The Hammer of Eden

originally manufactured in the days of the Wild West. It was a stupid, impractical firearm, the kind owned by collectors and kept in a felt-lined display case in the den. It was not for shooting people.

He broke it open. It was loaded.

That was all he really cared about.

He returned to the car and got in. Melanie was at the wheel. She was pale and bright-eyed, breathing fast, as if she had just taken cocaine. Priest guessed she had never witnessed serious violence. “Will he be okay?” she said in an excited voice.

Priest glanced back at the guard. He was lying on the ground, his hands to his face, rocking slightly. “Sure he will,” Priest said.

“Wow.”

“Let’s go to Sacramento.”

Melanie pulled away.

After a while she said: “Do you really think you can talk this Honeymoon guy around?”

“He’s got to see sense,” Priest said, sounding more confident than he felt. “Look at the choice he has. Number one, an earthquake that will do millions of dollars of damage. Or, number two, a sensible proposal to reduce pollution. Plus, if he picks number one, he faces the same choice all over again two days later. He has to take the easy road.”

“I guess,” Melanie said.

They reached Sacramento a few minutes before seven A.M. The state capital was quiet this early. A few cars and trucks moved unhurriedly along the broad, empty boulevards. Melanie parked near the Capitol Building. Priest put on a baseball cap and tucked his long hair up inside it. Then he donned sunglasses. “Wait for me right here,” he said. “I may be a couple of hours.”

Priest walked around the Capitol block. He had hoped there would be a surface-level parking lot, but he was disappointed. The ground around was all garden, with magnificent trees. On either side of the building, a ramp led down to an underground garage. Both ramps were monitored by security guards in sentry booths.

Priest approached one of the large, imposing doors. The building was open, and there was no security check at the entrance. He went into a grand hall with a mosaic-tiled floor.

He took off the sunglasses, which looked conspicuous indoors, and followed a staircase down to the basement. There was a coffee shop where a few early workers were getting a charge of caffeine. He walked past them, looking as if he belonged here, and followed a corridor he thought must lead to the parking garage. As he approached the end of the corridor, a door opened and a fat man in a blue blazer came through. Behind the man, Priest saw cars.

Bingo.

He slipped into the garage and looked around. It was almost empty. There were a few cars, a sport utility, and a sheriff’s car parked in the marked spaces. He saw no one.

He slipped behind the back of the sport utility. It was a Dodge Durango. From here, peering through the car windows, he could see the entrance to the garage and the door that led inside the building. Other cars parked on either side of the Durango would shield him from the gaze of new arrivals.

He settled to wait. This is their last chance. There’s still time to negotiate and avoid a catastrophe. But if this doesn’t work … boom.

Al Honeymoon was a workaholic, Priest figured. He would arrive early. But there was a lot that could go wrong. Honeymoon could be spending the day at the governor’s residence. He might call in sick today. Perhaps he had meetings in Washington; maybe he was on a trip to Europe; his wife could be having a baby.

Priest did not think he would have a bodyguard. He was not an elected official, just a government employee. Would he have a chauffeur? Priest had no idea. That would spoil everything.

A car pulled in every few minutes. Priest studied the drivers from his hiding place. He did not have to wait long. At seven-thirty a smart dark blue Lincoln Continental drove in. Behind the wheel was a black man in a white shirt and tie. It was Honeymoon: Priest recognized him from the newspaper photos.

The car pulled into a slot near the Durango. Priest put on his sunglasses, crossed the garage swiftly, opened the nearside door of the Lincoln, and slid into the passenger seat before Honeymoon could get his seat belt off. He showed him the gun. “Pull out of the garage,” he said.

Honeymoon stared at him. “Who the hell are you?”

Arrogant son of a bitch in a chalk-stripe suit with a pin through the collar of your shirt, I’ll ask the frigging questions.

Priest cocked the hammer of the revolver. “I’m the maniac who’s going to put a bullet in your guts unless you do as I say. Now drive.”

“Fuck,” Honeymoon said feelingly. “Fuck.” Then he started the car and pulled out of the garage.

“Smile nicely at the security guard and drive slowly by,” Priest said. “You say one word to him and I’ll kill him.”

Honeymoon did not reply. He slowed the car as it approached the sentry booth. For a moment, Priest thought he was going to try something. Then they saw the guard, a middle-aged black man with white hair. Priest said: “If you want this brother to die, just go ahead with what’s on your mind.”

Honeymoon cursed under his breath and drove on.

“Take Capitol Mall out of town,” Priest told him.

Honeymoon drove around the Capitol Building and headed west on the broad avenue that led to the Sacramento River. “What do you want?” he said. He hardly seemed afraid — more impatient.

Priest would have liked to shoot him. This was the asshole who had made the dam possible. He had done his best to ruin Priest’s life. And he was not a bit sorry. He really did not care. A bullet in the guts was hardly punishment enough.

Controlling his anger, Priest said: “I want to save people’s lives.”

“You’re the Hammer of Eden guy, right?”

Priest did not answer. Honeymoon was staring at him. Priest guessed he was trying to memorize his features. Smart-ass. “Watch the goddamn road.”

Honeymoon looked ahead.

They crossed the bridge. Priest said: “Take I-80 toward San Francisco.”

“Where are we going?”

“You ain’t going nowhere.”

Honeymoon pulled onto the freeway.

“Drive at fifty in the slow lane. Why the hell won’t you give me what I’m asking for?” Priest had intended to stay cool, but Honeymoon’s arrogant calm enraged him. “Do you want a frigging earthquake?”

Honeymoon was deadpan. “The governor can’t give in to blackmail, you must know that.”

“You can get around that problem,” Priest argued. “Give out that you were planning a freeze anyway.”

“No one would believe us. It would be political suicide for the governor.”

“It would like hell. You can fool the public. What are spin doctors for?”

“I’m the best there is, but I can’t do miracles. This is too high-profile. You shouldn’t have brought John Truth into it.”

Priest said angrily: “No one listened to us until John Truth got on the case!”

“Well, whatever the reason, this is now a public face-off, and the governor can’t back down. If he did, the state of California would be open to blackmail by every idiot with a hunting rifle in his hand and a bug up his ass about some damn cause. But you could back off.”

The bastard is trying to talk me around!

Priest said: “Take the first exit and head back into town.”

Honeymoon indicated right and went on talking: “Nobody knows who you people are or where to find you. If you drop the whole thing now, you can get away with it. No real harm has been done. But if you set off another earthquake, you’ll have every law enforcement agency in the United States after you, and they won’t give up until they find you. No one can hide forever.”

Priest was angered. “Don’t you threaten me!” he yelled. “I’m the one with the motherfucking gun!”

“I haven’t forgotten that. I’m trying to get us both out of this without further damage.”