The highway angles northwest across Indian Wells Valley, with the El Paso Mountains to the south. Mile by mile, his heart swells with emotion at the prospect of being reunited with his mom and dad, from whom he has been cruelly separated. He aches with the need to embrace them and bask in their love, their unquestioning love, their undying and perfect love.
The Bell JetRanger executive helicopter that conveyed Oslett and Clocker to Mammoth Lakes belonged to a motion-picture studio that was a Network affiliate. With black calfskin seats, brass fixtures, and cabin walls plushly upholstered in emerald-green lizard skin, the ambiance was even more luxurious than in the passenger compartment of the Lear. The chopper also offered a more entertaining collection of reading matter than had been available in the jet, including that day’s editions of
To occupy his time during the flight, Clocker produced another
As the JetRanger cruised north through Sequoia National Park, King’s Canyon National Park, along the western flank of the Sierra Nevadas, and eventually directly into those magnificent mountains, Oslett kept moving from one side of the helicopter to the other, determined not to miss any of the stunning scenery. The vastnesses beneath him were so sparsely populated, they might have been expected to trigger his nearly agoraphobic aversion to open spaces and rural landscapes. But the terrain changed by the minute, presenting new marvels and ever- more-splendid vistas at a sufficiently swift pace to entertain him.
Furthermore, the JetRanger flew at a much lower altitude than the Lear, giving Oslett a sense of headlong forward motion. The interior of the helicopter was noisier and shaken by more vibrations than the passenger compartment of the jet, which he also liked.
Twice he called Clocker’s attention to the natural wonders just beyond the windows. Both times the big man merely glanced at the scenery for a second or two, and then without comment returned his attention to
“What’s so damned interesting in that book?” Oslett finally demanded, dropping into the seat directly opposite Clocker.
Finishing the paragraph he was reading before looking up, Clocker said, “I couldn’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because even after I told you what I find interesting in this book, it wouldn’t be interesting to you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Clocker shrugged. “I don’t think you’d like it.”
“I hate novels, always have, especially science fiction and crap like that.”
“There you go.”
“What’s
“Just that you’ve confirmed what I said—you don’t like this sort of thing.”
“Of course I don’t.”
Clocker shrugged again. “There you go.”
Oslett glared at him. Gesturing at the book, he said, “How can you like that trash?”
“We exist in parallel universes,” Clocker said.
“What?”
“In yours, Johannes Gutenberg invented the pinball machine.”
“Who?”
“In yours, perhaps the most famous guy named Faulkner was a virtuoso on the banjo.”
Scowling, Oslett said, “None of this crap is making any sense to me.”
“There you go,” Clocker said, and returned his attention to
Oslett wanted to kill him. This time, in Karl Clocker’s cryptic patter, he detected a subtly expressed but deeply felt disrespect. He wanted to snatch off the big man’s stupid hat and set fire to it, duck feather and all, grab the paperback out of his hands and tear it to pieces, and pump maybe a thousand rounds of hollow-point 9mm ammo into him at extreme close range.
Instead, he turned to the window to be soothed by the majesty of mountain peaks and forests seen at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.
Above them, clouds were moving in from the northwest. Plump and gray, they settled like fleets of dirigibles toward the mountaintops.
At 1:10 Tuesday afternoon, at an airfield outside of Mammoth Lakes, they were met by a Network representative named Alec Spicer. He was waiting on the blacktop near the concrete-block and corrugated-steel hangar where they set down.
Though he knew their real names and was, therefore, at least of a rank equal to Peter Waxhill’s, he was not as impeccably attired, suave, or well-spoken as that gentleman who had briefed them over breakfast. And unlike the muscular Jim Lomax at John Wayne Airport in Orange County last night, he let them carry their own luggage to the green Ford Explorer that stood at their disposal in the parking area behind the hangar.
Spicer was about fifty years old, five feet ten, a hundred and sixty pounds, with brush-cut iron-gray hair. His face was all hard planes, and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses even though the sky was overcast. He wore combat boots, khaki slacks, khaki shirt, and a battered leather flight jacket with numerous zippered pockets. His erect posture, disciplined manner, and clipped speech pegged him for a retired—perhaps cashiered—army officer who was unwilling to change the attitudes, habits, or wardrobe of a military careerist.
“You’re not dressed properly for Mammoth,” Spicer said sharply as they walked to the Explorer, his breath streaming from his mouth in white plumes.
“I didn’t realize it would be quite so cold here,” Oslett said, shuddering uncontrollably.
“Sierra Nevadas,” Spicer said. “Almost eight thousand feet above sea level where we stand. December. Can’t expect palm trees, hula skirts, and pina coladas.”
“I knew it would be cold, just not this cold.”
“You’ll freeze your ass off,” Spicer said curtly.
“This jacket’s warm,” Oslett said defensively. “It’s cashmere.”
“Good for you,” Spicer said.
He raised the hatch on the back of the Explorer and stood aside to let them load their luggage into the cargo space.
Spicer got behind the wheel. Oslett sat up front. In the back seat, Clocker resumed reading
Driving away from the airfield into town, Spicer was silent for a while. Then: “Expecting our first snow of the season later today.”
“Winter’s my favorite time of the year,” Oslett said.
“Might not like it so much with snow up to your ass and those nice oxfords turning hard as a Dutchman’s wooden shoes.”
“Do you know who I am?” Oslett asked impatiently.
“Yes, sir,” Spicer said, clipping his words even more than usual but inclining his head slightly in a subtle acknowledgment of his inferior position.
“Good,” Oslett said.
In places, tall evergreens crowded both sides of the roadway. Many of the motels, restaurants, and roadside bars boasted ersatz alpine architecture, and in some cases their names incorporated words that called to mind
