Then he became aware of the girl and under Doc's guidance moved closer into her awareness. Outwardly, she projected a sense of confidence, but it belied her inner turmoil. He could hear her talking with Matt, but he couldn't understand what she was saying. She sounded happy, in love. But just below the surface, a cauldron of dark emotions slowly simmered. She felt manipulated. Not by Matt. Someone else close to her and close to Matt. Her father.
"She hopes that Matt really wants to marry her, but she knows that he has another agenda. This trip was her father's idea. She's angry about that. It's just a cover-up for the other thing—the bomb. Matt's just too damn loyal. A good soldier. Just the kind of person her father likes around him."
"Is her father the one who's behind the bomb?"
"One of the people. There's someone higher who's giving him orders."
"Who is it?"
His head buzzed with static. "I'm getting blocked. Or maybe she doesn't know."
"Where are you now?" Doc asked when he didn't say anything further.
"I'm seeing, no, feeling her life." He opened his eyes, fully aware of being in the hotel.
"What's her name?"
He felt the motion of the vehicle and knew he was still with her. "I don't know. Let me see if she'll tell me. Don't guide me on this. Let me drop in a little deeper."
He took a couple of breaths, closed his eyes again. He moved closer to the girl, settled into her awareness. This time he let her know he was there. He asked her name, posing the question silently to her subconscious. If her conscious mind heard him, she would sense him as a thought, a whim, an imaginary companion.
"I'm Jill. Who wants to know?"
"Just a friendly visitor."
"Why are you here?"
"I'm concerned about something you're carrying."
"I know. I don't like it, either."
"Where are you taking it?"
"Washington, D.C. I don't really want to go. But it'll be nice driving across the country with Matt. I'll see a lot of states, places I've never been."
"Is this Matt's vehicle?"
"No, we changed. It's a Jeep Cherokee. A nice red one."
"Where did you get it?"
"In Shoshone."
"Whose car is it?"
"Don't ask so many questions."
"Did your father get you the car?"
"No! Leave him out of this."
"Back off, Calloway! Leave her alone!"
Calloway felt a blow, like a hand lightly slapping his forehead. He abruptly pulled away from Jill and back into the room. Moments before the intruder had spoken, he'd felt a presence, like someone reading a newspaper over his shoulder. The same creepy feeling as before, he thought.
The intruder wasn't just peeking in on him now, he was making himself known, showing his power. There was a certain familiarity in the presence, but he couldn't quite match the voice to a face or a name.
He reached out, searching for the intruder.
"Show yourself I know you. Let me see who you are."
He sensed the intruder nearby. He momentarily glimpsed a singular figure, but instantly it turned plural, like an image reflected between two mirrors. It pressed forward for an instant, then blurred and receded.
He opened his eyes and rubbed his forehead where he'd felt the contact.
He smelled food. A waiter in a white jacket transferred platters to the table. Calloway had been so far out there that he hadn't even heard him arrive.
Doc handed the slender young man a couple of dollars. He started to push the cart toward the door. But he stopped halfway there, hesitated, then slowly turned toward Calloway.
"You want to see me. Here I am." The waiter let loose with a burst of sharp, mean-spirited laughter. "Better watch yourself, Calloway. Both of you. You're poking into the wrong places. Back off if you know what's good for you."
"Who are you? What are you saying?" Doc demanded. She grabbed the waiter's shoulder and shook him.
The man looked around stunned, confused. "Jeez, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." He held up his hands. "I don't know what got into me. It was like someone else talking. That wasn't me. I don't understand."
Calloway stood up. He touched the man's arm. "It's okay. Just calm down. It's over now. You'll be all right."
The man gave him a frightened look and hurried away.
"What was that?" Doc asked as the door closed.
Astonished, Calloway just shook his head. "I was impressed with the automatic writing earlier. But this. . . this manipulation of vocal cords, of speech, that was a show of strength."
"Who is it?"
"It's the others, Maxwell's gang," he said. "They're tracking us and the bastards are strong. Real strong."
Chapter Thirteen
The eight-passenger corporate jet descended for a landing, but Camila could only see mountains and forest.
"There's the ranch, right below us," Harvey Howell said. "Oh, just take a look at all those vehicles lined up on the road." He patted her knee and chuckled. "All your people, all just waiting to hear the latest from you."
Camila didn't bother to lean over Howell to look. "No, they're waiting for the president to talk." The plane seemed to skim the trees, a landing field came into view, and the craft touched down.
"Welcome to Crested Butte," the pilot said over the intercom. "I hope you've had a comfortable flight. There will be a car to pick you up.”
"Nice little spread," Howell said. "Two thousand acres complete with landing strip. Not bad."
"I bet the house is nice, too," Camila added.
"I'm sure it's splendid. All earned by hitting a little ball over a net. I should've worked more on my serve when I was young."
Camila glanced over at him as she held her nose and tried to clear her ears from the change in pressure. "I didn't know you played tennis, Harvey."
"I'm not bad. But I stick to doubles now."
The plane taxied along the runway, turned, and headed back in the other direction. Now that she was on the ground, Camila braced herself for the inevitable encounter with Todd Waters, the president's chief of staff. Waters would be incensed about their tardiness. He would demand an explanation and he wouldn't like it when he heard it.
Howell leaned toward her, but didn't look at her as he spoke. "Listen, Camila, about last night in the room, I've been meaning to tell you that I'm really sorry about that."
She'd wondered if he would mention it again and waited for him to continue.
"I just want to make sure that you know it was just a joke. That was why I invited you to the room. Just to see your reaction."
"A joke?" Camila frowned. "I didn't laugh."
"No kidding." Howell chuckled and watched her closely. "Actually, you looked really shocked. I could hardly keep from laughing. Can you imagine what would've happened if I had gone down to dinner like that?"
"Not really. You seemed kind of confused about what you were doing."
Howell glanced over at Secret Service Agent Sam Clarke, who had accompanied them on the flight, then lowered his voice. "I wasn't a bit confused. That's what I'm telling you, it was an act."
"You fooled me."
"Listen, I'd prefer if we just kept my silly little caper between ourselves."
The plane taxied to a stop. She didn't believe Howell's version of events. For whatever reason, he had temporarily lost control of his faculties. A cross-dressing public official, especially one in charge of national security, didn't exactly engender her confidence, and now he was lying to her as well.
"Look Harvey, we both work for the president. Considering his own problems, he doesn't need to hear about your preference in evening attire, joking or otherwise. I don't know what the hell that was about, but I'm willing to shelf it. Let's go help the president."
A Land Rover waited outside. "Any verification yet on what Calloway told us?" Camila asked Clarke as the vehicle headed to the main house.
She tried to make the comment sound as matter of fact as poss
ible, but she had to struggle to control her voice. She still hadn't fully recovered from the sudden appearance of her ex-husband, much less from the message that he'd brought with him. In retrospect, she felt he was sincere in his concern, that he had tuned in to something. But she hoped he was dead wrong about the bomb and the intent of the bombers. They didn't need another crisis, especially not now.
"It's confusing," Clarke said. "The local cops couldn't tell us anything helpful, but then Calloway called the ice caves himself." He told her what had transpired.
"We ran a check on Matthew Hennig and got an APB out on his pickup-camper. But then Calloway did another session and said that Hennig and his girlfriend switched vehicles and are now driving a Jeep Cherokee and heading for Washington with the bomb."
"Jesus Christ," Howell said. "Did he get the license plate number?"
"His abilities don't seem to be that specific. We're checking with the dealers in the area."
"Tell me frankly, Sam, what's your assessment on Calloway?" Howell asked. "Is there anything solid here or are we chasing fairies?" Camila bit her lower lip, stared straight ahead.
"Calloway has been just accurate enough to keep us interested," Clarke responded. "But until we verify that Hennig switched vehicles and we get a license plate number on it, there's not much we can do."
Hearing the two men discuss her former husband brought back memories, some good, some not so good, and a few that were very strange. She'd never forgotten the time he'd come home after getting inside the mind of some murderous dictator or drug dealer. She couldn't remember which. He'd actually looked and acted like a different person, one who frightened her. She'd rushed out of the house and called Gordon Maxwell for help.
"Who's behind the bomb? Where did it come from? Howell persisted.
"We don't know if there is a bomb," Clarke said, patiently. "But the implication is that a militia group is involved and that could mean a connection to George Wiley and Freedom Nation. Wiley has the means to obtain a backpack nuke."
Camila recalled that just a few weeks ago a backpack nuclear weapon, traced back to Russia, was confiscated at the U.S.-Canadian border. If one had reached the border, another might have gotten through.
As they approached the front gate to the ranch, she pushed away the thoughts and surveyed the horde of reporters, several times the number who usually followed the president on a vacation trip. Clarke flashed his badge at a state trooper and the gate opened.
"Mr. Waters asked me to take you both directly to the guesthouse when you arrived," the trooper said.
After they parked, another trooper guided them along a walkway that wound around the house and into a courtyard that connected to another house. They entered a library and Camila's feet sank so deeply into the thick carpeting that she wanted to take off her shoes. Cherry-wood bookcases grew out of the walls and were lined with thousands of volumes. Three inviting reading chairs with footrests filled the floor space on one side of the library, complemented on the other side by a mahogany table with six chairs around it.
Camila eyed the comfortable chairs, but took a seat at the table. Howell sat across from her. "We better tell Todd about your ex-husband," Howell said. "He'll need to know about it."
She didn't like the way he'd said it, as if this new annoyance was her fault. "Yeah, I suppose if somebody's planning to blow up Washington, D.C., the chief of staff would probably want to know about it." He'd probably also be very interested in the national security advisor's evening gown, too, she thought.
The door opened and Todd Waters, a soft-sided human tank, trudged into the library. Balding and bespectacled, Waters' round face looked flushed, as if he'd been arguing with someone. "What did you two do, stay for the brunch so I could sweat it out here myself?"
He stood over them, hands on his hips. "Did you see that CNN has already labeled this thing as the 'President's Alien Affair.' It's only going to get worse. All they want to do is exploit, exploit, exploit."
"As soon as we're done here, I'll go out and calm things down," Camila said.
"You already talked to them this morning," he snapped. "They're not going to let this go until the president addresses the nation on the issue. That's the bottom line."
She knew that Waters occasionally seemed on the verge of losing control, but he rarely let his emotions get the better of him. He could be shouting angrily one moment at a staff member who needed reprimanding, then turn and calmly talk to someone else as if nothing unusual had just occurred.
"Then he should do it as soon as possible," Howell said, turning up his hands.
Waters glared at him. "Harvey, you don't know what you're talking about. You haven't heard the full story."
"Then let's hear it," Howell replied.
"I'm not sure how much more you should know," Waters said. "In fact, I don't think you should know anything more about it."
Camila understood perfectly. The president's comments had certainly aroused her curiosity, but from a professional standpoint, it might be easier for her to maintain the administration's position if she didn't know any more details.
"Nonsense, I need to know," Howell insisted. "We're talking about a matter that could affect national security."
Camila knew that Waters was about to ask her to leave, so she quickly redirected the conversation. "We've got something we need to report to you, Todd. It's about a possible nuclear threat."
Waters took a seat. He suddenly appeared calm. "Lay it on me." She looked to Howell, but he demurred to her. She realized that talking about her ex-husband to Waters was going to be harder than she thought. "Do you remember the speaker at the luncheon yesterday?"
"Of course I do. That was a mistake and I told Jon Harmon about it, too," he groused. "So what does Maxwell have to do with a nuclear threat? Is he making it or predicting it?"
"Neither. My ex-husband, Trent Calloway, used to be a remote viewer for the CIA when he was in the air force. He worked for Gordon Maxwell."
Waters crossed his arms and waited for her to continue. She told him what she knew.
"But you're saying this is all a vision, that there's no concrete evidence of the existence of a backpack nuke yet."
"No direct evidence. Not yet."
"The FBI is working on it," Howell said. "We heard that the kid who supposedly has the bomb was on his way to Las Vegas to get married, but Calloway thinks that's a cover story."
"Stop!" Waters held up his hands. "I've got a million and one things on my mind and I've had my fill of weirdness already. I don't need this. But I want you to stay on top of it, Harvey. And, for chrissake, don't say anything to…”
The door opened. Two Secret Service agents preceded the president into the room. David Dustin wore a lightweight jogging outfit and running shoes and towered over her as she stood up. He gave her a friendly hug, something he did on occasion when he hadn't seen her for a while or wanted to congratulate her.
He shook hands with Howell and nodded to his chief of staff. "Please sit down. I'm sorry for interrupting your meeting, Todd, but I want to take advantage of this opportunity to personally fill in Howard and Camila on what's been going on."
"Sir, are you sure about this?" Waters interrupted. "I thought we were going to keep the details under close wraps. I don't think that Camila, in particular, should be here."
"I trust Camila to handle this matter with utmost sensitivity," Dustin said.
"But she doesn't need to know," Waters protested.
She'd never seen Waters go up against the president so forcefully.
"I understand your position, Todd, but I want Camila to have the full background," Dustin responded.
Well, here it comes, she thought. She glanced at Waters, who now stared ahead glassy-eyed, his cheeks glowing burnt red.
"Let me begin by saying that what you've heard is only the tip of the iceberg, and the story I'm going to tell you is both strange and awesome. Please keep an open mind. You know, the skeptics always asked, if there were alie
ns, then why don't they land on the White House lawn? Well, they did better than that—they landed in my bedroom."
Oh, shit, Camila thought.
He paused, collecting his thoughts. "It began six weeks ago. I was awakened during the night by a brilliant flash of light that was accompanied by a turbulence. It felt as if I were lying on a waterbed and suddenly someone had jumped on one end of it. Annie woke up too, but she didn't remember the flash or the turbulence. That was all that happened on the first night."
Camila noticed how Waters watched the president as if he were analyzing his delivery of the State of the Union the night before the address. He was hearing the story for at least the second time and was probably checking on the consistency of details.
"That turned out to be the precursor," Dustin continued. "Two weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night and found myself floating above my bed."
"Floating?" Howell looked as if he were waiting for Dustin to say it was all a joke.
"That's right."
"Did Annie see you?" Camila asked.
"She was sound asleep. It was just them and me."
"Them," Howell repeated. "The aliens?"
"That's right. I felt terrified. I couldn't see them, but I knew they were there, watching. One of them even tried to comfort me. He spoke to me telepathically and said there was nothing to fear, nothing bad was going to happen to me. But he warned me that they would be back and the next time they would take me with them on a trip to the stars."
Camila didn't know what to say. No one, much less the president of the United States, had ever calmly told her about being abducted by aliens. Was Dustin really going to say next that he'd left the planet? If so, it was worse than she'd thought.
"Why didn't you say something?" Howell asked. "Did you tell anyone?"
"Just Annie. She convinced me that it was a nightmare, even though I swore that I was awake. I wanted movement sensors put in the bedroom, but she wouldn't hear of it. She just wanted the whole thing to go away and who could blame her for that. Nearly a month went by. Nothing happened and I was beginning to think that Annie was right, that it had been a nightmare."
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