The Falling Away (23 page)

“So you're trying to tell me Great Sower isn't a synonym for Great Dictator.”

“Not at all. I'm just the . . . the founding father.”

“You're the George Washington of HIVE.”

“If I'm George Washington, I suppose I should say I cannot tell a lie.”

“
Pffft
. That was a lie. First government conspiracy, you know.”

“People might say you have big trust and authority issues, Dylan. Sure you were in the military?”

“
Were
is the key word there. Also, just so you know: aliens at Area 51, and we didn't really land on the moon.”

“You're trying to mask your fear with sarcasm. Natural. But if you knew what was truly happening out there, it would be much scarier than alien autopsies.”

“Scarier than what's in here too?”

“Definitely.”

“And I'm sure you'll tell me my point of view. Drug me until I agree with it.”

His fear was gone now. Was that good? In fact, it had been replaced by a sense of . . . complacency. He was enjoying this time with Li, enjoying this time away from the outside world.

That's the drugs talking
, Joni said inside his mind.
Whatever he's got you on, you're higher than a kite
.

Better than Percocets
, he agreed.

He's got everyone in the whole community drugged
, she said.
That's why they have that dopey grin on their faces all the time
.

You're probably right
.

So what are you going to do about it
?

Nothing
.

Nothing? You have to fight against this, make yourself—

He pushed Joni into the kill box without warning, let himself sink into the deep, plush comfort of the drug inside his veins. Whatever it was. It didn't matter, because he felt better, so much better, than he had in . . . forever. He knew he was being sucked into a vortex, but he didn't care. Inside, he could still think, could still express his thoughts of cynicism, but somehow it all seemed so . . . unimportant now. If this was life as a drone, he could handle it. Much more pleasant than life as a soldier. Or a cripple. Or a crippled soldier.

“Ah, I think you're starting to feel it,” he heard Li's voice say.

Dylan opened his eyes. Funny, he didn't even remember closing them.

“That means you're ready,” Li said, sipping at his coffee.

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to come out of hiding.”

“I made parole, then.”

“Now you get to make a choice: you leave, go on your way, or you stay.”

“Since I'm drugged up and locked in one of your spider holes, I don't think it's exactly a free choice.”

“Of course it's a free choice. But I think we're the last people you should be worried about, Dylan.”

“Who should worry me more?”

“Plenty of people out there. Local sheriff, Montana Highway Patrol, FBI office out of Billings, your drug connections looking for their money. That's just off the top of my head—I'm sure there are others I don't know about.”

“No, you seem to have it pretty well covered.”

“Had all of them comb through here. Happens somewhat frequently, you understand: government—everyone from ATF to Homeland Security—takes a great interest in us. Takes a great interest in anyone who represents a threat to the system as it is.”

“So how do you keep them out?”

Li shrugged, set down his coffee on the table in front of them. “We don't.”

“What do you mean?”

“Any time they want to come in, we let them take a look around. We like to be open about who we are, let them see anything they want to see.”

“Anything you want them to see, you mean. I don't recall any federal agents waltzing through this hidden apartment.”

“Well, as I'm sure you understand, our community appeals to a . . . certain kind of person. The kind that wants to drop out, get a fresh start. We give them that chance.”

“By hiding them away from authorities until the heat cools down a little,” Dylan responded. “Then they're indebted to you, and more likely to become part of your operation. Probably even more loyal, because after all, what are they gonna do? Blow the whistle?”

Li nodded slowly, still smiling. Always smiling. Just like everyone in this crazy place. Dylan had to admit, even he felt that psycho smile on his face right now. Whatever drug he was on, it was a good one.

“Yes, there's all that,” Li said. “It furthers our own cause, of course. But if we treat people right, give them the kinds of chances they never had, you'd be amazed at what kind of work they can do.”

“I still don't get, though, how you keep out—oh, I don't know—traitors. You'd think spooks would be trying to infiltrate this place all the time. I mean, they've gotta know you're harboring some fugitives.”

“You're right, of course. But we have a few things on our side.” He picked up his coffee, sipped at it again. “First, the government is a lot more hands-off now than it used to be. After the Branch Davidian and Ruby Ridge messes—let's just say they don't want any more bad press, people calling them jackbooted thugs. So they're a bit more careful when it comes to . . . alternative communities such as ours.”

Dylan nodded.

“Second, think about it: what's the real upside for them? Here, we change people, make them productive, keep them out of trouble—all without the cost of high-profile trials or incarceration. In a way, we provide a crude kind of service for the government. If people decide to leave the safety of the compound, well, by all means, it's open season on them. But in here, it's a different world.”

“So you're saying the government lets you keep fugitives here, because it makes things easier for them.”

“Did I say that?”

“You didn't deny it.”

Li shrugged, took an even greater interest in his coffee.

“What about Webb?”

“What about him?”

“Is he staying?”

“Of course. I think he'll do well—I already had this conversation with him.”

“And you wouldn't mind if I talked to him.”

“Talk to anyone you want.”

Dylan sighed. “So what now? I say yes, do we go through some public ceremony or something?”

Li laughed. “You really do have the wrong idea about us, Dylan. We're not about secret ceremonies or controlling community members or anything like that. You decide to stay, you stay; you share in the work, join any of our divisions—production, packaging, maintenance, whatever—and you share in the rewards. You decide to leave, you can leave now.”

Li drained the last of his coffee. “Before you make your decision—and let me say once again, it's your decision—let me show you something.” Li picked up the remote, turned on the television. “Isn't TiVo great? I recorded a little something for you earlier.”

Li chose a recorded program and hit Play. It was a local news broadcast, the talking head of an anchor behind a news desk on one of the Great Falls TV stations.

“Breaking news today,” the anchor said, peering at the camera. “The two suspects wanted for an attack on a Montana highway patrolman have been found dead, apparently of a suicide pact. For more, we go to Melanie Waters in Lewistown.”

“Thanks, Dan,” Melanie said, standing on a snow-laden street. “Authorities released the identities of the two men who attacked and killed Trooper Dave Evans outside Lewistown just a few days ago. They have been identified as Andrew Falling Bird, a member of the Assiniboine Tribe in Fort Belknap, and Terrance Hayes of Billings, both with ties to the drug trade in Montana.”

Photos of faces Dylan recognized flashed on the screen.

“Hayes, who went by the street name Krunk, was believed to be a major drug trafficker in Billings. The bodies of the two suspects were found in a hotel room near Bozeman, both men dead of apparent self-inflicted gunshot wounds.”

The screen flashed back to Melanie, who was perky and smiley. An odd match for the story she was reporting.

“Authorities also believe the two men may be linked to a separate double homicide involving two Canadian citizens near the Turner Port of Entry, but have so far refused to release further details. Reporting live from Lewistown, I'm Melanie Waters. Back to you, Dan.”

Dan started to blab something about the cold weather, and Li hit the pause button.

Dylan continued to stare at the frozen image of Dan's ultra-white teeth. “When did all of this happen?” he stammered.

Li smiled, a huge, genuine smile. “While you were here underground. Safe and secure.”

Amazing. And . . . scary. Somehow Li had orchestrated all of this, tying together law enforcement, the drug trade, and who knew what else. Dylan knew he should feel relieved; his most pressing problems, after all, had been solved for him. Instead, he felt as if he'd just stepped into a deep, dark hole with no bottom. And yet, it felt good. What was so bad about being in a dark hole with no bottom? He would be out of reach in such a place.

“I thought this might help your decision,” Li said. “We're very good at cleaning up things, at giving people a new chance, a fresh start. You get to start with a clean slate; how many people have that opportunity, Dylan?”

Dylan sat dumbfounded for a few minutes.

Five people are dead, Dylan
.

I know, Joni. I killed two of them
.

If you stay, other people might die. He might even ask you to do the killing
.

But if I leave, he'll probably have people follow me, kill me before I hit Eddie's Corner. This Li has connections. Why or how, I don't know
.

So you're saying HIVE is just the mafia dressed up in Green Peace clothes
?

“Dylan? You with me?”

Dylan blinked, looked at Li again. “I guess you're making an offer I can't refuse.”

38

Quinn sat in her Chevy Silverado, parked on the county road that cut through HIVE land on the north side of the compound. Several hundred yards away, she saw the blades of half a dozen turbines spinning lazily, even though the wind was quieter than usual.

She'd planned to use Andrew to get into the compound, but that option was gone now. HIVE had its arms around Dylan, and it was moving fast to erase Dylan's recent tracks. That meant she needed to move quickly. Today.

After scanning the property in the guise of pheasant hunting yesterday, she'd confirmed what she'd long suspected: a few key turbines on the property held underground bunkers, safe from outside eyes and removed from the rest of the village proper. She guessed Dylan was being kept underground—literally and figuratively—in one of those. She'd even narrowed it down to three potential turbines, based on the activities she'd observed the previous day.

She opened the door, zipped her black snowsuit, cradled her shiny new snowmobile helmet beneath her right arm, and began hiking back toward the highway; it was less than half a mile away, and she could be there in ten minutes or so.

This particular county road was the closest to the actual HIVE center, which was why she had chosen it; in a straight line it was half a mile at most to this exact location. The back roads of Montana, especially during hunting seasons, often had pickups parked on them, so she was sure the Silverado wouldn't attract any attention if she left it here for a few hours.

The snowsuit and helmet, carefully selected to match what she'd seen HIVE members wearing inside, would help make sure she was anonymous and invisible when she was inside. She'd even outfitted the helmet with a 900 MHz headset and microphone, which would let her pick up the nonsecured chatter she'd monitored on her scanner the previous day.

The trickier issue was getting inside. The HIVE didn't exactly have tight security, at least to the casual observer. Barbed wire fence surrounded the property, along with posted No Trespassing signs. No heavy-duty security or alarms, but she knew the compound had heavy camera surveillance. So even though she could probably walk onto the compound property itself without tripping any alarms, she'd most likely attract attention on a security camera.

That meant, as attractive as hopping the fence and simply slipping inside might seem, the front gate was the best way to stay invisible.

She reached the highway and walked north toward Eddie's Corner. A few minutes later she flagged down a red Mercury Mountaineer.

“Snowmobile break down?” the driver asked, looking at her snowsuit and helmet. Good; just the reaction she'd wanted.

“Ran out of gas,” she said, sliding into the seat.

“Musta missed your rig.”

“Oh, my snowmobile's down the county road back there, about half a mile.” She pushed the helmet into the middle of the seat.

“I meant your truck.”

“It's down the county road, too, but a lot farther than a half mile.”

“Gotcha.” The driver smiled and nodded. Obviously not a snow-mobiler, which was good; if he were, she would have been forced into a conversation about preferred sleds, trails, terrain, and such. Maybe even a conversation about why she was sledding on a county road by herself and not carrying extra fuel.

“Eddie's Corner is just up here a few miles,” he said. “You can get some gas there. Won't be able to get you back, though—gotta get to Lewistown for a meeting.”

“No worries,” she said. “I'm just glad you stopped.”

They spent the next ten minutes talking about the Internet. Pete, the driver of the Mountaineer, made kitchen cabinets and was heading to Lewistown to bid on a large job for some Internet millionaire who'd bought a small ranch outside Lewistown. Pete figured he was in the wrong line of business, and he should be making lots of money off an Internet site of some kind.

Quinn nodded and smiled at all the appropriate pauses, until finally they arrived at Eddie's Corner and said their good-byes.