First Citizen (44 page)

“Your rockets are back on the latch?” I asked levelly.

“Oh, yeah.” He smiled. Then he turned and pointed off to the right side of the road. “Look, the bank’s not too steep over here. If your vehicles can negotiate a twenty-three percent grade—”

“They can.”

“You can get them across to the other side.”

“I suppose you’d like a lift down to your truck, too.”

“In this sun, we’d surely appreciate it.” He smiled again.

“And then—?”

“Then we take you to Mandy. Like she said.”

The farm truck led us thirty miles down the highway, past Red Bluff, and turned west into the mountains. The hills rise quickly here, about 1,500 feet in three miles, on switchback roads that had my drivers grinding gears and blowing blue smoke. No matter how friendly Dorner seemed, I kept the Stompers on high patrol, but they reported nothing.

This was sheep country, green meadows broken by white, cheese-textured rocks and cut by rambling stands of live oaks that ran through the country like dark veins in marble. They were goblin trees, bent and twisted, arthritic but incredibly tough. At the crest of these hills, the coastal fog blew enough moisture into the air to support streamers of Spanish moss on the trees. Gray-green lichens covered the exposed stones. It was land that felt old.

We took State routes, then county roads, then paths of oiled dirt. If Dorner was leading us into an ambush—which the Stompers denied, every time I asked them—then he was going to great lengths for it, in country he seemed to own. Somewhere in northern Mendocino County, by our maps, he took us into a small, level valley and pulled us over.

Dorner sauntered back toward my Turtle. We watched him through armored glass, waiting until he was right alongside before popping the hatch. He was still smiling.

“You can park most of these tanks and your men down here. No room for them up at the house, you see. Mandy wants you to come up, of course. And bring these fellas along.” He waved at the inside of the Turtle. “Have everybody else make camp, why don’t you. I saw you got all kind of supplies, but if there’s anything you need, just whistle on Channel 33, and we’ll try to provide.”

He turned back toward the truck, paused, brought his grin around. “We don’t get much call for diesel in here, not since the loggin’ trucks left. But if that’s all you burn, and you need some, we can bring in a tanker. Suits?”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Mandy said to keep you happy.” He grinned and walked off again.

We set off uphill, just the truck and my command vehicle, after I ordered the rest of the column to dig in, stay close to camp, and expect a call-in signal from me in four hours or come looking.

“Up at the house” was humble phrasing for what we found. Someone had taken over the top of one of these ancient hills, left the best parts of the rocks and trees, and rearranged the rest. The house was a fortress, set on ramparts of dressed stone which filled in the natural dips of the ridgeline and lifted their skirts across the stone outcrops. Above this foundation rose walls of white-washed adobe, ranked in three receding levels, like a Chinese pavilion. Each level was cut with a long Spanish arcade; the arches of the second level were half as wide as those below, the third’s half as wide as the second’s. Thousands of red-clay tiles topped it all; the roof was interrupted twice, however, by zags where the hill’s gray-green oaks sprouted through. The house was as big as a small abbey, and no doubt there were outbuildings, garages, gardens, pools, and gracious living hidden in courtyards behind those Spanish arches.

As we caught glimpses of this gem, while switching back and forth on the road approaching it, I was trying to match lines and shapes with something in my mind. The form was too good, the modern interpretation of a classic theme too subtle. This had to be a Frank Lloyd Wright design, the plans bootlegged from the society that guarded his architectural estate, and unauthorized modifications made to fit a good design to a better setting. I thought it might have started out as the plan for the Marin Civic Center—except for the severe roof line broken up by the trees, and for the red tiles instead of the Center’s delicate sea-blue. Also, there was no flat dome.

Looking closely at that roof, I detected a patina, a glint of green-and-silver on the red ceramic. I guessed that someone, finally, had perfected my solar tiles. If so, that house was pulling in about thirty kilowatts.

Coming to a gate that was crafted of oak six-by-threes and bound with steel, set in the eastern end of the foundation’s stonework, Dorner’s farm truck pulled aside and he waved our Turtle through. The paved road took us into a tunnel, up a ramp, and brought us to daylight in a cobbled court surrounded by more covered arcade, with planters hanging between the white arches. We shut down the engines and sensor systems, checked our weapons, and cracked the hatches. The scent of some heavy flower perfume came in to us. There was also moisture: A fountain sprayed and gurgled at the far end of this open space, cooling the hot afternoon air. Some kind of big pond lilies or other flowers danced and jiggled on the water s surface.

A brown hand, bigger than a triple-oh waldo, gripped the outer edge of the hatch near my head and lifted it to full open, pulling against the hydraulics. If they hadn’t given, he might have bent the hatch. Behind the hand was a grinning face, dark-skinned, Dravidian, as broad as an iron frying pan, with moustaches like ropes of tarred hemp. This genie wore cowboy boots, white jeans, a jerkin of red buckskin, and a tightly wrapped turban of pale-green linen. He put a hand under my armpits and half-helped, half-lifted me out of the vehicle.

“Very pleased to meet you, General Corbin. I am great admirer of your exploits.”

“Why, thank you—umm?”

“My name is Ram Sen Devi, but Mandy prefers that you call me ‘Punjab.’ It is a small joke with her.”

“Thank you, Ram. Are you going to take us to Mandy?”

He nodded his head deeply, almost a bow. “She wishes it.”

“Do you need to take our weapons?”

Devi appeared to consider this. “You will want to keep your sidearm, General. Your men may feel—less encumbered—if they can leave their carbines and grenade launchers here. I assure you we offer no violence.”

My driver whispered behind me, in my ear, “That wasn’t their story back up on the highway.”

“We sometimes have too many visitors,” Devi said directly to him, “and not enough hospitality. You, however, are very welcome.”

“Because Mandy wishes it?” I said with a smile.

“Of course, sir.”

He led us in through one of the arches, through panels of sliding glass, and into a hallway floored with cut slate that had been waxed to a high gloss. Our boots clicked and scraped across it.

Beyond was a room, about twenty by forty, with a high ceiling. More slate on the floor, covered with Middle Eastern rugs in blues and greens. The windows along one side looked out through deep, second-level arches onto the valley. We could see the outline of our convoy, parked in serried ranks, in a field about three miles away. The room had the feeling of a working area: a few large tables, covered with maps; three computer terminals in a row; a small PBX switchboard; a rear-projection screen in the end wall. In front of the screen was a single chair, a folding director’s chair with canvas seat and backstrap, set up like an impromptu throne. And on it was, presumably, Mandy.

She sat with one foot in front of the other, leaning slightly forward, her jaw and neckline perfect, like the white bust of Nefertiti. Her eyes were like the queen’s, too—large, dark, and luminous, with a light that came from ages of experience and understanding. When she looked at me, I could see her seeing me see her. It was a dizzy feeling.

Everything about Mandy was long and smooth, supple, brown, and silky: her legs, her arms and hands, her neck, her hair. Without perfume or other devices, she sent her sense of self out on the air to strike at a man’s most vulnerable parts. To know her was to want her immediately, to need to twist her graceful limbs around yourself and rut until your brains fell apart.

She was wearing a white dress, sheer linen worked with fine stitches of white thread at the neckline and sleeves. It flowed loose across her breasts, arms, and thighs, accentuating where it lay upon her, tantalizing where it fell away. On her slender feet were sand-colored leather pumps, flat heeled and practical for dancing.

How old was Mandy? My eyes and senses said nineteen or twenty. My memory says now, by her own admission, thirty-three. But around Mandy, time was a liar. … She told lies, too.

Devi brought us forward, toward the chair, and bowed himself aside. “General Corbin, memsahib.”

“Welcome to our estate, sir,” she said in a voice that was liquid gold, taught to sing contralto. “My name is Amanda Holton. I am the—ah—proprietor here.”

Holton! Mandy
Holton?
It could not be a coincidence. But it also could not be the same woman. My Mandy Holton, who had taught Palestinian politics and household explosives at the Commune in Berkley, had been older than I. That would make her well over fifty now. Besides, my Mandy had been a good-looking girl, but she had not the visceral-sexual power of the woman before me. And yet, there were flashes, hints in the bone structure, glints in the skin. This was not a coincidence.

The quiet in the room stretched out. I suddenly realized she had stopped talking while I had gone on thinking. Everyone was watching me for a reply. “You are not … possible,” I stammered.

She smiled. “How not?”

“I knew you … a different you … years ago. A woman who had your name and some of your face. I loved her. Years ago.”

“I know,” she said, still smiling. “That was my mother, who named me after herself.”

“Where is she?” I asked, too abruptly.

“She died, near here, two years ago. It was an ambush, a setup along the road, by competitors in the business. I hate to believe she finally got careless, but …” Mandy shrugged.

“And your father?”

“Mother was married to a man named Aguilar. He died. Also.”

“And now you are the—proprietor?”

“Among those who will accept me.”

“What
is
your business?”

The smile faltered on her lips. She rose from the chair; it took my breath to see the fabric of her dress slide over her body. “Enough, General. You did not come all this way to ask questions about me.”

“No, I suppose not.” It took a minute to remember why I
had
come.

“You came looking for someone,” she prompted, not a question.

“Yes, we suspect that …”

“I know. We also believe General Pollock came south into California. That is why we cut the road and why we watch there constantly. But my people do not know the man on sight. Perhaps you can help us identify him?”

She turned her head slightly, looking off to the right, raised her right hand, snapped her fingers once. From an inconspicuous side door, Devi’s broad buttocks—he must have slipped out silently while we were talking—bumped into the room. He was pulling something very heavy, or maybe just fragile, a rolling cart of some kind, that made a clinking sound as the front wheels went over the threshold.

It was a laboratory cart, loaded on both shelves with open glass beakers. Each had a capacity of about three or four gallons. They were filled with an amber fluid, which glistened darkly when the sunlight in the room touched it. Some of it spilled out as the rear wheels went through the door. The room was suddenly filled with the piercing odor of a good scotch whiskey.

“Oh my God.” That was from our Turtle driver. His comment served for us all. One of the men behind me gagged. I heard him turn and stumble away toward the far end of the room. There were nineteen beakers and, inside each one, veiled by the liquor and some darker tinge, was a human head, severed raggedly at the neck. Some were men and a few were women, whose longer hair clouded their faces. Some had eyes open and some closed. Some had their mouths peacefully shut and some screamed. From the neck wounds, a few of the heads still dribbled a wisp of blood to stain the fluid more or less.

Amanda Holton walked toward this deathly exhibit. Then she turned toward me with a pale, sinister stare. “Can you tell me if General Pollock is here? I hope he is, because this has used up my last five cases of contraband Suntory. Please don’t tell me I’ve wasted good booze.”

Pollock was there, all right. Second from the left on the top shelf. That high forehead was wrinkled for the last time in a look of disdain. The sleepy lids were half-closed over those smoky hazel eyes. The mouth was half-open, as if about to offer an objection. Athlete, aesthete, scholar, a natural attraction … politician, general, enemy … and finally, corpse—with the rest of his body left somewhere to rot. Good-bye, Gordon Pollock.

“Why did you kill them?” I asked.

“They were trespassing,” Mandy said simply. “And we knew what you wanted done with them, with him. General Pollock
is
among them, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” I pointed.

“Good,” she said. Then, “Punjab!” and she made a flicking motion with her hand. Devi rolled the cart back through the door. The scent of scotch-and-something-else lingered.

Mandy turned back to me, the pale expression gone. Her chin came up to about my collarbone, I noticed. “Well, General. Will you stay and share our hospitality? At least for a little while?”

“What is your business?” I asked my question, at last.

“We are pele growers.”

This was a virulent mutation of marijuana, first discovered in Hawaii. It had a euphoric rush and produced mild hallucinations, a sense of power, and at the same time, relaxation. The best of all possible drugs. It was fiercely addictive.

“You grow it in this valley?”

“No, sir, along the whole North Coast. It likes the natural shade of the redwoods.”

“We can stay for a little while.”

“Good. We need you.”

My men were shown to rooms on the next level down and invited to rest. I and two of my lieutenants, Pet Gervaise and Barney Wong, were also told to dress for dinner. “Dress” meant casual civilian clothes, not evening wear. This was still California, after all.