Chapter 25

Will sat in the darkened living room of Miss Aimee’s cottage, his bearded face awash in the dim blue glow of the television. At his feet, Aimee’s terriers lay in a deep, contented doggy sleep. He briefly lit up the grinning face of his Cheshire Cat watch, and glanced at the time: 5:30 am. In another hour and a half, his shift as night watchman would be over. He yawned, stretched, and considered going to the kitchen to hunt up some sort of sustenance. An image of Miss Aimee’s fridge flashed through his mind: Soy Moo, Not Dogs, and a few Ziploc baggies of half-wilted arugula. He grimaced, and dully wondered if the dogs’ Milk Bones would calm his growling stomach. He loved Miss Aimee dearly, but at present, he could think of nothing better than tearing into a big, char-grilled cheeseburger, bathed in ketchup and dripping with grease. He simply wasn’t accustomed to such healthy eating.

Somewhere down the block, a car horn honked briefly, shattering the pre-dawn stillness. Will’s eyes shifted to the television. The view remained unchanged: the bland stucco face of Miss Aimee’s cottage, oddly luminescent in the thin, gray light.

Will leaned back on the couch and raised his hand to the window behind him. He gave Miss Aimee’s colorful batik window coverings a quick tug, and almost instantaneously, the window covering of the little house on the television twitched and danced. Ah, the wonders of technology, he thought grimly.

He leaned over and pulled a Bugs Bunny chew toy from the furry heap of sleeping dogs. Readjusting himself on the sofa, he eased the rabbit under the window curtain, and, puppet-like, made it dance along the window-sill. He glanced over his shoulder at the television. Whoever was controlling the KCLA camera had noticed his antics, and the screen was filled with Bugs’ toothy, plastic grin. He dropped the chew toy, raised his slender middle finger, and pressed his fisted hand to the windowpanes. The KCLA camera quickly zoomed out. Will chuckled and then settled back into the cushions and pillows.

Will had always maintained, to anyone who would listen, that his life would make a fabulous film, mini-series, or nail-biting serial novel, but now that it was actually happening, it was proving to be quite tiresome. Shortly after their arrival at Miss Aimee’s house last week, the media had somehow been tipped off to their presence in Los Angeles, and all hell had broken loose. The phone began ringing off the hook, the house was circled by reporters and remote broadcast vans, and crowds of curiosity-seekers had thronged the nearby sidewalks behind hastily erected police barricades. The day after their arrival, KCLA 31 had begun a live, round-the-clock broadcast from Miss Aimee’s house. Will, Laura, Aimee, and the dogs were under siege. . .waylaid on the road to the Huntington Library.

On several occasions in the past week, Will had posited to Laura that they should simply bolt from the house, dash to the truck, and plow down any of the reporters or gawkers who happened to get in their way. Laura, determined not to give away the next clue location by leading the teeming millions to The Huntington, had insisted that they remain at Aimee’s until they could develop a more plausible and viable means of escape. Late into the evenings, they had developed a series of risky escape plans, from sneaking Laura out of the house in disguise as Aimee, to chartering a speedboat to pick them up at the nearby beach. Each plan seemed more far-fetched than the previous.

Worse yet, public opinion of Will, Laura, and the entire Sooner than Never treasure hunt had plummeted. It had not taken the press and public long to realize they’d been duped by the faux Beaver Creek limerick read on national television in January. Scores of angry treasure seekers were leaving Niagara Falls bound for Los Angeles. The city was already rife with them. Simultaneously, Al and Mary Lou Heiligmann’s beloved RV had been vandalized by an angry mob outside of Taos, New Mexico, and a keen-eyed band of adventurers had discovered the boxcar in Beaver Creek. This discovery was not nearly as disastrous as it could have been, Will and Laura decided; none of the news reports from Beaver Creek had mentioned the sonnet which pointed to the Huntington Library. Apparently, someone had removed it after Will and Laura’s visit, and a blackened, systematically gouged-out scar was all that remained on the side of the boxcar. The press had a field day supposing that Will and Laura were sabotaging the hunt for all who followed them.

All across the country, from pulpits to talk shows, from board rooms to dorm rooms, Simon Waterbury and Sooner Than Never were being decried as a fraud, a hoax, and the most outrageous publicity stunt in history.

The electronic jangle of Miss Aimee’s phone jolted Will from his drowsy state on the couch. He lurched up and dashed across the room, hoping the sound hadn’t roused Laura and Aimee. It was probably the idiotic disk jockey from KRTH, who called every morning and heralded the start of another long day of excruciating phone calls from the press. Will snatched up the phone.

"It’s in Disneyland," he said sotto voce into the receiver, "The next clue is perched high atop the Matterhorn." Will delighted in giving false clues to anyone Laura let him speak to.

"Will? Will, is that you?"

Will’s stomach flipped. The voice at the other end of the line was low, melodic, and unmistakable. Unmistakably Australian.

"Will, it’s Sebastian Moffat. Are you there?"

"Yes. Where are you?" Will noticed with annoyance that his knees were shaking.

"I’m on my way to Los Angeles. You’ve had me poking around in Niagara Falls for weeks, you sly dog."

"How did you get this number?"

"It wasn’t hard, darling. You’re all over the news. 555-1212. Have you seen that foxy number who does the Sooner Than Never reporting on that cable news channel?"

"He’s okay," Will replied vaguely. "Sebastian, where did you go? I mean, after we were together in Mountain Center? Laura and I tried to find you, but you were gone, and I--"

"I snowshoed out of there, boyo. I figured there was no real need to get up to Beaver Creek, since everyone thought the next clue was in Niagara Falls."

Will processed this.

"Anyway, I’m on my way to L.A. I’d really like to see you again, Will. You’re so sweet, Will. So sweet."

"Well, you had better hurry up and get here. Laura still doesn’t believe you exist. And we have no idea when we’re going to make it to--"

"To the Huntington Library?"

Will almost dropped the phone. "W--what did you say?"

"Look, Will. Don’t go to the Huntington until I get there. There’s a trap."

Will’s mind was swimming. "I don’t. . .I--"

"Promise me, Will."

"I--"

"Look, I’ve got to run. I’ll see you soon."

The line went dead. Immediately, Will dialed *69 in hopes of determining exactly where the handsome Australian was, but the overly loud recording informed him that the number of the last incoming call was unavailable, or private.

Will paced the cluttered living room. How on earth did Sebastian know about the Huntington? What did he mean by "a trap"?

And most of all, why had he gone to Niagara Falls? Will had a sudden, blurry, alcohol- hazed memory of laying with his head on Sebastian’s muscular chest before a roaring log fire in Colorado, and rather sloppily telling the foreigner that the Niagara Falls clue was a fake.

A hot wave of guilt passed over Will.

****

The door to Vesper’s dressing room slammed open. Startled, Vesper snatched up a lacy peignoir which lay nearby to shield her nudity. Chad stood in the doorway, looking unhinged, clad only in a pair of too-tight leopard print briefs.

"What are you doing? Who were you talking to? I heard voices!"

That’s no surprise, you raving lunatic, she thought grimly. "I’m getting dressed to go to work. What do you think I’m doing?"

"Doesn’t your little servant girl help you out with such delicate operations?"

Vesper sighed, too tired to upbraid, too weary for an early-morning caustic comeback. "I’m quite capable of dressing myself." Unabashedly, she dropped the peignoir and began pulling on her stockings.

"Oh, I just love free peeks," Chad grinned, seating himself on a marble countertop. "What’s on your plate at old man Waterbury’s today?"

"I don’t see how that’s any of your affair," she remarked blandly, shimmying into her black leather skirt.

Quick as a cat, Chad bolted from the countertop and grabbed a fistful of her flaxen hair, snapping her neck back painfully. A shrill, animal-like sound escaped her lips.

"Oh, but it is my affair," he hissed into her ear. "Everything you do is my affair." He dragged her into her voluminous walk-in closet, and shoved her face into the sleek, rich garments, beautifully hung by Shilah. "Do you want to keep all of your fancy clothes? And your godawful jewels? You couldn’t take them to prison, you know." He smirked and a dreamy expression covered his face. "Oh, how I’d love to see what they’d do to you in prison."

From deep within the designer suits, Vesper bellowed, "Let me go, you filthy animal."

Chad released her with a shove. She regained her balance, did her best to compose herself, and strode out of the closet. Chad noticed, with smug satisfaction, that she was trembling.

Then, the bells began. Inside his head. The bells were followed by the voices, as they always were. . . droning, unintelligible voices. Chad began to systematically beat his head against the closet door. After a minute or so, the noises stopped abruptly, and the inward silence was almost more excruciating than the cacophony.

Vesper ignored his mini-seizure. "What is it that you want from me, Bismarck?" She asked dully, as she continued dressing with shaking fingers. Sadly, she was growing accustomed to his sudden, brutal attacks. "I’ve given you my home, my money, my body. . ."

"I want more. I want it all!"

"Darling, I’ve told you. If you are just patient, I will topple Waterbury. I know I will."

"But I’m not patient, Vesper. I’m not! Put the heat on your Japanese friends. Sleep with a few of them. Kill that old bastard Waterbury. Do something."

"It will all happen in good time. If you can just wait a few short months, you will be a Senior Vice-President at Waterbury-Takamoto Communications, paid a fortune of money, and you won’t even have to lift your little finger."

"And what if your plan doesn’t work? Where does that leave me?" Chad had picked up one of her overpriced shoes and was rubbing it intently around and around his left nipple.

Vesper was spared from answering by a light rap at the chamber door. Shilah peeped into the room, glaring at Chad, and then turning her attention to her employer.

"The car is here, Ms. Shillington. How long shall I tell them you’ll be?"

"Two minutes, darling. I just have to--"

Suddenly, Chad howled, arching his torso grotesquely and tilting his bare scalp back. A vein popped out on his broad forehead. Then, with astonishing speed, he scuttled across the floor on all fours towards the hapless maid. Shilah shrieked briefly, spun on her heel, and fled.

Vesper viciously threw her brush down onto the dressing table and turned to face him. "If you are unkind to Shilah, I’ll--"

"You’ll what, Vesper?" Chad squatted on his haunches and grinned up at her demonically. "What will you do?"

She shook her head and moved towards the door. He leapt up, blocking her way.

"Don’t even think of trying to kill me. Someone else knows your story. The whole story. If anything happens to me, you will still be annihilated." He grinned suddenly. "Have a nice day!"

With that, he swiped his thick tongue across her high cheekbone, turning her stomach and ruining her flawless make-up.

*****

Dog-tired, David Nimoy settled back into his seat on United Airlines flight 751 from Chicago to Los Angeles. He hated flying early in the morning. A ubiquitous burst of mid-winter snow had crippled O’Hare, delaying his flight several hours. He was nervous and exhausted.

Upon leaving CNN headquarters in Atlanta the day before, his producer had warned him that Los Angeles was certain to be some sort of turning point in the Sooner Than Never craze. Public opinion of the contest was a roller coaster; no one could imagine what would happen as the summer approached and the millennium drew nearer. David had been urged to "cover all the angles" upon his arrival on the west coast, and his producers would winnow out what they felt the public needed to see. The days ahead were certain to be long and stressful.

A rumpled young man arrived in the aisle beside David, and began stuffing his fluffy red parka into the overhead bin. He was nice-looking, David decided, in a nerdy sort of way. Nondescript chestnut hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and clad in a faded flannel shirt and jeans. As his parka disappeared into the bin, something fell out of its pocket, narrowly missing David’s head.

It was a battered copy of Sooner Than Never.

"Sorry," the man said quietly.

David picked up the novel and handed it back to the stranger. Suddenly, he was acutely aware that he had seen this man before. . . somewhere.

"I think I’m next to you," the stranger remarked, gesturing to the window seat.

David stood and the man squeezed past him.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The plane left the gate.

David turned to his seat mate. "Are you heading out to California to look for the Waterbury clue?"

"Sort of," the man said briefly, turning to look out the window.

"Do you work for MSNBC? You look really familiar to me. Were you in that conference that--"

"No," the man said flatly, keeping his eyes averted.

David sat in silence, trying desperately to remember where he had seen the man’s face before. Then, it hit him.

The man’s name was Mike, and he had briefly traveled with Will and Laura last fall.

The guy wasn’t a reporter. He was a geologist.

Or so he said.

The plane left the runway and headed west, away from the rising sun.

*****

Vesper arrived at the Crossroads of the World at 9:45 and was hastily ushered into a press tent erected at the foot of One Times Square. She was immediately greeted by the disapproving face of Nina Kellogg.

"You’re late," Nina said needlessly, thrusting a schedule for the morning’s media circus into Vesper’s unwilling hand.

"I was busy," Vesper answered, her eyes glittering in hope of a confrontation. "I was brushing my hair and powdering my nose. You really should try it someday. And they do offer products for your poor split ends."

Characteristically, Nina ignored Vesper’s assault. "Mr. Waterbury is already up at the billboard," she continued in her flat, emotionless voice. "He’s a bit nervous, since the unveiling date has been pushed back so much, and there’s supposed to be some sort of fundamentalist protest group attending. We haven’t seen them yet."

"Maybe you could go out and scare them away if they come," Vesper pouted.

Nina glanced down at Vesper’s feet. "And since you neglected to wear sensible shoes like I told you to, you can wear these." She produced a pair of black Reeboks from her canvas shoulder bag. "The only way up there is via a ladder, so those shoes simply won’t do."

Vesper brushed her hand aside and walked past her. "I’ll manage, thanks."

Nina grabbed Vesper’s shoulder. "Now remember. . . Mayor Giuliani will be doing the intro, and then you and Mr. Waterbury will be--"

"We’ve been over this ten thousand times, Quasimodo. It’s a pity you look like a pie-faced horse, or you could be up there with us." Vesper pushed her way through the crowd, found the rather narrow ladder, and began her ascent, assisted by two bedazzled security guards.

Simon’s Sooner Than Never countdown billboard was truly a marvel of art and technology. Designed by the prestigious Times Square sign makers, Artkraft Strauss, the gargantuan, boxy sign stood directly below the enormous, steaming Cup O’ Noodles, and merely feet from where the Waterford crystal ball would drop on New Years’ Eve, ushering in the 21st century.

The billboard was a huge, glittering map of the United States, rendered in thousands of green and yellow hand-blown bulbs. Periodically, pulsing red question marks would appear across the map, and then the entire visage would dissolve in a blinding flash of white light. The panels comprising the sign would then shift and turn, revealing a gaudy image of Lady Violet springing open an enormous treasure chest. Below the shimmering lights stood a clock counting down to the millennium, which tracked days, hours, minutes, seconds, and milliseconds. Beside the clock was a manhole-sized red button labeled "STOP." If and only if the treasure hunt was solved before the New Year, Simon would push this button and halt the contest. The entire monstrosity had taken seven months to complete, and cost Waterbury Publishing a cool ten million dollars.

When Vesper reached the top of the ladder, Simon helped her onto the treacherous, narrow platform which lay before the sign. "Isn’t it magnificent, my dear?" he beamed at her. "I wonder when I’ll get to push that big old ‘STOP’ button. Don’t you?"

"Oh, I certainly do," Vesper replied, through gritted teeth.

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