by John Saul
Judith glanced at the class, who, not being deaf, had managed to translate the principal’s words for themselves, then moved closer to Gina Alvarez. “You didn’t see Jed this morning, did you?” she asked, hoping her words sounded as casual as she intended them.
Gina shook her head. “Maybe he’s already got the flu,” she suggested.
Or maybe he’s upset about me sleeping with his father, Judith said to herself. And yet, when he’d left last night, he’d actually seemed pleased. In fact, she reflected, he’d seemed downright smug about it.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the last of the preceding class emerged from the nurse’s office. Beckwith, still posted against the far wall, nodded tersely at Judith. She stepped into the nurse’s office, and Laura Sanders smiled at her. “All set?” she asked.
“All lined up, just as Beckwith wanted,” Judith replied as she handed that morning’s attendance report—the space next to Jed’s name still blank—to Laura. Then her eyes fell on the boxes containing the disposable syringes, and she frowned as she recognized the bright red UniChem logo emblazoned on each of them.
“Okay,” Laura said. “Bring them in.”
Judith stepped out into the hall and waved the class inside. The first in line was Gina Alvarez.
Gina unpinned her permission slip, handed it to the nurse, then rolled up her sleeve. Then, as Laura Sanders slipped a needle beneath Gina’s skin, Jed Arnold appeared. He waved and started toward Judith, grinning broadly.
Judith glanced back into Laura’s office. The shot administered, the nurse pulled the needle out of Gina’s arm, but instead of throwing it away immediately, she carefully copied a number from the syringe onto the attendance sheet on the clipboard. Judith frowned. She’d seen inoculations before—dozens of them, in her years of teaching—but she’d never seen anything like this. Suddenly, as all the elements came together, a warning bell sounded in her head.
No epidemic, at least not around here.
No vaccination, even if there was an epidemic.
Needles, supplied by UniChem, on the day UniChem was taking over the town’s single major employer.
Judith glanced around. Beckwith was nowhere to be seen. Jed was next to her now, still smiling. “I know I’m late,” he began, “but I couldn’t help it. I—”
Judith didn’t let him finish. “Go back out,” she said, her voice an urgent whisper. “Go back outside, and don’t come in until the second period bell.”
Jed stared at her, mystified. “What?” he began. “What’s going on? I got here as—”
“Never mind!” Judith exclaimed. “Will you just do it? I’ll tell you later on, at lunchtime.”
Jed still hesitated. What was wrong? Was she mad at him or something? Then he saw the look in her eyes and realized that it wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
He backed away, then turned and disappeared down the hall.
Only when he was gone did Judith turn back to her class, watching in uneasy silence as the rest of her students received their shots.
She had no idea what the purpose of these inoculations was. But she was suddenly very certain they had nothing whatever to do with the flu.
Chapter 13
With tired eyes Paul Kendall surveyed the three people gathered in the darkly paneled room. He’d been up most of the night; he’d spent most of those long hours here in this very office, the office that only yesterday had been Max Moreland’s—and now was his. In a gesture that was not lost on the group gathered opposite him, he moved behind the immense desk and lowered himself into the large leather swivel chair.
Kendall’s eyes moved from one face to another as he tried to read the minds of these men to whom he had been a total stranger only yesterday, but for whom, just half an hour ago, he had become of paramount importance. Now that he had countersigned the papers Max had left in the top drawer of his desk, the deal was done. UniChem was in control of Borrego Oil.
The men in the room were gazing at him guardedly now, their expressions half expectant, half apprehensive. Except for Greg Moreland, of course, who had been for the sale right from the start. Indeed, had it not been for the rumors that had begun last night, and continued to fly around the town this morning—rumors that wouldn’t exist at all if Frank Arnold hadn’t lost control of himself—Kendall’s job right now would be much simpler.
He brushed the thought aside, concentrating not on what had already happened, but on what needed to happen now.
Otto Kruger, of course, he already knew. Kruger was mean, and essentially weak, but would do whatever was needed without wasting anyone’s time with unnecessary questions.
Ted Whittiker, though, was another story The mayor of Borrego was a politician, which meant that above and beyond anything else, in the end he would be worried only about his own skin. The impact of UniChem’s acquisition of Borrego Oil would matter to him only in terms of votes.
Finally there was Greg Moreland. Though Kendall knew he could deal with the change in management without Greg Moreland’s presence, he also knew the transition would be accepted in a far more positive way with Max’s sole male heir offering his full support. And that, at least, Kendall knew he could count on. Greg had assured him the papers would be signed today, and indeed they had been. Already, Greg’s cooperation had made the takeover much easier.
“Okay,” he said, passing each man a folder that contained both a copy of the executed agreement between Max and UniChem, and a copy of the hastily constructed outline of his proposed plan of action. “We all know what’s happened, and if the rest of you have heard the same rumors I’ve heard today, then you all know we’ve got a problem.”
“The only problem we have is Frank Arnold,” Otto Kruger interrupted. “It seems to me the first thing you ought to do is fire him.”
Kendall’s eyes fixed coolly on Kruger. “I’m not firing him or anybody else, Otto,” he said. “Frankly, though I wish it hadn’t happened, I can understand what must have been in Arnold’s mind last night.” He could almost hear Ted Whittiker’s silent sigh of relief. Nothing would lose a mayor votes faster than a mass firing, even if he couldn’t be held directly responsible. “The point of this meeting,” he went on, “is for me to find out if I have your support. I intend to put my cards on the table, and I’d appreciate it if you’d put yours the same place. I don’t know if there are rumors I haven’t heard, but if there are, this is the time and place for me to hear them. I want to answer every question you have, and then, if you’re satisfied with my answers”—he grinned encouragingly—“we can get down to the business of getting this company going again.” He sat back in the chair, predicting that it would be the mayor who spoke first. He wasn’t wrong.
Whittiker shifted in his chair and cleared his throat nervously. “I suppose what concerns us all most is the future of the refinery,” he said.
“We intend to keep it going,” Kendall promptly assured him. “As you know, it’s going to be shut down today, until the problem at the dam is fixed. But …”
His words died on his lips as the door to the office flew open and Frank Arnold stormed in. Otto Kruger rose to his feet immediately, but Kendall, sizing up the situation instantly, motioned him to sit down again.
“What the hell’s going on?” Frank demanded. His eyes, blazing with indignation, fixed on Kendall. “Judging by the fact that Whittiker’s here,” he growled, “I’m assuming this is something more than a management meeting. And if it is, it seems to me that I should have been invited, since I’m still president of the union local.”
Before he spoke, Kendall shot Kruger one more warning glance. “If you’d gone to the plant this morning,” he said, judging the redness in Arnold’s eyes and taking a gamble, “Otto here would have brought you along with him. Have a seat, Frank.”
Taken aback by Kendall’s unexpected welcome, Frank stared uncertainly at the other man, then sank into a chair. Kendall turned his attention back to the group, but as he went on he made certain t
o address himself directly to Frank Arnold as often as he did to any of the others.
He talked steadily for nearly thirty minutes, outlining UniChem’s plans to keep the refinery going and to expand it. There would be a huge investment of capital into Borrego Oil; within four years, employment would at least double.
“It all sounds good,” Frank Arnold said after Kendall had finished sketching UniChem’s plans. “But it seems to me there’s a catch. The hydroelectric plant at the dam is already working to capacity. When,” he added, “it’s working at all. How are you planning to power this new refinery?”
“Power is hardly a problem,” Kendall replied. He tossed a document to Frank. “That’s a commitment from the state to run a major line up here.”
Frank studied the paper for a moment, then eyed Kendall warily. “How’d you get this? Max Moreland tried for years, and couldn’t get to first base.”
Kendall smiled. “Shall we just say UniChem is a lot bigger than Borrego Oil?” he said. Not to his surprise, Ted Whittiker chuckled appreciatively. “I also want you all to know,” he went on, this time addressing himself almost exclusively to Frank Arnold, “that we intend to fulfill the union contract, and bring the pay in the refinery up to industry standards.”
Frank’s face turned ruddy. “Are you saying I haven’t been doing a good job for my men?”
Kendall held up his hands in a mollifying gesture. “All I’m saying is there’s now enough money to pay everyone what he’s worth,” he said. “Everyone in this room, including me, knows you did the best you could for the workers, given the situation. My company did a lot of research on this outfit before we made our offer. There isn’t much we don’t know about it, and we believe it’s worth every cent we spent, and every other cent we plan to invest.” He paused, then went on, choosing his words carefully. “Now, there’s one more thing I want to show you,” he said, passing each of the men another sheet of paper. “This is the autopsy report on Max Moreland. Greg, here, brought it along this morning.” His eyes came to rest on Frank. “I’ve already told everyone else in this room that I understand what happened last night, and I’m not holding it against you. But this town is going to be going through a lot of changes in a short time, and the fewer rumors we have flying around, the better. So I want all of you to know exactly what happened to Max Moreland. If nothing else, at least we can get that settled here and now.”
Frank Arnold took the sheet of paper Kendall offered him and studied it carefully. It had been prepared by the county coroner, a man Frank had known most of his life. And the words were clear. Cause of death: massive cerebral hemorrhage in the region of the hypothalamus.
He absorbed the words slowly, then handed the page back to Kendall as his gaze shifted to Greg Moreland. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice turning gruff. “I was drunk last night, and out of order. I’ll call Rita this afternoon and apologize to her too.”
Greg Moreland nodded once as an acceptance of the apology, but said nothing.
Paul Kendall stood up and came around the desk as the rest of the men in the room rose to their feet too. “Well, how about it?” he asked. “Do I have your support?”
One by one the men shook his hand and assured him they were behind him.
Finally he came to Frank Arnold. “How about it?” Kendall asked. “Truce?”
Frank hesitated, his lips curving into a thin smile. “We’ll see,” he said. Then he turned and walked out the door.
Jed stood in the hall outside Judith Sheffield’s room, waiting for the corridor to empty out before he went inside. He still wasn’t certain how much he was going to tell her of what had happened last night. All morning, since he’d come back down onto the desert floor and the reality of Borrego, he’d been wondering himself exactly what had happened to him in the kiva.
Vivid as they were, his memories were impossible. He couldn’t fly—no one could. And he had seen nothing on his journey with Rakantoh that he hadn’t seen before—the view from the top of the mesa, of the refinery and the town, was a panorama he had viewed many times. No, he’d simply let the fire hypnotize him, and let his mind drift. His own imagination had conjured up all the rest.
The corridors finally emptied as the students hurried toward the cafeteria, and Jed at last stepped into the room. But when he looked at Judith, he hesitated. Instead of the smile he’d been expecting, she looked angry.
“Where were you last night?” she demanded. “If you think you can just go out and vandalize houses all night, I think you’re going to find out you’re wrong. When I tell Frank—”
Jed gaped at her. “What are you talking about?” he broke in.
Judith’s eyes narrowed. “I talked to Rita Moreland during the morning break,” she said, her voice cold. “She told me about the rock.” When Jed didn’t flinch at the word, but only looked puzzled, she felt the first pang of uncertainty. She had assumed that when Jed had left the house last night, knowing she was about to sleep with his father, he’d felt jealous. And he’d vented that jealousy by throwing a rock through a window of the house where she lived. And yet now, as she faced him, she was suddenly not so sure her assumption was correct. Could he really mask his guilt this well? She chewed nervously at her lower lip, then started over again. “Someone threw a rock through the Morelands’ front door last night,” she said. “There was a word on it. ‘Bitch.’ ” She watched Jed carefully, but his expression still betrayed nothing more than bewilderment. “I—Well, I guess I simply assumed you did it,” she finished.
Jed shook his head slowly, a memory already stirring in his mind. Then it came back to him. It was fuzzy at first, but as he focused in on it, the scene etched itself sharply in his mind.
There had been lights on in the Morelands’ house, and he’d sailed closer.
A form, darting away from the house.
Dropping lower, following the running figure.
Suddenly, starkly, like a black-and-white landscape emerging in a photographer’s darkroom, the scene came clear in his mind. From the shadows, the face of the figure came into focus.
“Randy Sparks,” he said out loud.
Judith stared at him. “Randy Sparks?” she echoed.
Jed nodded. “I—I saw him,” he said Then, slowly, trying not to make the tale sound too unbelievable, he told her what had happened to him the previous night. When he was done, though, he could see that she didn’t believe him.
“I see.” Her voice was cold. “In that case, I think maybe both of us should go talk to Randy and see what he has to say.”
To her own surprise, Randy Sparks looked almost guilty when he saw her, and only reluctantly responded to Jed’s beckoning wave. They stood just outside the cafeteria, Randy slouching nonchalantly against the wall.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“What’s up is that you threw a rock through a window in the Morelands’ front door last night,” Jed said, fixing as closely on Randy’s face as Judith.
Randy shook his head, his eyes averted. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about—” he began, but Jed cut him off.
“I saw it, Randy,” he said. “I saw you running away from the house.”
“Bullshit!” Randy exploded. “There wasn’t anybody out there! I made sure—” Too late, he realized his mistake. He swallowed hard, then managed to glare truculently at Judith. “What the hell did you expect?” he muttered. “After what you did to me yesterday …”
But Judith wasn’t listening. Her mouth slightly agape, she was staring at Jed, her eyes searching his. Finally, impatiently, she turned back to Randy. “You’ll pay for the window,” she said, “and apologize to Mrs. Moreland. You scared her half to death.”
Randy stared at the floor, but nodded miserably. “And you might also be interested to know,” Judith added, “I wasn’t even there. I was out for the night. So the next time you have a problem with me, make sure you know where I am before you come to—” She hesitated, searching for the right word, then went on, he
r voice sarcastic: “Shall we say before you come to ‘talk’ to me about it?”
Randy’s head came up. “You mean you’re not going to tell Beckwith?” he asked, his voice trembling like a guilty eight-year-old’s. “Or the cops?”
Judith shook her head. “Let’s just call a truce, okay?”
Randy swallowed once more and nodded. Then his eyes shifted to Jed. “Where the hell were you?” he demanded. “If you were close enough to see me, how come I didn’t see you?”
Jed said nothing. A slow, sardonic grin spread over his face. “I’m a half-breed, remember?” he drawled. “Us Indians can sneak around where you guys can never spot us.” Leaving Randy staring at his back, he turned and followed Judith back to her classroom.
“So do you believe me now?” Jed asked when the door closed behind him.
Judith dropped into the chair behind her desk, regarding him thoughtfully. “You know,” she said, her voice vague, as if she were thinking out loud, “this kind of thing isn’t exactly unheard-of.” Jed frowned uncertainly. “There’s a phenomenon called an out-of-body experience. There are a lot of reports of them from people who have come close to dying. They say they actually leave their bodies and can watch what’s going on around them. There are reports of people who almost died in surgery—some of them did die, but were brought back to life—who can recount what happened when they died. What was done, what was said—everything. Yet they were completely unconscious at the time.”
Jed looked doubtful as Judith fell silent, lost in thought. Then, softly, he asked, “You believe me, don’t you?”
Judith sighed, nodding reluctantly. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Do you want to get some lunch? We still have twenty minutes.”
Jed was about to agree, then remembered the note his third-period teacher had handed him. “I can’t,” he said. “I have to go to the nurse’s office and get my shot.” His eyes narrowed quizzically. “What was going on this morning?” he asked. “Why did you shove me out of there?”
