Dark Rivers of the Heart (42 page)

Consequently, because shining success bred increased budgets and the greatest access to additional off-budget funding, the EPA owned the finest of hardware, from office equipment to orbital surveillance satellites. If any federal bureaucracy were to obtain independent control of nuclear weapons, it would be the EPA, although it was the least likely to use them—except, perhaps, in a turf dispute with the Department of the Interior.

To find Spencer Grant and the woman, therefore, the agency was using the EPA surveillance satellite—Earthguard 3—which was in a geosynchronous orbit over the western United States. To seize complete and uncontested use of that asset, Mama infiltrated EPA computers and fed them false data to the effect that Earthguard 3 had experienced sudden, total systems failure. Scientists at EPA satellite-tracking facilities had immediately mounted a campaign to diagnose the ills of Earthguard 3 by long-distance telemechanical testing. However, Mama had secretly intercepted all commands sent to that eighty-million-dollar package of sophisticated electronics—and she would continue to do so until the agency no longer needed Earthguard 3, at which time she would allow it to go on-line again for the EPA.

From space, the agency could now conduct a supra-magnified visual inspection of a multistate area. It could focus all the way down to a square-meter-by-square-meter search pattern if the need arose to get in that tight on a suspect vehicle or person.

Earthguard 3 also provided two methods of highly advanced night surveillance. Using profile-guided infrared, it could differentiate between a vehicle and stationary sources of radiant heat by the very fact of the target’s mobility and by its distinct thermal signature. The system also could employ a variation on Star Tron night-vision technology to magnify ambient light by a factor of eighteen thousand, making a night scene appear nearly as bright as an overcast day—although with a monochromatic, eerie green cast.

All images were automatically processed through an enhancement program aboard the satellite prior to encoding and transmission. And upon receipt in the Vegas control center, an equally automated but more sophisticated enhancement program, run on the latest-generation Cray supercomputer, further clarified the high-definition video image before projecting it on the wall display. If additional clarification was desired, stills taken from the tape could be subjected to more enhancement procedures under the supervision of talented technicians.

The effectiveness of satellite surveillance—whether infrared, night-vision, or ordinary telescopic photography—varied according to the territory under scrutiny. Generally, the more populated an area, the less successful a space-based search for anything as small as a single individual or vehicle, because there were far too many objects in motion and too many heat sources to be sorted through and analyzed either accurately or on a timely basis. Towns were easier to observe than cities, rural areas easier than towns, and open highways could be monitored better than metropolitan streets.

If Spencer Grant and the woman had been delayed in their flight, as Roy hoped, they were still in ideal territory to be located and tracked by Earthguard 3. Barren, unpopulated desert.

Saturday afternoon through evening, as suspect vehicles were spotted, they were either studied and eliminated or maintained on an under-observation list until a determination could be made that their occupants didn’t fit the fugitive-party profile: woman, man, and dog.

After watching the big wall display for hours, Roy was impressed by how
perfect
their part of the world appeared to be from orbit. All colors were soft and subdued, and all shapes appeared harmonious.

The illusion of perfection was more convincing when Earthguard was surveying larger rather than smaller areas and was, therefore, using the lowest magnification. It was
most
convincing when the image was in infrared. The less he was able to detect obvious signs of human civilization, the closer to perfection the planet appeared.

Perhaps those extremists who insisted that the population of the earth be expediently reduced by ninety percent, by any means, to save the ecology were onto something. What quality of life could anyone have in a world that civilization had utterly despoiled?

If such a program of population reduction was ever instituted, he would take deep personal satisfaction in helping to administer it, although the work would be exhausting and often thankless.

The day waned without either the ground or air search turning up a trace of the fugitives. At nightfall the hunt was called off until dawn. And Earthguard 3, with all its eyes and all its ways of seeing, was no more successful than the men on foot and the helicopter crews, though at least it could continue searching throughout the night.

Roy remained in the satellite-surveillance center until almost eight o’clock, when he left with Eve Jammer for dinner at an Armenian restaurant. Over a tasty fattoush salad and then superb rack of lamb, they discussed the concept of massive and rapid population reduction. They imagined ways in which it might be achieved without undesirable side effects, such as nuclear radiation and uncontrollable riots in the streets. And they conceived
several
fair methods of determining which ten percent of the population would survive to carry on a less chaotic and drastically perfected version of the human saga. They sketched possible symbols for the population-reduction movement, composed inspiring slogans, and debated what the uniforms ought to look like. They were in a state of high excitement by the time they left the restaurant to go to Eve’s place. They might have killed any cop who had been foolish enough to stop them for doing seventy miles an hour through hospital and residential zones.

The stained and shadowed walls had faces. Strange, embedded faces. Half-seen, tortured expressions. Mouths open in cries for mercy that were never answered. Hands. Reaching hands. Silently beseeching. Ghostly white tableaux, streaked gray and rust-red in some places, mottled brown and yellow in others. Face by face and body beside body, some limbs overlapping, but always the posture of the supplicant, always the expressions of despairing beggars: pleading, imploring, praying.

“Nobody knows…nobody knows…”

“Spencer? Can you hear me, Spencer?”

Valerie’s voice echoed down a long tunnel to him as he walked in a place between wakefulness and true sleep, between denial and acceptance, between one hell and another.

“Easy now, easy, don’t be afraid, it’s okay, you’re dreaming.”

“No. See? See? Here in the catacombs, here, the catacombs.”

“Only a dream.”

“Like in school, in the book, pictures, like in Rome, martyrs, down in the catacombs, but worse, worse, worse…”

“You can walk away from there. It’s only a dream.”

He heard his own voice diminishing from a shout to a withered, miserable cry: “Oh God, oh my God,
oh my God!
”

“Here, take my hand. Spencer, can you hear me? Hold my hand. I’m here. I’m with you.”

“They were so afraid, afraid, all alone and afraid. See how afraid they are? Alone, no one to hear, no one, nobody ever knew, so afraid. Oh, Jesus, Jesus, help me, Jesus.”

“Come on, hold my hand, that’s it, that’s good, hold tight. I’m right here with you. You aren’t alone anymore, Spencer.”

He held on to her warm hand, and somehow she led him away from the blind white faces, the silent cries.

By the power of her hand, Spencer drifted, lighter than air, up from the deep place, through darkness, through a red door. Not the door with wet handprints on the aged-white background. This door was entirely red, dry, with a film of dust. It opened into sapphire-blue light, black booths and chairs, polished-steel trim, mirrored walls. Deserted bandstand. A handful of people drinking quietly at tables. In jeans and a suede jacket instead of slit skirt and black sweater, she sat on a barstool beside him, because business was slow. He was lying on an air mattress, sweating yet chilled, and she was perched on a stool, yet they were at the same level, holding hands, talking easily, as though they were old friends, with the hiss of the Coleman lantern in the background.

He knew he was delirious. He didn’t care. She was so pretty.

“Why did you go into my house Wednesday night?”

“Already told you?”

“No. You keep avoiding an answer.”

“Needed to know about you.”

“Why?”

“You hate me?”

“Of course not. I just want to understand.”

“Went to your place, sting grenades coming through the windows.”

“You could’ve walked away when you realized what trouble I was.”

“No, can’t let you end up in a ditch, eighty miles from home.”

“What?”

“Or in catacombs.”

“After you knew I was trouble, why’d you wade in deeper?”

“Told you. I liked you first time we met.”

“That was just Tuesday night! I’m a stranger to you.”

“I want…”

“What?”

“I want…a life.”

“You don’t have a life?”

“A life…with hope.”

The cocktail lounge dissolved, and the blue light changed to sour yellow. The stained and shadowed walls had faces. White faces, death masks, mouths open in voiceless terror, silently beseeching.

A spider followed the electrical cord that hung in loops from the ceiling, and its exaggerated shadow scurried across the stained white faces of the innocent.

Later, in the cocktail lounge again, he said to her, “You’re a good person.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Theda.”

“Theda thinks everyone’s a good person.”

“She was so sick. You took care of her.”

“Only for a couple of weeks.”

“Day and night.”

“Wasn’t that big a deal.”

“Now me.”

“I haven’t pulled you through yet.”

“More I learn about you, the better you are.”

She said, “Hell, maybe I
am
a saint.”

“No. Just a good person. Too sarcastic to be a saint.”

She laughed. “I can’t help liking you, Spencer Grant.”

“This is nice. Getting to know each other.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

Impulsively, he said, “I love you.”

Valerie was silent for so long that Spencer thought he’d lost consciousness again.

At last she said, “You’re delirious.”

“Not about this.”

“I’ll change the compress on your forehead.”

“I love you.”

“You better be quiet, try to get some rest.”

“I’ll always love you.”

“Be quiet, you strange man,” she said with what he believed and hoped was affection. “Just be quiet and rest.”

“Always,” he repeated.

Having confessed that the hope he sought was her, Spencer was so greatly relieved that he sank into a darkness without catacombs.

A long time later, not certain if he was awake or asleep, in a half-light that might have been dawn, dusk, lamp glow, or the cold and sourceless luminosity of a dream, Spencer was surprised to hear himself say, “Michael.”

“Ah, you’re back,” she said.

“Michael.”

“No one here’s named Michael.”

“You need to know about him,” Spencer warned.

“Okay. Tell me.”

He wished he could see her. There was only light and shadow, not even a blurred shape anymore.

He said, “You need to know if…if you’re going to be with me.”

“Tell me,” she encouraged.

“Don’t hate me when you know.”

“I’m not an easy hater. Trust me, Spencer. Trust me and talk to me. Who is Michael?”

His voice was fragile. “Died when he was fourteen.”

“Michael was a friend?”

“He was me. Died fourteen…wasn’t buried till he was sixteen.”

“Michael was you?”

“Walking around dead two years, then I was Spencer.”

“What was your…what was Michael’s last name?”

He knew then that he must be awake, not dreaming, because he had never felt as bad in a dream as he felt at that moment. The need to reveal could no longer be repressed, yet revelation was agony. His heart beat hard and fast, though it was pierced by secrets as painful as needles. “His last name…was the devil’s name.”

“What was the devil’s name?”

Spencer was silent, trying to speak but unable.

“What was the devil’s name?” she asked again.

“Ackblom,” he said, spitting out the hated syllables.

“Ackblom? Why do you say that’s the name of the devil?”

“Don’t you remember? Didn’t you ever hear?”

“I guess you’ll have to tell me.”

“Before Michael was Spencer,” said Spencer, “he had a dad. Like other boys…had a dad…but not like other dads. His f-father’s name was…was…his name was Steven. Steven Ackblom. The artist.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Don’t be afraid of me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking apart, word by desperate word.

“You’re the boy?”

“Don’t hate me.”

“You’re that boy.”

“Don’t hate me.”

“Why would I hate you?”

“Because…I’m the boy.”

“The boy who was a hero,” she said.

“No.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I couldn’t save them.”

“But you saved all those who might’ve come after them.”