"Take it easy, Sally. It was a metaphor. That's all. A botched metaphor."
"Goddamn, Camila. I hope so."
Chapter Eight
In the dream, Abraham Lincoln's decapitated head started to move. The features on the face shifted and suddenly Trent was staring at his old friend, Bobby Aimes. The mouth began to move. "Trent. . . Trent. . . Look what you did! You killed me! Now it's your turn. Die, Trent, die!"
The words struck him like a concussive blow. His body jerked back and forth in his sleep. The voice filled his head. The image zoomed closer and Aimes's features shifted into the face of a ticking clock.
"Trent, Trent, wake up! You've got to see this."
His eyes fluttered open, he looked around, startled, and realized that he was in a motel room in Denver, that he'd fallen asleep, that Doc had shaken him awake. She sat on the adjacent bed, and looked excited or nervous, or maybe both. She pointed at the television.
He rubbed his eyes with his palms, glanced at his watch, and realized he'd slept two hours. "What is it?"
He glimpsed a man with a long prominent jaw and graying hair and realized it was Gordon Maxwell. He stood at a podium, saying something about the future of the western states. The report ended and cut back to the newscaster. "This is just off the wire from that same conference. . . President Dustin in a speech this evening—"
Doc clicked off the television with a remote. "Can you believe it? He spoke at the governors conference this afternoon and made a prediction that the country was going to split apart in a few years."
"He's about the last person I care to see on television or in person. Did he say anything about Washington blowing up early next week?" Calloway hadn't meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out that way.
Doc shook her head. "Things are getting weird, Trent."
He recalled his dream of a broken Bobby Aimes looking up at him. Maxwell's fault, he told himself. "Let's get going. It's time."
They had driven all day and arrived on the outskirts of Denver, where they had gotten a room, at six. They'd realized that with the president speaking at the banquet, the hotel would be difficult to approach. So they'd decided to wait and try to contact Camila in the aftermath.
Doc frowned. "You still look tired. Maybe we should wait until morning."
He shook his head. "I want to find her tonight. She may be gone in the morning."
"All right," Doc responded. "But I'm going to stay here. I'm not going."
"Doc, cut the crap," Calloway snapped. "I need you to confirm my story."
Doc rubbed her arms as if she were cold. "You don't understand, Trent. There's going to be a lot of people in that hotel and I already feel a dull headache just from being on the outskirts of the city."
"Look, Doc, I'd rather be sitting in my camp and drinking beer. I've deprived myself all day. So, I think you can handle a few people, and we'll stay away from the crowds."
"Forget it, Calloway! You don't have a clue!"
Her eyes grew large and menacing, her fingers curled into fists. "It's like. . . it's like being crammed into a tiny room with the walls closing on you. Except the walls are transparent and a thousand pairs of eyes are staring at you, watching you slowly being crushed to death."
"I get the picture. But I still want you to come with me. They might want me to work tonight and I need you as a monitor."
She stood up. "I'm going home."
He bolted off the bed, stood in front of her. "No, you're not. You are going with me."
"Fuck you!" She kicked him in the shin, hurried to the bathroom, and slammed the door shut.
"Shit! Damn it, Doc." Calloway rubbed his shin and hopped on one foot. "Come out of there right now. You got me involved in this, now you follow through. Don't let me down."
Silence.
He leaned against the wall next to the bathroom, crossed his arms, and waited. After a minute, the door opened slowly. Doc stepped out, looked meekly at him. "I'm sorry for kicking you. But I can't do this. I told you that before we left. I just wanted to make sure that you got here. I'll drop you off downtown outside the hotel."
"Well guess what, Doc? I can't do this, either. Camila's not going to take my word. She's going to want proof and I'm not going to be able to give it to her or the Secret Service without you. Hell, she'll probably have me arrested for harassing her. I've never been any good without you monitoring me. I know that probably makes me sound like some kind of psychic wimp, but I don't care. That's the way it is."
"Damn you, Calloway." She gazed off as if distracted by an inner voice. "I've got one idea that might work, but don't count on it."
"What?"
"Your voice has a certain resonance that has always made me feel relaxed," Doc began. "I want you to take me slowly down an elevator and out into a tranquil setting by a pond. Then give me a suggestion that crowds won't affect me."
"That'll really work?"
"I worked with a hypnotist in Ouray for a while and it seemed to help, at least for a couple hours. But he left town a few weeks ago and I haven't done it since."
He nodded, glanced at his watch. "How about if we do it on the way. It's getting late. I'll drive and talk you down at the same time." She frowned and he figured she would refuse. But she surprised him. "Okay, that'll work. I can lay the seat down and put Carlos Nakai on the CD player. That flute music helps me relax and so will the feel of the road."
Amazing, they'd agreed on something without coming to blows.
"Nice place," Calloway said as they walked into the lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel twenty-five minutes later. Even though it was ten-thirty, people crisscrossed the lobby and Calloway felt a buzz of energy that no doubt was linked with the row of media trucks parked outside.
"It's extraordinary." Doc gazed up to the eight-story atrium. Cast-iron balconies encircled each floor.
"How're you feeling?"
"Fine, so far. I think it worked. I went way down." She looked around, but he noticed she kept her gaze above the crowd. She wouldn't be much help finding Camila.
"Have you ever been here, Trent?"
"I think so, but not in person."
"What do you mean?"
He explained that one day Maxwell gave him a target that he described as a place in the future where they would meet. "I drew a triangular-shaped building with a huge atrium with iron balconies, just like this place. Except I didn't know it was an atrium or even a hotel, because I saw a bunch of cattle wandering around in it. I thought it was a barn of some sort, or a grain silo."
Doc peered up into the atrium again as several people moved past. "It's a very glamorous silo. Do you remember the date you were supposed to meet?"
He shook his head. "He gave me a suggestion that I wouldn't remember it so I wouldn't take any action either to avoid the meeting or try to make it happen."
"Interesting. Do you remember anything else?"
He thought a moment. "Yeah, there was one other thing. I got a number, fifty thousand. But it didn't help either of us. We couldn't figure out where I'd gone."
"I bet this was the place," she said. "The people are the cattle."
Except he was here looking for Camila, not Maxwell. His gaze slid across the lobby and drifted up to the mezzanine. He wondered if he would even recognize her after all these years, even if she walked right past him.
Then something else came back to him. "A week later, Maxwell gave me the same target. But that time I got something else altogether. I ended up in a place with a lot of boats and Maxwell was there himself sitting by one of the boats."
"That's sort of strange. What did Maxwell say about it?"
Calloway shook his head. "He was confused and disappointed, I guess, because it didn't make much sense to him."
Doc smiled. "He never liked ambiguities. He always wanted everything clear and easily understood."
A man who looked like he might belong to the hotel's security team patrolled slowly by. "I'll try calling Camila," Calloway said. "Maybe we'll
catch her in her room."
Doc looked at the people now. "I'm starting to get a headache, Trent. That's the first sign."
"Here, read this while I'm on the phone." He handed her a brochure about the hotel.
He called from a house phone and as he waited to be connected, he tried to come up with a simple way of explaining the reason for his visit. Still at a loss for an answer, he listened to the phone ring. Then a generic recording clicked in, telling him to leave a message.
"Camila, it's Trent. Yeah, surprise. Ah, I'm in the hotel. In the lobby. It's ten-forty-five. I need to talk to you. It's important. Very important. You can leave a message for me at the front desk. I'll pick it up."
He shrugged. He probably sounded like an idiot or a maniac. He walked back over to Doc, who was still looking at the brochure.
"I left a message. You okay?"
She shrugged without looking up, then tapped her finger against the brochure. "Listen to this. Starting in 1945, cattle were displayed in the hotel's lobby and the prize steers were sold for fifty thousand dollars each—a record at that time."
"Cool. Fifty thousand." He peered around the lobby again. "Except I was supposed to go to the future, not the past."
"Maybe you were just establishing the location on your first try," she answered.
He didn't want to think about his work with Maxwell any longer.
"Let's check the bar in case she's in there."
"I hate bars. They're crowded and smoky and full of wandering eyes."
"You want to wait here?"
"Hell no." She clutched his arm. "I'll just watch my feet. That's my favorite preoccupation in public these days."
He guided her across the lobby toward the corridor. They reached the entrance to the Ship Tavern, then stepped into a cozy lounge with dark wood walls. He stopped, looked around, and noticed several model ships from the clipper era.
"Take a quick look before we go any further."
Doc glanced up. "Your ships, Trent. Welcome to the future."
"I guess."
They moved into the lounge and he felt as if he were guiding a blind woman.
Doc let go of his arm. "I'm getting out of here. I can't stand it. I'll wait outside."
He scanned the tables and bar a second time. "Okay. Hold on a minute."
A woman who reminded him of Camila stood at the bar engaged in an animated conversation with two men. He moved a couple of steps closer. The woman turned, glanced in his direction. His heart pounded.
Then he realized it wasn't her.
"Trent, I'm out of here."
He grabbed her arm as she started to walk away. "Wait!"
"Let go of me."
"I see him," he said.
Gordon Maxwell was perched on a corner stool talking to the woman that he'd mistaken for Camila. Just above his head hung a model clipper. Déjà vu.
He had an urge to walk up to Maxwell and tell him what he thought of him, that he'd trusted him, that he'd once considered him a mentor, but that Maxwell had betrayed him in a terrible way. Maybe he'd turn to the woman and tell her that Maxwell had tricked him into killing someone, not just anyone but a man who had once been his best friend. But he knew he would sound demented. She wouldn't believe him. No one would, especially not when he explained how he'd killed Bobby Aimes.
Doc kept her back to the bar. "I don't want to see him. I don't want to be here."
He guided her back toward the door, but he took one look over his shoulder. For an instant, just before he moved out of sight, Maxwell peered his way.
"Yuck," Doc said as they reached the hallway. "I don't like being in the same room with him."
They moved into the lobby amid an unexpected rush of people moving one way or another, some carrying cameras. It looked like someone had hit a fire alarm, but no one knew where the door was.
"What the hell's going on?" Calloway muttered.
Doc placed her hands on either side of her head and winced. Then she rubbed her arms as she'd done in the hotel. Her face twisted in pain. Time to get her out of here. Several feet in front of him, a bright light illuminated a familiar-looking reporter with a microphone that said CNN on the side. A cameraman blocked their way out.
"Have space aliens invaded the White House? It's a strange question everyone here at the Denver Brown Palace Hotel seems to be asking in the aftermath of President Dustin's extraordinary comments."
The words didn't make sense. He couldn't quite grasp what he'd just heard. Then he no longer heard anything the reporter said. Camila Hidalgo stood at the railing of the mezzanine looking out over the confusion. She wore a shawl over her shoulders, and with her aquiline nose in profile she looked like a Native American princess, a vision from a mythical past.
Doc moaned. Her legs wobbled. She gasped for breath and started to sink to the floor, pulling Calloway with her. He grabbed her around her shoulders and tried to lift her. "Let's get out of here. I've got you. Here we go."
The security guard he'd seen earlier appeared and helped him guide Doc to the front entrance. "She just needs some air," he assured the man. "She'll be okay."
Calloway managed to glance back once toward the mezzanine, but Camila had vanished, gone like the Indians by the river.
SATURDAY
Chapter Nine
Everyone seemed in a jovial mood, no doubt inspired by alien jokes, Camila Hidalgo thought as she looked over the crowd of reporters. She began by spelling out the president's vacation schedule, acting as if everything were normal. Then she said that two hundred copies of the president's speech from the night before would be available at ten. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Also included will be an addendum to the speech, which clarifies his metaphorical comments near the end. We would hope that any mention of alien contact would include reference to the addendum material."
The Denver Post that morning included the metaphor explanation, which she'd issued in last night's press briefing. So did the Washington Post and New York Times. But the explanation didn't put much of a damper on the media's enthusiasm for a sensational story. The only one benefiting, as she saw it, was the vice president, whose marital tiff had ended up buried on the inside pages. The president's story, although short on details, had also overpowered Maxwell's forecast for secession in the western states. She figured that even if Howell had walked into the banquet in his wife's gown, Dustin's quirky comments would've played ahead of the cross-dressing national security advisor.
"When can we talk directly to the president?" someone shouted. "He has no plans at this time for a press conference while he is vacationing." That could change of course, she thought, and it might be a good idea.
"How did the aliens contact the president?" someone else called out.
"Metaphorically. Please raise your hands. Same rules in Denver as in the White House." Dustin had started off with a metaphor, but had never returned to it. That defined the problem in a nutshell. As long as she framed the issue that way, she could deal with it. She pointed to Barry Greer, whose hand had shot up from the second row.
"Metaphor or not, can you answer the question that's on everyone's mind," Greer asked in his resonant television voice. "Did the president encounter aliens?"
"I said it was a metaphor."
"Couldn't it be both," he responded. "A metaphor and an actual encounter?"
"No, no such encounter took place." What else could she say? She'd just contradicted the president's comments, but if she sounded evasive, she would raise further suspicions.
And so it went for the next twenty-eight minutes. Once they'd dissected the alien matter as much as possible, questions about the vice president's marital status followed. Camila referred to a statement released by Darcy Mitchell that said she regretted her comments, that they'd resulted from a misunderstanding, and that she and the vice president had worked out their differences. At least that matter seemed settled.
A few questions that actually dealt with substantive policy matte
rs on national and international issues followed. No one even mentioned Gordon Maxwell and his controversial prognostication until the final question. She pointed to a man in the rear wearing a string tie, who she guessed was a local reporter.
"Yesterday evening, General George Wiley, the Freedom Nation leader, issued a statement calling Gordon Maxwell's remarks about the future a clear possibility," the reporter began. "He said that the conditions were ripe for several western states to cut ties with the federal government and form a loose confederation. He added that the militias would be the backbone of the new independent nation. Could you respond to Wiley's remarks?"
"George Richard Wiley is a fugitive from justice wanted in connection to three murders. His comments about issues are irrelevant."
That was the administration's position on all of Wiley's press releases. Wiley had been a one-star general with a promising future when he'd been drummed out of the army for sexual misconduct. He'd lost his career and held a grudge that had turned into a crusade against the federal government that had escalated into criminal acts. The man somehow had evaded capture for more than two years.
But today she decided to speak her mind on Wiley in the faint hope that it would shift the media's interest away from the president. "Wiley can think whatever he wants," she added. "Personally, I wouldn't want to live in a state run by amateur military organizations, especially ones that have been linked to white supremacy and a man accused of murder."
With that, she left the podium. She hoped Wiley and his gang of racist creeps would respond. She would gladly deal with comments from a few angry secessionists rather than continue with alien nation and the galactic community.
She'd barely reached the door when her lanky young assistant Steve Watkins approached her. "Howell wants to see you right away up in the staff lounge. I think he talked to the president."
"Good. I'm on my way." She headed for the lounge. Watkins hurried after her.
"Wait. There's one other thing."
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