Jericho Iteration (37 page)

“We are
proud
to
present!
… the
return
of the mysterious
Veiled Prophet! …
and his
royal court!”

A pair of trumpeters came through the entrance and blew their horns, then the curtains parted once again, this time to reveal a tall figure.

The Veiled Prophet, accompanied by his Queen of Love and Beauty, stepped out into the spotlight and began to walk slowly down the runway amid thunderous applause. The edges of his white silk robes trailed along the floor as the light caught the fine blue-and-gold trim of his outfit and reflected off his Mighty Thor viking helmet. The members of his court, each of their faces as veiled as his own, followed him with ponderous grace down the runway, their Turkish costumes reflecting gaudy grandeur though not quite the same splendor.

Majesty, richness, spectacle: all this and more. The divine right of kings, self-appointed and otherwise. Champagne dreams and caviar fantasies, as someone used to puff, and it was tempting to surrender to all this, even if for only one night. Yet, even as I watched the Veiled Prophet and his court walk through the ballroom, I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the sick child I had seen only four nights ago at almost exactly this same hour, cradled in his mother’s arms as a bitter cold rain washed them in the Muny.

Did he eat well tonight? Did he eat at all? Was his mother in a holding pen beneath the stadium? And, knowing what I did about the man behind the Veiled Prophet’s mask, did a poor child’s fate matter to him?

Veiled Prophet, what do you prophesy?

As McLaughlin clapped his hands, his eyes kept wandering toward me. At first it was as if he vaguely recognized me but couldn’t quite place my face, but then his expression changed to one of ill-concealed alarm as he suddenly remembered when and where we had met. I waited until that moment came, then I leaned toward him.

“Is this what rich people do for fun?” I whispered.

McLaughlin looked directly at me now. “Mr. Rosen,” he said with stiff formality. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“I’m sure it is,” I replied. “If things had been different this morning, I’d be dead by now.”

He didn’t say anything. He tried to return his attention to the stage, where the Veiled Prophet and his queen were assuming their places on their thrones. I waited until sore hands all around us took a momentary respite, then I leaned toward him again.

“Y’know,” I said, “I think Steve Estes is getting accustomed to his new role.”

“I wouldn’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Oh, look at him.” I nodded toward the stage. “Sitting on a throne, hiding his face behind a mask, having everyone bow and scrape to him.” I shrugged. “Nice work if you can get it.”

McLaughlin’s expression turned to shock. He opened his mouth, about to ask the obvious question, when the Captain of the Guard stamped on leaden feet to the microphone again.

“His
mysterious majesty!
… the
Veiled Prophet! …
commands me to introduce his
maids of honor!
… of his court of
love! …
and
beauty!”

Again the sounding of trumpets, again the parting of curtains. The orchestra struck up “Pomp and Circumstance” as the first of many beaming debutantes floated out onto the stage, escorted by her smiling yet mildly embarrassed father. Hands clapped in well-mannered enthusiasm as her name was announced and they began to walk down the runway toward the stage.

McLaughlin’s curiosity finally got the better of him. He leaned toward me, his palms automatically slapping against one another. “How did you—”

“Find out who the Veiled Prophet is?” I grinned, not bothering to applaud. “Why, Ruby Fulcrum told me.”

His face turned pale as his hands faltered. I waited a beat, savoring his discomfiture, before I went on. “Ruby’s told me a lot of secrets,” I said. “In fact, they’re going to be in all the newspapers tomorrow.”

McLaughlin’s eyes shifted back toward the runway; he kept clapping as another debutante enjoyed her moment in the limelight. His wife glanced at him, then at me, her expression gradually changing from polite greeting to mild bewilderment as she noticed her husband’s confusion. His face had become as rigid as the knees of the young women who strode down the runway, and with good reason. He was about to have his own coming-out party.

“Is there some reason why you want to see me?” he whispered, his voice almost a hiss.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” I replied. “It’ll take just a minute.”

He nodded, then turned around to murmur something to his wife. She kept applauding as yet another deb was introduced, while he rose from his chair. I stood up and allowed him to brush past me, then I followed him down the aisle.

The ushers shut the doors behind us as we walked out into the vacant mezzanine. We could hear faint orchestra music and sporadic handclapping through the doors; except for a few hotel bartenders restocking their tables, though, we were alone.

McLaughlin strode to a window overlooking the street, then turned around and stared straight at me. “All right,” he said as he shot back his shirtcuff to check his Rolex, “you’ve got a minute. What do you want?”

I pulled Joker out of my trouser pocket, switching it into Audio Record mode. “My name’s Gerry Rosen. I’m a reporter for the
Big Muddy—”

“I know who you are,” he said. “What’s the point?”

The point was that he was talking to a reporter now. I wanted to let him know that, even if he didn’t get it. “I’m working on a story about the Tiptree Corporation’s involvement in a conspiracy to overthrow the elected government of the United States—”

“Never heard of it,” he said automatically.

“The United States or the conspiracy?”

He stared at me, standing a little straighter in his starched shirt and collar.
Now
he got the point.

“I don’t know anything about any conspiracies,” he replied.

“Then you deny that the purpose of the Sentinel program was to stop civil insurrections in the United States, even if that meant using the satellite against American citizens?”

McLaughlin’s mouth dropped open. “What …? How did you …?” He stiffened again, regathering his wits. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then you claim you don’t know that
Sentinel
was going to be fired at Cascadian armed forces?”

I heard the ballroom door open and close behind me. Someone started striding across the room toward us. McLaughlin’s eyes darted in that direction, but I didn’t look around. I already knew who it was.

“I’m not aware of anything of the sort,” he said, his voice tight. “Furthermore, this all sounds like a … some sort of wild fantasy. Are you sure of your facts, Mr. Rosen?”

“I’m quite sure, Mr. McLaughlin,” I said, “and they’re not just my facts, either. All this comes from government documents that were released to my paper by Ruby Fulcrum.”

“And who’s going to believe a computer, Gerry?” Paul Huygens asked as he walked up behind me.

I wasn’t surprised to see him here; his name had been on the guest list, so it would only figure that he would have trailed his boss when he left the ballroom. I turned around to look at him; he was as smug as usual, his thumbs cocked in the pockets of his white vest, smiling like the cat who had eaten the proverbial canary.

“That’s a good question, Paul,” I replied. “We’ll have to see, once you start getting calls from all the other papers that now have those documents.”

The smile faded from his face. “What other papers?” he asked, his hands dropping to his side. “Who are you talking about?”

I shrugged. “The
New York Times,
the
Washington Post, Newsday,
the
San Francisco Chronicle,
the
Minneapolis Star-Tribune,
the
Chicago Tribune,
the
Boston Globe-Herald,
and of course the
Post-Dispatch.
That’s just for starters … I’m sure the wire services will pick up on the story. Plus the TV networks,
Time
and
Newsweek, Rolling Stone,
the
New Yorker,
and whoever else received copies of those documents today.”

Huygens looked as if he had just glanced up from the sidewalk to see a ten-ton safe falling toward him. McLaughlin seemed to shudder; his face turned bright red, his mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. I cursed myself for not getting Jah into the ball with me; I would have framed the photo he could have taken of their expressions, and every time I began to curse fate for making me a journalist, I would only have to study this picture to remind myself why I wanted this crummy, thankless job.

McLaughlin recovered his voice. He took a step closer to me and thrust a finger in my face. “If they print a word of this,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “then we’ll sue your ass for libel.”

I stared him in the eye. “No, you won’t,” I said calmly, slowly shaking my head, “because it’s not my allegation. It comes straight from documents you signed yourself. I have the copies to prove it—”

“Accidents happen,” Huygens murmured. “If you’re not careful, bad things can happen to people who—”

“You’re on record, Paul,” I interrupted, glancing down at Joker. “Care to explicate a little further?”

Huygens shut up. “Besides,” I went on, “I’m just the first reporter who’s contacted you for your comments … and, if you didn’t get the hint already, there’s now a whole lot of other people who have the same material I have.”

McLaughlin’s eyebrows began to tremble. “The first reporter?” he asked as he glanced again at Huygens, who was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. “What do you mean by that?”

“What it means,” I said, “is that I’ve got a head start on everyone else … but only a head start. It’ll take the other guys a few days to play catch-up, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them soon.”

Huygens inched closer to McLaughlin and whispered something in his ear. I paid him no mind; I was busy checking the notes on my PT.

“Now then,” I continued, “regarding the murders of Kim Po, Beryl Hinckley, and John Tiernan—”

“No comment,” McLaughlin said.

“But Kim and Hinckley were Tiptree scientists directly involved with Project Sentinel. Surely you must have something to say about their untimely—”

“No comment!” he snapped. “Any further statements I have to make about this matter will be relayed through our public relations office.” He stepped away from me, his face nearly as pale as his bow tie. “This interview is over, Mr. Rosen. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you for your time. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

McLaughlin hesitated. If looks could kill, I would have had a hole burned through my head by a laser beam … but he had tried that already and it hadn’t worked.

He turned away from us and began to walk quickly toward the ballroom, his legs so stiff I thought I heard his knee joints cracking. I watched him until the usher opened the ballroom door for him. There was a moment of worn-out applause as the audience clapped for yet another debutante making her entry into high society, then the door closed behind him.

“Turn that thing off,” Huygens said.

I looked back at him. There wasn’t anything he was going to say to me, on or off the record, that would make much difference; Huygens had shut McLaughlin up before he could say anything self-incriminating, so I could hardly expect an eleventh-hour confession from Tiptree’s spin-doctor-in-residence.

“Sure, Paul.” I clicked Joker off and slipped it back into my pocket. “What do you want to know?”

“Who do you think you are, sport?” he said softly. “What did you think you were going to accomplish by this?”

I shrugged. “I’m a reporter,” I replied. “You said so yourself. I just ask questions a lot of other people would like to ask, if they had the time or inclination.”

“And you think this is going to get you anywhere?” Huygens shook his head. “You’re so goddamn naive.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll put it to you this way. You’ve got the court of love and beauty … and I’ve got the court of public opinion. Who do you think is going to win?”

Huygens didn’t reply. He thrust his hands in his pockets and stared back at me with sullen eyes. He knew the score, and so did I.

“See you in the funny pages,” I said, then I turned around and began to walk toward the escalators.

The sidewalks were almost empty, the skyscrapers ablaze with light. Helicopters cruised overhead while cars cruised through the streets. Downtown was remarkably serene for a fine spring evening, but that was to be expected; ERA armored cars were still prowling the dark avenues, and dusk-to-dawn curfew was still in effect.

All things considered, it seemed as if nothing had changed.

I shrugged into my overcoat as I walked out of the Adam’s Mark. The last few nights had been long and hard; maybe I could hang out here, drink a little bubbly, and find an overprivileged deb who wanted to slum with the po’ people, but my heart wasn’t into it. All I really wanted to do was head straight back to Soulard. Grab a couple of cheap beers at Clancy’s. Wander over to Chevy Dick’s garage and pick up the stray dog I had adopted last night. Climb the fire escape to my seedy apartment and try to figure out a good name for the mutt. Go to bed.

Out of impulse, though, I hung a left at the corner of Fourth and Chestnut. It was still early, and I could afford to take the long way home.

My footsteps took me two short blocks past the hotel and across the I-70 overpass to the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial. Here, in the center of this narrow stretch of carefully manicured landscape and cultivated trees, rose the two giant silver pillars, sweeping upward into the black sky to join together at the apex: the Gateway Arch, overlooking the broad expanse of the Mississippi River.

I paused for a few minutes, gazing upstream at the broken pillars of the Eads Bridge. If there was ever a time for the ghost of a boy to reappear, it was now …

I waited, but no voices came to me, as I knew they never would again. I turned away from the bridge and began to follow the river as it gurgled its way down toward the Gulf of Mexico. Rest in peace, Jamie. Your daddy loves you.