PSI/Net

by Rob MacGregor

  He moved from side to side. He winced as he felt tingling in his legs and feet. His lower back ached. "How long was I down?"

  "Two hours and forty-six minutes."

  "That long? It felt like minutes."

  "Yes, and you came up with a week's worth of material. I just don't know..."

  “... if it's true," he finished.

  "I didn't say that, Trent. I don't know what we should do about it. But we've got to do something. We can't sit back and wait four more days to see if it comes true. We may be the only outsiders who know what's going on. Or at least have an inkling about it."

  He closed his eyes. Everything would've been a lot simpler if he would've sent Doc on her way and gone to sleep. But he didn't and she was right.

  "Doc, let's go right to the top."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The president is speaking tomorrow night in Denver. Let's get some sleep and drive there tomorrow."

  Now Doc seemed uneasy. "The president? Maybe we could just call the Secret Service or the FBI."

  He shook his head. "We need to be there. We've got to do more sessions to pinpoint the location of the bomb and I want to do it right in front of them." He might be rusty, but he still trusted his abilities.

  Doc sat back, frowning. "Jeez, Trent, suddenly you're very gung ho on this thing. Does this have something to do with your ex, Camila?"

  "She can open doors." If she'll even talk to me, he thought.

  "But do you think she'll be there?"

  "She seems to go everywhere he goes." She'd been on David Dustin's staff since he was a senator.

  "When did you last see her?"

  "Six years ago," he said without hesitating.

  Doc nodded. But now her confidence seemed to waver. "It's a good idea, but maybe you should go by yourself."

  "Wait a minute. I need you to monitor me. I've never worked well by myself."

  She rubbed her arms, made a face. "There's going to be a lot of people there, Trent."

  "I need you there, Doc," he said, emphatically. "I'm not going to do it without you."

  She stood up. "I'm going out to my Explorer. I've got a sleeping bag and cushions."

  "I'll take that as a yes," he called after her.

  FRIDAY

  Chapter Five

  She wandered around the ballroom of the Brown Palace Hotel in downtown Denver, a glass of Perrier in hand, greeting old friends and casual acquaintances and moving on, searching for Harvey Howell. She needed to talk to Howell, the president's national security advisor, about a matter that had arisen during the afternoon.

  "Oh, you must be Camila Hidalgo. I've seen you lately on CNN." She turned and smiled at Barry Greer, a CNN reporter. "Hi, Barry. What's up?"

  He beamed back at her, showing perfect teeth. A handsome, square-jawed man with clear blue eyes, Greer combined aggressive reporting with a friendly, I'm-your-pal approach. "That's what I was going to ask you, Camila."

  Two weeks ago, she'd been appointed as acting spokesman for the president, an imposing position with endless responsibilities. She'd once yearned for the job, but when it had been offered to her, she'd reluctantly assumed it and only with the understanding that it would be temporary. She didn't feel comfortable standing in front of the cameras day after day and looked forward to returning to her behind-the-scenes work as a special assistant to the president.

  "The president is going to speak on the new outlook on the federal-state relations."

  "Oh, will he address Gordon Maxwell’s prediction? Did you attend his speech this afternoon?

  "I did hear his talk.”

  She'd gone to the luncheon not so much out of duty, but out of curiosity to see the man who had been her ex-husband's boss during most of Trent’s career in air force intelligence. He’d predicted that several western states would break from the union in the next five to ten years.

  “What did you think of it?”

  "That was a rather dramatic statement. I wish he had made it at a meeting of futurists rather than before the Western Governors Conference."

  "He'll get better coverage here."

  "If you're any indication, that's probably true. But don't count on the president to say anything about it tonight. And he won't take questions afterwards. He's leaving for his vacation immediately after the speech."

  Greer smiled. "Then again, David Dustin sometimes does the unexpected."

  "Don't count on that, either."

  "Well, I suppose we can always shout at him outside, if all else fails," Greer added after a moment in his usual breezy manner. "By the way, you got any plans tonight after the dinner?"

  "My plans, Barry, are to go to bed and get a good night's sleep." He took a step closer. "Did I hear you say something about going to bed?"

  "Yes, by myself."

  "Sorry to hear that part. You know I still wear my heart on my sleeve for you."

  You mean you've got something up your sleeve, she thought. She liked Greer and had gone out with him several times. But she'd cut off the relationship when she'd realized that Greer wanted to tangle himself in her life, something she didn't need or want. Not now at least, and not ever with him. Greer was just too good looking, too perfect. Mr. Everything. Everything but modest and subtle. His ego would probably swallow the relationship whole. She preferred men with some rough edges. At least, that was her history.

  She spotted Howell moving across the ballroom. "I gotta go." She touched his sleeve. "Put it back where it belongs, Barry."

  "Two hearts together are better than one," he called after her.

  She walked over to Howell, who held a half-empty glass of red wine in his hand. He looked distracted, as if he needed to be somewhere else. In his early fifties with short-cropped hair and round wire-framed glasses, Howell had climbed through the ranks of the National Security Administration, then spent four years as director of the intelligence agency before being picked to join Dustin's staff.

  "Harvey, we need to talk about this bombshell that the futurist dropped this afternoon. I'm sure I'll be asked about it at the briefing in the morning."

  He waved his limp hand and twitched one shoulder as if a fly had landed on it. "Oh, don't worry about him. What does he know? Maxwell can say anything he wants from his ivory tower. Who cares?"

  Even though Howell had been married for the better part of two decades, he occasionally displayed certain affectations that Camila associated with gay men. But if he were gay, he carefully hid that side of his life.

  "Is that what you want me to say tomorrow?" she persisted. "Should I say that's from you or the president?"

  Howell hesitated, reconsidering.

  Bluntness often worked well for her. She hadn't become the youngest member of the president's inner circle by being pushed around, or ignored. Whenever she doubted herself, Camila simply looked back on her past accomplishments for reassurance. She'd been the only girl among six children in a Mexican-American family and learned to assert herself to get enough to eat. During her first six years of education, she'd gone to five schools as the family worked its way from Texas to Colorado, and although she excelled, there was no money for college, especially for a girl. But that hadn't deterred her. By graduation, she had won academic awards and scholarships that had paid for most of her education. She had learned early to confront adversity head-on.

  She became a congressional page the summer of her junior year of college and returned after graduation to work as a press aide for then—Colorado senator David Dustin. She later served as a press liaison during his campaign for the presidency. After the election, she joined his staff as a speechwriter.

  She frowned as she realized that Howell seemed to be studying her outfit, a sleek, off-the-shoulder black cocktail dress that reached the middle of her calves. She glanced down to see what was so interesting.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  He shook his head, then raised his gaze. "No, nothing. You're on the fourth floor, right?"

  S
he nodded, wondering what that had to do with Maxwell's view of the future.

  "Good. I'm in 411. I need to go up to my room and change for dinner." His gaze fell to her body again.

  Maybe he wasn't gay. "Harvey, are you all right?"

  He blinked, and nodded. "Of course. I'll give David a ring and see how he wants to respond to Maxwell's comments. I'm going to suggest an attack on remote viewing. It'll be from me. I've had some experience with remote viewers and know how fallible they can be. Why don't you stop by in about twenty minutes. We'll go over my comments and go down to dinner."

  "Okay." She frowned. On one hand, he seemed to be acting normal, taking charge of the situation. On the other, he seemed troubled and acted oddly.

  She set her Perrier on a table and decided to head back to her own room to check her messages and make a couple of calls before meeting Howell. She walked down the hallway of the elegant nineteenth-century hotel with its gold onyx wall trim and marble floors, then crossed the lobby that featured stunning Italian Renaissance architecture. As she rode the elevator to her room, she wondered if she was overreacting to the Maxwell matter. Maybe the less attention paid to him, the better. Then again, she needed to be ready with a response if the issue started attracting attention.

  The phone was ringing as she entered her room. She decided to pick up, rather than take a message.

  "Hi, Camila. It's Gina Weston. Insider magazine."

  She wished she'd let Weston leave a message. "Hello, Gina. What can I do for you?"

  Weston was a rumormonger and often started her conversations with the phrase, "Is there any truth to the matter. . . ?" She liked short quips rather than lengthy, deep explanations. If she brought up Maxwell's comments, Camila knew how to respond. You don't plan for the future of the nation by calling a psychic hotline.

  "I'm glad I caught you in your room. I hear that Darcy Mitchell wants out."

  "Wants out of what?" Camila feigned ignorance.

  Weston paused as if reveling in her knowledge. "Her marriage. She's had it with Mitchell. Too much smoozing with a certain singer and up-and-coming actress."

  "Says who?"

  "It just came over the AP wire," Weston said, smugly.

  "Can you read it to me?"

  "Of course. Can you respond to it for me when I'm done?"

  "Read it and I'll tell you."

  "Okay. Here it is. It's not long." Papers rustled. " 'Could the vice president and his wife, Darcy, be heading to divorce court while he's still in office?

  'Darcy Mitchell, the wife of vice president Rollie Mitchell, said Friday morning that she is considering divorcing her husband unless he settles down. Mrs. Mitchell refused to expand on the comment, but said, "Rollie will know what I'm talking about."

  'Vice President Mitchell has been seen in the company of Grammy Award winning singer Sarati Finders on several occasions. When asked last week about their relationship, Finders said they were simply friends. Mitchell was unavailable for comment on his wife's remark.’”

  "That's it?" Camila asked.

  "Isn't that enough? No one ever gets divorced while in the White House." Weston sounded annoyed with Camila for not getting excited or astonished.

  "The vice president doesn't live in the White House," Camila replied, dryly.

  "You know what I mean, Camila."

  "All married couples have their spats, Gina," she replied evenly. "There's nothing unusual about that. Darcy often says exactly what's on her mind at the moment. Sometimes that's commendable. Other times it's regrettable. I suspect in this instance, it was the latter."

  "Off the record, Camila, don't you think he's got something going with Finders. I mean, why else would Darcy be making a big stink about it?"

  "I know very little about Rollie Mitchell's private life. I certainly wouldn't comment on it or speculate about it, Gina. As for Darcy, I'm not sure she's making a big stink about anything."

  "Well, I got the feeling this is going to be a juicy one. That we'll be hearing a lot more about it."

  "I hope not."

  After she hung up, Camila sat down on the bed. Mitchell had spoken to the governors yesterday on his approach to repairing urban decay. Then he'd promptly left. But where was he now? She picked up the phone, called the vice president's office, and asked to be put through to his chief of staff. She left a message and told him to call her right away.

  Camila regarded Mitchell as a better-than-average vice president who had come under more scrutiny than any other vice president in history. As the first Afro-American to attain the office, he was enormously popular among minorities. Yet he had successfully avoided being labeled the president of black America. Nor had he tried to upstage the president. He'd worked hard helping Dustin forge his positions on welfare, health care, race, and crime. He remained a strong advocate of the poor, yet he frequently compared long-term dependence on welfare to slavery.

  She glanced at her watch. Time to get Howell and go to dinner. She hoped he had talked with Dustin about Maxwell, as he'd promised. She knew she wasn't going to be able to speak to the president herself until tomorrow. She knocked on his door and wondered if Howell knew that her ex-husband had been a remote viewer. Maybe she should mention it to him.

  Answer the door, Harvey. She knocked again. Had Howell forgotten about her?

  The door opened. Camila stared, but didn't move, didn't say anything. What she saw left her speechless.

  "I'm almost ready, I think," Howell said in a soft voice.

  "Ready for what, Harvey?" He wore a pale green gown with falsies, a wig, and high heels. He just needed makeup.

  "Aren't we going to dinner?"

  "Is this a joke, Harvey? What's going on here?" She stepped into the room and quickly closed the door. She leaned against it, eyes wide, and took in a deep breath.

  He moved a couple of steps back, gave her a puzzled look. "I'm not sure."

  If he didn't know, then she certainly didn't either. She cautiously stepped closer to him as if he would collapse in a heap if she moved too abruptly. She took his arm and carefully guided him over to the mirror. "Is that how you really want to go to dinner?"

  He stared for several seconds. "Oh, my God. What am I doing?" Stay calm. Humor him. "You're wearing a dress, Harvey. It's a nice dress," she babbled. "But I don't think it's your style."

  "It's one of my wife's. She's a size fourteen."

  She folded her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking. "Not a bad fit, but wouldn't you rather wear your tux to dinner?"

  "I don't know how this happened, Camila. I came in here to change and…I don't know."

  "Why did you bring a dress to the convention?"

  "I don't know."

  "Have you worn it before?" she persisted.

  "That's none of your business," he blurted, straightening his back. "No, of course not. Now do you mind leaving the room so I can change?"

  She folded her arms. "Not yet. I want to know why you did this. Is it something I did, or said?"

  "It's got nothing to do with you. Okay, I do cross-dress sometimes, but it's a personal thing. I don't do it publicly. I don't know what possessed me. I simply forgot myself. I'm sorry. Now are you satisfied? Have I sufficiently groveled in front of you?"

  "You don't have to apologize, Harvey. I'm worried about you. Do you realize what would've happened it you'd gone down to dinner in a dress?"

  "I wasn't about to do that."

  She wasn't so sure that was the case. Even if they'd said it was a joke, it would've been a tasteless one that would damage Howell's credibility and raise new questions about David Dustin's administration.

  Howell sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm not feeling well. I think I'm going to get room service tonight."

  "Room service is a good idea, but. . ." She frowned at the dress. "Yes, don't worry. I'll change as soon as you leave. Like I said, I really don't know what got into me."

  "I better go." She stopped at the door.

  "Camila," he called
after her. "You won't tell anyone?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Promise?"

  "Yeah, promise."

  She headed along the corridor toward the elevator, her head throbbing. That was one promise, for the good of the nation, that she might have to break.

  Chapter Six

  Matt Hennig stood motionless in the dark, cold tunnel guarding the entrance to the ice cavern. A few feet away, Gary Burke, the other sentinel, leaned against the wall, sullen and angry that he'd been assigned guard duty. Hennig didn't like it much either, but he didn't gripe like Burke.

  Instead, he occupied himself by thinking about how warm and soft Jill felt when he held her close as they lay naked under the quilt in the back of his camper. They'd done it nine times in two months. He kept count in a journal where he described his encounters with Jill along with his thoughts about the militia and Freedom Nation. Love and duty. Sex and pride. Fun and more fun.

  Suddenly, he snapped alert and tightened his grip on his Swiss-made SIG automatic rifle. He stared intently into the dark tunnel that curved away in front of him.

  Burke pushed away from the wall. "What's wrong now, Hennig?" "I thought I heard something," he whispered.

  Laughter echoed from the cavern behind him where the men were gathered.

  "I hear guys having fun. This is rinky-dink guard duty. No one's going to bother us down here in this goddamn icebox."

  "We've got to be prepared for anything," he said, earnestly. "This is the militia, not the Boy Scouts, Hennig."

  Burke, a beefy guy with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his shoulder, had recently become a sheriff's deputy. So now he thought he could boss him around. When he'd asked Burke about the tattoo, he'd said the swastika stood for discipline and racial purity and those weren't bad ideals to live by.

  Matt thought he understood the need for Idaho to become independent and a part of Freedom Nation so that the feds wouldn't invade their privacy, take away their weapons, and rob more and more of their earnings through taxes, but he was confused by the racial issue. Some people, like Commander Sudner, said the new state would be all white. Separate and white. But others, like Commander Boswell of the North Division, said it would be easier to make a separate nation if they didn't call it a white nation and avoided the race question altogether.