The Traveler fr-1 Read online

  “A person’s body stays in this world,” Maya said. “It’s the Light within you that crosses the barriers.”

  “Twice a year, Father would get in the pickup truck and go away for a few weeks. He always told us that he was fishing, but he never came back with any fish. When he was home, he would make furniture or weed the garden. Usually he’d stop working around four o’clock in the afternoon. He’d take Michael and me into the barn and teach us judo and karate and kendo with bamboo swords. Michael hated practicing. He thought it was a waste of time.”

  “Did he ever say that to your father?”

  “We didn’t dare challenge him. Sometimes my father would just look at you and know exactly what you were thinking. Michael and I believed that he could read our minds.”

  “What did your neighbors think of him?”

  “We didn’t know a lot of people. The Stevenson family lived on a farm that was farther up the hill, but they weren’t very friendly. An older couple named Don and Irene Tedford lived on the other side of the stream and they came over one afternoon with two apple pies. They were surprised that we didn’t have electricity, but it didn’t seem to bother them. I remember Don saying that television was a big waste of time.

  “Michael and I started going to the Tedfords every afternoon to eat homemade doughnuts. My father always stayed home, but sometimes Mother would take a load of laundry over to their place and wash it in their machine. The Tedfords had a son named Jerry who had died in a war and his picture was all over the house. They talked about him like he was still alive.

  “Everything was okay until Sheriff Randolph came up the driveway in his squad car. He was a big man in a uniform and he was carrying a gun. I was scared when he arrived. I thought that he was from the Grid and that Father would have to kill him-”

  Maya interrupted. “Once I was in a car with a Harlequin named Libra and we were stopped for speeding. I thought that Libra was going to cut the constable’s throat.”

  “That’s how it felt,” Gabriel. “Michael and I didn’t know what was going to happen. My mother made iced tea for Sheriff Randolph and all of us sat on the front porch. At first Randolph just said a lot of nice things about the way we had fixed up the place, and then he began talking about the local property tax. Because we weren’t connected to the power line, he thought we might refuse to pay the tax for political reasons.

  “Father didn’t say anything at first, but he kept staring at Randolph, really concentrating on him. All of a sudden, he announced that he’d be glad to pay the tax and everyone relaxed. The only person who didn’t look happy was Michael. He went over to the sheriff and said he wanted to go to school with all the other kids.

  “When the sheriff drove away, Father brought us into the kitchen for a family discussion. He told Michael that school was dangerous because it was part of the Grid. Michael said that we needed to learn things like math and science and history. He said that we couldn’t defend ourselves from our enemies if we weren’t educated.”

  “So what happened?” Maya asked.

  “We didn’t talk about it for the rest of the summer. Then Father said okay, we could go to school-but we had to be careful. We couldn’t tell people our real name and we couldn’t mention the weapons.

  “I was nervous about meeting other kids, but Michael was happy. On the first day of school, he woke up two hours early to pick out the clothes he was going to wear. He told me that all the boys in town wore blue jeans and flannel shirts. And we had to dress that way, too. So we’d look just like everyone else.

  “Mother drove us into Unityville and we got registered at the school under our fake names. Michael and I spent two hours in the office being tested by the assistant principal, Mrs. Batenor. We were both advanced readers, but I wasn’t so good at math. When she took me into a classroom, the other students stared at me. It was the first time I really understood how different our family was and how other people saw us. All the kids started whispering until the teacher told them to be quiet.

  “At recess, I found Michael on the playground and we stood around watching the other boys play football. Just like he’d said, they were all wearing jeans. Four older boys left the football game and came over to talk to us. I can still remember the look on my brother’s face. He was so excited. So happy. He thought the boys were going to ask us to join the football game and then we’d become their friends.

  “One of the boys, the tallest one, said, ‘You’re the Millers. Your parents bought Hale Robinson’s farm.’ Michael tried to shake his hand, but the boy said, ‘Your parents are crazy.’

  “My brother kept smiling for a few seconds as if he couldn’t believe that the boy had said that. He had spent all those years on the road creating this fantasy about school and friends and a normal life. He told me to stay back and then he punched the tallest boy in the mouth. Everybody jumped him, but they didn’t have a chance. Michael was using spinning back-kicks and karate punches on farm boys. He beat them to the ground and would have kept on punching them if I hadn’t pulled him off.”

  “So you never made any friends?”

  “Not really. The teachers liked Michael because he knew how to talk to adults. We spent all of our free time at the farm. That was okay. We always had some project going, like building a tree house or training Minerva.”

  “Who was Minerva? Your dog?”

  “She was our owl security system.” Gabriel smiled at the memory. “A few months after we started going to school, I found a baby owl near the stream that ran through Mr. Tedford’s property. I couldn’t see a nest anywhere, so I wrapped her in my T-shirt and took her back to the house.

  “When she was little we kept her in a cardboard box and fed her cat food. I decided to name her Minerva because I had read this book that said the goddess kept an owl as a helper. When Minerva got bigger, Father cut a hole in the kitchen wall, then built a platform on both sides with a little trapdoor. We taught Minerva how to push through the door and enter the kitchen.

  “Father placed Minerva’s cage in a thicket of spruce trees at the bottom of the driveway. The cage had a trigger weight that would open the cage door, and the weight was attached to some fishing line that was stretched across our driveway. If a car turned off the road, they would hit the fishing line and open the cage. Minerva was supposed to fly up to the house and tell us that we had visitors.”

  “That was a clever idea.”

  “Maybe it was, but I didn’t think so at the time. When we were living in motels, I had seen spy movies on television and I remembered all the high-tech devices. If bad people were searching for us, then I thought we should have better protection than an owl.

  “Anyway, I pulled the fishing line, the cage door opened and Minerva flew up the hill. When Father and I reached the kitchen, the owl had come through the trapdoor and was eating her cat food. We carried Minerva down the driveway, tested the cage a second time, and she flew back to the house.

  “That was when I asked my father why people wanted to kill us. He said he’d explain everything when we got a little older. I asked him why we couldn’t go to the North Pole or some other distant location where they could never find us.

  “My father just looked tired and sad. ‘I could go to a place like that,’ he told me. ‘But you and Michael and your mother couldn’t come along. I won’t run away and leave you alone.’”

  “Did he tell you he was a Traveler?”

  “No,” Gabriel said. “Nothing like that. We went through a couple of winters and everything seemed all right. Michael stopped having fights at school, but other kids thought he was a big liar. He’d tell them about the jade sword and Father’s assault rifle, but he also said we had a swimming pool in the basement and a tiger in the barn. He told so many stories nobody realized that some of them were true.

  “One afternoon when we were waiting for the school bus to take us home, another boy mentioned a concrete bridge that ran over the interstate highway. A water pipe ran underneath the bridge a
nd a couple years back some kid named Andy used the pipe to cross the road.

  “‘That’s easy,’ Michael told them. ‘My little brother could do that in his sleep.’ Twenty minutes later I was on the embankment beneath the bridge. I jumped up and grabbed onto the pipe and started to cross the interstate while Michael and the other boys watched. I still think I could have done it, but when I was halfway across the pipe broke and I fell onto the highway. I hit my head and broke my left leg in two places. I remember raising my head, looking down the interstate, and seeing a tractor-trailer truck coming directly toward me. I passed out and, when I woke up, I was in a hospital emergency room with a cast on my leg. I’m pretty sure I heard Michael telling the nurse that my name was Gabriel Corrigan. I don’t know why he did that. Maybe he thought I’d die if he didn’t give the right name.”

  “And that’s how the Tabula found you,” Maya said.

  “Maybe, but who knows? A few more years went by and nothing happened to us. When I was twelve and Michael was sixteen, we were sitting in the kitchen doing our homework after dinner. It was January and real cold outside. Then Minerva came through the trapdoor and sat there hooting and blinking at the light.

  “This had happened a couple of times before when the Stevensons’ dog hit the trip line. I got on my boots and went outside to find the dog. I came around the corner of the house, looked down the hill, and saw four men come out of the spruce trees. All of them wore dark clothes and carried rifles. They talked to each other, split apart, and began walking up the hill.”

  “Tabula mercenaries,” Maya said.

  “I didn’t know who they were. For a few seconds I couldn’t move, then I ran into the house and told my family. Father went upstairs to the bedroom and came down with a duffel bag and the jade sword. He gave the sword to me and the duffel bag to my mother. Then he handed the shotgun to Michael and told us to go out the back door and hide in the root cellar.

  “‘What about you?’ we asked.

  “‘Just go to the cellar and stay there,’ he told us. ‘Don’t come out until you hear my voice.’

  “Father grabbed the rifle and we went out the back door. He told us to walk by the fence so we wouldn’t leave footprints in the snow. I wanted to stay and help him, but Mother said we had to go. When we reached the garden, I heard a gunshot and a man shouting. It wasn’t my father’s voice. I’m sure about that.

  “The root cellar was just a dumping place for old tools. Michael pulled the door open and we climbed down the staircase to the cellar. The door was so rusty that Michael couldn’t shut it all the way. The three of us sat there in the darkness, on a concrete ledge. For a while we heard gunfire and then it was quiet. When I woke up, sunlight was coming through the crack around the door.

  “Michael pushed the door open and we followed him out. The house and barn had burned down. Minerva was flying above us as if she was searching for something. Four dead men lay in different places-twenty or thirty yards away from each other-and their blood had melted the snow around them.

  “My mother sat down, wrapped her arms around her legs, and began crying. Michael and I checked what was left of the house, but we didn’t find any trace of our father. I told Michael that the men didn’t kill him. He ran away.

  “Michael said, ‘Forget that. We better get out of here. You’ve got to help me with Mom. We’ll go over to the Tedfords and borrow their station wagon.’

  “He went back into the root cellar and returned with the jade sword and the duffel bag. We looked inside the duffel and saw that it was filled with packets of one-hundred-dollar bills. Mother was still sitting in the snow, crying and whispering to herself like a crazy woman. Carrying the weapons and the bag, we took her across the fields to the Tedfords’ farm. When Michael pounded on the front door, Don and Irene woke up and came downstairs in their bathrobes.

  “I’d heard Michael lie hundreds of times at school, but no one ever believed his stories. This time, he sounded like he believed what he was saying. He told the Tedfords that our father had been a soldier and he had run away from the army. Last night, government agents had burned down our house and killed him. The whole thing sounded crazy to me, but then I remembered that the Tedfords’ son had been killed in the war.”

  “A skillful lie,” Maya said.

  “You’re right. It worked. Don Tedford loaned us his station wagon. Michael had already been driving for a couple of years on the farm. We loaded up the weapons and the duffel bag, then headed down the road. Mother lay on the backseat. I covered her with a blanket and she went to sleep. When I looked out the side window, I saw Minerva flying through the smoke up in the sky…”

  Gabriel stopped talking and Maya stared at the ceiling. A truck came down the highway and its headlights cut through the window blinds. Darkness again. Silence. The shadows that surrounded them seemed to gain substance and weight. Maya felt like they were lying together at the bottom of a deep pool.

  “And what happened after that?” she asked.

  “We spent a few years driving around the country, and then we got fake birth certificates and lived in Austin, Texas. When I was seventeen, Michael decided that we should move to Los Angeles and start a new life.”

  “Then the Tabula found you and now you’re here.”

  “Yes,” Gabriel said softly. “Now I’m here.”

  30

  Boone didn’t like Los Angeles. It was ordinary enough on the surface, but there was an impulse toward anarchy. He remembered watching a video of a riot in the ghetto neighborhoods. Smoke rising to a sunny sky. A palm tree bursting into flames. There were a great many street gangs in Los Angeles and most of the time they just tried to kill each other. That was acceptable. But a visionary leader, like a Traveler, could stop the drugs and direct the anger outward.

  He took the freeway south to Hermosa Beach, left his car in a public lot, and walked over to Sea Breeze Lane. A power company repair van was parked across the street from the Indian’s house. Boone knocked on the van’s rear door, and Prichett pulled up the shade that covered the window. He smiled and nodded eagerly-glad you’re here. Boone opened the door and climbed inside.

  The three Tabula mercenaries were sitting in low beach chairs set up in the back of the van. Hector Sanchez was a former Mexican federale who had gotten involved in a bribery scandal. Ron Olson was an ex-military policeman who had been accused of rape.

  The youngest of the group was Dennis Prichett. He had short brown hair, a chubby face, and a polite but earnest manner that made him seem like a young missionary. Prichett went to church three times a week and never used foul language. During the last few years, the Brethren had started to hire true believers from different religions. Although they were paid like mercenaries, they joined the Brethren for moral reasons. As far as they were concerned, the Travelers were false prophets who challenged whatever they considered to be the true faith. These new employees were supposed to be more dependable and ruthless than the regular mercenaries, but Boone distrusted them. He understood greed and fear much better than religious zeal.

  “Where is our suspect?” he asked.

  “On the back porch,” Prichett said. “Here. Take a look.”

  He got out of his chair and Boone sat in front of the monitor screen. One of the more pleasurable aspects of his job was that it gave him the technology to look through walls. For the Los Angeles operation, the van had been equipped with a thermal imaging device. The special camera gave you a black-and-white image of any surface that produced or reflected heat. There was a white patch in the garage: that was the water heater. Another patch was in the kitchen: probably a coffeemaker. A third object-a human being-was sitting on the back porch.

  The surveillance team had been scanning the house for three days, monitoring phone calls and using the Carnivore program to track e-mails. “Any messages sent or received?” Boone asked.

  “He’s had two calls this morning about a weekend sweat lodge,” Sanchez said.

  Olson glanced at a com
puter monitor. “Nothing in his e-mail but spam.”

  “Good,” Boone said. “Let’s get going. Does everyone have a badge?”

  The three men nodded. They had been given fake FBI badges when they arrived in Los Angeles.

  “Okay. Hector and Ron, you go through the front door. If there’s any resistance, the Brethren have given us permission to close this man’s file. Dennis, you come with me. We’ll go down the driveway.”

  The four men got out of the van and quickly crossed the street. Olson and Sanchez climbed onto the front porch of the cottage. Boone opened the wooden gate and Prichett followed him down the driveway. A crude hut constructed of sticks and patches of rawhide was in the backyard.

  They came around the corner of the house and saw Thomas Walks the Ground sitting at a small wooden table set up on the porch. The Indian had taken apart a broken garbage disposal and was putting the pieces back together. Boone glanced at Prichett and saw that the younger man had drawn his 9-mm automatic. Tight grip. White knuckles. A loud cracking sound came from the front of the house as the other two mercenaries kicked in the door.

  “It’s okay,” Boone told Prichett. “There’s nothing to worry about.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a fake federal warrant, and went up to the back porch.

  “Good afternoon, Thomas. I’m Special Agent Baker and this is Special Agent Morgan. We have a warrant to search your house.”

  Thomas Walks the Ground stopped tightening a bolt on the garbage disposal. He put down his socket wrench and studied the two visitors. “I don’t think you’re real police officers,” he said. “And I don’t think that’s a real warrant. Unfortunately, I left my gun in the kitchen, so I’m going to accept this particular reality.”