Ikon by Graham Masterton Page A

engine suddenly rumbled into life and then died away again.
    The sentry said, in a dry voice, ‘He didn’t see it. He backed into it. The rotors took off his head.’
    Daniel stared at the man without saying a word. Then he turned to Ronald and whispered, ‘You’d better take me home.’
    Ronald’s face was strained. His eyes glittered with sudden tears - tears of shock and frustration and sadness. He said, softly, ‘Okay.’
    They rode back slowly through the night. Even when they reached Apache Junction, they said nothing; but after Daniel had dismounted he took hold of Ronald’s wrist and squeezed it tight.
    ‘Remember Ah-jon-jon,’ he said, so quietly that Ronald could hardly hear him. ‘Don’t try to play the game if nobody else knows the rules.’
    ‘You’re talking about Willy?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Daniel. He had to purse his mouth together with grief, and the lump in his throat was so constricting that he couldn’t answer at first. I`ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Thanks for the ride.’
    Ronald stayed on his motorcycle and watched Daniel walk across to the diner, fish out his keys, and open the doors. Upstairs, in Daniel’s apartment, a light went on.
     
    Seven
     
    Chief Ruse was sitting in front of his giant-sized colonial-style television set, his trousers comfortably open, the clips on his red suspenders unfastened, his boots propped up on a stool. He was watching a late-night movie called They Saved Hitler’s Brain and drinking warm milk from a mug with Pig-in-Chief printed on it. In spite of the rattling air-conditioning unit under the window, the living room was still oppressively hot, and now and again Chief Ruse tugged out a handkerchief the size of a small bedsheet and dabbed at his sweating face.
    His wife Ingrid was upstairs in front of her taffeta-frilled dressing-table, wearing an oatmeal face-pack, her hair tightly wrapped in rollers. His daughter Maisie-Ann was lying on her pink quilted bedspread in her pink quilted bathrobe eating a large bag of M & Ms and reading The 3-Day Diet Book.
    The door chimes played The Bluebells of Scotland. Ingrid’s grandfather had been a Scottish engineer on the Union railroad, and she always liked to think that she had true Scottish blood in her. Chief Ruse tolerated her plaid rugs and her plaid tablecloths, just to humour her, but he had drawn the line at wearing a kilt for her. ‘I’m not wearing a dress for anybody,’ he had told his deputy. ‘I don’t know what kind of weird behaviour goes on in Scotland, but it ain’t going to spread to Arizona. Not through me.’
    ‘Maisie-Ann, you want to get that door?’ he yelled out.
    There was no reply, but the door chimed again.
    ‘Maisie-Ann!’
    Ingrid called, ‘She’s dressed for bed already! You go!’
    Chief Ruse exasperatedly hauled himself out of his armchair, buttoned up his fly, and shambled out to the hallway. ‘Women,’ he grumbled under his breath. The door chimes rang again, and he shouted, ‘I’m coming, for Christ’s sake!’
    He opened the door. Outside, under the moth-clustered light, stood a thin tall man in a pale-blue suit, and a silver-tipped bolus necktie. His face was hidden by the brim of his Western hat. ‘Chief Ruse?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you so late. My name’s Skellett.’
    ‘What’s your business, Mr Skellett? Isn’t it something that could wait until the morning?’
    ‘It won’t take very long, Chief Ruse.’ The man reached into his suit and produced a black leather wallet, which he handed over without any explanation at all. Chief Ruse flipped it open and read, ‘James T Skellett, National Security Agency.’
    Chief Ruse dragged out his handkerchief again and patted the sweat on the back of his neck. ‘National Security Agency? You want to tell me what’s wrong?’
    Skellett took his wallet back, and tucked it into his pocket. ‘I’d prefer it if I could come in. This isn’t something I want to discuss on the