The Overseer (46 page)

And yet, there was the other reality, the small leather-bound books that he had forced himself to pore over during the flight, forced because he had been afraid to return to their world, to let his guard down, to recapture that simplicity. More so because he had begun to question his own
capacity
. Staring at them, turning their pages, he no longer saw them as relics to be admired and discussed. They each had meaning, purpose beyond the theory. Of course, he tried to convince himself that he had known it all along, that he had reveled in the impact such books could have, but the real questions remained. Had he ever truly seen
beyond
the theoretical? No. He had taken the easy way out, dismissed them as absurd, rejected them as madness, and thus ignored their truth. Even a few days ago, rifling through the texts, he had not allowed himself to believe in their application.
They’re books! They offer nothing more than the thrill of discovery. Nothing else!
Somehow
, he had let the truth of Eisenreich’s
first trial
slip from his mind. He had allowed himself to read the theory as little more than the fuel for an academic flight of fancy. Now, staring into a vacant sky, he knew far better. Now he had witnessed their power firsthand.

And that power was no more clear than in the prescriptions set forth in the second volume. Xander once again flipped open the book, aware that he had seen its methods, its brutality, not on the pages in front of him but in a small house in Wolfenbüttel, on a train from Saltzgitter.
How to create chaos, how to build from it, how to cultivate hatred
—the three central
chapters
, the three most damning statements of Eisenreich’s vision. Now,
reading
through the words again, Xander knew what the men devoted to that vision planned to unleash; Washington, the grain market—they had merely been a promise of things to come. Minor disruptions at first—perhaps not even genuine threats—but events serious enough to raise questions about security in
the simple minds of the people.
Next, they would cultivate that doubt into panic, depict the smaller episodes as symptoms of a larger
problem
, one that would demand drastic measures. That
problem
—the one Eisenreich had so cannily latched onto all those centuries ago—was
nothing
more than
moral decay.
Simple, but accurate. How better to manipulate the public than to play up to its pious indignity? How better to rouse a
people
than to rattle their sense of self-righteousness? And Xander knew there would be plenty of that to go around. The interest groups, the Coalitions, the majorities—they were all waiting to clean the slate of its social, political, and economic corruption. Tieg had been making certain of that. Every night for the past two years. Ten million households growing more and more restless. The answer—tear everything down and start again. Make everything
right
. It was why Eisenreich had described chaos as
“the welcome release from a general iniquity.”
Chaos as savior. Chaos as moral detergent. From there, it was but a short step to control for those who wanted it. To maintain it, they would simply have to create a pariah within the state, cultivate bigotry, and thus distract the rabble. That was Eisenreich’s gift. An old trick, thought Xander, but one that had worked well enough in the past. It would work again.

Xander sat back and closed his eyes as the plane banked away from the island, the image of the little monk etched in his mind.
Did you really intend all of this? Was this the vision? Was this God’s will?
Xander knew there had to be more to it than the brutality Tieg and his cohorts meant to unleash. More than a tyranny of greed and power bent on stripping society of its most basic freedoms, and turning out generation after generation of
mindless
automatons. Yes, the theory tempted with a promise of unimagined power, but it also granted a world of order, of control. And
that
was what made it so seductive. Not its gift of supremacy. Not its harnessing of chaos. It was its dream of permanence through excellence that set it apart. A dream unthinkably violent beyond the page, yet tantalizing in its rhetoric.

A quick descent to the tar and grass of Kennedy Airport shook him back to the present. A final bump to the ground, and Xander opened his eyes. He stared at the manuscript, then slipped it into his briefcase. The moment for its beauty had passed. The game had begun again.

Five minutes later, a strange sensation washed over him as he stepped out onto the concourse. It might have been the same terminal from which he had left six days ago, but it was a very different Jaspers who now returned. He had left a part of himself behind, shed it so as to create a
decipherable
reality out of the madness of Eisenreich. Ganz had been right to recognize the finality, but he had seen only one side, only one part of that sacrifice. Xander, on the other hand, had come to understand a different kind of death, a death that came in stages, ripping at the soul until only the shell remained. He had seen it in Sarah. In Feric. And now in himself. Somewhere, he had lost the naïveté, the simple enthusiasm that had defined his every choice, his sense of purpose, and had always propelled him along, only to be violently stripped away, bit by bit—Florence,
London
, Wolfenbüttel—a devastating spiral from disbelief to panic to horror. Death at his own hands. Death as his reality. All that remained was a will to survive, a will he had learned to exercise with relative ease in the bowels of the Frankfurt airport.

It was that same will, that same intuition that was forcing him to
concentrate
on the simple order that Sarah—so close now—had left for him:
Tempsten
,
New York. The Sleepy Hollow Motel.

 

“A game? And hitching doesn’t break the rules?” The young man driving the pickup couldn’t have been more than twenty, his thick upper body, grease-stained hands, and grimy coveralls—the name Jeff on his chest pocket—all in keeping with the logo Sarah had read on the passenger door:
MICK’S AUTOWORKS—WE DO FOREIGN TOO.

“There
a re
no rules,” she answered. At least that much was true.
Keep it simple.
“It’s just whoever gets to Tijuana first wins the bet.”

“You got
money
on this?”

“Enough to keep it … worthwhile.”

“
That
is a great idea. I mean, really great.” He shook his head as he smiled. “And you say you got dumped in Claghorn Gorge last night just to slow you down? That’s beautiful! They’re lucky you didn’t drown or something.”

“Well, there is
one
rule—nothing life-threatening. And no planes. It wouldn’t be fun if you could just hop the next flight south.”
If anyone asks, he’ll have to keep it simple.
“I got tossed in with a life jacket. I guess they
figured
I’d give up once I got wet.”

“Beautiful! I mean that is absolutely beau-ti-ful!” He pounded an open palm on the steering wheel. “Hell, I wish I could drive you the whole way just to see those guys’ expressions when you show up!” He started to shake his head again. “Leaves! I’d never’ve thought of that. I’d still be in those damn woods freezing my ass off.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Sarah recalled the hour or so of fitful sleep she had stolen. “This blanket’s a welcome relief.”

“Yeah, well that’s Mick’s. He sometimes sleeps in the truck.” Jeff shrugged. “Don’t ask. Something to do with his ex-wife. Or his girlfriend. He doesn’t talk about it and … Anyway, you got lucky last night. Usually this time of year, it doesn’t get much over fifty-five. Last night, must’ve been close to sixty. Maybe sixty-two.”

“It didn’t feel that high.”

“Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t have.” He laughed. “You’re also pretty lucky I had that job out in Presterton, or else you’d have been walking for another hour, at least.”

Coming out of the curve, the young mechanic slowed and turned into a driveway, the garage logo emblazoned on a well-worn sign that swung
precariously
from two strands of rusted chain link. Several cars were parked on the fringe of grass separating Mick’s from the main road, a strange array of expensive German and Japanese imports that seemed out of place next to the ramshackle buildings to the rear. Inside the garage, high on a hydraulic lift, a jet black Porsche was receiving expert care from the hands of an equally greasy coveralled figure.

“That’s Mick. We do all the work ourselves.” He brought the truck to a stop and hopped out of the cab, shouting over to his partner. “Hey, hey. It was a busted fan belt. Two seconds. The guy didn’t know what was wrong. I told him next time to check it himself so he doesn’t have to pay us an arm and a leg.” Mick nodded from under the car, only now aware of Sarah, who was stepping to the gravel. “And she wants to know if she can rent a car.” Jeff moved off toward the small office.

“Rent?” Mick stepped out of the garage, wiping the grease from his hands. “We don’t rent. You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, but listen to this,” Jeff shouted through the door as he rang up the bill for the fan belt. “She’s got some kind of bet going, see who can get to Mexico first, and last night she ends up in Claghorn with a little help from two of her bettin’ buddies. Sounds like fun, huh?”

“Yeah.” Mick continued to cross the gravel drive, the cloth working a patch on his neck. He kept his eyes on Sarah. “Mexico. What’s in Mexico?”

“Tijuana,” answered Sarah.

“Yeah … well, I don’t rent, and I don’t sell. I just fix. Best I can do is have Jeff run you into Glendon. That’s about twenty minutes. You can catch a bus there, or a train into San Francisco. About an hour and a half, I guess. Plenty of places there to rent a car.”

“Thanks,” said Sarah, watching Mick step into the office. A moment later, she heard traces of a hushed exchange before Mick reemerged. He kept his eyes on the ground as he stepped to the drive and dug the rag deep into his back pocket. Sarah expected to see Jeff behind him, but the office remained strangely quiet. Watching Mick move, she sensed something odd in his walk, the gait somehow too deliberate, too casual.
He can’t look at me.
Something was out of place, something Mick was trying to hide, the reason he was keeping his eyes low.

Every instinct told her she had to move. Stepping back to the truck, Sarah slowly opened the door and tossed the blanket in, discreetly sliding herself into the driver’s seat. With a minimum of movement, she reached for the keys that still hung from the ignition, all the while her focus on the tall mechanic. She waited until he had disappeared into the garage and then fired up the engine, shifting the truck into reverse.

Behind her, a black sedan screeched to a stop and blocked the exit,
forcing
her to slam on the brakes. Her entire body jerked forward, her chin and shoulder colliding from the near impact. Slightly dazed, she waited, the car behind idling, only its smoke-glazed windows quivering from the vibration. Sarah expected her captors to fly out, guns at the ready. But none came. The doors remained strangely silent. Only the hum of the engine. A minute might have passed before the sound of footsteps broke through. Even and slow, they approached from the office. She began to turn.

“Hello, Sarah.”

The voice tore through her, its impact like a hammer to her skull.

 

H
ER GAZE REMAINED
frozen on the long angular face not ten feet from her, its thick gray eyebrows hovering above a pair of sunken eyes. There was no expression on the face, save for a slight squinting that tucked the pale green orbs even deeper within their sockets. It had been seven years since she had seen him, seven years since she had stared into the cold eyes.