The Hammer of Eden (43 page)

*  *  *

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.