The Omicron Legion (6 page)

“Thank you, Captain.”

But Patty knew a few days weren’t going to make any difference, nor would a few weeks, or even a few months. Banyan wasn’t buying into the story; he probably wouldn’t make a single phone call. She walked out of the building feeling even more alone than she had while she stood with her younger brothers on either side of her at the funeral seventy-two hours before. She was responsible for them now; they were hers to raise and no one else’s.

Your specialty is the sea
—
the ocean
—
is it not?

It was, indeed, and, God, how she missed it now, as she closed the windows and locked them. She had come back one year before to bury her mother—who’d succumbed after a long battle with cancer Patty didn’t even know she was waging. The news of her mother’s death had reached Patty in the Biminis, where she had started work on a new project with a new boat, the
Runaway II.
The ocean was her one great love; she had foresaken all else for it. She had left her family, left college, left the family’s three Southern California houses to pursue a love that had been all-consuming.

She was so isolated that her family hadn’t even known how to reach her. If she hadn’t come back to port to resupply, Patty never would have known until her mother was long buried. She remembered the funeral, the sight of her two younger brothers, virtual strangers to her, held under either of her father’s arms, gazing at her with unquestioning love, in search of reassurance she could not give them. She resolved then to forsake her life on the sea and stay with them, be the sister they never really had now that their mother was gone. The ocean could go on without her, and maybe her brothers could, too. But the issue was one of need.

Her mother’s funeral had brought back sharp memories of how close she had once come to death herself. She had nearly perished with the first
Runaway
after she and it had been commandeered by a man Patty hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since. Standing there at her mother’s funeral, she had let herself imagine that Blaine McCracken was there by her side, offering comfort.

Of course, he wasn’t; they hadn’t even spoken since he had left her in a naval hospital on Guam six months before her mother’s funeral. Patty had not called her parents during her own two-week-long hospital stay. McCracken did, though, and they flew out, insisting she let them help pay to reoutfit her. Patty stubbornly argued she would rely on grants; only when the folly of this became obvious did she accept what she insisted had to be a loan.

It had been her father who convinced her to return to the sea after her mother’s funeral. They both had to get on with their lives, he told her, and she wouldn’t be doing herself any good lingering where she wouldn’t be happy. Her younger brothers were disappointed, but they understood. Besides, Shimada was there, and she was infinitely more capable of managing the household—as she had effectively done since Patty had been a child.

Shimada.

She had been born during World War II, in one of the Japanese internment camps in California. Touched by her story, Phillip Hunsecker had hired her as housekeeper and governess in 1970, when Patty was six. The relationship between the two of them had been strong from the very start. Shimada immediately christened Patty
Hana-shan,
which meant
Flower.
As Patty grew older, Shimada was drawn increasingly into Phillip Hunsecker’s business affairs, eventually becoming his administrative assistant in addition to her continuing duties in the household. When Patty’s mother had died, Shimada had been typically humble, willing even to miss the funeral so she could get the house in order for the many guests who would be coming after it was over.

Patty was in port when news of the accident had reached her, barely a week before. Details were sketchy at that point, and she found a glimmer of hope in that sketchiness. The glimmer was extinguished the instant she reached home. Both her father and Shimada had been killed instantly, their bodies burned beyond recognition. Her brothers were staying with friends. Patty realized how sad it was they were now orphans. With a chill she realized, she was, too.

She brought them back to her favorite of the family’s houses in Laurel Canyon, insisting that was the best way to help them get on with their lives. She was done with the sea. The boys needed her, and here she would stay. Custody problems were inevitable and still forthcoming. The cushion of shock was still delaying matters, and Patty was grateful for that much.

Her arms wrapped about her body, she walked out of her room and into the hallway. Her bare feet rebelled against the coldness of the bare wood floor, and she moved quickly onto the Oriental runner that covered its center. She peered into the rooms of both her brothers and then decided to go down to the kitchen to make some coffee. But the downstairs was cold and dark, and to get there she had to pass her father’s study.

Inside it a single desk lamp burned over her mounting collection of tear sheets and photocopies. She did not remember leaving the lamp on. She did not remember leaving the study in favor of plunging into bed without undressing.

Intending only to switch off the light, she entered the study and walked to the desk. The reading material spread over it clutched at her again, she sank into the chair and began paging through the clutter of papers once more.

What was the connection between these men?

Something had to hold her father and the other victims together. They were being killed for a reason—and at least some hint of that reason had to lie here, in these papers. She had filled half the pages of a yellow legal pad with notes based on her reading. Tonight she would make notes on the notes.

It was like sailing into a head wind. She wasn’t getting anywhere.

What would Blaine McCracken have done?

Her eyes fell on the phone. She’d considered dialing the number he had given her so often these past few days that she could see it embossed on her eyelids every time she tried to sleep. But what was she going to tell him if he answered? What made her think his response would be any different from Banyan’s?

I’ve got to find something to tell him, something that will make him
—
make all of them
—
believe,
she thought now.

Patty flipped her second pad open to a chart she had been making with the victims’ vital statistics. Nothing there that even suggested a connection. Different hometowns, different birth places, different colleges, different ways each had made his fortune, different birthdays as well, she quipped to herself.

Then something made her go back to that final column. Birth dates…Birth dates…

A chill shook her before she was even halfway down the list, an icy chill just like the one that had awakened her earlier.

Well, I’ll be damned,
she thought.
I’ll be damned!

“A minor problem has arisen,
Kami-san.
”

Takahashi looked up from his desk to see Tiguro Nagami standing before him. He hadn’t even heard his subordinate enter the study.

“Speak, Tiguro.”

“The daughter of one of the victims has been to the police. She has apparently caught on to the pattern of deaths.”

“She couldn’t have.”

“The police said as much.”

“Then why must I know this?”

“The possibility that she will make inquiries in other arenas is very real,
Kami-san.
One of these might provide a more willing ear.”

“Can you monitor the situation?”

Nagami nodded.

“If she persists, Tiguro, order her elimination. But don’t use one of our six specialists.” The vaguest hint of a smile crossed Takahashi’s lips. “No sense throwing off their timetable, is there?”

Chapter 6

MCCRACKEN MOPPED HIS
brow yet again as the black waters of the Amazon slid by beneath him.

“Next year, Indian, remind me to choose Club Med.”

Wareagle was hefting a long, thick log to help steer their boat clear of the shallows. Their pilot, Luis, had warned of the shallows just before finishing his last bottle of whiskey. That had been two hours back, after they had turned down the frighteningly calm trunk river that appeared on no map.

“You sure this is the right way, Johnny?” Blaine had asked.

“According to the directions passed on to me, yes.”

“Wouldn’t happen to have a map, would you?”

“The Tupis speak in terms of landmarks.”

“What happens when we hit the jungle?”

“We follow the signs of the land.”

“What about the spirits? Where are they this time? Somewhere air-conditioned, I’d bet.”

Wareagle was not amused. “The words they speak filter through the light. The heart of darkness we are entering makes it difficult to hear.”

Now only Johnny’s massive strength pushing off of the bottom allowed the drunken Luis to steer the rickety ship that had been their home for over a day. After escaping from
Casa do Diabo,
Johnny and Blaine had driven straight to a small airfield outside of São Paulo. From there, unregistered flights were available to virtually anywhere in the country if the price was right. Fortunately Blaine had enough money left to make sure it was. Most of the men he usually dealt with weren’t fond of credit cards, so Blaine always traveled with large reserves of cash stored within secret compartments of his carry-on bag.

The plane took them to Manaus, a sprawling river port with a population of almost a million that rose from the densest part of the Amazon jungle. A combination of high-rise buildings and older stucco structures dwarfed in their midst, Manaus attracts a huge tourist population, primarily because it is a free port. Bargains in electronic merchandise abound, televisions and stereos sold out of warehouse lots from piles of boxes stacked to the ceiling. The port section is cluttered with hucksters and fishermen selling their wares from the docks, boasting of incredible bargains and trading barbs about freshness.

Upon arriving early Sunday morning, Blaine and Johnny filtered among the streams of humanity in no mood to linger too long. The need for a boat brought them to the port section, but few were available. They opted for Luis’s because he was lying drunk in a hammock and asked not a single question after being stirred. He didn’t even inquire where they were going until they were a mile out in the Amazon. Then his questions were answered by the money Blaine flashed before him.

The early hours of the voyage were almost pleasant. The waters of the Amazon are black due to the dissolving of humic acid, which repels insects and mosquitos. But as morning grew into afternoon, a stifling humidity took over. McCracken sat on the deck dripping in hot sweat that drenched even his hair and beard.

The boat motored easily as Johnny’s course took them into a maze of uncharted connecting waterways that ran green with the lifeblood of the countryside. With the coming of night came the onset of distinct unease on Blaine’s part. They could not have risked carrying weapons through Manaus, and none were available at any of the markets, except for ancient hunting rifles and shotguns. McCracken opted for the best he could find of the latter, a pump-action job that had seen better days. That and a box of ammunition were all they had on their side against the Spirit of the Dead.

“We are close now, Blainey,” Wareagle assured him, joining Blaine in the bow, where he was keeping a careful watch on the bottom for sudden rocks. The morning had dawned friendly, but already the dripping humidity was starting to choke the air.

“You going on strike, Indian?”

“Our boatman says the shallows have ended.”

Luis, behind the wheel, burped.

“And you trust him?”

“He has lived his life on the river, just as the Tupis have lived theirs in the jungle. He knows the waters as well as they know the land. Another twenty minutes and we will anchor.”

The resolve on Johnny’s face was sharp and keen. McCracken had seen it before, in other jungles, as other battles were looming.

They dropped anchor on schedule, and Luis helped them unload their packs; then Blaine instructed him to wait for their return. Luis gazed about him, not looking happy.

“
Quando volta?
”

Blaine gave him his best guess. “
Amanhã.
”

“
Não sei,
”
the boatman said, resisting Blaine’s orders.

“
Vehna ca, por favor,”
Blaine told him. And then, in English, “Come on. I’ve got something here for you.”

Luis’s eyes gleamed when Blaine produced the contents of a sack not yet unloaded: three bottles of decent whiskey he’d purchased at the port market before they’d set out.

“
Muito bem
,” Luis thanked him. “
Muito obrigado!
”

“Then you’ll be here when we get back?”

“Oh, absolutely,” the boatman replied, cuddling up to the whiskey as if it were a long-lost friend.

The brush of the Amazon Basin was like nothing Blaine had ever experienced before. It was wholly unique, a world unto itself. There was no path to follow, just trees to slide between and bushes to shove back. The feeling that he might well be the first person ever to step where he was stepping was new and fresh to him. The entire jungle was alive, even more steaming than the water, with no breeze to cool the drenching sweat that poured off him.

Wareagle led the way, at first clearing their path with a machete. The deeper they plunged into the jungle, however, the shorter his swipes became, as if he were reluctant to disturb nature’s delicate balance. Vines and broad leaves scraped at Blaine’s face with the tenacity of iron. More than once he felt some reptilian creature slithering about his feet and feared that it might be a deadly bushmaster snake ready to inject its lethal venom into him.

The jungle about him was alive with constant animal sounds, some high-pitched and loud, others barely more than a chirp. Above, only slight rays of direct light were able to penetrate the thick canopy of trees that formed a shroud over the jungle. This part of the Amazon had thus far been spared the ruinous mining and senseless stripping of the land for profit by
bandeirantes,
the Brazilian backwoodsmen.