Fury and the Power (19 page)

Betts turned from the sink to stare. His eyes were on the screen.

"Yes, Eden has arrived. All the way from darkest Africa. Hear my heart pound, boss, like Congo drums. There is some mechanical difficulty with her plane, however."

"Where is she?"

"Newark, New Jersey." He read further. "Not certain when she'll reach San Fran. She's requesting that Edmund Ruddy meet her by the mermaid fountain in Ghirardelli Square. Eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. She will be wearing a red turtleneck and—a beaded Masai headband? Cool." He looked up from the screen. "Now why do you suppose she wants to meet Mr. Ruddy there?"

Betts said promptly, "A friend of Eden's from college, they were on the basketball team, is working in San Francisco. I assume Megan lives in North Beach, and Eden plans to stay with her overnight?'

"Megan what?"

"Pardo."

"P,A,R,D,O? I'll check that out." He looked again at the laptop screen. "She flew from Nairobi in a Gulf-stream jet? That's rather pricey."

"Eden's biological mother was one of the wealthiest women in America."

"Oh, yes. Gillian Bellaver. Another psychic of alarming prowess. I believe they are called 'Avatars."'

"And Eden can make you a very rich man."

He straightened on his stool, clasping hands behind his hairless head.

"If only I will agree to release you and go quietly on my way, clutching my loot bag. Rejoicing at my good fortune. What kind of money are we talking about? Say, fifty million U.S. cash, numbered bank account in the Channel Islands, that sort of jazzy intrigue?"

"Whatever it takes, whatever will satisfy—"

"But what you won't acknowledge, Betts, it isn't
money
. I have money. Need I remind you that I was a very successful lounge act in Vegas and Reno for more years than God Almighty has wrinkles? While otherwise employed. It is my status in
that
occupation that matters. My rep with Impact Sector. My integrity."

"Killing Eden is a matter of integrity?"

"You just close your mind and refuse to understand," he said in a whining tone.

"I understand you. I want to see Eden again. You'll grant me that wish, won't you?"

"Well, why should I, Betts? I'm not your fairy fuckin' godfather."

"Think about how—entertaining—it could be for you."

The Assassin looked long and thoughtfully at Betts, who didn't flinch.

"There is that," he conceded. "Clever Betts. To know so many of my weaknesses and appetites, on short acquaintance. And to have the gumption to try to manipulate me. Oh, mama. Betts," he said with an attempt at a winsome smile, "I hope I haven't fallen in love. That
will
make our final parting a real heart-tugger."

WESTBOUND/NEWARK-SAN FRANCISCO

GULFSTREAM N657GB

OCTOBER 15

6:45 P.M. MDT

F
ifteen minutes after they landed at Cheyenne Airport in Wyoming, Eden saw a well-traveled SUV with oversized tires and a dozen swamp lights mounted on top of and the sides of the cab. It stopped near the Gulf-stream and a petite girl about Eden's age hopped out of the front seat, her short blond hair riffling in a sunset wind. She wore soft fringed knee-length boots with her jeans and a shawl-collar, knitted sweater coat. From the back of the SUV she retrieved a Fender Strat guitar and an orange outdoorsman's pack, waved good-bye to the driver, and walked briskly with her stuff to the steps of the G-5 jet, where Reggie Lyle was waiting.

"Hi, I'm Chauncey. I'm expected. Been waiting long?" Moments later she stood in the doorway to Eden's quarters, smiling but not all that sure of herself.

"Great to see you again. Some airplane. Is it yours?"

"I don't know. I can use it whenever I want." Staring only made Chauncey ill-at-ease, but Eden couldn't help herself. Chauncey had a small nicely shaped face and large eyes the color of brandied plums. There wasn't a trace of the bullet hole in the center of her forehead, probably the last grisly memory she had of Chauncey McLain.

Chauncey knew what was on her mind. She brushed a couple of fingers across her unlined forehead.

"I can explain this," she said casually. "So is that why you wanted to see me, Eden? By the way, who is Danny Cheng?"

"Oh, he's—someone who knows how to find people in a hurry. Kelane Cheng was his sister. Do you know about Kelane?"

"Died in that plane crash that messed up your graduation. She was the Avatar, before you." Chauncey frowned slightly as the Gulfstream's engines revved. "Are we going somewhere?"

"San Francisco, if that's okay."

"Sure, why not? We played Colorado U. last night. Couple of days off before Tucson. We're opening for Zero Body Count on the last leg of their world tour. Rest of the guys left this afternoon on the bus, and I caught a ride to Cheyenne."

"Pussy Whip, isn't that the name of your band?"

"You remembered! Should I sit down and buckle up or something?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Would you like a drink, Chauncey, or maybe it's dinnertime for you? Long trip, my body rhythm's out of whack."

"Know what you mean. We've been on the road three months. I could really go for a beer."

"Sure." Eden placed the order with one of the flight attendants. Chauncey dropped into a leather armchair opposite Eden.

"You have a great tan. Where've you been keeping yourself the last few months, or is that a secret?"

"Africa."

"Oh, right. The tall Brit white hunter type and that stunning black kid with the Chinese eyes. The ones who snatched you away while we were occupied with the FBI. I just assumed those two were part of the SWAT team that dropped in on our Memorial Day barbecue." There was a long silence as the Gulfstream taxied, Chauncey ill-at-ease again. "I want you to know this, Eden. No one in Moby Bay had or ever will have anything but your best interests at heart. We were trying to protect you, and ourselves, from Outsiders, which is our God-granted right."

"Okay" Eden said, not understanding more than she had ever known about Moby Bay or Chauncey, but in a neutral frame of mind. Chauncey seemed unthreatening, even vulnerable, to Eden. And they had been friends, for a brief time.

Chauncey was admiring Tom Sherard's mopane walking stick, with the gold lion's head the size of a child's fist.

"Is that yours?"

"No, but I have the use of it, sometimes. Like this jet."

"I'd swear that lion is keeping a close eye on me," Chauncey said with a knowing grin. "Enchanted, huh? Enchantments can be a heck of a lot of fun. Or is it serious business today?"

"Serious business," Eden said, closing her eyes for a few moments.

"Let's do it" Chauncey said.

When Eden opened her eyes again, the sound of the jet engines was just a whisper. Chauncey was smiling at her a few feet away. Eye to eye, both of them unblinking, and between them rose a mirage:
 
the redwood house of the McLains, saturated in sunlight on a treeless headland overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Memorial Day. A dazzling sea, storm clouds building in the east. The McLains were hosting a barbecue for about forty people. The entire community, for all Eden knew. She hadn't been in Moby Bay for very long.

Now she saw the two of them; Eden and Chauncey, walking up the slant of the lawn from cliff's edge to the patio. A wind was whipping up, paper plates and napkins beginning to blow. Chauncey was holding Eden's hand, and Eden felt chilled. She shuddered, glancing at the sky.

What did you hear, Eden?

I heard Geoff's voice. Geoff McTyer Trying to warn me. His father was the head of the FBI. They thought I was dangerous. Geoff said, "I can't stop them, Eden. Get away!"

You know what happened next. But you don't have to be afraid anymore.

(There on the patio. Eden's gaze jumping to Chauncey's face as Chauncey raises her other hand to brush hair out of her eyes, jumping back to the sky. Seeing the first of the helicopters, the sniper's bullet coming from a third of a mile away. Eden seeing the bullet whole, as if it has become suspended in air.

(Then the sharp-nosed jacketed bullet ripping through Chauncey's upraised hand and head. Her falling weight pulling Eden's arm taut as she slumps to the patio floor. Some fragments gleaming like fish scale in the welling-out of blood and cerebrospinal fluid near the middle of the dead girl's forehead. Eden's head moving downward with the slumping of Chauncey's body, so that the second shot from the sniper's rifle misses Eden, instead flattening an elderly guest of the McLains' standing behind her.

(Eden spiraling into shock, leaning over Chauncey and trying hopelessly to wipe away the gore with the edge of her palm. The pupils of Chauncey's open eyes fixed and expressionless. Then suddenly coming to life and focusing on Eden. Her small breasts swelling as she takes a breath. And reaches up to touch the hole in her forehead.

("Jeez. That'll give you a headache.")

That's as much as I remember I guess I freaked.

I promised to explain. In terms of your life span, all of us in Moby Bay are immortal. And maintenance-free, you might say.

Oh. Immortal. That's an explanation? But what happened then? To the helicopters, and the men who came for me?

Who tried to kill you, don 't forget. To satisfy the obsession of Geoff's father We destroyed them. All but Geoff and his old man. They escaped in one of the choppers. But it ran out of fuel, or something, twenty minutes south of Moby Bay in a wilderness area. Where we found them, later that night. Near their wrecked helicopter it must have been a rough landing.

Was Geoff killed?

No. But his father was badly injured.

Then you—and the others—finished them off.

That's not allowed, off our turf. We permitted them to redeem themselves. Listen. And you will understand everything about the fate of your lover You will know all you need to know about me and my kind.

S
mall foaming waves were coming farther up the spit of beach, washing across the floor of the helicopter. If there'd been an electrical fire aboard, an automatic suppression system had smothered it. Geoff moved his father to a dry ledge twenty feet wide and a few feet above the high tide line, gathered wood, and built a fire inside a ring of stones. There was no liquor in the survival kit. He made strong tea and scrambled eggs from an MRE pouch. His father drank some of the sweetened tea but wouldn't eat. Geoff choked down a high-energy bar. He was wearing a flight jacket. That and the other blanket should get him comfortably through the night, he thought, if the air temp didn't fall below forty degrees.

(He gathered more wood to feed the fire. By then it was past nine o'clock and a few stars had come out above the darkening sea. Closer to shore the sky was hazy. His father needed to relieve himself but couldn't stand without help. He complained of pain in his kidneys. With the flashlight Geoff looked for blood in the fitful stream of urine. It was darker than it should have been. After making his father somewhat comfortable again, Geoff also examined his head wound. No further external bleeding. There was no way to tell what was going on inside his skull. Some men could absorb hard blows with no significant damage to the brain. For others survival could just be a matter of luck. His father was conscious and restless, hot but not sweating. Unresponsive even when Geoff tried to talk to him.

(Then Geoff lay down exhausted on the mossy ledge, using one of the survival kits for a pillow. He had a flare gun in a pocket of the flight jacket. He resolved not to close his eyes. He hoped the caffeine from the tea would keep him awake.

(An hour and a half later he was awakened from uneasy sleep by his father's scream.

("Dad!"

(Sounds of fearful weeping froze his heart, and the next thing he saw as he looked frantically around almost shattered it.

(The narrow bay, filling with the tide that had nearly submerged the helicopter, was misted over. The forest rising steeply on three sides of the bay was shrouded. The moon was directly overhead, its light giving some definition to the tall straight trees, like Christmas cutouts in black paper, through which the sea mist flowed. Here and there rocky ravines cut back into the mountains away from the creeping water. There were some huge boulders at the mouth of the largest ravine. Atop one of them, as if it were a rounded stage, stood several still figures unrelated to humanity [that much was clear in spite of the mist] and, at their feet, another figure all too human and recognizable, writhing slowly, an arm held above his head to ward off whatever violence or terror the silent watchers threatened.

(Geoff reached for the Glock automatic he had put beneath his flight jacket, but it wasn't there.

(His father sobbing. Pleading.

(He couldn't find the pistol. All he had was the flare gun with a single load, and a flashlight.

("Dad!"