The Traveler fr-1 Read online

“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.

  The disciplined world of martial arts was the true power that pulled Hollis away from the church. After receiving a fourth-degree black belt in karate, Hollis followed one of his teachers to South America. He ended up in Rio de Janeiro and lived there for six years, becoming an expert in a Brazilian style of martial arts called capoeira.

  “Then he came back to Los Angeles,” Vicki said. “I met him at his sister’s wedding. He started a martial arts school in South Central.”

  “Describe him to me. What’s he look like? Big? Small?”

  “Broad shoulders, but slender. Nappy hair, like a Rastafarian.”

  “And what’s his personality?”

  “Confident, and vain. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

  Hollis Wilson’s martial arts school was on Florence Avenue, wedged between a liquor store and a video rental outlet. Someone had painted words on the sidewalk window in garish reds and yellows. DEFEND YOURSELF! KARATE, KICKBOXING, AND BRAZILIAN CAPOEIRA. NO CONTRACTS. BEGINNERS WELCOME.

  They heard drumming as they approached the school and the sound got louder when they opened the front door. Hollis had taken sheets of plywood and built a reception area with a desk and folding chairs. Pinned to a bulletin board was a class schedule and posters advertising local karate tournaments. Maya and Vicki walked past two small dressing rooms with old bedspreads hung in place of doors and looked into a long windowless room.

  An old man was playing a conga dru
m in one corner and the sound bounced off the concrete walls. Wearing T-shirts and white cotton pants, the capoeiristas stood in a circle. They clapped their hands in rhythm with the drum and watched two people fighting. One of the fighters was a short Latino man wearing a Think Critically! T-shirt. He was trying to defend himself against a black man in his twenties who was giving instructions between the kicks. The black man glanced at the visitors and Vicki touched Maya’s arm. Hollis Wilson had long legs and muscular arms. His braided dreadlocks came down to his shoulders. After watching for a few minutes, Maya turned and whispered to Vicki, “That’s Hollis Wilson?”

  “Yes. With the long hair.”

  Maya nodded. “He’ll do.”

  Capoeira was a peculiar mixture of grace and violence that looked like a ritualized dance. After Hollis and the Latino stopped sparring, two other people entered the circle. They began lunging at each other, mixing in cartwheels and punches and spinning kicks. If one person went down, he knew how to kick upward with his hands flat on the floor. The motion was continuous, and everyone’s T-shirt was damp with sweat.

  They passed around the circle once, Hollis cutting in to attack or defend. The drummer beat faster and each person fought a second time and then a final series of matches that emphasized leg sweeps and lightning-fast side kicks. Hollis nodded to the drummer and the fighting was over.

  Exhausted, the students sat on the floor. They stretched their legs and took deep breaths. Hollis didn’t look tired at all. He paced back and forth in front of them, speaking in the cadence of a Jonesie preacher.

  “There are three kinds of human responses: the deliberate, the instinctive, and the automatic. Deliberate is when you think about your actions. Instinctive is when you just react. Automatic is when you do something from habit because you’ve done it before.”

  Hollis paused and stared at the students sitting in front of him. He seemed to be evaluating their strengths and weaknesses. “In New Babylon, many of the people you know think they’re being deliberate when they’re just on automatic. Like a bunch of robots, they drive their car down the freeway, go to work, get a paycheck in exchange for sweat and pain and humiliation, then drive back home to listen to fake laughter coming from the television set. They’re already dead. Or dying. But they don’t know it.

  “Then there’s another group of people-the party boys and girls. Smoke some weed. Drink some malt liquor. Try to hook up for a little quick sex. They think they’re connecting with their instincts, their natural power, but you know what? They’re on automatic, too.

  “The warrior is different. The warrior uses the power of the brain to be deliberate and the power of the heart to be instinctive. Warriors are never automatic except when they’re brushing their teeth.”

  Hollis paused and spread his hands. “Try to think. Feel. Be real.” He clapped his hands together. “That’s all for today.”

  The students bowed to their teacher, grabbed gym bags, slipped rubber flip-flop sandals on their bare feet, and left the school. Hollis wiped some sweat off the floor with a towel and turned to smile at Vicki.

  “Now this is a real surprise,” he said. “You’re Victory From Sin Fraser-Josetta Fraser’s daughter.”

  “I was a little girl when you left the church.”

  “I remember. Wednesday night prayer service. Friday night youth group. Sunday night potluck social. I always liked the singing. There’s good music in the church. But it was a little too much praying for me.”

  “Obviously you weren’t a believer.”

  “I believe in a lot of things. Isaac T. Jones was a great prophet, but he’s not the final one.” Hollis walked over to the doorway. “So why are you here and who’s your friend? Beginner classes are Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday night.”

  “We’re not here to learn how to fight. This is my friend, Maya.”

  “And what are you?” he asked Maya. “A white convert?”

  “That’s a foolish comment,” Vicki said. “The Prophet accepted all races.”

  “I’m just trying to get the facts, Little Miss Victory From Sin. If you’re not here for lessons, then you’re here to invite me to some church function. I guess Reverend Morganfield thought he’d get a better reaction sending two pretty women to talk to me. That might be true, but it still doesn’t work.”

  “This has nothing to do with the church,” Maya said. “I want to hire you as a fighter. I’m assuming that you have weapons or access to them.”

  “And who the hell are you?”

  Vicki glanced at Maya, asking for permission. The Harlequin moved her eyes slightly. Tell him.

  “This is Maya. She’s a Harlequin who’s come to Los Angeles to search for two unborn Travelers.”

  Hollis looked surprised, and then laughed loudly. “Right! And I’m the Goddamn King of the World. Don’t give me this garbage, Vicki. There aren’t any Travelers or Harlequins left. They’ve all been hunted down and killed.”

  “I hope everyone thinks that,” Maya said calmly. “It’s easier for us if no one believes we exist.”

  Hollis stared at Maya, raising his eyebrows as if questioning her right to be in the room. Then he spread his legs into a fighting stance and snapped off a punch at half speed. Vicki screamed, but Hollis continued the attack with a head punch and crossing kick. As Maya stumbled backward, the sword carrying case fell off her shoulder and rolled a few inches across the tile floor.

  Hollis went into a cartwheel that ended in a crossing kick and Maya managed to block it. He moved faster, attacking with full power and speed. Using kicks and punches, he pushed Maya toward the wall. She knocked his fists away with her hands and forearms, shifted her weight onto the right foot, and aimed a front kick at Hollis’s groin. Hollis fell backward, rolled across the floor, and jumped up with another combination.

  They were fighting hard now, trying to hurt each other. Vicki shouted for them to stop, but neither person seemed to hear her. Now that Maya had recovered from her initial surprise, her face was calm, her eyes intense and focused. She moved in close, throwing quick punches and kicks that tried to achieve maximum damage.

  Hollis danced away from her. Even in this situation, he had to show everyone that he was a graceful and inventive fighter. With roundhouse punches and spinning back kicks, he began to push Maya across the room. The Harlequin stopped when the sword case touched her shoe.

  She faked a punch at Hollis’s head, reached down, and grabbed the case. And then the sword was out, the hilt clicking into place, as she lunged toward her attacker. Hollis lost his balance, fell backward, and Maya stopped moving. The point of the sword blade was two inches away from Hollis Wilson’s neck.

  “Don’t!” Vicki shouted, and the spell was broken. The violence and anger vanished from the room. Maya lowered her sword as Hollis got to his feet.

  “You know, I’ve always wanted to see one of those Harlequin swords.”

  “The next time we fight like this, you’ll be dead.”

  “But we’re not going to fight. We’re on the same side.” Hollis turned his head and winked at Vicki. “So how much are you pretty women going to pay me?”

  23

  Hollis drove the blue delivery van and Vicki sat in the passenger seat. Maya crouched in back, away from the window. As they cut through Beverly Hills, she saw scattered images of the city. Some of the homes were built in the Spanish style with red tile roofs and courtyards. Others looked like modern versions of Tuscan villas. Several of the houses were simply big, lacking any identifiable style; they had elaborate porticos over the front door and fake Romeo-and-Juliet balconies. It was strange to see so many buildings that were both grandiose and bland.

  Hollis crossed Sunset Boulevard and began to drive up Coldwater Canyon. “Okay,” he said. “We’re getting close.”

  “They may be watching the place. Slow down and park before we get there.”

  Hollis pulled over a few minutes later and Maya came forward to peer through the windshield. They were parked on a hil
lside residential street where the homes were built close to the curb. A Department of Water and Power truck had stopped a few feet away from Maggie Resnick’s house. A man in an orange jumpsuit was climbing a power pole while two other workers watched him from below.

  “Seems okay,” Hollis said.

  Vicki shook her head. “They’re looking for the Corrigan brothers. A truck just like that has been outside my house for the last two days.”

  Crouched on the floor of the van, Maya took the combat shotgun out of its case and loaded it with shells. The shotgun had a metal stock and she folded it down so that the weapon resembled a large pistol. When she returned to the front seat area, an SUV had parked behind the phone truck. Shepherd got out, nodded to the fake repairmen, and climbed the wooden steps that led to the entrance of the two-story house. He rang the bell and waited until a woman came to the door.

  “Start the van,” Maya said. “And drive up to the house.”

  Hollis didn’t obey her. “Who’s the guy with the blond hair?”

  “He’s a former Harlequin named Shepherd.”

  “What about the other two men?”

  “Tabula mercs.”

  “How do you want to handle this?” Hollis asked.

  Maya didn’t say anything. It took a few seconds for the others to realize that she was going to destroy Shepherd and the mercs. Vicki looked horrified, and the Harlequin saw herself in the young woman’s eyes.

  “You’re not killing anybody,” Hollis said quietly.

  “I hired you, Hollis. You’re a mercenary.”

  “I gave you my conditions. I’ll help you and protect you, but I won’t let you walk up to some stranger and blow him away.”

  “Shepherd is a traitor,” Maya said. “He’s working for…”

  Before she could finish her explanation, the garage door rolled open and a man came out riding a motorcycle. As he bumped over the curb, one of the telephone repairmen spoke into a handheld radio.

  Maya touched Vicki’s shoulder. “That’s Gabriel Corrigan,” she said. “Linden said that he rides a motorcycle.”