The Hammer of Eden

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?