"Where'd you get all these?"
"I got a few at police auctions, but most of them I just found abandoned, in perfect working order, out in the middle of the desert. Some get killed by drifters, and I take those, but they're nothing special. But alot of other times, people leave them there with a suicide note, claiming they're going out to shoot themselves where nobody'll ever find them, or throw themselves into a mine shaft. More than half of them, they slip onto a Greyhound at a rest stop or hitch a ride on a semi, and start over again. The Golden Gate Bridge is the most popular spot, but Death Valley would run a close second if not for people like me. Collectors. People say the American dream is to own a house or a business, or whatever, they're wrong, or they're deluding themselves. The American dream is and always has been to shed your old life and start a new one somewhere else. Go to sleep, Zane."
10
As a child, Martin Cundieffe's secret vices were two and he spoke of them only in prayers. The first was people watching, which wasn't a vice in any sense except for its intensity. He was a snoop, nosy, a buttinski; but where other children earned reproofs for asking too many questions, Cundieffe merely stared, making mental notes in his earnest, childish fashion, on every observable aspect of human behavior. He might've picked up this habit in imitation of his father—who'd served under Hoover as SAC of the Washington, D.C. listening post in the Old Post Office Building, in the days when every kid wanted to grow up to be Ephraim Zimbalist, Jr.—if his father had spent any time with his boy. Cundieffe was a firm believer in nature over nurture, and apologized to God every night with the caveat that snooping and secret-lust ran in his blood, and he hoped it was okay, if it made him a better agent.
His second vice was that he liked to stir up anthills. He never intentionally killed a single ant, goodness no, he meant them no harm. But he would lose himself for hours in the backyard, watching them tirelessly repair the methodical damage he wreaked upon them with a tiny twig or a little water. The way the nest came to life to undo chaos filled him with a sublime sense of nature's master plan, of individuals and societies as machines for preserving order, that saw him through his difficult and lonely childhood, and made him the agent he was today. It'd been widely acknowledged throughout the Bureau that he was a very good agent indeed—better than his father, in fact. When Mother passed on and no longer needed him, he'd been told, he'd be welcome at Headquarters or at the Academy in Quantico.
Thus it was that Cundieffe hadn't been able to go home after the briefing, indeed hadn't been able to so much as sit still since he'd left Assistant Director Wyler. He did his work at an optimum efficiency even as the rest of the field office churned and buzzed like a breached ant nest, wrangling with the rapidly snowballing crisis in the desert.
Lane Hunt had come back from Riverside as soon as he completed his stakeout and jumped on the case with both feet, but his attitude, Cundieffe had to conclude, wasn't nearly as sunny or can-do as his own. As he'd gone over the summary Wyler'd left for him before jetting back to Washington, he'd chugged piping hot coffee and chanted "Fuck" over and over again, as if he were venting off the steam building up between his ears. Cundieffe tried to keep his poise; even with his rather limited experience in the field, he'd heard foul language often enough, but it rankled him to hear such a word out of the mouth of another FBI man. His father, who never drank coffee even at home because Hoover thought it bad form for his men to ingest any sort of drug, never once used that word, Cundieffe knew.
When he was done reading and blaspheming, SA Hunt had looked at Cundieffe with that patronizing expression he knew of old, from school days. The strong, not-too-bright boy looks that way at the class bookworm who's going to do his homework for him if he doesn't want to get stuffed into a locker. Cundieffe knew Hunt was a good agent who carried his weight, but he also knew his own use to the Domestic Counterterrorism Section began and ended with research and more research, and that was what he was going to do.
He'd reviewed and collated his files all day long, while the rest of the office milled around, spreading rumors, waiting like fans of a secret sports team, awaiting the outcome of a championship match that would never be televised: The FBI vs. the Navy in the White House.
More than a few times, Cundieffe had solved a case from his desk, telephoning Hunt and the others with the answer like a bright child with a Junior Jumble solution, while they were still out chasing themselves in the field. He simply dumped out all the data he could lay hands on from the region in question: dossiers on the relevant parties, police and news reports, applications for firearms and explosives, local newspapers. Taken as a whole, they were a junkpile of tangents and random trivia, but each piece, observed keenly and without prejudice, could point the way to the next and betray the hand of its author.
First, Cundieffe reviewed police reports and sundry other data from the Mojave area. Military materials would be a few hours coming, as clearances were obtained and turf wars waged. It had been a busy week, just counting the items forwarded to the resident agency office in Victorville. Four telephoned complaints were filed, all anonymously, about a raid by "agents of the New World Order" on the unincorporated town of Thermopylae, near Furnace Creek in Death Valley. All of the accounts varied in detail and would be consigned to the kook file, but Cundieffe smelled something significant in them that all the other hands the reports had passed through had not. The squatter community of Thermopylae had been referenced in Cundieffe's database time and again as a possible temporary haven for disgruntled anti-government misanthropes, and had been observed a few times as closely as the FBI dared in years past, but without conclusive results. In Cundieffe's estimation, the people of Thermopylae were fellow travelers and inveterate Internet ranters, but hardly a threat to anyone but themselves. The reports might be a prank or mass hysteria, and had been judged as such by the agent in Victorville who took the reports, because no such action had been undertaken by any government agency. But look again. They coincided in a few details: that one unidentified man was shot in the back while attempting to flee, and that a cache of weapons was seized, but no arrests made. Shortly thereafter, the embattled store burned to the ground, cause unknown. Beyond that, the stories all digressed into individual hysteria, and couldn't agree on which government agency had staged the alleged raid. A follow-up check by the Victorville agent with the Furnace Creek Sheriff's office had turned up nothing, because no one had answered the phone. Another report on Cundieffe's desk posited a logical reason for this: an earth tremor localized in the Inyokern area of the Owens Valley had caused some structural damage in Furnace Creek, and they were probably out putting things back together.
Cundieffe leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his heavy head. Lane was probably already at China Lake with a forensics team by now. The evidence turned over to them by the Navy wasn't terribly promising; the audio tape which contained the coded security transmissions that'd granted the thieves access to the base, and a tiny pool of chewing tobacco juice on the landing deck where the rogue helicopters had landed. Hunt had control issues, and was prone to fly off the handle when he felt he wasn't getting full cooperation, or when his investigations butted heads with other agencies. Even if AD Wyler toughed out the turf war with the Navy, Cundieffe thought, Hunt probably wouldn't be able to hold onto the case after today. He hoped he would be kept on himself, at least long enough for Wyler to give him that security clearance. New files to read, new mysteries to plumb.
His phone trilled, the blinking light above the section's intra-agency line. Cundieffe looked around the office, saw no one else reaching for it. He picked it up. "Counterterrorism, Special Agent Cundieffe here."
"Agent Munoz in Victorville, here. Lane Hunt around?"
"No, Special Agent Hunt is on assignment. Can I relay a message?"
"I'd like to talk to him myself, if you can locate him for me. We've got a situation in Furnace Creek, and I think his expertise may come in handy. Understand he's got a hell of a database o
n militia activities."
Furnace Creek? Hunt's database? Cundieffe felt two or three almost irresistible urges to use foul language hit him at once. "Actually, I'm the primary agent in charge of our background database. If there's some checking you require—"
"We've had a double homicide. Local named Zane Storch burned down his place of business and shot up the Sheriff and a deputy a few hours ago. He's a fugitive. Probably a solo nut, but after interviewing a few people in town, we decided to give you a call."
Cundieffe printed out the name Munoz'd given him at the top of his yellow legal pad in block capitals. "Any reason you think we could help?" he asked.
"Well, to hear them tell it, Storch is a paramilitary nut—ran a survivalist supply store in a squatter community called Thermopylae—"
Cundieffe sucked in air through his teeth, felt a mild cold sting in his left lower rear molar. A cavity, maybe. "I've heard of it."
"And he was a Green Beret some years back, got sick in Desert Storm. Not all there, people said. Anyway, Storch pulled up in his truck, went in and shot the two of them cold. The other deputy was on his way out, but saw Storch leaving the office and came in after him. He notified the Highway Patrol and the Sheriff's in Darwin, and pursued him. They lost him on dirt roads just short of the Nevada line, and have asked us to cooperate in his capture. Just thought you could tell us if the guy had any past associations with militia groups in the area, you know, people who might be hiding him."
Cundieffe tapped his pen on the paper, making circles within circles around Storch's name. "Tell you what, Agent Munoz," he said, "I'll do a search in just a few minutes, and we'll get something faxed over to you in about a quarter hour. Sound good?"
"Sure. Probably nothing, but you have to cover all the bases."
"Right, right. I'll give you a call just before I send anything I have over to you."
Cundieffe hung up with one hand and riffled through his Rol-A-Dex with the other. Suddenly, he felt in his mind that he did have all the pieces he needed, now. In his gut, however, he began to wonder how many puzzles he was really trying to put together.
He pulled out the new card for the direct line to Wyler's office at headquarters. He didn't expect the Assistant Director to be in, and he wasn't disappointed. Wyler's machine was succinct, if a little unprofessional. "Gimme the bad news," it said, and beeped.
"Chief, this is Special Agent Martin Cundieffe, from Los Angeles? You'll recall we spoke this morning about—" Bring it home, Marty. "Well, I think I have a related case that could provide us with a break in the China Lake affair."
A plastic clatter and a hoot of feedback, then a voice said, "Agent Cundieffe? Don't hang up."
"Yes, sir, I'm still here. I've got—"
"This is Deputy Assistant Director Warden. Agent Cundieffe, Assistant Director Wyler's still in conference, but he left me a message to forward to you."
"I'm listening, sir."
"The LA field office is off the investigation. Your people are about to get the call in fifteen minutes. Lane Hunt's team is already packing up."
His chest tightened and he forgot to breathe. His assignment. His clearance. His rapport with Assistant Director Wyler. Gone. "I don't understand, sir. Why are they taking this away from us?"
"The Navy pushed its suit with the President, and he's listening to them. This is to be treated as a military affair, at least until the contraband is located. The FBI has been explicitly tasked to offer support and intelligence only, to issue from headquarters. Is that clear?"
The chill in Cundieffe's molar seemed to eat its way out of his mouth and engulf his whole head. As a Special Agent of the FBI, Martin Cundieffe thrived on the warm glow of unearthing truth, of unraveling conspiracies and flushing liars. Lies made him cringe. Lies hurt. He'd never thought he'd have to sit and listen while a fellow FBI agent, let alone a superior, lied to him. His jaw clenched, the cold sparking blue pain-telegrams down his spine. Through the pain and his cold, cold anger, he kept seeing Sibley the CIA man stuttering into his cell phone, and knew the case had ceased to be theirs, his, in any meaningful fashion then.
"Clear, sir."
"Assistant Director Wyler would like a detailed report of all your actions on the matter up until now forwarded to this office as soon as possible. And he said one more thing."
"What was that…sir?"
"'Keep doing your homework,' is what he said. That's all. Do you have more questions?" His voice strained, wrung-out, no more answers.
"No, sir. Thank you for telling me. I'll commence on that report immediately."
"Good." Warden rang off. Cundieffe set down the phone and scanned the office. Everyone still running around, dancing like headless chickens in the minutes before they realize they're dead. Strike that last, he thought. That's no way to think about your coworkers.
The Navy had come to them, spilled the bizarre details of their appalling failure on them, and now the Navy was taking it away to handle on its own. The clumsiness of it all made it seem almost too stupid to be entertained. Clearly, the Navy didn't want or even understand the case, if there was a case to begin with. Either Rear Admiral Meinsen misstepped when he brought us in, or they let us in only to get access to our database right away, and figured they could keep us quiet. Would Rear Admiral Meinsen get a paddling for his indiscretion? Would there be any visible outcome at all?
The possibility that it'd been a military exercise all along loomed large in Cundieffe's view. They didn't tell us because we were part of the test. They kept Rear Admiral Meinsen out of the loop to see how he'd dump it in our laps, and how we'd react. That was the most plausible explanation; that would be the official story if this ever got out.
And Martin Cundieffe, who'd never been able to walk away from an unfinished puzzle or an unrepaired anthill, placed a call to the Military Records division of the National Archives.
11
The message light on Stella Orozco's answering machine was blinking when she came in from work. A full shift riding along in the ambulance, covering for a paramedic who'd broken his ankle grass skiing; three calls and endless hours fending off the driver—but three hours passed before she took notice. After showering, fixing herself dinner—a tossed salad with fresh tomatoes from her pocket garden, salmon and steamed rice—she cleaned her apartment and read for an hour in the bath. So long as she was doing something, living in her hands and head and not her heart, she wouldn't cry. There would be time enough to cry when she could no longer work.
At ten o'clock she went round the apartment, switching off lights, prepping the coffee maker, and double-checking her alarm, when the blinking light registered. She realized then that she'd noticed it when she came in, and tuned it out. Often enough, it was an especially pushy automated telemarketer, or a too-distant relative from Mexico looking for a place to stay, or Thor the ambulance driver, who was only two years her junior, yet wore full dentures, because his motormouth had so annoyed someone once they'd kicked all the teeth out of it; Thor who supposed that if he got drunk, took his dentures out and whispered sweet lovetalk into her answering machine enough times, she'd make his Penthouse Forum fantasies come true. Work would've paged her. She listened to the first few seconds, then stopped it, her finger on the ERASE button, when the strange, stammering voice she heard sank in.
"—one that called in about that fella, you know, uh, the one from the accident. We talked about it some, you 'member, and you seemed real honest, like, and like maybe a fella could trust you. If'n that's true, well…I found somethin' the hospital's gonna want, but I ain't about to call 'em again, you understand. I, uh…found somethin' the fella lost. I got…somethin' what belonged on him. This is stupid, I gotta…My number's, um…just star-six-nine me, and…um…Call me, if'n I can still trust you, and if you can 'member my name. Thank you, ma'am, I hope I haven't been a bother." This last part sounded muffled, as if the man were slamming down the phone in mid-sentence. He was guilt-ridden and fearful, yet he'd called her. Because he'
d found something he couldn't throw away or turn in to the police.
Somethin' what belonged on him
But she'd seen him there, intact, whole—and possibly standing.
Seth Napier, the name came back.
She didn't call Napier. She called directory assistance and, using the ambulance creds, got his address. Then she called Wenda, the ambulance despatcher, and promised to cover a weekend shift if she'd look up the address of where Stephen was picked up. There was no proper address, just a rough description, but it was less than a quarter mile from Napier's house, or at least his postal box. Whatever he'd found, or thought he'd found, he'd sounded as if he'd changed his mind about telling her midway through his message. A nagging doubt about the hermit, and the whole improbability of it all, told her to bring her gun.
She was dressed and in her car in five minutes.
It took almost an hour to find the place. It was halfway to Big Pine, at an unmarked turnoff from the highway that simply wandered off into the woods behind a Bigg Piney gas station. Stella drove slowly for fear of missing it, homeward-bound tourists blasting past her, leaning on their horns. When she found it, she saw she needn't have bothered.
After the drive through the pre-moonrise blackness, under the naked starlight, radiant dust that illuminated only itself, the gas station was an alien eyesore. Steeped in a grotesque orange sodium glow that seemed to be some kind of nature repellent, a gigantic Winnebago and a Sentra full of sleeping college students draining its petroleum teats, the gas station made her wonder for perhaps the first time in her life how animals perceived human structures. The Winnebago lumbered away as she pulled into the lot.
Stella walked in to ask for directions, noticing on the way the pay phone and the row of battered mailboxes at the edge of the lot. The walls behind the counter were crowded from floor to ceiling with mounted deer heads, a forest of accusing antlers and incurious glass eyes. It took a moment to discern the cashier's mulish face peering over the counter. He knelt on the floor before the safe, which stood open. His hand went behind the cashbox and brought a revolver into view.
Radiant Dawn Page 11
