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Dark Matter Book 03 - in Fluid Silence - G W Tirpa (2001)
Dark Matter Book 03 - in Fluid Silence - G W Tirpa (2001)
Changed by magic.
This time they're here.
In ffuid Silence
TM
(One)
In Hollow Houses
Gary A. Braunbeck
(11Do)
If Whispers Call
Don Bassingthwaite
(Three)
In Fluid Silence
G.W. Tirpa
(Four)
Of Ag�d Angels
Monte Cook
July 2001
(Five)
By Oust Consumed
Don Bassingthwaite
December 2001
(Six)
.
I ..
,
'
, ,
', nA
IN FLUID SILENCE
Dark•Matter"'
©2000 Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual pe!$011$. living or dead. is
purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright Jaws or the United States of America. Any
reproduction or unauthorized use or the material or artwork contained herein i• prolu"bited
without the express written pennission or WIZal'lb of the Coast. Inc.
Distributed in the United States by St. Martin's Press. Distributed in Canada by F= Ltd.
Distn"buted to the hobby. toy. and comic trade in the United States and Canada by regional
distribctors.
D.w:•MAmR is a trademark owned by W"IZMd.s or the Coast, Inc. The W"iurds of the Coast
logo is a regbtered trademark owned by Wizards of the Coast. Inc.
All Wu:ards of the Coast cba.racters. character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof
are trademarks owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
The sale of this book without its cover bas not been authorized by the publisher. U you
purchased this book "'ithout a cover. you should be aware that neither the author nor the
publisher bas received payment for this "stripped book.·
"WAit Whitman•s Niece" quoted by kind pennission of Woody Guthrie Publications. Copyright
Woody Guthrie Publications, Inc.
1¥rics by Woody Guthrie. Music by Billy Bragg.
Cover art by Ashley Wood
First Printing: l\4arth 2001
Libruy of Congress Catalog Card Number: ()().190767
987654321
UK ISBN: 0.7869·2033·5
US ISBN: 0.7869·1680-X
620·T21680
·. i
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the jar. in the fluid, in the dead, dark silence of a vault under a
vault under a vault under a city full of vaults under vaults under
vaults.
Thirty-seven years.
Will I be in here for that long?
Have I been here for that long?
Is that what I took out, what I handed off, what I never
understood until it was gone? They must have put it in a vault
of their own, deep and locked away where no one could use
those pieces to make more of me.
That's where they got me. From that jar.
And that's where I've come back to.
Pieces, floating in fluid silence.
1
My hates have always occupied my mind much more actively and
have given greater spiritual satisfaction than myfriendships.
-Westbrook Pegler
.', N gan couldn't tell which was more a mess, the man's
office or his hands .
Fingers that were surely once graceful, long, and
tapered were now bulging with arthrii
t s. Veins made
them look as f
i they were made of wicker. Spots of
brown and even grey marred their color. They shook for
no other reason than their owner was an old man, and
old men have shaky hands. The nails were yellow for the
same reason.
His office was as cramped as every office Ngan had
ever been in. Offices, except ill television shows, were
always small. This one was lit by innocuous rows of
color-draining fluorescent tubes, The faint buzz of them
might explain, Ngan thought, why the world had gone
mad, except that the world had always been mad.
There were stacks of paper everywhere. Most of
them were white, with blocks of type making them
appear grey. There were sheets and pads of yellow legal
paper and other documents that hadn't started out
. 11
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uniform.
In the middle of the collection of photographs was an eight·
by-ten black·.and-white photograph of an American soldier, obvi·
ously circa World War II. The man's face was smooth and
innocent. His eyes sparkled with youth. His altogether ordinary
features made him look like a child going.to a Halloween party
dressed as a soldier.
Ngan stepped forward and looked at the photograph more
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In f lul d a i I e n ce ·
"I don't see why, honestly,· he said. "Like I said, Erwiihlen
was an ideologue-a sort of propaganda tool in some ways-but
he wasn't a decision maker. His importance to the Gennan war
effort was minimal at best, and he wasn't involved in their intel
ligence apparatus. I honestly don't see what use he would have
been to the Americans. Of course, he was no rocket scientist."
"So he just disappeared?" .
"lt was the end of the war," Lieberman said. "Europe was in
chaos. You'd be surprised how easy it was to get out, to get to
South America, or South Africa, or wherever you needed to go.
Many of them just blended back into German society under
assumed names. Germans weren't as quick to tum Nazi war
criminals in to the Americans or especially to the Russians, as
they were to give up their Jewish neighbors to the Nazis."
·so he could be anywhere," Ngan said.
Lieberman laughed and shook his head. He slid a photo
graph out of the file folder and hande.d it to Ngan. It showed a
man in a simple black suit, a Nazi pin prominent on his lapel,
standing next to Adolf Hitler on the famous balcony of the
Eagle's Nest. In the bottom right-hand comer of the photograph
was the year: 1944. The man next to Hitler was as old then as
Ira Lieberman was now.
"He'd have been a hundred and thirty-three years old last
month," Lieberman said, spreading his hands in dismissal,
. 19
..
$ f
he took a cab because it would make sense or her
to arrive in one.
Jeane Meara had been undercover before, but
that had been a long time ago and then not for very long.
She posed as a fertilizer salesperson in hopes that a cer
tain KKK splinter group i:night want to build a bomb, but
the suspected bombers were arrested for assault after a
bar brawl before they could buy the bomb ingredients
from ace fertilizer saleswoman Charlene Tisdale. A
search warrant turned up child pornography in the
house they shared, and that was it. Into the tender care
of the Tennessee prison system they went head first.
Jeane had never actually been in the same room With any
of them, tliough in two weeks undercover she managed
to sell more fertilizer than any of the real salesmen at
·
a teenager.
"This is funny?" the driver asked, and she looked up, meet·
ing his eyes in the rearview mirror. Jeane was relieved to see
that the driver was amused himself. His eyes twinkled in .the
reflected light from the big vehicle still behind them.
"No, no," she said. "I'm sony. My mind is wandering."
"You are thinking about the man you are going to meet
tonight," the driver said with supreme sell-confidence.
Jeane tipped her head to one side and smiled, then glanced
away from the rearview mirror. She was oddly embarrassed that
she wasn't actually thinking about the man she was meeting but
was thinking about herself. It wasn't something she was prone
to do, and she had never been too concerned about her age, but
this was something someone younger should be doing. The
mark would be expecting someone younger, whether he'd said
"elegant"·or not.
"How did you know I was meeting a man?" she asked the
driver, as much because she was curious about what made him
think that, as to take her mind off the fact that she was about to
pose as a forty-year-old hooker.
"Oh," the driver �d. still looking at her in the mirror as the
cab pulled forward. The traffic was beginning to loosen up. "Oh,
of course a beautiful woman k
il e you is meeting a man."
Jeane smiled and looked to her right. The cab passed a chil·
dren 's hospital, and she suddenly felt guilty about smiling at a
stranger's compliment after worrying .that she was too old to
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She could hear a faint buzz from inside and expected to hear
a lock being drawn back, but the door just opened.
Fenton didn't lock his door. He opened it wide in the manner
of someone who knew the person who had rang, though of
course he didn't.
Roger Fenton was almost exactly average height, and his
grey hair was well groomed. He was wearing a suit, which
seemed somehow odd to Jeane, who'd fully expected him to
answer the door in the nude, in drag, in leather-anytlring. !he
suit was tailored for him and looked it. His tie was a solid
maroon color Ronald Reagan might have worn. He wore wire
rimmed glasses over large, deep brown eyes.
He smiled, revealing teeth only a bit less white than his
doorman's.
"Joyce Mannering?" h e asked, obviously knowing the
answer.
Jeane smiled, let her eyes close halfway, and nodded.
"Please," he said, "come n
i ."
.JI: enton was what Jeane liked to think of as a Post
Industrial Gentleman. He was courteous and polite
and refined in a gruff, American way. He moved
quickly, but in a determined fashion. He was comfortable
in his own honie, but barely. He moved from room to
room like a teenager moved through a mall-knowing
full well where everytbingwas, but aware that it was all
put there by someone else.
His decorator might have used the term Post Indus·
trial Gentleman as well. The place was too full of furni·
ture that was too heavy for Jeane's more contemporary
tastes. The furniture was all wood, varnished to a high
gloss. Some of the pieces looked like antiques, but they
were more likely new pieces designed to look like
antiques.
The apartment was clean-professionally clean
and there was none of the mundane evidence of the
place being really lived in. There was no clutter. There
were no magazines or mail laying around. There were
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come in. I don't bite. I'm sure they told you about me at the serv·
ice."
They had. They'd told hei: that his tastes tended toward the
mundane. He insisted on white women with certain features. He
liked women with large breasts and athletic bodies. He like cer·
tain facial features, blue eyes mostly, but he was flexible on that.
None of the girls who'd gone with him reported anything violent
or kinky. It was all very ordinary.
u .w. ti r p a
Jeane nodded and said, "The girls all said you were a gentle
man." .
This made him smile. He found what he was looking for
under the bar-a corkscrew-and started to peel the lead off
the bottle of Wine. "The girls,• he said quietly.
He started to uncork the wine, and Jeane ventured a few
steps into the room. She stopped next to a long," white leather
sofa.
Fenton nodded at the sofa and said, "Sit, please.•
She sat, crossing her legs and making a point of not smooth·
ing down her skirt. She figured she should show him some thigh
·
way.
"You've never had anyone notice the resemblance?" he
asked.
She shrugged. "Men see what they want to see,• she said,
trying to make it sound chatty and succeeding well enough.
"I've been told I look like Cheryl Ladd.".
Fenton's brow wrinkled and he said, "No, no, definitely
Mari l yn." He set his drink down and came out from behind the
bar, going to the bookcases. He went right for the book he was
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picked up the glass and stood. Her dress clung to her legs a
little and again she made no move to fix it.
"Can I get you another one?" she asked, letting her eyes
settle on his. ·
"Thank you,• he said.
She went to the bar walking carefully on her tall heels. She
knew he was watching her walk. She pulled the stopper from
the decanter of whiskey and poured a little more than he had
poured for himself over the melting ice.
"Six years," he said. "That lllUSt be a lot of men."
She didn't turn around. Jeane put the stopper back in the
whiskey decanter and took the top off the ice bucket.
"If you don't want to talk about it . . ." he said. "The other
girls probably told you I would bring it up. I like to hear about
. . . it's part of . . . what I want.•
She, dropped two ice cubes into the nearly full glass of
whiskey and turned, a smile fixed on her face.
"It's okay,• she said softly, not moving.
"You've been with all sorts of men,� he said, looking at her
body. "Men like me?"
"Sometimes.�
"Rich men?"
"Sometimes."
"You don't know, though,• he said, finally looking at her face,
"before you get to their houses or hotel rooms, what they look
like?"
She crossed to the chair and held the drink out to him. He
didn't take it at first.
"Lean over and hand it to me," he said, his voice suddenly
husky and threatening.
Jeane was sure she was smiling as she leaned foiward at the
waist. She handed the glass to Fenton and he took a long,
unashamed look down the neck of her dress at her black lace
bra. "No,• she. said, "It's not up to me.•
He looked at her eyes, and she stood up. "You've had sex
with niggers," he said.
Jeane had expected to hear something like that. Both Ngan
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and the woman at the service had prepared her for it, but still
she could feel her face turn red.
"Not if I can help it." she said, knowing it was what he'd
want to hear.
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of tea, but he stopped himself. She had moved on, and it would
surely be an inconvenience for her to come back.
Instead, he. turned his attention to the pamphlet.
It was colorful, very professionally designed and printed. On
the front was a clear photograph of a huge, rustic barn. Next to
it was a silo and an American-style windmill. Trees scattered
the grounds around the barn and were covered in light green
leaves that made it obvious that the photograph had been taken
in the spring. At the top, in clean but ornate script were the
words Camp C�arity.
ClaritY:
The word had several meanings, and Ngan knew what the
retreat's organizers thought they meant when they used that
word. Ngan had achieved brief flashes of real clarity n
i his life,
and he couldn't m
i agine this place providing anything like that
experience to anyone.
Ngan shifted in his cramped seat and opened the pamphlet.
The plane shook as if in response. Ngan glanced out the win
dow and saw the same uniform clouds below, and the same
sprinkle of stars above. The noise was a dull throb that Ngan
knew he'd be hearing for hours after they finally landed. He
looked down at the pamphlet and squinted, trying to read the
tight text there.
He reached up and turned on the little reading lamp above
his head. Fake yellow light washed over him like muddy water,
and he could see better but not well enough. He squinted at the
text again and read the headline: Motivational Excellence in an
Exclusive Setting.
i deed. The retreat was limited to white people,
Exclusive, n
though the pamphlet never said that in so many words.
Ngan read the sparse text again, to himself, of course.
Welcome to Camp Clarity.
Below that headline was a photograph of the sun setting
over rolling hills. Skeletal trees were black, silhouetted against
the pink and orange sky. The ground was covered in freshly
fallen snow. A thin, winding road disappeared into the distance,
lined on both sides by the silhouetted trees. At the edge of the
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road was a tasteful sign that, in the same script as on the front
of the pamphlet, read Cqmp Clarity and By Invitation Only.
The text below the photograph read:
Eight hundred acres in the peaceful rural setting ofSouthern Jlfi.
nois is 'the new pennanent site ofour unique executive training pro·
gram. Motivation and focus are the keys here, and only those
professionals who have already achieved a measure of success in
their chosen fields are invited to join us. At Camp Clarity, we don't
make winners out of losers, we tum winners into masters.
Masters, Ngan thought. He closed his eyes, rubbed them
lightly, then looked back at the pamphlet.
Ifyou 're reading this, it means you 've been identified as the sort
ofperson who is ready to achieve the highest level ofpersonal and
professional excellence.
As our guest you'll enjoy all the amenities of an all-inclusive
resort hotel. Our program is demanding, both mentally and physi·
cally, but when your busy day draws to an end, you 'fl enjoy ourfirst
class, all-suite accommodations, heated pool, and fell-service spa.
Our team of world-class chefs creates cuisine that any five-star
restaurant would be delighted to provide their customers.
Ngan sighed, imagining the scene around Camp Clarity's
pool. White skin turning red while billionaires achieved personal
and professional mastery. Regardless of the Institute's other
suspicions, that alone would make Camp Clarity worth closing
down.
Under the headline GoalS, Ngan found the most telling and
most chilling presentation.
You're a successful person. You've made money. You've tasted
success and everything it.has'to offer. Or have you?
At Camp Clarity we provide you with the tools necessary to rec·
ognize the insignificance of the success you've already achieved. A
bold claim? Do we mean to say that your success has been empty,
that you should give it all away?
The answer the pamphlet provided was a ham-handed,
uppercase NO! set in bold type.
The success you 've already achieved will get you to Camp Clar:
ity. What you learn at Camp Clarity will bring you higher than
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you've ever imagined. We can let you into the world of your
dreams.
And then the most cryptic of all, a !in� that made the small
hairs on the back of Ngan's neck stand up:
-
Ask the man who gave you this pamphlet.
Ngan sighed again and avoided looking out the window. He
let his eyes wander over the edge of the tray table still hooked
into the back of the seat in front of him. The man next to him
fidgeted, his eyes closed as if he were trying to go to sleep.
Another man was coming down the aisle of the plane, walking
on uneasy legs in the light turbulence that Ngan was trying so
hard to ignore.
The man was wearing a dark grey suit, well tailored, that
looked like silk. His white hair was carefully combed back over
his pale scalp. Ngan noticed his blue eyes catching the dim yel
low cabin light. Something about the man, who had emerged
'
from the first-class cabin trying not to look at any of the coach
passengers, made Ngan look down at the pamphlet again.
· He turned it over and i0oked at the photograph on the back.
A white man in his early seventies smiled back, and Ngan
flinched away from the image he'd looked at a hundred times.
Holding the pamphlet in his left hand, Ngan reached down
for his bag with his right hand. Tlie satchel had shifted again,
and he had trouble opening the flap with it under the seat in
front of him. He bent down farther, trying to get his right hand
under the seat, so he grabbed the top of the seat with his left
hand, crinkling the pamphlet a little. .
"Oh," a strange voice said, "I see you know Camp-"
The man stopped talking the second Ngan looked up at him,
sitting back in his seat empty-handed.
The man in the aisle was already pale, but what little color
there might have been there drained when he met Ngan's eyes.
The man looked at rather than in Ngan's eyes, and he drew in a
sharp little breath that was almost a gasp.
The stranger in the seat next to Ngan didn't seem to notice
the exchange and certainly wouldn't have worried about it if he
had. He continued trying to fall asleep.
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The plane bucked, and Ngan reached out with his right hand
to steady himself. He grabbed the seat in front of him, and the
turbulence passed. The man in the aisle looked away, grabbing
the seats near him, though he seemed in no danger of falling.
"I beg-" the man in the aisle started to say at the exact
·
same time Ngan said, "I'm sony, I-"
Ngan smiled and nodded for the man to continue. The crys
tal blue eyes finally fixed on Ngan's,for just a second, and a look
of unmistakable anger creased the man's brow. He turned away
from Ngan, back to the front of the plane, back the way he'd
come.
"It's all right, I . . ." Ngan said, but the man walked quickly
away.
More turbulence shook the plane, rattling the luggage com
partments and making Ngan grab the seat n
i front of him again.
The strange man slid down the precise center of the aisle with
out so much as tapping the top of any of the seats he passed.
Without a look back he disappeared into the first-class cabin.
Ngan was worried by the encounter. The strange man had
obviously heard of Camp Clarity. There had been the unmistak
able air of. brotherhood and recognition in the man's voice. He
must have stayed there and attended their seminars and exer
cises.
Realizing that the man couldn't do anything to him on a
plane at thirty thousand feet with a hilndred and ninety wit
nesses made Ngan feel safer.than he'd ever felt on an airplane.
Remembering what he'd been doing when the man inter
rupted him, Ngan bent down again. He'd managed to open the
flap before, and he found the file folder inside easily enough.
He leaned back, checking both sides for the man in the aisle,
who was nowhere to be seen. The man might be confused, even
embarrassed. Ngan found it safe enough to assume the man
would limit his wanderings to the first-class lavatories for the
rest of the flight.
Ngan opened the folder and took out a copy of the photo
graph of Hans Reinhold Erwahlen and Hitler. As he'd done at
least a dozen times in the last day or so, Ngan held the pamphlet
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acquaintances.
Ngan had to entertain the possibility. however implausible or
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and opened its eyes, revealing black pits that seemed to absorb
light. McCain opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came
out.
The . thing reacted to the non-scream by fluffing wings
McCain had mistaken for a grey leather coat. The wings were
like the wings of a bat.
McCain brought one hand up, his arm responding now, if
weakly, and the little creature scunied backward. It blllllped
into a steel barrel and tipped it over. A loud clang echoed in the
big, mostly empty space, loud enough that the little man covered
its ears with hands that were tipped by brown, prunelike fingers.
The golden liquid dripped from its twisted, bloated lower lip.
"Is this . . .• McCain managed to almost bark, •. . . hell? Am
I in hell?"
The little man, who must have been no more than a foot and
a half tall, folded his wings and said, "!ch verstehe Sie nicht. •
McCain knew what he said, not realizing that he wasn't sup
posed to be able to understand German. He never studied the
language in school, never spent any time in Germany or around
Germans. But the little map had said: I don't understand you.
McCain wanted to know where he was, so he said, "Wo bin
ich?" though he still didn't remember ever learning to speak
German.
The little man tipped his head at McCain, as if the question
made no sense. McCain went over the words in his head and was
sure he'd said it right.
He propped himself up on one hand and felt rough concrete
under him. He was suddenly cold, and he drew his arms and legs
into him. The strange liquid spread over him like thick oil.
"Who are you?" McCain asked . the little man. "Wie heissen
Sie?"
"Nichts." the little man said, his voice surprisingly deep.
"Nothing?" McCain asked. "Sie haben keine Name? You have
no name?"
The little man took one small step closer to McCain, who
shied away, scraping his rear on the concrete before he came to
rest against a low stone wall behind him. The stone was as
1 .w. tl r , 1
48
Welsh,� she said, "l think."
That made Fenton smile. Jeane sat back on the
sofa and glanced again at the photograph of Marilyn
Monroe in the book still sitting open on the coffee table
in front of her. Fenton stood up, taking his drink with
him, and began to pace the room, more preoccupied than
neivous. "You think?" he asked.
Jeane shrugged and asked, "Does it matter?"
It was Fenton's turn to shrug, though he seemed
uncomfortable with the gesture. "My great-grandparents
crossed over from England in 1893. My great-grandfather
was in the whaling business. On my mother's side it was
my grandmother who came over first, as a student from
France. She married my grandfather in Nantucket."
"So you're English and French," Jeane said.
"And you think you're Welsh."
Jeane didn't say anything, didn't take the bait. She
told herself that it was because she didn't think a call
girl would necessarily be honest about her background
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seductive.
Fenton seemed suddenly agitated. He stood, tapping the side
of his glass nervously. "You're not a Jew, are you?" he asked
abruptly. "You're not Jewish, or Muslim?"
Jeane laughed a little, and he looked at her sharply, so she
stopped laughing and said, "I told you I'm a Lutheran."
He stared at her for a long second, then looked down at the
floor, tapped his glass a few times, nodding. "It's important to
me that you be . . . white. I have to . . . You need to be white.•
Jeane didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say, in
character or not.
"It's all right," he said.
Jeane tipped her head at him, not sure what he meant. He
looked back at her, and the supreme self-confidence was back.
"You can be proud to be white," he said.
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"I don't need to watch the news," he said, his voice husky,
his version of seductive. "1 make the news."
Jeane was just confused by that, so she sipped her wine.
"Is it true, what they say?" Fenton asked, letting it just hang
there.
"Is what true?"
"What they say about niggers and Jews," he said. "You've
had . . . experience, right? You've had an opportunity to observe
the relative . . . differences."
He will.ked at her and smiled, obviously taken with his own
cleverness. Jeane knew the question was meant to demean her
as much as any racial group. The physical desire was still burn·
ing in his eyes, even seemed to be increasing. It wasn't quite an
animal look. It wasn't that pure.
"Don't tell me you're shy," he said sarcastically, and Jeane
realized it had been a while since she'd said anything.
"I'm not shy," she said, then sipped her.wine to give herself
another few seconds to think. She thought she'd feel dirty pos·
ing as a hooker. This conversation was making her feel orders
of magnitude dirtier.
"I'd like you to teµ me," he said. He reached out to her, and
it took an enormous force of will for Jeane not to flinch away. He
touched her cheek with the tip of one rough finger. She looked
down, almost closing her eyes. His finger slid down her cheek
half an inch, then fell away from her face. "You have very soft
skin." .
"Thank you, " she said.
"That must be important," he said, "in your business. It must
be important that you keep yourself in a certain condition.·
Jeane nodded and looked him in the eyes again. He smiled
and said, "You're not going to tell me. That's okay. Other women
like you have, though I've gotten conflicting answers."
"Does it matter?" she asked him.
He looked very serious and said, "Tell me you prefer white
men."
"I prefer white men."
There was somethingabout the look on his face that said he
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·-.t'llte �
little man spoke too fast, an McCain's ears were
still ringing from his own screams, so he had trouble
understanding the rough, gravelly German. He was
able to pick up most of the words, but his head was spin
ning, and the half-muttered phrases just didn't. register.
He didn't know who this little man was, didn't know what
he was doing in this strange place, didn't know what day
it was, didn't know where he was, didn't know why he
was there, ari.d didn't know how he suddenly could speak
and understand German.
He knew the strange, deformed little man's name
was Nichts, but McCain was afraid to talk to him. He
was afraid to even look at the creature. He thought if
he recognized that the little man was even there, it
would mean he actually existed, and McCain didri't
want that to be true. He couldn't remember ever having
a grip on reality, but he knew that such a thing was
possible. He knew that there was a normal, real world
that made sense, and though he didn't remember actually
. 57
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58
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mean."
"Before you spent your time in the vril, could you have spo
ken my master's tongue?"
"So I was floating around in this stuff learning German?"
McCain asked dismissively.
Nichts looked at him with open confusion and said, "You
aren't done yet. The master will finish you, and you'll become
one of the rulers of the Earth."
McCain chuckled, and his head cleared all at once-finally.
He dug into one ear with the tip of his index finger and flicked
off a glob of the yellow stuff Nichts had called "vril." It didn't
59
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. ID
In f lul • a I I e n ce
Nichts glanced off to one side, and McCain followed bis eyes.
Next to NichtS was a line of orange plastic barrels that were
stacked against the sheet metal wall in a row that must have
been fifty yards long. They were stacked up three high. They
meant nothing to McCain.
"Are you going to take me somewhere?" McCain asked
Nichts. He was suddenly curious about how long he was sup
posed to sit on this rough conc:;rete floor in some warehouse
talking to a homunculus.
"Not yet," Nichts said. "I'll be told to when I'm told to, but I
want . . ."
McCain didn't try to finish Nichts's sentence for him. There
was something about the way the homunculus had started to
state an opinion, a desire of his own, that made McCain sure the
little man had never done it before, at least never out loud.
"Not long,• the homunculus said.
"We stay here until thenr he asked as conversationally as
he could.
Nichts nodded.
McCain didn't knowhow much time he'd have here, so he real
ized he'd better start getting some idea where he was, so he could
remember it later when he made his . . . Would he have to make
a report? Why would he have to do that?
He could see that he was n
i a big steel warehouse. There
was the line of orange plastic barrels. Above him, maybe twenty
or twenty-five feet up, was the pitched ceiling and skylights of
mesh-reinforced glass. There were ceiling fans, but they weren't
on. It was still cold inside.
McCain scraped the cold vril from his groin and turned his
head. Nichts was looking at him but McCain made every effort
to ignore the homunculus. It was partly a continuation of his
playing along with this master race thing, partly embarrassment
at his nudity and the fact that he was trying to clean himself,
and partly because he had to examine the space around him.
He tried to look behind him, but all he could see was the
rough concrete wall. He looked up and saw that the top of it was
a foot over the top of his head. From the ceiling he could tell that
81
g .w. ti r p a
he was maybe a quarter of the way across the side of the build·
ing. He knew he would have to stand to see the other three quar·
ters of the .way across.
He pulled his feet under him and tried to stand up. His legs
were weak and shaky, and he couldn't do it at first, couldn't even
begin to stand. He took a couple of deep breaths, concentrating
on his numb, twitching legs for a few seconds, then he just stood
up. He didn't have to use his hands. He rose up from the floor
and was standing. Movement caught his eye, and he saw Nichts
shy away and cower. Vril started dripping down McCain's legs,
pooling at his feet.
The wall was the side of a square pool or tank that domi·
nated the cent�r of the warehouse. About a foot and a half from
the top of the wall was the surface of a pool of golden liquid. It ·
was obviously the same stuff that McCain was still partially cov·
ered in. The surface was still and reflected the nondescript ceil·
ing, but it seemed to move slightly, bulging in the center, then
dropping as if a wave was rolling up and down at regular inter
vals from the center of the square tank The tank had to be _at
.
Bf
11 f lul • 11 It n Cl
"I do not know how any of this works," Nichts said, waving
the phone at the vril. "All I know s
i that it does. I am here only
because it does."
· McCain nodded at the phone in the homunculus's hand and
asked, "Is that for me?"
Nichts looked at it as if noticing for the first time that he was
holding something. "I don't know how to use it," Nichts said. "I
don't have anyone I can talk to."
"You were supposed to give it to me?" McCain asked.
"No," the little man answered, and his wings fluttered
behind him. McCain decided that gesture meant the homunculus
was nervous. McCain found it deeply unsettling, but he refrained
from screaming this time.
"You want me to make a call?" McCain asked, and even as
he finished talking, a phone number flashed across his memory,
and he knew it was Ngan's. He knew he should call Ngan.
"If he knows I gave this to you," Nichts whispered, "he might
destroy me . . . and you."
A chill ran down McCain's spine. His head went soft again,
and his vision blurred. He sat down, stumbling halfway so that
he fell hard on his rump, one leg twisted painfully under him. He
put a hand up to his forehead, and he could feel his sinuses fill
ing with fluid.
"Who will destroy you?" he asked the homunculus.
Nichts stepped foiward, and McCain couldn't flinch away,
though he very much wanted to. He felt the phone being placed
in his hand.
"The master," Nichts answered. "The leader of the whole
Earth, Hans Reinhold Eiwahlen. Promise me you won't tell him
I gave this back to you?"
"Back to me?" McCain asked muddily.
"It is yours," the homunculus said. "Promise me."
McCain wrapped his fingers around the phone and said, "I
promise, Nichts. I won't tell."
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"Michael!"
McCain didn't stop talking when Ngan said his name.
". . . floating around in Fliissigkeit. lch don't gerade wissen und
this guy hat Fliigel, Ngan . . ."
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Ngan pulled off to the shoulder, and there was a loud series
of crunching sounds as the. tires skidded to a stop on the gravel.
A passing car blew its horn for some reason Ngan couldn't quite
fathom.
•. . . so anyway, I'd really like you to tell me wie Sie wissen,
um eine Holle wie dieser zu ankommen? Do you want to know
whatr ·
"Michael," Ngan said, "tell me where you are."
"Well I'll tell you what, ich will die Holle dieser Mif!,geburt
iiu.f!,ern, und ich will aus dieser Holle entkommen, so do me a favor.
Will you do me a favor?" .
Ngan closed his eyes when the car came to a complete stop
and said, "Michael, please,• three times as McCain continued
without pause.
"Look up das Wort 'homunculus' am Lexikon because I'm talk·
ing to one, und he's einer iibele little-hey, listen, sorry Nichts,
·
aber /ch gotta muss bei dir ehrlich sein, Mensch, it's nicht artig, ich
stimme. Es tut mir leid, die Fliigel sind : . . well, the wings are
what they are, and that's something, aber die Zacken, I'd sage,
und air Holle, arrMren, Nga.n . . . listen . . . •
McCain paused finally, obviously confused, disoriented. Was
that German he was speaking? There was a hiss that Ngan rec·
ognized. McCain was on a cell phone too. Ngan put the car in
park. ·
"I have five sen$.es, Ngan. !ch kann sehen, hiiren, riechen,
beriihren, schmecken. I'm. cold, all right? Konnen Sie mich hear?
Ngan?"
"I can hear you, Michael," Ngan said, displeased with the
edge of panic he heard in his own voice. "Can you tell me where
you are?"
"I told you where I am," McCain said. ·
Ngan's heart skipped a beat. McCain had spoken directly to
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In f lul d a I I e n ce
him for the first time. "You're still at Camp Clarity?" Ngan said,
hearing the unintentional lilt of a question in his voice. •Are you
still at Camp Clarity?"
·"Clarity . . ." McCain mumbled, his voice now heavy with
exhaustion.
"In Lesterhalt," Ngan said. "Michael, what has he done to
you?"
McCain started laughing. It was a frayed, unsettling cackle.
"Can you get out?" Ngan asked.
"T.he neck," McCain said. •rasten Sie. Right, Nich- Oh . . ."
"Michael?"
There was no answer. Ngan could hear another voice deep in
the background but could recognize no words.
"Michael?" Ngan asked again, scared now.
"Listen," McCain said. "It's no big-"
McCain's voice was replaced by a hollow clatter then a
sharp, sustained beep that made Ngan pull the phone quickly off
his ear and wince with pain. He could hear the beep cut off, and
he put the phone back to his ear and said, "Michael."
Silence.
"Michael!"
The line was dead.
Ngan tossed the cell phone onto the empty passenger seat of
the car and took a deep breath. He signaled a left and waited for
a truck to pass. He had to meet Vanessa Richards at the restau
rant in McLean, but immediately after that, he knew he would
have to find his way to Lesterhalt, Illinois. Something was hor
ribly wrong with Michael McCain. Ngan had never known the
man to babble, and he seemed not to know where he was, what
he was doing, or even who Ngan was.
He pulled back onto the highway and squeezed the steering
wheel tightly the rest of the way.
. 87
I
i
j .
-1) f all the things Jeane Meara thought she'd find her·
self doing that night, fighting for her life was not
one of them.
Fenton had come up from the floor fast and hard. He
swore at her as he piled into her chest like a football
player. The air went out of Jeane's lungs all at once, and
shewas pushed backward into the chair. On the way down
she knew she couldn't stop herself, so she'd better make
the most of it. When her backside hit the cushion, her right
foot came up and into Fenton's groin hard enough to make
him blow the air out ofhis lungs. She kept pushing him up
until he ended up flipping headfirst over her to land in a
jumble on the freshly vacuumed carpet behind the chair.
·· Jeane's brain went instantly to fight mode, though
she kept open the possibility that her kick had taken all
the fight out of Fenton and was prepared to stop. A
sense of calm washed over her, and for the first time that
night she was at. ease, confident in her ability to handle
the situation.
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a .w. ti r p a
70
I ft f lul d 1 1 I e ft ce
He was between Jeane and the door. Behind her were the
French doors that led out onto the terrace, twenty-seven. stories
above Lake Shore Drive. .
She went over something like a plan n
i her mind, fast and
efficient, as she was trained to do. She would make an obvious
break for the door, let him come at her, then use his own
momentum against him. She'd kick and hit him in the groin as
many times and as hard as she could until he went down, then
she'd run for it.
She kept her face blank but glanced in the direction of the door.
His eyes followed hers as she stepped out from behind the little bar
and ran straight atthe door. He caine at her, reaching out with both
hands to grab her around the waist. Jeane stopped and her foot col
lapsed under her. The high-heeled shoes-she'd forgotten the
damned shoes. She 'fell, twisting her ankle painfully, but it was a
fortunate accident. Fenton didn't expect her to stop and certainly
didn't expect her to fall. He tripped himseH trying to compensate
and sprawled clumsily to the floor.
-· Jeane made note of how slow he was even as she dropped
her right hand to the floor and spun her legs under her, kicking
off both shoes in less than one second. Fenton rolled over and
grabbed her left arm just above the elbow. Jeane heard herself
cry out at the touch-it was painfully tight. She grabbed one of
the shoes with her right hand and swung it at the hand holding
her ann. The spike heel came down hard on one knuckle. and a
loud crack merged with Fenton's pained yelp. He let go so fast
his hand knocked the shoe out of Jeane's grip.
"Bitch!" he shouted, "Nigger-loving whore!"
Jeanne snapped her head back fast into his face, and he
grunted and fell back. She got to lier feet, her pantyhose slip
ping a little on the carpet and her ankle blazing in pain, but she
started to run. Fenton managed to grab one of her ankles and
Jeane didn't believe he was actually lifting her over his head, but
he was. She felt like a baby being thrown in the air. She flailed
with her arms in the air. His hand came off her ankle, and she
hit the ground just short of smashing through the floor-to-ceiling
windows.
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72
In f lui d a I I e n ce
. 73
I w . . ti r ' a
holding onto his belt. He hit the floor face first, bouncing his
chin on the carpet, but Jeane knew how to roll and still keep her
bearings. She felt the back of her hand brush his, then felt the
cold metal of the automatic on her palm.
Fenton scrambled to a standing position as Jeane continued
her roll. They made eye contact when Jeane got to her knees.
Fenton opened his mouth to say something, and Jeane squeezed
the trigger. A rose. of deep red blossomed on Fenton's stomach
even as the sound of the gun going off assaulted Jeane's already
stinging ears. Fenton was pushed back, lost his balance, and his
arms pinwheeled. He hit the French doors and went through
them as if they were breakaway movie props. The sound of the
glass shatt�ring was almost as loud as the gunshot.
· Fenton slid across the terrace on his back and stopped when
his head hit the concrete railing. Glass falling on the flagstone
terrace sounded like rain. Jeane stood up, still holding the gun
in front of her with both hands. She was breathing heavily,
almost panting.
Fenton stood. Jeane tipped her head to one side, and they
made eye contact. Fenton put his hand to his bloody shirt and
said, with all the pure conviction of a three-year-old child, "I'm
one of the winnersr
Jeane squeezed the trigger again, feeling a smile pull the
right side if her mouth upward. The bullet· caught Fenton high
on the left shoulder and flipped him over the railing so fast that
Jeane wasn't able too see the look on his face.
He didn't scream all twenty-seven stories down.
1'
I1 f tull l 1 1 I 1 • ce
.15
g .w. ti r p a
was canying. How could McCain have failed to notice that the
teenagers were armed?
The kid who'd cocked his weapon was smiling at McCain
with a mouth full of braces. These were corn·fed Midwestern
kids, football players, jocks, with dull expressions and a glint of
cruelty in their eyes that McCain hadn't seen since he was in
high school himself.
"I've been taking care of you," the man said, "yes."
"A:re you the bad guy?" McCain asked him.
One of the boys stepped forward and aimed his weapon at
McCain's head. McCain flinched and forced a smile and a rough,
almost barking laugh.
"Bad guy?" the man asked, placing a still hand on the boy's
shoulder and preventing him from splashing McCain's brain all
over the floor.
"Arger Kerl, • McCain translated, "Bosewicht. •
The man smiled and said, "My name is Hans Reinhold
Erwahlen."
That name somehow rang a bell with McCain. He sat up,
pulled one foot under him, and tried to stand. The boy with the
braces reached out and pushed him back, and McCain's head hit
the side of the pool. He swore, and pain and a flash of light
exploded behind his eyes.
"That was uncalled for, Jerry," Erwahlen said. "From a cer
tain perspective Mr. McCain is correct. I am quite certain that
any number of people in this nai:ve world would think of me as a
villain. They will see soon enough, as will you, Mr. Michael
McCain of Chicago, Illinois, that they were mistaken."
McCain put a hand to his throbbing head and closed his eyes
tightly against the pain. The kid had pushed him hard. Very
hard. He slid his hand to the back of his head and felt something
warm and wet in his hair.
"Ah, see, now," Erwahlen said, "he's bleeding. That will be a
demerit for you, Jerry."
"Sony, Mr. E,• the kid said, his voice as dull as his cruel eyes.
"Yeah, Jeny," McCain said, his eyes still closed. "That was
bogus, dude."
78
Ia f lul d 1 1 1 1 I Cl
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u .w. ti r p a
shiver.
"I know, Fitz," Erwahlen said, "that you don't believe now,
but that's because you don't understand. My little friend Nichts
pulled you out too early. He'll be punished for that, of course, as
he'll be punished for giving you the telephone."
Nichts rustled again but said nothing. One of the boys looked
over at the homunculus with undisguised contempt. .
"I spoil my children, as you see," Erwahlen continued. "For
giveness and a big heart are my weaknesses.•
McCain didn't believe him. "You're keeping me here against
my will, " McCain said.
Erwahlen smiled again, but all the friendliness drained from
it. "Your will shall have to change, Fitz," he said.
McCain thought of a quick comeback but swallowed it. His
head reeled, and he was having trouble lifting his arms.
Erwahlen turned to the boys and said, "Pick him up. Put him
back in the vril."
McCain said, "No," but they ignored him. He struggled, but
they overpowered him The kids were strong, and he was weak.
.
78
. ·1
...eane got out of the apartment immediately after
shooting Roger Fenton off the balcony. She took the
stairs down six flights before having to stop. She
sat on a step and breathed for six or seven long seconds.
She'd blown the whole operation so badly that she was
dumbfounded by the magnitude of her own failure. And
she was the.one they called Wonder Woman back at the
ATF? She wasn't even Foxy Brown.
She gathered her wits and decided to keep going
down the stairs. It seemed logical that one had two
choices when fleeing a crime scene. .You could either get
out of there as fast as possible-before anybody showed
up to throw you in jail-or you could hole up somewhere
and wait for things to cool down long enough for you to
leave after all the cops assume whoever did it is long
gone. Jeane was always amazed by how rarely the bad
guy was actually "long gone."
Taking the elevator would have been a mistake
cameras. The stairs should take .long enough and get her
79
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80
II f lul • 1 I I t I ct
. 81
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the booth. The hostess flipped over the other teacup and filled it .
with a practiced grace that came from having done it over and
over again every night for years.
"It is a pleasure to see you again, Vanessa." Ngan said, still
smiling.
. The hostess put down the teapot and set a menu in front of
Vanessa, then turned and walked away without a word.
Vanessa inhaled through her nose for exactly three seconds,
then exhaled for five. It was something she always did before
she started talking to Ngan. He assumed it was her way of
steadying her nerves before she betrayed her oath and loyalty to
the Central Intelligence Agency. He knew she wouldn't tell him
everything she knew, but she always gave him accurate infor
mation and always gave him what she called his "One Thing"
one piece o°f information that would get her killed if anyone
found out she'd told him. It seemed to be something like a pro· �
fessional courtesy she felt she owed the Institute. Ngan had no
idea why, and he'd never asked her.
·"We should look at the menu," Ngan said.
Vanessa smiled, opened her menu, but didn't look at it. "So
they moved you to Chicago," she said, "the Wmdy City."
"Yes." Ngan said dryly, not looking tip from the menu, "I have
·
found it so."
Vanessa chuckled and looked down at the menu. Ngan
glanced up at her for half a second, then looked back down at
the menu.
"Here's one that has your name on it." Vanessa said, then
read from the menu, "Kai Kung Nga Ngarm. Sounds good."
Ngan smiled and said, "I wonder if there is a restaurant
where I could order a Vanessa Richards."
"No chance, honey," she joked. "I'm strictly home cookin'."
Ngan laughed with her, but he could feel himself forcing it.
He couldn't help thinking that Michael McCain was being killed
even as they joked about a restaurant menu.
"Volcano Chicken, then." he said.
Vanessa looked at him, smiling, then her face changetl,
·
82
In f lul � 1 1 1 1 I Cl
some crap like that, and of course it was the height of the Cold
War. . . ".
u
IR f 1111 � 1 1 1 1 I Cl
.5
U .w. ti � p a
should do the same thing. Turns out he was a pretty crappy field
agent. Some of the guys they brought over after the war were as
loyal to Germany as any German, but weren't really ideologues.
They worked the war like soldiers, or like cops. This guy,
though, seems to have brought the racism, all that baggage, out
of Deutschland with him and was prone, like in Westem Sahara,
to actually go ahead and act on it."
Ngan sipped his tea again and looked up to meet·Vanessa's
cool gaze.
"Why do you care, anyway?" she asked him. "He's dead."
"Is he?" Ngan asked.
Vanessa's eyes narrowed. She almost looked angry. "The
Agency closed the book on him in '70."
"Closed the book on him?" Ngan a.Sked. "1970?"
"It doesn't go on anymore,• she said, "but . . . he was a Nazi,
anyway, right?"
"The CIA assassinated him?" Ngan asked, legitimately sur
prised.
Vanessa smiled at him and closed her eyes, "We're in a pub·
·
88
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17
J� didn't take long for Jeane to remove any evidence
that she'd been in Fenton's apartment. She felt like
a criminal, of course, which in the eyes of the law,
she was. She'd killed Fenton in self defense and could
probably prove it in court, but she could never justify
why she'd been there in the first place. Likewise, she
never got the feeling from anyone at the Hoffmann Insti·
tute, includi.D.g Ngan, that they'd do anything to jeopard·
ize themselves in order to defend her.·
She was back in the staircase in only slightly better
shape than she was the first tillle she'd started down.
The police hadn't made it up to the penthouse yet, and
she'd managed to get in and out fast enough. They'd
probably come up n i the elevator a second after she
ducked back into the stairwell.
On the way down the stairs she thought of and
rejected over a dozen possible cover stories. When �he
got to the first floor, she still had nothing and still had
the gun in her purse. If she was caught with it, it would
BB
U .w. ti r p a
be all the evidence they'd need to charge her with murder, but
for some reason she just couldn't stomach the thought of dis·
carding it. Would she shoot a cop if she had to to get away?
Would she shoot the doorman?
"I shot the sheriff." she sang to herself, "but I did not shoot
the deputy.n
She found the back way out, a cold steel door marked Emer·
·
80
In f lul d s I I e n ce
to kill me?"
"No," she said, though she wasn't sure why. He kicked her,
and pain blasted from her hip, up her spine, and into her already
reeling head. Her vision went momentarily dark, and she fought
against losing consciousness as best she could. She fumbled for
the purs� and blinked, trying to spot it on the floor.
"I am going to burn you," Fenton growled. "I am going to
·
91
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Something soft touched her back, and she knew it wasn't Fen
ton. It was the purse.
His hand grabbed her shoulder, and his fingers squeezed her
so tightly she was sure they'd break the skin. She let him pull
her up, all the while fishing in her purse for the gun. She could
feel the hole already blown through the bottom, then felt the
gun. She curled her hand around the trigger and opened her
eyes, having just realized they were closed.
Fenton was smiling at her with a mouth full of bloOd and bro
ken teeth. His left eye had finally fallen all the way out, and his
face was a featureless mask of dark red blood. He pulled his fist
back to punch her in the face, and she knew that, as strong as
he was, he would kill her with that punch.
He started to move his fist forward, and she brought the gun
up. She was fast enough by pure luck. She squeezed the trigger,
and there was a flash followed by a loud, sharply echoing bang
in the cramped concrete and cinder-block space. Fenton's fist
exploded.
He screamed more in anger than in pain, and Jeane brought
the gun up higher and fired again. Fenton's head burst into two
big and several small pieces. His body poured down onto the
floor in a pile of limp, twitching flesh.
Jeane didn't stop to put the gun away. Her ears were ringing
and her vision was still blurred. She stepped forward over the
body and fell into the door with enough force to open it.
She stepped out into the alley, and there was a three-inch
drop from the door's threshold to the alleyfloor. She tripped and
sprawled headfirst nto
i the cool, wet· alley. Gravel tore at her
arms and chin. She swore but kept her hand on the gun.
Bringing one knee up, she scraped it, too, on gravel and bits
of old broken glass. She was about to get up, then noticed some
thing. At first, she thought that there must be something wrong.
with her eyes. The puddles in the alley were flashing alternat·
ing red and blue.
A foot fell next to ber bead.
"Fenton," she breathed, unable to believe it. He didn't have·
a head.
Sf
Ia f lul d 1 1 le n ce
A heavy shoe kicked the gun out of her hand, and she felt a
knee press into the back of her neck. A stern, leather-gloved
hand took hold of her wrist. The grip was firm but not as
painfully tight as Fenton's. She blinked and saw the red and blue
light still flashing.
A man's voice, but not Fenton's said, "Right -there, lady,"
from somewhere above her.
"Got her?" another man asked.
She felt her hand yanked back, then another hand grabbed
her other wrist. There was a clicking sound.
"Obarsky?" the second man asked.
"Hold on," the other man said. Jeane felt handcuffs click in
place. "I got her."
"What . . . ?" Jeane managed to say, then blinked again. She
was starting to conie around.
She felt the man who'd·handcuffed her lean in closer, then
felt his breath on the back of her neck-breath that smelled like
pretzels-as he said, "Hey, let's just go ahead and say yer under
arrest, okay?"
"Damn it," Jeane whispered. Things were starting to go
wrong.
93
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95
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The driver of the van was hard to see clearly in the dark. A non·
descript white guy, maybe early thirties, wearing orange cover
alls. As the van passed them Jeane recognized the logo painted
on it. She'd seen it at the cosmetics counter. Natura. Fenton's
company.
The van ground to a halt behind them, and Obarsky took a
sharp left onto Fullerton. A silver minivan had to screech to a
stop to avoid broadsiding them.
"Obarsky . . ." Stewart said, his voice m
i patient. "This is bad,
partner."
Jeane considered saying something. She could open her
eyes, sit up straight, and appeal to Rob Stewart. Obarsky
seemed to be up to something. Stewart was uncomfortable, to
say the least. Fenton must have-
But Fenton hadn't had time to call the police, especially not
a specific police officer friendly to his cause. So was Obarsky
working for the Hoffmann Institute? Was he sent to follow her,
i things went wrong? If that was the case, why
to pull her out f
was she n
i handcuffs? Also, wouldn't Ngan have told her about
that? Agents should know whether or not they have backup. It
had been obvious from the start of this now totally unsalvage
able operation that she didn't have any backup.
Jeane had to admit she had no idea whatwas happening, and
the best she could do was ride it out and wait for an opportunity
to get the hell out of there.
She kept her left eye open just enough to tell that they were
headed west on Fullerton, away from the lake, back toward the
expressway.
"So where we goin'?" Stewart asked.
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wasn't too bright, but it stung Jeane's eyes, and she had to blink
to clear her vision. She could see Stewart looking at her. She
tipped her head and said, "It's your career, Officer Stewart."
He looked away immediately and opened his door. Obarsky
chuckled and got out, groaning as he straightened obviously
stiff knees. Stewart slid out rather more fluidly and opened the
rear passenger-side door.' Jeane didn't make a move to get out.
"Come on, lady," he said, his voice calmer than his quivering
eyes. "Just come on out." Then, more quietly, he added; "I won't
let him hurt you."
Jeane was at a loss for words.
Stewart reached in and took her, surprisingly gently, by the
right arm. She shifted in the seat and helped him pull her out.
Behind her she could hear Obarsky's heavy footsteps on the
gravel, walking slowly away from the car. Jeane stood up, Stew
art holding her head so she wouldn't bump it on the top of the
car door as she came through it. It felt good to stand, and all her
minor injuries were starting to feel less urgent.
Stewart's grip· became a little tighter, a bit more insistent.
He turned Jeane around, and she could see Obarsky standing,
weight on his right leg, holding a big steel flashlight up in his
left hand. The light came on, and he kept it on Jeane's face.
Purple splotches appeared over her already dim view of the
scene, and she had to close her eyes. The handcuffs were tight
around her wrists.
"Stand her up against the wall;" Obarsky said, his voice tak·
ing on an edge now that might have been excitement or antici
pation. "Over there. Facing the wall."
"Guys," Jeane said lamely, "come on, now."
Stewart was walking her slowly around the back of the car,
not saying anything. Jeane wasn't wearing the uncomfortable
shoes, and sharp gravel was poking into the bottoms of her feet.
"Damn it!" Obarsky shouted, his voice echoing off the newly
poured concrete walls. "Move her ass over there!"
"Hey-" Stewart started to object, then pushed Jeane faster
so she almost stumbled.
"Sony, man," Obarsky said. "Just get her over there."
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Five steps got them to within two feet of the wall. Stewart
turned Jeane to face the wall, then let go of her arm.
"Look," Jeane said, "both of you. You guys could really get
into a lot of trouble for this."
Obarsk:y laughed, and Je.ane could see Stewart move, maybe
instinctively-exhibiting his ability to tell right from wrong
between her and Obarsk:y.
"You want me to search her?" Stewart asked.
"No, Rob," Obarsk:y said. His voice was quieter now, but
edgy, nervous. "That won't be necessary."
"Is that her gun?" Stewart asked.
Jeane opened her mouth to say something, to warn Stewart,
but she couldn't get a sound out before the gun went off.
There was a bright flash-Obarsk:y was closer than she
thought he was-and a loud, echoing crack. The wall in front of
her and to her left was splashed with black-red gore as if some·
one had thrown a bucket of red paint on it. Jeane turned to her
left in time to see Rob Stewart's headless corpse fall to its
knees, then onto its chest like a rag doll.
Obarsk:y was standing only at arm's length from Stewart. He
must have had the gun-Jeane's gun-pressed up against his
partner's forehead.
Jeane's mind took all this in in less than a se,cond, then
switched into survival mode that made time seem to pass more
slowly.
Her hands were still bound behind her back, so she knew
without having to think about it that sh� would have to disarm,
maybe even kill, Stan Obarsk:y with her feet alone.
Obarsk:y was looking down at the twitching corpse of his
partner, so he didn't see Jeane take one long step toward him.
He Jooked up, brought the gull up and pointed it at herjust as
she whirled into a high roundhouse kick, trying her best to com·
pensate for the odd effect on her balance the handcuffs �ad. She
succeeded well enough to make contact with Obarsk:y's hand.
The gun popped out of his grip, and he said, "Bitch!"
Jeane's right foot came down on the gravel, and she contin·
ued to spin. Her momentum gave her the speed and power
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she'd put in her purse for her first big undercover assignment
for the Hoffmann Institute. She took two fast steps in that direc
tion and spun as she dropped herself hard on her backside.
Obarsky sat up slowly and drew his gun. Jeane saw it come
out of the holsterjust as her fingers closed around the gun. It,
like her hands, was behind her back.
"Game over, Joyce," Obarsky grunted as he slid a bullet into
the chamber of the gun. Jeane rolled forward, tucking her head
in tight. She rolled the .380 through her fingers as she came
around, and though she couldn't see what Obarsky was doiilg
now, she knew he was aiming his gun at her.
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She made an educated guess with her aim and squeezed the
trigger once in mid-roll. There was a flash and a bang, then a
wet sound and another shot.
Jeane let herself roll to one side, and she came around to see
Obarsky lying flat on his back. His gun was pointing up in the
air, his legs, torso, and hand were twitching. With the easy
action on his service automatic, his death spasms were making
him fire blindly up into the air. Jeane set her jaw, hoping the
dead cop's arm wouldn't fall over and cause him to finish his
mission posthumously.
With her teeth grinding, her eyes twitching at every flash,
and her ears ringing, Jeane counted a total of fifteen shots from
Obarsky's 9 mm.
When it was all over and Obarsky's body was still, she lay
there on the gravel and panted for a few seconds, listening to
the bullets tinkle back to earth like rain. She let go of her own
gun and struggled to her feet. Seventeen gunshots was going to
attract attention, and Jeane did not want to be found lying on the
ground in handcuffs next to two dead Chicago cops.
She sat down on Obarsky's chest and fumbled around behind
her for what seemed like forever. Sweat broke out on her fore·
head, and she felt bad, physically. Finally she found the keys to
the handcuffs and dropped them at least half a dozen times,
swearing each time, until she managed to get the cuffs
unlocked.
When her hands were free she picked up the gun, leaned into
the police car, found her purse, and got the hell out of there.
103
:: Ngan was in Mark's Old Time BBQ
Illinois, just as the sun was
in Lesterhalt,
setting. It had been a
complex trip, but one that he still found amazing. The
fact that he could come all the way fi:om Washington, D.C.,
and still beat Jeane there by several hours was a good
example of why he flew, no matter how it frightened him.
He read the stained menu with some degree of trep·
idation. The meal he'd shared the night before with
Vanessa Richards had been quite good, prepared well by
people who were proud of their work and eager to
impress. Mark's Old Time BBQ was content to pass the
last health inspection, limping along on "good enough"
for so long that they had stopped even caring what good
enough was.
There were onlytwo other occupied tables in th.e diner
that could have seated forty-as a yellowed sign thumb·
tacked above the door proclaimed: The decor could have
been described as "a year's worth of restaurant auction's."
Colors were mixed indiscriminately. There was no care
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111
:�Cain came awake in a way he'd never experienced
before. Normally, it would take him as long as an
hour of heavy, groggy, half-sleep before he'd be able
to even climb out of bed. He would need to take a shower
and really wouldn't be coherent until after his first cup
of coffee. McCain was anything but a morning person. ·
His eyes popped open, and his mind was instantly
clear, like a computer coming up from sleep mode. He
went from black, blank, to full functionality in the space
of time it took him to open his eyes.
McCain was laying on his back. Above him was a
completely ordinary white acoustic tile sprinkled with
tiny black holes. The tiles were held up by a grey metal
grid. One of the two·foot by three-foot sections was a flu
orescent light fixture that was dark. McCain was
instantly aware of the fact that he could see details of
the ·ceiling he ought not to be able to see in the nearly·
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u .w. ti r p a
sheet against his face. He sat up and scanned the room. It didn't
take long. The room wasn't that big.
It had a sort of coUege dormitory feeling to it. The walls
were blue-painted cinderblock. Again, McCain was struck by the
fact that even in the darkness, he could teU the walls were blue.
On the other side of the room, which was maybe half again as
wide as McCain was tall, was a small, simple metal desk and a
secretary's chair. On the desk was a reading lamp and a clock
radio that wasn't plugged in. On the short wall behind him was
a cheap, five-drawer dresser made of dark brown pressboard. On
the wall in front of him was a steel door with an L-shaped steel
handle. A strip of yellow light was visible from under the door,
the only light in the room. The bed was an institutional twin
sized bed of the same design McCain remembered sleeping on in
college.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and when his
feet touched the cold tile floor he realized he was wearing socks.
McCain looked down and saw that he was wearing brilliant
white, new sweat socks, comfortable cotton sweatpants, and an
oversized sweatshirt that was so new the tag scratched the back
of his neck.
He looked down at his chest and saw that the words Camp
Clarity were embroidered onto the shirt in a delicate script. The
sweatshirt and sweatpants were light grey and the embroidery
a deep maroon. McCain looked down again and saw a pair of
brand new canvas deck shoes sitting on the floor near his feet.
He reached down and pulled on the shoes, tying them with
fingers he thought should have been stiff but were perfectly
nimble. When his shoes were on, he stood and crossed to the
door. His hand was two inches · from the handle when McCain
was startled by a faint noise behind him.
He turned and heard it again. It was coming from above,
from behind one of th� ceiling tiles. It occurred to McCain to be
afraid, but he was happy to find that he wasn't. He watched as
the tile shuddered under the weight of something moving around
·
above it.
McCain turned back to the door and saw the light switch
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next to it. The switch was turned down. McCain flipped it up.
There was a stinging flicker, and the single recessed light went
on. The tiny room was well lit by the single fixture.
The ceiling tile jumped a little. Whatever was up there might
have been startled by the light coming on. McCain waited
patiently, and after a second or two the tiJe was pushed aside
from above, opening a single comer of darkness.
The side of a head then an eye appeared, and McCain offered
the eye a smile. The eye in the ceiling narrowed, regarding him
with suspicion.
"Nichts," McCain said, his voice even, clear, and friendly.
The little homunculus said nothing, but the single eye
softened a bit.
"It's all right, Nichts," McCain said in perfect German.
Something tapped the floor in front of McCain, and he looked
down to see a single drop of blood on the polished tile, then a
second right next to it. He looked up at Nichts again, and there
was a black line-a shadow, maybe-tracing down the li_ttle
man's bulbous cheek.
· It was a tear.
Another drop of blood.
McCain knew the tears and the blood were one and the
same.
"
"Don't cry, McCain whispered. "It'll be all right."
Nichts's eye narrowed again, and another drop of blood
tapped the floor.
"He punished you, didn't he?" .McCain asked. "He punished
you for giving me the phone."
The eye stared at him without a sound, but McCain knew
Nichts was trying to say yes.
"Can't you come down?" McCain asked.
Again there was no answer. McCain waited. It took a long
time-an hour. McCain remained perfectly still the wnole time,
and a comer of his mind marveled at his abilityto do that
him the
stand still · like that for a full hour. Nichts stared at
whole time. McCain wasn't going to beg Nichts to come down
out of the ceiling.
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lightlyto a rest just on the other side of the little puddle of blood
from McCain. The homunculus reached out a gnarled little hand
and touch·ed the blood with the tip of one clawed finger.
"Your eye was bleeding," McCain said.
The little man looked up at him and said, "I was crying.•
McCain didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He
remained motionless. Nichts touched the bloody finger to his
own lips, and his face twisted into what McCain thought
hoped-might be a smile.
"I was not made to cry." Nichts said, looking up at McCain.
"I can speak and understand German," McCain said. "I can
see in the dark, and I feel better than I've ever felt in my life.
How is this done, Nichts? How does he do it?"
The homunculus looked at him blankly and said, "I can't
know things like that. You feel the way you do because you are
chosen of God. I am not even a creation of God."
McCain almost asked the little man what he was talking
about, but he stopped when he saw another tiny drop of blood
tap the floor under Nichts. The homunculus noticed McCain
notice the blood and looked away, obviously ashamed.
McCain said, "I'm sorry, Nichts. He hurt you.•
"He does as he pleases,• Nichts said simply. "I was not
intended to have intentions."
McCain wasn't sure what that meant, but he felt sorry for
the little man anyway.
"You don't have anywhere to go, do you?" McCain asked.
Nichts looked up at him and said, "Go?" The little man's grey
Halloween mask of a face looked almost as sad as it did con
fused.
"Why did you give me the phone?"
Nichts looked away and said, "I don't have . . . experience
. . . with . . ."
"Compassion?"
"Thinking,• Nichts corrected angrily.
A heavy silence passed.
"Vril doesn't have experience with being a liquid," the little
man finally said.
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Taken care of. Was it that simple? Was he that simple? Could
that do? Was that enough to make him . . .?
"You changed me," McCain blurted, his voice suddenly
ragged, his breathing all out of its normal rhythm. "That shit you
had me in, it-"
"It didn't do anything but make you better," Erwiihlen said
calmly, smiling. •All it did was take what was inside you already
and improve it. You are still Michael McCain. You're still the
same man you were when you crept in here with your self·
righteous agenda." ·
"I didn't . . ." McCain started to say, suddenly feeling ike
l he
had to defend himself. "You didn't improve my German."
This made Erwahlen laugh. McCain was all at once
delighted by the sound of Erwii.hlen's laugh. He found himself
smiling.
"An indulgence," Erwiihlen said, "the German. I hope it is
my only one. A father could expect his children to speak his
mother tongue, yes?"
A father.
McCain wasn't nearly that easily manipulated. No one with
half a brain could be that easily manipulated.
McCain went to the tall man and fell into a warm, tight, reas·
suring embrace. A tear came to one eye, but McCain didn't cry.
He didn't have to.
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I.
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Ngan closed the door and said, "I believe it's vomit. Vomit
and gasoline."
"You threw up?" she asked without looking up at him.
"No," he said, then, "Fenton?"
Jeane sighed and sat down on the bed. She was wearing loose
fittingbluejeans and a plain white T-shirt that fit her tightly around
her large breasts. She waswearingnewwhite tennis shoes, and her
hair was pulled back from her face. She looked like a white Vane�
Richards. She was canying a nylon duffel bag emblazoned with the
logo of a shoe manufacturer. She dropped the duffel bag on the floor
and looked up at him. He couldn't see her eyes behind the sun
glasses. There was a bruise on the side of her mouth.
"It didn't go well," Ngan started for her.
She laughed uncomfortably and looked down, then took off
her sunglasses. Both of her eyes were black.
"Back at the ATF," Jeane said, "there would have been a
hearing. A series of hearings."
"Is he dead?"
Jeane nodded.
"Anyone else?·
•Anyone else dead?" she asked.
Ngan nodded.
"Two Chicago police officers."
Ngan sighed and crossed calmly to the other bed. He sat
down slowly, not looking at her.
"Fenton has been using his cosmetics company to poison
black people," she told him quickly. "The makeup turns them
white . . . in patches."
Ngan nodded and said, "That is new information. I'll inform
the Institute, and we'll see what can be done." There was a
silence, then Ngan asked, "And?"
"He calls his hookers Joyce," she said.
"Joyce Mannering," Ngan confirmed. "A character from a ·
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"Did he?"
"Yes, he did," she said. "He told me I.looked like her."
"You do," Ngan said with a humorless smile. "Don't you think?"
Jeane shrugged, irritated with the irrelevance.
"Did he mention Erwiihlen?" Ngan asked, sensing her impa
tience.
"In passing,• Jeane sighed and looked down at her duffel bag.
"Ngan," she continued, "I'm sorry. I don't know shit. I didn't find
out anything. He was a racist, but you knew that. He had a thing
for Marilyn Monroe lookalike hookers, but apparently you knew
that too. I guess he had connections with the Chicago Police
Department, but maybe only one, and that one's dead. He was a
rich, white racist who thought he was one of the chosen people."
Ngan nodded and said, "Did you see anything unusual? Was
there anything out of the ordinary about Fenton himself?"
Jeane laughed loudly for almost a minute. Ngan looked at
her with a half-smile the whole time.
"I shot him off a twenty-some-story balcony,• she said, "but
he didn't die."
Ngan stopped smiling. Jeane wasn't laughing.
"I got the hell out of there," Jeane continued, "but he was wait
ing for me in the alley. He was all messed up, but he was alive. I
shot him in the head, then, so I assume he's dead. I sort of passed
out. That's when the cops got me. When we were driving away I
saw a van from Fenton's company pulling into the alley. The driver
of the van made eye contact with the white cop."
"And you shot this police officer?" Ngan asked.
"Yes, I did,• Jeane said, "but only after he killed his own part
ner-a black guy, of course.•
"You learned a great deal, Jeane," Ngan said reassuringly. He
was sincere.
"Ngan,• she said, "I'm telling you the whole thing was blown
to hell."
Ngan shrugged and said, "It could have gone better, certainly.
The Hoffmann Institute has ways of explaining away dead bod
ies, but not too many dead bodies and not too often. Still, Fen
ton's having survived a fall like that was serendipitous."
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voice stem.
"No," he said.
"Because if you sent me there to kill him -"
"l did not send you there to kill him," Ngan said flatly, "and
neither did the Institute."
"How did he do that?" she asked, still not entirely satisfied with
what she'd heard from Ngan. "How did he survive that fall? And he
was strong, too. Too strong for a man his-for a man any age."
"You will have to believe me when l say that l am not at all
certain how he managed that," Ngan said. l honestly do not
"
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were open, and one teenager stood behind each of them. She
couldn't see their face-Si but she could tell they were wearing let
ter jackets. She couldn't tell for sure if they were armed or not,
but she didn't think they were.
"Who's that?" she called to them, playing it cool at first.
"What the hell 1s this?" one of the boys-the driver-asked.
"You with the chink?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, fellas," Jeane said,
"but you're making a lot of noise out here, and people are trying
to chill out for the everung."
The boy on the passenger side looked up at the sky, a deep
indigo showing only three bright stars. It was after seven. The
scattered old buildings of Lesterhalt stood out on the perfectly
flat horizon in boxy silhouettes.
"You chillin' out?" the driver asked, mocking her.
"Tryin' to," she said. "What can I do for you boys?"
Both of them l.aughed, and the driver said, "You ain't half bad
lookin' for an older lady, but you talk like a rugger. Your old man
beat you up for that or something else?"
"That's not a very nice thing to say," she told him. "Why
don't you guys go find something else to do torught?"
The boys looked at each other, and the driver said, "Maybe
we could do you."
Anger flooded through Jeane, and she wanted to punch this
brat in the face. She choked it back and said, "Not in this life
time, juruor, but thanks for making an old lady feel special."
There was a silence from the boys that Jeane didn't like, then
the driver said, "Are you rejecting me?"
Jeane didn't say anything, deciding on the fly to let him stew
on it for a minute.
. She saw the driver put rus tight foot up on the top of the
door. The window was rolled down. He straightened his leg,
and it looked like he was going to stand on the top of the door.
Jeane's hand went to her back and curled around the handle of
the gun. The boy sailed up into the air in such a high, long arc
it made Jeane gasp. ffis jacket ballooned out behind him , aild
he stretched his arms to his sides. He seemed to fly, crossing
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In f tut d 1 I t e a r:e
the thirty feet between the car and Jeane in the time it took her
to draw her gun.
The boy hit the ground in front of her, standing, and Jeane
leveled her gun at him. She didn't even see his hand come up. It
was just on her wrist as if he'd shot it out of a cannon. The boy's
fingers tightened on her wrist, and it exploded in pain. Her fin
gers opened reflexively, and though she couldn't squeeze the
trigger, she didn't drop it.
"Now we'll see who-"
The boy stopped'talking, the braces on his teeth glinting in
the light from the headlights, when a siren roared into life. Jeane
had heard the sound before. It was a fixture of the Midwest and
Great Plains. It was a tornado siren.
Instinctively she looked up. She could see more stars now in
the indigo sky. It was clear. The warm spring air was still. The
boy looked behind him at the car, then let go of her wrist and
turned.
Jeane suppressed the sudden urge to shoot him in the back
of.the head. She'd been through a lot in the past several hours
but managed to maintain some self-control.
He walked quickly back to the car. The passenger had
already climbed in and closed the door. The driver didn't look
back at her. He just slid into the car, slammed the door shut, and
started the engine. The siren blared loudly.
"Hmm," Ngan grunted from behind her.
Jeane put her gun away, and the teenagers roared out of the
motel parking lot, squealing off into the darkness.
127
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wore dress slacks and jeans. They had brown hair and blond hair
and red hair. Some were bald. The only thing they all had in com·
mon was that they were all white, and they were all men.
So the men were ordinary, rounded up from any city or town
in America. The room, like the hallway, was completely ordi·
nary, down to the attention to fire safety and the maroon and
grey seats. This wasn't some hidden volcano lair. Someone
bought this stuff. Someone built it from blueprints using mate·
rials easily purchased from reputable manufacturers. Workers
had been here-and inspectors, electricians, and plumbers.
A few rows down and to one side McCain recognized a famil·
i face, but he had trouble remembering the man's name. He
ar
was tall and thin with dark hair, wearing a navy blue suit and a
gold pinky ring. McCain was sure he knew this man and should
say something, but he cou1dn't-
Tom.
His name was Tom, and he had something to dp with
McCain's being here. Tom . . . Casale. That was it. Tom Casale.
McCain took his seat and was not at all afraid.
On the stage was a podium that had the simple script Cainp
Clarity logo on it. Behind the podium was a row of chairs-four
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of them. The back of the stage was a tall wine-red velvet curtain.
Three men in suits stepped up.onto the stage and smile-talked
to each other as the audience settled in. McCain was two-thirds
of the way up the auditorium and had a little trouble seeing the
faces of the men on the stage at first.
The three men sat down and stopped talking to each other. .
They were facing out toward the audience and McCain cohld see
their faces now. 1\vo of them were senators. McCain had spent
enough time in D.C. and always knew.enough people who knew
people who knew people. It paid to know who the players were.
One of the senators was a Republican from Illinois, the other
a Democrat from North Carolina. The third man was Albert Bar
rington, the Secretary of Labor. He was a close friend of the
President's and a well-known moderate. McCain had heard him
speak at a Bar Association dinner in Baltimore. Barrington had
talked about every American's right to work.almost at the same
time as he talked about a corporation's responsibility to its
shareholders. He hadn't managed to walk the fence as much as
work it like an Olympic gymnast on a balance beain.
A spotlight focused on the podium, and McCain couldn't help
but look back at the source of it. At the top of the auditorium
was a teenage boy working the spotlight. He was standing stiff,
at attention, and his face had a sort of alien glow, a look McCain
had never seen on a teenage boy: reverence. McCain turned to ·
the stage, then back to the teenager.
Jerry. The kid's name was Jerry. As if the boy could hear
McCain's thoughts, he looked down. Their eyes met, and McCain
smiled. Jerry nodded, his face blank, noncommittal, then looked
back at the stage, tipping the spotlight just the tiniest bit.
McCain faced front and saw Secretary Barrington stand and
move to the podium. Applause thundered through the room. He
squinted into the spotlight then turned to the audience with a
practice·d smile. He waved, caught the eye of someon� n
i the
audience, and smiled and winked at whoever it was. He set his
hands lightly on either side of the podium and exhaled lightly. It
It was a way to
echoed in the microphone, and McCai11 smiled.
determine f
i the mkrophone was live without looking silly
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head. smiling.
"I didn't think so." Erwahlen looked back up at the audience
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and asked, "Would you trust him with the future of your busi·
ness, your home, your nation, or your world?"
A murmur of "no's" washed through the audience.
McCain thought of a guy named Freddie Mitchell. Freddie
lived in the dorm with McCain their first year at Yale. He was in
pre·med, and he was good. If he wasn't at the top of his class,
he was pretty damned close. A week before lie was sent to Camp
Clarity McCain had read n
i an alumni newsletter that Frecidie
had been named to the faculty of Johns Hopkins School of Med·
icine.' Freddie Mitchell was black, and his father was the comp·
troller of a successful publishing company n
i Philadelphia.
"We are not the chosen of God," Erwiihlen said, his voice
heavy, filling the auditorium with sheer importance. "We created
God. That is something no African savage could do.!'
The audience laughed again, and a chill ran down McCain's
back. A sweat broke out on the back of his neck when they
started clapping and he joined in. His head spun when he stood
with them, and his heart raced when Erwiihlen smiled.
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"About Fitz?"
Ngan sighed and said, "He could be dead alt:eady."
A car drove by, fast, heading the same direction the teenage
boys had roared off in. "We could follow the crowd, go fmd him, ·
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overturned where the parking lot of the motel gave way to the
parking lot ofthe laundromat ne:s.t door. A woman was standing
over the cart, holding a laundry basket full of neatly folded
clothes. She bent down slowly, stiff, old, and .in obvious pain.
She grabbed a comer of the shopping cart and righted it quickly,
then herself a bit less quickly.
She was black, her tight hair dusted with grey. She weighed
easily as much as Jeane and Ngan put together and was wearing
a green paisley housecoat. Her shoes were new, plain white can
vas tennis shoes that seemed odd on the little feet at the ·ends
of her massive legs.
The old woman looked up and caught Jeane's stare. A brief
flash of uncertainty-not fear-passed across her face. Jeane
was about to look away when the old woman winked, then
smiled. Jeane realized her own face was blank as she watched
the old woman put her laundry basket back into the shopping
cart and start pushing it into the motel parking lot.
"She noticed you," Ngan said. "You should speak with her."
Jeane turned to him and asked, "Why me?"
"She saw you," Ngan told her. "She smiled. You are a woman.•
"You're a minority," she said before thinking.
"I am Tibetan," he said. "There are far too few of us in Amer·
ica to be considered a proper minority, Agent Meara."
She hated it when he called her that.
"And woman," she said, "is nigger of the world."
Ngan smiled, said, "A wise Asian woman said that, I
believe,• and turned back to the motel room door.
Jeane didn't watch him go. She strolled as casually as she
could, intercepting the woman as she passed in front of the
motel doors. The woman watched Jeane approach with a wel·
coming, knowing look.
"Hi," Jeane said lamely.
"Good evening to you, ma'am," the woman said.
"Lovely night," Jeane said. She stopped a few feet from the
woman, who stopped walking as well.
"Tornado sirens were blowing," the old woman said. Her
voice had a tired, smoke-gravel edge. "Not a cloud in the sky.�
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"Well," the old woman said, "if you're here with that Chinese
fella, I guess you're not from the hotel at least."
"The hotel?"
Edith nodded, the smile disappearing from her face and the
laugh disappearing from her voice. "Camp Clarity, they call it.
It's some kind of whites-only country club or something outside
town. It wasn't long after that place opened up that things
started to change around here. For the worse, I can tell you."
Jeane nodded and said, "That's why we're here."
She wanted Edith to know that someone cared enough to
come here and do something. Of course, Jeane didn't know what
they were actually going to do. The look on Edith's face made it
evident that the old woman didn't hold out much hope for their
success.
"Well, good for you, honey," she said quietly. "You and that
Chinese man are going to do what? Expose them? Put them on
the TV?"
"No, no," Jeane said. "Nothing like that."
There was a moment of hesitation where it was obvious to
Jeane that Edith wanted to hear more. Jeane had nothing more
to say.
"What about you?" Jeane asked. "Have you ever had a run-in
with these teenagers or anyone from Camp Clarity?"
"Oh, no, darlin'," she replied. "They don't have anything to
say to an ol' woman like me. There's been no cross butnin' or
anything like that. It's the same old same old in some ways,
y'know? Little intimidations here a.ad there-looks, whispers,
the word 'nigger' when you turn your back." She scoffed harshly
and said, "Little boys think a colored woman my age ain't never
been called a nigger."
Jeane forced a smile, then nodded for her to continue.
"Ain!t much else to say, darlin'. Town's up and gone cracker
is all. Guess it just happens sometimes, especially n i _a little
town like this that's seen its last factory boarded up and shipped
off to China or some such place. Ain't a lot for a white man in
Lesterhalt to do but feel sorry for himself."
"That sounds like an excuse," Jeane said.
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Jeane stepped back into the motel room, pushing the door
closed behind her. She reached back and turned the deadbolt.
"What did she have to say?" Ngan asked.
He was sitting straight on the edge of one of the beds-the
one farthest from the window. Jeane looked at him for a few sec
onds, and his face remained passively expectant. She crossed
the room to the dresser and picked up her purse. Ngan remained
silent as she fished for her cell phone.
"The town," she told him, "has gone cracker. She's moving
to St. Louis, and I doubt she's the only person of color who's
likely to do that. She said that the boys are going to kill you
unless we leave now."
Jeane found her cell phone, flipped it open, and looked down
at the lighted display.
"I'm not sure what it means to 'go cracker,' " Ngan said, "but
I assume she meant that minorities are no longer welcome in
Lesterhalt.•
"Who's Lieberman?" Jeane asked, still looking at her.phone.
"From the ADL?" Ngan prompted.
Jeane looked up and nodded. "He's left an email message for
•
you on my account. n
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: behind him.
"Does he have to stand there like that?" McCain asked7 let
ting his eyes shift to one side to indicate Jerry. "He's making me
nervous with that thing."
Barrington looked up at Jerry and made a shooing motion.
McCain looked back and saw Jerry reluctantly shuffle to one
side. The gun was still pointed at the back of McCain's head.
"Kids with guns?" McCain asked facetiously, eyeing Secre·
tary Barrington.
"Jerry's eighteen years old," Barrington said, "aren't you,
Jerry?"
"Yes, sir," Jerry answered dully.
"Old enough to be tried as an adult," McCain said, "but that's
not much of a comfort." ·
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"The ilickname?"
Barrington nodded.
"A bad joke," McCain replied. "An inside joke-a family
thing."
Barrington nodded, brushing the answer off and makllig it
obvious he didn't care where the nickname came from.
"Why am I here, Mr. Secretary?" McCain asked. "And why
aren't I dead?"
"Mr. Erwiihlen thought we might have a nice chat," Barring
ton replied. "And Mr. Erwiihlen thought we might have a nice
chat."
McCain laughed.
"Seriously, Fitz," Barrington said, "we don't kill people
here."
"I see," McCain said dryly. "So Jerry's in charge of what
opening cans?"
"Jerry's in charge of doing what he's told," Banington said.
"He's here to protect me, not to kill you."
"A step down from the Secret Service."
Barrington smiled and said, "You're quite an accomplished
smartass, Fitz. My compliments. Can Jerry fix you a drink?"
"No, thank you," McCain said. "Something tells me I should
stay sober."
"Good for you. A Diet Coke or something then?"
"Nothing," McCain said flatly. "Thanks."
Barringto� set his chin on his hand and his elbow on the
desktop. He stared at McCain for a few seconds, his brow knit
ted in earnest, concerned interest. "What did you think of the
speech?" Barrington asked.
McCain shrugged and said, "Bullshit, delivered well."
Barrington smiled at McCain's honesty. "Very good," he said,
"most people in your situation would be kissing my ass."
"You want me to kiss your ass?" McCain asked sincerely.
"No, thank you," Barrington replied. "I really do want your
honest thoughts. I understand that what Erwiihlen said was
controversial. You know who I am, right? You know the position
I hold?"
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years?"
"I will be at Erwahlen's side, Fitz," Barrington answered
with no small show of pride. "I'll be one of the masters of the
·
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orange glow from behind the cheap curtains and shafts of light
from bullet holes in the wall and door it
l the room, but only
barely.
"We need to get you to a hospital," she said, scanning the
dresser, the bed near the door, then the floor for her cell phone.
"I'm not sure," came Ngan's 'quiet voice from the space
between the bed and the wall, "that is a . . . a good idea."
Jeane tried to look at him but could see only the bed, the
wall, and a shadow between. "What do you mean? You've been
shot. You're bleed-"
She was discussing it-having another infuriatingly circular
conversation with Ngan. She realized she was standing no more
than eighteen inches from the motel room phone.
"l will be fine," Ngan's voice drifted up again.
"Put pressure on the wounds, Ngan," Jeane said, and
reached down for the phone. "Press down as hard as you can."
"Do not call the police," he said.
Jeane lifted the receiver and began to put it to her ear. "I'm
calling an ambulance."
"Can you be sure that Erwiihlen doesn't control the ambu·
lances, the paramedics, firemen, and police?" Ngan asked.
Jeane again looked over at the dark spot fo which he lay,
the receiver still in her hand, but she hadn't yet put it to her
ear. The thought made her wince. She was embarrassed and
angry by how often she was getting embarrassed and angry.
She was talking to the floor next to a cheap motel bed, negoti·
ating with a man who'd just been riddled with automatic
weapons fire about the nature and immediacy of his medical
care.
Jeane put the phone to her ear and ignored Ngan when he
said, "I have to insist that you not contact the authorities here."
There was a dial tone, sharply reassuring· in Jeane's right
ear. She reached a finger to the phone, aiming without �g
. for the nine. It would have been a simple thing. A shift in space
of a quarter of an inch or less. It would have taken virtually no
effort at all, normally. How many times had she dialed a phone?
She could believe a million times.
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"I will appear to have passed out," Ngan said, his eyes still
closed. "I will seem unconscious-even comatose, but please do
not panic."
Jeane felt warm, thick blood on her hands, soaking into her
top.
"I am not dying," he said. "Do not think I'm dying. Trust me.
Trust me, and wait."
Jeane sighed, and carried him out into the cool night air.
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a �
.et a lot of action, Jerry?" McCain asked the teena er
following him. "The Uzi work for you?"
"Just shut up, man," Jerry scowled. "This way.•
McCain glanced back to see Jerry nod at a side cor
ridor. McCain turned the comer, and Jeny, gun in hand,
followed him. At the end of the little blank corridor was
a glass door, revealing darkness beyond.
"They let you in the bar here, Jerry?" McCain asked.
Jerry was taking him. at McCain's request, to Camp
Clarity's bar. Barrington had, after all , given him the
(escorted) run of the place, and the bar was always the
best place in any hotel to ·get a sense of the clientele.
McCain couldn't wait to get a load of the bar in this
place.
"Jerry?" McCain pressed when the boy didn't answer.
McCain pushed the door open and let it close on the
teenager, who caught it with a grunt and the clatter of
the gun on the steel door frame. The air outside was
cool, and there was a nice breeze. McCain realized he
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couldn't remember the last time he'd had a lungful of fresh air.
They crossed the short space between two buildings, their
feet scraping on gravel.
"Hey," McCain said, ·"you never told me if the Uzi worked for
you. If it does, I might pick one up for myself. What do you
think, the young·ladies dig on that?"
"It's not an Uzi, asshole," Jerry grumbled. "Just go."
"Really?" McCain asked, not looking back at the kid. "I
thought it was an. Uzi."
"Uzis are crap," Jerry said, "designed by a Jew. This is a
SITES M4 Spectre, man. Mr. Erwii.hlen wants us to have the
best."
"Who said that was the best?"
"Mr. Erwii.hlen."
McCain got to the door at the end of the gravel path and
stopped, his hand on the handle. "You want to shoot me, eh,
Jerry?"
Jerry stopped, brought the gun up to his eye and sighted
slowly, carefully down the barrel. McCain locked his eyes onto
the kid's.. He wasn't afraid. He knew Jerry wouldn't shoot him
unless he was ordered to.
"Why aren't I dead?" McCain asked him quietly.
Jerry stared at him across the gun sights.
"Oh," McCain said, "that's right. You only do what you're
told, right, Jerry?"
Jerry's right eye began to close just for a second, but not all
the way, then opened again. McCain leaned in toward the boy,
who edged the tip of the gun barrel up half an inch. His eyes nar
rowed in warning. McCain could see sweat beading on the
teenager's forehead.
"The New World Order," McCain whispered in mock confi
dentiality, "needs punks too, I guess."
Jerry let the gun fall, then looked down at the ground. He
glanced back up at McCain and his face flushed. McCain turned
and opened the door into the subdued, dimly lit bar area. He was
·
pleased to see that Jerry hesitated before.following him in.
McCain put Jerry out of his mind easily enough and took
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success."
The bartender appeared w:ith the Minks on a small engraved
silver tray. He placed Camp Clarity cocktail napkins on the table
and set the drinks down on top of them. Pemberton didn't look
at the bartender the whole time, but he stopped speaking when
the black man was within earshot. McCain looked at the floor,
and the bartender walked away soon enough.
"So; Pemberton said, "what do you do there in Portales?"
"I sell used office furniture,• McCain lied, taking the occu-
pation from an old Tom Waits song.
"Any money in that?" Pemberton asked.
McCain shrugged, "Once you get past the tenth store, yeah."
Pemberton held up his scotch, said, "Good for you,• and
drank it down.
McCain smiled and took a small sip, wincing at the potent
whiskey's burn. Pemberton hardly seemed to notice his.
"So, Greg,• he went on, "you've come to Camp Clarity for the
first time. You've spent a little time in the vril?"
McCain nodded.
"You've spent a little time in the vril, • Pemberton continued,
"'and you're feeling good. You're a like-minded ndividual,
i you
admire Erwahlen, but you're looking for the inside scoop, eh?"
McCain shrugged and said, "I don't know, Skip, I'm just feel
ing kinda like the new guy.•
Pemberton smiled, nodded, and said, "We were all new guys
at one point, Greg, but that won't last long. I think you'll find
.Camp Clarity to be the most welcoming place you've ever expe.
rienced. There is practically no place in the world I'd rather be.•
"It's an exclusive club," McCain tested. .
•And it's not just that,• Pemberton said. "Camp Clarity is a
. refuge, a school, a hospital . . . everything all at once. I can tell
you, Greg, that I've been to so many places that were, on a bas·e
1eve1, pretty similar to this. This executive retreat business is
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getting bigger all the time, but at those places I learned crap
like time management and how to work with difficult people
like I need anyone tell me stuff like that. Here, though, it's like
a whole different world. There's a richness to this place, both
spiritually and emotionally. It's very personal and can be very
powerful.
"Anyway," Pemberton added, "I'm not even sure how exclu
sive it is anymore. Lots of new faces . . . Would you believe the
other day I was on a flight from Chicago to D.C., and I see a guy
in coach reading a pamphlet-a Camp Clarity pamphlet. I said
something to him, and he looks up, and would you believe it's· a
goddamned Chinaman? A bald little Chinaman with blue eyes! I
about shit my pants."
McCain made himself laugh and was sure he pulled off the
required level of genuineness. Blue eyes. An Asian man with blue
eyes. Pemberton was describing Ngan. But how could.that be?
"So," McCain said, changing the subject, "you're from
Chicago?"
�Just passing through. I run a company in Detroit you might
have heard of-especially if you like SUVs."
McCain lifted an eyebrow and said, "Not bad. What brought
you to D.C.?"
"Damn EPA," Pemberton scowled. "I've got a car powered by
rechargeable batteries that'll go ninety miles an hour for six
hours at a stretch. I can make 'em for four thousand dollars and
sell 'em for twenty, but the EPA is giving me problems about the
batteries."
"I thought the EPA liked that sort of thing," McCain said
naively, "electric cars."
Pemberton scoffed, saying, "Like hell. See, there's a certain
group of oil guys from Texas and Oklahoma who would rather
not see the internal combustion engine go away, and they own
the damn EPA."
"Can you do anything about that?"
Pemberton shrugged and said, "We'll see. Actually, that's
·
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;f.l'-.cCain awoke with a headache worse than he'd ever
experienced in his life. He was laying on his stom·
ach on a soft leather sofa, his left arm draped off the
side, hand resting on cold linoleum tile. His eyes were
dry, and they hurt.
He sat up, using both hands to muscle his body up
and around to sit with his feet on the floor. He was still
wearing the same clothes from the night before, the
clothes he'd found waiting for him in the little dorm
room.
He looked around the room, wincing once when his
eyes first moved. It was dark, but not completely. Along
one wall of the big room was a row of cabinets and a
black countertop that made him think of high school
chemistry class. There were sinks, a Bunsen, burner,
something that looked ike
l a little centrifuge. In the
center of the room were two steel gurneys with no mat·
tresses. Next to them was a wheeled tray on which sat
a gleaming array of surgical implements. It took
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"I beg your pardon," the man said, his accent thick. "I didn't
mean to startle you."
"Who is that?" McCain asked, his voice shaking and uncon
trolled. "Who's there?"
Erwiihlen stepped into the weak light next to Jeane's dead .
body and looked down at her, his face sad, his eyelids heavy.
"This is not right," he said, passing a hand over the dead
woman.
McCain opened his mouth to scream a string of obscenities ·
at the man, but he stopped himself. He was alone now, sur
rounded by the men who had already killed his closest friends in
the world. He was all that was left of what must have been the
i vestigation in the eighty-four-year history of the
most botched n
Hoffmann Institute.
"You are angry with me." Erwiihlen said, his voice soft and
condescending. "I understand that. I am sorry to tell you that
these are not the first people who have died. These are not the
last people who will die in the service of the future."
"The future?" McCain almost sobbed, not sure what to say.
"The future of humanity," Erwiihlen said. "The woman. Were
you in love with her? Did you have a relationship with her?"
McCain squinted at. him, shook his head, and said, "Jeane?
No . . . no, I didn't."
•And the man?"
•His name was Ngan," McCain said. "Her name was Jeane."
Erwiihlen just stared at him.
McCain took a deep breath and said, "Ngan was like a . . .
like an uncle to me."
. "Grow up, Michael McCain." Erwiihlen said.
McCain shuddered like a child and said, "You're going to kill
me too."
Erwiihlen laughed. "Not today, Michael. Not ever if you·take
a deep breath and start to listen to the people around you." He
waved a hand over Ngan and Jeane. "You're not in their club any
more. You're in mine. Mine is better."
McCain said nothing but nodded because he wasn1t sure
what else to do.
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"I want you to have a look around," Erwii.hlen said. "You still
haven't had a chance to see what we do here."
"That's what Barrington said," McCain said, looking at the
floor.
"Secretary Barrington was correct," Erwii.hlen replied. "You
may see something that will help you forget this unfortunate
sadness."
McCain looked up at him and asked, "Can I leave here? Can
I go home if I want to?"
Erwii.hlen looked at him for a long time, then said, "No. I'm
sorry. If you let yourself understand Camp Clarity, you won't
want to."
"What am I going to see?" McCain asked, looking back down
at the floor. He realized then that he was avoiding the bodies
more than Erwii.hlen's eyes.
"The truth," Erwii.hlen said. "Isn't that why you came here in
. the first place?"
"I suppose it is," McCain admitted.
"Then follow me."
Erwii.hlen turned to the only door and walked out, his back
to McCain. McCain hesitated, but Erwahlen never slowed.
McCain sighed and knew he was actually afraid of being left
behind. Without looking at the dead bodies of his friends,
McCain followed Erwii.hlen out.
They went down another featureless corridor that ended in a
stairway up. McCain lost sight of Erwii.hlen again going up the
stairs. He heard a door open, then close, and came around the top
of the stairway. He went through the glass door there and into
bright sunshine and a cool spring morning. McCain didn't look
back at the building he came out of. In front of him was a cement
sidewalk that led to the edge of a big flat field of green grass. It
could have been a soccer field, maybe football, but with no goals
on either side or sqipes on the grass.
About two dozen men in casual clothes, some in sweats,
were gathered on the field. They were mostly broken up into
small groups, chatting with each other, obviously waiting for·
something. When they caught �ight of Erwii.hlen striding up to
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them in that solid, strong gait of his, they actually burst into
applause. McCain hesitated, missing a couple steps behind him,
but the clapping men didn't seem to notice McCain at all.
Eiwii.hl.en shook a few hands, smiling in his typically jovial
manner, and McCain came up behind him.
•very well, gentlemen," Eiwii.hl.en called ·out to the men on
the field. "Let us begin with two lines, facing each other." ·
The men scattered and quickly formed into two lines, sepa
rated by about forty feet of freshly cut grass. They all seemed
anxious, excited, maybe a little scared. McCain recognized
Clembert Pemberton and a few men from the speech, including
Tom Casale. Jerry was there with two other boys, again armed
with submachine guns. Jerry was wearing a shoulder holster
over a Lesterhalt High School football T-shirt. A chrome-plated
automatic hung from under his arm.
McCain watched Eiwii.hl.en smile at Jerry, who beamed at the
attention. The older man held out his hand, and Jerry, smiling
sheepishly, pulled out the gun and placed it. gently onto
Eiwfilllen's outstretched palm.
Eiwahl.en turned and addressed the anxiously waiting men.
"You've all attained a level of ability that makes me so proud. !ch
liebe Sie alle. We have a very special guest with us today. He is
new to us. Michael . . . " Eiwahl.en turned to McCain and waved.
�Michael McCain, come over here."
McCain scanned the faces of the men on the field. They were
all staring at him expectantly. He had been singled out by
Erwahlen, and that obviously meant a lot to them-meant
everything to them.
"Kommen Sie her, Michael," Eiwahl.en said again, still smiling.
McCain sighed and walked up to within arm's length of
Eiwii.hl.en. He kept his eyes mostly on the ground.
"Take this," Eiwii.hl.en said, holding the gun out to him, grip
first.
McCain took the gun without even thinking about it. He
looked at it as if he wasn't sure what it was, but really he just
didn't understand what he was supposed to do. Of course; there
was a moment when he thought he could just shoot Eiwahl.en,
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avenge the deaths of Jeane and Ngan, take out this Nazi, this
hatemonger with one twitch of a finger-and put some kind of an ·
end to it. McCain didn't shoot, though, because even though
there was one really good reason, there were dozens of reasons
not to shoot.
"Please go over there, Michael,• Erwiihlen said. "Stand in
line over there.•
Erwiihlen pointed to the line of men forty feet away, and
McCain walked slowly there and took a place in line: The men,
including Pemberton, smiled at him and made room in the line.
Erwahlen moved to stand in the line across from McCain, the
other men parting to make room for him too.
"Aim carefully," Erwiihl.en said, "and shoot me.�.
"What?" McCain said, hoping his voice would carry the
distance.
"You heard me, Michael.•
McCain tipped his head, glanced at the smiling, anxious men
around him, and said, "I don't, uh, I don't think so."
There was a smattering of chuckles along the two lines of
men, and Erwiihlen grinned. .
"You can't shoot me, Michael?" Erwiihlen asked.
"Go ahead,• one of the men next to McCain said. "It's okay."
"You're stronger than that, Michael," Erwahlen said. "I
killed your friends. That doesn't make you angry enough to
shoot me?"
McCain looked up and met Erwiihlen's cheerfully taunting
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McCain let his arm fall and dropped the gun by relaxing his
hand. It fell to the grass without a sound. McCain could hear
two men near him sigh in disappointment. Erwah.len smiled
knowingly and said, "Tom. you take it."
Tom Casale bent down and picked up the gun.
"Fire when ready, yes." Erwah.len said, then started to
mumble something in a language McCain thought at first might
be German, but it wasn't. He didn't recognize any of the words
didn't even recognize the language.
The gun went off, and McCain flinched, putting both hands
up to his ears in an instant. Erwah.len put up a hand, and McCain
tensed, sure that the man would drop within that single second
that seemed to be stretching on well past its boundaries.
McCain could see the bullet hanging in the air a foot in front
of Erwah.len's outstretched hand. Casale whispered, "That so
kicks ass. That is so kick-ass."
McCain looked at Casale as if he was an idiot, then turned
back to Erwah.len, who winked at him, still smiling. still holding
off the bullet with his palm. McCain felt his legs start to move. ·
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hate for the other with real, personal power, he builds loyalty,
and with the loyalty of the right people there is little he couldn't
do. If they follow him because they love him and because he can
give them something they can't get from anyone else, added to
the perceived necessity to combat the other, they will do any
thing for him. It's simple, brilliant, and most likely it will work."
Ngan stared at her silently, and she giggled. It was a
uniquely girlish sound that catne in sharp contrast to what she
had said-a speech of the sort Leah couldn't possibly have the
background and maturity to form on her own.
"You never told me why you're here, Leah," Ngan said, form
ing several possible answers of his own 'to that question.
"I needed to remind you of the three humors," she said, "and
the thangka."
"How could I have forgotten that?" he asked, ashamed of
himself.
"You didn't," she said. "You've been in America for a long time,
and·they think differently. You were raised to ask questions, Ngan.
You know . . . What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
She held up one tiny, thin-fingered hand and slapped her fin
gertips against the butt of her hand. There was a faint slapping
sound not un.like a clap.
"I'm an American," she said, "from the capital city. Can you
tell? I don't ask questions and ponder, I am asked questions to
which I devise an answer, one way or the other. It's that mind
set that's responsible for the American flags still stuck here and
there on the surface of the moon, or the airplanes.whizzing over
your head every day. A Tll>etan might wonder what is on the
mind of a man on the other side of the world and look for the
meaning of that within himself. An Ameri<;an invents the tele
phone, calls the man up, and asks him."
•Are you saying I've become an American?" he asked her.
"Would that be so bad?" .
Ngan looked back at the three humors and saw that the
wounds had healed. The first one seemed smaller somehow. It
started to <;ollapse on itself, and with a dull crack it split in"the
middle.
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He turned back to Leah and said, "You're not you, then. This
isn't your secret spring. It's mine."
Leah shrugged.
"You're a safe image," Ngan said, not trying to mask his dis
appointment. "You're here to make me feel better."
"Or," Leah said, winking, "you're the safe image for me, and
this is my secret spring." She raised a hand to indicate the topi
aries.
"Leah,• he asked, "are you all right?"
The smile went away from her face, and she looked down at
he floor of cherry blossoms. "You don't know," she said.
Ngan nodded, understanding that this wasn't Leah.
"You're not just an image, though," he said to the top of
Leah's head. "You have to have been brought here."
"Iwas brought here by you," Leah said. "You'll remember my
name."
Ngan said, "I should go."
"Not yet."
Ngan looked at the little girl with wide eyes. "Not yet?"
"Things out there move at different speeds," she explained.
"You need to wait here for your wounds to heal a bit more."
"You're right, of course," Ngan said, turning again to look at
the three humors.
The first one had transformed back into a topiary man, its
cherry-branch neck slowly bending back to look up at the sky
like the rest of the topiary men. The second was splitting open,
leaves folding slowly out from inside it. On the third, the bullet
hole was still closing, less red, smaller now.
"I'm worried that Jeane will take me to a hospital," Ngan
said.
"You asked her not to," Leah said, "and she promised she
wouldn't." .
That seemed to be enough for Leah, but it wasn·� quite
enough for him .
"She thinks you're killing yourself," Leah said with a wicked
smile.
Ngan smiled, glancing down.
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_ t llte sun had come up to find Jeane on the verge of
passing out. Under this patch of trees in southern
Illinois, she had sat in one place on a blanket of dirt,
dried leaves, moss, and the collected detritus of hun·
dreds of seasons. Her right hand was ·pressed over two
bullet holes in Ngan's abdomen, coated with blood that
was warm on her palm, cool and dzyi.ng on the back of her
hand. Her left hand pressed down on a third wound in
Ngan's chest, coated with blood the same way. She had
been sitting like that for almost eight hours, and just
about every part of her body was quivering with pain and
stiffness.
Ngan was still breathing, regularly and deeply. He
was asleep, but Jeane was still sure, had been sure all
night, that he was dying. He had three bullets in his gut
somewhere, and though it was possible-indeed had
happened-that he could be lucky enough that all tiu:ee
had missed killing him instantly, it was impossible for
him to simply recover on his own.
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She stared .out into the trees but still saw nothing. She lis·
tened intently and heard only a faint dry rustling in the weak
breeze, andthe sound of Ngan's soft, regular t)reathing.
"This sucks," she said in a clear voice that echoed in her own
ears.
. She'd been up all night, and her bodyhad pretty much given
up on her. Her legs were stiff, her neck was really stiff, her back
hurt, her elbows hurt, her shoulders burned, and her head
throbbed. Now, apparently, her mind was going on her too.
She turned back to · look down on Ngan and realized that
she'd stopped holding the wounds. The bleeding had stopped,
though, and she squinted at the bullet holes. They looked
smaller.
Something big moved behind her again.
She had left her gun on the ground next to Ngan in case she
needed it in a hurry, and this counted as needing it in a hurry.
She grabbed the gun and turned, the weapon out in front of her
at the end of a straight arm.
There was nothing there now, but she had heard something.
She inhaled, about to call out to whoever might be moving
. around in the woods, but stopped herself. She scanned the
woods and realized she couldn't see Ngan, who was behind her
now. Jeane didn't like not being able to see him.
She came up on her knees, ignoring the pain. Her gun shook.
She sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but only
marginally succeeded. She walked on her knees, then rolled
onto her behind, cros.sing to the other side of Ngan. A tingling
started in her legs. It was the most she'd moved them in too
many hours.
"Ngan," she said quietly but with force.
Ngan didn't stir in the slightest. His face was still perlectly
passive.
"Crap," Jeane whispered, strictly for her own benefit. .
It moved again, just off to her right, and she brought the gun
that way fa:st. She didn't see anything, just the trees and dirt and
brown underbrush.
A smaller rustle came from n i front of her, and she corrected
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the angle of her gun back in that direction. Sitting on the ground
in front of a tree maybe six feet away was a skinny grey squirrel.
Its bushy tail twitched once, and it looked off into the woods
with its black eyes at nothing at all.
·
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"What?"
"You're very tired," he said. "You've been meditating, but you
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didn't even know it. You were open to them enough to sense
them, but they couldn't have h� you. Still, it s
i unusual for you
into something that's obviously too big for us. You sent Fitz in
there with tio way out. You tell me I saw a demon when you can't
know what I saw-there's no such thing as demons. Goddamn
it, Ngan! Ghosts, monsters, gods, and de-"
·she laughed n
i place of a sob and put her face in her hands.
"You said five things," Ngan said. "That was only four
things."
She looked up at him, meeting his odd blue eyes wjth 1).ers.
She'd never felt so exhausted, so drained of physical energy.
. "What?" she asked him.
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,
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there?"
Jerry shrugged, not looking at him, and said nothing.
,
"It's okay " McCain impatiently. "Everybody else has been
spilling their guts. Erwahlen wants me to be a member of this
club, and has been encouraging . . .•
He trailed off, realizing Jerry wasn't even listening to him.
"Er gehtjeden zehn Tagen dahfn, • Nichts perched atop one of
the orange barrels.
The homunculus was wounded again, stained with his own
blood. One wing seemed broken and hung down limply at the
little grey man's side. McCain still understood German. Nichts
had said that Jerry went in there every ten days.
"Nichts," McCain said, his voice reflecting his genuine hap
piness at seeing the homunculus again. "!st alles bei sich in Ord
nung?"
"Yes," Nichts answered in German, "I am fine.•
"Hey stubby," Jerry said, also in Gei'man. McCain was sur
prised by the teenager's ability with the language, but then why
should he be? McCain could understand the language and speak .
it fluently having only been submerged in the vril twice. .
The homunculus looked at Jerry with narrow eyes and nod
ded. "You are missing the drills, Mr. Jerry." Nichts said.
Jerry shrugged. "Erwahlen wanted me to keep an eye on
Urinerstreckeansteckung here."
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itation."
McCain pretended not to hear that.
"To be safe," Nichts said, "we can keep this between us. An
impromptu change in personnel allocation-"
"Can dangerously imbalance carefully planned resource
management," Jerry repeated by rote. "I'll be back in an hour.
Patrick is right outside."
Nichts nodded, and McCain didn't turn. He heard Jerry leave
while he was still wondering about the. things Nichts was say·
ing. He seemed more intelligent since they'd spoken last, only
twenty-four hours ago. That had to mean something. .
"Why are you here?" Nichts asked when Jerry was gone.
"I wanted to see it again," McCain said honestly, "now that I
know a little more about it."
"Vril is everything," Nichts said simply.
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"Phantasms?" .
"You may be right,• Nichts said, ignoring the question. "They
might be dead, but they might not be."
McCain sighed at the ray of hope that felt so false. "If they're
still alive," McCain said, "I need that phone even more."
Nichts stepped back again, his feet once more scraping the
top of the orange plastic barrel. "He beat me last time," Nichts
said. "I can- get n
i to the storeroom where he keeps everyone's
telephones, pagers, computers, and such. I crawl in through the
ceiling. It angers him when I do this, and his punishments are
. . . severe."
"Nichts," McCain almost pleaded. "What can I do? I need
that phone-any phone that works."
"Can you take me with you?" Nichts asked quickly, obviously
wanting to get it out fast.
"Yes,• McCain answered. It was a knee-jerk response, but he
damned well needed that phone.
"You have a place for me?" Nichts asked.
"The Hoffmann Institute," McCain said gently, "the place I
work for, the people . . . they have experience with this kind of
thing. They could help you.•
·
"To be their slave instead of Erwiihlen's?" he asked.
"No," McCain said, "never a slave. Never a prisoner."
Nichts looked at him for maybe the space of two or three
heartbeats, then said, "Wait here."
ne
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·.
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.
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.
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when Jeane all but ripped it off him to get at his gunshot
wounds. His pants, simple grey linen suit pants, were wrinkled,
torn at one pocket, dirty, and bloody. One of his shoes had fallen
off, and torn pieces of dry leaves were stuck to his sock. His
other shoe :c.vas a remarkably clean black �gtip-not surpris
ing since he hadn't walked into the woods. .
Ngan was sitting against a small tree, breathing deeply and
touching the wounds lightly with the n i dex finger of his right
hand. He seemed pale, was sweating, and was otherwise not
· entirely well. His eyes were puffy and red.
"It's not coming back," Jeane said, "that thing?"
"No," he answered. "It is gone, and I doubt you'll see any
thing like it ever again."
"Good, because I'd hate to have the same hallucination ·
twice."
Ngan smiled, and Jeane tried not to look at him. "You seemed
so sure it was real," he observed.
She stood stiffly and stretched her back. There was a loud
pop that was followed by a surprisingly pleasant feeling. "Oh,"
she groaned. "I've been up all night. It's not at all unusual to
have hallUcinations from sleep deprivation. In school, my room
mate once stayed up for seventy hours straight to make up a
term paper she forgot about. She was sure she saw Godzilla
from the window of our dorm room."
"Godiila l ?" Ngan asked, groaning as·he continued to inspect
the gunshot wounds.
Jeane sighed and allowed herself a relieved, if tired laugh.
Ngan had never heard of any such thing, and though Jeane had
been initated by that in the past she made the conscious deci·
sion right then to start finding it charming.
"Godzilla," she said, "is a giant dinosaur-monster from the
movies."
"Ah," he breathed. "So she was mistaken about seeing this
dinosaur at your college?"
Jeane laughed and said, "It was a tree across campus."
"I see,• he almost whispered, brushing some dried dirt from
his hands. "So it wasn't any sort of chink bullshit?"
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Her body sagged all on its own, and she was afraid she was
going to fall.
"Fitz?" she asked. "Is that you?"
"Michael?" N:g�. still sitting on the ground, said.
"It's me." McCain said. His voice sounded strange, somehow
relieved in a way that made Jeane confused, made her have to
think about it. "You're alive." ·
"Alive?" she asked. "We're alive. How about you?"
"He told me you were dead," McCain said.
"Who?" Jeane asked. �Who told you that, Fitz?"
"You're all right?" McCain asked, ignoring her question.
"Ngan's been shot," Jeane told him. "He's managed to keep
himself alive, but he's lost enough blood that he could still be in
a lot of trouble. He needs help, but we're afraid to take him to a
hospital. Where are you?"
"Where are you?" he asked. "I might be able to help Ngan,
but you'll have to come here."
"Where?"
"Hold on." McCain said flatly.
"Hold on?" Jeane almost shrieked. "What do you mean? Fitz?
Fitz!"
Jeane felt as if her blood were suddenly boiling. She took a
step forward, took-her left hand off the tree, and balled her fin.
gers up into a fist.
"Fitz!" she shouted into the phone. "Michael!"
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already been a big help. You were right. My friends are alive."
Nichts nodded: "Erwahlen is skilled with phantasms."
"Illusions?" McCain asked. "Is that what you mean?"
Nichts rubbed his hands together and squinted. "Phantasms.
Making the unreal appear real . . ."
McCain shrugged and shook his head. "I guess. Anyway, can
you help me get my friends here?"
"Here?" Nichts asked, his gravelly voice almost shrill.
McCain stepped forward and squatted down in front of the
homunculus; They weren't quite at eye level. "They're not dead,
but one of them has been hurt."
"This would be a bad, bad idea," Nichts whined, shaking bis
head and wringing his hands.
"We've come this far, Nichts. . . ." McCain said.
"Too far already;" Nichts almost whispered.
"My friend has been hurt," McCain said, "and hurt very
badly. The vril will help hi-"
"No!" the little man shrieked. His leathery wings unfurled,
and McCain startled back, falling on his backside, his hand com
ing off the phone.
Jeane plainly said, "Damn it, McCain, you-!" before he
slapped his hand over the little speaker again.
Nichts wrapped himself ·in his wings, peering out at McCain
with one eye. "You have become insane here, Michael McCain of
Chicago. You will see to it that we are killed in a grisly, medieval
sort of way that will hurt and make us both afraid of-"
·
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U7
. It �
ours and dozens of short, battery-saving call later,
Jeane said into her cell phone, "Okay, we're at the
fence."
Jeane could hear McCain breathe a sigh of relief. She
looked over at Ngan, who forced a smile. He didn't look
good, but he didn't look much worse than when they'd
started. Their route through the bean fields of southern
Illinois had been a series of stops and starts as whoever
it was-Jeane thought McCain had called him �Neeks"
reevaluated their position from Jeane's detailed descrip·
tions of fence lines, tree stumps, distant water towers,
and traffic noise. The fact that McCain needed to trans·
late everything she said into what sounded like German
didn't speed things up any.
Now they were at the fence that surrounded Camp
Clarity, the center of the whole mess. She had been
exhausted and barely able to stand when they'd first
started out, but the sunny, cool day and the wcilk
supporting Ngan much of the way-had actually helped
2!9
g .w. ti r p a
her. She still wanted to sit down, and she almost leaned against
the fence but stopped herself. There could be security measures:
alarms, even electricity, that would make that a bad idea. She
made eye contact With Ngan to make sure he didn't touch it
either. He was smart enough to draw the same conclusion, and
he kept his distance. .
Beyond the fence was a parking lot. Jeane wasn't surprised
to see that most of the cars were expensive, nice vehicles.
"What do you see?" McCain asked her.
"A parking lot," she answered quietly, scanning for people.
She heard voices in the distance but saw no one.
"If you look up," he said, "can you see a big generic-looking
·
Ngan. They started walking along the fence line. Ngan stumbled,
and Jeane reached out to help him.
"You're very kind, Jeane," Ngan said, his pale, pained face
forming a crooked smile.
She sighed and said, "Thank you, Ngan. You're a . . . you're
a gentleman. And you're moving pretty well for a guy who was
shot three times less than twelve hours ago."
He smiled wider and increased his pace. She wanted to tell
him not to push himself but thought better of it. Ngan knew him
self better than she could ever know him. If he could go faster,
·
he should go faster.
They followed the fence around and came to the back of the
big building. There were no doors on that whole long side of
the warehouse and a good thirty feet of dirt, brown grass, and
gravel separated the fence from the building.
"Are you at the back of the building?" McCain asked through
the phone.
"We're__:.• Jeane started to answer, but stopped when a
teenage boy walked around the corner of the building.
He had a vicious-looking weapon hanging from a shoulder
strap and was looking down at the ground. Jeane pulled her gun,
and Ngan touched her shoulder.
"No," he whispered. "They will all hear."
He was right, Jeane knew. One gunshot would bring the
whole crowd down on them. She looked Ngan in the eyes, and
he .gave her a look that made it obvious he had some kind of
plan. Ngan. stepped forward, almost to the fence, and put his
hands on a tree to support his weight.
"We see the kid," Jeane whispered into the cell phone.
"Careful," McCain warned quietly.
As if on cue, Patrick looked up. Jeane's breath caught in her
throat, but she kept herself from bringing her gun up to aim at
the teenager. Patrick did bring his gun up to his _shoulder,
though, and aimed at Ngan.
"Who the . . . ?" the teenager called, his voice trailing off
even as his left elbow sagged and the gun pointed slightly down.
Jeane followed Patrick's seemingly dead gaze to Ngan's
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eyes. The older man had the teenager enraptured. Jeane remem
bered McCain describing Ngan doing something like this once
before.
"I need you to go to town for me,• Ngan said in a clear, level
voice that echoed against the side of the steel building. "Right
now."
"Town . . ." Patrick mumbled. His arms went limp, the gun
dangling, pointing harmlessly at the ground.
"Right now, Patrick," Ngan ordered.
The teenager nodded blankly, turned, and walked away, 9is
appearing behind the big building.
"Jesus," Jeane said. "You need to teach me how to do that."
Ngan closed his eyes and staggered away from the fence.
"It's not that . . . easy," he murmured.
"Jeane?" McCain asked from the cell phone.
"He's gone," Jeane told him "Ngan . . . just sort of told him
.
to go away."
McCain chuckled and said, "The goat caught in the gaze of
the snow leopard?."
"Yeah," Jeane said, "something like that."
"He really needs to teach me how to do that," McCain said.
"Yeah," Jeane replied. "Anyway, we're clear."
"Good," McCain said. "Ni�hts should be there."
"Neeks?" Jeane asked. "What does lie-?"
The sound Jeane made was part gasp and part scream. She
didn't register Ngan's reaction. The creature appeared at the
fence line, and Jeane was sure it was another demon. This one
was smaller, uglier n
i some ways, and not as openly menacing,
but it wasn't human. It was grey and wrinkled and squat, and it
had wings like a bat.
She tossed the cell phone into. her left hand and drew the
.380 from the back of her jeans with her right hand.
Ngan grabbed her wrist before she could aim, let alone fire,
and drew her arm up. She almost elbowed him in the face before
she realized it was him She spun on him, heard McCain say, "Is
.
he there?" from the phone, and was sure that when $he'd tum
around again the little monster would be gone.
232
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"Jeane," Ngan said, his eyes strong and compelling, "it's all
right."
Jeane turned and her lips pulled back from her teeth when
she saw that the monster was still there, cowering from her, hid·
ing behind one of its awful wings.
"I think this is Michael's new friend." Ngan said.
Jeane blinked at the thing and shook her head. From the
phone McCain said, "'falk to me, Jeane."
She put the phone to her ear and said, "Fitz."
"I'm over P,ere:· he said, his voice coming from the phone
and in person at the same time.
Jeane looked up and saw McCain come around from behind
the building. He turned his cell phone off with a beep and
smiled, looking at her first, then Ngan. The smile faded from his
face as Jeane turned off her cell phone. McCain looked them
both up and down.
"What happened to you guys?" he asked.
Jeane and Ngan both ignored the question. She was happy to
see him but was still more than a little unsettled by McCain's
new friend.
"What is it?" she asked. .
"That's Nichts," McCain said. "Don't. be afraid. There's noth
. ing to be afraid of."
"It's a homunculus," Ngan said, letting go of Jeane's arm.
Ngan looked at the little creature and said, "You are a homuncu
lus, aren't you, little one?"
·The thing McCain called Nichts tipped its head inquisitively
at Ngan, obviously not understanding.
"Don't bother, Ngan," McCain replied. He looked at Jeane
and said, "Nichts only speaks German. Say, 'Wir wollen eintreten,
bitte,' and he'll start digging."
"Wir . . ." Jeane started.
Nichts looked up at her, apparently recognizing th� word,
and it made Jeane jump. She almost brought her gun up, then
stopped herself and quickly tucked it back into the waistband of
her dirty jeans. She held her right hand up, still holding the cell
phone in her left hand.
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234
·� ti!tere were no demons here.
In the vril Ngan could feel no other presence. The
little link in the small sounds-and the brushing
touches that he had grown accustomed to in the world of
soid
l things was gone. He had studied what it meant to
be dead, and this was very much like that. He couldn't
use any of his senses. There was no temperature. There
was nothing to experience outside himself, so he turned
his attention inward.
There were things flying around like pollen or flower
petals, and the light had a golden-yellow cast. He
couldn't see, but there was a golden light.
Then Leah was there. Perfect again. Clean again.
Alive, happy, healthy, and whole again.
The breeze was coming from every direction at once.
The topiaries were there, not rigidly looking into the sky
again, but all arranged in a circle. Men looking outward
so that none of them seemed to be looking at any of the
others.
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him and he collapsed to the dry grass floor of the topiary gar
,
den. His mouth opened wide, and his throat tensed. His stomach
contracted, and it all came out.
Ngan had his eyes closed at first, then opened them when
he heard a thousand little clicking noises all at once. What he
saw made his stomach tighten more. Thousands of ants were
pouring out of him like vomit-thousands, hundreds of thou
sands, maybe millions. They were small, no longer than the
width of Ngan's littlest fingernail, and a bright yellow-gold
color.
They scurried away quickly the second they touched the
ground, splitting off into orderly groups and heading out into
· the far comers of the secret spring.
"There you go," Leah said calmly. "Now you can talk."
Ngan looked up at her. Ants were already crawling on her,
first a few, then a few dozen, then a few hundred. She never
flinched, didn't seem to notice the ants at all.
"Busy," she said, an insane gleam in her eyes, "aren't they?"
Ngan opened his mouth to say something, but again he was
only able to vomit out another few hundred thousand little gold
ants.
When he · seemed to be finished, Leah said, "Okay, now you
can talk."
"Ants?" he asked her, tense and expecting his throat to hurt.
It didn't.
She shrugged and smiled. An ant crawled across her open
eye, and again she didn't flinch. "They're very efficient," she
said, "and very small. "
·Ngan stood, looking at the ground all around him The whole.
circle of topiary trees, the ground all around him, and the
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ground all around Leah where she sat cross-legged on the moss
was covered with ants. Some of them were carrying leaves.
Ngan remembered the name for ants like that. Leaf-cutter ants?
Not very creative, but clear.
He looked at the topiary trees, and something about them
seemed different.
"The trees . . ." he started to say. .
Leah giggled and said, "Neat, huh?"
"They're eating the trees?" he asked her.
"Look at them more closely," she urged him.
Ngan did as she asked and realized quickly-that the ants
weren't taking leaves from the topiaries in Leah's secret gar·
den, they were adding leaves to a new tree. They were building
a new topiary tree. The legs were already finished up to the
knees.
"How much time has gone by?" he asked.
Leah laughed, and he laughed with her. It felt good. It was
then that he realized that the pain in his chest was gone. He
touched himself where the worst of the three wounds had been.
Leah noticed and stopped laughing.
,
"You're going to be okay " she said. "I'm glad."
"Michael was right," Ngan said, letting his hand fall from his
·
chest.
Leah nodded.
"This vril of Erwiihlen's." he continued, "has definite healing
properties. If I stay in long enough I will be able to survive a fall
like Fenton did. This is extraordinary."
"Yeah," Leah said, apparently bored. "It's swell all right."
Ngan looked at her and offered a smirking grin. "You are not
Leah."
"We went over all that, Ngan," she answered.
"The Medicine Buddha?" he asked.
Leah just shrugged, still covered with ants.
"I would have healed in time. no?" he felt the need to ask.
Leah nodded and said, "You know you should have healed
faster. You should have been okay in the morning, but you
weren't because you knew you bad to come here. You needed to
. !37
V .w. ti r ' a
still be sick, to still be weak, when you came to the vril. You
needed to be submerged. You needed to see it and feel it, touch
it and taste it and smell it. You had to experience it.•
"Why?" he asked.
"You know why,• was her non-answer.
The ants had the topiary man's torso finished.
"What are they building?" he asked.
"A man," she answered.
"What man?"
Leah giggled again. "You know what man.•
Ngan could literally hear something click in his mind, and he
said, "Erwiihlen."
"You'll need to stop him," Leah said. "Jeane's gun won't do
it, and if Michael's charm was enough, it would be over already.
The Hoffmann Institute will not stop him. You know you were
sent here to gather information; but you don't know what they
intend to do with that information, do you?"
"Leah," he said, "I'm not . . ." He tried to think what he was
trying to say, but wasn't he really saying what Leah was saying?
Wasn't she really him?
"Will they do anything. Ngan?" Leah asked.
"Or did they just want to know?" he asked himself.
"You already have some skills, Ngan," Leah said. "The vril
will give you more. You will have to kill him. You know that."
NThat was why I was sent here?" he asked.
The ants had finished the topiary-Erwii.hlen's arms.
"Jeane asked you," Leah said. "Michael thought about it."
"We're assassins?"
"You can be," Leah said. "You have some chance. Jeane will
help, Michael too, but in the end it will have to be you.•
"I am a gomchen," he said. "I am no assassin. I am a monk."
"Not any more, Ngan," Leah assured him. "You haven't been
for some time. The Hoffmann Institute is no monastery.".
The ants had started bui
l ding the topiary-Erwiihlen's head.
"I can't-• Ngan started.
"You have to," Leah said.
Ngan said, "With what? Empathy? That will kill this man
UB
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a .w. ti r p a ·
24D
In f lui d 1 1 I e n ce
"So, you were afraid of the Chinese and ran away," Erwahlen
concluded. "Therefore you know all about what it's like to live in
a world unified under one pristine vision."
Ngan felt a chill run down his spine and had to admit he was
intrigued at the possible directions this conversation might lerut
him, but it occurer d to him that if Erwiih.len was here, he must
have come into the secret spring through some link in the vril,
might even be floating in the golden liquid alongside him. Jeane
and Michael were out there, and Er\viihlen knew he was in the vril.
"It's all right," Erwiihlen said. "I have no intention .of killing
Michael McCain or the woman. If I really wanted you dead, you
would be dead already. I like this woman you brought. She has
a certain quality I find appealing. She seems to come from rea
sonable Aryan stock. It might be time to begin including women,
now that a solid base of strong men have be�n-"
"She won't have anything to do with you," Ngan interrupted.
•And you did try.to kill her. You tried to kill us both at the motel.
You came close to killing me, but Jea-the woman-survived
without a-"
"Jeane." Erwahlen interrupted. "You can say her name. 1 can
feel her name in you.n
Ngan said nothing. He had to think about the fact that
Erwahlen seemed to. be able to read Jeane's name from his
thoughts. Still, he recognized that Erwahlen hadn't addressed
the fact of the attempted murders.
"Your vril," Ngan asked, "will work on women?"
Erwahlen laughed and said, "It will work on anyone. I tell
my people it affects white men only because I want people ".'Jho
look like me and think like me around me more than people who
look and think differently. ls that so bad?"
241
· a .,r. ti r pa
U!
In f lul d a I I e n ce
to conclusions.•
"You hate," Ngan said, "and that has never led to a .positive
result."
ID f lut d 1 I I e n CB
tell she did believe him, though. She was smarter than that. She'd
seen things, experienced things in connection with this case that
had to be explained somehow, and Jeane would never allow her
cynicism to keep her from being prepared for the unexpected.
"Michael McCain ab Chicago," Nichts said from behind them.
Jeane jumped a little, turned her head just a bit, but didn'f
look at the homunculus.
"Wie geht's?" McCain asked the little man.
"Das st
i sehr arg, " Nichts warned. "Es geht bevorstehend sehr
schlecht."
"What did he say?" Jeane asked.
McCain turned around and stepped off the edge of the cis·
tern, dropping heavily to the cement floor in front of Nichts.
"He said," McCain translated, "that things are going to get
very bad, very soon."
Jeane chuckled, but McCain kept his eyes on Nichts.
"Sorgen Sie sich nicht, Nichts," McCain assured him. "fetzt
nicht /anger."
"Do I need to know what you're saying?" Jeane asked, turn·
ing herself to face McCain.
McCain looked up at her and held out a hand to help her
down. She scowled at him and stepped off, landing more easily
than he had without touching his hand.
"I was just reassuring him," McCain said. "He's afraid:"
Jeane spared the homunculus a suspicious, unpleasant
glance, and Nichts withdrew a step from her. She looked up,
studying one of the rows of orange barrels.
"Let me know if he says anything useful," she said. "I need
to take a look at these barrels. Seems this place has a security
measure after all."
"What sec-?" McCain started.
"Er wif,t, das wir hier sind, " Nichts interrupted, his voice quiv·
ering with unconcealed, unashanied panic.
"Who knows we're here?" McCain asked. Nichts stared
blankly, and McCain realized he'd spoken English. "Wer wiftt,
das wir hier sind? Eiwfilll.en?"
"Natiirlicherweise Eiwfilllen!" the homunculus said.
248
In f lui d a I I e n ce
"Wte?"
The homunculus put a wrinkled, callused hand to his own
face, and his whole body started to shake. McCain could see a
tear roll doWn Nichts's puffy grey cheek.
"Nichts,• McCain said quietly. "It's okay. Jn
ordnung. •
"Nein," Nichts sobbed. "Sie werden mil mir grollen. "
A chill ran up McCain's spine, and he almost yelled for Jeane.
McCain could tell Nichts was upset, maybe because he thought
McCain would be angry with him about something. McCain
couldn't think of anything that Nichts had done that would make
him angry-unless he'd put Jeane or Ngan in danger. McCain
looked up. Jeane was squatting next to one of the big orange
plastic barrels reading something written in small white print on
the side of the barrel near the bottom.
McCain realized that if Nichts thought he was going to be
angry, he was lucky he didn't know Jeane better. The little man
might have had a heart attack on the spot.
McCain wanted to reassure Nichts, tell him that he had noth
ing to worry about, that Ngan was only going to be in the vril for
maybe another half an hour, then they would all be off.
"Nichts," McCain said calmly, "Es gibt nichts um zu sorgen.
Ngan wird vielleicht nur eine halbe Stunde im vrilsein, dann sind wir
alle weg. •
Nichts looked up at him, dropping his hand from his eyes. He
only glanced at McCain's eyes, then looked away. McCain had
seen ashamed before, but nothing like what he saw painted on
the homunculus's face then.
"Es gibt etwas anders bei mich, daft Sie wissen sollen," Nichts
said slowly.
Something else McCain should know about him? McCain felt
like his heart slowed down as if anticipating a shock.
•Es gibt etwas um einen Familiar zu sein . . . • Nichts continued.
There is something about being a familiar . . .
"Der SchOpfer . . . •
The creator . . .
"Erwahlen kann sehen, alles die ich sehe . . . • Nichts alniost
whispered.
U8
g w. . ti r p a
250
IR f lul d 1 I I e n ce
"We need to get Ngan out." McCain said. "We need to get him
m
u .w. ti r p a
out of there and hope he ean walk well enough to book from this
place right now. n •
exploded all over Nichts's squat little body. The force of the sub·
machine gun fire sent Nichts sliding across the cement floor ·
between McCain and Jeane. The little man opened his mouth to
scream, but all that came out was a fountain of dark arterial
blood. He left a wide trail of gore on the concrete as he slid ten,
ifteen,
f twenty feet before coming to rest after a half spin.
McCain looked up to the source of the gunfire and locked
eyes with Jerry. The teenager gave McCain a smug scowl and
leveled the gtin at him.
McCain caught movement out of the comer of his eye and
sawJeane pull her automatic from the back of her pants, but she
kept the gun hidden.
Jerry shifted targets to her and sighted down the barrel as
Jeane brought her gun up in both hands, aiming.
Erwiihlen stepped up next to Jerry and held up a hand to
calm the whole room down. "Enough now," he said calmly, like
a vet talking to· an injured dog. "Ah, now, here we are. All
together at last. n
25!
.. i
. .
i53
g .w. ti r p a
254
In f lul d 1 1 I e n ce
!55
g .w. ti r p a
258
In flul d s i I e n ce
delight Jeny, it will make me feel very sad, and I will feel very
sad for as long as fifteen minutes. Then I will move on and
change the world to suit me. Last chance, Michael."
McCain opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
He just shook his head.
"Too bad," Erwahlen mumbled, then nodded to Jeny.
The teenager lifted the gun to his shoulder and started to
advance on McCain with long, confident, heavy-footed strides.
McCain held up a hand to shield his face. He knew he had maybe
three seconds at most to live, and he realized Jeane was still-
"Hey! Asshole!" Jeane said sharply, tearing Jerry's attention
away from McCain.
She had her left arm up with her bloody forearm in front of
her face. He'r gun was in her right hand, which was up next to
her right temple. Jerry turned toward her and she snapped her
right arm out, stepping forward at the same time. The gun actu·
ally whistled as it shot through the air, tumbling end over end.
Jerry flinched, and the gun hit him in the chin hard and bounced
to strike the top of his gun. The weapon came out ofJerry's hand
and clattered onto the cement floor, sliding a little bit in
McCain's direction when it bounced off Jeny's instep.
McCain dived for the submachine gun. He grabbed it with his
right hand, and without thinking he tossed it into the vril cis·
tem. There was a dull, bubbling splash, and the weapon was
gone.
"Fitz!" Jeane screamed. "I could have-"
"Bitch!" Jeny shouted over her.
McCain was still moving toward the teenager. With no plan
of action whatsoever, he smashed into Jerry's side. McCain's
momentum was easily enough to knock Jeny down, but when he
<;,aw the result of the tack.le he was pleasantly surprised. Jerry
sprawled all arms and legs into the low wall of the vril cistern
and was forced to back into a little comer. McCain skidded to a
halt with a painful scrape, maybe four or five feet from Jerry.
McCain looked up to see Jeane approaching fast. The look on
her face almost made McCain won:)r about Jerry. Her right hand
curled into a fist. Jerry turned up and saw her coming. A look of
t57
g .w. ti r p a
258
In f lul d a I I e n ce
259
In f lul d a I I e n ce
Hl
I .W. ti r ' I
!&!
In f lui d s i I e n ce
283
u .w. ti r p a
284
In f lul d s I I e n ce
Erwfiltlen held his hands in front of his chest and closed his
eyes, obviously gathering strength.
McCain stood, with every intention of rushing Erwiihlen, vril
strength or no vril strength.
Erwfiltlen saw McCain approaching, and with a smug smile
born of indecision, he waved one hand out in the direction of
McCain.
McCain felt as if he'd been kicked in the chest by a horse. He
fell back, sliding to come to a stop again under Ngan's floating
vril bubble. McCain coughed, wheezed, and otherwise reacted
normally to a blow of that nature and severity-a blow that
Erwiihlen had delivered across a good twelve feet of empty air.
Ngan's chanting stopped abruptly. Erwiihlen's head snapped
toward Ngan, his eyes bulging and his face red. Erwfiltlen held
that pose for one heartbeat, then a second, then the top of his
head from his top teeth up past the bottoms of his ears, slid off.
Blood poured over the sides of the gaping wound like a glass
filled too high with water.
McCain could hear himself gasp, the echoes sounding clearly
in the now silent room. It didn't seem possible, but Erwiihlen
was most convincingly dead.
_The old man's body went rigid but didn't fall. It was ghastly
to look at, but it just stood there, not twitching, not falling over,
stubborn even in death.
"Damn it," McCain heard Jeane sigh.
Startled to hear her voice, McCain looked over at her. The
steel bands weren't there anymore, and it occurred to McCain
that, given what he knew about Erwahlen's peculiar brand of
magic, maybe they'd never really been there at all . She slid to a
sitting position and rubbed her face with her hands. When she
finally looked at him, McCain could see by her eyes that her
exhaustion was close to claiming her. She seemed completely
out of it.
"No!" Jerry screamed from the other side of the room.
McCain, Jeane, and the still floating but silent Ngan .all
looked up at him. The teenager, covered in bleeding cuts, shards
of glass, and bits of dirt and grass, was running toward them,
285
g .w. · tt r ' a
!88
In f lui d a I I e n ce
H7
u .•. tl .r , .
288
In f lul d a I I e n ce
HB
a w . . ti r p a
UI
1 .
� nd
� so it starts again. Each time a little closer, frus-
·
!71
a .w. H r p a
interactions problem."
What is he saying?
272
In f lul d a I I e n ce
"Oh, there's more,· the woman again. "See that line, there?
That set?"
A shuffle of feet. I can hear that.
The man says, "It's an SWNT. Holy crap. Where did they get
·
this stufil"
What stufil
What are they talking about?
I understand English, but I can't understand them. They
aren't making sense.
."Get a measurement of its resistivity,· the woman says. Is
she in charge?
"I've got point defects all over this thing and another one in
close proximity with precisely the same defects," says the man.
These people aren't talking about anything that bas to do
with roe.
Why am I here? Why are they talking about this in their non
sensical English?
"Are you getting that?" The woman asks.
The man says, �us voltage-current characteristics . . . these
things are semiconductors, right?" But what does that mean?
"Depression near zero bias voltage," the woman tells him.
The man makes a sound like a breathy laugh, and he says,
"That's a Coulomb blockade. Oh, man."
"They're so small," the woman says, her voice conveying
something akin to rapture.
I can recognize that now?
l guess I can.
These people are excited about whatever it is they're talking
about that has nothing to do with me.
I stop paying attention because I know I'll be finished soon.
I'll be me again, n
i time, with a body. I should go back under
ground. I should go back to Agharti and rest. I should go there
to remember the old ways, to feel the pure vril again.) should
go there and rest, and plan, and wait, then try again.
In Agharti, vril flows like light in the air, in everything all
arolind you, and it's been there forever and ever and ever. ·
They accept me there, though there's no reason for them to.
t73
g .w. ti r p a
I'll go back down. Deep down and rest, deep down and
become me again-whoever that is.
They won't be looking for me there-whoever they are. They
dont even believe that Agharti exists. A world under their
noses, under their feet every day with power unimaginable . . .
and they just forget. It's not even a story now. Legends that
were a sort of history have been replaced by fiction now for so
long that no one sees truth in anything.
They've made aworld of lies, and they hate me because I tell
a truth of my own.
I will spend the time in Agharti that I need to spend, and I
will return.
· I will do this over and over again.
The woman is pretty in a restrained sort of way. The man
is-
l can see.
I can see them.
Everything has a golden yellow haze over it. I can see through
a haze of vril. It's the vril that's filling the mouth I can fee� now. I
have one hand-a right hand. I have eyes, and I can see.
'The man and woman are both wearing long lab coats. There
is a collection of generic putty plastic apparati and a small table
on which sits a laptop computer. I can't see too many details, but
I can see that they are looking at the computer and at the plas
tic box ma.chines. A clear plastic tube full of vri1 snakes pa.st my
vision, somewhere outside in front of the people. The woman
draws some vri
l out of the tube with a syringe.
She looks at the liquid with appropriate reverence. The
·
woman is Asian.
Yes, I am disappointed.
They continue speaking about some small things that do
something, but I don't want to hear. They seem to be talking
about the vril, but they know nothing. They know nothing of my
· ·
creation.
They're talking about my wonderful elixir as if it's a ·collec·
tion of ants.
It's not ants.
274
In f lul d 1 1 I e • C8
The Asian woman looks Japanese, and she says, "You could
get heterostructures like that by successive formation of differ
ent sulphides."
'J.'he man nods. He's white. He's a white man.
The white man says, "It's in the literature. The Italian guys
wrote that up, but . . . "
The woman stops what she's doing and turns to look at the
man, who looks up from the computer.
He smiles, and she smiles back, then-yes, here I am. You
see me.
l try to speak but can't tell if I've opened my mouth. I can
feel the vril on my tongue.
He's looking right at me.
"Freaky, isn't it?" he says, looking at me.
l can't answer him.
The woman glances back at me but doesn't look me in the
eye. She looks away and hugs herself, arms crossed across her
chest. She moves away and changes shape. I know what that
effect is from. It's an optical illusion. She!s not really changing
shape.
I'm in a glass tank with rounded walls. The tank is full of vril.
I have a name.
I remember it.
You know it, don't you?
Hans Reinhold Erwiilllen.
1 am Hans Reinhold Erwiilllen.
"Oh, my Ood," the woman says. She keeps shifting away
from where I can see her. "He's here.·.
"What do we do?" the man asks, moving around like he'.s all
·
flustered.
He doesn't have time to decide how to handle himself. See
there? Someone is walking in.
I know this man.
I've seen him before.
What's his name? .
He has two other men with him. All three of them are·wear·
ing dark suits.
275
g .w. ti r p a
IenD of'3 ·
fll
11
(Four}
Of Aged Angels
Monte Cook
"They've been here for fifty some years, but they were here
before, too. Long ago, down the bottomless throat of time, they
came to the world, and they walked as gods through the forests.
The people of that time had no name for these ancient angels,
but they saw their effects. The caress of these gods put ripples
in the world like a child's light touch on the surlace of a pool."
For a moment-just for a moment-McCain was caught up
in his poetry. For that mor..tent, he believed that this really was
Jim Morrison.
"But then they left, for there was war in heaven," Morrison
said, looking at the ceiling. "Dark were the skies, heavy with the
conflict of birds as seen by a snake. When they fled back
through the doors, they left behind something cherished among
them-and among us since then, at least those few who knew
that it truly existed."
"What was it?" McCain asked, his voice barely a whisper
amid the darkness and stone.
Without a pause, Morrison told him, "The Holy Grail."
July 2001
Book II
Planeshift
The first wave is over, but the invasion
rages on. The artificial plane of Rath
overlays onJ Dominaria, covering the
natural landscape with the unnatural J. Robert King ,
. .- .. ·�
horrors of Phyrexia.
February 2001
Book Ill
Apocalypse
Witness the conclusion of the world-shattering Phyrexian invasion!
'June 2001
MAGIC: THE GATHERING is a registered ttademark owned by Wizar<ls of the Coast, Inc.
02001 Wizall!s of the Coast, Inc.
Venture 1nto the
FORGOTTEN REALMS
w.th these two new senes!
Semb1a .
GET A NEW PERSPECrIVE ON THE FORGOTTEN REALMS FROM
THESE TALES OF THE :USKEVREN CLAN OP SELGAUNT.
Shadow's Witness
Paul Kemp
Erevis Cale has a secreLWhen a ruthless evil is unleashed on Selgaunr,
the loyal butler ofthe Uskevren family must come to terms withhis own
i to save the familyhe dearlyloves.
dark past ifhe s
.Black Wolf
Dave Gross
TheyoungTalbot Uskevren was theonlyone to survive a horrible
"hunting accident." NO\\\ infecred with lycanthtopy. the second son
ofthe Uskevren clan mustleam to control whathe has become.
NOVEMBER �()QI
The C1hes
A NEW SERIES OF STAND-ALONE NOVELS,
EACH SET IN ONE OF THE MIGHTY CITIES OF fAER0N.
Temple Hill
Drew Karpyshyn
Elversult - fashionable and comfortable, this shining city ofthe heartlands
.
harbors an unknown evil b<?neath its streets.
SEPTElllllER �OOI
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