a closed fist.
“True story,” Beamon said, leaning back and polishing off his beer. “Puked all over my shoes. Had to write a full report to get the Bureau to buy me a new—”
The sound of his beeper going off stopped Beamonin mid-sentence. “Whoops, that’s us, John. I think our fax is coming through.”
Parkinson pointed to the empty beers in front of Beamon. “One more quick one for the road?”
“Thanks, but no,” Beamon said. “We’ve got to move.”
“You boys still coming by the house for dinner?”
Michaels grimaced. He’d hoped Parkinson’s invitation had been hypothetical.
“Hell yeah,” Beamon said. “It isn’t often I get a home-cooked meal. Six o’clock, right?”
“What is this?” Chet Michaels said, spreading the slick fax paper out on the bedspread in the hotel room he and Beamon had been sharing for the last two nights.
Beamon double-checked that his gun was loaded and began digging through his suitcase for a heavier sweater. “Think about it, Chet. Try to understand the psyche of your average backwoods paranoid.”
Michaels looked down again at what seemed to be a bad fax of a photograph that hadn’t turned out. He flipped it upside down. Still nothing. “I think it must have gotten screwed up in the fax, Mark. It’s just dark with a few light splotches.”
Beamon ignored him. “As I was saying, the psyche of the backwoods paranoid. When the Red hordes—or more likely the ATF—come over the hilts and surround ‘em, their trailer sure as hell isn’t going to save them. What do they do?”
“Head for the hills?”
“Hell, no. That’d be un-American. They go for their bomb shelters.”
Beamon slid an arm though the sleeve of the sweater he’d turned up and pointed to the photograph. “I got turned on to these things years ago when I was looking for another girl, a little younger than Jennifer. What you’re looking at is an aerial photo of Passal’s spread taken with heat-sensitive cameras. Tell me what you see.”
Michaels studied the fax for a few more moments, then pointed to a roughly rectangular off-white splotch centered on it. “That must be the trailer. You can see the stove here in the middle.”
“That’d be my take on it.”
“This little thing here must be that shack where the generator was running.”
“Uh-huh.”
Michael’s finger traced along the edge of the photo, stopping on another anomaly in the dark gray background of the photograph. “What’s that?”
“That’s where the ground isn’t being heated by the sun. It would seem to indicate that there’s something under there that’s not under the rest of the area.”
Michaels brought the fax up close to his face. “What do you think it is?” he said excitedly.
“I’m hoping for Jennifer Davis, but I doubt I’m that lucky.”
12
J ENNIFER STIRRED, BUT DIDN’T OPEN HER eyes. She rolled to her back, kicked the sheets off, and breathed deeply. Bright light filtered through her eyelids, and for a moment she imagined that they had become transparent. Through them she could see the pine celling of her home and the enormous wrought-iron chandelier that hung above her bed.
This was it. It had to be. Today she would finally wake up from the nightmare. Today she’d be home. Jennifer took a final deep breath and opened her eyes.
The glare off the stark white ceiling blinded her, just as it had the last five times she had played out this elaborate ritual. She threw her forearm over her eyes, rolled on her side, and began to cry quietly.
Why was this happening? Had she done something wrong? Maybe she was sick—and this was a hospital. The horrible dreams were just part of the illness. High fever could cause those things—she’d seen it on TV. And that’s why she was alone. She was contagious. Quarantined.
She would think about that for a time, as she did every “morning” in the windowless room. When she had once again convinced herself of the plausibility of this
“True story,” Beamon said, leaning back and polishing off his beer. “Puked all over my shoes. Had to write a full report to get the Bureau to buy me a new—”
The sound of his beeper going off stopped Beamonin mid-sentence. “Whoops, that’s us, John. I think our fax is coming through.”
Parkinson pointed to the empty beers in front of Beamon. “One more quick one for the road?”
“Thanks, but no,” Beamon said. “We’ve got to move.”
“You boys still coming by the house for dinner?”
Michaels grimaced. He’d hoped Parkinson’s invitation had been hypothetical.
“Hell yeah,” Beamon said. “It isn’t often I get a home-cooked meal. Six o’clock, right?”
“What is this?” Chet Michaels said, spreading the slick fax paper out on the bedspread in the hotel room he and Beamon had been sharing for the last two nights.
Beamon double-checked that his gun was loaded and began digging through his suitcase for a heavier sweater. “Think about it, Chet. Try to understand the psyche of your average backwoods paranoid.”
Michaels looked down again at what seemed to be a bad fax of a photograph that hadn’t turned out. He flipped it upside down. Still nothing. “I think it must have gotten screwed up in the fax, Mark. It’s just dark with a few light splotches.”
Beamon ignored him. “As I was saying, the psyche of the backwoods paranoid. When the Red hordes—or more likely the ATF—come over the hilts and surround ‘em, their trailer sure as hell isn’t going to save them. What do they do?”
“Head for the hills?”
“Hell, no. That’d be un-American. They go for their bomb shelters.”
Beamon slid an arm though the sleeve of the sweater he’d turned up and pointed to the photograph. “I got turned on to these things years ago when I was looking for another girl, a little younger than Jennifer. What you’re looking at is an aerial photo of Passal’s spread taken with heat-sensitive cameras. Tell me what you see.”
Michaels studied the fax for a few more moments, then pointed to a roughly rectangular off-white splotch centered on it. “That must be the trailer. You can see the stove here in the middle.”
“That’d be my take on it.”
“This little thing here must be that shack where the generator was running.”
“Uh-huh.”
Michael’s finger traced along the edge of the photo, stopping on another anomaly in the dark gray background of the photograph. “What’s that?”
“That’s where the ground isn’t being heated by the sun. It would seem to indicate that there’s something under there that’s not under the rest of the area.”
Michaels brought the fax up close to his face. “What do you think it is?” he said excitedly.
“I’m hoping for Jennifer Davis, but I doubt I’m that lucky.”
12
J ENNIFER STIRRED, BUT DIDN’T OPEN HER eyes. She rolled to her back, kicked the sheets off, and breathed deeply. Bright light filtered through her eyelids, and for a moment she imagined that they had become transparent. Through them she could see the pine celling of her home and the enormous wrought-iron chandelier that hung above her bed.
This was it. It had to be. Today she would finally wake up from the nightmare. Today she’d be home. Jennifer took a final deep breath and opened her eyes.
The glare off the stark white ceiling blinded her, just as it had the last five times she had played out this elaborate ritual. She threw her forearm over her eyes, rolled on her side, and began to cry quietly.
Why was this happening? Had she done something wrong? Maybe she was sick—and this was a hospital. The horrible dreams were just part of the illness. High fever could cause those things—she’d seen it on TV. And that’s why she was alone. She was contagious. Quarantined.
She would think about that for a time, as she did every “morning” in the windowless room. When she had once again convinced herself of the plausibility of this
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