He had waited a long time for this moment. Many times he had despaired that it would ever come—the man was just too powerful, too unreachable. He had imagined a dozen ways to kill him, and he thought a few of them might actually work—the man's security was good but he was often careless. But he didn't want to kill Howard Christian, not really, he didn't think of himself as a killer, only as an avenger, a righter of wrongs, a liberator of the oppressed.
No, what he had been waiting for was the opportunity to kick Howard Christian in the balls, very, very, very hard. Michael Bartlett, in what by now seemed almost like a previous life, had once gone by the nom de guerre of Python.
Oddly enough, he was never charged with the destruction he had helped to bring about at the warehouse in Santa Monica. Every shred of evidence had been hurled into the past. The site was excavated but not even a piece of foundation was found. Sometime in the intervening ten to fifteen thousand years the whole structure must have been washed away in a flood or a series of them, buried, and eventually covered by the metropolis. Christian didn't want to prosecute, anyway, he didn't need the possible bad publicity, the demonstrations by animal rights and antiabortion nuts.
He came from an upper-middle-class family but his parents were dead, he had spent his small inheritance, and he didn't have much money of his own. He had a college degree but hadn't worked in his field for some years, devoting himself to the cause of animal liberation. He came out of the joint determined to stay away from any criminal activity whatsoever, for all time, end of story, though he intended to keep in contact with old friends from the Movement. But no more action, no more conspiracy. He was well and truly rehabilitated.
Then he found out he couldn't get a job. No, that wasn't quite right. He got hired several times, once went as long as two weeks before being inexplicably fired. No explanation, sorry, man, it just turns out we don't need you after all. Here's your paycheck and there's the door.
At the last place he was fired the boss relented a little. "It was Howard Christian," he admitted. "Somebody working for him. Some... pressure was brought to bear. Sorry, Michael, I can't afford to piss that man off. Good luck."
Good fucking luck. He thought about bringing a lawsuit, contact the Equal Opportunity Commission or whatever it was, but knew instinctively there was very little chance, and he had no money. Money talks, and apparently Howard Christian was willing to spend significant money to make Michael Bartlett's life hell.
Shortly after he realized that, he was kicked out of his small apartment.
Howard didn't bother him when he got a job washing dishes or mopping floors, and never approached the landlords of the rattrap single-room-occupancy hotels he stayed at. But he knew that somewhere in the vast Christian organization there was an employee tasked with keeping an eye on Michael Bartlett and making damn sure he was never far from homelessness and hunger. He had, in fact, experienced both of those things several times in a year and a half, before Susan Morgan contacted him.
Yes, sir, just one good, hard kick in the nuts...
Headlights turned into the parking lot. Bartlett watched the guy kill his lights and hurry from the car.
"I was supposed to ask you for a code word," the guy said.
"Python," Bartlett replied. "What's wrong? You weren't supposed to be here for three hours."
"Never mind, it all blew up. Let's get the fuck out of here."
"What about Fuzzy? Did they get away with Fuzzy?"
"Yeah, for all the good it'll do them." Python smiled, and started the engine.
"What's she like?"
She smiled at him. "You're a fan?"
"Who isn't? Actually, I've only seen a couple of her movies, but I thought she was pretty good."
Outside the sun was probably coming up, though they hadn't looked. The cars would be creeping along on I-84. There was no point in moving until nine o'clock. They hadn't talked a lot because the plan was now set and there was no point in hashing it all out again unless one of them had a new thought, and neither of them had. Both were too buzzed to sleep or make love—besides, Fuzzy would be watching, it wouldn't feel right.
Matt thought he could really get to resent Fuzzy, if he let himself.
Of course, they had a lot of catching up to do, much they had to tell each other, but each was a little worried about getting into that.
"I like her," Susan said. "Mostly. I'm not sure if I've ever seen the real Andrea; I'm not sure, in a way, if there is a real Andrea, if you know what I mean. I think she's played the part of Andrea for a long time. I can't imagine what she sees in Howard, and yet they are two of a kind, in a way. I've seen little flashes of something..."
"Of what?"
"Something that tells me that I wouldn't want to be between her and something she really wants. But I think she's basically a good person. One of the reasons is this guy, this 'Python,' Michael Bartlett. We were talking one day—she likes to come by and visit Fuzzy when she can, sometimes without Howard. We were talking about Howard—she likes to do that, and I try to pretend we don't hate each other, but I don't think I fool her very much—and she admitted he has his failings. He is capable of acting like a big spoiled baby when he doesn't get his way. God, do I ever know that."
"He kept firing you."
"Until he finally conceded Fuzzy won't respond to anybody but me. But he'll always resent me, because I stand between him and his favorite toy. Anyway, she was trying to talk Howard out of this... hell, it's almost like a Sicilian vendetta, except Howard isn't a killer. Whenever Bartlett finds work, Howard gets him fired. He once bought an apartment building just so he could kick Bartlett out of it."
"Can he do that? What about tenants' rights?"
"Sure, if he's going to tear the building down, which is what he did. He'll end up making a profit on the deal, can you believe it? Anyway, Andrea thought she about had Howard convinced to let the poor bastard alone. Next she was going to get Howard to tell Bartlett about it, shout 'olly-olly-oxen-free,' like a kid on a playground, so he can get back to his life. Right now, Bartlett doesn't even try to get a job."
"I've only seen him once, the same time you did; he was the handcuffed guy with the bloody face. Not the one who was praying; the other one. I've only contacted him by email. Anyway, he was the one who found the hacker who let us get around the security system, and he was supposed to help Jack get away, switching cars in case the police started looking for Jack's. He's made some other arrangements." She paused, and looked at Matt's face in the odd light cast by the Coleman electric lantern on the floor in front of them. "What you're asking is, do I like him, right?"
"Swear to god, Susan, I'm not jealous."
"No, I don't think you are. In his emails, he comes across as a sanctimonious jerk. Maybe what you're asking me is, what's come over me? What made me do this? Have I turned into an animal rights fanatic?"
Matt grinned. "Yeah, I guess that's what I must have been asking."
She punched his shoulder, then rubbed her thigh. He had seen the deep scar tissue there. She had quivered when he first touched it but he had remained firm and she had slowly relaxed. In the course of their lovemaking he had kissed it once, lightly.