I knew those initials but Soliano had to ask.
“Acute radiation sickness,” Scotty answered.
22
Roy Jardine woke up bright and early Wednesday morning.
Well, it wasn’t bright because he was deep inside the hideout, and eight a.m. wasn’t that early. But he’d deserved a good night’s sleep.
He ate his freeze-dried Eggs Ranchero with satisfaction, as if they were real eggs.
He dressed with satisfaction. He wore his shirt with the cowboy pockets and pearl buttons, Levi jeans, and concho-strap boots. Although he could not see himself — there was no mirror in the hideout, that would be vain — he knew he looked ace. A pity nobody was here to see him in this outfit.
Today, he dressed for himself. For the occasion: Strike Day.
He assessed his mental state. Ready? Yes. Rested? Yes.
Come to terms with the events of yesterday?
Yesterday — Tuesday at three PM precisely — he’d had his brainstorm. How to stop the geologists. And it worked. They were stopped. Their dirt map was destroyed. They were left to the mercy of the desert.
He’d retreated to Hole-in-the-Wall in relief.
And there he’d turned his efforts to the mission. He worked on the plan for hours, well into the night, but when he rechecked his work he’d been disappointed. Too many details left out. Too much left to chance. He’d berated himself. Then forgiven himself. He was exhausted. He’d been without sleep for almost two days. And he was still hurting about Jersey.
That’s when he’d let his guard down.
Somehow, in his weary soul, his bitch got mixed up with the female geologist. He saw himself holding the female over his bathroom sink at home. Cradling her. She lapped desperately at the running water. She was so thirsty. He had the knife at her throat.
He’d shaken off that vision — he flung it away! — but he couldn’t shake the vision of the female in the desert.
That was real. She was out there right at that moment. Without water, so thirsty. She would die. As he brooded, he allowed himself a tiny fantasy: himself coming to the rescue, scooping her in his arms and carrying her to a green meadow. Cupping water in his hands from a bubbling brook for her to lap up.
His fantasy turned dark. She was already dead. He was glad. He was rid of her.
And then his rational self intervened. If the geologists died in the desert, Mister FBI would bring in somebody to replace them. Snap his fingers like in a snooty restaurant. Waiter! My wine has spilled. Bring me another! And Roy Jardine would not get the opportunity to study a replacement, up close. He needed to keep these geologists. He felt he knew them. He could plan ahead, predicting what they would do.
He’d decided there was no need for the geologists to die. He could not count on them to save themselves, or get found, and so he’d saved them himself. He’d texted the message. Pretended it was from backpackers, a real smart detail. Then he’d sent another message, this one to CTC, telling them what was required of them.
His work for the night at last done, he’d gotten into his sleeping bag and slept the sleep of the just.
And now, Wednesday morning, a new day. Strike Day.
Refreshed, dressed for the occasion, he turned again to the mission plan. His desk was a crate and his tools were pencil and paper. In this humble workplace, he would launch the mission. A year in the planning, it was a good plan. He need adjust only a few details to deal with the enemy.
Fresh start. He crumpled last night’s pages and flung them away.
He drew up his new timetable. The mission had two stages. He could choose the timing of Stage One. In fact, he had just chosen. Today.
But Stage Two — the consummation, the grand finale — was harder to schedule. That depended upon forces beyond his controclass="underline" the trigger event. He could only estimate when that would happen. That’s why, in his email to CTC, he’d given the deadline of Friday noon. That gave him over two days. That should be enough.
He worked a good four hours adjusting the details. Travel times. Setup times. Tools needed. And then he went over everything again.
When he finished, he collected his tools and packed his pack. He added three water bottles and more freeze-dried junk because the Stage One strike would take many hours. And then, regretfully, he changed his clothes. The jeans were fine but he needed hiking boots, not high-heeled cowboy boots. He replaced the cowboy shirt with a stained green T-shirt and tucked his ponytail under the Budweiser ballcap.
Incognito, he went outside.
Cloudless sky, hot as an oven. He didn’t care. It was a good day because it was Strike Day.
He set off, hiking full of joy. He arrived at the site at one thirty-five PM, ten minutes ahead of schedule.
He waited, incognito, watching for vehicles. Watching for other hikers.
Too hot. There was nobody around.
He took the booties out of his pocket. He knew, now, how the geologists could track dirt. He probably had dirt from the hideout in his boots, and he knew what happened with dirty footwear. Every day when he came home from work at the dump, he had dump dirt on his shoes, and he’d have to stamp his shoes on the porch to clean them, and then he’d sweep up the dislodged dirt, and then he’d take off his shoes before going into the house because he could never get them clean enough and he hated, just hated, tracking in dirt. Now, of course, stamping his feet wasn’t enough. She would put her nosy nose right to his bootprints and find something. He smiled. Not this time, he told her. He pulled on his booties, covering his dirty hiking boots.
He hiked up the ridge to the gate.
He unlocked the gate. His was a duplicate key, made to fit the Park Service lock. He went inside, shutting the gate behind him, reminding himself to leave it unlocked when he left. He moved deeper inside and then unslung his pack and got out the flashlight.
Dark in here. Of course he knew his way. He’d been here before, two weeks ago, setting up Stage One of the mission. At that point, of course, he had no idea things would go critical. But it really did not matter because the details still worked. The name of the operation still fit: The Trial. He had one adjustment to make, and that’s why he was here again now. It was a brilliant adjustment. It would put the enemy on the run.
He took out the rest of his gear.
As he dressed out, he thought about the female. No fantasies now. His thoughts hardened. The geologists had suffered. Not just physically — the mental was more important. The geologists were good. And now they were wounded. In their predictable brains there had been planted an invader. Fear.
He finished dressing out and started down the tunnel.
An hour later he was up at the observation post.
When he’d settled in, he got out his laptop and sent another message. Telling them it was time. Telling them where to come. An invitation. He liked putting it that way. So polite. Of course, they would not refuse. They would come. And then The Trial would commence.
23
I said, “We’re going to have to go back up the canyons.”
Walter had his nose in the Munsell color charts, ranking the hue of layer five. His tongue was anchored between his teeth. He was showered, shaved, dressed, and looking little worse for the wear.
I was showered and dressed.
Walter put up a hand: let me finish. Color is subjective. Most soils are adulterated with gray, so the question is: is layer five’s gray a departure from the neutral, or not?
I waited. It matters. Color is a signpost of source. I hoped he’d find a lead. I sure had nothing new. In the four hours since Soliano had shot the bat, we’d struggled to reassemble our map. While Walter set up our lab, I’d been choppered to the talc mine to take new samples. When I returned, we began anew the task of creating definable layers out of the odds and ends of fender soils. After two hard hours, the only new thing I had was a craving for ham-and-tomato sandwiches. I said, finally, “Anything?”