The Hammer of Eden

window and saw a helicopter.

“Shit,” he said, and stamped on the brake.

Melanie was thrown forward. “What is it?” she said in a frightened voice.

Priest stopped the car and jumped out. The chopper was disappearing northward.

Melanie got out. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s a helicopter doing here?”

“Oh, my God,” she said shakily. “You think it’s looking for us?”

The noise faded, then came back. The chopper reappeared suddenly over the trees, flying low.

“I think it’s the feds,” Priest said. “Damn!” After yesterday’s lackluster press conference, he had felt safe for a few more days. Kincaid and Hayes had seemed a long way from tracking him down. Now they were here, in the valley.

Melanie said: “What are we going to do?”

“Keep calm. They haven’t come for us.”

“How do you know?”

“I made sure of it.”

She became tearful. “Priest, why do you keep talking in riddles?”

“I’m sorry.” He remembered that he needed her for what he had to do. That meant he had to explain things to her. He gathered his thoughts. “They can’t be coming for us because they don’t know about us. The commune doesn’t appear on any government records — our land is rented by Star. It’s not on police or FBI files because we’ve never come to their attention. There has never been a newspaper article or TV program about us. We’re not registered with the IRS. Our vineyard isn’t on any map.”

“So why are they here?”

“I think they’ve come for Los Alamos. Those nutcases must be on file with every law enforcement agency in the continental United States. For God’s sake, they stand at their gate holding high-powered rifles, just to make sure that everyone knows there’s a bunch of dangerous frigging lunatics in there.”

“How can you be sure the FBI are after them?”

“I made certain of it. When Star called the John Truth show, I had her say the Los Alamos slogan: ‘We do not recognize the jurisdiction of the United States government.’ I laid a false trail.”

“Are we safe, then?”

“Not quite. After they draw a blank at Los Alamos, the feds may take a look at the other people in the valley. They’ll see the vineyard from the chopper and pay us a visit. So we’d better get home to warn the others.”

He jumped into the car. As soon as Melanie was in, he floored the pedal. But the car was twenty-five years old and had not been designed for speed on winding mountain roads. He cursed its wheezy carburetors and lurching suspension.

As he struggled to maintain speed on the twisting road, he wondered fretfully who at the FBI had ordered this raid. He had not expected Kincaid or Hayes to make the necessary intuitive jump. There had to be someone else on the case. He wondered who.

A black car came up behind, going fast, headlights blazing although it was past daybreak. They were approaching a bend, but the driver honked and pulled out to pass. As it went by, Priest saw the driver and his companion, two burly young men, dressed in casual clothes but clean shaven and short haired.

Immediately afterward a second car came up behind, honking and flashing.

“Fuck this,” Priest said. When the FBI was in a hurry, it was best to get out of the way. He braked and pulled over. The nearside wheels of the ’Cuda bumped over the roadside grass. The second car flashed by, and a third came up. Priest brought his car to a halt.

He and Melanie sat and watched a stream of vehicles race past. As well as cars, there were two armored trucks and three minivans full of grim-faced men and a few women. “It’s a raid,” Melanie said woefully.

“No fucking kidding,” Priest said, the tension making him sarcastic.

She did not seem to notice.

Then a car peeled off from the convoy and pulled up right behind the ’Cuda.

Priest was suddenly afraid. He stared at the car in his rearview mirror. It was a dark green Buick Regal. The driver was speaking into a phone. There was another man in the passenger seat. Priest could not make out their faces.

He wished with all his heart that he had not gone to the press conference. One of the guys in the Buick might have been there yesterday. If so, he would be sure to ask what a lawyer from Oakland was doing in Silver River Valley. It could hardly be a coincidence. Any agent with half a brain would immediately put Priest at the top of the suspect list.

The last of the convoy flashed by. In the Buick, the driver put down his phone. Any second now the agents would get out of the car. Priest cast about desperately for a plausible story. I got so interested in this case, and I remembered a TV show on this vigilante group and their slogan, about not recognizing the government, the same thing the woman said on John Truth’s answering machine, so I thought I would, you know, play detective, and check them out myself.… But they would not take his word for it. No matter how plausible his story, they would question him so thoroughly that he could not possibly fool them.

The two agents got out of the car. Priest stared hard at them in his mirror.

He did not recognize either one.

He relaxed a little. There was a film of sweat on his face. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

Melanie said: “Oh, Jesus, what do they want?”

“Stay cool,” Priest said. “Don’t seem like you want to hurry away. I’m going to pretend I’m real, real interested in them. That’ll make them want to get rid of us as fast as they can. Reverse psychology.” He jumped out of the car.

“Hey, are you the police?” he said enthusiastically. “Is there something big going down?”

The driver, a thin man with black-framed glasses, said: “We’re federal agents. Sir, we checked your plates, and your car is registered to the Napa Bottling Company.”

Paul Beale took care of getting the car insured and smogged and other paperwork. “That’s my employer.”

“May I see your driver’s license?”

“Oh, sure.” Priest took the license out of his back pocket. “Was that your chopper I saw?”

“Yes, sir, it was.” The agent checked his license and handed it back. “And where are you headed this morning?”

“We work at the wine farm up the valley a way. Hey, I hope you’ve come after those goddamn vigilantes. They got everyone round here scared half to death. They—”

“And where have you been this morning?”

“We were at a party in Silver City last night. It went on kind of late. But I’m sober, don’t worry!”

“That’s okay.”

“Listen, I write paragraphs for the local paper, you know, the Silver City Chronicle? Could I get a quote from you, about this raid? It’s going to be the biggest news in Sierra County for years!” As the words came out of his mouth, he realized this was a risky pose for a man who could not read or write. He slapped his pockets. “Gee, I don’t even have a pencil.”

“We can’t say anything,” the agent said. “You’ll have to call the press person at the Sacramento office of the Bureau.”

He pretended disappointment. “Oh. Oh, sure, I understand.”

“You said you were headed home.”

“Yes. Okay, I guess we’ll be on our way. Good luck with those vigilantes!”

“Thank you.”

The agents returned to their car.

They didn’t make a note of my name.

Priest jumped back in his car. In his mirror he watched the agents as they got into their car. Neither one appeared to write anything down.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed gratefully. “They bought my story.”