The white mailbox was just where the doctor had said it would be, a few yards beyond the intersection of Route 89 with the county blacktop. Artie could see the driveway and the shadowy form of the house, the lights on in the living room downstairs. Nobody had answered the phone but somebody was home, or maybe they’d just left the lights on to make people think they were, a standard ploy in the city.
He cut the engine a hundred yards away and watched for a few minutes, then got silently out of his car and started up the road. There was a car in the driveway and he knew by the blocky outline that it was Susan’s old Volvo. Hers was the only car there, which meant Susan was home unless she’d gone out with her mother and father for the evening. A few steps farther and he walked across the intersection with the county road. He automatically glanced down it, then abruptly stopped. There was another car on the road, he could tell by its silhouette against the starry sky. It had been parked about as far away from the Albright house as his, and for the same reason. The driver had probably killed his engine at the top of a small hill and coasted down the slight incline to a stop, trying to keep his approach as silent as possible.
Artie hesitated, felt for the reassuring bulge of the automatic in his pocket, and walked up the road to the car.
Mitch’s BMW. He had driven around the town on the back roads because he didn’t want to be seen. A BMW in a small country town would be a little hard to forget.
Artie felt like somebody had slugged him in the stomach. He’d probably been as blind as Larry. It had been a nice, little, incestuous club—everybody had been balling everybody else. Susan and Mitch had probably been a number back then. And they probably still were. Nobody would have told him, any more than they would have told Larry about Cathy.
And now Mitch had done what he hadn’t been able to do. He’d found Susan and immediately gone up to see her.
Artie felt sweaty and sick. Why hadn’t Mitch told him he was driving up? Because Mitch hadn’t wanted him to know. After the phone call he’d made the previous morning, Mitch hadn’t told him anything. Maybe Susan had left a message on his machine telling Mitch where she was staying.
Artie turned to the house and walked quietly across the lawn, keeping out of a direct line of sight with the front windows. With good luck, it would turn out that Susan’s father was too mean to keep a dog. At least he prayed he didn’t.
He sidled up to the edge of one of the living room windows and looked in. He felt the sweat start all over then. Mitch was seated with his back to the front door, Susan and Mark were sitting together on the couch, Mark with his arm around his mother. Mitch was talking but Artie couldn’t make out what he was saying.
What the hell should he do? Artie wondered. Go around to the rear of the house and hope the back door was open? Crash through the window? Break down the front door?
He walked to the front door and rang the bell.
There was a pause, and then Mitch said in a loud voice, “Come on in, Banks—door’s open.”
Mitch was using his Captain Levin voice and Artie felt a momentary flash of relief. He wasn’t interrupting lovers. This was about … something else. He tried the knob and walked in. Mitch was seated in a big easy chair, his legs crossed, relaxed and in charge. Susan and Mark sat on the floral-printed couch, both of them looking pale and frightened.
It was the same scene that Artie had glimpsed from the window except now he could see that Mitch was wearing his camouflage fatigues and had a gun in his hand. Strangely enough, over by the couch where Susan and Mark sat, no crutches or wheelchairs were in sight.
It was a different scene from the one he’d expected. One that didn’t make much sense.
Cautiously Artie asked, “How did you know it was me, Mitch?”
Just a guess—the old folks had left for the evening and I couldn’t think of anybody else it might be. I don’t think people drop in at this time of night without calling first.” He looked curious.”That was you a few minutes ago, wasn’t it?”
Mitch must have watched the house until Susan’s parents had left and he knew Susan and Mark were alone.
“That’s right.” Artie glanced from Mitch to Mark and Susan and then back again. This time he took a closer look and felt the blood drain from his face. There were bruises and an open cut on Mark’s cheek. Mitch had pistol-whipped him, one of the first steps in breaking down a prisoner.
“What the hell’s going on?”
Mitch cracked a thin smile.
“Good question, Banks, one I came up here to find the answer to. And I think I have.” He waved the gun
at Mark. “Stand up, son. Take a few steps forward.”
Mark looked shame-faced at Artie, then stood up, took a few steps, and sat back down.
“That should give you a clue, Banks.”
Mark was taller than Artie had thought. How many years had it been since he’d seen Mark stand up straight, without leaning on crutches? Since he was twelve? For five years it had all been pretense, an act. Mark could probably walk and run with the best of them.
Artie’s first reaction was to try to hold back tears, grateful that Mark wasn’t crippled after all. But why?
“Things weren’t quite how they appeared, Banks. Apparently, they never have been.”
Artie looked at Susan, at the agony and fear on her face, then over at Mark, who was trying to keep a poker face but was plainly scared to death.
“What’s going on?” Artie repeated. His voice was empty of emotion.
Levin dug in his pocket with his free hand and pulled something out. He held it up to the light so Artie could see it. Mark’s earring, the one that Collins had given him a few days ago and that Mitch had borrowed to show a friend.
Artie glanced at it.
“Was it really Mayan?”
“A little older than that, Banks. My friend had it dated—it goes back something like thirty-five thousand years. You said it was a family heirloom, right?”
Artie could feel the hair stand up on the back of his neck. That had been the call Levin got on Haight Street. His friend had left a message about the date and Levin had called back to confirm it.
“That’s what I was told.”
Levin’s expression was sardonic. “Apparently the family tree goes back a ways. But the boy’s not yours, so it looks like you’re strictly a recent graft. Did you
and she”—he waved his pistol at Susan—“ever try to have children?”
“Susan said she couldn’t.”
“Oh, I think she probably could. The children would have been sterile, of course.”
Artie took a breath.
“What are you trying to say?”
Levin stared at him in mock surprise.
“Christ, Banks. All the time you’re looking for the Old People and they’re right under your nose—you married one of them. Sort of like Jenny and Mary, though I suspect Jenny knew what she was getting into and you didn’t. Right?”
Artie looked over at Susan and didn’t know what he felt—relief at finally finding her, anger at the deception. She’d never told him she loved him because she never had. She wouldn’t have been able to, even if she had wanted. And he was sure she’d never wanted.
“That right, Susan?”
Her face was expressionless, her eyes bleak. He had seen the expression once before, on the faces of the members of the Tribe when they were being massacred on the riverbank. None of them had expected mercy.
It was Mark who said quietly, “That’s right, Artie.”
For fifteen years his life had been a sham. Susan had married him, but not for love, and he had no idea what other reasons she might have had. At the time she’d certainly had her choice of men. Why him?
“How’d you find them, Levin?”
“You said Susan had left for Willow. Then you said she hadn’t. Logical thing to do was check out Willow anyway, find out where her parents lived and pay them a.visit. We”—Artie knew he meant the DOD—“went through the records. She never used her regular credit cards after she left San Francisco, but she had a Shell card and used that—it wasn’t a joint card, it was in her name only. She bought gas twice on the way up and after that it was simply connect the dots. The manager
at the Shell station just outside town had an address for the old folks.”
How easy, Artie thought. But then Levin had the resources of the federal government. Chandler had been right. Levin was a Hound. For the other side.
Levin glanced at Artie, curious. “You drive through town?”
Artie nodded.
“I guessed it would be full of them—Christ, they had to be someplace—so I circled and came in from the back. I was right, wasn’t I? The town’s a staging area.”
“In a sense,” Artie said bleakly.
He was staring at Susan and Mark and trying to figure out the emotions that kept welling up in him. His marriage had been a sham; they had deliberately used him. As a cover, as a convenience. But why had they picked on him?
What had Susan told him about Mark’s biological father? Killed in an industrial accident of some sort? He had never pushed her for details; it had obviously been painful for her. Painful because Mark’s father must have been the man she had really loved, had probably never gotten over.
Levin glanced at his watch. “I figure we’ve got an hour.”
Artie suddenly felt apprehensive.
“An hour for what?”
“Backup, Banks. There should be at least two choppers on their way; I phoned in and left a message for my old colonel. We can sweat the people in town after we get the proof back to Washington.”
“Proof,” Artie repeated, feeling stupid.
Levin nodded at Susan and Mark.
“Them. Government doctors and psychiatrists will examine them. There won’t be any secrets then.” Levin leaned back in his chair, the hand holding his gun never wavering, and whistled. “For thirty-five thousand
years they’ve lived among us, Banks. Think of that. And nobody knew, nobody suspected.”
Mark shifted on the couch and Levin was suddenly on the edge of his chair. “Don’t try anything, son. The doctors can do an autopsy when you’re dead. They’ll take you apart bone by bone, do X rays and CAT scans and blood tests and come up with just as much information as they could if you were alive.”
“Be careful, Levin. He’s my son,” Artie said in a dead voice.
Imagine the genocide, Mary had said.
The expression on Levin’s face was one of genuine pity.
“I feel for you, Banks, I really do. You lived with them for fifteen years and from everything you said it was a happy marriage. But they were using you, can’t you see that? It was probably the same all over the country, infiltration. Married to you, why should anybody suspect them? But don’t forget, Cathy Shea left town the night of Larry’s murder, and your wife left for Willow the next morning. Ask yourself why. Because she knew what was coming down? You were almost killed too. Being married to you was protection for her—it wasn’t protection for you. Think she shed any tears over the possibility? You knew too much, even though you didn’t think you did. She could have asked you to go to Willow with her but she didn’t. She told you her father was sick; you could have gotten time off from work.”
He studied Artie, reading the expressions flitting across his face. It’s what Levin had done in ’Nam, Artie thought. It’s what he did for a living in the States. The ace psychiatrist who listened to his patients and watched the flood of emotions on their faces and read them like a book.
Artie tried his best to look blank-faced. He’d had his own experiences in ’Nam, too, including the three months in a Charlie prison camp until he’d managed
to escape. He’d learned to hide his feelings then.
“She didn’t want you along,” Levin continued, “but she wanted the boy, didn’t she?”
Levin was an expert at painting the picture of a wasted marriage, of betrayal, but of necessity it was a distorted portrait. He had been there; Levin hadn’t.
“Banks.” In the light from the lamp, Levin looked hostile. “She’s a different species. She’s as different from you as you are from an ape. It doesn’t take a military genius to figure out we’re in a war. What do you think they want? Easy answer: They want their world back. The losers always want to turn back the clock. How do you think they’ll get it? How can they get it? By eliminating us. It’s the only way.” He turned cajoling. “We’re in a war, Artie, and war is vicious and brutal—you know that. Think of Dr. Paschelke and Professor Hall, Lyle, poor Cathy and the kids. Tell me what compassion they were shown.”
“It was the Hound—” Mark started feebly.
“Shut up, son. You talk when I tell you to.”
Captain Levin, Artie thought again. Levin loved it. And then he had a flash of guilt. So had he when he was in ‘Nam, but not in the same way. He had loved the danger, the hunt. Levin had loved the kill. After you got out, you pushed it out of your mind. Everybody had done things they weren’t proud of. But he guessed Levin had never forgotten it and never worried about it. He’d slipped into the friendly, slightly sardonic role of psychiatrist with no trouble at all. And Artie had taken him at face value. The Captain Levin in ’Nam had gradually become a vague memory. Now here he was, come back to life, the ’Nam Levin whom Artie had never really liked. The captain who inspired both admiration and horror. The captain who loved his job too well.
Levin was still staring at Mark.
“There’re no Germans here but us good Germans, that it?”
The river’s edge, Artie thought. The young boy being held over the rushing waters while his throat was cut. For a brief time he had been a member of the Tribe, he had been one of them, and they had been … had been … What? Human. Very human. Even Professor Hall had suggested that.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“These two?”
“All of them.”
Levin shrugged. “I imagine we’ll develop DNA tests so we can identify them. I suppose they’ll be camps for them, like there were for the Nisei during World War Two.”
“Gas chambers, Levin? Down the road?”
“Christ, Banks, what the hell are you thinking of?”
He couldn’t tell whether Levin was really shocked or not. Everybody had committed genocide at one time or another, Artie thought. Nobody had clean hands. And then he realized that after all of this was over, Levin would be a hero. And he thought of Mary again: If you want to know what you were like in the past, look at what you are today.
“Susan’s my wife,” Artie said slowly. “Mark’s my son.”
Levin’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you remember what Cathy looked like?” he asked softly. “James and Andy? Their Hound did that, all by himself—no proxy murder that time. Remember Lyle? Nobody liked Lyle, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. And Paschelke and Hall, did they deserve it? And what about yourself? You almost did a swan dive off your rear balcony—three stories up onto concrete, Artie. Think you would have survived? They would have picked you up with a blotter.” He waved his gun at Susan and Mark again. “Do you think they would have shed any tears?”
That was one of the few things he had never told Levin. That somebody had cried “Dad!” and the next thing he knew Mark had pulled him off the railing and
was kneeling over him on the porch, the rain beating in his face, his wheelchair left behind in the doorway. Mark had dropped the pretense to save him; he had risked betraying his own species to do so.
“We can’t give up the world, Banks—you know that. For events that only anthropologists care about, events that happened thirty-five thousand years ago? It’s tragic but it’s simple. It’s us versus Professor Hall’s Old People. Do you think they would let us live?”
No, Artie thought bleakly, no they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. But that didn’t stop him from loving Susan and Mark. He’d always loved them more than they loved him, always would. That equation hadn’t changed.
Or had it? In the back of his mind, a part of him was wavering.
Levin shrugged again.
“It’s war, Artie. When you look at the world twenty years from now, what do you want to see?”
Garbage world, Artie thought chaotically. Poisoned streams, empty oceans, thousands of species that had died and hundreds of others that existed only in the concrete and steel confines of a zoo.
Levin cocked his head, listening.
“The choppers are coming.”
Artie thought he heard something in the distance but he wasn’t sure Levin was right; he’d served in ’Nam too long to be mistaken. Enlisted men knew the sound of choppers better than officers, probably because they spent more time in the front lines.
Mark suddenly lunged off the couch in a desperate leap at Levin. Susan screamed. Levin fired once and Mark crumpled to the floor.
For a split second time was stationary, impressions and thoughts flashing through Artie’s mind. Levin would take Susan and Mark back to Washington and he would be the interrogator, the one who always got the information he wanted but whose methods would
make you sick. Levin would ask Susan and Mark to identify the Hounds. He would never believe them when they said they couldn’t. Captain Levin was firmly convinced there was always an answer, that there had to be an answer.
Artie fired twice then, right through his jacket pocket. His first shot hit the bulb in the lamp and the room abruptly went dark. There were only the stars and a full moon lighting up the room now—just enough moonlight to glint off the frame of Mitch’s granny glasses.
After all these days of doubt and indecision,, Artie finally knew exactly who he was and where his loyalties lay. Above all else, he was a man whose whole life was his family. How in the world could Mitch have misjudged that?
His second shot shattered the left lens of Mitch’s glasses.