The Hammer of Eden (24 page)

9

P
riest 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.