Lightning (43 page)

Fat Jack leaned his backside against the metal worktable in the middle of the room, where he had laid out the Uzis, revolvers, pistol, and silencers. The table creaked ominously. “Well, what we’re talking about here is army ordnance, tightly controlled stuff.”

“You can’t get it?”

“Oh, sure, I can get you some Vexxon,” Fat Jack said. He moved away from the table, which creaked in relief as his weight was lifted from it, and went to a set of metal shelves where he withdrew a couple of Hershey bars from between boxes of guns, a secret stash. He did not offer one to Chris, but put the second bar in the side pocket of his sweatpants and began to eat the other. “I don’t have that sort of crap here; just as dangerous as explosives. But I can have it for you late tomorrow, if that’s not inconvenient.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“I know.”

Fat Jack grinned. Bits of chocolate were stuck between his teeth. “Don’t get much call for this kind of thing, not from someone like yourself, a small buyer. Tickles me to try to figure what you’d be up to with it. Not that I expect you to tell me. But usually it’s big buyers from South America or the Middle East who want these neuroactive and respiractive gases. Iraq and Iran used plenty the last few years.”

“Neuroactive, respiractive? What’s the difference?”

“Respiractive—they have to breathe it in; it kills them seconds after it hits the lungs and spreads through the bloodstream. When you release it, you’ve got to be wearing a gas mask. Your neuroactive, on the other hand, kills even quicker, just on touching the skin, and with certain types of it—like Vexxon—you won’t need a gas mask or protective clothing, ’cause you can take a couple of pills before you use it, and they’re like an advance antidote.”

“Yes, I was supposed to ask for the pills, too,” Laura said.

“Vexxon. Easiest-to-use gas on the market. You’re a real smart shopper,” Fat Jack said.

Already he had finished the candy bar, and he appeared to have grown noticeably since Laura and Chris had entered his office half an hour ago. She realized that Fat Jack’s commitment to political anarchy was reflected not only in the atmosphere of his pizza parlor but in the condition of his body, for his flesh swelled unrestrained by social or medical considerations. He seemed to revel in his size, as well, frequently patting his gut or grabbing the rolls of fat on his sides and kneading them almost affectionately, and he walked with belligerent arrogance, pushing the world away from him with his belly. She had a vision of Fat Jack growing ever more huge, soaring past four hundred pounds, past five hundred, even as the wildly pyramiding neon structures on the roof grew ever more elaborate, until one day the roof collapsed and Fat Jack exploded simultaneously.

“I’ll have the gas by five o’clock tomorrow,” he said as he put the Uzis, .38 Chief’s Special, Colt Commander, and silencers in a box labeled BIRTHDAY PARTY FAVORS, which had probably contained paper hats or noisemakers for the restaurant. He slipped the lid on the box and indicated that Laura was to carry it upstairs; among other things, Fat Jack did not believe in chivalry.

Back in Fat Jack’s office, when Chris opened the door to the hall for his mother, Laura was pleased by the squealing of the children in the pizza parlor. That sound was the first normal, sane thing she had heard in more than half an hour.

“Listen to the little cretins,” Fat Jack said. “They’re not children; they’re shaved baboons trying to pass for children.” He slammed his soundproofed office door behind Chris and Laura.

In the car on the way back to the motel, Chris said, “When this is all over ... what’re you going to do about Fat Jack?”

“Turn his butt into the cops,” Laura said. “Anonymously.”

“Good. He’s a nut.”

“He’s worse than a nut, honey. He’s a fanatic.”

“What’s a fanatic exactly?”

She thought for a moment, then said, “A fanatic is a nut who has something to believe in.”

Lieutenant Erich Klietmann, SS, watched the second hand on the programming-board clock, and when it neared the twelve, he turned and looked at the gate. Inside that twelve-foot-long, gloom-filled tube, something shimmered, a fuzzy gray-black patch that resolved into the silhouette of a man—then three more men, one behind the other. The research team came out of the gate, into the room, and were met by the three scientists who had been monitoring the programming board.

They had returned from February 1989, and were smiling, which made Klietmann’s heart pound because they would not be smiling if they had not located Stefan Krieger, the woman, and the boy. The first two assassination squads that had been sent into the future—the one that had attacked the house near Big Bear and the one in San Bernardino—had been composed of Gestapo officers. Their failures had led der
Führer
to insist the third team be
Schutzstaffel.
and now Erich judged the researchers’ smiles to mean that his squad was going to have a chance to prove the SS was filled with better men than the Gestapo.

The failures of the two previous squads were not the only black marks on the Gestapo’s record in this affair. Heinrich Kokoschka, the head of the institute’s security, had been a Gestapo officer, as well, and he had apparently turned traitor. Available evidence seemed to support the theory that two days ago, on March 16, he had defected to the future with five other members of the institute’s staff.

On the evening of March 16, Kokoschka had jaunted alone to the San Bernardino Mountains with the claimed intention of killing Stefan Krieger there in the future before Krieger returned to 1944 and killed Penlovski, thereby undoing the deaths of the project’s best men. But Kokoschka never came back. Some argued that Kokoschka had been killed up there in 1988, that Krieger had won the confrontation—but that did not explain what had happened to the five other men in the institute that evening: the two Gestapo agents waiting for Kokoschka’s return and the three scientists monitoring the gate’s programming board. All vanished, and five homing belts were missing; so the evidence pointed to a group of traitors within the institute who had become convinced that Hitler would lose the war even with the advantage of exotic weapons brought back from the future, and who had defected to another age rather than stay in a doomed Berlin.

But Berlin was not doomed. Klietmann would not entertain that possibility. Berlin was the new Rome; the Third Reich would last a thousand years. Now that the SS was being given the chance to find and kill Krieger, der
Führer’s
dream would be protected and fulfilled. Once they had eliminated Krieger, who was the main threat to the gate and whose execution was the most urgent task before them, they would then focus on finding Kokoschka and the other traitors. Wherever those swine had gone, in whatever distant year and place they had taken refuge, Klietmann and his SS brethren would exterminate them with extreme prejudice and great pleasure.

Now Dr. Theodore Juttner—director of the institute since the murders of Penlovski, Januskaya, and Volkaw, and the disappearances on March 16—turned to Erich and said, “We’ve perhaps found Krieger,
Obersturmführer
Klietmann. Get your men ready to go.”

“We’re ready, Doctor,” Erich said. Ready for the future, he thought, ready for Krieger, ready for glory.

At three-forty on Saturday afternoon, January 14, little more than one day after her first visit, Thelma returned to The Bluebird of Happiness Motel in her gardener’s battered white pickup. She had two changes of clothes for each of them, suitcases in which to pack all the stuff, and a couple of thousand rounds of ammunition for the revolvers and the Uzis. She also had the IBM PC in the truck, plus a printer, a variety of software, a box of diskettes, and everything else they would need to make the system work for them.

With the wound in his shoulder only four days old, Stefan was recuperating surprisingly fast, although he was not ready to do any lifting, heavy or otherwise. He stayed in the motel room with Chris and packed the suitcases while Laura and Thelma moved the computer boxes to the trunk and back seat of the Buick.

The storm had passed during the night. Shredded gray clouds hung beardlike from the sky. The day had warmed to sixty-five degrees, and the air smelled clean.

Closing the Buick’s trunk on the last of the boxes, Laura said, “You went shopping in that wig and those glasses, those teeth?”

“Nah,” Thelma said, removing the stage teeth and putting them in a jacket pocket because they made her lisp when she talked. “Up close a salesclerk might’ve recognized me, and being disguised would arouse more attention than if I shopped as myself. But after I’d bought everything, I drove the truck to the deserted end of another shopping center’s parking lot and made myself look like a cross between Harpo Marx and Bucky Beaver before heading here, just in case someone in another car looked over at me in traffic. You know, Shane, I sorta like this kind of intrigue. Maybe I’m the reincarnation of Mata Hari, ’cause when I think about seducing men to learn their secrets and then selling the secrets to a foreign government, I get delicious chills.”

“It’s the part about seducing men that gives you chills,” Laura said, “not the secret-selling part. You’re no spy, just a lech.”

Thelma gave her the keys to the house in Palm Springs. “There’s no full-time staff there. We just call a housekeeping service to spruce the place up a couple of days before we go. I didn’t call them this time, of course, so you’re liable to find some dust, but no real filth, and none of the severed heads you tend to leave behind.”

“You’re a love.”

“There’s a gardener. Not full-time like the one at our house in Beverly Hills. This guy just comes around once a week, Tuesday, to mow the lawn, trim the hedges, and trample some flowers so he can charge us to replace them. I’d advise staying away from windows and keeping a low profile on Tuesday, until he comes and goes.”

“We’ll hide under the beds.”

“You’ll notice a lot of whips and chains under the bed, but don’t get the idea Jason and I are kinky. The whips and chains belonged to his mother, and we keep them strictly for sentimental reasons.”

They brought the packed suitcases out of the motel room and put those in the back seat with the other packages that would not fit in the Buick’s trunk. After a round of hugs, Thelma said, “Shane, I’m between nightclub appearances for the next three weeks, so if you need me for anything more, you can get hold of me at the house in Beverly Hills, night or day. I’ll stay by the phone.” Reluctantly she left.

Laura was relieved when the truck disappeared in traffic; Thelma was safe, out of it. She dropped the room keys at the motel office, then drove away in the Buick with Chris in the other front seat and Stefan in the back seat with the luggage. She regretted leaving The Bluebird of Happiness because they had been safe there for four days, and there was no guarantee they’d be safe anywhere else in the world.

They stopped at a gunshop first. Because it was best to keep Laura out of sight as much as possible, Stefan went in to buy a box of ammunition for the pistol. They had not put that item on the shopping list they had given Thelma, for at that time they had not known whether they would get the 9mm Parabellum that Stefan wanted. And in fact they had gotten the .38 Colt Commander Mark IV instead.

After the gunshop they drove to Fat Jack’s Pizza Party Palace to pick up two canisters of deadly nerve gas. Stefan and Chris waited in the car, under neon signs that were already burning at twilight, though they would not be in their full glory until nightfall.

The canisters were on Jack’s desk. They were the size of small household fire extinguishers with a stainless-steel finish instead of fire-red, with a skull-and-crossbones label that said VEXXON/ AEROSOL/WARNING—DEADLY NERVE TOXIN/UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSION IS A FELONY UNDER U.S. LAW, followed by a lot of fine print.

With a finger as plump as an overstuffed sausage, Jack pointed to a half-dollar-size dial on the top of each cylinder. “These here are timers, calibrated in minutes, one to sixty. If you set the timer and push the button in the center of it, you can release the gas remote, sort of like setting off a time bomb. But if you want to release it manually, then you hold the bottom of the canister in one hand, take this pistol-grip handle in your other hand, and just squeeze this loop the way you would a trigger. This crap, released under pressure, will disperse through a five-thousand-square-foot building in a minute and a half, faster if the heating or air conditioning is running. Exposed to light and air, it breaks down fast into nontoxic components, but it remains deadly for forty to sixty minutes. Just three milligrams on the skin kills in thirty seconds.”

“The antidote?” Laura asked.

Fat Jack smiled and tapped the sealed, four-inch-square, blue-plastic bags that were fixed to the handles of the cylinders. “Ten capsules in each bag. Two will protect one person. Instructions are in the bag, but I was told you have to take the pills at least one hour before dispersing the gas. Then they’ll protect you for three to five hours.”

He took her money and put the Vexxon cylinders in a cardboard box labeled MOZZARELLA CHEESE—KEEP REFRIGERATED. As he put the lid on the box, he laughed and shook his head.

“What’s wrong?” Laura asked.

“It just tickles me,” Fat Jack said. “A looker like you, clearly well educated, with a little boy ... if someone like you is involved in shit like this, society must be really coming apart at the seams a lot faster than I ever hoped. Maybe I will live to see the day when the establishment falls, when anarchy rules, when the only laws are those that individuals make between themselves and seal with a handshake.”

As an afterthought, he lifted the lid on the box, plucked a few green slips of paper from a desk drawer, and dropped them on top of the cylinders of Vexxon.

“What’re those?” Laura asked.