The Traveler (20 page)

"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."

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

. 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
federate
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 computer 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."

"That's a wise choice," Boone said. "Good for you." He turned to Prichett. "Go back to the van and run communications. Tell Hector to suit up and use the sniffer. Ron stays on the front porch."

"Yes, sir."
Prichett slipped the gun back in his shoulder holster.
"And what about the suspect, sir?"

"We'll be okay right here. I'm, going to have a conversation with Thomas about his various options."

Determined to do a good job, Prichett hurried back down the driveway. Boone pulled out a bench and sat at the table. "What's wrong with the garbage disposal?" he asked.

"It jammed up and burned out the motor. You know what the problem was?" Thomas pointed to a small black object on the table.
"A plum pit."

"Why not buy a new disposal?"

"Too expensive."

Boone nodded. "That's right. We've examined your bank account and your credit card balance. You're out of money."

Thomas Walks the Ground continued his work, rummaging through the parts scattered across the table. "I'm very glad that a pretend police officer is concerned about my pretend finances."

"Don't you want to keep this house?"

"It's not important. I can always go back to my tribe in Montana. I've stayed too long in this place."

Boone reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, pulled out an envelope, and placed it on the table. "This is twenty thousand dollars in cash. It's all yours in exchange for an honest conversation."

Thomas Walks the Ground picked up the envelope but didn't open it. He held it in the palm of his hand as if he was judging the weight. Then he dropped it on the table. "I'm an honest man, so I'll give you the conversation for free."

"A young woman took a taxi to this address. Her name is Maya, but she probably used a false name. She's in her twenties.
Black hair.
Pale blue eyes.
She was raised in Britain and has an English accent."

"A lot of people visit me. Maybe she came to my sweat lodge." Thomas smiled at Boone. "There are still a few openings for this weekend's ceremony. You and your men should join us.
Pound on a drum.
Sweat out your poison. When you step into the cold air, you feel completely alive."

Sanchez walked down the driveway carrying a white biohazard suit and the sniffer equipment. The sniffer resembled a hand-held vacuum cleaner attached to a shoulder power pack. There was a radio transmitter attached to the pack that sent the data directly to the computer in the van. Sanchez placed the sniffer on a lawn chair. He stepped into the suit and then pulled it over his legs, arms, and shoulders.

"What's that for?" Thomas asked.

"We have a DNA sample from this young woman. The equipment on the chair is a genetic data collection device. It uses a microarray chip to match the suspect's DNA with the DNA found inside your house."

Thomas found three matching screws and smiled. He placed them next to a new electric motor. "As I said, I've had many visitors."

Sanchez pulled the suit over his head and began to breathe through the air filter. Now
his own
DNA wouldn't interfere with the sample. The mercenary opened the back door, entered the house, and began to work. The best samples were found on bed linen, toilet seats, and the backs of upholstered furniture.

The two men watched each other as they listened to the muffled whirring sound that came from the sniffer. "So tell me," Boone said, "did Maya visit your house?"

"Why is this important to you?"

"She's a terrorist."

Thomas Walks the Ground began searching for three steel washers to match his three screws. "There are real terrorists in this world, but a small group of men uses our fear of them to increase their power. These men hunt down shamans and mystics ..." Thomas smiled again. "And people called Travelers."

The whirring sound continued from inside the house. Boone knew that Sanchez was moving from room to room scraping the nozzle of the sniffer on various objects.

"All terrorists are the same," Boone said.

Thomas leaned back in his lawn chair. "Let me tell you about a Paiute Indian named Wovoka. In the 1880s, he began to go off into other worlds. After Wovoka returned, he talked to all the tribes and started a movement called the Ghost Dance. His followers would dance in circles, singing special songs. When you weren't dancing, you were supposed to live a righteous life. No drinking alcohol. No stealing. No prostitution.

"Now you would think that the whites who ran the reservations would admire this. After years of degradation, the Indian was becoming moral and strong again. Unfortunately, the Lakota weren't becoming obedient. Dancers started the ritual at the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota and the whites in the area got very frightened. A government agent named Daniel Royer decided that the Lakota didn't need freedom or their own land. They needed to learn baseball. He tried to teach the warriors how to pitch and swing a bat, but they weren't distracted from the Ghost Dance.

"And the whites said to one another, `The Indians are becoming dangerous again.' So the government sent soldiers to a Ghost Dance ceremony at Wounded Knee Creek and they fired their rifles and slaughtered 290 men, women, and children. The soldiers dug pits and tossed the bodies into the frozen ground. And my people went back to alcohol and confusion ..."

The noise stopped. A minute later, the back door squeaked open and Sanchez came out. He removed the mouth filter and pulled off the hood of the white suit. His face glistened with sweat. "We've got a match," he said. "There was a strand of her hair on the couch in the living room."

"Good. You can go back to the van."

Sanchez removed the suit and went back down the driveway. Once again, Boone and Thomas were alone.

"Maya was here," Boone said.

"According to this machine."

"I want to know what she said and did. I want to know if you gave her money or a ride somewhere. Was she wounded? Has she changed her appearance?"

"I won't help you," Thomas said calmly. "Leave my house."

Boone drew his automatic, but kept it flat on his right leg. "You don't really have a choice, Thomas. I just need you to accept that fact."

"I have the freedom to say no."

Boone sighed like a parent with a stubborn child. "Freedom is the biggest myth ever created. It's a destructive, unachievable goal that has caused a great deal of pain. Very few people can handle freedom. A society is healthy and productive when it's under control."

"And you think that's going to happen?"

"A new age is on its way. We're approaching a time where we will have the technology necessary to monitor and supervise vast numbers of people. In the industrial nations, the structure is already in place."

"And you'll be in control?"

"Oh, I'll be watched, too. Everyone will be watched. It's a very democratic system. And it's inevitable, Thomas. There's no way it can be stopped. Your sacrifice for some Harlequin is completely meaningless."

"You're welcome to your opinion, but I will decide what gives meaning to my life."

"You're going to help me, Thomas. There's no negotiation here. No compromise. You need to deal with the reality of the situation."

Thomas shook his head sympathetically.
"No, my friend.
It's you who are out of touch with reality. You look at me and see an overweight Crow Indian with a broken garbage disposal and no money. And you think: `Ahhh, he's just an ordinary man.' But I'm telling you that ordinary men and women will see what you're doing. And we will stand up, rip open the door, and leave your electronic cage."

Thomas got out of the chair, stepped off the porch, and headed for the driveway. Boone swiveled around on the bench. Holding the automatic with two hands, he blew away his enemy's right kneecap. Thomas collapsed, rolled onto his back, and stopped moving.

Still holding the gun, Boone walked over to the body. Thomas was conscious, but breathing quickly. His leg was almost severed from the knee down and dark red blood pulsed from the cut artery. As Thomas began to go into shock, he looked up at Boone and spoke slowly. "I'm not frightened of you ..."

An intense anger overcame Boone. He pointed his gun at Thomas's forehead as if he wanted to destroy all the other man's thoughts and memories, then his finger squeezed the trigger.

The second gunshot seemed unbearably loud, the sound waves expanding out into the world.