The Hammer of Eden

by Ken Follett

  Priest was always upbeat. "Looking good," he said.

  "That sounds bad," she said skeptically. She knew better than to take what he said at face value.

  He told her the offer he had made to Mario. "The beauty of it is, Mario will be blamed," he added.

  "How so?"

  "Think about it. He gets to Lubbock, he looks for me, I ain't there, nor his truck, either. He figures he's been suckered. What does he do? Is he going to make his way to Clovis and tell the company he lost their truck? I don't think so. At best, he'd be fired. At worst, he could be accused of stealing the truck and thrown in jail. I'm betting he won't even go to Clovis. He'll get right back on the plane, fly to El Paso, put his wife and kids in the car, and disappear. Then the police will be sure he stole the truck. And Ricky Granger won't even be a suspect."

  She frowned. "It's a great plan, but will he take the bait?"

  "I think he will."

  Her anxiety deepened. She slapped the dirty roof of the car with the flat of her hand. "Shit, we have to have that goddamn truck!"

  He was as worried as she, but he covered it with a cocksure air. "We will," he said. "If not this way, another way."

  She put the straw hat on her head and leaned back against the car, closing her eyes. "I wish I felt sure."

  He stroked her cheek. "You need a ride, lady?"

  "Yes, please. Take me to my air-conditioned hotel room."

  "There'll be a price to pay."

  She opened her eyes wide in pretended innocence. "Will I have to do something nasty, mister?"

  He slid his hand into her cleavage. "Yeah."

  "Oh, darn," she said, and she lifted the skirt of her dress up around her waist.

  She had no underwear on.

  Priest grinned and unbuttoned his Levis.

  She said: "What will Mario think if he sees us?"

  "He'll be jealous," Priest said as he entered her. They were almost the same height, and they fit together with the ease of long practice.

  She kissed his mouth.

  A few moments later he heard a vehicle approaching on the road. They both looked up without stopping what they were doing. It was a pickup truck with three roustabouts in the front seat. The men could see what was going on, and they whooped and hollered through the open window as they went by.

  Star waved at them, calling: "Hi, guys!"

  Priest laughed so hard, he came.

  *

  The crisis had entered its final, decisive phase exactly three weeks earlier.

  They were sitting at the long table in the cookhouse, eating their midday meal, a spicy stew of lentils and vegetables with fresh bread warm from the oven, when Paul Beale walked in with an envelope in his hand.

  Paul bottled the wine that Priest's commune made--but he did more than that. He was their link with the outside, enabling them to deal with the world yet keep it at a distance. A bald, bearded man in a leather jacket, he had been Priest's friend since the two of them were fourteen-year-old hoodlums, rolling drunks in L.A.'s skid row in the early sixties.

  Priest guessed that Paul had received the letter that morning and had immediately got in his car and driven here from Napa. He also guessed what was in the letter, but he waited for Paul to explain.

  "It's from the Bureau of Land Management," Paul said. "Addressed to Stella Higgins." He handed it to Star, sitting at the foot of the table opposite Priest. Stella Higgins was her real name, the name under which she had first rented this piece of land from the Department of the Interior in the autumn of 1969.

  Around the table, everyone went quiet. Even the kids shut up, sensing the atmosphere of fear and dismay.

  Star ripped open the envelope and took out a single sheet. She read it with one glance. "June the seventh," she said.

  Priest said reflexively: "Five weeks and two days from now." That kind of calculation came automatically to him.

  Several people groaned in despair. A woman called Song began to cry quietly. One of Priest's children, ten-year-old Ringo, said: "Why, Star, why?"

  Priest caught the eye of Melanie, the newest arrival. She was a tall, thin woman, twenty-eight years old, with striking good looks: pale skin, long hair the color of paprika, and the body of a model. Her five-year-old son, Dusty, sat beside her. "What?" Melanie said in a shocked voice. "What is this?"

  Everyone else had known this was coming, but it was too depressing to talk about, and they had not told Melanie.

  Priest said: "We have to leave the valley. I'm sorry, Melanie."

  Star read from the letter. " 'The above-named parcel of land will become dangerous for human habitation after June seventh, therefore your tenancy is hereby terminated on that date in accordance with clause nine, part B, paragraph two, of your lease.' "

  Melanie stood up. Her white skin flushed red, and her pretty face twisted in sudden rage. "No!" she yelled. "No! They can't do this to me--I've only just found you! I don't believe it, it's a lie." She turned her fury on Paul. "Liar!" she screamed. "Motherfucking liar!"

  Her child began to cry.

  "Hey, knock it off!" Paul said indignantly. "I'm just the goddamn mailman here!"

  Everyone started shouting at the same time.

  Priest was beside Melanie in a couple of strides. He put his arm around her and spoke quietly into her ear. "You're frightening Dusty," he said. "Sit down, now. You're right to be mad, we're all mad as hell."

  "Tell me it isn't true," she said.

  Priest gently pushed her into her chair. "It's true, Melanie," he said. "It's true."

  When they had quieted down, Priest said: "Come on, everyone, let's wash the dishes and get back to work."

  "Why?" said Dale. He was the winemaker. Not one of the founders, he had come here in the eighties, disillusioned with the commercial world. After Priest and Star, he was the most important person in the group. "We won't be here for the harvest," he went on. "We have to leave in five weeks. Why work?"

  Priest fixed him with the Look, the hypnotic stare that intimidated all but the most strong-willed people. He let the room fall silent, so that they would all hear. At last he said: "Because miracles happen."

  *

  A local ordinance prohibited the sale of alcoholic beverages in the town of Shiloh, Texas, but just the other side of the town line there was a bar called the Doodlebug, with cheap draft beer and a country-western band and waitresses in tight blue jeans and cowboy boots.

  Priest went on his own. He did not want Star to show her face and risk being remembered later. He wished she had not had to come to Texas. But he needed someone to help him take the seismic vibrator home. They would drive day and night, taking turns at the wheel, using drugs to stay awake. They wanted to be home before the machine was missed.

  He was regretting that afternoon's indiscretion. Mario had seen Star from a full quarter of a mile away, and the three roustabouts in the pickup had glimpsed her only in passing, but she was distinctive looking, and they could probably give a rough description of her: a tall white woman, heavyset, with long dark hair....

  Priest had changed his appearance before arriving in Shiloh. He had grown a bushy beard and mustache and tied his long hair in a tight plait that he kept tucked up inside his hat.

  However, if everything went according to his plan, no one would be asking for descriptions of him or Star.

  When he arrived at the Doodlebug, Mario was already there, sitting at a table with five or six of the jug team and the party boss, Lenny Petersen, who controlled the entire seismic exploration crew.

  Not to seem too eager, Priest got a Lone Star longneck and stood at the bar for a while, sipping his beer from the bottle and talking to the barmaid, before joining Mario's table.

  Lenny was a balding man with a red nose. He had given Priest the job two weekends ago. Priest had spent an evening at the bar, drinking moderately, being friendly to the crew, picking up a smattering of seismic exploration slang, and laughing loudly at Lenny's jokes. Next morning he had found Lenny at the f
ield office and asked him for a job. "I'll take you on trial," Lenny had said.

  That was all Priest needed.

  He was hardworking, quick to catch on, and easy to get along with, and in a few days he was accepted as a regular member of the crew.

  Now, as he sat down, Lenny said in his slow Texas accent: "So, Ricky, you're not coming with us to Clovis."

  "That's right," Priest said. "I like the weather here too much to leave."

  "Well, I'd just like to say, very sincerely, that it's been a real privilege and pleasure knowing you, even for such a short time."

  The others grinned. This kind of joshing was commonplace. They looked to Priest for a riposte.

  He put on a solemn face and said: "Lenny, you're so sweet and kind to me that I'm going to ask you one more time. Will you marry me?"

  They all laughed. Mario clapped Priest on the back.

  Lenny looked troubled and said: "You know I can't marry you, Ricky. I already told you the reason why." He paused for dramatic effect, and they all leaned forward to catch the punch line. "I'm a lesbian."

  They roared with laughter. Priest gave a rueful smile, acknowledging defeat, and ordered a pitcher of beer for the table.

  The conversation turned to baseball. Most of them liked the Houston Astros, but Lenny was from Arlington and he followed the Texas Rangers. Priest had no interest in sports, so he waited impatiently, joining in now and again with a neutral comment. They were in an expansive mood. The job had been finished on time, they had all been well paid, and it was Friday night. Priest sipped his beer slowly. He never drank much: he hated to lose control. He watched Mario sinking the suds. When Tammy, their waitress, brought another pitcher, Mario stared longingly at her breasts beneath the checkered shirt. Keep wishing, Mario--you could be in bed with your wife tomorrow night.

  After an hour, Mario went to the men's room.

  Priest followed. The hell with this waiting, it's decision time.

  He stood beside Mario and said: "I believe Tammy's wearing black underwear tonight."

  "How do you know?"

  "I got a little peek when she leaned over the table. I love to see a lacy brassiere."

  Mario sighed.

  Priest went on: "You like a woman in black underwear?"

  "Red," said Mario decisively.

  "Yeah, red's beautiful, too. They say that's a sign a woman really wants you, when she puts on red underwear."

  "Is that a fact?" Mario's beery breath came a little faster.

  "Yeah, I heard it somewhere." Priest buttoned up. "Listen, I got to go. My woman's waiting back at the motel."

  Mario grinned and wiped sweat from his brow. "I saw you and her this afternoon, man."

  Priest shook his head in mock regret. "It's my weakness. I just can't say no to a pretty face."

  "You were doing it, right there in the goddamn road!"

  "Yeah. Well, when you haven't seen your woman for a while, she gets kind of frantic for it, know what I mean?" Come on, Mario, take the friggin' hint!

  "Yeah, I know. Listen, about tomorrow ..."

  Priest held his breath.

  "Uh, if you're still willing to do like you said ..."

  Yes! Yes!

  "Let's go for it."

  Priest resisted the temptation to hug him.

  Mario said anxiously: "You still want to, right?"

  "Sure I do." Priest put an arm around Mario's shoulders as they left the men's room. "Hey, what are buddies for, know what I mean?"

  "Thanks, man." There were tears in Mario's eyes. "You're some guy, Ricky."

  *

  They washed their pottery bowls and wooden spoons in a big tub of warm water and dried them on a towel made from an old workshirt. Melanie said to Priest: "Well, we'll just start again somewhere else! Get a piece of land, build wood cabins, plant vines, make wine. Why not? That's what you did all those years ago."

  "It is," Priest said. He put his bowl on a shelf and tossed his spoon into the box. For a moment he was young again, strong as a pony and boundlessly energetic, certain that he could solve whatever problem life threw up next. He remembered the unique smells of those days: newly sawn timber; Star's young body, perspiring as she dug the soil; the distinctive smoke of their own marijuana, grown in a clearing in the woods; the dizzy sweetness of grapes as they were crushed. Then he returned to the present, and he sat down at the table.

  "All those years ago," he repeated. "We rented this land from the government for next to nothing, then they forgot about us."

  Star put in: "Never a rent increase, in twenty-nine years."

  Priest went on: "We cleared the forest with the labor of thirty or forty young people who were willing to work for free, twelve and fourteen hours a day, for the sake of an ideal."

  Paul Beale grinned. "My back still hurts when I think of it."

  "We got our vines for nothing from a kindly Napa Valley grower who wanted to encourage young people to do something constructive instead of just sitting around taking drugs all day."

  "Old Raymond Dellavalle," Paul said. "He's dead now, God bless him."

  "And, most important, we were willing and able to live on the poverty line, half-starved, sleeping on the floor, holes in our shoes, for five long years until we got our first salable vintage."

  Star picked up a crawling baby from the floor, wiped its nose, and said: "And we didn't have any kids to worry about."

  "Right," Priest said. "If we could reproduce all those conditions, we could start again."

  Melanie was not satisfied. "There has to be a way!"

  "Well, there is," Priest said. "Paul figured it out."

  Paul nodded. "You could set up a corporation, borrow a quarter of a million dollars from a bank, hire a workforce, and become like any other bunch of greedy capitalists watching the profit margins."

  "And that," Priest said, "would be the same as giving in."

  *

  It was still dark when Priest and Star got up on Saturday morning in Shiloh. Priest got coffee from the diner next door to their motel. When he came back, Star was poring over a road atlas by the light of the reading lamp. "You should be dropping Mario off at San Antonio International Airport around nine-thirty, ten o'clock this morning," she said. "Then you'll want to leave town on Interstate 10."

  Priest did not look at the atlas. Maps baffled him. He could follow signs for I-10. "Where shall we meet?"

  Star calculated. "I should be about an hour ahead of you." She put her finger on a point on the page. "There's a place called Leon Springs on I-10 about fifteen miles from the airport. I'll park where you're sure to see the car."

  "Sounds good."

  They were tense and excited. Stealing Mario's truck was only the first step in the plan, but it was crucial: everything else depended on it.

  Star was worrying about practicalities. "What will we do with the Honda?"

  Priest had bought the car three weeks ago for a thousand dollars cash. "It's going to be hard to sell. If we see a used-car lot, we may get five hundred for it. Otherwise we'll find a wooded spot off the interstate and dump it."

  "Can we afford to?"

  "Money makes you poor." Priest was quoting one of the Five Paradoxes of Baghram, the guru they lived by.

  Priest knew how much money they had to the last cent, but he kept everyone else in ignorance. Most of the communards did not even know there was a bank account. And no one in the world knew about Priest's emergency cash, ten thousand dollars in twenties, taped to the inside of a battered old acoustic guitar that hung from a nail on the wall of his cabin.

  Star shrugged. "I haven't worried about it for twenty-five years, so I guess I won't start now." She took off her reading glasses.

  Priest smiled at her. "You're cute in your glasses."

  She gave him a sideways glance and asked a surprise question. "Are you looking forward to seeing Melanie?"

  Priest and Melanie were lovers.

  He took Star's hand. "Sure," he said.

  "I l
ike to see you with her. She makes you happy."

  A sudden memory of Melanie flashed into Priest's brain. She was lying facedown across his bed, asleep, with the morning sun slanting into the cabin. He sat sipping coffee, watching her, enjoying the texture of her white skin, the curve of her perfect rear end, the way her long red hair spread out in a tangled skein. In a moment she would smell the coffee, and roll over, and open her eyes, and then he would get back into bed and make love to her. But for now he was luxuriating in anticipation, planning how he would touch her and turn her on, savoring this delicious moment like a glass of fine wine.

  The vision faded and he saw Star's forty-nine-year-old face in a cheap Texas motel. "You're not unhappy about Melanie, are you?" he asked.

  "Marriage is the greatest infidelity," she said, quoting another of the Paradoxes.

  He nodded. They had never asked each other to be faithful. In the early days it had been Star who scorned the idea of committing herself to one lover. Then, after she hit thirty and started to calm down, Priest had tested her permissiveness by flaunting a string of girls in front of her. But for the last few years, though they still believed in the principle of free love, neither of them had actually taken advantage of it.

  So Melanie had come as kind of a shock to Star. But that was okay. Their relationship was too settled anyway. Priest did not like anyone to feel they could predict what he was going to do. He loved Star, but the ill-concealed anxiety in her eyes gave him a pleasant feeling of control.

  She toyed with her Styrofoam coffee container. "I just wonder how Flower feels about it all." Flower was their thirteen-year-old daughter, the oldest child in the commune.

  "She hasn't grown up in a nuclear family," he said. "We haven't made her a slave to bourgeois convention. That's the point of a commune."

  "Yeah," Star agreed, but it was not enough. "I just don't want her to lose you, that's all."

  He stroked her hand. "It won't happen."

  She squeezed his fingers. "Thanks."

  "We got to go," he said, standing up.

  Their few possessions were packed into three plastic grocery bags. Priest picked up the bags and took them outside to the Honda. Star followed.

  They had paid their bill the previous night. The office was closed, and no one watched as Star took the wheel and they drove away in the gray early light.

  Shiloh was a two-street town with one stoplight where the streets crossed. There were not many vehicles around at this hour on a Saturday morning. Star ran the stoplight and headed out of town. They reached the dump a few minutes before six o'clock.