It made sense. Snake had already killed Samurai, the weakest member of Schofield's team. Mother?with one leg and heavily dosed up on methadone?would be another easy target.
Schofield hit the B-deck catwalk on the fly. He ran for the rung-ladder and slid down it fast C-deck. He slid down the next rung-ladder?D-deek?and then the next.
He was on E-deck now. He ran across the pool deck, past the lapping waves of the pool, and headed for the south tunnel.
He entered the south tunnel and saw the door to Mother's storeroom.
Schofield approached the open doorway to the storeroom cautiously. He unholstered his Maghook?he still couldn't use his pistol in the gaseous environment of the station?and held it out in front of him like a gun.
He approached the doorway, came to it. Then he took one last deep breath and then...
... he turned fast into the doorway, his Maghook up and ready.
He saw the scene inside.
And his jaw dropped.
'Holy shit,' he breathed.
They were on the floor of the storeroom.
Mother and Snake.
At first, Schofield just stared at them, stared at the scene.
Mother was stretched out on the floor, with her back up against one of the walls. She had her good leg extended across the room, pressed up against Snake's throat, pinning him to a thick wooden shelf filled with scuba tanks. Her boot was pressed
The gaseous environment of the station obviously didn't bother
Mother glared at Snake down the barrel of her gun. Blood dripped freely from two deep gashes above her left eye. It dripped down off her eyebrow, smacking down onto her left cheek like droplets of water from a leaking tap. Mother didn't notice the blood?she just stared right
For his part, Snake was pinned to the wooden shelf. Every now and then he would attempt to struggle, but Mother had all the leverage. Whenever he tried to wriggle out of her hold, she would press down hard on his Adam's apple with her big Size 12. Mother was choking him with her foot.
The room around them looked like a bomb had hit it.
Wooden shelves lay twisted on the floor, splintered and shattered. Scuba tanks rolled aimlessly across the floor. A knife?Snake's?lay on the floor. Blood dripped off its blade.
Slowly, Mother turned her head and looked over at Schofield, who was still just standing in the doorway, stunned.
Her chest heaved up and down. She was still breathing hard from the fight.
'Well, Scarecrow,' she said, taking another breath. 'You think this was
Pete Cameron pulled his Toyota to a stop outside 14 Newbury Street, Lake Arthur, New Mexico.
Fourteen Newbury was a pleasant-looking white weatherboard cottage. Its front garden was immaculate? perfectly cut grass, a rock garden, even a small pond. It looked like the home of a retiree?the home of someone who had the time, and the inclination, to take loving care of it.
Cameron looked at the business card again. 'All right, Andrew Wilcox, let's see what you've got to say.'
Cameron stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the screen door.
Thirty seconds later, the inner door opened and a man of about thirty-five appeared behind the screen. He looked young and fit, clean-shaven. He smiled pleasantly.
'Mornin',' the young man said. 'How can I help you?' He had a broad Southern drawl. When he said 'I' it sounded like 'Ah'?
Cameron said, 'Yes, hi. I'm looking for a Mr. Andrew Wilcox.' Cameron held up the business card. 'My name is Peter Cameron. I'm a writer for the
The smile on the young man's face vanished instantly.
His eyes swept Cameron's body as if evaluating him. Then they swept the street outside as if to see whether anyone was watching the house.
And then suddenly the man's attention returned to Cameron.
'Mr. Cameron,' he said, opening the screen door. 'Please, come inside. I was hoping you'd come, but I didn't expect to see you so soon. Please, please, come inside.'
Cameron stepped through the doorway.
It didn't occur to him until he was fully inside the house that the man's Southern accent had completely disappeared.
'Mr. Cameron, my real name is not Andrew Wilcox,' the young man now sitting opposite him said. The drawl was gone, replaced by a voice that was clear and precise, educated. East Coast.
Pete Cameron had his pad and pen out. 'Can you tell me your real name?' he asked gently.
The young man seemed to think about that for a moment, and as he did so, Cameron got a better look at him. He was a tall man, handsome, too, with blond hair and a square jaw. He had broad shoulders and he looked physically fit. But there was something wrong about him.
It was the eyes, Cameron realized.
They were tinged with red. Heavy black sacks hung beneath both of them. He looked like a man on the edge, a man who hadn't slept in days.
And then, at last, the man spoke. 'My real name,' he said, 'is Andrew Trent.'
'I used to be a First Lieutenant in the Marines,' Andrew Trent explained, 'in command of an Atlantic-based Reconnaissance unit. But if you examine the official USMC records, you'll find that I died in an accident in Peru in March 1997.'
Trent spoke in a low, even voice, a voice tinged with bitterness.
'So, you're a dead man,' Pete Cameron said. 'Nice, very nice. OK, first question: why me? Why did you contact me?'
'I've seen your work,' Trent said. 'I like it.
'If it's worth telling in the first place,' Cameron said. 'All right, then, how is it that according to the United States Government you are officially dead?'
Trent offered Cameron a half-smile, a smile totally devoid of humor. 'If it's worth telling in the first place,' he repeated. 'Mr. Cameron, what if I were to tell you that the government of the United States of America ordered that my whole unit be killed?'
Cameron was silent.
'What if I were to tell you that
'What if I were to tell you that that was
Trent then told Cameron about what had happened inside the ruins of the Incan temple high in the mountains of Peru in March of 1997.
A team of university researchers who had been working inside the temple had apparently discovered a series
