The Traveler Page 15

  Gabriel bought several newspapers and read every article. There was no mention of the shooting at the clothing factory. He knew that newspapers and television announcers reported on a certain level of reality. What was happening to him was on another level, like a parallel universe. All around him, different societies were growing larger or being destroyed, forming new traditions or breaking the rules while citizens pretended that the faces shown on television were the only important stories.

  For the rest of the day, he stayed on the motorcycle, stopping only once for fuel and drinking water. Gabriel knew that he should find a hiding place, but a nervous energy kept him moving. As he got tired, Los Angeles broke apart into fragments: isolated images with no tissue connecting them. Dead palm fronds in the gutter. A giant plaster chicken. The wanted poster for a lost dog. Signs were everywhere: PRICES SLASHED! NO OFFER REFUSED! WE WILL DELIVER! An old man reading the Bible. A teenage girl chattering on her cell phone. Then the stoplight clicked green and he raced off to nowhere.

  Gabriel had gone out with several women in Los Angeles, but the relationships rarely lasted more than one or two months. They wouldn't know how to help if he showed up at their apartments looking for shelter. He had a few male friends who liked skydiving and others who raced motorcycles, but there wasn't a strong bond between them. In order to avoid the Grid, he had cut himself off from everyone but his brother.

  Riding east on Sunset Boulevard, he thought about Maggie Resnick. She was an attorney and he trusted her; she would know what to do. Turning off Sunset, he followed the winding road that led up through Coldwater Canyon.

  Maggie's house was built on the side of a steep slope. A garage door was at the base of the house, then three glass-and-steel floors of diminishing size were stacked on top of each other like the tiers of a wedding cake. It was almost midnight, but the lights were still on inside. Gabriel rang the bell and Maggie opened the door wearing a red flannel bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.

  "I hope you're not here to offer me a motorcycle ride. It's cold and dark and I'm tired. I've got to read three more depositions." "I need to talk to you."

  "What happened? Are you in trouble?"

  Gabriel nodded.

  Maggie stepped away from the doorway. "Then come on in. Virtue is admirable, but boring. I guess that's why I practice criminal law."

  Although Maggie hated to cook, she had told her architect to design an extra-large kitchen. Copper pots hung from ceiling hooks. Crystal wineglasses were in a wood rack on the shelf. There was a huge stainless-steel refrigerator that held four bottles of champagne and a takeout carton of Chinese food. While Maggie brewed some tea, Gabriel sat at the kitchen counter. Just his being here might be dangerous for her, but he desperately needed to tell someone what had happened. Now that everything was so volatile, memories from his childhood began to force their way into his thoughts.

  Maggie poured him a cup of tea, then sat on the opposite side of the counter and lit a cigarette. "All right. At this moment, I'm your lawyer. That means that everything you say to me is confidential unless you're contemplating a future crime."

  "I haven't done anything wrong."

  She waved her hand and a line of cigarette smoke drifted through the air. "Of course you have, Gabriel. We've all committed crimes. The first question is: Are the police looking for you?"

  Gabriel gave her a brief description of his mother's death, and then described the men who had attacked Michael on the freeway, the meeting with Mr. Bubble, and the incident at the clothing factory. For the most part, Maggie just let him talk, but occasionally she asked how he knew a certain fact.

  "I thought Michael might get you into trouble," she said. "People who hide their money from the government are usually involved in other kinds of criminal activity. If Michael stopped paying them rent on his office building, they wouldn't contact the police. They'd hire some muscle to track him down."

  "It might be something else," Gabriel said. "When we were growing up in South Dakota, men came looking for my father. They burned down our house and my father disappeared, but we never learned why it happened. My mother told us this wild story before she died."

  Gabriel had avoided telling anyone about his family, but now he couldn't stop talking. He gave a few details about their life in South Dakota and described what his mother had said on her deathbed. Maggie had spent most of her life listening to her clients explain their crimes. She had trained herself not to reveal any skepticism until the story was finished.

  "Is that all, Gabriel? Any other details?"

  "That's all I can remember."

  "You want some cognac?"

  "Not right now."

  Maggie took out a bottle of French cognac and poured herself a drink. "I'm not going to discount what your mother told you, but it doesn't relate to what I know. People usually get into trouble because of sex, pride, or money. Sometimes it's all three things at the same time. This gangster Michael told you about Vincent Torrelli—was killed in Atlantic City. From what you've told me about Michael, I think he might be tempted to accept some illegal financing and then figure out a way not to pay it back."

  "Do you think Michael's all right?"

  "Probably. They need to keep him alive if they want to protect their investment."

  "What can I do to help him?"

  "You can't do much of anything," Maggie said. "So the question is—am I going to get involved in this? I don't suppose you have any money?"

  Gabriel shook his head.

  "I do like you, Gabriel. You've never lied to me and that's been a pleasure. I spend most of my time dealing with professional liars. It gets tiring after a while."

  "I just wanted some advice, Maggie. I'm not asking you to get involved with something that could be dangerous."

  "Life is dangerous. That's what makes it interesting." She finished her brandy and made a decision. "All right. I'll help you. It's a mitzvah, and I can display my unused maternal instincts." Maggie opened a kitchen cabinet and took out a pill container. "Now humor me and take some vitamins."

  Chapter 22

  When Victory From Sin Fraser was eight years old, a cousin visiting Los Angeles told her about the brave Harlequin who had sacrificed himself for the Prophet. The story was so dramatic that she felt an immediate connection to this mysterious group of defenders. As Vicki grew older, her mother, Josetta, and her pastor, Reverend J. T. Morganfield, had tried to guide her away from an allegiance to Debt Not Paid. Vicki Fraser was usually an obedient servant of the church, but she refused to change her views on this one issue. Debt Not Paid became her substitute for drinking alcohol and sneaking out at night; it was her only real act of rebellion.

  Josetta was furious when her daughter confessed that she had met a Harlequin at the airport. "You should be ashamed," she said. "The Prophet said that it's a sin to disobey your parents."

  "The Prophet also said that one can disobey small rules when following the larger will of God."

  "Harlequins have nothing to do with the will of God," Josetta said. "They'll slit your throat, then get angry because you're bleeding on their shoes."

  The day after Vicki went to the airport, a truck from the electric power company appeared on their street. A black man and his two white partners began climbing poles and checking transmission lines, but Josetta wasn't fooled. The fake employees took two-hour lunches and never seemed to finish their work. Throughout the day, one of them was always standing around, watching the Frasers' house. Josetta ordered her daughter to stay inside and away from the telephone. Reverend Morganfield and other members of the church put on their best clothes and began to drop by the house for prayer meetings. No one was going to bust down the door and kidnap this maiden of the Lord.

  Vicki was in trouble because she had helped Maya, but she didn't regret it. People rarely listened to her, and now the whole congregation was talking about what she had done. Since she couldn't go out, she spent most of her time thinking about Maya. Was the Harlequin safe? Had someon
e killed her?

  Three days after her act of disobedience she was looking out the back window when Maya leaped over the fence. For a moment Vicki felt as if she had conjured up the Harlequin from her dreams.

  As Maya walked across the lawn, she pulled an automatic pistol out of her coat pocket. Vicki pushed open the sliding glass door and waved her hand. "Be careful," she said. "Three men are working out on the street. They act like they're with the power company, but we think they're Tabula."

  "Have they been inside the house?"

  "No."

  Maya took off her sunglasses when she moved from the living room into the kitchen. The handgun disappeared into her pocket, but her right hand touched the top of the metal sword case hanging from her shoulder.

  "Are you hungry?" Vicki asked Maya. "Can I make you breakfast?"

  The Harlequin stood by the sink, her eyes scanning every object in the room. And Vicki saw the kitchen differently, as if for the first time in her life. The avocado green pots and pans. The plastic wall clock. The cute little farm girl standing at the ceramic well. Everything was ordinary and safe.

  "Shepherd was a traitor," Maya said. "He's working for the Tabula. And you helped him. Which means you might be a traitor, too."

  "I didn't betray you, Maya. I swear that in the name of the Prophet."

  The Harlequin looked tired and vulnerable. She kept glancing around the kitchen as if someone was going to attack her at any moment. "I don't really trust you, but I don't have many options at this point. I'm willing to pay for your assistance."

  "I don't want Harlequin money."

  "It guarantees some loyalty."

  "I'll help you for free, Maya. Just ask me."

  Looking at Maya's eyes, Vicki realized that she was asking for something that was very difficult for a Harlequin to give. To ask for another person's help required some degree of humility and an acknowledgment of your own weakness. The Harlequins were sustained by pride and their unshakable confidence.

  Maya mumbled a few words, and then tried again, speaking very precisely. "I want you to help me."

  "Yes. I'd be glad to. Do you have a plan?"

  "I have to find these two brothers before the Tabula capture them. You won't have to touch a gun or a knife. You won't have to hurt anyone. Just help me hire a mercenary who won't betray me. The Tabula are very powerful in this country and Shepherd is helping them. I can't do this alone."

  "Vicki?" Her mother had heard their voices. "What's going on? Do we have visitors?"

  Josetta was a big woman with a broad face. That morning she wore a forest green pants suit and the heart locket that held her deceased husband's photograph. She entered the doorway, and then stopped when she saw the stranger. The two women glared at each other and, once again, Maya touched the sword case.

  "Mother, this is—"

  "I know who she is—a murderous sinner who has brought death into our lives."

  "I'm trying to find two brothers," Maya said. "They might be Travelers."

  "Isaac T. Jones was the last Traveler. There are no others."

  Maya touched Vicki's arm. "The Tabula are watching this house. Sometimes they have equipment that allows them to look through walls. I can't stay here any longer. It's dangerous for all of us."

  Vicki stood between her mother and the Harlequin. So much of her life had seemed hazy and vague until that moment, like an out-of-focus photograph in which blurry figures ran away from the camera. But now, right now, she had a real choice in her life. Walking is easy, said the Prophet. But it requires faith to find the right path.

  "I'm going to help her."

  "No," Josetta said. "I don't give my permission."

  "I don't need permission, Mother." Vicki grabbed her purse and walked out into the backyard. Maya caught up with her when she reached the edge of the grass.

  "Just remember one thing," Maya said. "We're working together, but I still don't trust you."

  "All right. You don't trust me. So what's the first thing we have to do?"

  "Grab the top of the fence and jump."

  ***

  THOMAS WALKS THE GROUND had given Maya a Plymouth delivery van. It had no side windows, so she could sleep in the back if necessary. When Vicki got into the van, Maya told her to take off all her clothes.

  "Why should I do that?"

  "Have you and your mother stayed in the house for the last two days?"

  "Not all the time. We went to see Reverend Morganfield."

  "The Tabula entered your house and searched it. They probably put tracer beads in your clothes and luggage. Once you leave the area, a satellite will track you down."

  Feeling a little embarrassed, Vicki got in the back and removed her shoes, blouse, and slacks. A stiletto appeared in Maya's hand and she used the weapon to probe every hem and seam. "Did you get these shoes repaired recently?" she asked.

  "No. Never."

  "Someone's used a hammer on this." Maya thrust the point of the knife beneath the heel and pried it off. A little pocket was carved into the heel. She turned the shoe upside down and a white tracer bead fell into the palm of her hand.

  "Wonderful. Now they know you've left the house."

  Maya tossed the bead out the window and drove to a Korean neighborhood on Western Avenue

  . They bought a new pair of shoes for Vicki, then dropped by a Seventh-day Adventist church and picked up a dozen religious pamphlets. Pretending to be an Adventist missionary, Vicki visited Gabriel's house near the freeway and knocked on the door. No one was home, but she felt like she was being watched.

  The two women drove to the parking lot of a warehouse store and sat in the back of the van. While Vicki watched, Maya attached a laptop computer to a satellite phone and typed in a phone number.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Going on the Internet. It's dangerous because of Carnivore." "What's that?"

  "The name of an Internet surveillance program developed by your FBI. The National Security Agency has developed even more powerful tools, but my father and his Harlequin friends kept using the word `Carnivore.' The old name reminded them to be careful when using the Internet. Carnivore is a packet sniffer program that looks at everything that comes through a particular network. It's aimed at specific Web sites and e-mail addresses, but it also detects certain trigger words and phrases."

  "And the Tabula know about this program?"

  "They have unauthorized access through their Internet monitoring operation." Maya began to type on her computer. "You can get around Carnivore by using soft language that avoids trigger words."

  Vicki sat in the front seat of the van and looked out at the parking lot while Maya searched for another Harlequin. Citizens came out of the warehouse store with extra-large shopping baskets piled high with food, clothing, and electronic equipment. The baskets were heavy with all these things, and the citizens had to lean forward to push them to their cars. Vicki remembered reading in high school about Sisyphus, the Greek king doomed forever to push a stone up a mountain.

  After searching through several Web sites and typing in different code words, Maya found Linden. Vicki looked over Maya's shoulder as she sent instant messages using soft language. The traitor Harlequin, Shepherd, became "the grandson of a good man" who joined a competing firm" and destroyed our possible business venture."

  "You healthy?" Linden asked.

  "Yes."

  "Problems with the negotiation?"

  "Cold meat times two," Maya typed.

  "Enough tools?"

  "Adequate."

  "Physical condition?"

  "Tired, but no damage."

  "Have assistance?"

  "One local employee from Jones and Company. Hiring a professional today."

  "Good. Funds available."

  The screen was blank for a second, then Linden typed. "Last heard from my friend forty-eight hours ago. Suggest you look ..."

  Linden's informant inside the Evergreen Foundation had provided him with six addresses for
finding Michael and Gabriel Corrigan. There were short notes such as: "Plays golf with M." or "Friend of G."

  "Thanks."

  "Will try for more data. Good luck."

  Maya wrote down the addresses and shut off the computer. "We have some more locations to check out," she told Vicki. "But I need to hire a mercenary—someone who can back me up."

  "I know one person."

  "Is he in a tribe?"

  "What does that mean?"

  "Some of the people who reject the Vast Machine come together in groups that live in various levels of the underground. Some tribes reject Machine-grown food. Some reject Machine music and clothing styles. Some tribes try to live by faith. They reject the Machine's fear and bigotry."

  Vicki laughed. "Then the Church of Isaac T. Jones is a tribe."

  "That's right." Maya started the van and began to drive out of the enormous parking lot. "A fighting tribe is a group that can defend itself, physically, from the Machine. Harlequins use them as mercenaries."

  "Hollis Wilson isn't part of any group. But he definitely knows how to fight."

  As they drove to South Los Angeles, Vicki explained that the Divine Church realized that their young followers might be tempted by the flashy materialism of New Babylon. Teenagers were encouraged to be church missionaries in South Africa or the Caribbean. It was seen as a good way to channel youthful energy.

  Hollis Wilson was part of a well-known church family, but he refused to become a missionary and began to hang out with the gang members in his neighborhood. His parents prayed for him and locked him in his room. Once he came home at two in the morning and found a Jonesie minister waiting to exorcise the demon in the young man's heart. When Hollis was arrested in the vicinity of a stolen car, Mr. Wilson took his son to a karate class at the local Police Athletic League. He thought the karate teacher might be able to add some structure to Hollis's scattered life.