<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 25 Off the Map This was the second time Steve had come to Portland to find Anton. He was no longer a newcomer, an outsider. He'd been Anton's companion for over a year. He knew his way around, he knew who to ask. Only this time Anton would be harder to find, because he'd gone missing. He called his aunt from a gas station upon his arrival. It had been ten days now since Anton's disappearance, but she still hadn't heard from him. It was inexplicable that he would vanish like this without saying anything. Given his nervous demeanor of the past few months, Steve could only assume that he had gone deep underground, and was afraid to tip off his enemies by contacting him. Either that, or he'd started on an adventure that had gone seriously wrong. If he had come to Portland and wanted to leave Steve a signal under the radar, the most likely place to do it was in Steve's apartment. He wouldn't go to his studio if he was trying to stay hidden, because he figured it was being watched. They'd often joked about Kliff staking out the place, and what he must think of Steve's visits there. Steve circled the streets around his apartment looking for a parking space. The neighborhood was popular with young people like him, and everyone parked their car on the street. Eventually he found a spot a few blocks away. He knew immediately upon walking in the door that Anton hadn't come. There was an air of abandonment, neglect. There was no note, not even tucked away in some unlikely place. The glasses in the cupboard were surrounded by rings of dust. A bar of soap in the shower was dried up, cracked. A bunch of discarded papers lay swept into a pile. They had moved out in a hurry, and the disorder they had left behind was untouched. It gave him a sinking feeling to see the apartment in this condition. There was nothing but an armchair and an empty bookshelf. He remembered the previous spring, at the height of their happiness. Anton liked to sit by the window in that same armchair, making up songs with a cockeyed grin. Distraught, he left a note on the kitchen counter. "Anton, I'm looking for you. If you see this, call Rebecca!" He left his car where it was and took a bus downtown, to the Windsor Hotel. He knew that Anton had stayed there when he first got to Portland. It pleased him to make this naive homage. The place had been touched up a bit, but it still had the same surly manager. There was a portrait of Anton outside his window, from the Extreme Liberties phase. Steve got his attention and asked, "How much is a room?" "Twenty bucks a night, except number 42. That'll cost you a hundred." "What's so special about 42?" The manager opened his palms in a tiny shrug. "Some people pay the price." Steve realized that it was Anton's room. "Is it available?" "Sure it's available! Often it's available for long stretches of time." He swept his hand slowly outward to illustrate "long stretches." Over the years, he'd related Anton's story so often that he'd acquired theatrical gestures like this one. Steve paid for three nights, and the manager gave him the "no drugs, no booze" speech. When he was addressing Anton's pilgrims, the speech had a ritual quality. At a hundred dollars a night, he could care less what they did. Steve saw that Anton's room had been well preserved. He could itemize its contents: the desk where Anton had scribbled a letter to Becky, the sad-faced clown painting he had covered up with a sketch, the bed where he had bounced, the air shaft he had looked down, the chair where he had folded his pants. All this had seeped into legend. Steve scattered his own things around the space, thinking, "Is this right?" He took a shower and walked to Zombieland to make the rounds. He decided not to ask any questions this first night. Instead, he would simply make an appearance and see how people reacted to him. People would understand that he was looking for Anton, and pass the message along if they could. He made a point of going to all the places where they'd been seen most together. He had couscous and mint tea at the Star of Tunis, and stopped by Lizard Lounge for a beer. He poked his nose into underground galleries and newsstands, vintage clothing stores and music boutiques. He finished the night with a cocktail at Club Omaha, where Sanjay the bartender was his friend. It soon became clear that no one had seen Anton, or if they had, they weren't saying anything. Most seemed surprised to see him, but they covered it up with urban cool. He kept up a fruitless search for the next two or three days. He went to the bookstore where he had once worked, the Japanese sauna where he and Anton liked to get massages, the microcinema where they had rented a private screening room. The folks at Chaos Theory Records were helpful, promising to keep in touch if they heard anything. The only one to drop a real hint was Farnham T. Sparks of Rebel Youth. He seemed high-strung, conflicted. Finally he spat out, "Anton's done a bad thing, Steve. I wish I could help you, but I can't say more. You can piece it together. My advice is, cover yourself. Let's hope it all blows over in time." There was something in the air that people weren't talking about, and it had to do with The Last Assassin. That was the black hole in their conversation. Steve could tell that the album hadn't been well received here. Anton's long absence also seemed to have left a bad taste. Those who remembered Steve for being always on Anton's arm looked at him with pity now, or worse. When he walked by Anton's church in broad daylight, he saw that it was closed. That night at Cosmos, he wished he could dance so he could forget everything. But he was there to be attentive, to take it all in. He circulated, letting people make their approach. He was startled to see Kliff on the other side of the room. He wore a dark cloak, knee breeches and high boots. He was in conversation with the young Duchess, who was laughing incessantly, her hair piled high on her head in a surreal twirl. Steve realized that he had been watching him the whole time. He imagined that if anyone could tell him what had happened, it would be Kliff, but he could never see Kliff as an ally. He couldn't imagine Anton wanting that either. Even if Kliff knew where Anton was, he would never have the courage to ask him. That would be the worst thing he could possibly do. Kliff was telegraphing his thoughts. "Get out of here. Don't be a victim. You can't help Anton now." Steve had a powerful urge to go up to him, but he suppressed it. When he looked again a few minutes later, Kliff was gone. He left the club in a fit of despair. He was beginning to feel that he would never find Anton. The next day, he called his aunt to tell her he was getting nowhere. "No one will talk to me here." He decided it would be best to return to Twin Forks. If Anton wanted to contact him, it was the most logical place to look. If Anton still didn't surface after a month or two, he would move back to Portland and resume his life as a student. Perhaps he would wait for Anton all his life. He would wait as a widow waits, knitting by the window. He felt obliged to stop by the studio before leaving to learn what he could. He wasn't expecting to find Anton there, but he could try to pick up clues. He was convinced that Kliff often went there, and perhaps even made his home there at times. He would do some reverse spying and try to learn more about Kliff. He imagined Kliff shooting heroin on the red couch, or frolicking with men in Anton's bed. Kliff had always seen himself as Anton's true paramour, certainly more competent at it than Steve. He wondered how to get into the studio without drawing Kliff's attention. Was there a back way? What time of day would be best? He reminded himself that he was Anton's lover and friend. He had the right to go there. He had the key. He was on his way to his car when he ran into Uncle Tom and Old Charlie, the two old-timers who had coached him when he was new in town. They'd advised him of Anton's favorite hangouts and what he liked when it came to boys. Their advice had worked, and he felt a debt of gratitude. Even so, he was reluctant to talk to them about the situation he was now in. They teased him a little, calling him "the student of Anton's anatomy" and quizzing him on the finer points of sexual practice. This gave him a rush of embarrassment that heated his desire for Anton, and he confessed that Anton had gone missing two weeks before. "Not another filthy love story!" shrilled Uncle Tom at the top of his register. "He's been wounded, Tom. You love to get wounded, don't you, Steve?" Steve had a reservoir of trust for these two men against his better judgment. "I guess I always have," he confessed with a shy grin. "We'll help you, Steve. We know what you want." Old Charlie extended his arm in invitation. Steve was torn between suspicion and desire, but desire got the better of him and he abandoned his post. He followed the two old-timers to a shabby diner, where he bought them eggs and toast and coffee. "Anton never came to Portland," Old Charlie told him. "You won't find him here 'cause he ain't here." "So where is he, then?" "Well, that's the thing. You don't know, do you?" Steve played with his fork. "I suppose you do?" "You betcher bunnies we do. He's off playing cowboys and Indians." Uncle Tom stepped in with a slight cough. "What Old Charlie here's trying to say is, he's on a mission." "A mission?" "What used to be called cloak 'n' dagger work," said Old Charlie. "You know, spy stuff," put in Uncle Tom. "He's doin' a job, boy! He's up at the training camp now. And we know the feller who delivers the supplies. That's our connection to this matter. We can have you smuggled up there if you want. Eight hundred dollars, cash." "So you want my money." "Your money don't mean poo to us. We may not look it, but we're rich." "It's for the driver. Spying is dangerous, he takes a risk." "Well, that's just it. You said secret training camps? Maybe I shouldn't intrude." "Come on, kid, show some spine. Your lover awaits." "Couldn't you just pass him a message, ask him to call me?" "We helped you once before, didn't we, when no one else did?" Old Charlie smiled serenely. "No one else can do this for you, friend." Early the next morning, Steve was standing at a gas station on the road out of Portland. A large white van pulled up at the pump, and its driver hopped out. He was a young man, confident and springy. He came forward in long strides, introducing himself as Max. "We'll make room for you in back, between the olives and the walnuts." Steve's last remaining doubts were overcome by Max's youth and vigor. He felt he could trust Max. He handed over the money and climbed in back. For a minute or so he could hear gas pumping. Before long they were on the open highway, winding into the mountains. After a drive of three or four hours, Max opened the doors. They were in a valley surrounded by rocky pinnacles. It was a training camp with spartan bungalows, a parade field and an obstacle course. Anton came to meet them in a sky-blue jumpsuit. Steve burst out laughing. "What the hell is this?" He was overcome with delight to see his friend. "We're training for a mission, and I'm the commander." Steve thought this was even funnier. It seemed like a game. Anton's gaze was severe. "I didn't want you to get mixed up in this. But now that you're here, we can use your help." Steve was beginning to feel that Anton was serious. "Are you really training? What's this about? Do you have helicopters, the works?" He was prompted by his excitement and by Anton's jumpsuit. Anton failed to smile. "This is a ground action only. If we want helicopters we'll have to capture them. It's more of a test run, to see how well we coordinate. As it happens, one of our trainees recently dropped out. Are you ready to take his place?" Behind the bravado, Steve could feel Anton's sadness. Preparations for the mission had been dragging on. His recruits were disorganized and lacked the necessary skills. Because he was no longer working for Reinhold, time no longer stood still while he was on missions. There had been plenty of time for Steve to track him down. He assumed that one of his hidden supporters down below had taken pity on Steve, and helped him to arrange the ride. As a result, it was time to reveal even his darkest secrets. He would have to work Steve into the plan. They walked together to one of the bungalows. Anton pulled out a canvas satchel and opened it on the table, revealing a collection of plastic bags filled with tiny blue crystals. "In my other life, I'm a trafficker. And this is the product, Jamaican Blue." He explained that after the show in Boise, he'd come to this hideaway with the other members of his band and crew. He'd lured them with promises of hot springs and rock climbing, then he'd revealed the next stage of his plan. "We are the Last Assassin. It's time to take things into our own hands." They would train for missions such as acts of sabotage and raids on the enemy. In time he hoped to use these techniques against the Citadel itself. He didn't spell out this last part, but his team understood. They knew the story of the Last Assassin better than anyone. They would finance their revolt by dealing in Jamaican Blue, which he'd learned how to make while working for the Colonel. It had the advantage of being neither legal nor illegal, like God. Their first mission would be to take a shipment across the country. A moneyman in Idaho would give them a payment, and they would take the Jamaican Blue to Georgia where they would accept a second payment. Along the way they would cover their movements by doing shows as Generic Dummy. He'd asked his team for their response. "Awesome idea, Anton," Icky had said. Skip too remained steadfast and loyal. He was surprised by their solidarity. They were ready to follow his lead no matter what the risk. Apparently they'd been waiting for this. Finally he had stopped frittering and moved to action. Only one crew member decided to quit. Perhaps it was the mountain air, but that one was weak. Now Steve had come along to fill the gap. Having Steve there was a boost to his morale, but he was torn because his first duty was to protect Steve. "I'm not sure this is right for you. It could be dangerous. Max is heading back to Portland this afternoon. Go back to school, do something constructive. I'll be in touch when I can." Steve insisted on joining the plot out of loyalty. If Anton was going to be a bandit hero, he wanted to play along. "My life is with you, isn't that obvious? How could you do that to me, vanish without a clue as to where you'd gone?" "If that's your choice." Anton told him the details. "We'll be done with our training in a couple of days. Then we're heading to Idaho to see the moneyman. I've set up a rendezvous at a diner in the middle of nowhere. It's an ordinary place, but it's a known connection point for this sort of business. We have a main car and a backup, in case something goes wrong. The backup will be parked out of sight behind the restaurant. That's the escape route. I'll be driving the main car. The contact person rides with me." "So I'm the contact person?" "That's right. We'll drive into the lot and park near the front door. You'll get out of the car with the Jamaican Blue in a briefcase. You'll walk into the restaurant and say the code words. The moneyman will call you over. Sit down with him in the booth and show him the product. Let him look it over. He can taste it, whatever. Then take his money and the briefcase and return to the car." "That sounds simple." "It should be, but he'll have his people around him. We have to be prepared if he doesn't play by the rules. What if he decides to take the product without paying? Frankly, what I care about is your safety at that point. That's why we have the backup plan, the escape route. Go through the kitchen to the back door, and down the hill through the trees. Take the briefcase if you can, but in any case, get out. You'll find the other car waiting on the road below." "Do you have your gun?" He looked startled. It was the first time he'd thought of his gun since leaving Idaho. Then he remembered. "No, I left it with you, in the briefcase." "With the master tapes?" "Under the seat." "Do you need it? Because I didn't bring it." He hesitated. "No, I don't need it." Steve gave a relieved smile. "All our important stuff is safe, you know. I took everything to my aunt's place before I left. Your notebooks, the briefcase, whatever I could find lying around. There's nothing in the house now except the furniture. I thought it would be safer that way, in case...." "In case....?" "I don't know, in case something happened to me. In case they came looking for you while I was gone. Just in case." "You did good." He hadn't looked back since starting the mission, but it eased his mind to know that his things were safe. He took a deep breath. "So are you ready? Do you see yourself doing everything I just said?" • • • Steve wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I must be fucking crazy." He stared dolorously at the windows of the little diner, running the code words through his head. "I've traveled halfway around the world looking for a sign"—it sounded so hokey. "And now I've found it"—even hokier. He fixed his jaw, set his shoulders and went inside. They all turned to look at him. The waitress stopped chewing her gum, her fingers poised above the cash register. Three or four guys in plaid shirts, guts spilling over their belts, sat on a row of stools. One of them picked his teeth, another scratched his unshaven neck. Which one was the moneyman? None of these people looked rich. "I've traveled halfway around the world looking for a sign," he said loudly, his feet planted in the middle of the linoleum checkerboard. "Here it comes!" the hairy guy bellowed. "And now I've found it," he finished with a defiant look on his face, though secretly he wanted to cry. The waitress' fingers dropped and the cash register rang open. All of the men were laughing at him. The confusion on his face made them laugh all the more. "So—" Steve started. "So, punk, where'd you learn to say that? Who sent you?" Without thinking, he bolted for the door. One of the big guys lunged for him and got him by the ankle, just as his hand was closing over the handle. He kicked hard and tried to scramble away, but a second guy came up and smashed him in the face with a fist the size of a ham shank. • • • Anton sat in the getaway car. He'd been waiting a long time. He couldn't see what was going on inside the restaurant. There seemed to be flashes of movement, but no one had gone in or come out. He was about to get out to investigate, when he heard two shots fired from around back. He threw the car into gear and put his foot on the pedal. Nothing was happening behind the restaurant. The kitchen door was open and he could see the dishwasher. A couple of employee cars were parked there. At that moment, three unmarked cars roared into the parking lot. He was surrounded and quickly taken. Obviously the operation hadn't gone off as planned. There'd been a fly in the works somewhere. Either that, or it had been a setup from the start. In any case he was stuck, taken by the Law. Only it wasn't any law he'd ever read about. It was the other law, the Higher Law, the law that does what it wants. He was taken to a mountain clearing for processing. The ambiance was a mix of military and gangland. There were soldiers in helmets and fatigues, guarding a canvas tent with one side open to the sun. A man in a sharp suit and sunglasses sat at a plank table, shuffling papers brought to him by an effeminate-looking aide. All of Anton's accomplices were brought in one by one, even the kid who had dropped out. Everyone was there except for Steve. On each new arrival, the man in the suit wrote up a report. He asked the name and age of the suspect, where and how apprehended. They were photographed and fingerprinted, stripped of their belongings and given prison jumpsuits. A deep depression settled on everyone. No one wanted to talk about what had happened, but Anton could tell that like him, they were nervous about Steve's absence. A white-paneled truck pulled up and they were told to climb inside. They sat on benches in the back for the long journey. There were no windows, and the only light came from a bulb on the ceiling. When they reached their destination, Anton guessed from the lay of the land that they were in central Montana. It was an intensive-security prison that wasn't on any map. They were separated and each was led off to separate quarters. It was possible that they were the only prisoners in the facility. Anton was given an entire dormitory wing to himself, and he was left to look after his own needs. His food always appeared while he was at the other end of the building, so he had no contact with other human beings. He knew they were watching him, so he was careful never to act in a way that would show them anything. He became mechanical. He did nothing but eat, sleep, sit. Sometimes he stood on the stairs to the second floor, looking out a small window at the half-landing. He remained there for hours, reflecting on what had happened. Both the dormitory and the scene outside had an institutional, factory feel, like an abandoned steel mill complex back East. On the third day, his inquisitor came to him there. "I feel like I've been here all my life," he said aloud, and noticed a stranger standing next to him. The inquisitor took him to a room with a plain wood table and two chairs, which he already thought of as the interview room. "I won't say anything without a lawyer present," he insisted, defending his rights. "I am a lawyer." "Hey, that's nice! Is that some new way to increase government efficiency?" "This isn't a government investigation." "What is it then? You're not cops, FBI, CIA?" The inquisitor shook his head. "IRS, DEA? EPA, FDA, ATF? The Vatican?" The inquisitor smiled very slightly and shook his head. "Who do you work for, then?" "Who do you work for?" "Oh, boy! What am I charged with?" "There are no charges. This is a preliminary investigation." Anton slapped the table with his hand. "That's it! I'm not cooperating. I don't even know how to cooperate. I've never cooperated with anyone since I was born, and I don't plan to start now." He stood up. The inquisitor wagged a finger at him and made a clucking sound. "You're not free to leave. You're a very important witness." He plopped back in his chair, furious. "Witness to what?" "You tell me." "Now if that don't beat all! Tell me what I'm supposed to be implicated in, at least, so I can calibrate my lies." The inquisitor spent several minutes flipping through the papers in a three-ring binder. Then he looked up abruptly and asked, "Are you the Antichrist?" Anton winced in disbelief. "I don't think I could form an opinion on that right now," he said slowly. The inquisitor wrote in the binder, "Antichrist? Refused to deny." "Would you like to be tortured?" he continued. "Excuse me?" "I said—" "I heard you. Are you a would-be torturer?" The inquisitor was taken aback. "We don't do that sort of thing." He wrote, "Torture? Made accusations." He stabbed at the binder with his pencil. "This is a Psychological Analysis Report. It's for evaluation purposes only." • • • The interviews continued on and off over several days. No doubt some of them were hallucinations induced by his isolation, drugs in his food, or the repetitive questions of the real interviews. He understood that no matter what he said, he wouldn't be getting out of this anytime soon. There was no use in protesting that he had done nothing wrong, that Jamaican Blue had no legal existence, that no transaction had even taken place. Still, the urge to justify himself built up uncomfortably inside him. With someone to talk to who seemed like a blank slate, he let it spill out. "Why am I here? I was parked in front of a restaurant, minding my own business." "You were in back of the restaurant when you were picked up." "What's wrong with that?" "The back is the service entrance. Were you an employee there?" "Is it a crime to be in back of a restaurant?" "We've already explained, this is not a criminal investigation. Were you in back of the restaurant for a reason?" "I was waiting for a friend." "Was your friend an employee there?" "He was a customer. He went in, but he didn't come out. I went to look for him." "Did he use the back door or the front door when he went in?" "The front door." "How long did you wait for him there?" "I don't know, twenty minutes, half an hour." "Maybe he was finishing his pie." "That's what I wanted to find out." "Why did you go around back? Why didn't you use the front door, like he did?" "I was about to, but then—" "Was there anything in particular that attracted you to the back of the restaurant?" He realized he'd been cornered. "I heard shots." "By shots, you mean gunshots?" Anton nodded. The inquisitor made a note in his binder, then looked up again. "You thought this might have something to do with your friend?" "I was concerned for his safety." "Did your friend have a gun?" "He's never touched a gun. He's a pacifist." This was true, strictly speaking. Steve had always refused to handle Anton's gun. "Are you sure the shots were fired on the restaurant premises?" "What other premises are there, in the middle of nowhere?" "What might your friend have done to provoke gunshots?" "Are you saying it was his fault?" "Firing a gun in a public place is a crime." "You should be prosecuting the other guy, he's the aggressor!" "If your friend did something to provoke this, he's an accessory to the crime." "Not unless he's the victim!" "Let's hope not. Did you report this crime?" "I didn't have time to. I was picked up seconds later." "You didn't report it to our officers when you were picked up. You never said, 'There were shots fired.' In fact, you haven't mentioned it before today. We've told you that you're an important witness. Why did you wait until now to say there were shots?" "I figured you already knew." "Why would we know?" "Then what were you responding to?" The inquisitor fanned out his hands. "You were there waiting! As soon as there were shots, as soon as I tried to find out what was happening, I was arrested. Doesn't that look to you like a trap?" "We haven't had reports of shots. You're the first person to tell us there were shots." "What happened in the restaurant! What have you done Steve?" The inquisitor held up a finger. He caught up on his note taking, then flipped through the binder to a specific page. He ran his hand down the margin until he found what he wanted. "We were responding to a perimeter breach. Your friend violated the perimeter with false code words." "False code words. You mean he said something—" "He used code words that were outdated, or known to be false. What happened next is a consequence of that. Our question is, who gave him those code words? Who would be in a position to?" He looked firmly at Anton. Anton shuddered. "I have no idea." "That's enough for today." • • • They were making progress. Anton understood now that he was accused of "trafficking in an imaginary substance," Jamaican Blue. The substance hadn't been recovered from the restaurant, only the empty briefcase. In addition, he was charged with "providing false code words to unauthorized persons." Behind these was a larger charge, "conspiracy against hidden authority." They weren't criminal charges, because there were no laws on the books for such crimes. It was more of an internal proceeding, like a court martial. "We're firm believers in the powers of denial," the inquisitor told him. "If you deny that any of this happened, we can make it go away." "Deny what? This interrogation? Or that day at the restaurant?" "We'll have to go deeper than that. To the root causes." The inquisitor consulted a list. "The Citadel. The Last Assassin. The referees. The volunteers." "That's quite a long way." "There are techniques for removing such information. You won't even notice the gaps. You'll be returned to your studio, your career intact, your memory intact. In fact, you'll feel clearer in many ways. It will be like you went on a holiday about two years back. The effects of those dark days will be gone." Anton understood that they wanted to remove all references to Reinhold, or at least all references to his otherworldly power. His first real meeting with Reinhold at a rooftop party would be gone. His visits to the Citadel, his missions for Reinhold and Sabrina would be gone. Reinhold would be simply a two-bit promoter who headed the Square Peg Foundation. Sabrina would be a performance artist he barely knew. Kliff would be Kliff, gifted manipulator and survivor. Because he'd been fixated on the Citadel for the past two years, most of that time would be wiped out. The thought of life without Reinhold was almost soothing. Yet the cost of his innocence would be everything he'd worked so hard to know. He'd paid a price for that knowledge and couldn't go back. He couldn't have Trashtown back, or the Psychic Rangers, or Becky's love, or his first days with Steve. "What about Steve?" he said ominously. The inquisitor smiled. "We can make him go away, too." That wasn't the right answer. "But it happened!" he cried out. "How can I deny what actually happened?" • • • A decision was made higher up. The interviews dwindled, and a few days later Anton was released into the prison yard. He was given the clothes he'd been wearing when he was taken, and directed to a room where he could change. They told him, "You are not to enter the state of Idaho from this time forward. Your house and studio in Twin Forks have been confiscated. We will deliver the contents to your address in Portland when our investigation is complete." He remembered Steve telling him that their things were safe with his aunt, and he was grateful to Steve for thinking ahead. His first duty now was to look for Steve, and try to learn what had happened to him after the shooting. Speaking with his aunt was the most obvious place to start. All of Anton's accomplices were released along with him. Coming out of their separate bunkers, they greeted one another sullenly as if startled out of a long sleep. Watching from behind police shades was Johnny Champion, the Reinhold referee. He remained on the sidelines as always, surveying everything. Clearly he wasn't there out of friendship to them. When Anton had called for revolution back at the Citadel, Champion had watched from the circle of referees with a knowing smirk. "I'm smarter than you," he'd seemed to be saying. "It's only a matter of time." He wore the same smirk now. No doubt he relished being the one to put a leash on Anton. He was no longer a leftist organizer or heroin don, but a prison warden. Anton suspected this was his true form, much as Sabrina's true form was mistress of her torture garden. A white-paneled truck pulled up at the gate. It might have been the same truck that had brought them there. Once again, they were told to pile in back. The alternative was walking on miles of empty road. To their surprise it was miraculously equipped with a carpet of live grass, a small tree, a sound system with speakers, a beach ball, a hot tub, refreshments and two new companions, Clarissa and Sue. They got underway, their spirits much improved. After getting naked, bathing, rubbing each other in oils, taking tea and sandwiches, and kicking the beach ball around in the short grass, they decided to read the Tarot which one of the girls had brought. Still naked except for a gauzy veil tied around her bobbed hair, she laid the cards in the grass. Anton got out a flute that he kept in a leather pouch at his waist and diddled it idly, a spirited yet haunting ditty. His keyboard player Icky joined him on the tam-tams. With a flourish, Clarissa announced that the Tarot spread was complete, and her interpretation would commence. He could never remember the rest, which is what convinced him that the sequence had been planted in his memory to cover up a gap. What disturbed him was not knowing where the gap began. Was it as they left the prison, at the moment of their capture, or even earlier? Was it true that he had heard gunshots, and been arrested? In any event there was no transition to his next real memory, their arrival at Reinhold's Midwest Provisional Headquarters in Manhattan, Kansas. The compound was in a warehouse district at the edge of town. It had its own railroad siding, and was filled with high-tech gadgetry. They were let out in a central courtyard surrounded by high walls, so that only patches of sky were visible. The band and crew were hustled off to a dormitory by Megan, a professional hostess, while Anton was told, "The Colonel wants to see you right away." When he strode into Reinhold's presence, the old man's knuckles were white with rage. "You owe me one," said the Colonel through clenched teeth. "For getting me out of a sticky situation? I thought you sprung the trap in the first place." The Colonel's cane came crashing down on the table, sending a flagon of fine cognac shattering to the floor. "I've gotten you out of one too many." Flecks of spittle on his lips, and patches of purple on his cheeks, testified to his wrath. "I'm not with you, I'm against you now. I'm not a wine-filled goblet, I am a flaming arrow. You don't want to touch me. I will pierce you, I will burn you, that is my mission. I'm not here under the sign of fellowship, I am a message from enemy space." In the silence that followed, he felt regret. He'd never spoken to Reinhold this way. He remembered Reinhold showing him his dominions, giving him free run of the Citadel. Reinhold had been like a father to him, and he'd responded with revolt. What had he been thinking to become the Last Assassin, or to traffic in Jamaican Blue? The Colonel had every right to be angry. He tried to explain himself. "It's just that everything around you feels phony to me now. That's why I don't come to the Citadel any more." That sounded pathetic. Reinhold, who had given him everything he had, must think that he was a boor for claiming to know what was phony and what wasn't. He cut to the heart of it. "Let go of me. I'm a musician, not a guru. I'm not Harry Mellow. I'm not answering to you any more. I'm getting out." Reinhold's mouth was a black hole. "It's too late for that, Anton. Your last chance was back at the prison. You can't walk away, not without a price. You know too much. You're in too deep." "That wasn't our bargain." "What bargain? We put the bargain behind us a long time ago. And frankly, it's your own fault. You've already rebelled." "Forget about me, find someone else." The Colonel bit his lip angrily. "That is not what I want." "Do you going back is possible after all that's happened?" "There's no going back. What I want now is obedience. Obedience or destruction, those are the options." He became like a thundercloud filled with hail. "I invested in you as if you were my own son. Of all those who've set foot in the Citadel, only you could have called it your own. Only you were being prepared to reign there." He should have said no a lot sooner, but when? He remained impassive, but inside him was a swirl of desolation. "I won't cooperate. We're at the end of the road." "If that is your choice, Anton. From this moment on, you'll have the whole world against you. Not just my organization, but my enemies as well. Perhaps I've been protecting you more than you know." Anton wondered what he'd done to provoke such a dangerous love. To which he'd been unfaithful. Had anyone ever said no before to the Colonel? As he left the compound and walked into town, Reinhold sent out the order to his troops. "Destroy him. Eliminate his traces. Leave nothing to chance." <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>