The Overseer (51 page)

Xander flicked on his lights and tried to concentrate on the center line, the dip and turn of the backwoods road growing less manageable under a spreading dusk. He had been on the road for nearly two hours, the map showing Tempsten another seventy miles on. Five hours ago, he had opted for a bus from the airport, happier to let someone else make the decisions. But the sleep he had wanted had never come, his mind too restless to
permit
such luxuries. There had been nothing to distract him, no girl with revolver, no unread manuscript. Alone only with his thoughts. Not
pleasant
. And yet, for a few moments, the prospect of seeing Sarah had managed to ease his mind. He had not asked why.

Instead, he had left the bus at one of the small towns along the Hudson and had bought a car—a used Rabbit—with the money Feric had left him. Driving as diversion. The dealer had explained that the transmission might need work, the alignment might tug to the right, but Xander knew he wouldn’t be keeping it long enough to find out. It’s sole purpose was to get him to the Sleepy Hollow without drawing attention. No rental decals, and no out-of-state license plates. The dealer had been more than happy with cash.

Xander had kept to country roads, at first for security’s sake, even though he knew Eisenreich would need several hours to trace the bus, the dealership, and whatever else they could find to ferret him out. Now, as he made his way from town to town, he realized his unconscious mind had been at work as well. Several miles back, he had begun to recognize
something
of the familiar in his surroundings. It was while passing through the tiny hamlet of Yardley that he had understood why. Somewhere nearby—ten, twenty miles to the west, he couldn’t quite recall—he remembered Mrs. Grier’s, an inn that had been his home for several long weekends during that first winter teaching at Columbia, when he had considered throwing it all in. His writing had been going poorly, his work called
outlandish
; there had even been talk of terminating his appointment. And, of course, there had been Fiona. Lundsdorf had recommended the three-story house, said it would revive his enthusiasm for the work. And he had been right. The fireplace, the odd assortment of guests at the evening meals, one Carlo Pescatore, slightly more quirky than the rest, but
certainly
always the most entertaining. An instant friendship. And his room on the third floor, a windowed alcove that had helped him to recall how much he cherished his work. Articles, books, notes scattered everywhere. How much a part of himself they would always be.

And now, fate was being kind again. It was allowing him to remember.

Other thoughts began to creep in as the sun slipped to the horizon, not the least of which was how far he had let himself stray from what he knew best. From what he
loved
. Somehow, he had learned to destroy with his hands, deceive with his eyes, grow numb to his own fear and anger, but he knew such weapons had only limited use. Their aim was to keep him alive, nothing more, and he had grown tired of mere survival. Too reliant on them, he had forgotten himself. True, the idealist was gone, but the thinker remained. And if Eisenreich could manipulate ideas so as to wreak havoc, why not he? Why not create a little chaos of his own? It was an idea that had been gaining momentum ever since the purchase of the car. The manuscript, the role of the different spheres, the parallels borne out in the words of Ireton and Rosenberg—
these
were his resources, his tools to expose and defeat the men of Eisenreich. He knew he had been foolish to look elsewhere for answers, blind not to see how to put them to use.

It was why he was looking for a place to stop. He was tired, hungry, but, more than that, he needed to put his thoughts to paper. He needed to tie together everything he had seen, everything he had read, so as to create his own weapon. He had few facts, but all the theory, and at this point, he knew it would be enough. The details would come later—the Tempsten Project, the schedule, the linchpin, and whatever else Sarah had discovered. He had to believe that she would have the proof necessary to give the memo conviction. For now, he would create the shell; he would explain in dry academic prose how a sixteenth-century manuscript could translate into a twentieth-century conspiracy. And he would do it with the detachment necessary to lend his thesis credibility. Hypothesis, argument, conclusion—a series of ever-widening assertions, built on evidence,
verified
through interpretation, all designed to lead to one irrefutable
conclusion
. An exposé to bring Eisenreich to its knees. It was what he knew, what others would believe.

A winter rain began to spit at the windshield as he drove into the town of Creighton, the lights along its main street standing in a neat row. Halfway down the block, he noticed a stationer’s shop, a small diner two or three doors beyond. Again, fate. Fifteen minutes later, he sat in the last booth, coffee, soup, and a small pad at his side. He would get to the books later. For now, it was enough simply to write.

 

It was five to seven when she landed, 7:15 by the time she walked across the tarmac, the cold rain on her face a welcome relief after six hours of
flying
. She had slept for the first few, the stopover in Chicago allowing her time to pick up more packets of dye, along with a second mirror and hair dryer so as to rectify the miscues from the Palametto station. Sarah had managed it all with several trips to the airplane rest room, a series of fitful naps in between, each filled with too many disquieting memories to make the sleep even mildly restorative. Pritchard himself had crept into her dreams—his face draped in despair, eyes darting about, spying her through the door, yelling to Tieg’s men that she was there, behind them, his finger pointing in a desperate attempt to barter for his own life.

She had awakened to the sound of her own screams ringing in her ears even as she had realized that no such terror had passed her lips. Only silence to accompany the strange feeling of pity she felt for a man who had never shown her the least bit of kindness.

She reached the terminal. Within ten minutes, she had purchased three sets of black pants, turtlenecks, ski masks, and gloves. They would come later. She then rented a car from the same young man she had patronzied just yesterday—no hint that he recognized the blond, suntanned woman as a onetime redhead—and was soon back on the road to Tempsten. The highway would be quickest, a more circuitous route safer. She opted for the latter, soon putting the bright lights of the airport behind her.

One hour. Yesterday, she had made the same trip in order to gather information, to find a link to the horrors that had turned children into time bombs, innocents into killers. Then, it had been speculation. Now, she knew far more. Vice President Pembroke, Senator Schenten, Pritchard—other players, other roles. She knew about the schools, about the children who were learning to hate all over again, and about the prototypes from thirty years ago who had grown up to become an army of devoted minions, capable of unleashing untold chaos. More than that, though, she knew the strategy—less than a week, and then explosion after explosion.
Washington
, Chicago, New Orleans on a grand scale. Alone, the information was meaningless, a series of disjointed facts. She needed more. She needed the connections.

She needed Jaspers. Somehow, more than she wanted to admit.

 

He had written for nearly two hours, half the pages of the small pad filled with his familiar scrawl, the first few neater than the rest—a short-lived attempt to make the paragraphs legible. But his mind had raced too fast for careful penmanship, his need to set down the initial statements on state theory too overpowering to leave time for presentation. Those first eight pages, a dizzying array of academic logic, had formed the shell, a series of assertions couched in the starkest of terms so as to leave no room for
misunderstanding
. One point following the next, a rigorous patterning of
reasoned
argument. It was what he had been trained to do, what he knew best—to synthesize what others could not see.

With that in mind, he had turned to the texts themselves in order to lend the theory pragmatic force. Spreading the books out on the table, he had cross-referenced the corresponding passages from among them, explained away the discrepancies as misinterpretation, and identified their common purpose—to place power in the hands of three men, each controlling a
separate
sphere, each distinct in the public eye, and each bent on coordinated manipulation so as to ensure the ultimate prize: stability in the abstract, iron domination in reality. The price, individual freedom. The tools, chaos and hatred. From Eisenreich to Ireton to Rosenberg—a clear progression. Then, citing what little he could recall from the files, he had extended the lineage to Votapek, Sedgewick, Tieg, and the overseer. Only then had the abstract taken on a human face, more so when he had forced himself to recount his own experiences—the depravity beyond the men themselves—ever careful to maintain an academic objectivity despite his own outrage. Perhaps the least comprehensive, they were the most compelling
statements
within the document; they alone specified the meeting point of
theory
and practice. Turning conjecture into reality.

He had put the pen down half an hour ago, eager to get back on the road. He had made a copy of everything—including the manuscript—and had sent it to Mrs. Huber, again for safekeeping. Granted, holes peppered his argument—theories without evidence. Whether they would be enough, though, remained to be seen. That would depend on Sarah. So much, now, depended on Sarah.

The car hitched as he pulled into the Sleepy Hollow, the transmission living up to all the dealer had promised. It was a classic single-level motel, eight to ten rooms directly on the driveway, each with its own parking space. He eased the car into one of the spots, grabbed the backpack, and started for the small office, its
VACANCY
sign somewhat redundant, given his was the only car within two miles. At the front desk, the little bell emitted a high-pitched twang.

“Just a second.” The voice came from beyond a curtained doorway, the sound of a television quickly turned off before a woman appeared. She was wiping her hands on an apron. “All right, all right, here we are.”

“I’ll need a room,” said Xander.

“Yes, I should think so,” she replied, reaching for the registration book. She slid it toward him and asked, “You wouldn’t be Mr. Terni, would you?”

Xander started to shake his head, then stopped as the word sunk in.
Terni. Ternistato. Iron state. Eisenreich
. The clue to Carlo’s notes.
Clever
girl
! Xander smiled. “Then she
did
call ahead. I’m so pleased.”

“Made the reservation yesterday.” The woman was reaching behind for a key. “She said it would be either today or tomorrow, so I suppose your conference ended early.”

“Not a minute too soon,” he answered, signing the book. He pocketed the key and moved to the door. “Thank you.”

“Paid up through Monday. It’s the fifth one down.”

The key took a moment to find the lock before he pushed open the door, the smell of pine unmistakable. He stepped in and fumbled for the light switch, tossing the pack onto the bed before he heard something move on the far side of the room. The light came on.

A young woman sat on the floor, her back against the wall, her eyes veiled in terror.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” she said, a gun in her lap.