Budler's Rolls-Royce had turned right on Veteran and gone toSanta Monica, where it had turned left and traveled down Santa Monica until it stopped a blockfrom a quiet and expensive restaurant. Here Budler had let the womanoff and driven to a parking place on a side street. He had walked to therestaurant where they had dined and wined (presumably) for three hours. Thoughthey went inseparately, they came out together. Budler was red-faced, talkingloudly andlaughing much. The woman laughed much also but she walked steadily. His balance was a little uncertain; he stumbled when he started across the streetand almost fell.
They had taken the Rolls-Royce (with Budler driving too swiftlyand weavingin and out of traffic) up Santa Monica and turned left at BedfordDrive to gonorth.
The tape was wiped clean from this point on.
Colben had stated that he had gotten some long-range pictures ofthe woman when Budler had picked her up. The camera was in the car but the filmhad been removed.
The car had been thoroughly cleaned; there was not a singlefingerprint. Some dirt particles, presumably from the shoes of whoever had driventhe car to the parking lot, were on the mat, but an analysis had shown only thatthe dirt could have come from anywhere in the area. There were some fibers; these had been rubbed off the rag used to wipe the seats.
Budler's Rolls-Royce was also missing.
The police had not discovered that Budler had dropped out of hisnormal pattern of life until two days after Colben was reported missing. Hiswife had known that he was gone, but she had not bothered to report this. Whyshould she? He often did not come home for two to four days.
As soon as she was informed that her husband might have beenkidnapped ormurdered, that his disappearance was connected with that of Colben's(or seemedlikely to be connected), she had told Childe that he was no longeremployed byher.
"I hope they find the son of a bitch dead! And soon!." she hadscreamed over the phone. "I don't want his money tied up forever! I need it now! It's justlike him to never be found and tie me up with litigation and red tapeand all that shit! Just like him! I hate him!" and so on.
"I'll send you my bill," Childe had replied. "It was nice workingfor you," and he had hung up.
His bill would be delivered, but how soon he would be paid wasdoubtful. Even if a check was sent by Mrs. Budler by return mail, it might notbe cashable for some time. The newspapers reported that the authorities werediscussingclosing down all banks until the crisis was over. Many people wereprotestingagainst this, but it would not make much difference for theprotesters if thebanks did stay open. What good did that do if most of the customerscould not get to their bank unless they were within walking distance or wantedto stand in line for hours to take the infrequent bus?
He looked up from the paper. Two uniformed, gas masked men werebringing ina tall dark man between them. He held up handcuffed hands as if todemonstrate his martyrdom to the world. One cop carried a third gas mask, and bythis Childe knew that the arrested man had probably been using a mask whileholding up astore or robbing a loan company or doing something which requiredconcealing hisface.
Childe wondered why the cops were bringing him in through thisentrance. Perhaps they had caught him just down the street and were taking theshort cut.
The situation was advantageous for criminals in one respect. Menwearing gasmasks or water-soaked cloths over their faces were not uncommon. On the other hand, anyone abroad was likely to be stopped and questioned. Onething balancesout another.
The cops and the arrestee were coughing. The man behind thetobacco counter was coughing. Childe felt a tickling in his throat. He could notsmell the smog, but the thought of smelling it evoked the ghost of a cough.
He checked his I.D. cards and permit. He did not want to becaught withoutthem, as he had been yesterday. He had lost about an hour because, even after the cops had called in and validated his reasons for being out, hehad been required to go home and pick up his papers, and he had been stoppedagain beforehe could get home.
He tucked the paper under his arm, walked to the door, lookedthrough theglass, shuddered, wished he had lightweight scuba diver's equipment, opened thedoor and plunged in.
CHAPTER 3
It was like walking at the bottom of a sea of very thin bile. There were no clouds between the sun and the sea. The sun shone brightly asif it were trying to burn a path through the sea. The August sunburned fiercelyand the more it burned, the more it cut with its yellow machetes, thethicker and more poisonous grew the gray-green foliage.
(Childe knew he was mixing metaphors. So what? The Cosmos was amixed metaphor in the mind of God. The left mind of God did not know whatthe rightmind of God was doing. Or did not care. God was a schizophrenic? Herald Childe, creature of God, image of God, certainly was schizophrenic. Levorotatory image?)
Eyes burned like heretics at the stake. Sinuses were scourged; fire ran along the delicate bones; spermaticky fluid collected to fill thechambers of the sinuses and dripped, waiting for the explosion of air voluntarilyor involuntarily set off to discharge the stuff with the mildest oforgasms.
Not a twitch of wind. The air had been unmoving for a day and anight andhalf a day, as if the atmosphere had died and was rotting.
The gray-green stuff hung in sheets. Or seemed to. The book ofjudgment wasbeing read and the pages, the gray-green sheets, were being turned asthe eyeread and more and more pages were being piled toward the front of thebook. How far to read before the end?
Childe could see no further than one hundred and ten feet, ifthat. He had walked this path from the door to the parking lot so many times thathe could not get lost. But there were those who did not know where they were. A woman, screaming, ran by him, and was lost in the greenishness. He stopped. His heart was pounding. Faintly, he could hear a car horn. A siren wailedsomewhere. He turned slowly, trying to see or hear the woman or her pursuer, ifany, but therewas none. She ran; no one pursued.
He began to trot. He sweated. His eyes smarted and flowed tears, and little flames seemed to be creeping down his throat toward his lungs. Hewanted to getto the car, which held his gas mask. He forced himself to walk. Therewas panichanging in the air, the same panic that came to a man when he felthands squeezing his neck and thumbs pressing in on his windpipe.
A car emerged from the cloud. It was not his. He passed by itand, tenparking spaces on, found his 1970 Oldsmobile. He put the mask on, started the motor, winoing a little at the thought of the poisons shooting out ofthe exhaust, turned his lights on and drove out of the lot. The streetheld more moving bright lights than he had expected. He turned on the radio andfound out why. Those who had some place to go outside the area of smog weregoing whetheror not the authorities gave permission, and so the authorities weregivingpermission. Many who had no place to go, but were going anyway, werealso driving out. The flood had started. The streets weren't jammed asyet, but theysoon would be.
Childe cursed. He had planned on easy drives to his variousdestinations that day because, although he could not drive swiftly, he could driveunimpededby traffic.
The voice of the governor issued from the speaker. The governorpleaded forrestraint and calm. Everybody should continue to stay home--if theywere able to do so. However, those who had to get out for health reasons (whichwould include the entire population now, Childe thought) should drive carefully andshould realize that there just were not enough accommodations for themoutside the Los Angeles-Orange County area in this state. Nevada and Arizona had beennotified of the invasion, and Utah and New Mexico were readying themselves. Troops werebeing moved into the area but only to act as traffic policemen and toassist the hospitals. There was no martial law; there was no need for it. Therewas an upswing in crimes of passion, theft, and robbery, but there had beenno riots.