. They look artificial.”

“Artificial?”

He nodded. “I don’t know what caused these vibrations, but they don’t look natural. I believe your terrorists did something. I just don’t know what it is.”

“Can you find out?”

“I hope so. I’ll call a few people. Plenty of seismologists will be studying these readings already. Between us we ought to be able to figure out what they mean.”

He didn’t sound too sure, but Judy guessed she would have to be content with that for now. She had got all she could out of Michael tonight. Now she needed to get to the scene of the crime. She picked up the sheet that had emerged from the printer. It showed a series of map references.

“Thanks for seeing me,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

“I enjoyed it.” He smiled at her, a big hundred-watt smile showing two rows of white teeth.

“Have a good weekend with Dusty.”

“Thanks.”

She got in her car and headed back to the city. She would go to the office and look up airline schedules on the Internet, see if there was a flight to somewhere near Owens Valley early tomorrow morning. She would also need to check which FBI field office had jurisdiction over Owens Valley and talk to them about what she was doing. Then she would call the local sheriff and get him on her side.

She reached 450 Golden Gate Avenue, parked in the underground garage, and took the elevator up. As she walked past Brian Kincaid’s office, she heard voices. He must be working late.

This was as good a time as any to bring him up to speed. She entered the anteroom and tapped on the open door to the inner office.

“Come in,” he called.

She stepped inside. Her heart sank when she saw that Kincaid was with Marvin Hayes. She and Marvin disliked each other intensely. He was sitting in front of the desk, wearing a tan summer suit with a white button-down shirt and a black-and-gold power tie. He was a good-looking man, with bristly dark hair cut short and a neat mustache. He looked the picture of competence, but in fact he was everything a law enforcement officer should not be: lazy, brutal, slapdash, and unscrupulous. For his part, he thought Judy was prissy.

Unfortunately, Brian Kincaid liked him, and Brian was now the boss.

The two men looked startled and guilty when Judy walked in, and she realized they must have been talking about her. To make them feel worse, she said: “Am I interrupting something?”

“We were talking about the earthquake,” Brian said. “Did you hear the news?”

“Of course. I’ve been working on it. I just interviewed a seismologist who says the foreshocks are like nothing he’s ever seen before, but he’s sure they’re artificial. He gave me the map coordinates for the exact location of the tremor. I want to go to Owens Valley in the morning to look for witnesses.”

A significant glance passed between the two men. Brian said: “Judy, no one can cause an earthquake.”

“We don’t know that.”

Marvin said: “I’ve talked to two seismologists myself, tonight, and they both told me it was impossible.”

“Scientists disagree—”

Brian said: “We think this group never went near Owens Valley. They found out about the earthquake and claimed credit for it.”

Judy frowned. “This is my assignment,” she said. “How come Marvin is calling seismologists?”

“This case is becoming very high-profile,” Brian said. Suddenly Judy knew what was coming, and her heart filled with impotent fury. “Even though we don’t believe the Hammer of Eden can do what they claim, they can get a hell of a lot of publicity. I’m not confident you can deal with that.”

Judy struggled to control her rage. “You can’t reassign me without a reason.”

“Oh, I have a reason,” he said. He picked up a fax from his desk. “Yesterday you got into an altercation with a California Highway Patrolman. He stopped you for speeding. According to this, you were uncooperative and abusive, and you refused to show him your license.”

“For Christ’s sake, I showed him my badge!”

Brian ignored that. Judy realized he was not really interested in the details. The incident with the CHP was just a pretext. “I’m setting up a special squad to deal with the Hammer of Eden,” he went on. He swallowed nervously, then lifted his chin in an aggressive gesture and said: “I’ve asked Marvin to take charge. He won’t be needing your help. You’re off the case.”

9

Priest could hardly believe he had done it.

I caused an earthquake. I really did. Me.

As he drove the truck north on U.S. 395, heading for home, with Melanie beside him and Star and Oaktree in the ’Cuda behind, he let his imagination run riot. He visualized a white-faced TV reporter giving the news that the Hammer of Eden had done what they promised; riots in the streets as people panicked at the threat of another earthquake; and a distraught Governor Robson, outside the Capitol Building, announcing a freeze on the building of new power plants in California.

Maybe that was too optimistic. People might not be ready to panic yet. The governor would not cave in immediately. But he would at least be forced to open negotiations with Priest.

What would the police do? The public would expect them to catch the perpetrators. The governor had called in the FBI. But they had no idea who the Hammer of Eden were, no clues. Their job was next to impossible.

One thing had gone wrong today, and Priest could not help worrying about it. When Star called John Truth, she had not spoken to an individual but had left a message on a machine. Priest would have stopped her, but by the time he realized what was happening it was too late.

An unknown voice on a tape was not much use to the cops, he figured. All the same he wished they did not have even such a slender lead.

He found it surprising that the world was carrying on as if nothing had happened. Cars and trucks passed up and down the freeway, people parked at Burger King, the Highway Patrol stopped a young man in a red Porsche, a maintenance crew trimmed roadside bushes. They should all have been in shock.

He began to wonder if the earthquake had really happened. Had he imagined the whole thing in a dope dream? He had seen it with his own eyes, the gash in the earth that had opened up in Owens Valley — yet the earthquake seemed more farfetched and impossible now than when it was just an idea. He yearned for public confirmation: a TV news report, a picture on a magazine cover, people talking about it in a bar or the checkout line of a supermarket.

In the late afternoon, while they were on the Nevada side of the border, Priest pulled into a filling station. The ’Cuda followed. Priest and Oaktree filled the tanks, standing in the slanting evening sunlight, while Melanie and Star went to the ladies’ room.

“I hope we’re on the news,” Oaktree said edgily.

He was thinking the same as Priest. “How could we not be?” Priest replied. “We caused an earthquake!”

“The authorities could keep it quiet.”

Like a lot of old hippie types, Oaktree believed that the government controlled the news. Priest thought that might be harder than Oaktree imagined. Priest believed the public were their own censors. They refused to buy newspapers or watch TV shows that challenged their prejudices, so they got fed pap.

However, Oaktree’s thought worried him. It might not be too difficult to cover up a small earthquake in a lonely place.

He went inside to pay. The air-conditioning made him shiver. The clerk had a radio playing behind the counter. It occurred to Priest that he might hear the news. He asked the time, and the counterman said it was five to six. After he paid, Priest lingered, pretending to study a rack of magazines while he listened to Billy Jo Spears singing “ ’57 Chevrolet.” Melanie and Star came out of the rest room together.

At last the news began.

To give them a reason for hanging around, Priest slowly selected some candy bars and took them to the counter while he listened.

The first item was the wedding of two actors who played neighbors in a TV sitcom. Who could give a shit? Priest listened impatiently, tapping his foot. Then came a report on the president’s visit to India. Priest hoped he would learn a mantra. The clerk added up the cost of the candy bars, and Priest paid. Surely the earthquake would come next? But the third story was about a shooting in a school in Chicago.

Priest walked slowly toward the door, followed by Melanie and Star. Another customer finished filling up his Jeep Wrangler and came in to pay.

Finally the newsreader said: “The environmental terrorist group the Hammer of Eden has claimed responsibility for a minor earthquake that took place today in Owens Valley, in eastern California.”

Priest whispered, “Yes!” and smacked his left palm with his right fist in a triumphant gesture.

Star hissed, “We’re not terrorists!”

The newsreader continued: “The tremor occurred on the day that the group had threatened to trigger one, but state seismologist Matthew Bird denied that this or any other earthquake could be caused by human agency.”

“Liar!” Melanie said under her breath.

“The claim was made in a phone call to this station’s premier talk show, John Truth Live.”

Just as Priest reached the exit, he was shocked to hear Star’s voice. He stopped dead. She was saying: “We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government. Now that you know we can do what we say, you’d better think again about our demand. Announce a freeze on construction of new power plants in California. You have seven days to make up your mind.”

Star exploded: “Jesus Christ — that’s me!”

“Hush!” Priest said. He looked over his shoulder. The customer with the Jeep Wrangler was talking while the clerk swiped his credit card through a machine. Neither man seemed to have noticed Star’s outburst.

“Governor Mike Robson has not responded to this latest threat. In sports today …”

They stepped outside.

Star said: “My God! They broadcast my voice! What am I going to do?”

“Stay calm,” Priest told her. He did not feel calm himself, but he was maintaining. As they walked across the asphalt to the vehicles, he said in a low, reasonable voice: “Nobody outside our commune knows your voice. You haven’t said more than a few words to an outsider for twenty-five years. And people who might remember you from the Haight-Ashbury days don’t know where you’re living now.”

“I guess you’re right,” Star said doubtfully.

“The only exception I can think of is Bones. He might hear the tape and recognize your voice.”

“He would never betray us. Bones is a Rice Eater.”

“I don’t know. Junkies will do anything.”

“What about the others — like Dale and Poem?”

“Yeah, they’re a worry,” Priest admitted. There were no radios in the cabins, but there was one in the communal pickup truck, which Dale sometimes drove. “If it happens, we’ll just have to level with them.” Or fall back on the Mario solution.

No, I couldn’t do that — not to Dale or Poem.

Could I?

Oaktree was waiting at the wheel of the ’Cuda. “Come on, you guys, what’s the holdup?” he said.

Star explained briefly what they had heard. “Luckily, nobody outside the commune knows my voice — Oh, Christ, I just thought of something!” She turned to Priest. “The probation officer — in the sheriff’s office.”

Priest cursed. Of course. Star had spoken to him only yesterday. Fear gripped his heart. If he heard the radio broadcast and remembered Star’s voice, the sheriff and half a dozen deputies might be at the commune right now, just waiting for Star to return.

But maybe he had not heard the news. Priest had to check. But how? “I’m going to call the sheriff’s office,” he told them.

“But what’ll you say?” Star said.

“I don’t know, I’ll think of something. Wait here.”

He went inside, got change from the clerk, and went to the pay phone. He got the Silver City Sheriff’s number from California information and dialed. The name of the probation officer came back to him. “I need to speak to Mr. Wicks,” he said.

A friendly voice said: “Billy ain’t here.”

“But I saw him yesterday.”

“He caught a plane to Nassau last night. He’s lyin’ on a beach by now, sippin’ a beer and watching the bikinis go by, lucky dog. Back in a couple a weeks. Anyone else help you?”

Priest hung up.

Jesus, what a lucky break.

He went outside. “God’s on our side,” he told the others.

“What?” Star said urgently. “What happened?”

“The guy went on vacation last night. He’s in Nassau for two weeks. I don’t think foreign radio stations are likely to broadcast Star’s voice. We’re safe.”

Star slumped with relief. “Thank God for that.”

Priest opened the door of the truck. “Let’s get back on the road,” he said.

It was approaching midnight when Priest steered the seismic vibrator along the rough winding track that led through the forest to the commune. He returned the truck to its hiding place. Although it was dark and they were all exhausted, Priest made sure they covered every square inch of the vehicle with vegetation so that it was invisible from all angles and from the air. Then they all got into the ’Cuda to drive the final mile.

Priest turned on the car radio for the midnight bulletin. This time the earthquake was top of the news. “Our show John Truth Live today played a central role in the continuing drama of the Hammer of Eden, the terrorist environmental group that says it can cause earthquakes,” said an excited voice. “After a moderate earthquake shook Owens Valley, in the eastern part of California, a woman claiming to represent the group called John Truth and said they had triggered the tremor.”

The station then played Star’s message in full.

“Shit,” Star muttered as she listened to her own voice.

Priest could not help feeling dismayed. Although he felt sure this would not help the police, still he hated to hear Star exposed in this way. It made her seem terribly vulnerable, and he yearned to destroy her enemies and make her safe.

After playing the tape, the newsreader said: “Special Agent Raja Khan tonight took away the recording for analysis by the FBI’s experts in psycholinguistics.”

That hit Priest like a punch in the stomach. “What the fuck is psycholinguistics?” he said.

Melanie answered: “I never heard the word before, but I guess they study the language you use and draw conclusions about your psychology.”

“I didn’t know they were that smart,” Priest said worriedly.

Oaktree said: “Don’t sweat it, man. They can analyze Star’s mind as much as they like, it ain’t gonna give them her address.”

“I guess not.”

The newsreader was saying: “No comment yet from Governor Mike Robson, but the head of the FBI’s field office in San Francisco has promised a press conference tomorrow morning. In other news—”

Priest switched off. Oaktree parked the ’Cuda next to Bones’s carnival ride. Bones had covered the truck with a huge tarpaulin, to protect the colorful paintwork. That suggested he was planning to stay awhile.

They walked down the hill and through the vineyard to the village. The cookhouse and the children’s bunkhouse were in darkness. Candlelight flickered behind Apple’s window — she was an insomniac and liked to read into the small hours — and soft guitar chords came from Song’s place, but the other cabins were dark and silent. Only Spirit, Priest’s dog, came to greet them, wagging a happy tail in the moonlight. They said good night quietly and trudged off to their individual homes, too tired to celebrate their triumph.

It was a warm night. Priest lay on his bed naked, thinking. No comment from the governor, but an FBI press conference in the morning. That bothered him. At this point in the game, the governor should be panicking, saying, “The FBI has failed, we can’t afford another earthquake, I have to talk to these people.” It made Priest uneasy to be so ignorant of what his enemy was thinking. He always got his way by reading people, figuring out what they really wanted from the way they looked and smiled and folded their arms and scratched their heads. He was trying to manipulate Governor Robson, but it was hard without face-to-face contact. And what was the FBI up to? Was there any significance in this talk of psycholinguistic analysis?

He had to find out more. He could not lie here and wait for the opposition to act.

He wondered whether to call the governor’s office and try to speak to him. Would he get through to the man himself? And if he did, would he learn anything? It might be worth a try. However, he disliked the position that put him in. He would be a supplicant, asking for the privilege of a conversation with the great man. His strategy was to impose his will on the governor, not beg for a favor.

Then it occurred to him that he could go to the press conference.

It would be dangerous: if he was found out, all would be lost.

But the idea appealed to him. Posing as a reporter was the kind of thing he used to do in the old days. He had specialized in bold strokes: stealing that white Lincoln and giving it to Pigface Riley; knifing Detective Jack Kassner in the toilet of the Blue Light bar; offering to buy the Fourth Street Liquor Store from the Jenkinsons. He had always managed to get away with stuff like that.

Maybe he would pose as a photographer. He could borrow a fancy camera from Paul Beale. Melanie could be the reporter. She was pretty enough to make any FBI agent take his eye off the ball.

What time was the press conference?

He rolled off the bed, stepped into his sandals, and went outside. In the moonlight he found his way to Melanie’s cabin. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, naked, brushing her long red hair. As he walked in, she looked up and smiled. The candlelight outlined her body, throwing an aura behind her neat shoulders, her nipples, the bones of her hips, and the red hair in the fork of her thighs. It took his breath away.

“Hello,” she said.

It took him a moment to remember why he had come. “I need to use your cell phone,” he said.

She pouted. That was not the reaction she wanted from a man who came upon her naked.

He gave her his bad-boy grin. “But I may have to throw you to the ground and ravish you, then use your phone.”

She smiled. “It’s okay, you can phone first.”

He picked up the phone, then hesitated. Melanie had been assertive all day, and he had put up with it because she was the seismologist; but that was over. He did not like her to give him permission for anything. That was not the relationship they were supposed to have.

He lay on the bed, still holding the phone, and guided Melanie’s head to his groin. She hesitated, then did what he wanted.

For a minute or so he lay still, enjoying the sensation.

Then he called information.

Melanie stopped what she was doing, but he grasped a coil of her hair and held her head in place. She hesitated, as if contemplating a protest; but after a moment she resumed.

That’s better.

Priest got the number of the FBI in San Francisco and dialed it.

A man’s voice answered: “FBI.”

Inspiration came to Priest, as always. “This is radio station KCAR in Carson City, Dave Horlock speaking,” he said. “We want to send a reporter to your press conference tomorrow. Could you give me the address and time?”

“It went out on the wire,” the man said.

Lazy bastard. “I’m not in the office,” Priest improvised. “And our reporter may have to leave early tomorrow.”

“It’s at twelve noon, here in the Federal Building at 450 Golden Gate Avenue.”

“Do we need an invitation, or can our guy just show up?”

“There are no invitations. All he needs is his regular press accreditation.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“What station did you say you were from?”

Priest hung up.

Accreditation. How am I going to get around that?

Melanie stopped sucking and said: “I hope they didn’t trace that call.”

Priest was surprised. “Why would they?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the FBI routinely trace all incoming calls.”

He frowned. “Can they do that?”

“With computers, sure.”

“Well, I wasn’t on the line long enough.”

“Priest, this isn’t the sixties. It doesn’t take time, the computer does it in nanoseconds. They just have to check the billing records to find out who owns the number that called at three minutes to one A.M.”

Priest had not heard the word “nanosecond” before, but he could guess what it meant. Now he was worried. “Shit,” he said. “Can they figure out where you are?”

“Only while the phone is on.”

Priest hastily switched it off.

He was beginning to feel unnerved. He had been surprised too often today: by the recording of Star’s voice, by the concept of psycholinguistic analysis, and now by the notion of computer tracing of phone calls. Was there anything else he had failed to anticipate?

He shook his head. He was thinking negatively. Caution and worry never got anything done. Imagination and nerve were his strengths. He would show up at the press conference tomorrow, talk his way in, and get a handle on what the enemy was up to.

Melanie lay back on the bed, closed her eyes, and said: “It’s been a long day in the saddle.”

Priest gazed at her body. He loved to look at her breasts. He liked the way they moved when she walked, with a side-to-side rhythm. He enjoyed seeing her pull a sweater off over her head, the reaching gesture making her tits stick up like pointing guns. He loved to watch her put on a brassiere and adjust her breasts inside the cups to get comfortable. Now, as she lay on her back, they were slightly flattened, bulging out sideways, and the nipples were soft in repose.

He needed to cleanse his mind of worry. The second-best way of doing that was meditation. The best was in front of him.

He knelt over her. When he kissed her breasts, she sighed contentedly and stroked his hair but did not open her eyes.

Priest saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced at the door and saw Star, wearing a purple silk robe. He smiled. He knew what she had in mind: she had done this sort of thing before. She raised her eyebrows in an expression of inquiry. Priest nodded assent. She came in and closed the door silently.

Priest sucked Melanie’s pink nipple, drawing it into his mouth slowly with his lips, then teasing it with the tip of his tongue as he let it slide back out, again and again with a steady rhythm. She moaned in pleasure.

Star untied her robe and let it fall to the floor, then she stood watching, gently touching her own breasts. Her body was so different from Melanie’s, the skin light tan where Melanie’s was white, the hips and shoulders wider, the hair dark and thick where Melanie’s was red gold and fine. After a few moments she leaned over and kissed Priest’s ear, then ran her hand down his back, along his spine, and between his legs, stroking and squeezing.

He began to breathe faster.

Slowly, slowly. Savor the moment.

Star knelt beside the bed and began to caress Melanie’s breast while Priest sucked it.

Melanie sensed that something was different. She stopped moaning. Her body stiffened, then she opened her eyes. When she saw Star, she let out a stifled scream.

Star smiled and continued to touch her. “Your body is very beautiful,” she said in a low voice. Priest stared, entranced, as she leaned over and took Melanie’s other breast into her mouth.

Melanie shoved them both away and sat upright. “No!” she said.

“Relax,” Priest told her. “It’s okay, really.” He stroked her hair.

Star caressed the inside of Melanie’s thigh. “You’ll like it,” she said. “A woman can do some things much better than a man. You’ll see.”

“No,” Melanie said. She pressed her legs together tightly.

Priest could see that this was not going to work. He felt let down. He loved to see Star go down on another woman, driving her wild with pleasure. But Melanie was too spooked.

Star persisted. Her hand slid up Melanie’s thigh, and her fingertips lightly brushed the tuft of red hair.

“No!” Melanie slapped Star’s hand away.

It was a hard slap, and Star said: “Ow! What did you do that for?”

Melanie pushed Star aside and jumped off the bed. “Because you’re fat and old and I don’t want to have sex with you!”

Star gasped, and Priest winced.

Melanie stamped to the door and opened it. “Please!” she said. “Leave me alone!”

To Priest’s surprise, Star began to cry. Indignantly he said: “Melanie!”

Before Melanie could reply, Star walked out.

Melanie slammed the door.

Priest said to her: “Wow, baby, that was mean.”

She opened the door again. “You can go, too, if that’s how you feel. Leave me alone!”

Priest was shocked. In twenty-five years no one had ever told him to leave a house here at the commune. Now he was being ordered out by a beautiful naked girl who was flushed with anger or excitement or both. To add to his humiliation, he had a hard-on like a flagpole.

Am I losing my grip?

The thought disturbed him. He could always get people to do what he wanted, especially here at the commune. He was so taken aback that he almost obeyed her. He walked to the door without speaking.

Then he realized he could not give in. He might never regain dominance if he let her defeat him now. And he needed Melanie under his control. She was crucial to the plan. He would not be able to trigger another earthquake without her help. He could not let her assert her independence in this way. She was too important.

He turned in the doorway and looked at her, standing naked, hands on her hips. What did she want? She had been in control today, in Owens Valley, because of her expertise, and that had given her the courage for this display of bad temper. But in her heart she did not want to be independent — she would not be here if she did. She preferred to be told what to do by someone with power. That was why she had married her professor. Having left him, she had taken up with another authority figure, the leader of a commune. She had revolted tonight because she did not want to share Priest with another woman. She was probably scared Star would take him away from her. But the last thing she wanted was for Priest to walk away.

He closed the door.

He crossed the little room in three paces and stood in front of her. She was still flushed with anger and breathing hard. “Lie down,” he commanded.

She looked troubled, but she lay on the bed.

“Open your legs,” he said.

After a moment she obeyed.

He lay on her. As he entered her, she suddenly put her arms around him and held him hard. He moved fast inside her, deliberately rough. She lifted her legs around his waist. He felt her teeth on his shoulder, biting. It hurt, but he liked it. She opened her mouth, breathing hard. “Ah, fuck,” she said in a low, guttural voice. “Priest, you son of a bitch, I love you.”

When Priest woke up, he went to Star’s cabin.

She was lying on her side, eyes open, staring at the wall. When he sat on the bed beside her, she began to cry.

He kissed her tears. He was getting a hard-on. “Talk to me,” he murmured.

“Did you know that Flower puts Dusty to bed?”

He had not been expecting that. What did it matter? “I didn’t know,” he said.

“I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” He tried not to sound irritated. Yesterday we triggered an earthquake, and today you’re crying about the children? “It’s a hell of a lot better than stealing movie posters in Silver City.”

“But you have a new family,” she burst out.

“What the heck does that mean?”

“You, and Melanie, and Flower, and Dusty. You’re like a family. And there’s no place in it for me, I don’t fit.”

“Sure you do,” he said. “You’re the mother of my child, and you’re the woman I love. How could you not fit?”

“I felt so humiliated last night.”

He stroked her breasts through the cotton of her nightshirt. She covered his hand with her own and pressed his palm hard against her body.

“The group is our family,” he told her. “It’s always been that way. We don’t suffer with the hang-ups of the suburban mom-and-dad-and-two-kids unit.” He was repeating the teachings he had gotten from her years ago. “We’re one big family. We love the whole group, and everyone takes care of everyone else. This way, we don’t have to lie to each other, or to ourselves, about sex. You can get it on with Oaktree, or Song, and I’ll know you still care for me and our child.”

“But you know something, Priest — no one ever rejected you or me before now.”

There were no rules about who could have sex with whom, but of course no one was obliged to make love if they did not want to. However, now that he thought about it, Priest could not remember an occasion on which a woman had refused him. Obviously it had been the same for Star — until Melanie.

A feeling of panic crept over him. He had felt it several times in the last few weeks. It was the fear that the commune was collapsing, he was losing his grip, and everything he loved was in peril. It was like losing his balance, as if the floor started to move unpredictably and firm ground suddenly became shifting and unreliable, just as it had in Owens Valley yesterday. He fought to suppress his anxiety. He had to stay cool. Only he could keep everyone’s loyalty and hold it all together. He had to stay cool.

He lay on the bed beside her and stroked her hair. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “We scared the shit out of Governor Robson yesterday. He’ll do what we want, you’ll see.”

“Are you sure?”

He took both her breasts in his hands. He felt turned on. “Trust me,” he murmured. He pressed against her so that she could feel his erection.

“Make love to me, Priest,” she said.

He gave her his roguish grin. “How?”

She smiled back through her tears. “Any damn way you like.”

She went to sleep afterward. Lying beside her, Priest worried over the problem of accreditation until he thought of the solution. Then he got up.

He went to the kids’ bunkhouse and woke Flower. “I want you to go with me to San Francisco,” he said. “Get dressed.”

He made toast and orange juice for her in the deserted cookhouse. As she ate, he said: “You remember we talked about you being a writer? And you told me you’d like to work for a magazine?”

“Yes, Teen magazine,” she said.

“Right.”

“But you want me to write poetry so I can live here.”

“And I still do, but today you’re going to find out what it’s like to be a reporter.”

She looked happy. “Okay!”

“I’m taking you to an FBI press conference.”

“FBI?”

“This is the kind of thing you have to do if you’re a reporter.”

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She had picked up her mother’s dislike of law enforcement people. “I never read about the FBI in Teen.”

“Well, Leonardo DiCaprio isn’t giving a press conference today, I checked.”

She grinned sheepishly. “Too bad.”

“But if you just ask the kinds of questions a reporter from Teen would think of, you’ll be fine.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “What’s the press conference about?”

“A group who claim they caused an earthquake. Now, I don’t want you to tell everyone about this. It has to be a secret, okay?”

“Okay.”

He would tell the Rice Eaters about it when he got back, he decided. “It’s all right to talk to Mom and Melanie about it, and Oaktree and Song and Aneth and Paul Beale, but no one else. That’s really important.”

“Gotcha.”

He knew he was taking a crazy risk. If things went wrong, he could lose everything. He might even be arrested in front of his daughter. This could end up being the worst day of her life. But mad risks had always been his style.

When he had proposed planting the grapevines, Star had pointed out that they held their land on a one-year lease. They could break their backs digging and planting and never see the fruits of their labor. She had argued that they should negotiate a ten-year lease before starting work. It sounded sensible, but Priest had known it would be fatal. If they postponed the start, they would never do it. He had persuaded them to take the risk. At the end of that year, the commune had become a community. And the government had renewed Star’s lease — that year and every year, until now.

He thought about putting on the navy blue suit. However, it was so old-fashioned that it would be conspicuous in San Francisco, so he wore his usual blue jeans. Although it was warm, he put on a T-shirt and a checked flannel shirt with a long tail, which he wore untucked. From the tool shed he took a heavy knife with a four-inch blade in a neat leather sheath. He stuck it in the waistband of his jeans, at the back, where it was concealed by the tail of his shirt.

He was high on adrenaline throughout the four-hour drive to San Francisco. He had nightmare visions: the two of them being arrested, himself bundled off to a jail cell, Flower sitting alone in an interrogation room at FBI headquarters, being questioned about her parents. But fear gave him a buzz.

They reached the city at eleven A.M. They left the car in a parking lot on Golden Gate. At a drugstore, Priest bought Flower a spiral-bound notebook and two pencils. Then he took her to a coffee shop. While she was drinking her soda, he said, “I’ll be right back,” and stepped outside.

He walked toward Union Square, scanning the faces of passersby, searching for a man who looked like him. The streets were busy with shoppers, and he had hundreds of faces to pick from. He saw a man with a thin face and dark hair studying the menu outside a restaurant, and for a moment he thought he had found his victim. Feeling wire-taut with tension, he watched for a few seconds; then the guy turned around and Priest saw that his right eye was permanently closed by some kind of injury.

Disappointed, Priest walked on. It was not easy. There were plenty of dark men in their forties, but most of them were twenty or thirty pounds heavier than Priest. He saw another likely candidate, but the guy had a camera around his neck. A tourist was no good: Priest needed someone with local credentials. This is one of the greatest shopping centers in the world, and it’s Saturday morning: there has to be one man here who looks like me.

He checked his watch: eleven-thirty. He was running out of time.

At last he struck lucky: a thin-faced guy of about fifty, wearing large-framed glasses, walking briskly. He was dressed in navy slacks and a green polo shirt but carried a worn tan attaché case, and looked miserable: Priest guessed he was going to the office to do some Saturday catching up. Now I need his wallet. Priest followed him around a corner, psyching himself up, waiting for an opportunity.

I’m angry, I’m desperate, I’m a crazy man escaped from the asylum, I’ve got to have twenty bucks for a fix, I hate everyone, I want to slash and kill, I’m mad, mad, mad …

The man walked past the lot where the ’Cuda was parked and turned into a street of old office buildings. For a moment there was no one else in sight. Priest drew the knife, then ran up to him and said: “Hey!”

The man stopped reflexively and turned.

Priest grabbed the guy by the shirt, shoved the knife in front of his face, and screamed: “GIMME YOUR FUCKIN’ WALLET OR I’LL SLIT YOUR FUCKIN’ THROAT!”

The guy should have collapsed in terror, but he did not. Jesus, he’s a tough guy. His face showed anger, not fear.

Staring into his eyes, Priest read the thought It’s only one guy, and he doesn’t have a gun.

Priest hesitated, suddenly fearful. Shit, I can’t afford for this to go wrong. There was a split-second standoff. A casually dressed man with a briefcase heading for work on Saturday morning … could he be a police detective?

But it was too late now for second thoughts. Before the guy could move, Priest flicked the blade across his cheek, drawing a thin two-inch line of red blood just below the right lens of his spectacles.

The man’s courage evaporated, and all thought of resistance left him. His eyes widened in fear, and his body seemed to sag. “Okay! Okay!” he said in a high-pitched, shaky voice.

Not a cop, after all.

Priest screamed: “NOW! NOW! GIMME IT NOW!”

“It’s in my case.…”

Priest grabbed the briefcase from the man’s hand. At the last minute he decided to take the guy’s glasses, too. He snatched them off his face, turned around, and ran away.

At the corner he looked back. The guy was throwing up on the sidewalk.

Priest turned right. He dropped his knife into a garbage bin and walked on. At the next corner he stopped by a building site and opened the case. Inside was a file folder, a notebook and some pens, a paper package that looked as if it contained a sandwich, and a leather billfold. Priest took the billfold and threw the case over the fence into a builder’s skip.

He returned to the coffee shop and sat down with Flower. His coffee was still warm. I haven’t lost the touch. Thirty years since I last did that, but I can still scare the shit out of people. Way to go, Ricky.

He opened the billfold. It contained money, credit cards, business cards, and some kind of identity card with a photo. Priest pulled out a business card and handed it to Flower. “My card, ma’am.”

She giggled. “You’re Peter Shoebury, of Watkins, Colefax and Brown.”

“I’m a lawyer?”

“I guess.”

He looked at the photo on the identity card. It was about half an inch square and had been taken in an automatic photo booth. It was about ten years old, he guessed. It did not look exactly like Priest, but neither did it look much like Peter Shoebury. Photos were like that.

Still, Priest could improve the resemblance. Shoebury had straight dark hair, but it was short. Priest said: “Can I borrow your hairband?”

“Sure.” Flower took a rubber band out of her hair and shook her locks around her face. Priest did the reverse, pulling his hair back into a ponytail and tying it with the band. Then he put on the glasses.

He showed Flower the photo. “How do you like my secret identity?”

“Hmm.” She looked at the back of the card. “This will admit you to the downtown office, but not the Oakland branch.”

“I guess I can live with that.”

She grinned. “Daddy, where did you get this?”

He raised one eyebrow at her and said: “I borrowed it.”

“Did you pick someone’s pocket?”

“Sort of.” He could see she thought that was roguish rather than wicked. He let her believe what she wanted. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was eleven forty-five. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.”

They walked along the street and entered the Federal Building, a forbidding gray granite monolith occupying the entire city block. In the lobby they passed through a metal detector, and Priest was glad he had had the forethought to get rid of the knife. He asked the security guard which floor the FBI was on.

They took the elevator up. Priest felt like he was high on cocaine. The danger made him superalert. If this elevator breaks down, I could power it with my own psychic energy. He figured it was okay to be self-confident, maybe even a little arrogant, as he was playing the part of a lawyer.

He led Flower into the FBI office and followed a sign to a conference room off the lobby. There was a table with microphones at the far end of the room. Near the door stood four men, all tall and fit looking, wearing well-pressed business suits, white shirts, and sober ties. They had to be agents.

If they knew who I was, they’d shoot me down without even thinking about it.

Stay cool, Priest — they ain’t mind readers, they don’t know nothing about you.

Priest was six feet, but they were all taller. He sensed immediately that the leader was the older man whose thick white hair was meticulously parted and combed. He was talking to a man with a black mustache. Two younger men were listening, wearing deferential expressions.

A young woman carrying a clipboard approached Priest. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Well, I sure hope so,” Priest said.

The agents noticed him when he spoke. He read their reactions as they looked at him. When they took in his ponytail and blue jeans they became guarded; then they saw Flower and softened again.

One of the younger men said: “Everything okay here?”

Priest said: “My name is Peter Shoebury, I’m an attorney with Watkins, Colefax and Brown here in the city. My daughter Florence is editor of the school newspaper. She heard on the radio about your press conference, and she wanted to cover it for the paper. So I figured hey, it’s a public information thing, let’s go along. I hope it’s okay with you.”

Everyone looked at the white-haired guy, confirming Priest’s intuition that he was the boss.

There was an awful moment of hesitation.

Hell, boy, you ain’t no lawyer! You’re Ricky Granger, used to wholesale amphetamines through a bunch of liquor stores in Los Angeles back in the sixties — are you mixed up in this earthquake shit? Frisk him, boys, and cuff his little girl, too. Let’s take ‘em in, find out what they know.

The white-haired man held out his hand and said: “I’m Associate Special Agent in Charge Brian Kincaid, head of the San Francisco field office of the FBI.”

Priest shook hands. “Good to meet you, Brian.”

“What firm did you say you’re with, sir?”

“Watkins, Colefax and Brown.”

Kincaid frowned. “I thought they were real estate brokers, not lawyers.”

Oh, shit.

Priest nodded and tried for a reassuring smile. “That’s correct, and it’s my job to keep them out of trouble.” There was a word for a lawyer who was employed by a corporation. Priest searched his memory and found it. “I’m in-house counsel.”

“Would you have any kind of ID?”

“Oh, sure.” He opened the stolen wallet and took out the card with the photo of Peter Shoebury. He held his breath.

Kincaid looked at it, then checked the resemblance to Priest. Priest could tell what he was thinking: Could be him, I guess. He handed it back. Priest breathed again.

Kincaid turned to Flower. “What school are you at, Florence?”

Priest’s heart beat faster. Just make something up, kid.

“Um.…” Flower hesitated. Priest was about to answer for her, then she said: “Eisenhower Junior High.”

Priest felt a surge of pride. She had inherited his nerve. Just in case Kincaid should happen to know the schools in San Francisco, he added: “That’s in Oakland.”

Kincaid seemed satisfied. “Well, we’d be delighted to have you join us, Florence,” he said.

We did it!

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“If there are any questions I can answer now, before the press conference starts …”

Priest had been careful not to overprepare Flower. If she appeared shy, or fumbled her questions, it would seem only natural, he figured; whereas if she were too poised and seemed well rehearsed, she might arouse suspicion. But now he felt a surge of anxiety on her behalf, and he had to suppress the paternal urge to step in and tell her what to do. He bit his lip.

She opened her notebook. “Are you in charge of this investigation?”

Priest relaxed a little. She would be fine.

“This is only one of many inquiries that I have to keep an eye on,” Kincaid answered. He pointed to the man with the black mustache. “Special Agent Marvin Hayes has this assignment.”

Flower turned to Hayes. “I think the school would like to know what kind of person you are, Mr. Hayes. Could I ask you some questions about yourself?”

Priest was shocked to observe a hint of coquettishness in the way she tilted her head and smiled at Hayes. She’s too young to flirt with grown men, for God’s sake!

But Hayes bought it. He looked pleased and said: “Sure, go ahead.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes. I have two children, a boy around your age and a girl a little younger.”

“Do you have any hobbies?”

“I collect boxing memorabilia.”

“That’s unusual.”

“I guess it is.”

Priest was both pleased and dismayed by how naturally Flower fell into the role. She’s good at this. Hell, I hope I haven’t raised her all these years to become a cheap magazine writer.

He studied Hayes while the agent answered Flower’s innocent questions. This was his opponent. Hayes was carefully dressed in conventional style. His tan lightweight suit, white shirt, and dark silk tie had probably come from Brooks Brothers. He wore black oxford shoes, highly shined and tightly laced. His hair and mustache were neatly trimmed.

Yet Priest sensed that the ultraconservative look was fake. The tie was too striking, there was an overlarge ruby ring on the pinky of his left hand, and the mustache was a raffish touch. Also, Priest thought that the kind of American Brahmin Hayes was trying to imitate would not be so dressed up on a Saturday morning, even for a press conference.

“What’s your favorite restaurant?” Flower asked.

“A lot of us go to Everton’s, which is really more of a pub.”

The conference room was filling up with men and women with notebooks and cassette recorders, photographers encumbered with cameras and flashguns, radio reporters with large microphones, and a couple of TV crews with handheld videocameras. As they came in, the young woman with the clipboard asked them to sign a book. Priest and Flower seemed to have bypassed that. He was thankful. He could not write “Peter Shoebury” to save his life.

Kincaid, the boss, touched Hayes’s elbow. “We need to prepare for our press conference now, Florence. I hope you’ll stay to hear what we have to announce.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

Priest said: “You’ve really been very kind, Mr. Hayes. Florence’s teachers will be truly grateful.”

The agents moved to the table at the far end. My God, we fooled them. Priest and Flower sat at the back and waited. Priest’s tension eased. He really had got away with it.

I knew I would.

He had not gained much hard information yet, but that would come with the formal press announcement. What he did have was a sense of the people he was dealing with. He was reassured by what he had learned. Neither Kincaid nor Hayes struck him as brilliant. They seemed like ordinary plodding cops, the kind who got by with a mixture of dogged routine and occasional corruption. He had little to fear from them.

Kincaid stood up and introduced himself. He sounded confident but a touch overassertive. Maybe he had not been the boss very long. He said: “I would like to begin by making one thing very clear. The FBI does not believe that yesterday’s earthquake was triggered by a terrorist group.”

The flashguns popped, the tapes whirred, and the reporters scribbled notes. Priest tried not to let his anger show on his face. The bastards were refusing to take him seriously — still!

“This is also the opinion of the state seismologist, who I believe is available for interview in Sacramento this morning.”

What do I have to do to convince you? I threatened an earthquake, then I made it happen, and still you won’t believe I did it! Must I kill people before you’ll listen?

Kincaid went on: “Nevertheless, a terrorist threat has been made, and the Bureau intends to catch the people who made it. Our investigation is headed by Special Agent Marvin Hayes. Over to you, Marvin.”

Hayes stood up. He was more nervous than Kincaid, Priest saw at once. He read mechanically from a prepared statement. “FBI agents have this morning questioned all five paid employees of the Green California Campaign at their homes. The employees are voluntarily cooperating with us.”

Priest was pleased. He had laid a false trail, and the feds were following it.

Hayes went on: “Agents also visited the headquarters of the campaign, here in San Francisco, and examined documents and computer records.”

They would be combing the organization’s mailing list for clues, Priest guessed.

There was more, but it was repetitive. The assembled journalists asked questions that added detail and color but did not change the basic story. Priest’s tension grew again as he sat waiting impatiently for a chance to leave inconspicuously. He was pleased that the FBI investigation was so far off course — they had not yet come upon his second false trail — but he felt angry that they still refused to believe in his threat.

At last Kincaid drew the session to a close and the journalists began to get to their feet and pack up their gear.

Priest and Flower made for the door, but they were stopped by the woman with the clipboard, who smiled brightly and said: “I don’t think you two signed in, did you?” She handed Priest a book and a pen. “Just put your names and the organization you represent.”

Priest froze with fear. I can’t, I can’t!

Don’t panic. Relax.

Ley, tor, pur-doy-cor …

“Sir? Would you please sign?”

“Sure.” Priest took the book and the pen. Then he handed it to Flower. “I think Florence should sign for us — she’s the journalist,” he said, reminding her of her false name. It occurred to him that she might have forgotten the school she was supposed to attend. “Put your name, and ‘Eisenhower Junior High.’ ”

Flower did not flinch. She wrote in the book and handed it back to the woman.

Now, for Christ’s sake, can we go?

“You, too, sir, please,” said the woman, and she gave Priest the book.

He took it reluctantly. Now what? If he just scrawled a squiggle, she might ask him to print his name clearly: that had happened to him before. But maybe he could just refuse and walk out. She was only a secretary.

As he hesitated, he heard the voice of Kincaid. “I hope that was interesting for you, Florence.”

Kincaid is an agent — it’s his job to be suspicious.

“Yes, sir, it was,” Flower said politely.

Priest began to sweat under his shirt.

He drew a scrawl where he was supposed to write his name. Then he closed the book before handing it back to the woman.

Kincaid said to Flower: “Will you remember to send me a copy of your class newspaper when it’s printed?”

“Yes, of course.”

Let’s go, let’s go!

The woman opened the book and said: “Oh, sir, pardon me, would you mind printing your name here? I’m afraid your signature isn’t really clear.”

What am I going to do?

“You’ll need an address,” Kincaid said to Flower, and he took a business card from the breast pocket of his suit coat. “There you go.”

“Thank you.”

Priest remembered that Peter Shoebury carried business cards. That’s the answer — thank God! He opened the wallet and gave one to the woman. “My handwriting is terrible — use this,” he said. “We have to run.” He shook Kincaid’s hand. “You’ve been wonderful. I’ll make sure Florence remembers to send you the clipping.”

They left the room.

They crossed the lobby and waited for the elevator. Priest imagined Kincaid coming after him, gun drawn, saying, “What kind of attorney can’t write his own goddamn name, asshole?” But the elevator came and they rode down and walked out of the building into the fresh air.

Flower said: “I gotta have the craziest dad in the world.”

Priest smiled at her. “That’s the truth.”

“Why did we have false names?”

“Well, I never like the pigs to get my real name,” he said. She would accept that, he thought. She knew how her parents felt about cops.

But she said: “Well, I’m mad at you about it.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“I’ll never forgive you for calling me Florence,” she said.

Priest stared at her for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.

“Come on, kid,” Priest said fondly. “Let’s go home.”

10

Judy dreamed she walked along the seashore with Michael Quercus, and his bare feet left neat, shapely prints in the wet sand.

On Saturday morning she helped out at a literacy class for young offenders. They respected her because she carried a gun. She sat in a church hall beside a seventeen-year-old hoodlum, helping him practice writing the date, hoping that somehow this would make it less likely that in ten years’ time she would have to arrest him.

In the afternoon she drove the short distance from Bo’s house to Gala Foods on Geary Boulevard and shopped.

The familiar Saturday routines failed to soothe her. She was furious with Brian Kincaid for taking her off the Hammer of Eden case, but there was nothing she could do about it, so she stomped up and down the aisles and tried to turn her mind to Chewy Chips Ahoy, Rice-A-Roni, and Zee “Decor Collection” kitchen towel printed with yellow patterns. In the breakfast cereal aisle she thought of Michael’s son, Dusty, and she bought a box of Cap’n Crunch.

But her thoughts kept returning to the case. Is there really someone out there who can make earthquakes happen? Or am I nuts?

Back at home, Bo helped her unload the groceries and asked her about the investigation. “I hear Marvin Hayes raided the Green California Campaign.”

“It can’t have done him much good,” she said. “They’re all clean. Raja interviewed them on Tuesday. Two men and three women, all over fifty. No criminal records — not a speeding ticket between them — and no association with any suspicious persons. If they’re terrorists, I’m Kojak.”

“TV news says he’s examining their records.”

“Right. That’s a list of everyone who ever wrote asking them for information, including Jane Fonda. There are eighteen thousand names and addresses. Now Marvin’s team has to run each name through the FBI computer to see who’s worth interviewing. It could take a month.”

The doorbell rang. Judy opened the door to Simon Sparrow. She was surprised but pleased. “Hey, Simon, come on in!”

He was wearing black cycling shorts and a muscle T-shirt with Nike trainers and wraparound sunglasses. However, he had not come by bicycle: his emerald green Honda Del Sol was parked at the curb with the roof down. Judy wondered what her mother would have thought of Simon. “Nice boy,” she might have said. “Not very manly, though.”

Bo shook hands with Simon, then gave Judy a clandestine look that said Who the hell is this fruit? Judy shocked him by saying: “Simon is one of the FBI’s top linguistic analysts.”

Somewhat bemused, Bo said: “Well, Simon, I’m sure glad to meet you.”

Simon was carrying a cassette tape and a manila envelope. Holding them up, he said: “I brought you my report on the Hammer of Eden tape.”

“I’m off the case,” Judy said.

“I know, but I thought you’d still be interested. The voices on the tape don’t match any in our acoustic files, unfortunately.”

“No names, then.”

“No, but lots of other interesting stuff.”

Judy’s interest was piqued. “You said ‘voices.’ I only heard one.”

“No, there are two.” Simon looked around and saw Bo’s radio-cassette on the kitchen counter. It was normally used to play The Greatest Hits of the Everly Brothers. He slipped his cassette into the player. “Let me talk you through the tape.”

“I’d love you to, but it’s Marvin Hayes’s case now.”

“I’d like your opinion anyway.”

Judy shook her head stubbornly. “You should talk to Marvin first.”

“I know what you’re saying. But Marvin is a fucking idiot. Do you know how long it is since he put a bad guy in jail?”

“Simon, if you’re trying to get me to work on this case behind Kincaid’s back, forget it!”

“Hear me out, okay? It can’t do any harm.” Simon turned up the volume control and started the tape.

Judy sighed. She was desperately keen to know what Simon had found out about the Hammer of Eden. But if Kincaid learned that Simon had talked to her before Marvin, there would be hell to pay.

The voice of the woman said: “This is the Hammer of Eden with a message for Governor Mike Robson.”

Simon stopped the tape and looked at Bo. “What did you visualize when you first heard that?”

Bo grinned. “I pictured a large woman, about fifty, with a big smile. Kind of sexy. I remember I thought I’d like to”—he glanced at Judy and finished—“meet her.”

Simon nodded. “Your instincts are reliable. Untrained people can tell a lot about a speaker just by hearing them. You almost always know if you’re listening to a woman or a man, of course. But you can also tell how old they are, and you can generally estimate their height and build pretty accurately. Sometimes you can even guess at their state of health.”

“You’re right,” Judy said. She was intrigued despite herself. “Whenever I hear a voice on the phone, I picture the person, even if I’m listening to a taped announcement.”

“It’s because the sound of the voice comes from the body. Pitch, loudness, resonance, huskiness, all vocal characteristics have physical causes. Tall people have a longer vocal tract, old people have stiff tissues and creaky cartilage, sick people have inflamed throats.”

“That makes sense,” Judy said. “I just never really thought about it before.”

“My computer picks up the same cues as people do, and is more accurate.” Simon took a typed report out of the envelope he had been carrying. “This woman is between forty-seven and fifty-two. She’s tall, within an inch of six feet. She’s overweight, but not obese: probably just kind of generously built. She’s a drinker and a smoker, but healthy despite that.”

Judy felt anxious but excited. Although she wished she had not let Simon get started, it was fascinating to learn something about the mystery woman behind the voice.

Simon looked at Bo. “And you’re right about the big smile. She has a large mouth cavity, and her speech is underlabialized — she doesn’t purse her lips.”

“I like this woman,” Bo said. “Does the computer say if she’s good in bed?”

Simon smiled. “The reason you think she’s sexy is that her voice has a whispery quality. This can be a sign of sexual arousal. But when it’s a permanent feature, it doesn’t necessarily indicate sexiness.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Bo said. “Sexy women have sexy voices.”

“So do heavy smokers.”

“Okay, that’s true.”

Simon wound the tape back to the beginning. “Now listen to her accent.”

Judy protested. “Simon, I don’t think we should—”

“Just listen. Please!”

“Okay, okay.”

This time he played the first two sentences. “This is the Hammer of Eden with a message for Governor Mike Robson. Shit, I didn’t expect to be talking to a tape recorder.”

He stopped the tape. “It’s a Northern California accent, of course. But did you notice anything else?”

Bo said: “She’s middle class.”

Judy frowned. “She sounded upper class to me.”

“You’re both right,” Simon said. “Her accent changes between the first sentence and the second.”

“Is that unusual?” said Judy.

“No. Most of us get our basic accent from the social group we grew up with, then modify it later in life. Usually, people try to upgrade: blue-collar people try to make themselves sound more affluent, and the nouveau riche try to talk like old money. Occasionally it goes the other way: a politician from a patrician family might make his accent more down-home, to seem like a man of the people, yuh know what I’m sayin’?”

Judy smiled. “You betcher ass.”

“The learned accent is used in formal situations,” Simon said as he rewound the tape. “It comes into play when the speaker is poised. But we revert to our childhood speech patterns when we’re under stress. Okay so far?”

Bo said: “Sure.”

“This woman has downgraded her speech. She makes herself sound more blue-collar than she really is.”

Judy was fascinated. “You think she’s a kind of Patty Hearst figure?”

“In that area, yes. She begins with a rehearsed formal sentence, spoken in her average-person voice. Now, in American speech, the more high class you are, the more you pronounce the letter ‘r.’ With that in mind, listen to the way she says the word ‘governor’ now.”

Judy was going to stop him, but she was too interested. The woman on the tape said: “This is the Hammer of Eden with a message for Governor Mike Robson.”

“Hear the way she says ‘Guvnuh Mike’? This is street talk. But listen to the next bit. The voice mail announcement has put her off guard, and she speaks naturally.”

“Shit, I didn’t expect to be talking to a tape recorder.”

“Although she says ‘shit,’ she pronounces the word ‘recorder’ very correctly. A blue-collar type would say ‘recawduh,’ pronouncing only the first r. The average college graduate says ‘recorduh,’ pronouncing the second r distinctly. Only very superior people say ‘recorder’ the way she does, carefully pronouncing all three r’s.”

Bo said: “Who’d have thought you could find out so much from two sentences?”

Simon smiled, looking pleased. “But did you notice anything about the vocabulary?”

Bo shook his head. “Nothing I can put my finger on.”

“What’s a tape recorder?”

Bo laughed. “A machine the size of a small suitcase, with two reels on top. I had one in Vietnam — a Grundig.”

Judy saw what Simon was getting at. The term “tape recorder” was out of date. The machine they were using today was a cassette deck. Voice mail was recorded on the hard disk of a computer. “She’s living in a time warp,” Judy said. “It makes me think Patty Hearst again. What happened to her, anyway?”

Bo said: “She served her time, came out of jail, wrote a book, and appeared on Geraldo. Welcome to America.”

Judy stood up. “This has been fascinating, Simon, but I don’t feel comfortable with it. I think you should take your report to Marvin now.”

“One more thing I want to show you,” he said. He touched the fast-forward button.

“Really—”

“Just listen to this.”

The woman’s voice said: “It happened in Owens Valley a little after two o’clock, you can check it out.” There was a faint background noise, and she hesitated.

Simon paused the tape. “I’ve enhanced that odd little murmur. Here it is reconstructed.”

He released the pause switch. Judy heard a man’s voice, distorted with a lot of background hiss but clear enough to understand, say: “We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government.” The background noise returned to normal, and the woman’s voice repeated: “We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government.” She went on: “Now that you know we can do what we say, you’d better think again about our demand.”

Simon stopped the tape.

Judy said: “She was speaking words he had given her, and she forgot something, so he reminded her.”

Bo said: “Didn’t you figure the original Internet message had been dictated by a blue-collar guy, maybe illiterate, and typed by an educated woman?”

“Yes,” Simon said. “But this is a different woman — older.”

“So,” Bo said to Judy, “now you’re beginning to build up profiles of three unknown subjects.”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m off the case. Come on, Simon, you know this could get me into more trouble.”

“Okay.” He took the tape out of the machine and stood up. “I’ve told you all the important stuff, anyway. Let me know if you come up with some brilliant insight that I could pass on to Mogadon Marvin.”

Judy saw him to the door. “I’ll take my report to the office right now — Marvin will probably still be there,” he said. “Then I’m going to sleep. I was up all night on this.” He got into his sports car and roared off.

When she came back, Bo was making green tea, looking thoughtful. “So this streetwise guy has a bunch of classy dames to take dictation from him.”

Judy nodded. “I believe I know where you’re headed.”

“It’s a cult.”

“Yes. I was right to think Patty Hearst.” She shivered. The man behind all this must be a charismatic figure with power over women. He was uneducated, but this did not hold him back, for he had others carrying out his orders. “But something’s not right. That demand, for a freeze on new power plants — it’s just not wacky enough.”

“I agree,” Bo said. “It’s not showy. I think they have some down-to-earth selfish reason to want this freeze.”

“I wonder,” Judy mused. “Maybe they have an interest in one particular power plant.”

Bo stared at her. “Judy, that’s brilliant! Like, it’s going to pollute their salmon river or something.”

“In there somewhere,” she said. “But it hits them really hard.” She felt excited. She was on to something.

“The freeze on all plant construction is a cover, then. They’re afraid to name the one they’re really interested in for fear that would lead us to them.”

“But how many possibilities can there be? Power plants aren’t built every day. And these things are controversial. Any proposal has to have been reported.”

“Let’s check.”

They went into the den. Judy’s laptop was on a side table. She sometimes wrote reports in here while Bo was watching football. The TV did not distract her, and she liked to be near him. She switched on the machine. Waiting for it to boot up, she said: “If we put together a list of sites where power plants are to be built, the FBI computer would tell us if there’s a cult near any of them.”

She accessed the files of the San Francisco Chronicle and searched for references to power plants in the last three years. The search produced 117 articles. Judy scanned the headlines, ignoring stories about Pittsburgh and Cuba. “Okay, here’s a scheme for a nuclear plant in the Mojave Desert …” She saved the story. “A hydroelectric dam in Sierra County … an oil-fired plant up near the Oregon border …”

Bo said: “Sierra County? That rings some kind of bell. Got an exact location?”

Judy clicked on the article. “Yeah … the proposal is to dam the Silver River.”

He frowned. “Silver River Valley …”

Judy turned from the computer screen. “Wait, this is familiar … isn’t there a vigilante group that has a big spread there?”

“That’s right!” said Bo. “They’re called Los Alamos. Run by a speed freak called Poco Latella, who originally came from Daly City. That’s how I know about them.”

“Right. They’re armed to the teeth, and they refused to recognize the U.S. government.… Jesus, they even used that sentence on the tape: ‘We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government.’ Bo, I think we’ve got ’em.”

“What are you going to do?”

Judy’s heart sank as she remembered she was off the case. “If Kincaid finds out I’ve been working this case, he’ll bust a gut.”

“Los Alamos has to be checked out.”

“I’ll call Simon.” She picked up the phone and dialed the office. The switchboard operator was a guy she knew. “Hey, Charlie, this is Judy. Is Simon Sparrow in the office?”

“He came and went,” Charlie said. “Want me to try his car?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

She waited. Charlie came back on the line and said: “No answer. I tried his home number, too. Shall I put a message on his pager?”

“Yes, please.” Judy recalled that he had said he was going to sleep. “I bet he’s turned it off, though.”

“I’ll send him a message to call you.”

“Thanks.” She hung up and said to Bo: “I think I have to see Kincaid. I guess if I give him a hot lead, he can’t be too mad at me.”

Bo just shrugged. “You don’t have any choice, do you?”

Judy could not risk people getting killed just because she was afraid to confess what she had been doing. “No, I don’t have any choice,” she said.

She was wearing narrow black jeans and a strawberry pink T-shirt. The T-shirt was too figure hugging for the office, even on a Saturday. She went up to her room and changed it for a loose white polo shirt. Then she got in her Monte Carlo and drove downtown.

Marvin would have to organize a raid on Los Alamos. There might be trouble: vigilantes were crazy. The raid needed to be heavily manned and meticulously organized. The Bureau was terrified of another Waco. Every agent in the office would be drafted in for it. The Sacramento field office of the FBI would also be involved. They would probably strike at dawn tomorrow.

She went straight to Kincaid’s office. His secretary was in the outer room, working at her computer, wearing a Saturday outfit of white jeans and a red shirt. She picked up the phone and said: “Judy Maddox is here to see you.” After a moment she hung up and said to Judy: “Go right in.”

Judy hesitated at the door to the inner sanctum. The last two times she had entered this office, she had suffered humiliation and disappointment inside. But she was not superstitious. Maybe this time Kincaid would be understanding and gracious.

It still jarred her to see his beefy figure in the chair that used to belong to the slight, dapper Milton Lestrange. She had not yet visited Milt in the hospital, she realized. She made a mental note to go tonight or tomorrow.

Brian’s greeting was chilly. “What can I do for you, Judy?”

“I saw Simon Sparrow earlier,” she began. “He brought his report to me because he hadn’t heard I was off the case. Naturally, I told him to give it to Marvin.”

“Naturally.”

“But he told me a little of what he had found, and I speculated that the Hammer of Eden is a cult that feels somehow threatened by a planned building project for a power plant.”

Brian looked annoyed. “I’ll pass this on to Marvin,” he said impatiently.

Judy plowed on. “There are several power plant projects in California right now; I checked. And one of them is in Silver River Valley, where there is a right-wing vigilante group called Los Alamos. Brian, I think Los Alamos must be the Hammer of Eden. I think we should raid them.”

“Is that what you think?”

Oh, shit.

“Is there a flaw in my logic?” she said icily.

“You bet there is.” He stood up. “The flaw is, you’re not on the goddamn case.”

“I know,” she said. “But I thought—”

He interrupted her, stretching his arm across the big desk and pointing an accusing finger at her face. “You’ve intercepted the psycholinguistic report and you’re trying to sneak your way back on the case — and I know why! You think it’s a high-profile case, and you’re trying to get yourself noticed.”

“Who by?” she said indignantly.

“FBI headquarters, the press, Governor Robson.”

“I am not!”

“You just listen up. You are off this case. Do you understand me? O — f–f, off. You don’t talk to your friend Simon about it. You don’t check power plant schemes. And you don’t propose raids on vigilante hangouts.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“This is what you do. You go home. And you leave this case to Marvin and me.”

“Brian—”

“Good-bye, Judy. Have a nice weekend.”

She stared at him. He was red faced and breathing hard. She felt furious but helpless. She fought back the angry retorts that sprang to her lips. She had been forced to apologize for swearing at him once already, and she did not need that humiliation again. She bit her lip. After a long moment she turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

11

Priest parked the old Plymouth ’Cuda at the side of the road in the faint light of early dawn. He took Melanie’s hand and led her into the forest. The mountain air was cool, and they shivered in their T-shirts until the effort of walking warmed their bodies. After a few minutes they emerged on a bluff that looked over the width of the Silver River Valley.

“This is where they want to build the dam,” Priest said.

At this point the valley narrowed to a bottleneck, so that the far side was no more than four or five hundred yards away. It was still too dark to see the river, but in the morning silence they heard it rushing along below them. As the light strengthened, they could distinguish the dark shapes of cranes and giant earthmoving machines below them, silent and still, like sleeping dinosaurs.

Priest had almost given up hope that Governor Robson would now negotiate. This was the second day since the Owens Valley earthquake, and still there was no word. Priest could not figure out the governor’s strategy, but it was not capitulation.

There would have to be another earthquake.

But he was anxious. Melanie and Star might be reluctant, especially as the second tremor would have to do more damage than the first. He had to firm up their commitment. He was starting with Melanie.

“It’ll create a lake ten miles long, all the way up the valley,” he told her. He could see her pale oval face become taut with anger. “Upstream from here, everything you see will be under water.”

Beyond the bottleneck, there was a broad valley floor. As the landscape became visible, they could see a scatter of houses and some neat cultivated fields, all connected by dirt tracks. Melanie said: “Surely someone tried to stop the dam?”

Priest nodded. “There was a big legal battle. We took no part. We don’t believe in courts and lawyers. And we didn’t want reporters and TV crews swarming all over our place — too many of us have secrets to keep. That’s why we don’t even tell people we’re a commune. Most of our neighbors don’t know we exist, and the others think the vineyard is run from Napa and staffed by transient workers. So we didn’t take part in the protest. But some of the wealthier residents hired lawyers, and the environmental groups sided with the local people. It did no good.”

“How come?”

“Governor Robson backed the dam and put this guy Al Honeymoon on the case.” Priest hated Honeymoon. He had lied and cheated and manipulated the press with total ruthlessness. “He got the whole thing turned around so that the media made folks here look like a handful of selfish types who wanted to deny electric power to every hospital and school in California.”

“Like it’s your fault that people in Los Angeles put underwater lights in their pools and have electric motors to close their drapes.”

“Right. So Coastal Electric got permission to build the dam.”

“And all those people will lose their homes.”

“Plus a pony-trekking center, a wildlife camp, several summer cabins, and a crazy bunch of armed vigilantes known as Los Alamos. Everyone gets compensation — except us, because we don’t own our land, we rent it on a one-year lease. We get nothing — for the best vineyard between Napa and Bordeaux.”

“And the only place I ever felt at peace.”

Priest gave a murmur of sympathy. This was the way he wanted the conversation to go. “Has Dusty always had these allergies?”

“From birth. He was actually allergic to milk — cow’s milk, formula, even breast milk. He survived on goat’s milk. That was when I realized. The human race must be doing something wrong if the world is so polluted that my own breast milk is poisonous to my child.”

“But you took him to doctors.”

“Michael insisted. I knew they’d do no good. They gave us drugs that suppressed his immune system in order to inhibit the reaction to allergens. What kind of a way is that to treat his condition? He needed pure water and clean air and a healthy way of life. I guess I’ve been searching, ever since he was born, for a place like this.”

“It was hard for you.”

“You have no idea. A single woman with a sick kid can’t hold down a job, can’t get a decent apartment, can’t live. You think America’s a big place, but it’s all the damn same.”

“You were in a bad way when I met you.”

“I was about to kill myself, and Dusty, too.” Tears came to her eyes.

“Then you found this place.”

Her face darkened with anger. “And now they want to take it away from me.”

“The FBI is saying we didn’t cause the earthquake, and the governor hasn’t said anything.”

“The hell with them, we’ll have to do it again! Only this time make sure they can’t ignore it.”

That was what he wanted her to say. “It would have to cause real damage, bring down some buildings. People might get hurt.”

“But we have no choice!”

“We could leave the valley, break up the commune, go back to the old way of life: regular jobs, money, poisoned air, greed, jealousy, and hate.”

He had her frightened. “No!” she cried. “Don’t say that!”

“I guess you’re right. We can’t go back now.”

“I sure can’t.”

He took another look up and down the valley. “We’ll make certain it stays the way God made it.”

She closed her eyes in relief and said: “Amen.”

He took her hand and led her through the trees back to the car.

Driving along the narrow road up the valley, Priest said: “Are you going to pick up Dusty from San Francisco today?”

“Yeah, I’ll leave after breakfast.”

Priest heard a strange noise over the asthmatic throb of the ancient V8 engine. He glanced up out of the side window and saw a helicopter.

“Shit,” he said, and stamped on the brake.

Melanie was thrown forward. “What is it?” she said in a frightened voice.

Priest stopped the car and jumped out. The chopper was disappearing northward.

Melanie got out. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s a helicopter doing here?”

“Oh, my God,” she said shakily. “You think it’s looking for us?”

The noise faded, then came back. The chopper reappeared suddenly over the trees, flying low.

“I think it’s the feds,” Priest said. “Damn!” After yesterday’s lackluster press conference, he had felt safe for a few more days. Kincaid and Hayes had seemed a long way from tracking him down. Now they were here, in the valley.

Melanie said: “What are we going to do?”

“Keep calm. They haven’t come for us.”

“How do you know?”

“I made sure of it.”

She became tearful. “Priest, why do you keep talking in riddles?”

“I’m sorry.” He remembered that he needed her for what he had to do. That meant he had to explain things to her. He gathered his thoughts. “They can’t be coming for us because they don’t know about us. The commune doesn’t appear on any government records — our land is rented by Star. It’s not on police or FBI files because we’ve never come to their attention. There has never been a newspaper article or TV program about us. We’re not registered with the IRS. Our vineyard isn’t on any map.”

“So why are they here?”

“I think they’ve come for Los Alamos. Those nutcases must be on file with every law enforcement agency in the continental United States. For God’s sake, they stand at their gate holding high-powered rifles, just to make sure that everyone knows there’s a bunch of dangerous frigging lunatics in there.”

“How can you be sure the FBI are after them?”

“I made certain of it. When Star called the John Truth show, I had her say the Los Alamos slogan: ‘We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government.’ I laid a false trail.”

“Are we safe, then?”

“Not quite. After they draw a blank at Los Alamos, the feds may take a look at the other people in the valley. They’ll see the vineyard from the chopper and pay us a visit. So we’d better get home to warn the others.”

He jumped into the car. As soon as Melanie was in, he floored the pedal. But the car was twenty-five years old and had not been designed for speed on winding mountain roads. He cursed its wheezy carburetors and lurching suspension.

As he struggled to maintain speed on the twisting road, he wondered fretfully who at the FBI had ordered this raid. He had not expected Kincaid or Hayes to make the necessary intuitive jump. There had to be someone else on the case. He wondered who.

A black car came up behind, going fast, headlights blazing although it was past daybreak. They were approaching a bend, but the driver honked and pulled out to pass. As it went by, Priest saw the driver and his companion, two burly young men, dressed in casual clothes but clean shaven and short haired.

Immediately afterward a second car came up behind, honking and flashing.

“Fuck this,” Priest said. When the FBI was in a hurry, it was best to get out of the way. He braked and pulled over. The nearside wheels of the ’Cuda bumped over the roadside grass. The second car flashed by, and a third came up. Priest brought his car to a halt.

He and Melanie sat and watched a stream of vehicles race past. As well as cars, there were two armored trucks and three minivans full of grim-faced men and a few women. “It’s a raid,” Melanie said woefully.

“No fucking kidding,” Priest said, the tension making him sarcastic.

She did not seem to notice.

Then a car peeled off from the convoy and pulled up right behind the ’Cuda.

Priest was suddenly afraid. He stared at the car in his rearview mirror. It was a dark green Buick Regal. The driver was speaking into a phone. There was another man in the passenger seat. Priest could not make out their faces.

He wished with all his heart that he had not gone to the press conference. One of the guys in the Buick might have been there yesterday. If so, he would be sure to ask what a lawyer from Oakland was doing in Silver River Valley. It could hardly be a coincidence. Any agent with half a brain would immediately put Priest at the top of the suspect list.

The last of the convoy flashed by. In the Buick, the driver put down his phone. Any second now the agents would get out of the car. Priest cast about desperately for a plausible story. I got so interested in this case, and I remembered a TV show on this vigilante group and their slogan, about not recognizing the government, the same thing the woman said on John Truth’s answering machine, so I thought I would, you know, play detective, and check them out myself.… But they would not take his word for it. No matter how plausible his story, they would question him so thoroughly that he could not possibly fool them.

The two agents got out of the car. Priest stared hard at them in his mirror.

He did not recognize either one.

He relaxed a little. There was a film of sweat on his face. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

Melanie said: “Oh, Jesus, what do they want?”

“Stay cool,” Priest said. “Don’t seem like you want to hurry away. I’m going to pretend I’m real, real interested in them. That’ll make them want to get rid of us as fast as they can. Reverse psychology.” He jumped out of the car.

“Hey, are you the police?” he said enthusiastically. “Is there something big going down?”

The driver, a thin man with black-framed glasses, said: “We’re federal agents. Sir, we checked your plates, and your car is registered to the Napa Bottling Company.”

Paul Beale took care of getting the car insured and smogged and other paperwork. “That’s my employer.”

“May I see your driver’s license?”

“Oh, sure.” Priest took the license out of his back pocket. “Was that your chopper I saw?”

“Yes, sir, it was.” The agent checked his license and handed it back. “And where are you headed this morning?”

“We work at the wine farm up the valley a way. Hey, I hope you’ve come after those goddamn vigilantes. They got everyone round here scared half to death. They—”

“And where have you been this morning?”

“We were at a party in Silver City last night. It went on kind of late. But I’m sober, don’t worry!”

“That’s okay.”

“Listen, I write paragraphs for the local paper, you know, the Silver City Chronicle? Could I get a quote from you, about this raid? It’s going to be the biggest news in Sierra County for years!” As the words came out of his mouth, he realized this was a risky pose for a man who could not read or write. He slapped his pockets. “Gee, I don’t even have a pencil.”

“We can’t say anything,” the agent said. “You’ll have to call the press person at the Sacramento office of the Bureau.”

He pretended disappointment. “Oh. Oh, sure, I understand.”

“You said you were headed home.”

“Yes. Okay, I guess we’ll be on our way. Good luck with those vigilantes!”

“Thank you.”

The agents returned to their car.

They didn’t make a note of my name.

Priest jumped back in his car. In his mirror he watched the agents as they got into their car. Neither one appeared to write anything down.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed gratefully. “They bought my story.”

He pulled away, and the Buick followed.

As he approached the entrance to the Los Alamos spread a few minutes later, Priest rolled down his window, listening for gunfire. He heard none. It seemed the FBI had caught Los Alamos sleeping.

He rounded a bend and saw two cars parked near the entrance to the place. The wooden five-bar gate that had blocked the track was smashed to splinters: he guessed the FBI had driven their armored trucks right through it without stopping. The gate was normally guarded — where was the sentry? Then he saw a man in camouflage pants, facedown on the grass, hands cuffed behind his back, guarded by four agents. The feds were taking no chances.

The agents looked up alertly at the ’Cuda, then relaxed when they saw the green Buick following it.

Priest drove slowly, like a curious passerby.

Behind him, the Buick pulled over and stopped near the busted gate.

As soon as he was out of sight, Priest stepped on the gas.

When he got back to the commune he went straight to Star’s cabin, to tell her about the FBI.

He found her in bed with Bones.

He touched her shoulder to wake her, then said: “We need to talk. I’ll wait outside.”

She nodded. Bones did not stir.

Priest stepped outside while she got dressed. He had no objection to Star renewing her relationship with Bones, of course. Priest was sleeping with Melanie regularly, and Star had the right to amuse herself with an old flame. All the same he felt a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. In bed together, were they passionate, hungry for each other — or relaxed and playful? Did Star think of Priest while she was making love to Bones, or did she put all other lovers out of her mind and think only of the one she was with? Did she compare them in her head and notice that one was more energetic, or more tender, or more skillful? These questions were not new. He recalled having the same thoughts whenever Star had a lover. This was just like the early days, except that they were all so much older.

He knew that his commune was not like others. Paul Beale followed the fortunes of other groups. They had all started with similar ideals, but most had compromised. They generally still worshiped together, following a guru or a religious discipline of some kind, but they had reverted to private property and the use of money and no longer practiced complete sexual freedom. They were weak, Priest figured. They had not had the strength of will to stick to their ideals and make them work. In self-satisfied moments he told himself it was a question of leadership.

Star came out in her jeans and a baggy bright blue sweatshirt. For someone who had just got up, she looked great. Priest told her so. “A good fuck does wonders for my complexion,” she said. There was just enough of an edge in her voice to make Priest think that Bones was some kind of revenge for Melanie. Was this going to be a destabilizing factor? He already had too much to worry about.

He put that thought aside for the moment. Walking to the cookhouse, he told Star about the FBI raid on Los Alamos. “They may decide to check out the other residences in the valley, and if so, they’ll probably find their way here. They won’t be suspicious so long as we don’t let them know we’re a commune. We just have to maintain our usual pretense. If we’re itinerant workers, with no long-term interest in the valley, there’s no reason we should care about the dam.”

She nodded. “You’d better remind everyone at breakfast. The Rice Eaters will know what’s really on your mind. The others will think it’s just our normal policy of not saying anything that might attract attention. What about the children?”

“They won’t question kids. They’re the FBI, not the Gestapo.”

“Okay.”

They went into the cookhouse and started coffee.

It was midmorning when two agents stumbled down the hill with mud on their loafers and weeds clinging to the cuffs of their pants. Priest was watching from the barn. If he recognized anyone from yesterday, he planned to slip away through the cabins and disappear into the woods. But he had never seen these two before. The younger man was tall and broad, with a Nordic look, pale blond hair and fair skin. The older was an Asian man with black hair thinning on top. They were not the two who had questioned him this morning, and he was sure neither had been at the press conference.

Most of the adults were in the vineyard, spraying the vines with diluted hot sauce to keep the deer from eating the new shoots. The children were in the temple, having a Sunday school lesson from Star, who was telling them the story of Moses in the bullrushes.

Despite the careful preparations he had made, Priest felt a stab of sheer terror as the agents approached. For twenty-five years this place had been a secret sanctuary. Until last Thursday, when a cop had come looking for the parents of Flower, no official had ever set foot here: no county surveyor, no mailman, not even a garbage collector. And here was the FBI. If he could have called down a bolt of lightning to strike the agents dead, he would have done it without a second thought.

He took a deep breath, then walked across the slope of the hillside to the vineyard. Dale greeted the two agents, as arranged. Priest filled a watering can with the pepper mixture and began to spray, moving toward Dale so that he could hear the conversation.

The Asian man spoke in a friendly tone. “We’re FBI agents, making some routine inquiries in the neighborhood. I’m Bill Ho, and this is John Aldritch.”

That was encouraging, Priest told himself. It sounded as though they had no special interest in the vineyard: they were just looking around, hoping to pick up clues. It was a fishing expedition. But the thought did not make him feel much less tense.

Ho looked around appreciatively, taking in the valley. “What a beautiful spot.”

Dale nodded. “We’re very attached to it.”

Take care, Dale — drop the heavy irony. This is not a frigging game.

Aldritch, the younger agent, said impatiently: “Are you in charge here?” He had a southern accent.

“I’m the foreman,” Dale said. “How can I help you?”

Ho said: “Do you folks live here?”

Priest pretended to go on working, but his heart was thumping, and he strained to hear.

“Most of us are seasonal workers,” Dale said, following the script agreed upon with Priest. “The company provides accommodation because this place is so far from anywhere.”

Aldritch said: “Strange place for a fruit farm.”

“It’s not a fruit farm, it’s a winery. Would you like to try a glass of last year’s vintage? It’s really very good.”

“No thanks. Unless you have an alcohol-free product.”

“No, sorry. Just the real thing.”

“Who owns the place?”

“The Napa Bottling Company.”

Aldritch made a note.

Ho glanced toward the cluster of buildings on the far side of the vineyard. “Mind if we take a look around?”

Dale shrugged. “Sure, go ahead.” He resumed his work.

Priest watched anxiously as the agents headed off. On the surface, it was a plausible story that these people were badly paid workers living in low-grade accommodation provided by a stingy management. But there were clues here that might make a smart agent ask more questions. The temple was the most obvious. Star had folded up the old banner bearing the Five Paradoxes of Baghram. All the same, someone with an inquiring mind might ask why the schoolroom was a round building with no windows and no furniture.

Also, there were marijuana patches in the woods nearby. The FBI agents were not interested in small-time doping, but cultivation did not fit in with the fiction of a transient population. The free shop looked like any other shop until you noticed that there were no prices on anything and no cash register.

There might be a hundred other ways the pretense would fall apart under thorough investigation, but Priest was hoping the FBI was focused on Los Alamos and just checking out the neighbors as a matter of routine.

He had to fight the temptation to follow the agents. He was desperate to see what they looked at, and hear what they said to each other, as they poked around his home. But he forced himself to keep spraying, glancing up from the vines every minute or two to see where they were and what they were doing.

They went into the cookhouse. Garden and Slow were there, making lasagne for the midday meal. What were the agents saying to them? Was Garden chattering nervously and giving herself away? Had Slow forgotten his instructions and started to jabber enthusiastically about daily meditation?

The agents emerged from the cookhouse. Priest looked hard at them, trying to guess their thoughts; but they were too far away for him to read their faces, and their body language gave nothing away.

They began to wander around the cabins, peeking in. Priest could not guess whether anything they saw would make them suspect that this was anything more than a wine farm.

They checked out the grape press, the barns where the wine was fermented, and the barrels of last year’s vintage waiting to be bottled. Had they noticed that nothing was powered by electricity?

They opened the door of the temple. Would they speak to the children, contrary to Priest’s prediction? Would Star blow her cool and call them fascist pigs? Priest held his breath.

The agents closed the door without going inside.

They spoke to Oaktree, who was cutting barrel staves in the yard. He looked up at them and answered curtly without stopping his work. Maybe he figured it would look suspicious if he was friendly.

They came across Aneth hanging diapers out to dry. She refused to use disposable diapers. She was probably explaining this to the agents, saying, “There aren’t enough trees in the world for every child to have disposable diapers.”

They walked down to the stream and studied the stones in the shallow brook, seeming to contemplate crossing. The marijuana patches were all on the far side. But the agents apparently did not want to get their feet wet, for they turned around and came back.

At last they returned to the vineyard. Priest tried to study their faces without staring. Were they convinced, or had they seen something that made them suspicious? Aldritch seemed hostile, Ho friendly, but that could just be an act.

Aldritch spoke to Dale. “Y’all have some of these cabins tricked out kind of nice, for ‘temporary accommodation,’ don’t you?”

Priest went cold. It was a skeptical question, suggesting that Aldritch did not buy their story. Priest began to wonder if there was any way he could kill both FBI men and get away with it.

“Yeah,” Dale said. “Some of us come back year after year.” He was improvising: none of this had been scripted. “And a few of us live here all year round.” Dale was not a practiced liar. If this went on too long, he would give himself away.

Aldritch said: “I want a list of everyone who lives or works here.”

Priest’s mind raced. Dale could not use people’s communal names, for that would give the game away — and anyway, the agents would insist on real names. But some of the communards had police records, including Priest himself. Would Dale think fast enough to realize he had to invent names for everyone? Would he have the nerve to do it?

Ho added: “We also need ages and permanent addresses.” His tone was apologetic.

Shit! This is getting worse.

Dale said: “You could get those from the company’s records.”

No, they couldn’t.

Ho said: “I’m sorry, we need them right now.”

Dale looked nonplussed. “Gee, I guess you’ll have to go round asking them all. I sure as heck don’t know everyone’s birthday. I’m their boss, not their granddad.”

Priest’s mind raced. This was dangerous. He could not allow the agents to question everyone. They would give themselves away a dozen times.

He made a snap decision and stepped forward. “Mr. Arnold?” he said, inventing a name for Dale on the spur of the moment. “Maybe I could assist the gentlemen.” Without planning it, he had adopted the persona of a friendly dope, eager to help but not very bright. He addressed the agents. “I’ve been coming here a few years, I guess I know everybody, and how old they are.”

Dale looked relieved to hand the responsibility back to Priest. “Okay, go ahead,” he said.

“Why don’t you come to the cookhouse?” Priest said to the agents. “If you won’t drink wine, I bet you’d like a cup of coffee.”

Ho smiled and said: “That’d be real good.”

Priest led them back through the rows of vines and took them into the cookhouse. “We got some paperwork to do,” he explained to Garden and Slow. “You two take no notice of us, just go on making that great-smelling pasta.”

Ho offered Priest his notebook. “Why don’t you just write down the names, ages, and addresses right here?”

Priest did not take the notebook. “Oh, my handwriting is the worst in the world,” he said smoothly. “Now, you sit yourselves down and write the names while I make you coffee.” He put a pot of water on the fire, and the agents sat at the long pine table.

“The foreman is Dale Arnold, he’s forty-two.” These guys would never be able to check. No one here was in the phone book or on any kind of register.

“Permanent address?”

“He lives here. Everyone does.”

“I thought you were seasonal workers.”

“That’s right. Most of them will leave, come November, when the harvest is in and the grapes have been crushed; but they ain’t the kind of folks who keep two homes. Why pay rent on a place when you’re living somewhere else?”

“So the permanent address for everyone here would be …?”

“Silver River Valley Winery, Silver City, California. But people have their mail sent to the company in Napa, it’s safer.”

Aldritch was looking irritated and slightly bemused, as Priest intended. Querulous people did not have the patience to pursue minor inconsistencies.

He poured them coffee as he made up a list of names. To help him remember who was who, he used variations of their commune names: Dale Arnold, Peggy Star, Richard Priestley, Holly Goldman. He left out Melanie and Dusty, as they were not there — Dusty was at his father’s place, and Melanie had gone to fetch him.

Aldritch interrupted him. “In my experience, most transient agricultural workers in this state are Mexican, or at least Hispanic.”

“Yeah, and this bunch is everything but,” Priest agreed. “The company has a few vineyards, and I guess the boss keeps the Hispanics all together in their own gangs, with Spanish-speaking foremen, and puts everyone else on our team. It ain’t racism, you understand, just practical.”

They seemed to accept that.

Priest went slowly, dragging out the session as long as possible. The agents could do no harm in the cookhouse. If they got bored and became impatient to leave, so much the better.

While he talked, Garden and Slow carried on cooking. Garden was silent and stone-faced and somehow managed to stir pots in a haughty manner. Slow was jumpy and kept darting terrified glances at the agents, but they did not seem to care. Maybe they were used to people being frightened of them. Maybe they liked it.

Priest took fifteen or twenty minutes to give them the names and ages of the commune’s twenty-six adults. Ho was closing his notebook when Priest said: “Now, the children. Let me think. Gee, they grow up so fast, don’t they?”

Aldritch gave a grunt of exasperation. “I don’t think we need to know the children’s names,” he said.

“Okay,” Priest said equably. “More coffee for you folks?”

“No thanks.” Aldritch looked at Ho. “I think we’re done here.”

Ho said: “So this land is owned by the Napa Bottling Company?”

Priest saw a chance to cover up the slip Dale had made earlier. “No, that ain’t exactly right,” he said. “The company operates the winery, but I believe the land is owned by the government.”

“So the name on the lease would be Napa Bottling.”

Priest hesitated. Ho, the friendly one, was asking the really dangerous questions. But how was he to reply? It was too risky to lie. They could check this in seconds. Reluctantly he said: “Matter of fact, I think the name on the lease may be Stella Higgins.” He hated to give Star’s real name to the FBI. “She was the woman who started the vineyard, years ago.” He hoped it would not be of any use to them. He could not see how it gave them any clues.

Ho wrote down the name. “That’s all, I think,” he said.

Priest hid his relief. “Well, good luck with the rest of your inquiries,” he said as he led them out.

He took them through the vineyard. They stopped to thank Dale for his cooperation. “Who are you guys after, anyway?” Dale said.

“A terrorist group that’s trying to blackmail the governor of California,” Ho told him.

“Well, I sure hope you catch them,” Dale said sincerely.

No, you don’t.

At last the two agents walked away across the field, stumbling occasionally on the uneven ground, and disappeared into the trees.

“Well, that seemed to go pretty well,” Dale said to Priest, looking pleased with himself.

Jesus Christ almighty, if only you knew.

12

Sunday afternoon, Judy took Bo to see the new Clint Eastwood movie at the Alexandria Cinema on the corner of Geary and Eighteenth. To her surprise, she forgot about earthquakes for a couple of hours and had a good time. Afterward they went for a sandwich and a beer at one of Bo’s joints, a cops’ pub with a TV over the bar and a sign on the door saying “We cheat tourists.”

Bo finished his cheeseburger and took a swig of Guinness. “Clint Eastwood should star in the story of my life,” he said.

“Come on,” Judy said. “Every detective in the world thinks that.”

“Yeah, but I even look like Clint.”

Judy grinned. Bo had a round face with a snub nose. She said: “I like Mickey Rooney for the part.”

“I think people should be able to divorce their kids,” Bo said, but he was laughing.

The news came on TV. When Judy saw footage of the raid on Los Alamos, she smiled sourly. Brian Kincaid had screamed at her for interfering — then he had adopted her plan.

However, there was no triumphal interview with Brian. There was film of a smashed five-bar gate, a sign that read “We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government,” and a SWAT team in their flak jackets returning from the scene. Bo said: “Looks to me like they didn’t find anything.”

That puzzled Judy. “I’m surprised,” she said. “Los Alamos seemed like really hot suspects.” She was disappointed. It seemed her instinct had been completely wrong.

The newscaster was saying that no arrests had been made. “They don’t even say they seized evidence,” Bo said. “I wonder what the story is.”

“If you’re about done here, we can go find out,” Judy said.

They left the bar and got into Judy’s car. She picked up her car phone and called Simon Sparrow’s home number. “What do you hear about the raid?” she asked him.

“We got zip.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“There are no computers on the premises, so it’s hard to imagine they could have left a message on the Internet. Nobody there even has a college degree, and I doubt if any one of them could spell seismologist. There are four women in the group, but none of them matches either of our two female profiles — these girls are in their late teens and early twenties. And the vigilantes have no beef with the dam. They’re happy with the compensation they’re getting from Coastal Electric for their land, and they’re looking forward to moving to their new place. Oh — and on Friday at two-twenty P.M., six of the seven men were at a store called Frank’s Sporting Weapons in Silver City, buying ammunition.”

Judy shook her head. “Well, whose dumb idea was it to raid them, anyway?”

It had been hers, of course. Simon said: “This morning at the briefing, Marvin claimed it was his.”

“Serves him right that it was a flop.” Judy frowned. “I don’t get it. It seemed like such a good lead.”

“Brian has another meeting with Mr. Honeymoon in Sacramento tomorrow afternoon. Looks like he’ll go empty-handed.”

“Mr. Honeymoon won’t like that.”

“I hear he’s not a real touchy-feely type guy.”

Judy smiled grimly. She had no sympathy for Kincaid, but she could not take pleasure in the failure of the raid. It meant the Hammer of Eden were still out there somewhere, planning another earthquake. “Thanks, Simon. See you tomorrow.”

As soon as she hung up, the phone rang. It was the switchboard operator at the office. “A Professor Quercus called with a message he said was urgent. He has some important news for you.”

Judy debated calling Marvin and passing the message to him. But she was too curious to know what Michael had to say. She dialed his home.

When he answered, she could hear the soundtrack of a TV cartoon in the background. Dusty was still there, she guessed. “This is Judy Maddox,” she said.

“Hi, how are you?”

She raised her eyebrows. A weekend with Dusty had mellowed him out. “I’m fine, but I’m off the case,” she said.

“I know that. I’ve been trying to reach the guy who’s taken over, man with a name like a soul singer.…”

“Marvin Hayes.”

“Right. Like, ‘Dancin’ in the Grapevine’ by Marvin Hayes and the Haystacks.”

Judy laughed.

Michael said: “But he doesn’t return my calls, so I’m stuck with you.”

That was more like Michael. “Okay, what have you got?”

“Can you come over? I really need to show you.”

She found herself pleased, even a little excited, at the thought of seeing him again. “Do you have any more Cap’n Crunch?”

“I think there’s a little left.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes.” She hung up. “I have to go see my seismologist,” she said to Bo. “Shall I drop you at the bus stop?”

“I can’t ride the bus like Jim Rockford. I’m a San Francisco detective!”

“So? You’re a human being.”

“Yeah, but the street guys don’t know that.”

“They don’t know you’re human?”

“To them I’m a demigod.”

He was kidding, but there was some truth in it, Judy knew. He had been putting hoodlums behind bars in this city for almost thirty years. Every kid on a street corner with vials of crack in the pockets of his bomber jacket was afraid of Bo Maddox.

“So you want to ride to Berkeley with me?”

“Sure, why not? I’m curious to meet your handsome seismologist.”

She made a U-turn and headed for the Bay Bridge. “What makes you think he’s handsome?”

He grinned. “From the way you talked to him,” he said smugly.

“You shouldn’t use cop psychology on your own family.”

“Cop, schmop. You’re my daughter, I can read your mind.”

“Well, you’re right. He’s a hunk. But I don’t much like him.”

“You don’t?” Bo sounded skeptical.

“He’s arrogant and difficult. He’s better when his kid’s around, that softens him.”

“He’s married?”

“Separated.”

“Separated is married.”

Judy could sense Bo losing interest in Michael. It felt like a drop in the temperature. She smiled to herself. He was still eager to marry her off, but he had old-fashioned scruples.

They reached Berkeley and drove down Euclid Street. There was an orange Subaru parked in Judy’s usual space under the magnolia tree. She found another slot.

When Michael opened the door of his apartment, Judy thought he looked strained. “Hi, Michael,” she said. “This is my father, Bo Maddox.”

“Come in,” Michael said abruptly.

His mood seemed to have changed in the short time it had taken to drive here. When they entered the living room, Judy saw why.

Dusty was on the couch, looking terrible. His eyes were red and watering, and his eyeballs seemed swollen. His nose was running, and he was breathing noisily. A cartoon was playing on TV, but he was hardly paying attention.

Judy knelt beside him and touched his hair. “Poor Dusty!” she said. “What happened?”

“He gets allergy attacks,” Michael explained.

“Did you call the doctor?”

“No need. I’ve given him the drug he needs to suppress the reaction.”

“How fast does it work?”

“It’s already working. He’s past the worst. But he may stay like this for days.”

“I wish I could do something for you, little man,” Judy said to Dusty.

A female voice said: “I’ll take care of him, thank you.”

Judy stood up and turned around. The woman who had just walked in looked as if she had stepped off a couturier’s catwalk. She had a pale oval face and straight red hair that fell past her shoulders. Although she was tall and thin, her bust was generous and her hips curvy. Her long legs were clad in close-fitting tan jeans, and she wore a fashionable lime green top with a V neck.

Until this moment Judy had felt smartly dressed in khaki shorts, tan loafers that showed off her pretty ankles, and a white polo shirt that gleamed against her café-au-lait skin. Now she felt dowdy, middle-aged, and out of date by comparison with this vision of street chic. And Michael was bound to notice that Judy had a big ass and small tits by comparison.

“This is Melanie, Dusty’s mom,” Michael said. “Melanie, meet my friend Judy Maddox.”

Melanie nodded curtly.

So that’s his wife.

Michael had not mentioned the FBI. Did he want Melanie to think Judy was a girlfriend?

“This is my father, Bo Maddox,” Judy said.

Melanie did not trouble to make small talk. “I was just leaving,” she said. She was carrying a small duffel bag with a picture of Donald Duck on the side, obviously Dusty’s.

Judy felt put down by Michael’s tall, voguish wife. She was annoyed with herself for the reaction. Why should I give a damn?

Melanie looked around the room and said: “Michael, where’s the rabbit?”

“Here.” Michael picked up a grubby soft toy from his desk and gave it to her.

She looked at the child on the couch. “This never happens in the mountains,” she said coldly.

Michael looked anguished. “What am I going to do, not see him?”

“We’ll have to meet somewhere out of town.”

“I want him to stay with me. It’s not the same if he doesn’t sleep over.”

“If he doesn’t sleep over, he won’t get like this.”

“I know, I know.”

Judy’s heart went out to Michael. He was obviously in distress, and his wife was so cold.

Melanie stuffed the rabbit into the Donald Duck bag and closed the zip. “We have to go.”

“I’ll carry him to your car.” Michael picked up Dusty from the couch. “Come on, tiger, let’s go.”

When they had left, Bo looked at Judy and said: “Wow. Unhappy families.”

She nodded. But she liked Michael better than before. She wanted to put her arms around him and say, You’re doing your best, no one can do more.

“He’s your type, though,” Bo said.

“I have a type?”

“You like a challenge.”

“That’s because I grew up with one.”

“Me?” He pretended to be outraged. “I spoiled you rotten.”

She pecked his cheek. “You did, too.”

When Michael returned he was grim faced and preoccupied. He did not offer Judy and Bo a drink or a cup of coffee, and he had forgotten all about Cap’n Crunch. He sat at his computer. “Look at this,” he said without preamble.

Judy and Bo stood behind him and looked over his shoulder.

He put a chart on the screen. “Here’s the seismograph of the Owens Valley tremor, with the mysterious preliminary vibrations I couldn’t understand — remember?”

“I sure do,” Judy said.

“Here’s a typical earthquake of about the same magnitude. This has normal foreshocks. See the difference?”

“Yes.” The normal foreshocks were uneven and sporadic, whereas the Owens Valley vibrations followed a pattern that seemed too regular to be natural.

“Now look at this.” He brought a third chart up on the screen. It showed a neat pattern of even vibrations, just like the Owens Valley chart.

“What made those vibrations?” Judy said.

“A seismic vibrator,” Michael announced triumphantly.

Bo said: “What the hell is that?”

Judy almost said, I don’t know, but I think I want one. She smothered a grin.

Michael said: “It’s a machine used by the oil industry to explore underground. Basically, it’s a huge jackhammer mounted on a truck. It sends vibrations through the earth’s crust.”

“And those vibrations triggered the earthquake?”

“I don’t think it can be a coincidence.”

Judy nodded solemnly. “That’s it, then. They really can cause earthquakes.” She felt a cold chill descend as the news sank in.

Bo said: “Jesus, I hope they don’t come to San Francisco.”

“Or Berkeley,” said Michael. “You know, although I told you it was possible, I never really believed it, in my heart, until now.”

Judy said: “The Owens Valley tremor was quite minor.”

Michael shook his head. “We can’t take comfort from that. The size of the earthquake bears no relation to the strength of the triggering vibration. It depends on the pressure in the fault. The seismic vibrator could trigger anything from a barely perceptible tremor to another Loma Prieta.”

Judy remembered the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989 as vividly as if it were last night’s bad dream. “Shit,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

Bo said: “You’re off the case.”

Michael frowned, puzzled. “You told me that,” he said to Judy. “But you didn’t say why.”

“Office politics,” Judy said. “We have a new boss who doesn’t like me, and he reassigned the case to someone he prefers.”

“I don’t believe this!” Michael said. “A terrorist group is causing earthquakes and the FBI is having a family spat about who gets to chase after them!”

“What can I tell you? Do scientists let personal squabbles get in the way of their search for the truth?”

Michael gave one of his sudden unexpected grins. “You bet your ass they do. But listen. Surely you can pass on this information to Marvin Whatever?”

“When I told my boss about Los Alamos, he ordered me not to interfere again.”

“This is incredible!” Michael said, becoming angry. “You can’t just ignore what I’ve told you.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t do that,” Judy said curtly. “Let’s keep cool and think for a moment. What’s the first thing we need to do with this information? If we can find out where the seismic vibrator came from, we may have a lead on the Hammer of Eden.”

“Right,” Bo said. “Either they bought it, or more likely they stole it.”

Judy asked Michael: “How many of these machines are there in the continental United States? A hundred? A thousand?”

“In there somewhere,” he said.

“Anyhow, not many. So the people who manufacture them probably have a record of every sale. I could track them down tonight, get them to make a list. And if the truck was stolen, it may be listed on the National Crime Information Center.” The NCIC, run by FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., could be accessed by any law enforcement agency.

Bo said: “The NCIC is only as good as the information that’s put in. We don’t have a license plate for this, and there’s no telling how it might be categorized on the computer. I could have the San Francisco PD put out a multistate query on the CLETS Computer.” CLETS was the California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. “And I could get the newspapers to print a picture of one of these trucks, get members of the public looking out for it.”

“Wait a minute,” Judy said. “If you do that, Kincaid will know I’m behind it.”

Michael rolled his eyes in an expression of despair.

Bo said: “Not necessarily. I won’t tell the papers that this is connected with the Hammer of Eden. I’ll just say we’re looking for a stolen seismic vibrator. It’s kind of an unusual auto theft, they’ll like the story.”

“Great,” Judy said. “Michael, can I have a printout of the three graphs?”

“Sure.” He touched a key and the printer whirred.

Judy put a hand on his shoulder. His skin was warm through the cotton of his shirt. “I sure hope Dusty feels better,” she said.

He covered her hand with his own. “Thanks.” His touch was light, his palm dry. She felt a frisson of pleasure. Then he took his hand away and said: “Uh, maybe you should give me your pager number, so I can reach you a little faster, if necessary.”

She took out a business card. After a moment’s thought, she wrote her home number on it before giving it to him.

Michael said: “After you two have made these phone calls …” He hesitated. “Would you like to meet for a drink, or maybe dinner? I’d really like to hear how you get on.”

“Not me,” Bo said. “I have a bowling match.”

“Judy, how about you?”

Is he asking me for a date?

“I was planning to visit someone in hospital,” she said.

Michael looked crestfallen.

Judy realized that there was not a thing she would rather do this evening than have dinner with Michael Quercus.

“But I guess that won’t take me all night,” she said. “Okay, sure.”

It was only a week since Milton Lestrange’s cancer had been diagnosed, but already he looked thinner and older. Perhaps it was the effect of the hospital setting: the instruments, the bed, the white sheets. Or maybe it was the baby blue pajamas that revealed a triangle of pale chest below the neck. He had lost all his power symbols: his big desk, his Mont Blanc fountain pen, his striped silk tie.

Judy was shocked to see him like this. “Gee, Milt, you don’t look so great,” she blurted.

He smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t lie to me, Judy.”

She felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry, it just came out.”

“Don’t blush. You’re right. I’m in bad shape.”

“What are they doing?”

“They’ll operate this week, they haven’t said what day. But that’s just to bypass the obstruction in the bowel. The outlook is poor.”

“What do you mean, poor?”

“Ninety percent of cases are fatal.”

Judy swallowed. “Jesus, Milt.”

“I may have a year.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He did not dwell on the grim prognosis. “Sandy, my first wife, came to see me yesterday. She told me you had called her.”

“Yeah. I had no idea whether she’d want to see you, but I figured at least she’d like to know you were in the hospital.”

He took Judy’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. Not many people would have thought of that. I don’t know how you got to be so wise, so young.”

“I’m glad she came.”

Milt changed the subject. “Take my mind off my troubles, tell me about the office.”

“You shouldn’t be concerning yourself—”

“Hell, I won’t. Work doesn’t worry you much when you’re dying. I’m just curious.”

“Well, I won my case. The Foong brothers are probably going to spend most of the next decade in jail.”

“Well done!”

“You always had faith in me.”

“I knew you could do it.”

“But Brian Kincaid recommended Marvin Hayes as the new supervisor.”

“Marvin? Shit! Brian knows you were supposed to get that job.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Marvin’s a tough guy, but slipshod. He cuts corners.”

“I’m baffled,” Judy said. “Why does Brian rate him so high? What is it with those two — are they lovers or something?”

Milt laughed. “No, not lovers. But one time, years ago, Marvin saved Brian’s life.”

“No kidding?”

“It was a shoot-out. I was there. We ambushed a boat unloading heroin on Sonoma Beach up in Marin County. It was early one morning in February, and the sea was so cold it hurt. There was no jetty, so the bad guys were stacking kilos of horse on a rubber dinghy to bring them ashore. We let them land the entire cargo, then we moved in.” Milt sighed, and a faraway look came into his blue eyes. It occurred to Judy that he would never see another dawn ambush.

After a moment he went on. “Brian made a mistake — he let one of them get too close to him. This little Italian grabbed him and pointed a gun at his head. We all had our weapons out, but if we shot the Italian, he would probably have pulled the trigger before he died. Brian was really scared.” Milt lowered his voice. “He pissed himself, we could see the stain on his suit pants. But Marvin was as cool as the devil himself. He starts walking toward Brian and the Italian. ‘Shoot me instead,’ he says. ‘It won’t make any difference.’ I’ve never seen anything like it. The Italian fell for it. He swung his gun arm round to aim at Marvin. In that split second, five of our people shot the guy.”

Judy nodded. It was typical of the stories that agents told after a few beers in Everton’s. But she did not dismiss it as macho bravado. FBI agents did not often get involved in shoot-outs. They never forgot the experience. She could imagine that Kincaid felt intensely close to Marvin Hayes after that. “Well, that explains the trouble I’ve been having,” she said. “Brian gave me a bullshit assignment, and then, when it turned out to be important, he took it from me and gave it to Marvin.”

Milt sighed. “I could intervene, I guess. I’m still SAC, technically. But Kincaid is an experienced office politician, and he knows I’m never coming back. He’d fight me. And I’m not sure I have the energy for that.”

Judy shook her head. “I wouldn’t want you to. I can handle this.”

“What’s the assignment he gave Marvin?”

“The Hammer of Eden, the people who cause earthquakes.”

“The people who say they cause earthquakes.”

“That’s what Marvin thinks. But he’s wrong.”

Milt frowned. “Are you serious?”

“Totally.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Work the case behind Brian’s back.”

Milt looked troubled. “That’s dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Judy said. “But not as dangerous as a goddamn earthquake.”

Michael wore a navy blue cotton suit over a plain white shirt, open at the neck, and no tie. Had he thrown on this ensemble without a moment’s thought, Judy wondered, or did he realize it made him look good enough to eat? She had changed into a white silk dress with red polka dots. It was about right for a May evening, and she always turned heads when she was wearing it.

Michael took her to a small downtown restaurant that served vegetarian Indian dishes. She had never tasted Indian food, so she let him order for her. She put her mobile phone on the table. “I know it’s bad manners, but Bo promised to call me if he got any information about stolen seismic vibrators.”

“Okay by me,” Michael said. “Did you call the manufacturers?”

“Yeah. I got a sales director at home watching baseball. He promised me a list of purchasers tomorrow. I tried for tonight but he said it was impossible.” She frowned in annoyance. We don’t have much time left — five days, now. “However, he faxed me a picture.” She took a folded sheet of paper from her purse and showed it to him.

He shrugged. “It’s just a big truck with a piece of machinery on the back.”

“But after Bo puts this picture out on CLETS, every cop in California will be watching for one. And if the newspapers and TV carry the picture tomorrow, half the population will be on the lookout, too.”

The food came. It was spicier than she was used to but delicious. Judy ate with gusto. After a few minutes she caught Michael looking at her with a faint smile. She raised an eyebrow. “Did I say something witty?”

“I’m pleased you’re enjoying the cuisine.”

She grinned. “Does it show?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll try to be more dainty.”

“Please don’t. It’s a pleasure to watch you. Besides …”

“What?”

“I like your go-for-it attitude. It’s one of the things that attracts me to you. You seem to have a big appetite for life. You like Dusty, and you have a good time hanging out with your dad, and you’re proud of the FBI, and you obviously love beautiful clothes … you even enjoy Cap’n Crunch.”

Judy felt herself flush, but she was pleased. She liked the picture he painted of her. She asked herself what it was about him that had attracted her. It was his strength, she decided. He could be irritatingly stubborn, but in a crisis he would be a rock. This afternoon, when his wife had been so heartless, most men would have quarreled, but he had been concerned only for Dusty.

Plus, I’d really love to get my hands inside his jockey shorts.

Judith, behave.

She took a sip of wine and changed the subject. “We’re assuming that the Hammer of Eden have data similar to yours about pressure points along the San Andreas fault.”

“They must have, to pick the locations where the seismic vibrator could trigger an earthquake.”

“Could you go through the same exercise? Study the data and figure out the best place?”

“I guess I could. Probably there would be a cluster of five or six possible sites.” He saw the direction her thoughts were taking. “Then, I suppose, the FBI could stake out the sites and watch for a seismic vibrator.”

“Yes — if I were in charge.”

“I’ll make the list anyway. Maybe I’ll fax it to Governor Robson.”

“Don’t let too many people see it. You might cause a panic.”

“But if my forecast turned out to be right, it could give my business a shot in the arm.”

“Does it need one?”

“It sure does. I have one big contract that just about pays the rent and the bill for my ex-wife’s mobile phone. I borrowed money from my parents to start the business, and I haven’t begun to pay it back. I was hoping to land another major client, Mutual American Insurance.”

“I used to work for them, years ago. But go on.”

“I thought the deal was in the bag, but they’re delaying the contract. I guess they’re having second thoughts. If they back out, I’m in trouble. But if I predicted an earthquake and turned out to be right, I think they’d sign. Then I’d be comfortable.”

“All the same, I hope you’ll be discreet. If everyone tries to leave San Francisco at the same time, there’ll be riots.”

He gave a devil-may-care grin that was infuriatingly attractive. “Got you rattled, haven’t I?”

She shrugged. “I’ll admit it. My position at the Bureau is vulnerable. If I’m associated with an outbreak of mass hysteria, I don’t think I could survive there.”

“Is that important to you?”

“Yes and no. Sooner or later I plan to get out and have children. But I want to quit by my timetable, not someone else’s.”

“Do you have anyone in mind to have the children with?”

“No.” She gave him a candid look. “A good man is hard to find.”

“I imagine there’d be a waiting list.”

“What a nice compliment.” I wonder if you’d join the line. I wonder if I’d want you to.

He offered her more wine.

“No thanks. I’d like a cup of coffee.”

He waved at a waiter. “Being a parent can be painful, but you never regret it.”

“Tell me about Dusty.”

He sighed. “I have no pets, no flowers in the apartment, very little dust because of my computers. All the windows are closed tight, and the place is air-conditioned. But we walked down to the bookstore, and on the way home he petted a cat. An hour later he was the way you saw him.”

“It’s too bad. The poor kid.”

“His mother recently moved to a place in the mountains, up near the Oregon border, and since then he’s been okay — until today. If he can’t visit me without having an attack, I don’t know what we’ll do. I can’t go and live in fucking Oregon; there aren’t enough earthquakes there.”

He looked so troubled that she reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You’ll work something out. You love him, that’s obvious.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I do.”

They drank their coffee, and he paid. He walked her to her car. “This evening has gone so fast,” he said.

I think the guy likes me.

Good.

“Do you want to go to a movie sometime?”

The dating game. It never changes. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Maybe one night this week?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

“May I kiss you good night?”

“Yes.” She grinned. “Yes, please.”

He bent his face to hers. It was a soft, tentative kiss. His lips moved gently against hers, but he did not open his mouth. She kissed him back the same way. Her breasts felt sensitive. Without thinking, she pressed her body against his. He squeezed her briefly, then broke away.

“Good night,” he said.

He watched her get into her car and waved as she drew away from the curb.

She turned a corner and pulled up at a stoplight.

“Wow,” she said.

On Monday morning Judy was assigned to a team investigating a militant Muslim group at Stanford University. Her first job was to comb computer records of gun licenses, looking for Arab names to check out. She found it hard to concentrate on a relatively harmless bunch of religious fanatics when she knew the Hammer of Eden were planning their next earthquake.

Michael called at five past nine. He said: “How are you, Agent Judy?”

The sound of his voice made her feel happy. “I’m fine, real good.”

“I enjoyed our date.”

She thought of that kiss, and the corners of her mouth twitched in a private smile. I’ll take another of those, anytime. “Me, too.”

“Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I guess.” That sounded too cool. “I mean, yes — unless something happens with this case.”

“Do you know Morton’s?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s meet in the bar at six. Then we can pick a movie together.”

“I’ll be there.”

But that was the only bright spot in her morning. By lunchtime she could no longer contain herself, and she called Bo, but he still had nothing. She called the seismic vibrator manufacturers, who said they had almost completed the list and it would be on her fax machine by the end of the business day. That’s another damn day gone! Now we’ve only got four days to catch these people.

She was too worried to eat. She went to Simon Sparrow’s office. He was wearing a natty English-style shirt, blue with pink stripes. He ignored the unofficial FBI dress code and got away with it, probably because he was so good at his job.

He was talking on the phone and watching the screen of a wave analyzer at the same time. “This may seem like an odd question, Mrs. Gorky, but would you tell me what you can see from your front window?” As he listened to the reply, he watched the spectrum of Mrs. Gorky’s voice, comparing it with a printout he had taped to the side of the monitor. After a few moments he drew a line through a name on a list. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Gorky. I don’t need to trouble you any further. Good-bye.”

Judy said: “This may seem like an odd question, Mr. Sparrow, but why do you need to know what Mrs. Gorky sees when she looks out the window?”

“I don’t,” Simon said. “That question generally elicits a response of about the length I need to analyze the voice. By the time she’s finished, I know whether she’s the woman I’m looking for.”

“And who’s that?”

“The one who called the John Truth show, of course.” He tapped the ring binder on his desk. “The Bureau, the police, and the radio stations that syndicate the show have so far received a total of one thousand two hundred and twenty-nine calls telling us who she is.”

Judy picked up the file and leafed through it. Could the vital clue be in here somewhere? Simon had got his secretary to collate the tip-off calls. In most cases there was a name, address, and phone number for the tipster and the same for the suspect. In some cases there was a quote from the caller:

I’ve always suspected she had Mob connections.

She’s one of those subversive types. I’m not surprised she’s involved in something like this.

She seems like a regular mom, but it’s her voice — I’d swear on the Bible.

One particularly useless tip gave no name but said:

I know I’ve heard her voice on the radio or something. It was so sexy, I remembered it. But it was a long time ago. Maybe I heard it on a record album.

It was a sexy voice, Judy recalled. She had noticed that at the time. The woman could make a fortune as a telephone salesperson, getting male executives to buy advertising space they did not need.

Simon said: “So far today I’ve eliminated one hundred of them. I think I’m going to need some assistance.”

Judy continued leafing through the file. “I’d help you if I could, but I’ve been warned off the case.”

“Gee, thanks, that sure makes me feel better.”

“Do you hear how it’s going?”

“Marvin’s team are calling everyone on the mailing list of the Green California Campaign. He and Brian just left for Sacramento, but I can’t imagine what they’re going to tell the famous Mr. Honeymoon.”

“It’s not the goddamn Greens, we all know that.”

“He doesn’t have any other ideas, though.”

Judy frowned, looking at the file. She had come across another call that mentioned a record. As before, there was no name for the suspect, but the caller had said:

I’ve heard the voice on an album, I’m darn sure. Something from way back, like the sixties.

Judy asked Simon: “Did you notice that two of the tip-offs mention a record album?”

“They do? I missed that!”

“They think they’ve heard her voice on an old record.”

“Is that right?” Simon was instantly animated. “It must be a speech album — bedtime stories, or Shakespeare, or something. A person’s speaking voice is quite different from their singing voice.”

Raja Khan passed the door and caught her eye. “Oh, Judy, your father called, I thought you were at lunch.”

Suddenly Judy felt breathless. She left Simon without a word and rushed back to her desk. Without sitting down, she picked up the phone and dialed Bo’s number.

He picked up right away. “Lieutenant Maddox here.”

“What have you got?”

“A suspect.”

“Jesus — that’s great!”

“Get this. A seismic vibrator went missing two weeks ago somewhere between Shiloh, Texas, and Clovis, New Mexico. The regular driver disappeared at the same time, and his burned-out car was found at the local dump, containing what appear to be his ashes.”

“He was murdered for his damn truck? These people don’t take prisoners, do they?”

“The prime suspect is one Richard Granger, aged forty-eight. They called him Ricky, and they thought he was Hispanic, but with a name like that he could be a Caucasian with a tan. And — wait for it — he has a record.”

“You’re a genius, Bo!”

“A copy should be coming out of your fax machine about now. He was a big-time hoodlum in L.A. around the late sixties, early seventies, in there. Convictions for assault, burglary, grand theft auto. Questioned about three murders, also drug dealing. But he disappeared from the scene in 1972. The LAPD thought he must have been whacked by the Mob — he owed them money — but they never found a body, so they didn’t close the file.”

“I get it. Ricky ran from the Mob, got religion, and started a cult.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t know where.”

“Except that it’s not in Silver River Valley.”

“The LAPD can check out his last known address. It’s probably a waste of time, but I’ll ask them anyway. Guy in Homicide there owes me a favor.”

“Do we have a picture of Ricky?”

“There’s one in the file, but it’s a photo of a nineteen-year-old. He’s pushing fifty now, he probably looks completely different. Luckily, the sheriff in Shiloh prepared an E-fit likeness.” E-fit was the computer program that had replaced the old-style police artist. “He promised to fax it to me, but it hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Refax it to me as soon as you get it, would you?”

“Sure. What’ll you do?”

“I’m going to Sacramento.”

It was four-fifteen when Judy stepped through the door that had GOVERNOR carved in it.

The same secretary sat behind the big desk. She recognized Judy and registered surprise. “You’re one of the FBI people, aren’t you? The meeting with Mr. Honeymoon started ten minutes ago.”

“That’s okay,” Judy said. “I’ve brought some important information that came in at the last moment. But before I go into the meeting, did a fax arrive here for me within the last few minutes?” Having left her office before the E-fit picture of Ricky Granger came through, she had called Bo from the car and asked him to fax it to the governor’s office.

“I’ll check.” She spoke into the phone. “Yes, your fax is here.” A moment later a young woman appeared from a side door with a sheet of paper.

Judy stared at the face on the fax. This was the man who might kill thousands. Her enemy.

She saw a handsome man who had gone to some trouble to hide the true shape of his face, as if perhaps he had anticipated this moment. His head was covered by a cowboy hat. That suggested that the witnesses who had helped the sheriff create the computer picture had never seen the suspect without a hat. Consequently there was no indication of what his hair was like. If he was bald, or grizzled, or curly, or long haired, he would look different from this picture. And the bottom half of his face was equally well concealed by a bushy beard and mustache. There could be any kind of jaw under there. By now, she guessed, he was clean shaven.

The man had deep-set eyes that stared hypnotically out of the picture. But to the general public, all criminals had staring eyes.

All the same, the picture told her some things. Ricky Granger did not habitually wear spectacles, he was evidently not African American or Asian, and since his beard was dark and luxuriant, he probably had dark hair. From the attached description she learned that he was about six feet tall, slim built, and fit looking, with no noticeable accent. It was not much, but it was better than nothing.

And nothing was what Brian and Marvin had.

Honeymoon’s assistant appeared and ushered Judy into the Horseshoe, where the governor and his staff had their offices.

Judy bit her lip. She was about to break the first rule of bureaucracy and make her boss look a fool. It would probably be the end of her career.

Screw it.

All she wanted now was to make her boss get serious about the Hammer of Eden before they killed people. As long as he did that, he could fire her.

They passed the entrance to the governor’s personal suite, then the assistant opened the door to Honeymoon’s office.

Judy stepped inside.

For a moment she allowed herself to enjoy the shock and dismay on the faces of Brian Kincaid and Marvin Hayes.

Then she looked at Honeymoon.

The cabinet secretary was wearing a pale gray shirt with a subdued black-and-white-dotted tie and dark gray patterned suspenders. He looked at Judy with raised eyebrows and said: “Agent Maddox! Mr. Kincaid just got through telling me he took you off the case because you’re a ditz.”

Judy was floored. She was supposed to be in control of this scene; she was the one causing consternation. Honeymoon had outdone her. He was not going to be upstaged in his own office.

She recovered fast. Okay, Mr. Honeymoon, if you want to play hardball, I’ll go in to bat.

She said to him: “Brian’s full of shit.”

Kincaid scowled, but Honeymoon just raised his eyebrows slightly.

Judy added: “I’m the best agent he has, and I just proved it.”

“You did?” Honeymoon said.

“While Marvin has been sitting around with his thumb up his ass pretending there’s nothing to worry about, I’ve solved this case.”

Kincaid stood up, his face flushed. He said angrily: “Maddox, just what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

She ignored him. “I know who’s sending terrorist threats to Governor Robson,” she said to Honeymoon. “Marvin and Brian don’t. You can make your own decision about who’s the ditz.”

Hayes was bright red. He burst out: “What the hell are you talking about?”

Honeymoon said: “Let’s all sit down. Now that Ms. Maddox has interrupted us, we may as well hear what she has to say.” He nodded to his assistant. “Close the door, John. Now, Agent Maddox, did I hear you say you know who’s making the threats?”

“Correct.” She put a fax picture on Honeymoon’s desk. “This is Richard Granger, a hoodlum from Los Angeles who was believed, wrongly, to have been killed by the Mob in 1972.”

“And what makes you think he’s the culprit?”

“Look at this.” She handed him another piece of paper. “Here’s the seismograph of a typical earthquake. Look at the vibrations that precede the tremor. There’s a haphazard series of different magnitudes. These are typical foreshocks.” She showed him a second sheet. “This is the Owens valley earthquake. Nothing haphazard here. Instead of a natural-looking mess, there is a neat series of regular vibrations.”

Hayes interrupted. “No one can figure out what those vibrations are.”

Judy turned to him. “You couldn’t figure it out, but I did.” She put another sheet on Honeymoon’s desk. “Look at this chart.”

Honeymoon studied the third chart, comparing it with the second. “Regular, just like the Owens valley graph. What makes vibrations like these?”

“A machine called a seismic vibrator.”

Hayes sniggered, but Honeymoon did not crack a smile. “What’s that?”

“One of these.” She handed him the picture sent to her by the manufacturers. “It’s used in oil exploration.”

Honeymoon looked skeptical. “Are you saying the earthquake was man-made?”

“I’m not theorizing, I’m giving you the facts. A seismic vibrator was used in that location immediately before the earthquake. You can make your own judgment about cause and effect.”

He gave her a hard, appraising look. He was asking himself whether she was a bullshitter or not. She stared right back at him. Finally he said: “Okay. How does that lead you to the guy with the beard?”

“A seismic vibrator was stolen a week ago in Shiloh, Texas.”

She heard Hayes say: “Oh, shit.”

Honeymoon said: “And the guy in the picture …?”

“Richard Granger is the prime suspect in the theft — and in the murder of the truck’s regular driver. Granger was working for the oil exploration team that was using the vibrator. The E-fit picture is based on the recollections of his co-workers.”

Honeymoon nodded. “Is that it?”

“Isn’t it enough?” she expostulated.

Honeymoon did not respond to that. He turned to Kincaid. “What have you got to say about all this?”

Kincaid gave him a shit-eating grin. “I don’t think we should bother you with internal disciplinary matters—”

“Oh, I want to be bothered,” Honeymoon said. There was a dangerous note in his voice, and the temperature in the room seemed to fall. “Look at it from my angle. You come here and tell me the earthquake definitely was not man-made.” His voice became louder. “Now it appears, from this evidence, that it very likely was. So we have a group out there that could cause a major disaster.” Judy felt a surge of triumph as it became clear Honeymoon had bought her story. He was furious with Kincaid. He stood up and pointed a finger at Brian. “You tell me you can’t find the perpetrators, then in walks Agent Maddox with a name, a police record, and a fucking picture.”

“I think I should say—”

“I feel like you’ve been dicking me around, Special Agent Kincaid,” said Honeymoon, overriding Kincaid. His face was dark with anger. “And when people dick me around I get kind of tetchy.”

Judy sat silent, watching Honeymoon destroy Kincaid. If this is what you’re like when you’re tetchy, Al, I’d hate to see you when you’re real mad.

Kincaid tried again. “I’m sorry if—”

“I also hate people who apologize,” Honeymoon said. “An apology is designed to make the offender feel okay so that he can do it again. Don’t be sorry.”

Kincaid tried to gather the shreds of his dignity. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you’re putting Agent Maddox in charge of this case.”

Judy stared at him. This was even better than she had hoped.

Kincaid looked as if he had been asked to strip naked in Union Square. He swallowed.

Honeymoon said: “If you have a problem with that, just say so, and I’ll have Governor Robson call the director of the FBI in Washington. The governor could then explain to the director the reasons why we’re making this request.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Kincaid said.

“So put Maddox in charge.”

“Okay.”

“No, not ‘okay.’ I want you to say it to her, right here, right now.”

Brian refused to look at Judy, but he said: “Agent Maddox, you are now in charge of the Hammer of Eden investigation.”

“Thank you,” Judy said.

Saved!

“Now get out of here,” Honeymoon said.

They all got up.

Honeymoon said: “Maddox.”

She turned at the door. “Yes.”

“Call me once a day.”

That meant he would continue to support her. She could talk to Honeymoon any time she liked. And Kincaid knew it. “You got it,” she said.

They went out.

As they were leaving the Horseshoe, Judy gave Kincaid a sweet smile and repeated the words he had said to her the last time they were in this building, four days ago. “You did just fine in there, Brian. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

13

Dusty was sick all day Monday.

Melanie drove into Silver City to pick up more of the allergy drug he needed. She left Dusty being cared for by Flower, who was going through a sudden maternal phase.

She came back in a panic.

Priest was in the barn with Dale. Dale had asked him to taste the blend of last year’s wine. It was going to be a nutty vintage, slow to mature but long-lived. Priest suggested using more of the lighter pressing from the lower, shadier slopes of the valley, to make the wine more immediately appealing; but Dale resisted. “This is a connoisseur’s wine now,” he said. “We don’t have to pander to supermarket buyers. Our customers like to keep the wine in their cellars for a few years before drinking it.”

Priest knew this was not the real reason Dale wanted to talk to him, but he argued anyway. “Don’t knock the supermarket buyers — they saved our lives in the early days.”

“Well, they can’t save our lives now,” Dale said. “Priest, why the fuck are we doing this? We have to be off this land by next Sunday.”

Priest suppressed a sigh of frustration. For Christ’s sake, give me a chance! I’ve almost done it — the governor can’t ignore earthquakes indefinitely. I just need a little more time. Why can’t you have faith?

He knew that Dale could not be won over by bullying, cajoling, or bullshit. Only logic would work with him. He forced himself to speak calmly, the epitome of sweet reason. “You could be right,” he said magnanimously. Then he could not resist adding a gibe. “Pessimists often are.”

“So?”

“All I’m saying to you is, give it those six days. Don’t quit now. Leave time for a miracle. Maybe it won’t happen. But maybe it will.”

“I don’t know,” Dale said.

Then Melanie burst in with a newspaper in her hand. “I have to talk to you,” she said breathlessly.

Priest’s heart missed a beat. What had happened? It must be about the earthquakes — and Dale was not in on the secret. Priest gave him a grin that said Ain’t women peculiar? and led Melanie out of the barn.

“Dale doesn’t know!” he said as soon as they were out of earshot. “What the hell—”

“Look at this!” she said, waving the paper in front of his eyes.

He was shocked to see a photograph of a seismic vibrator.

He hastily scanned the yard and the nearby buildings, but no one was around. All the same, he did not want to have this conversation with Melanie out in the open. “Not here!” he said fiercely. “Put the damn paper under your arm and let’s go to my cabin.”

She got a grip on herself.

They walked through the little settlement to his cabin. As soon as they were inside, he took the newspaper from her and looked at the picture again. There was no doubt about it. He could not read the caption or the accompanying story, of course, but the photo was of a truck just like the one he had stolen.

“Shit,” he said, and threw the newspaper on the table.

“Read it!” Melanie said.

“It’s too dim in here,” he replied. “Tell me what it says.”

“The police are looking for a stolen seismic vibrator.”

“The hell they are.”

“It doesn’t say anything about earthquakes,” Melanie went on. “It’s just, like, a funny story — who’d want to steal one of these damn things?”

“I don’t buy that,” Priest said. “This can’t be a coincidence. The story is about us, even if they don’t mention us. They know how we made the earthquake happen, but they haven’t told the press yet. They’re scared of creating a panic.”

“So why have they released this picture?”

“To make things hard for us. That picture makes it impossible to drive the truck on the open road. Every Highway Patrol officer in California is on the lookout.” He hit the table with his fist in frustration. “Fuck it, I can’t let them stop me this easily!”

“What if we drive at night?”

He had thought of that. He shook his head. “Still too risky. There are cops on the road at night.”

“I have to go check on Dusty,” Melanie said. She was close to tears. “Oh, Priest, he’s so sick — we won’t have to leave the valley, will we? I’m scared. I’ll never find another place where we can be happy, I know it.”

Priest hugged her to give her courage. “I’m not beaten yet, not by a long shot. What else does the article say?”

She picked up the paper. “There was a demonstration outside the Federal Building in San Francisco.” She smiled through her tears. “A group of people who say the Hammer of Eden are right, the FBI should leave us alone, and Governor Robson should stop building power plants.”

Priest was pleased. “Well, what do you know. There are still a few Californians who can think straight!” Then he became solemn again. “But that doesn’t help me figure out how to drive the truck without getting pulled over by the first cop who sees it.”

“I’m going to Dusty,” she said.

Priest went with her. In her cabin, Dusty lay on the bed, eyes streaming, face red, panting for breath. Flower sat beside him, reading aloud from a book with a picture of a giant peach on the cover. Priest touched his daughter’s hair. She looked up at him and smiled without pausing in her reading.

Melanie got a glass of water and gave Dusty a pill. Priest felt sorry for Dusty, but he could not help remembering that the boy’s illness was a lucky break for the commune. Melanie was caught in a trap. She believed she had to live where the air was pure, but she could not get a job outside the city. The commune was the only answer. If she had to leave here, she might find another, similar commune to take her in — but she might not, and anyway, she was too exhausted and discouraged to hit the road again.

And there was more to it than that, he thought. Deep inside her was a terrible rage. He did not know the source of it, but it was strong enough to make her yearn to shake the earth and burn cities and cause people to run screaming from their homes. Most of the time it was hidden beneath the facade of a sexy but disorganized young woman. But sometimes, when her will was thwarted and she felt frustrated and powerless, the anger showed.

He left them and headed for Star’s cabin, worrying over the problem of the truck. Star might have some ideas. Maybe there was a way they could disguise the seismic vibrator so that it looked like some other kind of vehicle, a Coke truck or a crane or something.

He stepped into the cabin. Star was putting a Band-Aid on Ringo’s knee, something she had to do about once a day. Priest smiled at his ten-year-old son and said: “What did you do this time, cowboy?” Then he noticed Bones.

He was lying on the bed, fully clothed but fast asleep — or more likely passed out. There was an empty bottle of Silver River Valley chardonnay on the rough wooden table. Bones’s mouth was open, and he was snoring softly.

Ringo began to tell Priest a long story about trying to cross the stream by swinging from a tree, but Priest hardly listened. The sight of Bones had given him inspiration, and his mind was working feverishly.

When Ringo’s grazed knee had been attended to, and the boy ran out, Priest told Star about the problem of the seismic vibrator. Then he told her the solution.

Priest, Star, and Oaktree helped Bones pull the big tarpaulin off the carnival ride. The vehicle stood revealed in its glorious, gaudy colors: a green dragon breathing red-and-yellow fire over three screaming girls in a spinning seat, and the gaudy lettering that, Bones had told Priest, said “The Dragon’s Mouth.”

Priest spoke to Oaktree. “We drive this vehicle up the track a way and park it next to the seismic vibrator. Then we take off these painted panels and fix them to our truck, covering the machinery. The cops are looking for a seismic vibrator, not a carnival ride.”

Oaktree, who was carrying his toolbox, looked closely at the panels, examining the way they were fixed. “No problem,” he said after a minute. “I can do it in a day, with one or two people helping me.”

“And can you put the panels back afterward, so that Bones’s ride will look the same?”

“Good as new,” Oaktree promised.

Priest looked at Bones. The great snag with this scheme was that Bones had to be in on it. In the old days Priest would have trusted Bones with his life. He was a Rice Eater, after all. Perhaps he could not be relied upon to show up for his own wedding, but he could keep a secret. However, since Bones had become a junkie, all bets were off. Heroin lobotomized people. A junkie would steal his mother’s wedding ring.

But Priest had to take the risk. He was desperate. He had promised an earthquake four days from now, and he had to carry out his threat. Otherwise all was lost.

Bones agreed readily to the plan. Priest had half expected him to demand payment. However, he had been living free at the commune for four days, so it was too late for him to put his relationship with Priest on a commercial footing. Besides, as a communard Bones knew that the greatest imaginable sin was to value things in money terms.

Bones would be more subtle. In a day or two he would ask Priest for cash to go score some smack. Priest would cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Let’s get to it,” he said.

Oaktree and Star climbed into the cab of the carnival ride with Bones. Melanie and Priest took the ’Cuda for the mile-long ride to where the seismic vibrator was hidden.

Priest wondered what else the FBI knew. They had figured out that the earthquake had been triggered using a seismic vibrator. Had they progressed any further? He turned on the car radio, hoping for a bulletin. He got Connie Francis singing “Breakin’ in a Brand New Broken Heart,” an oldie even by his standards.

The ’Cuda bumped along the muddy track through the forest behind Bones’s truck. Bones handled the big rig confidently, Priest observed, even though he had only just been roused from a drunken sleep. There was a moment when Priest felt sure the carnival ride was going to get stuck in a mudslide, but it pulled through without stopping.

The news came on just as they drew near the hiding place of the seismic vibrator. Priest turned up the volume.

What he heard turned him pale with shock.

“Federal agents investigating the Hammer of Eden terrorist group have issued a photographic likeness of a suspect,” the newsreader said. “He has been named as Richard or Ricky Granger, aged forty-eight, formerly of Los Angeles.”

Priest said: “Jesus Christ!” and slammed on the brakes.

“Granger is also wanted for a murder in Shiloh, Texas, nine days ago.”

“What?” No one knew he had killed Mario, not even Star.

The Rice Eaters were desperately keen to cause an earthquake that might kill hundreds, but all the same they would be appalled to know he had battered a man to death with a wrench. People were inconsistent.

“That’s not true,” Priest said to Melanie. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

Melanie was staring at him. “Is that your real name?” she said. “Ricky Granger?”

He had forgotten that she did not know. “Yeah,” he said. He racked his brains to think who knew his real name. He had not used it for twenty-five years, except in Shiloh. Suddenly he remembered that he had gone to the sheriff’s office in Silver City, to get Flower out of jail, and his heart stopped for a moment; then he recalled that the deputy had assumed he had the same name as Star and called him Mr. Higgins. Thank God.

Melanie said: “How did they get a photo of you?”

“Not a photo,” he said. “A photographic likeness. That must mean one of those Identikit pictures that they make up.”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “Only they use a computer program now.”

“There’s a computer program for every goddamn thing,” Priest muttered. He was now very glad he had changed his appearance before taking the job in Shiloh. It had been worth the time it took to grow a beard, the bother of pinning up his hair every day, and the nuisance of having to wear a hat all the time. With luck, the photographic likeness would not remotely resemble the way he looked now.

But he needed to be sure.

“I need to get to a TV,” he said.

He jumped out of the car. The carnival ride had pulled over near the hiding place of the seismic vibrator, and Oaktree and Star were getting out. In a few words he explained the situation to them. “You make a start here while I drive into Silver City,” he said. “I’ll take Melanie — I want her opinion, too.”

He got back in the car, drove out of the woods, and headed for Silver City.

On the outskirts of the small town there was an electronics store. Priest parked and they got out.

Priest looked around nervously. It was still light. What if he should meet someone who had seen his face on TV? Everything hung on whether the picture was like him. He had to know. He had to take a chance. He approached the store.

The window displayed several TV sets all showing the same picture. The program was some kind of game show. A silver-haired host in a powder blue suit was joshing a middle-aged woman wearing too much eyeliner.

Priest glanced up and down the sidewalk. There was no one else about. He looked at his watch: almost seven. The news would be on in a few seconds.

The silver-haired host put his arm around the woman and spoke to the camera. There was a shot of an audience applauding with hysterical enthusiasm. Then the news came on. There were two anchors, a man and a woman. They spoke for a few seconds.

Then the multiple screens showed a black-and-white picture of a heavily bearded man in a cowboy hat.

Priest stared at it.

The picture did not look like him at all.

“What do you think?” he said.

“Even I wouldn’t know it was supposed to be you,” Melanie said.

Relief washed over him in a tidal wave. His disguise had worked. The beard changed the shape of his face, and the hat hid his most distinctive feature, the long, thick, wavy hair. Even he might not have recognized the picture if he had not known it was supposed to be him.

He relaxed. “Thank you, god of the hippies,” he said.

The screens all flickered, and another picture appeared. Priest was shocked to see, reproduced a dozen times, a police photo of himself at nineteen. He was so thin, his face looked like a skull. He was trim now, but in those days, doping and drinking and never eating a regular meal, he had been a skeleton. His face was drawn, his expression sullen. His hair was lank and dull, with a Beatles haircut that must have been out of date even then.

Priest said: “Would you recognize me?”

“Yes,” she said. “By the nose.”

He looked again. She was right; the picture showed his distinctive narrow nose, like a curved knife.

Melanie added: “But I don’t think anyone else would know you, certainly not strangers.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She put an arm around his waist and squeezed affectionately. “You looked like such a bad boy when you were young.”

“I guess I was.”

“Where did they get that picture, anyway?”

“From my police record, I’m assuming.”

She looked up at him. “I didn’t know you had a police record. What did you do?”

“You want a list?”

She seemed shocked and disapproving. Don’t get moral on me, baby — remember who told us how to cause an earthquake. “I gave up the life of crime when I came to the valley,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong for the next twenty-five years — until I met you.”

A frown wrinkled her brow. She did not think of herself as a criminal, he realized. In her own eyes she was a normally respectable citizen who had been driven to commit a desperate act. She still believed she was of a different race from people who robbed and murdered.

Work it out any way you like, honey — just stay with the plan.

The two anchors reappeared, then the scene shifted to a skyscraper. A line of words appeared at the bottom of the screen. Priest did not need to be able to read them: he recognized the place. It was the Federal Building, where the FBI had its San Francisco office. A demonstration was going on, and Priest recalled Melanie reading about it in the newspaper. They were demonstrating in support of the Hammer of Eden, she had said. A bunch of people with placards and bullhorns were haranguing a group entering the building.

The camera focused on a young woman with an Asian cast to her features. She caught Priest’s eye because she was beautiful in the exotic way that strongly appealed to him. She was slender and dressed in an elegant dark pantsuit, but she had a formidable don’t-fuck-with-me look on her face, and she elbowed her way through the crowd with a calm ruthlessness.

Melanie said: “Oh, my God, it’s her!”

Priest was startled. “You know that woman?”

“I met her on Sunday!”

“Where?”

“At Michael’s apartment, when I went to get Dusty.”

“Who is she?”

“Michael just introduced her as Judy Maddox, he didn’t say anything about her.”

“What’s she doing at the Federal Building?”

“It says, right there on the screen: ‘FBI agent Judy Maddox, in charge of Hammer of Eden case.’ She’s the detective who’s after us!”

Priest was fascinated. Was this his enemy? She was gorgeous. Just looking at her on TV made him want to touch her golden skin with his fingertips.

I should be scared, not turned on. She’s a hell of a detective. She caught on about the seismic vibrator, found out where it came from, and got my name and picture. She’s smart and she works fast.

“And you met her at Michael’s place?”

“Yes.”

Priest was spooked. She was too close. She had met Melanie! His intuition told him he was in great danger from this agent. The fact that he was so attracted to her, after seeing her only briefly on TV, made it worse. It was as if she had some kind of power over him.

Melanie went on: “Michael didn’t say she was with the FBI. I thought she was a new girlfriend, so I kind of froze her out. She brought this older guy with her, said he was her father, though he didn’t look Asian.”

“Girlfriend or not, I don’t like her getting this close to us!” He turned away from the store and walked slowly back to the car. His brain was racing. Maybe it was not so surprising that the agent on the case had consulted a leading seismologist. Agent Maddox had talked to Michael for the same reason Priest had: he knew about earthquakes. Priest guessed it was Michael who had helped her make the link to the seismic vibrator.

What else had he told her?

They sat in the car, but Priest did not start the engine. “This is bad for us,” he said. “Very bad.”

“What’s bad?” Melanie said defensively. “It’s okay if Michael wants to screw around with an FBI agent. Maybe she sticks her gun up his ass. I don’t care.”

It was not like her to talk dirty. She’s really shook. “What’s bad is, Michael could give her the same information he gave us.”

Melanie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“Think about it. What’s on Agent Maddox’s mind? She’s asking: ‘Where will the Hammer of Eden strike next?’ Michael can help her with that. He can look at his data, same way you did, and figure out the most likely places for an earthquake. Then the FBI can stake out those locations and watch for a seismic vibrator.”

“I never thought of that.” Melanie stared at him. “My fucking bastard husband and his FBI floozie are going to screw this up for us, is that what you’re telling me?”

Priest glanced at her. She looked about ready to cut his throat. “Calm down, will you?”

“God damn.”

“Wait a minute.” Priest was getting an idea. Melanie was the link. Maybe she could find out what Michael had told the beautiful FBI agent. “There could be a way around this. Tell me something, how do you feel about Michael now?”

“Like, nothing. It’s over, and I’m glad. I just hope we can work out our divorce without too much hostility, is all.”

Priest studied her. He did not believe her. What she felt for Michael was rage. “We have to know whether the FBI has staked out possible earthquake locations — and if so, which ones. I think he might tell you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I believe he’s still carrying a torch for you, sort of.”

She stared at him. “Priest, what the hell is this about?”

Priest took a deep breath. “He’d tell you anything, if you slept with him.”

“Fuck you, Priest, I won’t do it. Fuck you!”

“I hate to ask you.” It was true. He did not want her to sleep with Michael. He believed that no one should have sex unless they wanted to. He had learned from Star that the most disgusting thing about marriage was the right it gave one person to have sex with another. So this whole scheme was a betrayal of his beliefs. “But I have no choice.”

“Forget it,” Melanie said.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry I asked.” He started the car. “I just wish I could think of some other way.”

They were silent for a few minutes, driving through the mountains.

“I’m sorry, Priest,” she said eventually. “I just can’t do it.”

“I told you, don’t worry about it.”

They turned off the road and drove down the long, rough track toward the commune. The carnival ride was no longer visible from the track; Priest guessed that Oaktree and Star had concealed it for the night.

He parked in the cleared circle at the end of the track. As they walked through the woods to the village in the twilight, he took Melanie’s hand. After a moment’s hesitation she moved closer to him and squeezed his hand fondly.

Work in the vineyard was over. Because of the warm weather, the big table had been dragged out of the cookhouse into the yard. Some of the children were putting out plates and cutlery while Slow sliced a long loaf of home-baked bread. There were bottles of the commune’s own wine on the table, and a spicy aroma was drifting over the scene.

Priest and Melanie went to Melanie’s hut to check on Dusty. They saw immediately that he was better. He was sleeping peacefully. The swelling had gone down, his nose had stopped running, and he was breathing normally. Flower had gone to sleep in the chair beside the bed, with the book open on her lap.

Priest watched as Melanie tucked in the sheet around the sleeping boy and kissed his forehead. She looked up at Priest and whispered: “This is the only place he’s ever been okay.”

“It’s the only place I’ve ever been okay,” Priest said quietly. “It’s the only place the world has ever been okay. That’s why we have to save it.”

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

14

The Domestic Terrorism squad of the San Francisco FBI worked in a narrow room along one side of the Federal Building. With its desks and room dividers it looked like a million other offices, except that the shirtsleeved young men and smart-suited women wore guns in holsters on their hips or under their arms.

At seven o’clock on Tuesday morning they were standing, sitting on desk corners, or leaning against the wall, some sipping coffee from Styrofoam containers, others holding pens and pads, ready to take notes. The whole squad, except for the supervisor, had been put under Judy’s orders. There was a low buzz of conversation.

Judy knew what they were talking about. She had gone up against the acting SAC — and won. It did not happen often. In an hour the entire floor would be alive with rumor and gossip. She would not be surprised to hear by the end of the day that she had prevailed because she was having an affair with Al Honeymoon.

The noise died away when she stood up and said: “Pay attention, everyone.”

She looked over the group for a moment and experienced a familiar thrill. They were all fit, hardworking, well dressed, honest, and smart, the smartest young people in America. She felt proud to work with them.

She began to speak. “We’re going to divide into two teams. Peter, Jack, Sally, and Lee will check out tips based on the pictures we have of Ricky Granger.” She handed out a briefing sheet that she had worked on overnight. A list of questions would enable the agents to eliminate most of the tips and assess which ones merited a visit by an agent or neighborhood cop. Many of the men identified as “Ricky Granger” could be ruled out fast: African Americans, men with foreign accents, twenty-year-olds, short men. On the other hand, the agents would be quick to visit any suspect who fit the description and had been away from home for the two-week period during which Granger had worked in Shiloh, Texas.

“Dave, Louise, Steve, and Ashok will form the second team. You’ll work with Simon Sparrow, checking tip-offs based on the recorded voice of the woman who phoned John Truth. By the way, some of the tip-offs Simon is working on mention a pop record. We asked John Truth to flag that up on his show last night.” She had not done this personally: the office press person had spoken to Truth’s producer. “So we may get calls about it.” She handed out a second briefing sheet with different questions.

“Raja.”

The youngest member of the team grinned his cocky grin. “I was afraid you’d forgotten about me.”

“In my dreams,” she said, and they all laughed. “Raja, I want you to prepare a short briefing to go out to all police departments, and especially the California Highway Patrol, telling them how to recognize a seismic vibrator.” She held up a hand. “And no vibrator jokes, please.” They laughed again.

“Now I’m going to get us some extra manpower and more work space. Meanwhile, I know you’ll do your best. One more thing.”

She paused, choosing her words. She needed to impress them with the importance of their work — but she felt she had to avoid coming right out and saying that the Hammer of Eden could cause earthquakes.

“These people are trying to blackmail the governor of California. They say they can make earthquakes happen.” She shrugged. “I’m not telling you they can. But it’s not as impossible as it sounds, and I’m sure as hell not telling you they can’t. Either way, you need to understand that this assignment is very, very serious.” She paused again, then finished: “Let’s get to it.”

They all moved to their seats.

Judy left the room and walked briskly along the corridor to the SAC’s office. The official start of the workday was eight-fifteen, but she was betting Brian Kincaid had come in early. He would have heard that she had called her team to a seven o’clock briefing, and he would want to know what was happening. She was about to tell him.

His secretary was not yet at her desk. Judy knocked on the inner door and went in.

Kincaid was sitting in the big chair with his suit coat on, looking as if he had nothing to do. The only items on his desk were a bran muffin with one bite taken out of it, and the paper bag it had come in. He was smoking a cigarette. Smoking was not allowed in FBI offices, but Kincaid was the boss, so there was no one to tell him to stop. He gave Judy a hostile glare and said: “If I asked you to make me a cup of coffee, I guess you’d call me a sexist pig.”

There was no way she was going to make his coffee. He would take it as a sign that he could carry on walking all over her. But she wanted to be conciliatory. “I’ll get you coffee,” she said. She picked up his phone and dialed the DT squad secretary. “Rosa, would you come to the SAC’s office and put on a pot of coffee for Mr. Kincaid? … Thank you.”

He still looked angry. Her gesture had done nothing to win him over. He probably felt that by getting him coffee without actually making it herself, she had in a way outwitted him.

Bottom line, I can’t win.

She got down to business. “I have more than a thousand leads to follow up on the voice of the woman on tape. I’m guessing we’ll get even more calls about the picture of Ricky Granger. I can’t begin to evaluate them all by Friday with nine people. I need twenty more agents.”

He laughed. “I’m not putting twenty people on this bullshit assignment.”

She ignored that. “I’ve notified the Strategic Information Operations Center.” SIOC was an information clearinghouse that operated from a bombproof office in the Hoover Building in Washington, D.C. “I’m assuming that as soon as the news gets around headquarters, they’ll send some people here — if only to take the credit for any success we have.”

“I didn’t tell you to notify SIOC.”

“I want to convene the Joint Terrorist Task Force so we’ll have delegates here from police departments, Customs, and the U.S. Federal Protective Service, all of whom will need somewhere to sit. And starting from sundown on Thursday, I plan to stake out the likeliest locations for the next earthquake.”

“There isn’t going to be one!”

“I’ll need extra personnel for that, too.”

“Forget it.”

“There isn’t a room big enough here at the office. We’re going to have to set up our emergency operations center someplace else. I checked out the Presidio buildings last night.” The Presidio was a disused military base near the Golden Gate Bridge. The officers’ club was habitable, though a skunk had been living there and the place smelled foul. “I’m going to use the ballroom of the officers’ club.”

Kincaid stood up. “You are like hell!” he shouted.

Judy sighed. There was no way to get this done without making a lifetime enemy of Brian Kincaid. “I have to call Mr. Honeymoon soon,” she said. “Do you want me to tell him you’re refusing to give me the manpower I need?”

Kincaid was red with fury. He stared at Judy as if he wanted to pull out his gun and blow her away. At last he said: “Your FBI career is over, you know that?”

He was probably right, but it hurt to hear him say it. “I never wanted to fight with you, Brian,” she said, striving to keep her voice low and reasonable. “But you dicked me around. I deserved a promotion after putting the Foong brothers away. Instead you promoted your buddy and gave me a bullshit assignment. You shouldn’t have done that. It was unprofessional.”

“Don’t tell me how to—”

She overrode him. “When the bullshit assignment turned into a big case, you took it away from me, then screwed it up. Every bad thing that’s happened to you is your own damn fault. Now you’re sulking. Well, I know your pride is wounded, and I know your feelings are hurt, and I just want you to understand that I don’t give a flying fuck.”

He stared at her with his mouth half-open.

She went to the door.

“Now I’m going to talk to Honeymoon at nine-thirty,” she said. “By then I’d like to have a senior logistics person assigned to my team with the authority to organize the manpower I need and set up a command post at the officers’ club. If I don’t, I’ll tell Honeymoon to call Washington. Your move.” She went out and slammed the door.

She felt the exhilaration that comes from a reckless act. She would have to fight every step, so she might as well fight hard. She would never be able to work with Kincaid again. The Bureau’s top brass would side with the superior officer in a situation like this. She was almost certainly finished. But this case was more important than her career. Hundreds of lives might be at stake. If she could prevent a catastrophe and capture the terrorists, she would retire proudly, and to hell with them all.

The DT squad secretary was in Kincaid’s outer office, filling the coffee machine. “Thanks, Rosa,” Judy said as she passed through. She returned to the DT office. The phone on her desk was ringing. She picked up. “Judy Maddox.”

“John Truth here.”

“Hello!” It was weird to hear the familiar radio voice on the other end of a phone. “You’re at work early!”

“I’m at home, but my producer just called me. My voice mail at the radio station was maxed with overnight calls about the Hammer of Eden woman.”

Judy was not supposed to talk to the media herself. All such contacts should go through the office media specialist, Madge Kelly, a young agent with a journalism degree. But Truth was not asking her for a quote, he was giving her information. And she was in too much of a hurry to tell Truth to call Madge. “Anything good?” she asked.

“You bet. I got two people who remembered the name of the record.”

“No kidding!” Judy was thrilled.

“This woman was reading poetry over a background of psychedelic music.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “The album was called Raining Fresh Daisies. That also seems to be the name of the band, or ‘group,’ as they used to call them then.”

He seemed pleasant and friendly, nothing like the spiteful creep he was on air. Maybe that was just an act. But you could never trust media people. Judy said: “I never heard of them.”

“Me either. Before my time, I guess. And we sure don’t have the disk at the radio station.”

“Did either of your callers give you a catalog number, or even the name of the record label?”

“Nope. My producer called both people back, but they don’t actually have the record, they just remember it.”

“Damn. I guess we’ll just call every record company. I wonder if they keep files that far back.…”

“The album may have come out on a minor-league label that no longer exists — it sounds like that kind of far-out stuff. Want to know what I’d do?”

“Sure.”

“Haight-Ashbury is full of secondhand record stores with clerks who live in a time warp. I’d check them out.”

“Good idea — thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, how’s the investigation going otherwise?”

“We’re making some progress. Can I get our press officer to call you later with details?”

“Come on! I’ve just done you a favor, haven’t I?”

“You sure have, and I wish I could give you an interview, but agents aren’t allowed to talk directly to the media. I’m really sorry.”

His tone turned aggressive. “Is this the thanks you give to our listeners for calling in with information for you?”

A dreadful thought struck her. “Are you taping this?”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

She hung up. Shit. She had been trapped. Talking to the media without authorization was what the FBI called a “bright-line issue,” meaning you could be fired for it. If John Truth played his tape of their conversation over the air, Judy would be in trouble. She could argue that she had urgently needed the information Truth offered, and a decent boss would probably let her off with a reprimand, but Kincaid would make the most of it.

Heck, Judy, you’re already in so much trouble, this won’t make any difference.

Raja Khan walked up to her desk with a sheet of paper in his hand. “Would you like to see this before it goes out? It’s the memo to police officers about how to recognize a seismic vibrator.”

That was quick. “What took you so long?” she said, joshing him.

“I had to look up how to spell ‘seismic.’ ”

She smiled and glanced over what he had written. It was fine. “This is great. Send it out.” She handed back the sheet. “Now I have another job for you. We’re looking for an album called Raining Fresh Daisies. It’s from the sixties.”

“No kidding.”

She grinned. “Yeah, it does have kind of a hippie feel to it. The voice on the record is the Hammer of Eden woman, and I’m hoping we’ll get a name for her. If the label still exists, we might even get a last known address. I want you to contact all the major recording companies, then call stores that sell rare records.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s not yet nine, but I can start with the East Coast.”

“Get to it.”

Raja went to his desk. Judy picked up the phone and dialed police headquarters. “Lieutenant Maddox, please.” A moment later he came on the line. She said: “Bo, it’s me.”

“Hi, Judy.”

“Cast your mind back to the late sixties, when you knew what music was hip.”

“I’d have to go further. Early sixties, late fifties, that’s my era.”

“Too bad. I think the Hammer of Eden woman made a record with a band called Raining Fresh Daisies.”

“My favorite groups were called things like Frankie Rock and the Rockabillies. I never liked acts with flowers in their names. Sorry, Jude, I never heard of your outfit.”

“Well, it was worth a try.”

“Listen, I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking about your guy, Ricky Granger — he’s the man behind the woman, right?”

“That’s what we think.”

“You know, he’s so careful, he’s such a planner, he must be dying to know what you’re up to.”

“Makes sense.”

“I think the FBI has probably talked to him already.”

“You do?” That was hopeful, if Bo was right. There was a type of perpetrator who insinuated himself into the investigation, approaching the police as a witness or a kindly neighbor offering coffee, then tried to befriend officers and chat to them about the progress of the case. “But Granger also seems ultracareful.”

“There’s probably a war going on inside him, between caution and curiosity. But look at his behavior — he’s daring as all hell. My guess is, curiosity will win out.”

Judy nodded into the phone. Bo’s intuitions were worth listening to: they came from thirty years of police experience. “I’m going to review every interview in the case.”

“Look for something off-the-wall. This guy never does the normal thing. He’ll be a psychic offering to divine where the next earthquake will come, or like that. He’s imaginative.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“What do you want for supper?”

“I probably won’t be home.”

“Don’t overdo it.”

“Bo, I have three days to catch these people. If I fail, hundreds of people could die! I’m not thinking about supper.”

“If you get tired, you’ll miss the crucial clue. Take breaks, eat lunch, get the sleep you need.”

“Like you always did, huh?”

He laughed. “Good luck.”

“Bye.” She hung up, frowning. She would have to go over every interview Marvin’s team had done with the Green California Campaign people, plus all the notes from the raid on Los Alamos and anything else in the file. It should all be on the office computer network. She touched her keyboard and called up the directory. As she scanned the material, she realized there was far too much for her to review personally. They had interviewed every householder in Silver River Valley, more than a hundred people. When she got her extra personnel, she would put a small team on it. She made a note.

What else? She had to arrange stakeouts on likely earthquake sites. Michael had said he could make a list. She was glad to have a reason to call him. She dialed his number.

He sounded pleased to hear from her. “I’m looking forward to our date tonight.”

Shit — I forgot all about it. “I’ve been put back on the Hammer of Eden case,” she told him.

“Does that mean you can’t make it tonight?” He sounded crestfallen.

She certainly could not contemplate dinner and a movie. “I’d like to see you, but I won’t have much time. Could we meet for a drink, maybe?”

“Sure.”

“I’m really sorry, but the case is developing fast. I called you about that list you promised, of likely earthquake sites. Did you make it?”

“No. You got anxious about the information getting out to the public and causing a panic, and that made me think the exercise might be dangerous.”

“Now I need to know.”

“Okay, I’ll look at the data.”

“Could you bring the list with you tonight?”

“Sure. Morton’s at six?”

“See you there.”

“Listen …”

“Still here.”

“I’m really glad you’re back on the case. I’m sorry we can’t have dinner together, but I feel safer knowing you’re after the bad guys. I mean it.”

“Thanks.” As she hung up, she hoped she merited his confidence.

Three days left.

By midafternoon the emergency operations center was up and running.

The officers’ club looked like a Spanish villa. Inside, it was a gloomy imitation of a country club, with cheap paneling, bad murals, and ugly light fixtures. The smell of the skunk had not gone away.

The cavernous ballroom had been fitted out as a command post. In one corner was the head shed, a top table with seats for the heads of the principal agencies involved in managing the crisis, including the San Francisco police, firefighters and medical people, the mayor’s office of emergency services, and a representative of the governor. The experts from headquarters, who were even now flying from Washington to San Francisco in an FBI jet, would sit here.

Around the room, groups of tables were set up for the different teams that would work on the case: intelligence and investigation, the core of the effort; negotiation and SWAT teams that would be called in if hostages were taken; an administration and technical support team that would grow if the crisis escalated; a legal team to expedite search warrants, arrest warrants, or wiretaps; and an evidence response team, which would enter any crime scene after the event and collect evidence.

Laptop computers on each table were linked in a local network. The FBI had long used a paper-based information control system called Rapid Start, but now it had developed a computerized version, using Microsoft Access software. But paper had not disappeared. Around two sides of the room, notice boards covered the walls: lead status boards, event boards, subject boards, demand boards, and hostage boards. Key data and clues would be written up here so that everyone could see them at a glance. Right now the subject board had one name — Richard Granger — and two pictures. The lead status board had a picture of a seismic vibrator.

The room was big enough for a couple of hundred people, but so far there were only about forty. They were mostly grouped around the intelligence and investigation table, speaking into phones, tapping keyboards, and reading files on screen. Judy had divided them into teams, each with a leader who monitored the others, so that she could keep track of progress by talking to three people.

There was an air of subdued urgency. Everyone was calm, but they were concentrating hard and working intensely. No one stopped for coffee or schmoozed over the photocopier or went outside for a cigarette. Later, if the situation developed into a full-blown crisis, the atmosphere would change, Judy knew: people would be yelling into phones, the expletive quotient would multiply, tempers would fray, and it would be her job to keep the lid on the cauldron.

Remembering Bo’s tip, she pulled up a chair next to Carl Theobald, a bright young agent in a fashionable dark blue shirt. He was the leader of the team reviewing Marvin Hayes’s files. “Anything?” she said.

He shook his head. “We don’t really know what we’re looking for, but whatever it is, we haven’t found it yet.”

She nodded. She had given this team a vague task, but she could not help that. They had to look for something out of the ordinary. A lot depended on the intuition of the individual agent. Some people could smell deceit even in a computer.

“Are we sure we have everything on file?” she asked.

Carl shrugged. “We should.”

“Check whether they kept any paper records.”

“They’re not supposed to.…”

“But people do.”

“Okay.”

Rosa called her back to the head shed for a phone call. It was Michael. She smiled as she picked up. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’ve got a problem tonight. I can’t make it.”

She was shocked by his tone. He sounded curt and unfriendly. For the last few days he had been warm and affectionate. But this was the original Michael, the one who had turned her away from his door and told her to make an appointment. “What is it?” she said.

“Something came up. I’m sorry to cancel on you.”

“Michael, what the hell is wrong?”

“I’m in kind of a rush. I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” she said.

He hung up.

She cradled the phone, feeling hurt. “Now, what was all that about?” she said to herself. Just as I was getting fond of the guy. What is it with him? Why can’t he stay the way he was on Sunday night? Or even when he called me this morning?

Carl Theobald interrupted her thoughts. He looked troubled. “Marvin Hayes is giving me a hard time,” he said. “They do have some paper records, but when I said I needed to see them, he pretty much told me to shove it.”

“Don’t worry, Carl,” Judy said. “These things are sent by heaven to teach us patience and tolerance. I’ll just go and tear his balls off.”

The agents nearby heard her and laughed.

“Is that what patience and tolerance means?” Carl said with a grin. “I must remember that.”

“Come with me, I’ll show you,” she said.

They went outside and jumped in her car. It took fifteen minutes to reach the Federal Building on Golden Gate Avenue. As they went up in the elevator, Judy wondered how to deal with Marvin. Should she tear his balls off or be conciliatory? The cooperative approach worked only if the other party was willing. With Marvin she had probably gone past that point forever.

She hesitated outside the door to the Organized Crime squad room. Okay, I’ll be Xena, the warrior princess.

She went in, and Carl followed.

Marvin was on the phone, grinning broadly, telling a joke. “So the barman says to the guy, there’s a badger in the back room that gives the best blow job—”

Judy leaned on his desk and said loudly: “What’s this crap you’re giving Carl?”

“Someone’s interrupting me, Joe,” he said. “I’ll call you right back.” He hung up. “What can I do for you, Judy?”

She leaned closer, putting herself in his face. “Stop dicking around.”

“What is it with you?” he said, sounding aggrieved. “What do you mean by going over my records as if I must have made some goddamn mistake?”

He had not necessarily made a mistake. When the perpetrator presented himself to the investigating team in the guise of a bystander or witness, he generally tried to make sure that they did not suspect him. It was not the fault of the investigators, but it was bound to make them feel foolish.

“I think you may have talked to the perpetrator,” she said. “Where are these paper records?”

He smoothed his yellow tie. “All we have are some notes from the press conference that never got keyed into the computer.”

“Show me.”

He pointed to a box file on a side table against the wall. “Help yourself.”

She opened the file. On top was an invoice for the rental of a small public address system with microphones.

“You won’t find a damn thing,” Marvin said.

He might be right, but she had to try, and it was dumb of him to obstruct her. A smarter man would have said, “Hey, if I overlooked something, I sure hope you find it.” Everyone made mistakes. But Marvin was now too defensive to be gracious. He just had to prove Judy wrong.

It would be embarrassing if she was wrong.

She rifled through the papers. There were some faxes from newspapers asking for details of the press conference, a note about how many chairs would be needed, and a guest list, a form on which the journalists attending the press conference had been asked to put their names and the publications or broadcasters they represented. Judy ran her eye down the list.

“What the hell is this?” she said suddenly. “Florence Shoebury, Eisenhower Junior High?”

“She wanted to cover the press conference for the school newspaper,” Marvin said. “What should we do, tell her to fuck off?”

“Did you check her out?”

“She’s a kid!”

“Was she alone?”

“Her father brought her.”

There was a business card stapled to the form. “Peter Shoebury, from Watkins, Colefax and Brown. Did you check him out?”

Marvin hesitated for a long moment, realizing he had made a mistake. “No,” he said finally. “Brian decided to let them into the press conference, and afterward I never followed up.”

Judy handed the form with the business card to Carl. “Call this guy right away,” she said.

Carl sat at the nearest desk and picked up the phone.

Marvin said: “Anyway, what makes you so sure we talked to the subject?”

“My father thinks so.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realized she had made a mistake.

Marvin sneered. “Oh, so your daddy thinks so. Is that the level we’ve sunk to? You’re checking on me because your daddy told you to?”

“Knock it off, Marvin. My father was putting bad guys in jail when you were still wetting your bed.”

“Where are you going with this, anyway? Are you trying to set me up? You looking for someone to blame when you fail?”

“What a great idea,” she said. “Why didn’t I think of it?”

Carl hung up the phone and said: “Judy.”

“Yeah.”

“Peter Shoebury has never been inside this building, and he has no daughter. But he was mugged on Saturday morning two blocks from here, and his wallet was stolen. It contained his business cards.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Marvin said: “Fuck it.”

Judy ignored his embarrassment. She was too excited by the news. This could be a whole new source of information. “I guess he didn’t look like the E-fit picture we got from Texas.”

“Not a bit,” Marvin said. “No beard, no hat. He had big glasses and long hair in a ponytail.”

“That’s probably another disguise. What about his build, and like that?”

“Tall, slim.”

“Dark hair, dark eyes, about fifty?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

Judy almost felt sorry for Marvin. “It was Ricky Granger, wasn’t it?”

Marvin looked at the floor as if he wanted it to open up and swallow him. “I guess you’re right.”

“I would like you to produce a new E-fit, please.”

He nodded, still not looking at her. “Sure.”

“Now, what about Florence Shoebury?”

“Well, she kind of disarmed us. I mean, what kind of terrorist brings a little girl along with him?”

“One who is completely ruthless. What did the kid look like?”

“White girl about twelve, thirteen. Dark hair, dark eyes, slim build. Pretty.”

“Better do an E-fit of her, too. Do you think she really is his daughter?”

“Oh, sure. That’s how they seemed. She showed no signs of being under coercion, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Yes. Okay, I’m going to assume they’re father and daughter, for now.” She turned to Carl. “We’re out of here.”

They went out. In the corridor Carl said: “Wow. You really did tear off his balls.”

Judy was jubilant. “But we’ve got another suspect — the kid.”

“Yeah. I just hope you never catch me making a mistake.”

She stopped and looked at him. “It wasn’t the mistake, Carl. Anyone can screw up. But he was willing to impede the investigation in order to cover up. That’s where he went wrong. And that’s why he looks like such an asshole now. If you make a mistake, admit it.”

“Yeah,” Carl said. “But I think I’ll keep my legs crossed, too.”

Late that evening Judy got the first edition of the San Francisco Chronicle with the two new pictures: the E-fit of Florence Shoebury and the new E-fit of Ricky Granger disguised as Peter Shoebury. Earlier she had only glanced at the pictures before asking Madge Kelly to get them to the newspapers and TV stations. Now, studying them by the light of her desk lamp, she was struck by the resemblance between Granger and Florence. They’re father and daughter, they have to be. I wonder what will happen to her if I put her daddy in jail?

She yawned and rubbed her eyes. Bo’s advice came back to her. “Take breaks, eat lunch, get the sleep you need.” It was time to go home. The overnight shift was already here.

Driving home, she reviewed the day and what she had achieved. Sitting at a stoplight, looking at twin rows of streetlights converging to infinity along Geary Boulevard, she realized that Michael had not faxed her the promised list of likely earthquake sites.

She dialed his number on the car phone, but there was no answer. For some reason that bothered her. She tried again at the next red light, and the number was busy. She called the office switchboard and asked them to check with Pacific Bell and find out whether there were voices on the line. The operator called her back and said there were not. The phone had been taken off the hook.

So he was home, but not picking up.

He had sounded odd when he called to cancel their date. He was like that; he could be charming and kind, then change abruptly and be difficult and arrogant. But why was his phone off the hook? Judy felt uneasy.

She checked the dashboard clock. It was just before eleven.

Two days left.

I don’t have time to screw around.

She turned the car around and headed for Berkeley.

She reached Euclid Street at eleven-fifteen. There were lights on in Michael’s apartment. Outside was an old orange Subaru. She had seen the car before but did not know whose it was. She parked behind it and rang Michael’s doorbell.

There was no answer.

Judy was troubled. Michael had crucial information. Today, on the very day she had asked him a key question, he had abruptly canceled an appointment, then had become incommunicado.

It was suspicious.

She wondered what to do. Maybe she should call for police backup and break in. He could be tied up or dead in there.

She returned to her car and picked up the two-way radio, but she hesitated. When a man took the phone off the hook at eleven P.M., it might mean a variety of things. He might want to sleep. He might be getting laid, although Michael seemed too interested in Judy to play around — he was not the type to sleep with a different woman every night, she thought.

While she was wavering, a young woman with a briefcase approached the building. She looked like an assistant professor returning home from a late evening at the lab. She stopped at the door and fumbled in her briefcase for keys.

Impulsively Judy jumped out of her car and walked quickly across the lawn to the entrance. “Good evening,” she said. She showed her badge. “FBI special agent Judy Maddox. I need access to this building.”

“Something wrong?” the woman said anxiously.

“I hope not. If you go to your apartment and close the door, you’ll be just fine.”

They went in together. The woman entered a ground-floor apartment, and Judy went up the stairs. She rapped on Michael’s door with her knuckles.

There was no reply.

What was going on? He was in there. He must have heard her ring and knock. He knew no casual caller would be so persistent at this time of night. Something was wrong, she felt sure.

She knocked again, three times, hard. Then she put her ear to the door and listened.

She heard a scream.

That did it. She took a step back and kicked the door as hard as she could. She was wearing loafers, and she hurt the underside of her right foot, but the wood around the lock splintered: thank God he did not have a steel door. She kicked it again. The lock seemed almost to break. She ran at the door with her shoulder, and it burst open.

She drew her gun. “FBI!” she shouted. “Drop your weapons and put up your hands!” There was another scream. It sounded like a woman, she realized in the back of her mind, but there was no time to figure out what that signified. She stepped into the entrance lobby.

Michael’s bedroom door was open. She dropped to one knee with her arms extended and aimed into the room.

What she saw stunned her.

Michael was on the bed, naked, perspiring. He was on top of a thin woman with red hair who was breathing hard. It was his wife, Judy realized.

They were making love.

They both stared at Judy in fear and disbelief.

Then Michael recognized her and said: “Judy? What the hell …?”

She closed her eyes. She had never felt like such a fool in her life.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “I’m sorry. Oh, shit.”

15

Early on Wednesday Priest stood beside the Silver River, looking at the way the morning sky was reflected in the broken planes of the water’s shifting surface, marveling at the luminosity of blue and white in the dawn light. Everyone else was asleep. His dog sat beside him, panting quietly, waiting for something to happen.

It was a tranquil moment, but Priest’s soul was not at peace.

His deadline was only two days away, and still Governor Robson had said nothing.

It was maddening. He did not want to trigger another earthquake. This one would have to be more spectacular, destroying roads and bridges, bringing skyscrapers tumbling down. People would die.

Priest was not like Melanie, thirsting for revenge upon the world. He just wanted to be left alone. He was willing to do anything to save the commune, but he knew it would be smarter to avoid killing if he could. After this was all over, and the project to dam the valley had been canceled, he and the commune wanted to live in peace. That was the whole point. And their chances of staying here undisturbed would be greater if they could win without killing innocent California citizens. What had happened so far could be forgotten soon enough. It would drop out of the news, and no one would care what became of the nutcases who said they could trigger earthquakes.

As he stood musing, Star appeared. She slipped out of her purple robe and stepped into the cold river to wash. Priest looked hungrily at her voluptuous body, familiar but still desirable. He had shared his bed with no one last night. Star was still spending her nights with Bones, and Melanie was with her husband in Berkeley. So the great cocksman sleeps alone.

While she was toweling herself dry, Priest said: “Let’s go get a newspaper. I want to know if Governor Robson said anything last night.”

They got dressed and drove to a gas station. Priest filled the tank of the ’Cuda while Star got the San Francisco Chronicle.

She came back white-faced. “Look,” she said, showing him the front page.

There was a picture of a young girl who looked familiar. After a moment he realized with horror that it was Flower.

Stunned, he picked up the newspaper.

Beside the picture of Flower was one of himself.

Both were computer-generated images. The one of Priest was based on his appearance at the FBI press conference, when he had been disguised as Peter Shoebury, with his hair pulled back and wearing large glasses. He did not think anyone would recognize him from that.

Flower had not been in disguise. Her computer picture was like a poorly drawn portrait — not her, but like her. Priest felt cold. He was not used to fear. He was a daredevil who enjoyed risk. But this was not about him. He had put his daughter in danger.

Star said angrily: “Why the hell did you have to go to that press conference?”

“I had to know what they were thinking.”

“It was so dumb!”

“I’ve always been rash.”

“I know.” Her voice softened, and she touched his cheek. “If you were timid, you wouldn’t be the man I love.”

A month ago it would not have mattered: no one outside the commune knew Flower, and no one inside read newspapers. But she had been going secretly to Silver City to meet boys; she had stolen a poster from a store; she had been arrested; and she had spent a night in custody. Would the people she had met remember her? And if so, would they recognize the picture? The probation officer might remember her, but luckily he was still on vacation in the Bahamas, where he was unlikely to see the San Francisco Chronicle. But what about the woman who had guarded her overnight? A schoolteacher who was also the sheriff’s sister, Priest recalled. Her name came back: Miss Waterlow. She saw hundreds of little girls presumably, but she might remember their faces. Maybe she had a bad memory. Maybe she had gone on vacation, too. Maybe she had not read today’s Chronicle.

And maybe Priest was finished.

There was nothing he could do about it. If the schoolteacher saw the picture and recognized Flower and called the FBI, a hundred agents would descend on the commune and it would be all over.

He stared at the paper while Star read the text. “If you didn’t know her, would you recognize her?”

Star shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“I don’t either. But I wish I were sure.”

“I didn’t think the feds were this goddamn smart,” Star said.

“Some are, some aren’t. It’s this Asian girl that worries me. Judy Maddox.” Priest recalled the TV pictures of her, so slender and graceful, pushing through a hostile crowd with a look of bulldog determination on her delicate features. “I got a bad feeling about her,” he said. “A real bad feeling. She keeps coming up with leads — first the seismic vibrator, then the picture of me in Shiloh, now Flower. Maybe that’s why Governor Robson hasn’t said anything. She’s got him hoping we’ll be caught. Is there a statement from the governor in the paper?”

“No. According to this report, a lot of people are saying Robson should give in and negotiate with the Hammer of Eden, but he refuses to comment.”

“This is no good,” he said. “I’ve got to find a way to talk to him.”

When Judy woke up she could not remember why she felt so bad. Then the whole ghastly scene came back in a dreadful rush.

Last night she had been paralyzed with embarrassment. She had mumbled an apology to Michael and run out of the building, burning with shame. But this morning her mortification had been replaced by a different feeling. Now she just felt sad. She had thought Michael might become part of her life. She had been looking forward to getting to know him, growing more fond of him, making love to him. She had imagined that he cared for her. But the relationship had crashed and burned in no time.

She sat up in bed and looked at the collection of Vietnamese water puppets she had inherited from her mother, arranged on a shelf above the chest of drawers. She had never seen a puppet show — had never been to Vietnam — but her mother had told her how the puppeteers stood waist deep in a pond, behind a backdrop, and used the surface of the water as their stage. For hundreds of years such painted wooden toys had been used to tell wise and funny tales. They always reminded Judy of her mother’s tranquility. What would she say now? Judy could hear her voice, low and calm. “A mistake is a mistake. Another mistake is normal. Only the same mistake twice makes you a fool.”

Last night had just been a mistake. Michael had been a mistake. She had to put all that behind her. She had two days to prevent an earthquake. That was really important.

On the TV news, people were arguing about whether the Hammer of Eden might really be able to trigger an earthquake. The believers had formed a pressure group to urge Governor Robson to give in. But, as she got dressed, Judy’s mind kept returning to Michael. She wished she could speak to her mother about it. She could hear Bo stirring, but this was not the kind of thing to tell your father about. Instead of making breakfast she called her friend Virginia. “I need someone to talk to,” she told her. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

They met at a coffee shop near the Presidio. Ginny was a petite blonde, funny and honest. She would always tell Judy exactly what she thought. Judy ordered two chocolate croissants to make herself feel better, then related what had happened last night.

When she came to the part where she burst in with her gun in her hand and found them screwing, Ginny practically fell down laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said, and got a piece of toast stuck in her throat.

“I guess it is kind of funny,” Judy said, smiling. “But it didn’t seem that way last night, I can tell you.”

Ginny coughed and swallowed. “I don’t mean to be cruel,” she said when she had recovered. “I can see it wasn’t too hilarious at the time. What he did was really sleazy, dating you and sleeping with his wife.”

“To me, it shows that he’s not over her,” Judy said. “So he’s not ready for a new relationship.”

Ginny made a doubtful face. “I don’t necessarily buy that.”

“You think it was like a good-bye, one last embrace for old times’ sake?”

“Maybe even simpler. You know, men almost never say no to a fuck if it’s offered to them. It sounds as if he’s been living the life of a monk since she left him. His hormones are probably giving him hell. She’s attractive, you say?”

“Very sexy looking.”

“So if she walked in wearing a tight sweater and started making moves on him, he probably couldn’t help getting a hard-on. And once that happens, a man’s brain cuts out and the autopilot in his dick takes control.”

“You think so?”

“Listen, I’ve never met Michael, but I’ve known some men, good and bad, and that’s my take on the scenario.”

“What would you do?”

“I’d talk to him. Ask him why he did it. See what he says. See if I believed him. If he gave me a line of bullshit, I’d forget him. But if he seemed honest, I’d try to make some kind of sense of the whole incident.”

“I have to call him anyway,” Judy said. “He still hasn’t sent me that list.”

“So call. Get the list. Then ask him what he thinks he’s doing. You’re feeling embarrassed, but he has something to apologize for, too.”

“I guess you’re right.”

It was not yet eight o’clock, but they were both in a hurry to get to work. Judy paid the check, and they went out to their cars. “Boy,” Judy said, “I’m beginning to feel better about this. Thank you.”

Ginny shrugged. “What are girlfriends for? Let me know what he says.”

Judy got into her car and dialed Michael’s number. She was afraid he might be asleep and she would find herself talking to him while he was in bed with his wife. However, his voice sounded alert, as if he had been up for a while. “I’m sorry about your door,” she said.

“Why did you do it?” He sounded more curious than angry.

“I couldn’t understand why you didn’t answer. Then I heard a scream. I thought you must be in some kind of trouble.”

“What brought you here so late?”

“You didn’t send me that list of earthquake sites.”

“Oh, that’s right! It’s on my desk. I just forgot. I’ll fax it now.”

“Thanks.” She gave him the fax number of the new emergency operations center. “Michael, there’s something I have to ask you.” She took a deep breath. Asking this question was harder than she had anticipated. She was no shrinking violet, but she was not as brash as Ginny. She swallowed and said: “You gave me the impression you were growing fond of me. Why did you sleep with your wife?” There. It was out.

At the other end of the line there was a long silence. Then he said: “This is not a good time.”

“Okay.” She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“I’ll send that list right away.”

“Thanks.”

She hung up and started the engine. Ginny’s idea had not been so great after all. It took two to talk, and Michael was not willing.

When she reached the officers’ club, Michael’s fax was waiting for her. She showed it to Carl Theobald. “We need surveillance teams at each of these locations, watching out for a seismic vibrator,” she said. “I was hoping to use the police, but I don’t think we can. They might talk. And if local people find out that we think they’re a target, they’ll panic. So we have to use FBI personnel.”

“Okay.” Carl frowned at the sheet. “You know, these locations are awful big. One team can’t really watch an area a mile square. Should we put on multiple teams? Or could your seismologist narrow it down?”

“I’ll ask him.” Judy picked up the phone and dialed Michael again. “Thanks for the fax,” she said. She explained the problem.

“I’d have to visit the sites myself,” he said. “Signs of earlier earthquake activity, such as dried-up streambeds or fault scarp, would give me a more precise fix.”

“Would you do that today?” she said immediately. “I can take you to all the locations in an FBI helicopter.”

“Uh … sure, I guess,” he said. “I mean, of course I will.”

“You could be saving lives.”

“Exactly.”

“Can you find your way to the officers’ club in the Presidio?”

“Sure.”

“By the time you get here, the chopper will be waiting.”

“Okay.”

“I appreciate this, Michael.”

“You’re welcome.”

But I’d still like to know why you slept with your wife.

She hung up.

It was a long day. Judy, Michael, and Carl Theobald covered a thousand miles in the helicopter. By nightfall they had set up round-the-clock surveillance at the five locations on Michael’s list.

They returned to the Presidio. The helicopter landed on the deserted parade ground. The base was a ghost town, with its moldering office buildings and rows of vacant houses.

Judy had to go into the emergency operations center and report to a big shot from FBI headquarters in Washington who had shown up at nine o’clock that morning with a take-charge air. But first she walked Michael to his car in the darkened parking lot. “What if they slip through the surveillance?” she said.

“I thought your people were good.”

“They’re the best. But what if? Is there some way I can get notified real fast if there’s a tremor anywhere in California?”

“Sure,” he said. “I could set up on-line seismography right here at your command post. I just need a computer and an ISDN phone line.”

“No problem. Would you do it tomorrow?”

“Okay. That way, you’ll know immediately if they start the seismic vibrator someplace that’s not on the list.”

“Is that likely?”

“I don’t think so. If their seismologist is competent, he’ll pick the same places I picked. And if he’s incompetent, they probably won’t be able to trigger an earthquake.”

“Good,” she said. “Good.” She would remember that. She could tell the Washington big shot that she had the crisis under control.

She looked up at Michael’s shadowed face. “Why did you sleep with your wife?”

“I’ve been thinking about that all day.”

“Me, too.”

“I guess I owe you some kind of explanation.”

“I think so.”

“Until yesterday I was sure it was over. Then, last night, she reminded me of the things that had been good about our marriage. She was beautiful, fun, affectionate, and sexy. More important, she made me forget all the things that were bad.”

“Such as?”

He sighed. “I think Melanie is drawn to authority figures. I was her professor. She wants the security of being told what to do. I expected an equal partner, someone who would share decisions and take responsibility. She resented that.”

“I get the picture.”

“And there’s something else. Deep down, she’s mad as hell at the whole world. Most of the time she hides it, but when she’s frustrated she can be violent. She would throw things at me, heavy things, like a casserole dish one time. She never hurt me, she’s just not strong enough, though if there was a gun in the house, I’d be scared. But that level of hostility is hard to live with.”

“And last night …?”

“I forgot all that. She seemed to want to try again, and I thought maybe we should, for Dusty’s sake. Plus …”

She wished she could read his expression, but it was too dark. “What?”

“I want to tell you the truth, Judy, even though you’ll be offended by it. So I have to admit that it wasn’t as rational and decent as I’m pretending. Part of it was that she’s a beautiful woman and I wanted to fuck her. Now I’ve said it.”

She smiled in the dark. Ginny had been half-right, anyway. “I knew that,” she said. “But I’m glad you told me. Good night.” She walked away.

“Good night,” he said, sounding bewildered.

A few moments later he called after her: “Are you angry?”

“No,” she said over her shoulder. “Not anymore.”

Priest expected Melanie to return to the commune around midafternoon. When suppertime came and she still had not arrived, he started to worry.

By nightfall he was frantic. What had happened to her? Had she decided to go back to her husband? Had she confessed everything to him? Was she even now spilling the beans to Agent Judy Maddox in an interrogation room at the Federal Building in San Francisco?

He could not sit still in the cookhouse or lie on his bed. He took a candle lamp and walked across the vineyard and through the woods to the parking circle and waited there, listening for the engine of her old Subaru — or the throb of the FBI helicopter that would herald the end of everything.

Spirit heard it first. He cocked his ears, tensed, then ran up the mud road, barking. Priest stood up, straining his hearing. It was the Subaru. Relief swamped him. He watched the lights approach through the trees. He had the beginnings of a headache. He had not had a headache for years.

Melanie parked erratically, got out, and slammed the car door.

“I hate you,” she said to Priest. “I hate you for making me do that.”

“Was I right?” he said. “Is Michael making a list for the FBI?”

“Fuck you!”

Priest realized he had goofed. He should have been understanding and sympathetic. For a moment he had allowed his anxiety to cloud his judgment. Now he would have to spend time talking her around. “I asked you to do it because I love you, don’t you understand that?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t understand anything.” She folded her arms across her chest and turned away from him, staring into the darkness of the woods. “All I know is, I feel like a prostitute.”

Priest was bursting to know what she had found out, but he made himself calm. “Where have you been?” he said.

“Driving around. I stopped for a drink.”

He was silent for a minute. Then he said: “A prostitute does it for money — then she spends the money on stupid clothes and drugs. You did it to save your child. I know you feel bad, but you’re not bad. You’re good.”

At last she turned to him. There were tears in her eyes. “It’s not just that we had sex,” she said. “It’s worse than that. I liked it. That’s what makes me feel ashamed. I came. I really did. I screamed.”

Priest felt a hot wave of jealousy and strained to suppress it. He would make Michael Quercus suffer for that one day. But now was not the time to say so. He needed to cool things down here. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Really, it’s okay. I understand. Weird things happen.” He put his arms around her and hugged her.

Slowly she relaxed. He could feel the tension leaving her bit by bit. “You don’t mind?” she said. “You’re not mad?”

“Not a bit,” he lied, stroking her long hair. Come on, come on!

“You were right about the list,” she said.

At last.

“That FBI woman had asked Michael to work out the best locations for an earthquake, just the way you imagined it.”

Of course she did. I’m so damn smart.

Melanie went on: “He was sitting at his computer when I got there, just finishing.”

“So what happened?”

“I made him dinner, and like that.”

Priest could imagine. If Melanie decided to be seductive, she was irresistible. And she was at her most alluring when she wanted something. She probably took a bath and put on a robe, then moved around the apartment smelling of soap and flowers, pouring wine or making coffee, letting the robe fall open now and again to show him tantalizing glimpses of her long legs and her soft breasts. She would have asked Michael questions and listened intently to his answers, smiling at him in a way that said I like you so much, you can do anything you want with me.

“When the phone rang I told him not to answer, then I took it off the hook. But the damn woman came over anyway, and when Michael didn’t answer the door she broke it down. Boy, did she have a shock.” Priest figured she needed to get all this off her chest, so he did not hurry her. “She almost died of embarrassment.”

“Did he give her the list?”

“Not then. I guess she was too confused to ask. But she called this morning, and he faxed it to her.”

“And did you get it?”

“While he was in the shower, I got to his computer and printed out another copy.”

So where the hell is it?

She reached into the back pocket of her jeans, pulled out a single sheet of paper folded in four, and gave it to Priest.

Thank God.

He unfolded it and looked at it in the light of the lamp. The typed letters and numbers meant nothing to him. “These are the places he’s told her to watch?”

“Yes, they’re going to stake out each of these locations, looking for a seismic vibrator, just the way you predicted.”

Judy Maddox was clever. The FBI surveillance would make it very difficult for him to operate the seismic vibrator, especially if he had to try several different locations, as he had in Owens Valley.

But he was even cleverer than Judy. He had anticipated this move by her. And he had thought of a way around it. “You understand how Michael picked these sites?” he said.

“Sure. They’re the places where the tension in the fault is highest.”

“So you could do the same thing.”

“I already have. And I picked the same places he did.”

He folded the paper and gave it back to her. “Now, listen very carefully. This is important. Could you look over the data again and pick the five next best locations?”

“Yes.”

“And could we cause an earthquake at one of them?”

“Probably,” she said. “It’s maybe not as sure, but the chances are good.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Tomorrow we’ll take a look at the new sites. Right after I talk to Mr. Honeymoon.”

16

At five A.M., the guard at the entrance to the Los Alamos place was yawning.

He became alert when Melanie and Priest pulled up in the ’Cuda. Priest got out of the car. “How are you, buddy?” he said as he walked across to the gate.

The guard hefted his rifle, assumed a mean expression, and said: “Who are you and what do you want?”

Priest hit him in the face very hard, crushing his nose. Blood spurted. The guard cried out, his hands flying to his face. Priest said: “Ow!” His fist hurt. It was a long time since he had punched anyone.

His instincts took over. He kicked the guard’s legs from under him. The man fell on his back, and his rifle went flying through the air. Priest kicked him in the ribs three or four times, fast and hard, trying to break the bones. Then he kicked his face and head. The man curled up in a ball, sobbing in pain, helpless with fear.

Priest stopped, breathing hard. It all came back to him in a flood of remembered excitement. There had been a time when he had done this sort of thing every day. It was so easy to frighten people when you knew how.

He knelt and took the handgun from the man’s belt. This was what he had come for.

He looked at the weapon in disgust. It was a reproduction of a long-barreled.44-caliber Remington revolver originally manufactured in the days of the Wild West. It was a stupid, impractical firearm, the kind owned by collectors and kept in a felt-lined display case in the den. It was not for shooting people.

He broke it open. It was loaded.

That was all he really cared about.

He returned to the car and got in. Melanie was at the wheel. She was pale and bright-eyed, breathing fast, as if she had just taken cocaine. Priest guessed she had never witnessed serious violence. “Will he be okay?” she said in an excited voice.

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?”

This seemed to make him angrier. “It’s not me who’s using more and more electric power every year,” he said. “I don’t want more power plants. I don’t use electricity.”

“You don’t?” Really? “So what’s powering your phone — steam?” A cult that doesn’t use electricity. That’s a clue. While she taunted him, she was trying to figure out what this meant. But where are they?

“Don’t fuck with me, Judy. You’re the one that’s in trouble.”

Next to her, Charlie’s phone rang. He snatched it up and wrote in large letters on his notepad: “Pay phone — Oakland — I-980 & I-580—Texaco.”

“We’re all in trouble, Ricky,” she said in a more reasonable voice. Charlie went to the map on the wall. She heard him say the word “roadblocks.”

“Your voice changed,” Granger said suspiciously. “What happened?”

Judy felt out of her depth. She had no special training in negotiating skills. All she knew was that she had to keep him on the phone. “I suddenly thought what a catastrophe there will be if you and I don’t manage to come to some agreement,” she said.

She could hear Charlie giving urgent orders in a low voice: “Call the Oakland PD, Alameda County Sheriff’s Office, and the California Highway Patrol.”

“You’re bullshitting me,” Granger said. “Have you traced this call already? Jeez, that was fast. Are you trying to keep me on the line while your SWAT team comes after me? Forget it! I got a hundred and fifty ways out of here!”

“But only one way out of the jam you’re in.”

“It’s past midnight,” he said. “Your time is up. I’m going to cause another earthquake, and there’s not one damn thing you can do to stop me.” He hung up.

Judy slammed down the phone. “Let’s go, Charlie!” She ripped the E-fit picture of Granger off the subject board and ran outside. The helicopter was waiting on the parade ground, its rotors turning. She jumped in, with Charlie close behind.

As they took off, he put on headphones and motioned to her to do the same. “I figure it’ll take twenty minutes to get the roadblocks in place,” he said. “Assume he’s driving at sixty, to avoid being stopped for speeding, he could be twenty miles away by the time we’re ready for him. So I’ve ordered the major freeways closed in a twenty-five-mile radius.”

“What about other roads?”

“We have to hope he’s going a long way. If he gets off the freeway, we lose him. This is one of the busiest road networks in California. You couldn’t seal it off watertight if you had the goddamn U.S. Army.”

Turning onto I-80, Priest heard the throb of a helicopter and looked up to see it passing overhead, coming from San Francisco across the bay toward Oakland. “Shit,” he said. “They can’t be after us, can they?”

“I told you,” Melanie said. “They can trace phone calls like, instantly.”

“But what are they going to do? They don’t even know which way we headed when we left the gas station!”

“They could close the freeway, I guess.”

“Which one? Nine-eighty, eight-eighty, five-eighty, or eighty? North or south?”

“Maybe all of them. You know cops, they do what they like.”

“Shit.” Priest put his foot down.

“Don’t get stopped for goddamn speeding.”

“Okay, okay!” He slowed down again.

“Can’t we get off the freeway?”

He shook his head. “No other way home. There are side roads, but they don’t cross the water. All we could do is hole up in Berkeley. Park somewhere and sleep in the car. But we don’t have time, we have to get home to get the seismic vibrator.” He shook his head. “Nothing to do but run for it.”

The traffic thinned as they left Oakland and Berkeley behind. Priest peered into the darkness ahead, alert for flashing lights. He was relieved to reach the Carquinez Bridge. Once they were across the water, they could use country roads. It might take them half the night to get home, but they would be out of danger.

He approached the toll plaza slowly, scanning for signs of police activity. Only one booth was open, but that was not surprising after midnight. No blue lights, no cruisers, no cops. He pulled up and fished in his jeans pocket for change.

When he looked up he saw a Highway Patrol officer.

Priest’s heart seemed to stop.

The cop was in the booth, behind the attendant, staring at Priest with a surprised expression.

The toll attendant took Priest’s money but did not turn on the green light.

The officer stepped quickly out of the booth.

Melanie said: “Shit! What now?”

Priest considered making a run for it but quickly decided against it. That would just start a chase. His old car could not outrun the cops.

“Good evening, sir,” the officer said. He was a fat man of about fifty wearing a bulletproof vest over his uniform. “Please pull over to the right side of the road.”

Priest did as he said. A Highway Patrol car was parked beside the road, where it could not be seen from the other side of the toll plaza.

Melanie whispered: “What are you going to do?”

“Try to stay calm,” Priest said.

There was another officer waiting in the parked car. He got out when he saw Priest pull up. He, too, was wearing a bulletproof vest. The first officer came over from the tollbooth.

Priest opened the glove compartment and took out the revolver he had stolen that morning from Los Alamos.

Then he got out of the car.

It took Judy only a few minutes to reach the Texaco gas station from which the phone call had been made. The Oakland police had moved fast. In the parking lot, four cruisers were parked at the corners of a square, facing inward, their blue roof lights flashing, their headlights illuminating a cleared landing space. The chopper came down.

Judy jumped out. A police sergeant greeted her. “Take me to the phone,” she said. He led her inside. The pay phone was in a corner next to the rest rooms. Behind the counter were two clerks, a middle-aged black woman and a young white man with an earring. They looked scared. Judy asked the sergeant: “Have you questioned them at all?”

“Nope,” he said. “Just told them it was a routine search.”

They would have to be dumb to believe that, Judy thought, with four police cars and an FBI helicopter outside. She introduced herself and said: “Did you notice anyone using that phone around”—she checked her watch—“fifteen minutes ago?”

The woman said: “A lot of people use the phone.” Judy instantly got the sense that she did not like cops.

Judy looked at the young man. “I’m talking about a tall white man about fifty.”

“There was a guy like that,” he replied. He turned to the woman. “Didn’t you notice him? He looked kind of like an old hippie.”

“I never saw him,” she replied stubbornly.

Judy produced the E-fit picture. “Could this be him?”

The young man looked dubious. “He didn’t have glasses. And his hair was real long. That’s why I thought he must be a hippie.” He looked more closely. “It could be him, though.”

The woman looked hard at the picture. “I remember now,” she said. “I believe that is him. Skinny guy wearing a blue jean shirt.”

“That’s really helpful,” Judy said gratefully. “Now, this question is really important. What kind of car was he driving?”

“I didn’t look,” the man said. “You know how many cars come through here every day? And it’s dark now.”

Judy looked at the woman, who shook her head sadly. “Honey, you’re asking the wrong person — I can’t tell the difference between a Ford and a Cadillac.”

Judy could not hide her disappointment. “Hell,” she said. She pulled herself together. “Thanks anyway, folks.”

She stepped outside. “Any other witnesses?” she said to the sergeant.

“Nope. There may have been other customers in here at the same time, but they’re long gone. Only those two work here.”

Charlie Marsh came hurrying up with a mobile phone to his ear. “Granger’s been spotted,” he said to Judy. “Two CHPs stopped him at the toll plaza at Carquinez Bridge.”

“Incredible!” Judy said. Then something about Charlie’s face made her realize the news could not be good. “We have him in custody?”

“No,” Charlie said. “He shot them. They were wearing vests, but he shot them both in the head. He got away.”

“Did we get a make on his car?”

“No. Tollbooth attendant didn’t notice.”

Judy could not keep the note of despair out of her voice. “Then he’s got clean away?”

“Yeah.”

“And the two Highway Patrol officers?”

“Both dead.”

The police sergeant paled. “God rest their souls,” he whispered.

Judy turned away, sick with disgust. “And God help us catch Ricky Granger,” she said. “Before he kills anyone else.”

17

Oaktree had done a great job of making the seismic vibrator look like a carnival ride.

The gaily painted red-and-yellow panels of The Dragon’s Mouth completely concealed the massive steel plate, the large vibrating engine, and the complex of tanks and valves that controlled the machine. As Priest drove across the state on Friday afternoon, from the foothills of the Sierra Nevada through the Sacramento valley to the coastal range, other drivers smiled and honked in a friendly way, and children waved from the rear windows of station wagons.

The Highway Patrol ignored him.

Priest drove the truck with Melanie beside him. Star and Oaktree followed in the old ’Cuda. They reached Felicitas in the early evening. The seismic window would open a few minutes after seven P.M. It was a good time: Priest would have twilight for his getaway. Plus, the FBI and the cops had now been on alert for eighteen hours — they should be getting tired, their reactions slow. They might already be starting to believe there would be no earthquake.

He pulled off the freeway and stopped the truck. At the end of the exit ramp there was a gas station and a Big Ribs restaurant where several families were eating dinner. The kids stared through the windows at the carnival ride. Next to the restaurant was a field with five or six horses grazing; then came a low glass office building. The road leading from here into town was lined with houses, and Priest could also see a school and a small wood-frame building that looked like a Baptist chapel.

Melanie said: “The fault line runs right across Main Street.”

“How can you tell?”

“Look at the sidewalk trees.” There was a line of mature pines on the far side of the street. “The trees at the western end stand about five feet farther back than those to the east.”

Sure enough, Priest saw that the line was broken about halfway along the street. West of the break, the trees grew in the middle of the sidewalk instead of at the curb.

Priest turned on the truck’s radio. The John Truth show was just beginning. “Perfect,” he said.

The newsreader said: “A top aide to Governor Mike Robson was abducted in Sacramento in a bizarre incident yesterday. The kidnapper accosted cabinet secretary Al Honeymoon in the parking garage of the Capitol Building, forced him to drive out of town, then abandoned him on I-80.”

Priest said: “You notice they don’t mention the Hammer of Eden? They know that was me in Sacramento. But they’re trying to pretend it had nothing to do with us. They think they’re preventing panic. They’re wasting their time. In twenty minutes there’s going to be the biggest panic California has ever seen.”

“All right!” Melanie said. She was tense but excited, her face flushed, her eyes bright with hope and fear.

But, secretly, Priest was full of doubt. Will it work this time?

Only one way to find out.

He put the truck in gear and drove down the hill.

The link road from the freeway looped around and joined the old country road leading into the town from the east. Priest swung onto Main Street. There was a coffee shop right on the fault line. Priest pulled onto the parking apron in front. The ’Cuda slid in beside the truck. “Go buy some doughnuts,” he told Melanie. “Look natural.”

She jumped out and sauntered across to the coffee shop.

Priest engaged the parking brake and flicked the switch that lowered the hammer of the seismic vibrator to the ground.

A uniformed cop came out of the coffee shop.

Priest said: “Shit.”

The cop was carrying a paper bag and heading purposefully across the lot. Priest guessed he had stopped off to get coffee for himself and his partner. But where was the patrol car? Priest looked around and spotted the blue-and-white roof light of a car that was mostly concealed by a minivan. He had not noticed it as he drove in. He cursed himself for inattention.

But it was too late for regrets. The cop spotted the truck, changed direction, and came over to Priest’s window.

“Hi, how you doin’ today?” the cop said in a friendly tone. He was a tall, thin boy in his early twenties with short fair hair.

“I’m just fine,” Priest said. Small-town cops, they act like they’re everyone’s next-door neighbor. “How are you?”

“You know you can’t operate that ride without a permit, don’t you?”

“Same everywhere,” Priest told him. “But we’re aiming to set up in Pismo Beach. We just stopped for coffee, same as you.”

“Okay. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You, too.”

The cop walked off, and Priest shook his head in amazement. If you realized who I am, buddy, you’d choke on your chocolate-frosted doughnut.

He looked through the rear window and checked the dials of the vibrating mechanism. Everything was green.

Melanie reappeared. “Go get in the car with the others,” Priest told her. “I’ll be right there.”

He set the machine to vibrate on a signal from the remote control, then jumped out, leaving the engine running.

Melanie and Star were in the backseat of the ’Cuda, sitting as far apart as they could: they were polite, but they could not hide their hostility to each other. Oaktree was at the wheel. Priest jumped into the front passenger seat. “Drive back up the hill to where we stopped before,” he said.

Oaktree pulled away.

Priest turned on the radio and tuned to John Truth.

“Seven twenty-five on Friday evening, and the threat of an earthquake by the terrorist group the Hammer of Eden has failed to materialize, heaven be praised. What’s the scariest thing that ever happened to you? Call John Truth now and tell us. It could be something dumb, like a mouse in your refrigerator, or maybe you were the victim of a robbery. Share your thoughts with the world, on John Truth Live tonight.”

Priest turned to Melanie. “Call him on your cell phone.”

“What if they trace the call?”

“It’s a radio station, not the goddamn FBI, they can’t trace calls. Go ahead.”

“Okay.” Melanie tapped out the number John Truth was repeating on the radio. “It’s busy.”

“Keep trying.”

“This phone has automatic redial.”

Oaktree stopped the car at the top of the hill, and they looked down on the town. Priest anxiously scanned the parking area in front of the coffee shop. The cops were still there. He did not want to start the vibrator while they were so close — one of them might have the presence of mind to jump into the cab and switch off the engine. “Those damn cops!” he muttered. “Why don’t they go catch some criminals?”

“Don’t say that — they might come after us,” Oaktree joked.

“We’re not criminals,” Star said forcefully. “We’re trying to save our country.”

“Damn right,” Priest said with a smile, and he punched the air.

“I mean it,” she said. “In a hundred years’ time, when people look back, they’ll say we were the rational ones, and the government was insane for letting America be destroyed by pollution. Like deserters in World War One — they were hated then, but nowadays everybody says the men who ran away were the only ones who weren’t mad.”

Oaktree said: “That’s the truth.”

The police cruiser pulled away from the coffee shop.

“I got through!” Melanie said. “I got through to — Hello? Yes, I’ll hold for John Truth.… He says to turn off the radio, you guys.…” Priest snapped off the car radio. “I want to talk about the earthquake,” Melanie went on, answering questions. “It’s … Melinda. Oh! He’s gone. Fuck, I nearly told him my name!”

“It wouldn’t matter, there must be a million Melanies,” Priest said. “Give me the phone.”

She handed it over, and Priest put it to his ear. He heard a commercial for a Lexus dealership in San Jose. It seemed the station played the show to people waiting on hold. He watched the police cruiser come up the hill toward him. It went past the truck, pulled onto the freeway, and disappeared.

Suddenly he heard: “And Melinda wants to talk about the earthquake threat. Hello, Melinda, you’re on John Truth Live!”

Priest said: “Hello, John, this isn’t Melinda, it’s the Hammer of Eden.”

There was a pause. When Truth spoke again, his voice had taken on the portentous tone he used for announcements of great gravity. “Buddy, you better not be kidding, because if you are, you could go to jail, you know?”

“I guess I could go to jail if I’m not kidding,” Priest said.

Truth did not laugh. “Why are you calling me?”

“We just want to be sure, this time, that everyone knows the earthquake was caused by us.”

“When will it happen?”

“Within the next few minutes.”

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you that, because it might give the FBI the jump on us, but I’ll tell you something no one could possibly guess. It will take place right on Route 101.”

Raja Khan jumped on a table in the middle of the command post. “Everyone, shut up and listen!” he yelled. They all heard the shrill note of fear in his voice, and the room went dead. “A guy claiming to be from the Hammer of Eden is on John Truth Live.”

There was a burst of noise as everyone asked questions. Judy stood up. “Quiet, everyone!” she shouted. “Raja, what did he say?”

Carl Theobald, who was sitting with his ear close to the speaker of a portable radio, answered her question. “He just said the next earthquake will take place on Route 101 within a few minutes.”

“Well done, Carl! Turn up the volume.” Judy swung around. “Michael — does that fit any of the locations we have under surveillance?”

“Nope,” he said. “Shit, I guessed wrong!”

“Then guess again! Try to figure out where these people might be!”

“All right,” he said. “Stop yelling.” He sat at his computer and put his hand on the mouse.

On Carl Theobald’s radio a voice said: “Here it comes now.”

An alarm sounded on Michael’s computer.

Judy said: “What’s that? Is it a tremor?”

Michael clicked his mouse. “Wait, it’s just coming on screen.… No, it’s not a tremor. It’s a seismic vibrator.”

Judy looked over his shoulder. On the screen she saw a pattern just like the one he had shown her on Sunday. “Where is it?” she said. “Give me a location!”

“I’m working on it,” he snapped back. “Shouting at me won’t make the computer triangulate faster.”

How could he be so damn touchy at a time like this? “Why is there no earthquake? Maybe their method isn’t working!”

“In Owens Valley it didn’t work the first time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Okay, here are the coordinates.”

Judy and Charlie Marsh went to the wall map. Michael sang out coordinates. “Here!” Judy said triumphantly. “Right on Route 101, south of San Francisco. A town called Felicitas. Carl, call the local police. Raja, notify the Highway Patrol. Charlie, I’m coming with you in the chopper.”

“This is not pinpoint accurate,” Michael warned. “The vibrator could be anywhere within a mile or so of the coordinates.”

“How can we narrow it down?”

“If I look at the landscape, I can spot the fault line.”

“You better come in the helicopter. Grab a bulletproof vest. Let’s go!”

“It’s not working!” Priest said, trying to control his alarm.

Melanie said: “It didn’t work the first time in Owens Valley, don’t you remember?” She sounded exasperated. “We had to move the truck and try again.”

“Shit, I hope we have time,” Priest said. “Drive, Oaktree! Back to the truck!”

Oaktree put the old car in drive and tore down the hill.

Priest turned and shouted to Melanie over the roar of the engine. “Where do you think we should move it to?”

“There’s a side street almost opposite the coffee shop — go down there about four hundred yards. That’s where the fault line runs.”

“Okay.”

Oaktree stopped the car in front of the coffee shop. Priest leaped out. A heavy middle-aged woman stood in front of him. “Did you hear that noise?” she said. “It seemed to be coming from your truck. It was earsplitting!”

“Get out of my way or I’ll split your fucking head,” Priest said. He jumped into the truck. He raised the plate, put the transmission in drive, and pulled away. He shot out onto the street in front of a big old station wagon. The wagon screeched to a halt, and the driver honked indignantly. Priest headed down the side street.

He drove four hundred yards and stopped outside a neat one-story house with a fenced garden. A small white dog barked fiercely at him through the fence. Working with feverish haste, he again lowered the plate of the vibrator and checked its dials. He set it to remote operation, jumped out, and got back into the ’Cuda.

Oaktree screeched around in a U-turn and tore off. As they raced along Main Street, Priest observed that their activities were beginning to attract attention. They were watched by a couple carrying shopping bags, two boys on mountain bikes, and three fat men who came out of a bar to see what was going on.

They came to the end of Main Street and turned up the hill. “This is far enough,” Priest said. Oaktree stopped the car, and Priest activated the remote control.

He could hear the truck vibrating six blocks away.

Star said shakily: “Are we safe here?”

They were silent, frozen in suspense, waiting for the earthquake.

The truck vibrated for thirty seconds, then stopped.

“Too safe,” Priest said to Star.

Oaktree said: “It ain’t fucking working, Priest!”

“This happened last time,” Priest said desperately. “It’s gonna work!”

Melanie said: “You know what I think? The earth here is too soft. The town is close to the river. Soft, wet ground soaks up vibrations.”

Priest turned to her accusingly. “Yesterday you told me earthquakes cause more damage on wet ground.”

“I said that buildings on wet soil are more likely to be damaged, because the ground underneath them moves more. But for transmitting shock waves to the fault, rock should be better.”

“Skip the goddamn lecture!” Priest said. “Where do we try next?”

She pointed up the hill. “Where we came off the freeway. It’s not directly on the fault line, but the ground should be rock.”

Oaktree raised an eyebrow at Priest. Priest said: “Back to the truck, go!”

They raced back along Main Street, watched now by more people. Oaktree screeched into the side street and skidded to a halt next to the seismic vibrator. Priest jumped into the truck, raised the plate, and pulled away, flooring the gas pedal.

The truck moved with painful slowness through the town and crawled up the hill.

When it was halfway up, the police car they had seen earlier came off the freeway ramp, lights flashing and siren sounding, and sped past them, heading into town.

At last the truck arrived at the spot from which Priest had first looked over the town and pronounced it perfect. He stopped across the road from the Big Ribs restaurant. For the third time, he lowered the vibrator’s plate.

Behind him he could see the ’Cuda. Coming back up the hill from the town was the police cruiser. Glancing up, he spotted a helicopter in the distant sky.

He had no time to get clear of the truck and use the remote. He would have to activate the vibrator sitting here in the driver’s seat.

He put his hand on the control, hesitated, and pulled the lever.

From the helicopter, Felicitas looked like a town asleep.

It was a bright, clear evening. Judy could see Main Street and the grid of streets around it, the trees in the gardens and the cars in the driveways, but nothing seemed to be moving. A man watering flowers was so motionless, he seemed to be a statue; a woman in a big straw hat stood still on the sidewalk; three teenage girls on a street corner were frozen in place; two boys had stopped their bicycles in the middle of the road.

There was movement on the freeway that flew past the town on the elegant arches of a viaduct. As well as the usual mixture of cars and trucks, she spotted two police cruisers a mile or so away, approaching the town at high speed, coming, she assumed, in response to her emergency call.

But in the town no one moved.

After a moment she figured out what was going on.

They were listening.

The roar of the helicopter prevented her from hearing what they were listening to, but she could guess. It had to be the seismic vibrator.

But where was it?

The chopper flew low enough for her to identify the makes of cars parked on Main Street, but she could not see a vehicle big enough to be a seismic vibrator. None of the trees that partly obscured the side streets seemed big enough to hide a full-size truck.

She spoke to Michael over the headset. “Can you see the fault line?”

“Yes.” He was studying a map and comparing it with the landscape beneath. “It crosses the railroad, the river, the freeway, and the gas pipeline. Dear God almighty, there’s going to be some damage.”

“But where’s the vibrator?”

“What’s that on the hillside?”

Judy followed his pointing finger. Above the town, close to the freeway, she saw a small cluster of buildings: a fast-food restaurant of some kind, a glass-walled office building, and a small wooden structure, probably a chapel. On the road near the restaurant were a mud-colored coupé that looked like an old muscle car from the early seventies, a police cruiser pulling up behind it, and a large truck painted all over with dragons in livid red and acid yellow. She made out the words “The Dragon’s Mouth.” “It’s a carnival ride,” she said.

“Or a disguise,” he suggested. “That’s about the right size for a seismic vibrator.”

“My God, I bet you’re right!” she said. “Charlie, are you listening?”

Charlie Marsh was sitting beside the pilot. Six members of his SWAT team were seated behind Judy and Michael, armed with stubby MP-5 submachine guns. The rest of the team were hurtling down the freeway in an armored truck, their mobile tactical operations center. “I’m listening,” Charlie said. “Pilot, can you put us down near that carnival truck on the hill?”

“It’s awkward,” the pilot replied. “The hillside slopes steeply, and the road forms a narrow ledge. I’d rather come down in the parking lot of that restaurant.”

“Do it,” Charlie said.

“There isn’t going to be an earthquake, is there?” the pilot said.

Nobody answered him.

As the chopper came down, a figure jumped out of the truck. Judy peered at it. She saw a tall, thin man with long dark hair, and she felt immediately that this had to be her enemy. He stared up at the chopper, and it seemed as if his eyes were on her. She was too far away to see his features clearly, but she felt sure he was Granger.

Stay right there, you son of a bitch, I’m coming to get you.

The helicopter hovered over the parking lot and began to descend.

Judy realized that she and everyone with her could die in the next few seconds.

As the helicopter touched the ground, there was a noise like the crack of doom.

The bang was a thunderclap so loud, it drowned the roar of the seismic vibrator and the thrash of the helicopter rotors.

The ground seemed to rise up and hit Priest like a fist. He was watching the chopper land in the Big Ribs parking lot, thinking that the vibrator was pounding away in vain, his scheme had failed, and he would now be arrested and thrown in jail. The next moment he was flat on his face, feeling as if he had been punched out by Mike Tyson.

He rolled over, gasping for breath, and saw the trees all around him bending and twisting as if a hurricane were blowing.

A moment later he came to his senses and realized — it had worked! He had caused an earthquake.

Yes!

And he was in the middle of it.

Then he was afraid for his life.

The air rang with a terrifying rumbling sound like rocks being shaken in a giant pail. He scrambled to his knees, but the ground would not stay still, and in trying to stand up, he fell over again.

Oh, shit, I’m done for.

He rolled over and managed to sit upright.

He heard a sound like a hundred windows breaking. Looking over to his right, he saw that was exactly what was happening. The glass walls of the office building were all shattering at the same time. A million shards of glass flowed like a waterfall off the building.

Yes!

The Baptist chapel farther down the road seemed to fall over sideways. It was a flimsy wooden building, and its thin walls went down in a cloud of dust and lay flat on the ground, leaving a massive carved-oak lectern standing in the middle of the wreckage.

I did it! I did it!

The windows of Big Ribs smashed, and the screams of terrified children pierced the air. One corner of the roof sagged, then dropped on a group of five or six teenagers, crushing them and their table and their rib dinners. The other patrons rose in a wave and surged toward the now-glassless windows as the rest of the roof started to come down on them.

The air was full of the pungent smell of gasoline. The tremor had ruptured the tanks at the filling station, Priest thought. He looked across and saw a sea of fuel spilling over the forecourt. An out-of-control motorcycle came off the road, weaving from side to side, until the rider fell off and the machine slid across the concrete, striking sparks. The spilling gas caught a light with a whoosh, and a second later the entire plaza was ablaze.

Jesus Christ!

The fire was frighteningly close to the ’Cuda. He could see the car rocking up and down, and the terrified face of Oaktree behind the wheel.

He had never seen Oaktree scared.

The horses from the field next to the restaurant burst through the broken fence and galloped full-tilt along the road toward Priest, eyes staring, mouths open, terrified. Priest had no time to get out of the way. He covered his head with his hands. They raced by either side of him.

Down in the town, the church bell was ringing madly.

The helicopter lifted again a second after it had touched down. Judy saw the ground beneath her shimmer like a block of Jell-O. Then it fell away fast as the chopper gained height. She gasped to see the glass walls of the little office building turn to something that looked like surf and fall in a great wave to the ground. She saw a motorcyclist crash into the filling station, and she cried out in grief as the gasoline caught on fire and the flames engulfed the fallen rider.

The helicopter swung around, and her view changed. Now she saw across the flat plain. In the distance, a freight train was crossing the fields. At first she thought it had escaped damage, then she realized it was slowing harshly. It had come off the rails, and as she watched, horrified, the locomotive plowed into the field alongside the track. The loaded wagons began to snake as they piled into the back of the engine. Then the chopper swung around again, still rising.

Now Judy could see the town. It was a shocking sight. Desperate, panicky people were running into the street, mouths open in screams of terror that she could not hear, trying to escape as their houses collapsed, walls cracking open and windows exploding and roofs lurching terrifyingly sideways and falling into neat gardens and crushing cars in driveways. Main Street seemed to be on fire and flooded with water at the same time. Cars had crashed in the streets. There was a flash like lightning, then another, and Judy guessed power lines were snapping.

As the helicopter gained height, the freeway came into view, and Judy’s hands flew to her mouth in horror as she saw that one of the giant arches supporting the viaduct had twisted and snapped. The roadbed had cracked, and a tongue of road now stuck out into midair. At least ten cars had piled up on either side of the break, and several were on fire. And the carnage was not over. Even as she watched, a big old Chevrolet with fins hurtled toward the precipice, skidding sideways as the driver tried in vain to stop. Judy heard herself scream as the car flew off the edge. She could see the terrified face of the driver, a young man, as he realized he was about to die. The car tumbled over and over in the air, with ghastly slowness, and finally crashed on the roof of a house below, bursting into flames and setting the building on fire.

Judy buried her face in her hands. It was too dreadful to watch. But then she remembered she was an FBI agent. She forced herself to look again. Cars on the freeway were now slowing early enough to stop before crashing, she saw. But Highway Patrol vehicles and the SWAT truck that was on its way would not be able to reach Felicitas from the freeway.

A sudden wind blew away the cloud of black smoke over the filling station, and Judy saw the man she thought was Ricky Granger.

You did this. You killed all these people. You piece of shit, I’m going to put you in jail if it’s the last thing I do.

Granger struggled to his feet and ran to the brown coupé, shouting and gesticulating to the people inside.

The police cruiser was right behind the coupé, but the cops seemed slow to act.

Judy realized the terrorists were about to flee.

Charlie came to the same conclusion. “Go down, pilot!” he yelled through the headset.

“Are you out of your mind?” he shouted back.

“Those people did this!” Judy screamed, pointing over the pilot’s shoulder. “They caused all this carnage and now they’re getting away!”

“Shit,” the pilot said, and the helicopter swooped toward the ground.

Priest yelled at Oaktree through the open window of the ’Cuda. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Okay — which way?”

Priest pointed along the road that led to the town. “Take this road, but instead of going left into Main Street, turn right along the old country road — it leads back toward San Francisco, I checked.”

“Okay!”

Priest saw the two local cops getting out of their cruiser.

He leaped into the truck, raised the plate, and pulled away, heaving on the steering wheel. Oaktree scorched a U-turn in the ’Cuda and headed down the hill. Priest turned the truck around more slowly.

One of the cops was standing in the middle of the road, pointing his gun at the truck. It was the thin youngster who had told Priest to enjoy the rest of his day. Now he was shouting: “Police! Stop!”

Priest drove right at him.

The cop let off a wild shot, then dived out of the way.

The road ahead skirted the town to the east, avoiding the worst of the damage, which was in the town center. Priest had to swing around a pair of crashed cars outside the destroyed glass office building, but after that the road looked clear. The truck picked up speed.

We’re going to make it!

Then the FBI helicopter landed in the middle of the road a quarter of a mile ahead.

Shit.

Priest saw the ’Cuda screech to a halt.

Okay, assholes, you asked for it.

Priest floored the gas pedal.

Agents in SWAT gear, armed to the teeth, leaped out of the chopper one by one and began to take cover at the roadside.

Priest in his truck careered down the hill, gathering speed, and roared past the stopped ’Cuda.

“Now follow me,” Priest muttered, hoping Oaktree would guess what was expected of him.

He saw Judy Maddox jump out of the chopper. A bulletproof vest hid her graceful body, and she was holding a shotgun. She knelt behind a telegraph pole. A man tumbled out after her, and Priest recognized Melanie’s husband, Michael.

Priest glanced in his side mirrors. Oaktree had the ’Cuda tucked in right behind him, making it a difficult target. He had not forgotten everything he had learned in the marines.

Behind the ’Cuda, a hundred yards back but going like a blue streak and gaining fast, was the police cruiser.

Priest’s truck was twenty yards from the agents, heading straight for the chopper.

An FBI agent stood up at the roadside and aimed a stubby machine gun at the truck.

Jesus, I hope the feds don’t have grenade launchers.

The chopper lifted off the ground.

Judy cursed. The helicopter pilot, bad at taking orders, had landed too close to the approaching vehicles. There was hardly time for the SWAT team and the other agents to spill out and take positions before the carnival truck was on them.

Michael staggered to the side of the road. “Lie flat!” Judy screamed at him. She saw the driver of the truck duck behind the dash as one of the SWAT team opened fire with his submachine gun. The windshield frosted, and holes appeared in the fenders and the hood, but the truck did not stop. Judy cried out with frustration.

She hastily aimed her M870 five-chamber shotgun and fired at the tires, but she was off balance and her shot went wide.

Then the truck was alongside her. All firing stopped: the agents were fearful of hitting one another.

The chopper was lifting out of the way — but then Judy saw, to her horror, that the pilot had been a split second too slow. The roof of the truck’s cab clipped the undercarriage of the helicopter. The aircraft tilted suddenly.

The truck charged on, unaffected. The brown ’Cuda raced by, close behind the truck.

Judy fired wildly at the retreating vehicles.

We let them get by!

The helicopter seemed to wobble in midair as the pilot tried to correct its lurch. Then a rotor blade touched the ground.

“Oh, no!” Judy cried. “Please, no!”

The tail of the machine swung around and up. Judy could see the frightened expression of the pilot as he fought the controls. Then, suddenly, the helicopter nose-dived into the middle of the road. There was a heavy crump! of deforming metal and, immediately afterward, the musical crash of shattering glass. For a moment the chopper stood on its nose. Then it began to fall slowly sideways.

The pursuing police cruiser, traveling at maybe a hundred miles an hour, braked desperately, skidded, and smashed into the crashed helicopter.

There was a deafening bang, and both vehicles burst into flame.

Priest saw the crash in his side mirrors and let out a victory whoop. Now the FBI looked stuck: no helicopter, no cars. For the next few minutes they would be trying desperately to rescue the cops and the pilot from the wreckage in case they were still alive. By the time one of them thought of commandeering a car from a nearby house, Priest would be miles away.

He pushed out the frosted glass of his shot-up windshield without slowing the truck.

My God, I think we made it!

Behind him, the ’Cuda was swaying in a peculiar way. After a minute he figured it must have a flat. It was still traveling, so the flat must be a rear tire. Oaktree could keep going for a mile or two like that.

They reached the crossroads. Three cars had piled up at the junction: a Toyota minivan with a baby seat in the back, a battered Dodge pickup, and an old white Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Priest looked hard at them. None was badly damaged, and the minivan’s engine was still running. He could not see the drivers anywhere. They must have gone looking for a phone.

He steered around the pileup and turned right, away from the town. He pulled up around the first bend. They were now more than a mile from the FBI team and well out of sight. He thought he was safe for a minute or two. He jumped out of the truck.

The ’Cuda pulled up behind, and Oaktree jumped out. He was grinning broadly. “Mission successfully completed, General!” he said. “I never saw anything like that in the goddamn military!”

Priest gave him a high five. “But we need to get away from the battlefield, and fast,” he said.

Star and Melanie got out of the car. Melanie’s cheeks were pink with exhilaration, almost as if she were sexually aroused. “My God, we did it, we did it!” she said.

Star bent over and threw up at the roadside.

Charlie Marsh was talking into a mobile phone. “The pilot is dead, and so are two local cops. There’s a hell of a pileup on Route 101, which needs to be closed. Here in Felicitas we have car wrecks, fires, flooding, a busted gas pipeline, and a train wreck. You’ll need to call in the Governor’s Office of Emergency Management, no question.”

Judy motioned for him to give her the phone.

He nodded to her and said into the mouthpiece: “Put one of Judy’s people on the line.” He handed her the phone.

“This is Judy, who’s that?” she said rapidly.

“Carl. How the hell are you?”

“Okay, but mad at myself for losing the suspects. Put out a call for two vehicles. One is a truck painted with red and yellow dragons, looks like a carnival ride. The other is a brown Plymouth ’Cuda twenty-five or thirty years old. Also, send out another chopper to look for the vehicles on the roads leading from Felicitas.” She looked up into the sky. “It’s almost too dark already, but do it anyway. Any vehicle of either description should be stopped and the occupants questioned.”

“And if one of them could conceivably fit the description of Granger …?”

“Bring him in and nail him to the floor until I get there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I guess we’ll commandeer some cars and come back to the office. Somehow …” She stopped and fought off a wave of exhaustion and despair. “Somehow, we’ve got to stop this from happening again.”

“It’s not over yet,” Priest said. “In an hour or so, every cop in California will be looking for a carnival ride called ‘The Dragon’s Mouth.’ ” He turned to Oaktree. “How fast could we get these panels off?”

“In a few minutes, with a couple of good hammers.”

“The truck has a tool kit.”

Working fast, the two of them took the carnival panels off the truck and tossed them over a wire fence into a field. With luck, in the confusion following the earthquake, it would be a day or two before anyone took a close look at them.

“What the hell you going to tell Bones?” Oaktree said as they worked.

“I’ll think of something.”

Melanie helped, but Star stood with her back to them, leaning against the trunk of the ’Cuda. She was crying. She was going to make trouble, Priest knew, but there was no time to gentle her now.

When they had finished with the truck, they stood back, panting with the effort. Oaktree said worriedly: “Now the damn thing looks like a seismic vibrator again.”

“I know,” Priest said. “Nothing I can do about that. It’s getting dark, I don’t have far to go, and every cop within fifty miles is going to be conscripted into rescue work. I’m just hoping to be lucky. Now get out of here. Take Star.”

“First I need to change a wheel — I have a flat.”

“Don’t bother,” Priest said. “We gotta ditch the ’Cuda anyway. The FBI saw it, they’ll be looking for it.” He pointed back toward the crossroads. “I saw three vehicles back there. Grab yourself a new ride.”

Oaktree hurried off.

Star looked at Priest with accusing eyes. “I can’t believe we did this,” she said. “How many people have we killed?”

“We had no choice,” he said angrily. “You told me you’d do anything to save the commune — don’t you remember?”

“But you’re so calm about it. All these people killed, more injured, families who have lost their homes — aren’t you heartsick?”

“Sure.”

“And her.” She nodded at Melanie. “Look at her face. She’s so up. My God, I think she likes all this.”

“Star, we’ll talk later, okay?”

She shook her head as if amazed. “I spent twenty-five years with you and never really knew you.”

Oaktree came back driving the Toyota. “Nothing wrong with this but dents,” he said.

Priest said to Star: “Go with him.”

She hesitated for a long moment, then she got in the car.

Oaktree pulled away and disappeared fast.

“Get in the truck,” Priest said to Melanie. He got behind the wheel and reversed the seismic vibrator to the crossroads. They both jumped out and looked at the remaining two cars. Priest liked the look of the Cadillac. Its trunk was smashed in, but the front end was undamaged, and the keys were in the ignition. “Follow me in the Caddy,” he said to Melanie.

She got in the car and turned the key. It started right away. She said: “Where are we headed?”

“Perpetua Diaries warehouse.”

“Okay.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Who are you going to call? Not the FBI.”

“No, just the radio station.”

She handed over her phone.

As they were about to leave, there was a huge explosion in the distance. Priest looked back toward Felicitas and saw a jet of flame shoot high in the sky.

Melanie said: “Wow, what’s that?”

The flame receded and became a bright glow in the evening sky.

“I guess the gas pipeline just caught on fire,” Priest said. “Now, that’s what I call fireworks.”

Michael Quercus was sitting on a patch of grass at the side of the road, looking shocked and helpless.

Judy went over to him. “Get up,” she said. “Pull yourself together. People die every day.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s not the killings — although they’re enough. It’s something else.”

“What?”

“Did you see who was in the car?”

“The ’Cuda? There was a black guy driving it.”

“But in the back?”

“I didn’t notice anyone else.”

“I did. A woman.”

“Did you recognize her?”

“I sure did,” he said. “It was my wife.”

It took twenty minutes of redialing on Melanie’s cell phone before Priest got through to the John Truth show. By the time he heard the ringing tone, he was on the outskirts of San Francisco.

The show was still on the air. Priest said he was from the Hammer of Eden and got connected right away.

“You have done a terrible thing,” Truth said. He was using his most portentous voice, but Priest could tell that underneath the solemn tone the man was exultant. The earthquake had practically happened on his show. This would make him the most famous radio personality in America. Move over, Howard Stern.

“You’re wrong,” Priest told him. “The people who are turning California into a poison wasteland have done a terrible thing. I’m just trying to stop them.”

“By killing innocent people?”

“Pollution kills innocent people. Automobiles kill innocent people. Call that Lexus dealer that advertises on your show and tell him he did a terrible thing selling five cars today.”

There was a moment’s silence. Priest grinned. Truth was not sure how to answer him. He could not start discussing the ethics of his sponsors. He quickly changed the subject. “I appeal to you to turn yourself in, right now.”

“I have one thing to say to you and the people of California,” Priest said. “Governor Robson must announce a statewide freeze on power plant building — otherwise there will be another earthquake.”

“You would do this again?” Truth sounded genuinely shocked.

“You bet I would. And—”

Truth tried to interrupt him. “How can you claim—”

Priest overrode him. “—the next earthquake will be worse than this one.”

“Where will it strike?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Can you say when?”

“Oh, sure. Unless the governor changes his mind, another earthquake will take place in two days’ time.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Exactly,” he added.

He hung up.

“Now, Mister Governor,” he said aloud. “Tell the people not to panic.”