Chapter 41

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David scanned the crowd. The pale autumn light cast long shadows that curved unevenly over the rows of cars. Any other day, he would have described the scene as tranquil. But not now. Unease, even hostility, hung in the air like thick smoke. Local farmers, jaded tourists, cranky children and the hundreds of automobiles that had brought them here radiated out in concentric circles from the single dusty spire that pointed skyward like a bony finger. All surveyed the scene with an eerie calm, eyes slitted against the fading afternoon sun.

David quivered unconsciously, chilled not by the air but by the sense of unquiet anticipation. Something had to give.

At least, it had better. News-wise, the site had dried up. Nothing to report here. Nothing he could sell to the network, anyway. How many human-interest stories could he do? How many tiresome biopics of Waterbury's career? The Sooner Than Never story was officially stalled.

Since the national guard had arrived, the carnivalesque atmosphere had hardened and withered, reified into a tense pause of distrust -- as if the crowd was holding its collective breath. Tension was sporadically dispersed by the occasional fistfight, fiery short-lived bouts of pugilistic fury. Thick-necked farmers squared off against sardonic college boys. Just so much macho posturing -- or so David hoped.

But if things were tense, what else did they expect? The guard ensured that no one got anywhere near the monument. After a few full-scale brawls (producing several bloody noses and one concussion), alcohol had been banished from the site. Quarters were tight and provisional plumbing inadequate. The crowd, chilled by autumn frost and irritated by unrelieved boredom, grew more surly with each passing day.

A tinderbox, David thought, grimly smiling at his own hackneyed imagery. A powder keg ready to blow.

He ambled through the crowd, scanning for newsworthy sites and new inspirations. There had to be a story hiding here, somewhere.

Just as he was making his decision to return to the motel for the night, explosive shouts shook him from his reverie. Turning toward the monument, he made out a crowd of guardsman hustling away from the barbed wire encircling the site. Someone got past, David thought, his insight echoed in shouts by the crowd around him. As a swelling crowd pushed toward the gap in the spiny barrier, warning shots rang through the air. The teeming mass of eager treasure hunters fell back, jaws agape at the use of firearms.

"It's just like Kent State!" a teen-ager in tie-dye cried out melodramatically.

David strained to make out the couple at the center of the sea of cammy fatigues. No luck. The throng was eight men deep all around the pair. Just as David was about to give up, the crowd parted slightly to make way for a tall, burly guardsman leading the way, a shiny, menacing piece of steel in his hand.

Peering around a burly, plaid-shirted redneck, David made out the two figures. Small, sleek black heads. The older man, bespectacled, slightly stooped, had the air of an academician. The other man, taller, more energetic, fought back against the rough grasp of the guardsmen. He spat out curses in a foreign tongue David thought he recognized as Japanese.

The crowd pushed past David, who spun quickly on his heels to follow. Struggling to keep up, he called in vain for his crew. Squinting into the sunset, he made out their figures on the other side of Farmer Zuckerman's field, buying corndogs from a cart. Damn, he cursed under his breath.

As the guardsman pushed the two trespassers into the back of a government van, a voice boomed over the makeshift P.A. system that had been installed shortly after the monument had been sealed off.

"A state of emergency has been declared for the environs of Chimney Rock National Park. This field must be cleared immediately. Uniformed officers will direct you to the quickest route out of the area. Those who refuse to comply with the officers' directives will be tried for felony mayhem."

As the message repeated, all hell broke loose. "This is private property. The goddamn government can't tell us what to do!" "There's no way no army wanna-be is gonna tell me what I can do!" Shouting turned to pushing, pushing turned to brawling, and the crowd erupted into violence.

Running in a crouch, David swerved to dodge a beefy fist that narrowly missed his aquiline nose, and hurled his way to the edge of the field. Darting and swerving, he avoided disaster at every turn. Up ahead, he spotted the remainder of his crew encircling the network helicopter. David had insisted on deluxe coverage since the network had stepped up their interest in the Waterbury story. He reached the network camp, and sputtered out orders.

"Mitch, we're going up! We need an aerial of the riot. Where's Alex?" Mitch pointed at the hapless cameraman who jogged toward the camp, corn dog and cotton candy in hand. David knocked aside the snacks and thrust the camera into his hands. "We're going up," he mouthed over the building din of the helicopter blades. "Get in," he pointed to the 'copter's cockpit, jabbing the air with his finger.

At the 'copter's abrupt lift-off, David felt a feathery giddiness fill his head. He braced himself as they swayed with the buffeting breeze that swept the prairie every evening at twilight. "Floodlights!" he called to Alex in the fading light.

The crowds below roiled and swelled like a writhing mass of serpents. David took a deep breath and turned toward the camera, the brawling crowd providing a violent backdrop to his report. As he opened his mouth to speak, he froze.

There it was, below them. The site they were meant to see. Something you could only see from high above the prairie -- as if from atop Mount Yenak -- or atop Chimney Rock. The next clue. And only he had seen it.

"David?" Alex leaned forward, nudging the reporter. David blinked slowly, regained his composer, and began.

"This is David Nimoy, high above the plain beside Chimney Rock Monument in Nebraska, sad witness to one of the worst public riots this reporter has ever experienced ..."

***

"Yes, officer, I understand perfectly." Vesper modulated her voice to reveal just a hint of tragedy. "It's an unfortunate circumstance, and we all must do our part to see that justice is done. I'll be right down."

Replacing the slim ivory and gold receiver into its cradle, Vesper contemplated her strategy. Too much emotion, and they might suspect. Too much calm, and she would appear inhumanly unaffected. But Vesper was not too concerned. Treading the line had always been her strong suit.

She had played her first encounter with the police beautifully -- all dignified grief and flower-like confusion. And faithful Shilah had bolstered her story. After all, a madwoman, a veritable madwoman, had broken into her home uninvited. She came wielding a weapon. Shilah had done her part two-fold: first, by calling the police at the first sound of a ruckus, and second, by helpfully taking the bullet that Nina had clearly meant for her.

Vesper turned her elegant head to glance at poor Shilah, convalescing in the sumptuous, satin-edged bed. In Vesper's world, loyalty and service were always rewarded. She rather enjoyed slumming it on her guest sleeper, anyway. It always sharpened her wits to face privation. And sharp wits were what she required most of all right now.

By the time she had reached the station, Vesper had worked out the details of her persona. A cool, helpful demeanor. Slight tremulousness when 'the ordeal' was mentioned. Reiteration of Waterbury's redoubled need for her efforts now that Nina was ... gone. A brisk handshake at the end of the interview, coupled with a slight fainting lean inward. She found burly men in uniforms fell for that move every time.

Easing herself into a stiff-backed chair, she turned her azure gaze on the beefy officer seated behind the p.c. "I do wish to assist you, officer, in anyway I can, but I can't help but think I've already told you everything I can. It was such a terrible night!" She let her voice quaver as she passed her hands over her eyes. "Such an awful shock."

"Yeah, I know, Miss Shillington." The words spilled from his lips as he wiped an uncouth hand across his mouth. Vesper shuddered inwardly. "The report's all here, it's just the prints we need."

Vesper blinked. "Prints? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Prints. Fingerprints. It's standard operating procedure. For an unsolved death. We gotta run your prints."

Vesper stiffened, an ingratiating smile frozen on her lips. "But it's not unsolved. She slipped. As I told you. She was pursuing me -- with a gun -- and she slipped."

The officer scratched himself and reached for his cup of coffee. "Yeah, but see, here's the thing. We don't know who dropped the gun. So we need your prints." His eyebrows shot up to emphasize the logic.

Vesper stroked the back of her hand, soothing herself into composure. "Why yes," she smiled a little too brightly. "Yes, of course. Anything to assist. But I'm afraid you'll have to direct me. After all," she leaned in conspiratorially, "It's not like I've done this before."

The officer looked at her dully and seized her delicate hand in his meaty paw. "'S'over here," he growled, pulling her to a nearby counter. Rolling each finger, he carefully imprinted her hand on a waiting card. "'S'all," he dismissed her, handing her a cloth that smelled of rubbing alcohol, and plopped back in his chair.

After Vesper's figure had disappeared through the doorway, Mike turned from a nearby desk where he had been sitting, his back to the officer's station. "You got'em?" he asked.

"Uh," the officer belched an affirmation.

***

"This is it!" Professor Hattamari whined. "I will go no further on this quest of yours. I expect payment for my efforts, as well as passage home. But you and I will part. And you can tell that to that madman you work for!"

Yemeshigi ignored his partner's threats. Clearly, the Professor did not understand the gravity of the situation. This time, they were not merely caught hiding out in some crazy woman's dream house, or some tumbling wreck of a castle. They had crossed a military line to trespass on federal land. Takamoto would not help them now. They would get passage home alright. It was called deportation.

Of course, he hadn't felt the need to explain these risks to the Professor prior to their venture onto restricted government property. For him, the dazzling promise of eventual reward was enough to justify the potential losses. But what a loss it had turned out to be, considering they hadn't even located the clue.

A scraping sound interrupted the silence. A key in the lock, the sound of metal sliding against metal. A guardsman poked his head through the open doorway.

"EX-CUSE ME!" The guardsman was under the impression that neither man spoke English, and that hollering in a loud monotone would remedy the problem. "YOUR LOY-ER IS HERE TO TALK TO YOU" -- he pointed wildly, gesturing some hopeless version of sign language to convey his message.

Yemeshigi grinned wildly and bobbed a series of choppy nods, a gesture he found convinced all white Americans that communication was futile. The guardsman flashed a look of panicky despair and ushered in the visitor.

He was a tall man, with a square jaw. Yemeshigi did not know him.

"Mr. Yemeshigi? Professor Hattamari? Mr. Takamoto has sent me. I'm to defend you. He's sorry that this was not managed more smoothly, but he would like you to continue with the project."

"Mr. Takamoto?" Yemeshigi's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. "He sent you? But he hasn't returned our calls."

The square-jawed man's face went blank for just a moment, and then he continued smoothly. "There was no time. Besides, he has been following your plight. He sends his regards."

Yemeshigi tensed for a moment. Professor Hattamari leapt to his feet, beaming. "It's about time! He would be disgraced to wait longer! How soon can we leave? I'm sick of this pungent hell-hole!"

"Soon. I just need to know more to prepare your case." He pulled a palm pilot from his pocket. "Now, what precisely did you find by Chimney Rock?"

***

Fay sat bolt upright, her heart pounding. The phone, she thought, easing her panic. Where was she? Ah, yes. Vampyr's futon. She'd fallen asleep in the office. Reaching for the phone, she toppled an empty milk carton and soggy pizza box.

"Hello?" she croaked into the receiver.

"I'm a friend of Will Gilbert's. Can you get a message to him?"

"Yes," Fay answered absently. "How did you get this number?"

"I was able to reach Chloe Horton. She thought you could trust me."

Fay shook the sleep from her eyes. "Wait a minute! Who is this?"

"My name is David Nimoy. I have important news for Will and Laura -- the next clue. Can you reach them?"

"Yes, I can," Fay answered, reaching for a pad of paper.

***

That had not gone quite as she had hoped. Vesper shifted uncomfortably on the carseat. The interior of the cab smelled oddly of gyros and patchouli. She opened the window a crack. The crisp autumn air restored her senses. It was standard procedure, she kept telling herself. They would only use the prints to confirm who had handled the gun. It was all part of the big picture.

Beside, she smirked, That lumbering idiot couldn't catch a cold. Another near miss as she continued to fly under the radar. No one knew -- at least, no one who mattered. Shilah would never betray her. She could come as close as she like to the law, and still evade its clumsy grasp.

"Driver!" Her voice sounded sharp and brilliant, sparkling as a diamond on ice. "Don't take the parkway. Left at this corner; circle round the fairground." I won't be so easily taken, Vesper purred to herself.

Stepping up to her loft, Vesper felt her confidence nearly restored. Familiar details often had that effect on her -- an indication of the permanence that remained despite the great flux of events. Being back in Centralia had been like that. She frowned. Centralia was perhaps the worst example of that kind of permanence. Permanence in decay. Just enough remained intact to recall the past, of what had been, but with gaping holes -- cold reminders of all that did not remain behind. Like the row houses of Centralia.

Like visiting the house she had grown up in without seeing her mother.

Like working for Waterbury without seeing Lily.

No!, she screamed inwardly. It was too late to think like that. There was only forward motion -- progress fueled by the momentum of her own grand ambitions. She was so close to the goal. A few measly shares, and she would rule Waterbury. She would own him, the way he had owned her.

Waterbury. She smirked when she contemplated him. His grand, weak passions. His Achilles heel, really. A steely business man, but all indecision when it came to matters of the heart. She had watched his interview with Barbara Walters. She had witnessed his maudlin performance of remorse and grief.

"Yes, we will all die, Simon." She startled herself by breaking the silence of the still room. "But some of us will live -- longer than you -- and enjoy the fruits of our labors."

Vesper heard a rustling and turned toward Shilah, enrobed in peach satin on the bed. Her maid had not moved. She heard the rustle again, this time by the door. She crept silently toward the door, pressing her shell-like ear against the sturdy frame. Smoothly, she slid her hand to the knob, and flung the door open abruptly.

A voluptuous redhead, wrapped in a shimmering kimono and crowned with silken turban was about to knock on her door.

"Miss Shillington, I believe," she cooed in a rich contralto. "I don't believe we've met. But we have an acquaintance in common. Mr. Chad Bismarck. And he's told me such tales.

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