Carrion Comfort

by Dan Simmons

  He found her in her office, curled on the floor behind her desk. Her black hair was matted with blood in front and her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. The grimace on her face showed purpled lips pulled back and at least one broken tooth in front.

  Harod vaulted over the desk, went to one knee, and cradled her head on his other knee. She moaned when he moved her. “Tony.”

  Tony Harod found that in the pure white heat of the profoundest fury he had ever felt, no obscenities came to mind. No shouts formed themselves. His voice, when he could speak, was little more than a murmur. “Who did this to you? When?”

  Maria Chen started to speak, but her damaged mouth made her stop and fight back tears. Harod leaned closer so he could hear the whispers when she tried again. “Last night. Three men. Looking for you. Didn’t say who sent them. But I saw Richard Haines . . . in car . . . before they rang bell.”

  Harod hushed her with a gesture and lifted her in his arms with infinite care. As he carried her toward his room, realizing with growing wonder that it had been only a severe beating and that she would survive and be well, he found to his total amazement that tears were coursing down his cheeks.

  If Barent’s men had been here last night looking for him, he realized, then it left no doubt that it had been Willi who had kidnapped him.

  He wished that he could lift a phone and call Willi at that moment. He would like to tell him that there was no more reason for the elaborate game, the absurd precautions.

  What ever Willi wanted to do to Barent, Harod was more than ready to help.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Near San Juan Capistrano Saturday,

  April 25, 1981

  Saul and Natalie drove back to the safe house early on Saturday afternoon. Natalie’s relief was obvious, but Saul had ambiguous feelings. “The research potential was awesome,” he said. “If I had been able to study Harod for a week, there’s no end to the data I could have accumulated.”

  “Yes,” said Natalie, “and odds are that he would have found a way to get to us.”

  “I think not,” said Saul. “Just the use of the barbiturates appeared to have inhibited his ability to generate the rhythms necessary to contact and control other neural systems.”

  “But if we’d kept him a week, people would have been looking for him,” said Natalie. “No matter how much you learned, you wouldn’t have been able to go on to the next part of the plan.”

  “Yes, there’s that,” agreed Saul, but there was regret in his voice. “Do you really believe that Harod will live up to his part of the bargain about getting someone onto the island?” asked Natalie.

  “There’s a chance he will,” said Saul. “Right now Mr. Harod appears to be operating under a policy of damage limitation. There are certain incentives urging him to go along with the plan. If he does not cooperate, we are no worse off than we were.”

  “What if he cooperates to the point of taking one of us to the island and then handing us over to Barent and the others as a prize catch? That’s what I would do if I were him.”

  Saul shivered. “In that case, we would be worse off than we had been. But there are other things to take care of before we face that possibility.”

  The farm house was as they had left it. Natalie watched as Saul replayed segments of the videotapes. Even the sight of Tony Harod on tape made her a little sick. “What next?” she asked.

  Saul looked around. “Well, there are a few things to do. Transcribe and evaluate the interrogations. Go through and relabel the EEG and med-sensor tapes. Begin the computer analysis and integration of all that data. Then we can begin the biofeedback experiments using the information we’ve gained. You need to practice the hypnosis techniques we started and to study your files on the Vienna years and Nina Drayton. We both need to take a critical look at our plans now in light of the Dolmann Island data, possibly reassess the role Jack Cohen should play in them.”

  Natalie sighed, “Great. What do you want me to start on first?”

  “Nothing.” Saul grinned. “In case you didn’t notice during your stay in Israel, today is my people’s Sabbath. Today we rest. You go on upstairs while I get ready to prepare a real welcome-back-to-America meal: steak, baked potatoes, apple pie, and Budweiser beer.”

  “Saul, we don’t have any of that. Jack stocked up with canned goods and freeze-dried stuff.”

  “I know that. That is why, while you take a nap, I will be shopping in that little store down the canyon.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing, my dear.” Saul turned her around and gave her a pat on the small of the back. “I’ll call you when the steaks are cooking and we can have a celebration drink of that Jack Daniels you’ve been hoarding.”

  “I want to help make the pie.” Natalie said sleepily. “Deal,” said Saul. “We will drink Jack Daniels and bake an apple pie.”

  Saul took his time shopping, pushing the cart down brightly lighted aisles, listening to featureless music, and thinking about theta rhythms and aggression. He had long ago discovered that American supermarkets offered one of the easiest possible avenues to successful self-hypnosis. He also had long had the habit of shifting into a light hypnotic trance to deal with complex problems.

  Saul realized as he moved from aisle to aisle that he had spent the last twenty-five years following the wrong paths in trying to find the mechanism of dominance in humans. As with most researchers, Saul had postulated a complicated interaction of social cues, physiological subtleties, and higher-order behaviors. Even with his knowledge of the primitive nature of the Oberst’s possession of him, Saul had searched for the trigger in the unmapped convolutions of the ce re bral cortex, descending occasionally to the cerebellum. Now the EEG data suggested that the ability originated in the primitive brainstem and was somehow broadcast by the hippocampus in conjunction with the hypothalamus. Saul had long thought of the Oberst and his ilk as some form of mutation, an evolutionary experiment or statistical quirk illustrating normal human powers in diseased excess. The forty hours with Harod had changed that forever. If the source of this inexplicable ability was the brainstem and early mammalian limbic system, Saul realized, then the mind vampire’s ability must predate Homo sapiens. Harod and the others were sports, random throwbacks to an earlier evolutionary stage.

  Saul was still thinking about theta rhythms and REM status when he realized he had paid for the groceries and was being presented with two overflowing sacks. On a whim he asked for four dollars in quarters. Carrying the groceries to the van, Saul considered whether to call Jack Cohen or not.

  Logic argued against it. Saul was still resolved not to involve the Israeli more than was absolutely necessary, so he could share none of the details of the past few days. And he had no other requests of the agent. Not yet. Calling Jack would be sheer self-indulgence.

  Saul stowed the groceries in the van and trotted over to a stand of pay phones near the supermarket entrance. Perhaps it was time for a little self-indulgence. Saul was in a triumphant mood and wanted to share his good feelings with someone. He would be circumspect, but Jack would get the message that his time and effort had paid off for them.

  Saul dialed the number he had memorized for Jack’s home phone. No one was home. He retrieved his change and direct dialed the Israeli Embassy, asking the receptionist for Jack’s extension. When another secretary asked who was calling, Saul gave the name Sam Turner as Cohen had suggested. He was to have left word that Sam Turner had immediate priority.

  There was a delay of almost a minute. Saul fought the sick feeling of déjà vu rising in him. A man came on the line and said, “Hello, who is this please?”

  “Sam Turner,” said Saul, feeling the nausea grow. He knew he should hang up.

  “And who are you calling for, please?”

  “Jack Cohen.”

  “Could you please tell me the nature of your business with Mr. Cohen?”

  “Personal.”

  “Are you a relative or personal friend of
Mr. Cohen’s?”

  Saul hung up. He knew that it was more difficult to trace a telephone call than the movies and television suggested, but he had been on the line long enough. He called information, received the number of the Los Angeles Times, and used the last of his change to dial directly.

  “Los Angeles Times.”

  “Yes,” said Saul, “my name is Chaim Herzog and I am adjutant information officer for the Israeli consulate office here in town, and I am calling to check on an error in an article you carried this week.”

  “Yes, Mr. Herzog. You want Files and Records. Just a second and I’ll connect you.”

  Saul stared at the long shadows on the hillside across the highway and when the woman said “Morgue,” he jumped. He repeated his cover story to her.

  “Which day did this article run, sir?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Saul, “I do not have the clipping here and I forgot which day.”

  “And what was the name of the gentleman you mentioned?”

  “Cohen,” said Saul, “Jack Cohen.” He leaned against the telephone and watched large blackbirds work at something lying in the bushes just off the highway. Overhead, a helicopter roared west at five hundred feet. He imagined the woman in Files and Records tapping at her computer keys.

  “Here it is,” she said. “Wednesday’s paper, April twenty-second, fourth page. ‘Israeli Embassy Official Killed in Airport Mugging.’ Is that the article to which you are referring, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was an Associated Press story, Mr. Herzog. Any error would have originated with the wire ser vice office in Washington.”

  “Could you read it to me, please?” asked Saul. “Just so I can see if the mistake was actually there?”

  “Certainly.” The woman read the four-paragraph article, starting with—“The body of Jack Cohen, fifty-eight, se nior agriculture attaché at the Israeli Embassy, was discovered in the Dulles International Airport parking lot this afternoon, an apparent victim of robbery and assault” and ending with—“Although there are no leads at this time, police are continuing their investigation.”

  “Thank you,” said Saul and hung up. Across the road, the blackbirds abandoned their unseen meal and flapped skyward in a widening spiral.

  Saul drove up the canyon at 70 m.p.h., straining the van to its limit of power and maneuverability. He had spent at least a full minute standing by the phone, trying to construct a logical, reassuring argument that Jack Cohen’s death could, indeed, have been a mugging gone wrong. Such coincidences occurred all the time in real life. Even if not, part of his mind argued, it had been four days. If the murderers had been able to tie Cohen to the safe house, they would have arrived by now.

  Saul did not buy it. He turned onto the farm lane in a cloud of dust and accelerated past trees and fences. He had not brought the Colt automatic with him. It was in his bedroom, upstairs next to Natalie’s room.

  There were no cars in front of the house. The front door was locked. Saul opened it and stepped in. “Natalie!” There was no answer from upstairs.

  Saul looked around, saw nothing out of place, walked quickly through the dining room and kitchen to the observation room, and found the dart gun where he had left it. He checked to make sure there was a red dart in the chamber and took the box of darts with him as he ran back to the living room. “Natalie.”

  He had gone up three of the steps, dart gun half raised, when Natalie came to the head of the stairs. “What is it?” She rubbed sleep out of her eyes.

  “Get packed. Grab everything and just throw it in. We have to get out of here now.”

  She asked no questions as she turned and headed for her room. Saul went to his, lifted the pistol from where it lay atop his suitcase, checked the clip, and pulled back the action to put a round into the chamber. He made sure the selector was on safe and dropped the pistol in the pocket of his sports coat.

  Natalie had her suitcase in the back of the van by the time Saul brought his own backpack and bag out. “What shall I do?” she said. Her own Colt was visible as a lump in the large pocket of her peasant skirt.

  “Remember those two jerry cans of gasoline Jack and I found in the barn? Bring them to the porch and then stay out here and watch for a car turning into the lane. Or for a helicopter approaching. Wait, here’s the van key. Keep it in the ignition. Right?”

  “Right.”

  Saul trotted inside and began detaching wires from the electronic equipment, pulling adapters, and tossing equipment into boxes with no regard to what belonged where. He could leave the video recorder and camera, but he would need the EEG, telemetry packs, tapes, the computer, printer, paper, and radio transmitters. Saul carried boxes out to the van. It had taken Saul and Natalie two days to set up and calibrate the equipment, and prepare the interrogation room. It took him less than ten minutes to tear it down and get everything in the back of the van. “Anything?”

  “Nothing yet,” called Natalie.

  Saul debated only a second and then carried the cans of gasoline into the back of the house and began dousing the interrogation room, the observation room, kitchen, and living room. It struck him as a barbaric and ungrateful act somehow, but he had no idea what Haines’s or Barent’s people could surmise from what was left behind. He tossed the empty cans outside, checked to make sure the rooms on the second floor were empty, and loaded the last of the things from the kitchen. He took his lighter out and paused on the porch. “Am I forgetting anything, Natalie?”

  “The plastic explosive and detonators in the basement!”

  “Good God,” said Saul and ran to the stairway. Natalie had made a nest in the center of the boxes in the back of the van for the cushioned crate of detonators, and when Saul returned she set it in.

  He made a final tour of the house, pulled the bottle of Jack Daniels from a cupboard shelf, and ignited the gasoline trails. The effect was immediate and dramatic. Saul shielded his face from the heat and thought, I’m sorry, Jack.

  Natalie was behind the wheel when he came out and she did not wait for him to pull his door shut before the van was moving toward the lane, throwing gravel high into the weeds. “Which way?” she asked when they reached the road.

  “East.”

  Natalie turned east.

  FORTY-NINE

  Near San Juan Capistrano Saturday,

  April 25, 1981

  Richard Haines arrived in time to see smoke just beginning to rise from the Israeli safe house. He turned left onto the farm lane and led the caravan of three cars toward the house at high speed. Flames were visible in first-floor windows as Haines skidded the government Pontiac to a stop and ran to the front porch. He shielded his face with his forearm, peered into the living room, tried to go in, but was driven back by the heat. “Shit!” He directed three men around back and four others to search the barn and other outbuildings.

  The house was fully engaged as Haines stepped back off the porch and walked thirty paces to the car.

  “Shall I call it in?” asked the agent holding the radio. “Yes, you might as well,” said Haines. “But by the time anyone gets here, this place will be gone.” Haines walked to one side and watched the flames appear in the second-floor windows.

  An agent in a dark summer suit came running up, pistol in his hand. He was panting slightly. “Nothing in the barn or shed or chicken coop, sir. Just one pig wandering around in the backyard.”

  “In the backyard?” said Haines. “You mean in a pen?”

  “No, sir. He’s just sort of walking around free. The gate to the pen was wide open.”

  Haines nodded and watched as the fire began to work at the roof of the house. The three cars in front had backed up farther from the flames and men milled around with their hands on their hips. Haines went to the first car and spoke to the man sitting by the radio. “Peter, what’s the name of that county mountie who’s heading up the search for the gas station kid?”

  “Nesbitt, sir. Sheriff Nesbitt out of El Toro.”


  “They’re up east of here, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir. They think the kid and his friend went backpacking up Travuco Canyon. They’ve got the Forest Ser vice people out hunting and . . .”

  “Are they still using that he li cop ter?”

  “Yes, sir. I heard it check in awhile ago. It’s not just doing the search, though. There’s a fire up in the Cleveland National Forest and . . .”

  “Find the right frequency and get Nesbitt for me,” ordered Haines. “Then patch me into wherever the closest CHP headquarters is.”

  The first fire engine was arriving when the agent handed Haines the radio microphone. “Sheriff Nesbitt?” said Haines.

  “Affirmative. Who’s this?”

  “This is Special Agent Richard Haines, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m the one who authorized the search you’re conducting for the Gomez boy. Something more important has come up and we need your help. Over.”

  “Go ahead. I’m listening. Over.”

  “I’m putting an all points bulletin out on a dark, 1976 to ’78 Ford Econoline van,” said Haines. “Occupant or occupants are wanted for arson and murder. They may have just left this location at . . . ah . . . twelve point two miles up San Juan Canyon. We don’t know if they went east or west, but our guess is east. Can you set up roadblocks on Highway seventy-four east of our location? Over.”

  “Who’s picking up the tab on all of this? Over.”

  Haines gripped the microphone hard. Behind him, parts of the farmhouse roof fell in and flames licked at the sky. Another fire engine roared to a stop and men began uncoiling heavy hoses. “This is a matter of national security and great urgency,” he shouted. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation formally requests local assistance in this matter. Now can you set up roadblocks? Over.”

  There was a long pause as static rasped. Then Nesbitt’s voice came through. “Agent Haines? I’ve got two deputy cars east of you on seventy-four. We were checking out the Blue Jay Campground and some trailheads up there. I’ll have Deputy Byers establish a roadblock on the main road up there right at the county line west of Lake Elsinore. Over.”