The Hammer of Eden (5 page)

He knew he had not got rid of all traces of Mario. A casual glance would reveal nothing, but if the cops ever examined the pickup, they would probably find Mario’s belt buckle, the fillings from his teeth, and maybe his charred bones. Someday, Priest realized, Mario might come back to haunt him. But he had done all he could to conceal the evidence of his crime.

Now he had to steal the seismic vibrator.

He turned away from the burning body and started walking.

*  *  *

At the commune in Silver River Valley, there was an inner group called the Rice Eaters. There were seven of them, the remnants of those who had survived the desperate winter of 1972–73, when they had been isolated by a blizzard and had eaten nothing but brown rice boiled in melted snow for three straight weeks. On the day the letter came, the Rice Eaters stayed up late in the evening, sitting in the cookhouse, drinking wine and smoking marijuana.

Song, who had been a fifteen-year-old runaway in 1972, was playing an acoustic guitar, picking out a blues riff. Some of the group made guitars in the winter. They kept the ones they liked best, and Paul Beale took the rest to a shop in San Francisco, where they were sold for high prices. Star was singing along in a smoky, intimate contralto, making up words, “Ain’t gonna ride that no-good train …” She had the sexiest voice in the world, always did.

Melanie sat with them, although she was not a Rice Eater, because Priest did not care to throw her out, and the others did not challenge
Priest’s decisions. She was crying silently, big tears streaming down her face. She kept saying: “I only just found you.”

“We haven’t given up,” Priest told her. “There has to be a way to make the governor of California change his damn mind.”

Oaktree, the carpenter, a muscular black man the same age as Priest, said in a musing tone: “You know, it ain’t that hard to make a nuclear bomb.” He had been in the marines, but had deserted after killing an officer during a training exercise, and he had been here ever since. “I could do it in a day, if I had some plutonium. We could blackmail the governor—if they don’t do what we want, we threaten to blow Sacramento all to hell.”

“No!” said Aneth. She was nursing a child. The boy was three years old: Priest thought it was time he was weaned, but Aneth felt he should be allowed to suckle as long as he wanted to. “You can’t save the world with bombs.”

Star stopped singing. “We’re not trying to save the world. I gave that up in 1969, after the world’s press turned the hippie movement into a joke. All I want now is to save
this
, what we have here, our life, so our children can grow up in peace and love.”

Priest, who had already considered and rejected the idea of making a nuclear bomb, said: “It’s getting the plutonium that’s the hard part.”

Aneth detached the child from her breast and patted his back. “Forget it,” she said. “I won’t have anything to do with that stuff. It’s deadly!”

Star began to sing again. “Train, train, no-good train …”

Oaktree persisted. “I could get a job in a nuclear power plant, figure out a way to beat their security system.”

Priest said: “They would ask you for your résumé. And what would you say you had been doing for the last twenty-five years? Nuclear research at Berkeley?”

“I’d say I been living with a bunch of freaks and now they need to blow up Sacramento, so I came here to get me some radio-friggin’-
activity
, man.”

The others laughed. Oaktree sat back in his chair and began to harmonize with Star: “No, no, ain’t gonna ride that no-good train …”

Priest frowned at the flippant air. He could not smile. His heart was full of rage. But he knew that inspired ideas sometimes came out of lighthearted discussions, so he let it run.

Aneth kissed the top of her child’s head and said: “We could kidnap someone.”

Priest said: “Who? The governor probably has six bodyguards.”

“What about his right-hand man, that guy Albert Honeymoon?” There was a murmur of support: they all hated Honeymoon. “Or the president of Coastal Electric?”

Priest nodded. This could work.

He knew about stuff like that. It was a long time since he had been on the streets, but he remembered the rules of a rumble: Plan carefully, look cool, shock the mark so badly he can hardly think, act fast, and get the hell out. But something bothered him. “It’s too … like, low-profile,” he said. “Say some big shot gets kidnapped. So what? If you’re going to scare people, you can’t pussyfoot around, you have to scare them
shitless.”

He restrained himself from saying more.
When you’ve got a guy on his knees, crying and pissing his pants and pleading with you, begging you not to hurt him anymore, that’s when you say what you want; and he’s so grateful, he loves you for telling him what he has to do to make the pain stop
. But that was the wrong kind of talk for someone like Aneth.

At this point, Melanie spoke again.

She was sitting on the floor with her back against Priest’s chair. Aneth offered her the big joint that was going around. Melanie wiped her tears, took a long pull on the joint, and passed it up to Priest, then blew out a cloud of smoke and said: “You know, there are ten or fifteen places in California where the faults in the earth’s crust are under such tremendous, like,
pressure
that it would only take a teeny little nudge, or something, to make the tectonic plates slip, and then,
boom!
It’s like a giant slipping on a pebble. It’s only a little pebble, but the giant is so big that his fall shakes the earth.”

Oaktree stopped singing long enough to say: “Melanie, baby, what the fuck you talking about?”

“I’m talking about an earthquake,” she said.

Oaktree laughed. “Ride, ride that no-good train …”

Priest did not laugh. Something told him this was important. He spoke with quiet intensity. “What are you saying, Melanie?”

“Forget kidnapping, forget nuclear bombs,” she said. “Why don’t we threaten the governor with an earthquake?”

“No one can cause an earthquake,” Priest said. “It would take such an enormous amount of energy to make the earth move.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It might take only a small amount of energy, if the force was applied in just the right place.”

Oaktree said: “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I studied it. I have a master’s in seismology. I should be teaching in a university now. But I married my professor, and that was the end of my career. I was turned down for a doctorate.”

Her tone was bitter. Priest had talked to her about this, and he knew she bore a deep grudge. Her husband had been on the university committee that turned her down. He had been obliged to withdraw from the meeting while her case was discussed, which seemed natural to Priest, but Melanie felt her husband should somehow have made sure of her success. Priest guessed that she had not been good enough to study at doctoral level—but she would believe anything rather than that. So he told her that the men on the committee were so terrified of her combination of beauty and brains that they conspired to bring her down. She loved him for letting her believe that.

Melanie went on: “My husband—soon to be my ex-husband—the stress-trigger theory of earthquakes. At certain points along the fault line, shear pressure builds up, over the decades, to a very high level. Then it takes only a relatively weak vibration in the earth’s crust to dislodge the plates, release all that accumulated energy, and cause an earthquake.”

Priest was captivated. He caught Star’s eye. She nodded somberly. She believed in the unorthodox. It was an article of faith with her that
the bizarre theory would turn out to be the truth, the unconventional way of life would be the happiest, and the madcap plan would succeed where sensible proposals foundered.

Priest studied Melanie’s face. She had an otherworldly air. Her pale skin, startling green eyes, and red hair made her look like a beautiful alien. The first words he had spoken to her had been: “Are you from Mars?”

Did she know what she was talking about? She was stoned, but sometimes people had their most creative ideas while doping. He said: “If it’s so easy, how come it hasn’t already been done?”

“Oh, I didn’t say it would be easy. You’d have to be a seismologist to know exactly where the fault was under critical pressure.”

Priest’s mind was racing now. When you were in real trouble, sometimes the way out was to do something so weird, so totally unexpected, that your enemy was paralyzed by surprise. He said to Melanie: “How would you cause a vibration in the earth’s crust?”

“That would be the hard part,” she said.

Ride, ride, ride …

I’m gonna ride that no-good train…

*  *  *

Walking back to the town of Shiloh, Priest found himself thinking obsessively about the killing: the way the wrench had sunk into Mario’s soft brains, the look on the man’s face, the blood dripping into the footwell.

This was no good. He had to stay calm and alert. He still did not have the seismic vibrator that was going to save the commune. Killing Mario had been the easy part, he told himself. Next he had to pull the wool over Lenny’s eyes. But how?

He was jerked back to the immediate present by the sound of a car.

It was coming from behind him, heading into town.

In these parts, no one walked. Most people would assume his car had broken down. Some would stop and offer him a ride.

Priest tried to think of a reason why he would be walking into town at six-thirty on Saturday morning.

Nothing came.

He tried to call on whatever god had inspired him with the idea of murdering Mario, but the gods were silent.

There was nowhere he could be coming
from
within fifty miles—except for the one place he could not speak of, the dump where Mario’s ashes lay on the seat of his burned-out pickup.

The car slowed as it came nearer.

Priest resisted the temptation to pull his hat down over his eyes.

What have I been doing?

—I went out into the desert to observe nature
.

Y
eah, sagebrush and rattlesnakes
.

—My car broke down
.

Where? I didn’t see it
.

—I went to take a leak
.

This far?

Although the morning air was cool, he began to perspire.

The car passed him slowly. It was a late-model Dodge Neon with a metallic green paint job and Texas plates. There was one person inside, a man. He could see the driver examining him in the mirror, checking him out. Could be an off-duty cop—

Panic filled him, and he had to fight the impulse to turn and run.

The car stopped and reversed. The driver lowered the nearside window. He was a young Asian man in a business suit. He said: “Hey, buddy, want a ride?”

What am I going to say? “No, thanks, I just love to walk.”

“I’m a little dusty,” Priest said, looking down at his jeans.
I fell on my ass trying to kill a man
.

“Who isn’t, in these parts?”

Priest got in the car. His hands were shaking. He fastened his seat belt, just to have something to do to disguise his anxiety.

As the car pulled away, the driver said: “What the heck you doing walking out here?”

I just murdered my friend Mario with a Stillson wrench
.

At the last second, Priest thought of a story. “I had a fight with my wife,” he said. “I stopped the car and got out and walked away. I didn’t
expect her to just drive on.” He thanked whatever gods had given him inspiration again. His hands stopped shaking.

“Would that be a good-looking dark-haired woman in a blue Honda that I passed fifteen or twenty miles back?”

Jesus Christ, who are you, the Memory Man?

The guy smiled and said: “When you’re crossing this desert, every car is interesting.”

“No, that ain’t her,” Priest said. “My wife’s driving my goddamn pickup truck.”

“I didn’t see a pickup.”

“Good. Maybe she didn’t go too far.”

“She’s probably parked down a farm track crying her eyes out, wishing she had you back.”

Priest grinned with relief. The guy had bought his story.

The car reached the edge of town. “What about you?” Priest said. “How come you’re up early on Saturday morning?”

“I didn’t fight with my wife, I’m going home to her. I live in Laredo. I travel in novelty ceramics—decorative plates, figurines, signs saying ‘Baby’s Room,’ very attractive stuff.”

“Is that a fact?”
What a way to waste your life
.

“We sell them in drugstores, mostly.”

“The drugstore in Shiloh won’t be open yet.”

“I’m not working today anyway. But I might stop for breakfast. Got a recommendation?”

Priest would have preferred the salesman to drive through town without stopping, so that he would have no chance to mention the bearded guy he had picked up near the dump. But he was sure to see Lazy Susan’s as he drove along Main Street, so there was no point in lying. “There’s a diner.”

“How’s the food?”

“Grits are good. It’s right after the stoplight. You can let me out there.”

A minute later the car pulled into a slantwise slot outside Susan’s. Priest thanked the novelty salesman and got out. “Enjoy your
breakfast,” he called as he walked away.
And don’t get into conversation with anyone local, for Christ’s sake
.

A block from the diner was the local office of Ritkin Seismex, the small seismic exploration firm he had been working for. The office was a large trailer in a vacant lot. Mario’s seismic vibrator was parked in the lot alongside Lenny’s cranberry red Pontiac Grand Am.

Priest stopped and stared at the truck for a moment. It was a ten-wheeler, with big off-road tires like dinosaur armor. Underneath a layer of Texas dirt it was bright blue. He itched to jump in and drive it away. He looked at the mighty machinery on the back, the powerful engine and the massive steel plate, the tanks and hoses and valves and gauges.
I could have the thing started in a minute, no keys necessary
. But if he stole it now, every Highway Patrolman in Texas would be looking for him within a few minutes. He had to be patient.
I’m going to make the earth shake, and no one is going to stop me
.