The Traveler fr-1

by John Twelve Hawks

“A month ago, I started a surveillance program to watch these two men. Temporary staff was hired in Los Angeles and some employees were brought in from other cities. Our men were told to observe the brothers and obtain information about their personal characteristics. They were supposed to detain the Corrigans only if it became clear that they were going to flee the area.”

  The television screen showed an image of a run-down two-story building. “Several nights ago, the two brothers met at the hospice facility where their mother is staying. Our team did not have a thermal imaging device, but they did have an audio scanner. Rachel Corrigan said the following to her sons…”

  The faint voice of the dying woman came out of the television speakers. “Your father… was a Traveler… A Harlequin named Thorn found us… If you have the power, you must hide from the Tabula.”

  Boone’s face reappeared on the screen. “Rachel Corrigan died that night and the brothers left the facility. Mr. Prichett was in charge of the team. He made the decision to capture Michael Corrigan. Unfortunately, Gabriel followed his brother onto the freeway and attacked one of our vehicles. The Corrigans escaped.”

  “Where are they now?” Nash asked.

  Lawrence watched as a new image appeared on the screen. A large man who looked like he was from the South Sea Islands and a bald Latino man carrying a shotgun guarded the Corrigan brothers as they left a small house.

  “The next morning, one of our surveillance teams saw two bodyguards and Gabriel at his house. A half hour later, the same group dropped by Michael’s apartment and picked up articles of clothing.

  “The four men drove south of Los Angeles to a clothing factory in the City of Industry. The factory is owned by a man named Frank Salazar. He made money through illegal activities, but now owns several legitimate businesses. Salazar was an investor in one of Michael’s office buildings. His men are currently guarding both brothers.”

  “And they’re still in the factory?” Nash asked.

  “That’s correct. I request permission to attack the building tonight and take control of the brothers.”

  The men around the conference table were quiet for a few seconds, and then the bald representative in Moscow began speaking. “Is this factory in a public area?”

  “That’s correct,” Boone said. “Two apartment buildings are about five hundred yards away.”

  “The committee decided several years ago that we would avoid actions that might gain attention from the police.”

  General Nash leaned forward. “If this was a routine execution, I would ask Mr. Boone to pull back and wait for a better opportunity. But the situation has changed very quickly. Because of the quantum computer, we have been given the opportunity to acquire an ally of great power. If the Crossover Project is successful, then we will finally have the technology necessary to control the general population.”

  “But we need a Traveler,” said one of the men at the table.

  General Nash tapped his finger on the table. “Yes. And as far as we know the Travelers don’t exist anymore. These two young men are the sons of a known Traveler and that means they might have inherited his gift. We’ve got to take control of them. There’s no alternative.”

  18

  Maya sat quietly and watched the three men. It had taken her a while to recover from the electric shock, and she still had a burning sensation in her chest and left shoulder. While she was unconscious, the men had cut apart an old fan belt and used it to tie her legs together. Her wrists were chained with a pair of handcuffs passed beneath the chair. At that moment, she was trying to control her anger and find the calm place within her heart. Think of a stone, her father used to tell her. A smooth black stone. Pull it out of a cold mountain stream and hold it in your hand.

  “Why isn’t she talking?” Bobby Jay asked. “If I was her, I’d be calling you a bastard.”

  Shepherd glanced at Maya and laughed. “She’s trying to figure out a way to cut your throat. Her father taught her how to kill people when she was a little girl.”

  “Intense.”

  “No, it’s insane,” Shepherd said. “Another Harlequin, this Irishwoman named Mother Blessing, went to a town in Sicily and murdered thirteen people in ten minutes. She was trying to rescue a Catholic priest who was kidnapped by some local mafiosi working as mercenaries. The priest was shot and bled to death in a car, but Mother Blessing escaped. And now, swear to god, there’s an altar at a roadside chapel north of Palermo that includes a painting of Mother Blessing as the Angel of Death. To hell with that. She’s a goddamn psychopath, that’s what she is.”

  Chewing gum and scratching himself, Tate walked to the chair and leaned forward so that his mouth was a few inches away from her face. “Is that what you’re doing, sweet face? Thinking about killing us? Now that’s not nice.”

  “Keep away from her,” Shepherd said. “Just leave her on the chair. Don’t unlock the handcuffs. Don’t give her any food or water. I’ll be back as soon as I find Prichett.”

  “Traitor.” Maya should have stayed silent-there was no advantage in conversation-but the word seemed to come out of her mouth.

  “That word implies betrayal,” Shepherd said. “But you know what? I’ve got nothing to betray. The Harlequins don’t exist anymore.”

  “We can’t let the Tabula take control.”

  “I’ve got some news for you, Maya. The Harlequins are out of a job because the Brethren aren’t killing the Travelers anymore. They’re going to capture them and use their power. That’s what we should have done years ago.”

  “You don’t deserve your Harlequin name. You’ve betrayed the memory of your family.”

  “Both my grandfather and my father only cared about Travelers. Neither of them ever thought twice about me. We’re the same, Maya. We both grew up with people who worshipped a lost cause.”

  Shepherd turned to Bobby Jay and Tate. “Watch her at all times,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  Tate went over to the table and picked up Maya’s throwing knife. “Take a look at this,” he said to his brother. “It’s perfectly balanced.”

  “We’re going to get the knives, her Harlequin sword, and some bonus money when Shepherd comes back.”

  Maya flexed her arms and legs slightly, waiting for an opportunity. When she was much younger, her father took her to a club in Soho where they played three-cushion billiards. It taught her how to think ahead and organize a quick sequence of actions: the white ball would strike the red ball, and then bounce off the rubber cushions.

  “Shepherd is way too scared of her.” Holding the knife, Tate walked over to Maya. “The Harlequins have got this big reputation, but there’s nothing backing it up. Look at her. She’s got two arms and two legs just like anybody else.”

  Tate began to push the point of the knife against Maya’s cheek. The skin flexed and gave way. He pushed harder and a little dot of blood appeared. “Now look at that. They bleed, too.” Carefully, like an artist shaping wet clay, Tate made a shallow cut from the side of Maya’s neck to her collarbone. She felt blood oozing out of the wound and trickling across her skin.

  “See. Red blood. Just like you and me.”

  “Stop fooling around,” said Bobby Jay. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”

  Tate grinned and returned to the table. For a few seconds, his back was turned and he blocked his brother’s view. Maya fell forward, onto her knees, and pulled her arms as far back as possible. When she was free of the chair, she slipped her arms beneath her pelvis and legs. Now her hands were in front of her.

  Maya stood up-wrists, ankles still bound-and leaped past Tate. She somersaulted over the table, grabbed her sword, and landed in front of Bobby Jay. Startled, he fumbled inside his leather jacket for a gun. Maya swung the sword with two hands and slashed open his neck; blood sprayed out from the cut artery. Bobby Jay started to fall, but she had already forgotten about him. Sliding the sword down behind the black rubber fan belt, she cut her legs free.

  Move faster
. Now. She stepped around the table toward Tate while he reached beneath his oversized shirt and grabbed an automatic. As he raised the weapon, Maya moved to the left, swung down hard, and chopped off his forearm. Tate screamed and staggered backward, but she was on him immediately, slashing back and forth across his neck and chest.

  Tate dropped to the floor and Maya stood over his body, clutching her sword. The world became smaller at that moment, collapsing like a dark star into one small point of fear and rage and exultation.

  19

  The Corrigan brothers had been living upstairs at the clothing factory for four days. That afternoon Mr. Bubble called Michael and assured him that his negotiations with the Torrelli family in Philadelphia were proceeding smoothly. In a week or so Michael would have to sign some transfer-of-ownership documents and then they would be free.

  Deek showed up in the evening and ordered Chinese food. He sent Jesús downstairs to wait for the delivery van and started a chess game with Gabriel. “Lotta chess in prison,” Deek explained. “But the bruthas there play chess the same way. They attack and keep on attacking until somebody’s king goes down.”

  It was very quiet in the factory when the sewing machines were switched off and the workers went home to their families. Gabriel heard a car come down the street and stop in front of the building. He peered out the fourth-floor window and saw a Chinese driver get out of his car with two bags of food.

  Deek stared at the chessboard, considering his next move. “Somebody gonna get angry when Jesús pays them. That driver come a long way and cheap Jesús give him a one-dollah tip.”

  The driver got the money from Jesús and began to walk back to his car. Suddenly the driver reached beneath his warm-up jacket and pulled out a handgun. He caught up with Jesús, raised the weapon, and blew off the top of the bodyguard’s head. Deek heard the gunshot. He hurried over to the window as two cars roared up the street. A crowd of men jumped out and followed the Chinese man into the building.

  Deek punched a number on his cell phone and spoke quickly. “Get some bruthas over here, fast time. Six men, with guns, comin’ through the door.” He switched off the phone, picked up his M-16 rifle, and motioned to Gabriel. “You go find Michael. Stay with him ’til Mr. Bubble come and help us out.”

  The big man moved cautiously toward the staircase. Gabriel hurried down the hallway and found Michael standing beside the folding cots.

  “What’s going on?”

  “They’re attacking the building.”

  They heard a burst of gunfire, muffled by the walls. Deek was in the stairwell, firing down at the attackers. Michael seemed confused and frightened. Standing in the doorway, he watched Gabriel pick up the rusty shovel.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Gabriel cracked the shovel through the lower part of a window frame and pried the window open. Tossing the shovel away, he forced the window up with his hands and looked outside. A four-inch-wide concrete molding ran around the side of the factory. The roof of another building was six feet across the alleyway, one floor lower than where they were trapped.

  Something exploded inside the building and the power went off. Gabriel went over to the corner and grabbed his father’s Japanese sword. He thrust its hilt down into his backpack so that only the tip of the scabbard was sticking out. More gunshots. Then Deek screamed with pain.

  Gabriel put on the backpack and returned to the open window. “Let’s go. We can jump to the other building.”

  “I can’t do that,” Michael said. “I’ll screw up and miss.”

  “You have to try. If we stay here, we’ll get killed.”

  “I’ll talk to them, Gabe. I can talk to anybody.”

  “Forget it. They don’t want to make a deal.”

  Gabriel climbed out of the window and stood on the molding with his left hand holding on to the window frame. There was enough light from the street to see the roof, but the alleyway between the two buildings was a patch of darkness. He counted to three, then pushed off and fell through the air to the tar-paper surface of the roof. Scrambling to his feet, he looked up at the factory building.

  “Hurry up!”

  Michael hesitated, made a move like he was going to climb out the window, and then pulled away.

  “You can do it!” Gabriel realized that he should have stayed with his brother and helped him go first. “Remember what you’ve always said. We’ve got to stick together. It’s the only way.”

  A helicopter with a mounted spotlight roared across the sky. The beam cut through the darkness, briefly touched the open window, and continued across the top of the factory.

  “Come on, Michael!”

  “I can’t! I’m going to find someplace to hide.”

  Michael reached into his coat pocket, took something out, and threw it to his brother. When the object fell onto the roof Gabriel saw that it was a gold money clip holding a credit card and a wad of twenty-dollar bills.

  “I’ll meet you at Wilshire Boulevard and Bundy at noon,” Michael said. “If I’m not there, wait twenty-four hours and try again.”

  “They’re going to kill you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

  Michael disappeared into the darkness and Gabriel stood alone. The helicopter flew back over the building and hovered in the air, its engine roaring, the big propeller stirring up dust and bits of trash. A spotlight beam hit Gabriel’s eyes; it was like staring at the sun. Half blinded from the glare, he stumbled across the roof to a fire escape, grabbed a steel ladder, and let gravity pull him down.

  20

  Maya stripped off her blood-splattered clothes and stuffed them into a plastic garbage bag. The two dead bodies were only a few feet away and she tried not to think about what had happened. Stay in the present, she told herself. Concentrate on each action. Scholars and poets had written about the past-admired it, longed for it, regretted it-but Thorn had taught his daughter to avoid these distractions. The sword blade itself was the proper model as it flashed through the air.

  Shepherd had left to meet someone named Prichett, but he could return at any moment. Although Maya wanted to stay and kill the traitor, her first objective was to track down Gabriel and Michael Corrigan. Perhaps they’ve already been captured, she thought. Or maybe they didn’t have the power to become Travelers. There was only one way to answer those questions: she had to find the brothers as quickly as possible.

  Maya got some spare clothes out of her suitcase and pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and a blue cotton sweater. She wrapped her hands with strips of plastic bags, sorted through Bobby Jay’s handguns, and picked out a small German-made automatic with an ankle holster. A combat shotgun with a pistol grip and a folding stock was in the long metal suitcase and she decided to take it along with her. When she was ready to go she tossed an old newspaper on the bloody floor and stood on it while she searched the brothers’ pockets. Tate was carrying forty dollars and three plastic vials filled with rock cocaine. Bobby Jay had more than nine hundred dollars in cash rolled up with a rubber band. Maya took the money and left the drugs beside Tate’s body.

  Carrying the shotgun case and her other equipment, she left through the emergency door, walked a few blocks west, and tossed the bloody clothes into a dumpster. Now she was standing on Lincoln Boulevard, a four-lane street lined with furniture stores and fast-food restaurants. It was hot and she felt as if the splattered blood was still sticking to her skin.

  Maya had only one backup contact. Several years ago, Linden had visited America to obtain false passports and credit cards. He had set up a mail drop with a man named Thomas who lived in Hermosa Beach.

  She used a pay phone to call a taxi. The driver was an elderly Syrian man who barely spoke English. He opened a map book, examined it for a long time, and then said he could take her to the address.

  Hermosa Beach was a small town south of the Los Angeles airport. There was a central tourist area with restaurants and bars, bu
t most of the buildings were little one-story cottages a few blocks from the ocean. The taxi driver got lost twice. He stopped, flipped through his map book again, and finally managed to find the house on Sea Breeze Lane. Maya paid the driver and watched the cab disappear down the street. Perhaps the Tabula were already there, waiting inside the house.

  She climbed onto the front porch and knocked on the door. No one answered, but she could hear music coming from the backyard. Maya opened a side gate and found herself in a passageway between the house and a concrete wall. In order to free her hands, she left all her bags near the gate. Bobby Jay’s automatic was in a breakaway holster strapped to her left ankle. The sword case hung from her shoulder. She took a deep breath, prepared herself for combat, and went forward.

  A few pine trees grew near the wall, but the rest of the backyard was stripped of vegetation. Someone had dug a shallow pit in the sandy ground and covered it with a five-foot-high wicker dome of sticks lashed together with rope. While a portable radio played country and western music, a bare-chested man covered the dome with blackened squares of tanned cattle hide.

  The man saw Maya and stopped working. He was Native American, with long black hair and a flabby stomach. When he smiled, he showed a gap in his back teeth. “It’s tomorrow,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I changed the date for the sweat lodge ceremony. All the regulars got an e-mail, but I guess you’re one of Richard’s friends.”

  “I’m looking for someone named Thomas.”

  The man leaned down and turned off the radio. “That’s me. I’m Thomas Walks the Ground. And who am I talking to?”

  “Jane Stanley. I just flew in from England.”

  “I went to London once to give a talk. Several people asked me why I didn’t wear feathers in my hair.” Thomas sat down on a wooden bench and began to pull on a T-shirt. “I said I was one of the Absaroka, the bird people. You whites call us the Crow tribe. I don’t need to pluck an eagle to be an Indian.”