When they finished eating, Tina spoke first. “You said we ought to come up with more evidence before we go to the newspapers.”
“We have to.”
“But how are we supposed to get it? From where? From whom?”
“I’ve been pondering that. The best thing we could do is get the grave reopened. If the body were exhumed and reexamined by a top-notch pathologist, we’d almost certainly find proof that the cause of death wasn’t what the authorities originally said it was.”
“But we can’t reopen the grave ourselves,” Tina said. “We can’t sneak into the graveyard in the middle of the night, move a ton of earth with shovels. Besides, it’s a private cemetery, surrounded by a high wall, so there must be a security system to deal with vandals.”
“And Kennebeck’s cronies have almost certainly put a watch on the place. So if we can’t examine the body, we’ll have to do the next best thing. We’ll have to talk to the man who saw it last.”
“Huh? Who?”
“Well, I guess… the coroner.”
“You mean the medical examiner in Reno?”
“Was that where the death certificate was issued?”
“Yes. The bodies were brought out of the mountains, down to Reno.”
“On second thought… maybe we’ll skip the coroner,” Elliot said. “He’s the one who had to designate it an accidental death. There’s a better than even chance he’s been co-opted by Kennebeck’s crowd. One thing for sure, he’s definitely not on our side. Approaching him would be dangerous. We might eventually have to talk to him, but first we should pay a visit to the mortician who handled the body. There might be a lot he can tell us. Is he here in Vegas?”
“No. An undertaker in Reno prepared the body and shipped it here for the funeral. The coffin was sealed when it arrived, and we didn’t open it.”
Elvira stopped by the table and asked if they wanted anything more. They didn’t. She left the check and took away some of the dirty dishes.
To Tina, Elliot said, “Do you remember the name of the mortician in Reno?”
“Yes. Bellicosti. Luciano Bellicosti.”
Elliot finished the last swallow of beer in his glass. “Then we’ll go to Reno.”
“Can’t we just call Bellicosti?”
“These days, everyone’s phone seems to be tapped. Besides, if we’re face-to-face with him, we’ll have a better idea of whether or not he’s telling the truth. No, it can’t be done long-distance. We have to go up there.”
Her hand shook when she raised her glass to drink the last of her own Coors.
Elliot said, “What’s wrong?”
She wasn’t exactly sure. She was filled with a new dread, a fear greater than the one that had burned within her during the past few hours. “I… I guess I’m just… afraid to go to Reno.”
He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “It’s okay. There’s less to be frightened of up there than here. It’s here we’ve got killers hunting us.”
“I know. Sure, I’m scared of those creeps. But more than that, what I’m afraid of… is finding out the truth about Danny’s death. And I have a strong feeling we’ll find it in Reno.”
“I thought that was exactly what you wanted to know.”
“Oh, I do. But at the same time, I’m afraid of knowing. Because it’s going to be bad. The truth is going to be something really terrible.”
“Maybe not.”
“Yes.”
“The only alternative is to give up, to back off and never know what really happened.”
“And that’s worse,” she admitted.
“Anyway, we have to learn what really happened in the Sierras. If we know the truth, we can use it to save ourselves. It’s our only hope of survival.”
“So when do we leave for Reno?” she asked.
“Tonight. Right now. We’ll take my Cessna Skylane. Nice little machine.”
“Won’t they know about it?”
“Probably not. I only hooked up with you today, so they haven’t had time to learn more than the essentials about me. Just the same, we’ll approach the airfield with caution.”
“If we can use the Cessna, how soon would we get to Reno?”
“A few hours. I think it would be wise for us to stay up there for a couple of days, even after we’ve talked to Bellicosti, until we can figure a way out of this mess. Everyone’ll still be looking for us in Vegas, and we’ll breathe a little easier if we aren’t here.”
“But I didn’t get a chance to pack that suitcase,” Tina said. “I need a change of clothes, at least a toothbrush and a few other things. Neither one of us has a coat, and it’s damn cold in Reno at this time of year.”
“We’ll buy whatever we need before we leave.”
“I don’t have any money with me. Not a penny.”
“I’ve got some,” Elliot said. “A couple hundred bucks. Plus a wallet filled with credit cards. We could go around the world on the cards alone. They might track us when we use the cards, but not for a couple of days.”
“But it’s a holiday and—”
“And this is Las Vegas,” Elliot said. “There’s always a store open somewhere. And the shops in the hotels won’t be closed. This is one of their busiest times of the year. We’ll be able to find coats and whatever else we need, and we’ll find it all in a hurry.” He left a generous tip for the waitress and got to his feet. “Come on. The sooner we’re out of this town, the safer I’ll feel.”
She went with him to the cash register, which was near the entrance.
The cashier was a white-haired man, owlish behind a pair of thick spectacles. He smiled and asked Elliot if their dinner had been satisfactory, and Elliot said it had been fine, and the old man began to make change with slow, arthritic fingers.
The rich odor of chili sauce drifted out of the kitchen. Green peppers. Onions. Jalapeños. The distinct aromas of melted cheddar and Monterey Jack.
The long wing of the diner was nearly full of customers now; about forty people were eating dinner or waiting to be served. Some were laughing. A young couple was plotting conspiratorially, leaning toward each other from opposite sides of a booth, their heads almost touching. Nearly everyone was engaged in animated conversations, couples and cozy groups of friends, enjoying themselves, looking forward to the remaining three days of the four-day holiday.
Suddenly Tina felt a pang of envy. She wanted to be one of these fortunate people. She wanted to be enjoying an ordinary meal, on an ordinary evening, in the middle of a blissfully ordinary life, with every reason to expect a long, comfortable, ordinary future. None of these people had to worry about professional killers, bizarre conspiracies, gas-company men who were not gas-company men, silencer-equipped pistols, exhumations. They didn’t realize how lucky they were. She felt as if a vast unbridgeable gap separated her from people like these, and she wondered if she ever again would be as relaxed and free from care as these diners were at this moment.
A sharp, cold draft prickled the back of her neck.
She turned to see who had entered the restaurant.
The door was closed. No one had entered.
Yet the air remained cool—changed.
On the jukebox, which stood to the left of the door, a currently popular country ballad was playing:
“Baby, baby, baby, I love you still.
Our love will live; I know it will
And one thing on which you can bet
Is that our love is not dead yet.
No, our love is not dead—
not dead—
not dead—
not dead—”
The record stuck.
Tina stared at the jukebox in disbelief.
“not dead—
not dead—
not dead—
not dead—”
Elliot turned away from the cashier and put a hand on Tina’s shoulder. “What the hell…?”
Tina couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move.
T
he air temperature was dropping precipitously.
She shuddered.
The other customers stopped talking and turned to stare at the stuttering machine.
“not dead—
not dead—
not dead—
not dead—”
The image of Death’s rotting face flashed into Tina’s mind.
“Stop it,” she pleaded.
Someone said, “Shoot the piano player.”
Someone else said, “Kick the damn thing.”
Elliot stepped to the jukebox and shook it gently. The two words stopped repeating. The song proceeded smoothly again — but only for one more line of verse. As Elliot turned away from the machine, the eerily meaningful repetition began again:
“not dead—
not dead—
not dead—”
Tina wanted to walk through the diner and grab each of the customers by the throat, shake and threaten each of them, until she discovered who had rigged the jukebox. At the same time, she knew this wasn’t a rational thought; the explanation, whatever it might be, was not that simple. No one here had rigged the machine. Only a moment ago, she had envied these people for the very ordinariness of their lives. It was ludicrous to suspect any of them of being employed by the secret organization that had blown up her house. Ludicrous. Paranoid. They were just ordinary people in a roadside restaurant, having dinner.
“not dead—
not dead—
not dead—”
Elliot shook the jukebox again, but this time to no avail.
The air grew colder still. Tina heard some of the customers commenting on it.
Elliot shook the machine harder than he had done the last time, then harder still, but it continued to repeat the two-word message in the voice of the country singer, as if an invisible hand were holding the pick-up stylus or laser-disc reader firmly in place.
The white-haired cashier came out from behind the counter. “I’ll take care of it, folks.” He called to one of the waitresses: “Jenny, check the thermostat. We’re supposed to have heat in here tonight, not air-conditioning.”
Elliot stepped out of the way as the old man approached.
Although no one was touching the jukebox, the volume increased, and the two words boomed through the diner, thundered, vibrated in the windows, and rattled silverware on the tables.
“NOT DEAD—
NOT DEAD—
NOT DEAD—”
Some people winced and put their hands over their ears.
The old man had to shout to be heard above the explosive voices on the jukebox. “There’s a button on the back to reject the record.”
Tina wasn’t able to cover her ears; her arms hung straight down at her sides, frozen, rigid, hands fisted, and she couldn’t find the will or the strength to lift them. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t make a sound.
Colder, colder.
She became aware of the familiar, spiritlike presence that had been in Angela’s office when the computer had begun to operate by itself. She had the same feeling of being watched that she’d had in the parking lot a short while ago.
The old man crouched beside the machine, reached behind it, found the button. He pushed it several times.
“NOT DEAD—
NOT DEAD—
NOT DEAD—”
“Have to unplug it!” the old man said.
The volume increased again. The two words blasted out of the speakers in all corners of the diner with such incredible, bone-jarring force that it was difficult to believe that the machine had been built with the capability of pouring out sound with this excessive, unnerving power.
Elliot pulled the jukebox from the wall so the old man could reach the cord.
In that instant Tina realized she had nothing to fear from the presence that lay behind this eerie manifestation. It meant her no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact. In a flash of understanding she saw through to the heart of the mystery. Her hands, which had been curled into tight fists, came open once more. The tension went out of her neck and shoulder muscles. Her heartbeat became less like the pounding of a jackhammer, but it still did not settle into a normal rhythm; now it was affected by excitement rather than terror. If she tried to scream now, she would be able to do so, but she no longer wanted to scream.
As the white-haired cashier grasped the plug in his arthritis-gnarled hands and wiggled it back and forth in the wall socket, trying to free it, Tina almost told him to stop. She wanted to see what would happen next if no one interfered with the presence that had taken control of the jukebox. But before she could think of a way to phrase her odd request, the old man succeeded in unplugging the machine.
Following the monotonous, earsplitting repetition of that two-word message, the silence was stunning.
After a second of surprised relief, everyone in the diner applauded the old fellow.
Jenny, the waitress, called to him from behind the counter. “Hey, Al, I didn’t touch the thermostat. It says the heat’s on and set at seventy. You better take a look at it.”
“You must have done something to it,” Al said. “It’s getting warm in here again.”
“I didn’t touch it,” Jenny insisted.
Al didn’t believe her, but Tina did.
Elliot turned away from the jukebox and looked at Tina with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. God, yes! Better than I’ve been in a long time.”
He frowned, baffled by her smile.
“I know what it is. Elliot, I know exactly what it is! Come on,” she said excitedly. “Let’s go.”
He was confused by the change in her demeanor, but she didn’t want to explain things to him here in the diner. She opened the door and went outside.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The windstorm was still in progress, but it was not raging as fiercely as it had been when Elliot and Tina had watched it through the restaurant window. A brisk wind pushed across the city from the east. Laden with dust and with the powdery white sand that had been swept in from the desert, the air abraded their faces and had an unpleasant taste.
They put their heads down and scurried past the front of the diner, around the side, through the purple light under the single mercury-vapor lamp, and into the deep shadows behind the building.
In the Mercedes, in the darkness, with the doors locked, she said, “No wonder we haven’t been able to figure it out!”
“Why on earth are you so—”
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong—”
“—so bubbly when—”
“—approaching it ass-backwards. No wonder we haven’t been able to find a solution.”
“What are you talking about? Did you see what I saw in there? Did you hear the jukebox? I don’t see how that could have cheered you up. It made my blood run cold. It was weird.”
“Listen,” she said excitedly, “we thought someone was sending me messages about Danny being alive just to rub my face in the fact that he was actually dead — or to let me know, in a roundabout fashion, that the way he died wasn’t anything like what I’d been told. But those messages haven’t been coming from a sadist. And they haven’t been coming from someone who wants to expose the true story of the Sierra accident. They aren’t being sent by a total stranger or by Michael. They are exactly what they appear to be!”
Confused, he said, “And to your way of thinking, what do they appear to be?”
“They’re cries for help.”
“What?”
“They’re coming from Danny!”
Elliot stared at her with consternation and with pity, his dark eyes reflecting a distant light. “What’re you saying — that Danny reached out to you from the grave to cause that excitement in the restaurant? Tina, you really don’t think his ghost was haunting a jukebox?”
“No, no, no. I’m saying Danny isn’t dead.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.”
“My Danny is alive! I’m sure of it.”
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“We’ve already been through this argument, and we rejected it,” he reminded her.
“We were wrong. Jaborski, Lincoln, and all the other boys might have died in the Sierras, but Danny didn’t. I know it. I sense it. It’s like… a revelation… almost like a vision. Maybe there was an accident, but it wasn’t like anything we were told. It was something very different, something exceedingly strange.”
“That’s already obvious. But—”
“The government had to hide it, and so this organization that Kennebeck works for was given responsibility for the cover-up.”
“I’m with you that far,” Elliot said. “That’s logical. But how do you figure Danny’s alive? That doesn’t necessarily follow.”
“I’m only telling you what I know, what I feel,” she said. “A tremendous sense of peace, of reassurance, came over me in the diner, just before you finally managed to shut off the jukebox. It wasn’t just an inner feeling of peace. It came from outside of me. Like a wave. Oh, hell, I can’t really explain it. I only know what I felt. Danny was trying to reassure me, trying to tell me that he was still alive. I know it. Danny survived the accident, but they couldn’t let him come home because he’d tell everyone the government was responsible for the deaths of the others, and that would blow their secret military installation wide open.”
“You’re reaching, grasping for straws.”
“I’m not, I’m not,” she insisted.
“So where is Danny?”
“They’re keeping him somewhere. I don’t know why they didn’t kill him. I don’t know how long they think they can keep him bottled up like this. But that’s what they’re doing. That’s what’s going on. Those might not be the precise circumstances, but they’re pretty damn close to the truth.”
“Tina—”
She wouldn’t let him interrupt. “This secret police force, these people behind Kennebeck… they think someone involved with Project Pandora has turned on them and told me what really happened to Danny. They’re wrong, of course. It wasn’t one of them. It’s Danny. Somehow… I don’t know how… but he’s reaching out to me.” She struggled to explain the understanding that had come to her in the diner. “Somehow… some way… he’s reaching out… with his mind, I guess. Danny was the one who wrote those words on the chalkboard. With his mind.”
The Eyes of Darkness Page 17
