perfect love.
The Bell JetRanger executive helicopter that conveyed Oslett and Clocker
to Mammoth Lakes belonged to a motion-picture studio that was a Network
affiliate. With black calfskin seats, brass fixtures, and cabin walls
plushly upholstered in emerald-green lizard skin, the ambiance was even
more luxurious than in the passenger compartment of the Lear. The
chopper also offered a more entertaining collection of reading matter
than had been available in the jet, including that day's editions of The
Hollywood Reporter and Daily Variety plus the most recent issues of
Premier, Rolling Stone, Mother Jones, Forbes, Fortune, GQ, Spy, The
Ecological Watch Society Journal, and Bon Appetit.
To occupy his time during the flight, Clocker produced another Star Trek
novel, which he had purchased in the gift shop at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel
before they checked out. Oslett was convinced that the spread of such
fantastical literature into the tastefully appointed and elegantly
managed shops of a five-star resort--formerly the kind of place that
catered to the cultured and powerful, not merely the rich--was as
alarming a sign of society's imminent collapse as could be found, on a
par with heavily armed crack-cocaine dealers selling their wares in
schoolyards.
As the JetRanger cruised north through Sequoia National Park, King's
Canyon National Park, along the western flank of the Sierra Nevadas, and
eventually directly into those magnificent mountains, Oslett kept moving
from one side of the helicopter to the other, determined not to miss any
of the stunning scenery. The vastnesses beneath him were so sparsely
populated, they might have been expected to trigger his nearly
agoraphobic aversion to open spaces and rural landscapes. But the
terrain changed by the minute, presenting new marvels and
ever-more-splendid vistas at a sufficiently swift pace to entertain him.
Furthermore, the JetRanger flew at a much lower altitude than the Lear,
giving Oslett a sense of headlong forward motion. The interior of the
helicopter was noisier and shaken by more vibrations than the passenger
compartment of the jet, which he also liked.
Twice he called Clocker's attention to the natural wonders just beyond
the windows. Both times the big man merely glanced at the scenery for a
second or two, and then without comment returned his attention to
Six-Breasted Amazon Women of the Slime Planet.
"What's so damned interesting in that book?" Oslett finally demanded,
dropping into the seat directly opposite Clocker.
Finishing the paragraph he was reading before looking up, Clocker said,
"I couldn't tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because even after I told you what I find interesting in this book, it
wouldn't be interesting to you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Clocker shrugged. "I don't think you'd like it."
"I hate novels, always have, especially science fiction and crap like
that."
"There you go."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that you've confirmed what I said--you don't like this sort of
thing.
"Of course I don't."
Clocker shrugged again. "There you go."
Oslett glared at him. Gesturing at the book, he said, "How can you like
that trash?"
"We exist in parallel universes," Clocker said.
"What?"
"In yours, Johannes Gutenberg invented the pinball machine."
"Who?"
"In yours, perhaps the most famous guy named Faulkner was a virtuoso on
the banjo."
Scowling, Oslett said, "None of this crap is making any sense to me."
"There you go," Clocker said, and returned his attention to Kirk and
Spock in Love, or whatever the epic was titled.
Oslett wanted to kill him. This time, in Karl Clocker's cryptic patter,
he detected a subtly expressed but deeply felt disrespect.
He wanted to snatch off the big man's stupid hat and set fire to it,
duck feather and all, grab the paperback out of his hands and tear it to
pieces, and pump maybe a thousand rounds of hollow-point 9mm ammo into
him at extreme close range.
Instead, he turned to the window to be soothed by the majesty of
mountain peaks and forests seen at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.
Above them, clouds were moving in from the northwest. Plump and gray,
they settled like fleets of dirigibles toward the mountain tops.
At 1:10 Tuesday afternoon, at an airfield outside of Mammoth Lakes, they
were met by a Network representative named Alec Spicer. He was waiting
on the blacktop near the concrete-block and corrugated steel hangar
where they set down.
Though he knew their real names and was, therefore, at least of a rank
equal to Peter Waxhill's, he was not as impeccably attired, suave, or
well-spoken as that gentleman who had briefed them over breakfast. And
unlike the muscular Jim Lomar at John Wayne Airport * in Orange
County last night, he let them carry their own luggage to the green Ford
Explorer that stood at their disposal in the parking area behind the
hangar.
Spicer was about fifty years old, five feet ten, a hundred and sixty
pounds, with brush-cut iron-gray hair. His face was all hard planes,
and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses even though the sky was
overcast. He wore combat boots, khaki slacks, khaki shirt, and a
battered leather flight jacket with numerous zippered pockets. His
erect posture, disciplined manner, and clipped speech pegged him for a
retired--perhaps cashiered--army officer who was unwilling to change the
attitudes, habits, or wardrobe of a military careerist.
"You're not dressed properly for Mammoth," Spicer said sharply as they
walked to the Explorer, his breath streaming from his mouth in white
plumes.
"I didn't realize it would be quite so cold here," Oslett said,
shuddering uncontrollably.
"Sierra Nevadas," Spicer said. "Almost eight thousand feet above sea
level where we stand. December. Can't expect palm trees, hula skirts,
and pin colds."
"I knew it would be cold, just not this cold."
"You'll freeze your ass off," Spicer said curtly.
"This jacket's warm," Oslett said defensively. "It's cashmere."
"Good for you," Spicer said.
He raised the hatch on the back of the Explorer and stood aside to let
them load their luggage into the cargo space.
Spicer got behind the wheel. Oslett sat up front. In the back seat,
Clocker resumed reading The Flatulent Ferocity from Ganymede.
Driving away from the airfield into town, Spicer was silent for a while.
Then, "Expecting our first snow of the season later today."
"Winter's my favorite time of the year," Oslett said.
"Might not like it so much with snow up to your ass and those nice
oxfords turning hard as a Dutchman's wooden shoes."
"Do you know who I am?" Oslett asked impatiently.
"Yes, sir," Spicer said, clipping his words even more than usual but
inclining his head slightly in a subtle acknowledgment of his inferior
position.
> "Good," Oslett said.
In places, tall evergreens crowded both sides of the roadway.
Many of the motels, restaurants, and roadside bars boasted ersatz alpine
architecture, and in some cases their names incorporated words that
called to mind images from movies as diverse as The Sound of Music and
Clint Eastwood vehicles, Bavarian this, Swiss that, Eiger, Matterhorn,
Geneva, Hofbrau.
Oslett said, "Where's the Stillwater house?"
"We're going to your motel."
"I understood there was a surveillance unit staking out the Still water
house," Oslett persisted.
"Yes, sir. Across the street in a van with tinted windows."
"I want to join them."
"Not a good idea. This is a small town. Not even five thousand people,
when you don't count tourists. Lot of people going in and out of a
parked van on a residential street--that's going to draw unwanted
attention."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Phone the surveillance team, let them know where to reach you. Then
wait at the motel. The minute Martin Stillwater calls his folks or
shows up at their door--you'll be notified."
"He hasn't called them yet?"
"Their phone's rung several times in the past few hours, but they aren't
home to answer it, so we don't know if it's their son or not."
Oslett was incredulous. "They don't have an answering machine?"
"Pace of life up here doesn't exactly require one."
"Amazing. Well, if they're not at home, where are they?"
"They went shopping this morning, and not long ago they stopped for a
late lunch at a restaurant out on Route 203. They should be home in
another hour or so."
"They're being followed?"
"Of course."
In anticipation of the predicted storm, skiers were already arriving in
town with loaded ski racks on their cars. Oslett saw a bumper sticker
that read MY LIFE IS ALL DOWNHILL--AND LOVE IT!
As they stopped at a red traffic light behind a station wagon that
seemed to be stuffed full of enough young blond women in ski sweaters to
populate half a dozen beer or lip-balm commercials, Spicer said, "Hear
about the hooker in Kansas City?"
"Strangled," Oslett said. "But there's no proof our boy did it, even if
someone resembling him did leave that lounge with her."
"Then you don't know the latest. Sperm sample arrived in New York.
Been studied. It's our boy."
"They're sure?"
"Positive."
The tops of the mountains were disappearing into the lowering sky. The
color of the clouds had deepened from the shade of abraded steel to a
mottled ash-gray and cinder-black.
Oslett's mood grew darker as well.
The traffic signal changed to green.
Following the car full of blondes through the intersection, Alec Spicer
said, "So he's fully capable of having sex."
"But he was engineered to be . .." Oslett couldn't even finish the
sentence. He no longer had any faith in the work of the genetic
engineers.
"So far," Spicer said, "through police contacts, the home office has
compiled a list of fifteen homicides involving sexual assault that might
be attributable to our boy. Unsolved cases. Young and attractive
women. In cities he visited, at the times he was there.
Similar M.O.
in every case, including extreme violence after the victim was knocked
unconscious, sometimes with a blow to the head but generally with a
punch in the face . . . evidently to ensure silence during the actual
killing."
"Fifteen," Oslett said numbly.
"Maybe more. Maybe a lot more." Spicer glanced away from the road and
looked at Oslett. His eyes were not only unreadable but entirely hidden
behind the heavily tinted sunglasses. "And we better hope to God he
killed every woman he screwed."
"What do you mean?"
Looking at the road again, Spicer said, "He's got a high sperm count.
And the sperm are active. He's fertile."
Though he couldn't have admitted it to himself until Spicer had said it
aloud, Oslett had been aware this bad news was coming.
"You know what this means?" Spicer asked.
From the back seat, Clocker said, "The first operative Alpha generation
human clone is a renegade, mutating in ways we might not understand, and
capable of infecting the human gene pool with genetic material that
could spawn a new and thoroughly hostile race of nearly invulnerable
super beings."
For a moment Oslett thought Clocker had read a line from his current
Star Trek novel, then realized that he had succinctly summed up the
nature of the crisis.
Spicer said, "If our boy didn't waste every bimbo he took a tumble with,
if he made a few babies and for some reason they weren't aborted--even
one baby--we're in deep shit. Not just the three of us, not just the
Network, but the entire human race."
Heading north through the Owens Valley, with the Inyo Mountains to the
east and the towering Sierra Nevadas to the west, Marty found that the
cellular phone would not always function as intended because the
dramatic topography interfered with microwave transmissions. And on
those occasions when he was able to place a call to his parents' house
in Mammoth, their phone rang and rang without being answered.
After sixteen rings, he pushed the END button, terminating the call, and
said, "Still not home."
His dad was sixty-six, his mom sixty-five. They had been school
teachers, and both had retired last year. They were still young by
modern standards, healthy and vigorous, in love with life, so it was no
surprise they were out and about rather than spending the day at home in
a couple of armchairs, watching television game shows and soap operas.
"How long are we staying with Grandma and Grandpa?" Charlotte asked
from the back seat. "Long enough for her to teach me to play the guitar
as good as she does? I'm getting pretty good on the piano, but I think
I'd like the guitar, too, and if I'm going to be a famous musician,
which I think I might be interested in being--I'm still keeping my
options open--then it would be a lot easier to take my music with me
everywhere, since you can't exactly carry a piano around on your back."
"We aren't staying with Grandma and Grandpa," Marty said. "In fact, we
aren't even stopping there."
Charlotte and Emily groaned with disappointment.
Paige said, "We might visit them later, in a few days. We'll see.
Right now we're going to the cabin."
"Yeah!" Emily said, and
"All right!" Charlotte said.
Marty heard them smack their hands together in a high-five.
The cabin, which his mom and dad had owned since Marty was a boy, was
nestled in the mountains a few miles outside of Mammoth Lakes, between
the town and the lakes themselves, not far from the even smaller
settlement of Lake Mary. It was a charming place, on which his father
had done extensive work over the years, sheltered by hundred-foot pines
and firs. To the girls, who had been raised in the suburban maze of
Orang
e County, the cabin was as special as any enchanted cottage in a
fairy tale.
Marty needed a few days to think before making any decisions about what
to do next. He wanted to study the news and see how the story about him
continued to be played, in the media's handling of it, he might be able
to assess the power if not the identity of his true enemies, who
certainly were not limited to the eerie and deranged look-alike who had
invaded their home.
They could not stay at his parents' house. It was too accessible to
reporters if the story continued to snowball. It was accessible, as
well, to the unknown conspirators behind the look-alike, who had seen to
it that a small news item about an assault had gotten major media
coverage, painting him as a man of doubtful stability.
Besides, he didn't want to put his mom and dad at risk by taking shelter
with them. In fact, when he managed to get a call through, he was going
to insist they immediately pack up their motorhome and get out of
Koontz, Dean R. - Mr. Murder Page 41
