Chapter 44

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Oh, the indignity and the shame of it all.

Vesper gently rested her hand on the escalator's railing, ascending into the hopelessly plebeian bowels of the Marriott Marquis Hotel in Times Square. Before her, behind her, around her, tacky tourists from around the globe chattered, pointed, and made idiots of themselves.

"You know," a woman with a thick drawl and a equally thick helmet of "done" blond hair remarked to her companion, "if we play aah cahds raht, we maht b'able to get some tickets to go and see Sataday Naht Fevah."

The woman's companion, who wore a generous helping of garish gold jewelry, nodded vigorously. "That would be lovely. Lovely. Do you think it's too kewl ta go on The Circle Lahn?"

Vesper tapped her fingers impatiently on the slow-moving railing. She never understood the yearly plague of overdressed, overdone, wealthy Southern women who descended on the City each year around the holidays.

"Ah wish," remarked the blond woman absently, "Ah wish we could find a nahce little place for suppah down in Green Witch Village. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

"Ah'm afraid Ah don't know any places down that way," the jewelry-laden woman murmured. "But it would be lovely." Suddenly, she turned towards Vesper, waves of perfume emanating from her like a force field. "Ma'am, you look lahk a New Yawkah. Do you know any good places for suppah down in Green Witch Village?"

Vesper regarded her menacingly from behind her large sunglasses. A thin smile played across her lips. "I would try," she said with mock brightness, " I would try La Nouvelle Justine, down near 14th Street. They have the most delectable French cuisine." She neglected to tell the woman that the place was an S & M theme restaurant, with dominant waiters and waitresses who spanked their patrons, stripped wealthy businessmen down to their skivvies, and performed elaborate floor shows involving flying leather harnesses.

"Oooo," the jewelry-laden woman breathed. "That sounds lovely. Just lovely. New Yawk is just lovely. Don't you think so, Liddie?"

Liddie thought so.

Thankfully, the escalator had reached the third floor. Vesper ungraciously bulldozed past the steel magnolias, making a beeline for the secluded pay phones in the corner by the restrooms. In recent weeks, she had become paranoid about her private communications, refusing to discuss any of her business on her cell phone, email, or office phone. You never knew who might be listening.

The Marriott Marquis, with its tacky, soaring atrium, its cathedral to poor taste, was the last place any one would think to look for her.

She cleared her throat, and then hastily dialed a number into the phone.

"Takamoto."

"It's Christian Redding."

"Ah, Mr. Redding. Things are progressing quite nicely, don't you think? Quite nicely."

Vesper's lips curled. "They'd progress much more nicely if you would return my phone calls."

"Haven't you been getting my messages?"

"What messages?"

"I've been leaving messages at your service, as you requested. A few times I have spoken with that woman. The maid."

Vesper's mind was racing. Who had Takamoto left messages with? Shilah? Or that odd woman, Leia Freitag? What did Leia know? She made a mental note to beat Shilah till she screamed, on general principle.

"Oh," Vesper cleared her throat again. "You should always speak to the machine if you don't reach me directly. My help is very undependable."

"Yes. Well. So the lawsuits are taking their toll on our favorite colleague, are they not?"

Vesper shimmied with excitement. "Yes, yes indeed they are. In particular, the suit filed by the Federal government after that unpleasant business in Nebraska. That riot is going to cost him, I think. He--"

"Waterbury stock is as cheap as salt," Takamoto said flatly. At the mention of Simon's name, Vesper jolted, and glanced furtively around her to see if any passersby were watching her. They weren't. She hated it when he said Simon's name on the telephone.

"Where do we stand?" she asked, her heart racing.

"A solid 48.5%." She could hear him smiling. "I think that Santa Claus is going to be very good to us this year, Mr. Redding. Very good."

Vesper's knees began to quiver. It was too good to be true! A measly 2.5 percent more--2.5%!--and the takeover would be complete.

"Of course," Takamoto intoned, "we are taking a much greater risk at this point than yourself. We will need to renegotiate your standing with the company if this all goes through--"

Vesper's eyes narrowed. "We will do nothing of the sort, Mr. Takamoto. I could pull out now--"

"And Takamoto would still win the day."

"I--I can't talk about this right now. I'll have to speak with you later."

"I think we will need to have a face-to-face meeting before the year is out, Mr. Redding. Here. In Los Angeles."

Vesper swallowed. Simon had banned all vacations for Waterbury employees until the new year.

"Perhaps," she said, her voice cracking, "perhaps you could jet out to New York." She thought of the Southern women on the escalator. "And take in a show or two," she added blandly.

"Perhaps. We will speak soon, Mr. Redding."

He hung up. Vesper gently replaced the phone, and padded across the floor towards the sign proclaiming "ESCALATOR TO BROADWAY" in garish, art nouveau letters.

Things were going well, for a change. She had a chance. Until now, the takeover had been a vague, distant, worrying dream. Now, it could possibly work in her favor. Fate might be kind to her, after all.

As she stepped out into Times Square, she glanced up at the enormous Waterbury billboard which dominated the sky. The minutes, the seconds, the milliseconds until the millennium ticked away inexorably. Only 29 days left. 29 days.

A lot could happen in 29 days.

"Just you wait, Simon Waterbury," she growled under her breath. "Just you wait."

*****

"I don't care if you've been searching for over a week. You need to find them, you idiot!" Simon paced the length of his penthouse bedroom, clad in a red velvet smoking robe which made him look like an unhinged Santa Claus.

"There was a report that they were sighted in a rest area in South Dakota--"

"Well, then, I suggest you get yourselves to South Dakota!"

"And there was another report that placed them in Wyoming on Thanksgiving Day--"

Simon paused momentarily, and briefly smiled. Then, he began fuming again. "Thanksgiving Day?! Thanksgiving Day?! That was a week ago! Have you followed up on any of those reports? That's what I'm paying you for!"

"We checked out Cheyenne, Wyoming. We couldn't find them."

A vein popped out on Simon's broad forehead. "I thought you had some sort of homing mechanism placed in their car! Whatever happened to that?"

"It's freezing up here, Mr. Waterbury. It's already snowed. Apparently, the beacon is on the fritz. We--"

"Find them. Find them soon. Did some of your group go to pursue that. . .other avenue?"

"Yeah. . .they're gone. They left a few days ago."

"Then get me what I need. I need you to find them. And above all, preserve the--"

"The theatricality of the contest," the voice groaned.

"Don't patronize me, you artless bastard. I want this to be timed beautifully."

Simon slammed down the phone. They were on the right track. Cheyenne. South Dakota. But would they reach the finish line in 29 short days?

*****

Judy Geary swung open the front door of her split-level ranch house, a fretting child supported on one arm and a half-gallon of whole milk in the other.

"Can I help you?" she asked suspiciously, wiping away her milk-mustache with the back ofher hand.

"Good afternoon," the man said pleasantly. He was clean cut, darkly handsome, and wearing a very expensive-looking suit. "Ma'am, I am here as a representative of the North Kirkville Free Methodist Church. Has your family accepted Jesus Christ into your home?"

"Not lately," Judy answered, stifling a snorty giggle. The man looked at her sternly. "I mean, not personally. We have accepted him into our hearts as our personal Lord and Saviour."

The man smiled. "Wonderful. Wonderful. Then I would like to personally invite you and your family out to the North Kirkville Free Methodist Church for worship this coming Sunday."

Judy took a slug of milk, contemplatively. "My husband and I already have a church. We go to--" The child on her hip squalled impatiently. "Oh, Elijah, hush!" She smiled at the man. "We already have our church. My husband isn't home, and he's the one you'd have to speak to about this. He makes all the decisions regarding worship." Her brow faintly wrinkled, as if she was smelling something bad.

"Ma'am, I--"

"My name is Judy."

"Judy. Is something troubling you? You seem concerned about your husband."

"Well, it's just that I'm worrying about him. I think he's being tempted. I've prayed hard about it, sir, but--"

A shadow fell across the man's face. "Is he being tempted by Satan?"

Judy Geary's lips quivered. "I don't know. He may be. He says he's doing it all for the good of the church, but. . ." She shrugged uncomfortably. "I feel kinda funny, sharing this with a complete stranger--"

"We are all God's children, Judy. And a problem shared is a problem halved."

"Well," she looked around the living room, seemingly embarrassed. "Well, why don't you come on in. It might make me feel better to get this off of my chest." She swung open the door. "I just put on a fresh pot of coffee on not too long ago. . .it's decaf, I hope you don't mind. . ."

The man followed her into her home, and quickly blew an impressed whistle. "Whew,Judy. Is all that hardware your husband's?"

Judy Geary glanced at the immense table which stretched the length of the living room wall, covered with monitors, scanners, printers, and a variety of contraptions she couldn't name.

"Yeah, that's all his. He says his work is all for the church, but I think his faith in the Lord is being bypassed by his faith in the computer chip."

The Man in Armani straightened his suit. "Really? How very unfortunate."

"You want cream or sugar?"

*****

"Breathe deeply! Deeply!"

Chad lay on the sofa with his eyes closed, bored to tears. Leia had extinguished all of the lights and the room was suffused with dim candlelight and clashing aromatherapy scents.

"Now," Leia intoned, positioning herself on a step-stool beside the sofa, "I am going to count to three. When I reach three, you are going to be completely relaxed. . ."

Chad moaned softly: "Relaaaaaaaaaaaaaxed." He might as well put on a good show.

"Good. Now shut up. One--"

"One," he answered dreamily.

Leia smacked Chad's bald head with her flat, stinging palm. "I said shut up!"

She straightened herself on the stool. More than anything in the world, Chad longed to leap off the sofa and bitch-slap the alleged hypnotist.

Leia cleared her throat. "One. . ."

Her slap was giving him a painful erection.

"Two. . ."

She'd get hers, though, in the none too distant future. He'd make her beg for mercy.

"Three. There now," she cooed. "You are completely relaxed."

He moaned in reply.

"Now, then," Leia said gently. "What can you tell me about Vesper?"

Chad wriggled on the sofa. "Vesper. . .is not who she pretends to be. . ."

Leia sighed. She had heard all this before. "But who is Vesper?"

"Vesper is a man. Vesper used to be Philip. Philip Huffmann. Philip had an affair with Lily Waterbury. Simon was angry. He threatened Philip." Chad opted for a little fun. "Philip pretended to kill Lily. But Lily isn't dead. . ."

Leia's eyes widened. "She's not?!"

"No. . .Lily is alive. Lily is living in a trailer park in Texas."

"She is? Is that where the money is?"

"No. . .the money is somewhere near Vesper. Vesper is the key to the money." He had to get Leia to search, to follow Vesper's every move. The Sooner Than Never booty was undoubtedly somewhere around her. Most likely in the city.

"But where is the money?" Leia was wringing her hands in her lap.

"Vesper is the key. . .follow Vesper. . .can't remember more now. . ."

"Who is Takamoto?"

Chad's eyes almost popped open. How the hell had the scattered hypnotist come up with that one? Maybe she wasn't as dumb as she looked. What did she know that he didn't?

"Takamoto is a company. . . they have many different ventures. . .computers, communications, publishing. . ."

Leia bounced on her stool. "Publishing! Is Vesper working for Takamoto?"

So, Chad realized, she didn't know that much. Not enough to be dangerous.

Leia muttered to herself. "Vesper is working for Takamoto Industries. . .and they're trying to take over Waterbury Publishing before someone wins the treasure hunt. . .Simon hates Vesper not only because she's trying to destroy his company, but because she is the man who murdered his wife almost thirty years ago. . ." She turned back to Chad. "Does Simon know that Vesper is Philip for certain?"

Of course he did, Chad thought viciously. Simon just wanted to see Vesper's dismay. Her discomfort. Her total collapse. "Not sure."

"SO WHERE IS THE MONEY???"

Before Chad could respond, there was a soft knock at the apartment door. Leia stormed over to it, affixed the chain, and opened it a crack.

"What do you want?" Leia demanded of the visitor in the hall.

" I. . .I didn't know you were going to be home, Ms. Freitag. . .I--"

"So what are you doing here, Shilah?"

Chad opened his eyes. Shilah would blow everything. Leia couldn't know that he and Shilah were now in cahoots.

"I just wanted to see Mr. Chad--"

Leia grimaced. "Mr. Chad is very ill, sweetie. And he can't see you. You just forget that you ever saw him here. Don't ever come here again. Vesper might follow you, and then we would have some big trouble."

"But I--"

Leia's lips curled. "Shilah, if you ever come here again, I'm calling the police, and they'll come, and then you and Ms. Shillington will go to jail. How would you like that, sweetie? Would you like to go to jail?"

Shilah let out a yelping sob. "Oh, please don't call the police, Ms. Freitag! Please! I just--"

"Go home, Shilah."

"Please, Ms. Freitag--"

"Go home." Leia slammed the door.

Chad closed his eyes. He would call Shilah later, when Leia went out. If he had both of them working in his favor, he would know every detail of Vesper's life for the next month. They could do all his footwork, and he would get to the prize money before either of them.

*****

The Bull-Necked man sat in the dark sedan at the end of the cul-de-sac in Evansville, Indiana. He turned up the volume on the receiver. The reception was remarkably good.

"So he is piecing this all together, hoping that a good Christian will solve the hunt and use all the money to start overseas missions?" the Man in Armani asked incredulously.

"Dick feels very passionately that the godless heathens around the world should be brought to the proper path. He doesn't want the money for himself. He's not in it for himself. That's why he won't talk to any of the reporters."

"But doesn't he know that by putting all this information on the Internet, he is providing help to all sorts of un-Christian people, who will use the prize money for their own evil ends?"

"Mr. Francis," Judy Geary said flatly, "I really don't care who wins the prize money. . .I mean, it would be nice if we could donate it to the overseas missions, or use it for other noble causes, but I am just beside myself with the things that Dick is getting himself into."

"Like what?"

"Well, I'd rather not say. I try not to listen. Dick doesn't even like to talk about it. But he's unearthed all sorts of things about those awful pagans. Terrible things."

"Such as?"

"He started doing all this research about a year ago, when that awful book came out. My brother-in-law, Jim, he used to work for the government. Dick's been talking to him a lot. That millionaire, that Simon Waterbury, is some sort of emissary of Satan. He had a wife, a young wife, many years ago. She was wooed into an adulterous affair with another man. This awful man. And apparently, this man was also having a relationship with the millionaire at the same time. It makes my blood run cold to speak about these awful things. . ."

"Please, go on."

"Well, the awful man. . .his name was Philip something. . .and he murdered the young wife. And Dick just found out something even worse. He's afraid to even put it up on his Internet doohicky. Apparently, Simon Waterbury was writing a book, some sort of book about terrible things the government was doing. . .selling radioactive food to third world countries. But anyway, the young wife---she was an orphan, you know. . . Dick thinks she might have been an angel sent by the Lord. The young wife found out about this book and wanted to go to the authorities, but Simon wouldn't let her. And so they killed her."

"My goodness."

"Yeah. And then Simon Waterbury wrote this book all about it, bringing out all the greed and jealousy and hatred in the world, just as we get to the year 2000."

"I see."

"And you know, there's been those seven clues. Dick thinks they're the Horseman of the Apocalypse."

"Sister Judy, do you think that Simon Waterbury is the Antichrist?"

The Bull-Neck man guffawed loudly in the sedan.

"No," Judy answered, in a hushed whisper, "he isn't the Antichrist, but that poor Lily Waterbury, she gave birth to a demon child who is. Simon Waterbury's child, the devil's spawn. And unless somebody can solve that puzzle and stop Simon Waterbury, that demon is going to rise up and bring Armageddon down on the world on New Year's Day. Oh, Lord, help us."

"Sister Judy, let us pray."

The Bull-Necked man slapped his knee and howled. This woman was a nut. . .she had some good information, but she was psychotic. He reached for a bag of Corn Nuts on the floor of the car, never seeing the ebony-haired Japanese man in the SUV across the street.

*****

They had driven around the country, semi-aimlessly, for over a week, uncertain of where to go, afraid to be seen or recognized.

"I think we should sleep in the car. It's too risky to call Holly and Christine, and I don't think we should go into any hotels."

The Saturn was parked in a quiet alleyway off of Orrington Avenue.

Will pouted. "Christine and Holly aren't going to blow our cover! They're the Girls with Glasses, for heaven's sakes!"

Laura gripped the steering wheel, despite the fact that the car wasn't moving. "The less people that know we're here, the better."

"I still think we should have gone to Atlanta. The book is clearly pointing to the Coke factory."

"Will, all those articles in Cheyenne were from Chicago newspapers! The next clue has got to be here somewhere!"

"But we've already been here! Out of all the places in the country, Simon is sending us back to Chicago?!"

"I think so."

"I have a very bad feeling about this."

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