The yellow-eyed thing had tracked Einstein from the Santa Ana foothills in Orange County to Santa Barbara -a distance of more than one hundred and twenty-five air miles, Travis had said, and probably close to three hundred miles on foot in the wilds-in three months. Not a fast pace. So if they went three hundred air miles north from Santa Barbara before finding a place to hole up in the San Francisco Bay area, maybe the stalker would not reach them for seven or eight months. Maybe it would never reach them. Over how great a distance could it sniff out Einstein? Surely, there were limits to its uncanny ability to track the dog. Surely.
10
At eleven o’clock Thursday morning, Lemuel Johnson stood in the master bedroom of the small house that Travis Cornell had rented in Santa Barbara. The dresser mirror had been smashed. The rest of the room had been trashed as well, as if The Outsider had been driven into a jealous rage upon seeing that the dog lived in domestic comfort while it was forced to roam the wildlands and live in comparatively primitive conditions.
In the debris that covered the floor, Lem found four silver-framed photographs that had probably stood on the dresser or nightstands. The first was of Cornell and an attractive blonde. By now Lem had learned enough about Cornell to know that the blonde at his side must be his late wife, Paula. Another photo, a black-and-white shot of a man and woman, was old enough that Lem guessed the people smiling at the camera were Cornell’s parents. The third was of a young boy, about eleven or twelve, also black-and-white, also old, which might have been a shot of Travis Cornell himself but which was more likely a picture of the brother who had died young.
The last of the four photos was of ten soldiers grouped on what appeared to be the wooden steps in front of a barracks, grinning at the camera. One of the ten was Travis Cornell. And on a couple of their uniforms, Lem noticed the distinctive patch of Delta Force, the elite antiterrorist corps.
Uneasy about that last photograph, Lem put it on the dresser and headed back toward the living room, where Cliff was continuing to sift through bloodstained rubble. They were looking for something that would mean nothing to the police but might be extremely meaningful to them.
The NSA had been slow to pick up on the Santa Barbara killing, and Lem had not been alerted until almost six o’clock this morning. As a result, the press had already reported the grisly details of Ted Hockney’s murder. They were enthusiastically disseminating wild speculations about what might have killed Hockney, focusing primarily on the theory that Cornell kept some kind of exotic and dangerous pet, perhaps a cheetah or panther, and that the animal had attacked the unsuspecting landlord when he had let himself into the house. The TV cameras had lingered lovingly on the shredded and blood spattered books. It was National Enquirer stuff, which did not surprise Lem because he believed the line separating sensational tabloids like the Enquirer and the so-called “legitimate” press-especially electronic news media-was often thinner than most journalists cared to admit.
He had already planned and put into operation a disinformation campaign to reinforce the press’s wrongheaded hysteria about jungle cats on the loose. NSA-paid informants would come forth, claiming to know Cornell, and would vouch that he did, indeed, keep a panther in the house in addition to a dog. Others who had never met Cornell would, in identifying themselves as his friends, sorrowfully report that they had urged him to have the panther defanged and declared as it had reached maturity. Police would want to question Cornell-and the unidentified woman-regarding the panther and its current whereabouts.
Lem was confident the press would be nicely deflected from all inquiries that might lead them closer to the truth.
Of course, down in Orange County, Walt Gaines would hear about this murder, would make friendly inquiries with local authorities here, and would swiftly conclude that The Outsider had tracked the dog this far north. Lem was relieved that he had Walt’s cooperation.
Entering the living room, where Cliff Soames was at work, Lem said, “Find anything?”
The young agent rose from the debris, dusted his hands together, and said, “Yeah. I put it on the dining-room table.”
Lem followed him into the dining room, where a fat ring-binder notebook was the only item on the table. When he opened it and leafed through the contents, he saw photographs that had been cut from glossy magazines and taped to the left-hand pages. Opposite each photo, on the right-hand page, was the name of the pictured object printed in large block letters: TREE, HOUSE, CAR…
“What do you make of it?” Cliff asked.
Scowling, saying nothing, Lem continued to leaf through the book, knowing it was important but at first unable to guess why. Then it hit him: “It’s a primer. To teach reading.”
“Yeah,” Cliff said.
Lem saw that his assistant was smiling. “You think they must know the dog’s intelligent, that it must’ve revealed its abilities to them? And so they… decided to teach it to read?”
“Looks that way,” Cliff said, still smiling. “Good God, do you think it’s possible? Could it be taught to read?”
“Undoubtedly,” Lem said. “In fact, teaching it to read was on Dr. Weatherby’s schedule of experiments for this autumn.”
Laughing softly, wonderingly, Cliff said, “I’ll be damned.”
“Before you get too much of a kick out of it,” Lem said, “you better consider the situation. This guy knows the dog is amazingly smart. He might’ve succeeded in teaching it to read. So we have to figure he’s worked out a means of communicating with it as well. He knows it’s an experimental animal. He must know a lot of people are looking for it.”
Cliff said, “He must know about The Outsider, too, because the dog would have found a way of telling him.”
“Yes. Yet, knowing all of this, he hasn’t chosen to go public. He could’ve sold the story to the highest bidder. But he didn’t. Or if he’s a crusading type, he could’ve called in the press and blasted the Pentagon for funding this kind of research.”
“But he didn’t,” Cliff said, frowning.
“Which means, first and foremost, he’s committed to the dog, committed to keeping it for his own and to preventing its recapture.”
Nodding, Cliff said, “Which makes sense if what we’ve heard about him is true. I mean, this guy lost his whole damn family when he was young. Lost his wife after less than a year. Lost all those buddies in Delta Force. So he became a recluse, cut himself off from all his friends. Must’ve been lonely as hell. Then along comes the dog..
“Exactly,” Lem said. “And for a man with Delta Force training, staying undercover won’t be difficult. And if we do find him, he’ll know how to fight for the dog. Jesus, will he know how to fight!”
“We haven’t confirmed the Delta Force rumor yet,” Cliff said hopefully.
“I have,” Lem said, and he described the photograph he had seen in the wrecked bedroom.
Cliff sighed. “We’re in deep shit now.”
“Up to our necks,” Lem agreed.
11
They had reached San Francisco at six o’clock Thursday morning and, by six-thirty, had found a suitable motel-a sprawling facility that looked modern and clean. The place did not accept pets, but it was easy to sneak Einstein into the room.
Although a small chance existed that an arrest warrant might have been issued for Travis, he checked into the motel using his ID. He’d no choice because Nora possessed neither credit cards nor a driver’s license. These days, desk clerks were willing to -accept cash, but not without ID; the chain’s computer demanded data on the guests.