VIOLET Simms read her mail at the breakfast table. She did not receive many letters, but she enjoyed the ritual of slitting open the envelopes before starting in on her grapefruit and coffee. It was a civilized way to start the day. On this particular morning, she set aside the junk mail and the flyer from the supermarket, and was left with three envelopes. One of them was addressed to her granddaughter.
"This one's for you," she said, and handed it across the table.
"For me?"
"Has your name on it."
Lila Simms, at sixteen, was rarely alert at that time of the morning, particularly on school days. She stared dully at the envelope, and continued to spoon up her cereal. She couldn't imagine who would be writing to her. She let the envelope lie on the table as she finished her breakfast.
Violet asked, "Aren't you going to open it?"
"Must be an ad." Lila stifled a yawn. "Somebody's trying to sell me something."
"Don't have to buy, you know. Go ahead and open it. It won't bite."
Lila tore open the envelope. She read, her eyes still glazed and dull. She turned the paper over, read the other side, and then went back to the beginning and read the whole thing through again. By the time she had read it for the second time, her eyes were no longer dull.
"I don't believe this," she said, excitement in her voice. "I simply don't believe."
Violent asked indulgently, "What don't you believe? What are they selling?"
"Look at this. Just look at it."
Lila passed the sheet of paper across to her grandmother.
National Association for Recreational Skiing
Hammond, Va. 23671
CONGRATULATIONS
The National Association for Recreational Skiing is pleased to
advise you
LILA SIMMS
that through a computer-operated lottery of high school students throughout the country, you have been chosen as one of five winners of the prize listed below.
A one-week, all-expense-paid skiing holiday at Hightower Mountain in the Adirondacks.
No purchase necessary. This is a final and unconditional prize. See other side for details.
"It's one of those lottery things, that's all," said Violet. "There ought to be a law."
"I don't think so, gran. I think it's for real."
"No, honey, it's one of those things where you have to buy something to win."
"It says no purchase necessary." Lila came around the table to stand in back of her grandmother. "Look, right there."
"Oh. Well, you know how they work these things. They put your name in with a zillion others, and they have a drawing maybe a year from now."
"No, look. 'This is a final and unconditional prize.' " Lila turned the page over, and pointed. "The week starts on Saturday."
"This Saturday? That's only three days…" Violet peered at the print on the back of the page. "Supervised by a trained ski instructor provided by the NARS-transportation by bus-accommodations at the Holiday Inn at Hightower." She searched for flaws, but could find none. Still, she protested, "There has to be a catch. Nobody ever wins these things."
"Somebody has to, otherwise it wouldn't be legal, would it?"
Violet said doubtfully, "I suppose. But why would they pick you?"
"It says random selection. A computer did it."
There it was, the magic word for this generation. If a computer did it, then it had to be real. "But what's this National Association… or whatever? I never heard of it."
"Oh, I have," said Lila, who never had heard of it, either. "It's very big, the biggest. I can go, Gran, can't I? It's Hightower. It's supposed to be fantastic skiing there."
"I can't let you go off with people I don't know."
"It says trained supervision, and there are four other kids. Please, Gran. Please?"
Violet shook her head, not so much in disapproval as in resignation. Raising a grandchild all on her own had been both a joy and a cross to bear, and the next few years would bring the worst of it. She tried to remember what her own daughter, Lila's mother, had been like at sixteen, what she had wanted and needed, but all she could recall was a time of total confusion. She spoiled Lila somewhat, she knew she did, but this-to send her off with strangers? Still, a week, all expenses paid, and she did love skiing so much.
"Gran, please?"
Violet shook herself briskly. "We'll see, we'll talk about it later. I have to think about it."
"But we don't have much time."
"Time enough to think. We'll talk this afternoon, after school." She glanced at the clock. "And you'd better scoot, or you'll be late."
Lila gathered her coat and her books. She kissed her grandmother's cheek, and hugged her shoulders. "Please think about it," she pleaded. "Please think real hard."
"I will, I promise." Violet looked up, and smiled. "We'll see." Lila nodded happily. She knew her grandmother, she knew that smile, and she knew that she was going to Hightower Mountain.
About an hour after Lila raced off to school, Martha marched into Sammy's office at the Center. She was just back from two whirlwind days in Rockhill, New York, on the Simms assignment. She threw her report on Sammy's desk, and waited while he read it.
Sammy:
Here's what I have so far on the Sextant operation.
Rockhill is a small town in the Hudson Valley, the east bank just north of Rhinebeck. It's a pleasant place, quiet, with shady streets, and a high school straight out of a 1930's movie. Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, you know? The sidewalks are clean, there's no graffiti, and aside from a bowling alley and a roadhouse out on the edge of town, the lights go out at eleven. I wouldn't mind living in Rockhill someday.
I spent my first day there using my cover as a field agent for the New York State Department of Social Services, researching crimes of violence in the area. I hit the chief of police, the high school principal, a couple of pastors, and came away with the impression that Rockhill is virtually free of serious crime. Sure, once in a while a teenage party gets out of hand, once in a while the buckos out at Jimmy's Grill, the local roadhouse, take on a load and start bopping each other, once in a while a kid gets himself busted for smoking pot on the village green-but that's about it. Again, I wouldn't mind living there.
I spent the next morning at the hall of records. Lila Simms was born 11 June 1976. Mother listed as Julia Simms, died in childbirth. Father listed as "unknown." Lila's residence, 29A Linden Avenue, Rockhill, is listed as being owned by Mrs. Violet Simms, who turns out to be the kid's maternal grandmother. Tax valuation $57,500. Real estate and water taxes paid up to date. No mortgage, no outstanding liens. Lila has lived with her grandmother all her life.
Late in the afternoon I got close enough to Lila to do an Alpha tap. Couldn't get her to stay still long enough for a Delta, but we're not interested in anything deep. Turns out to be a perfectly normal sixteen-year-old, into rock music, tennis, and skiing. Likes boys, dates around, but nothing steady. Deep attached to her grandmother, and no memories of her parents, which isn't surprising since she never knew them. Worried about her school grades, but not to the point of panic. Somewhat bored with her life, somewhat restless, somewhat curious about the big wide world out there, but that's nothing unusual. She is also, believe it or not, exactly what Ogden was looking for, a certified virgin.
So there's your background, and here's the problem. My brief is to keep this child from being raped within the time frame, but my brief also specifies that she cannot know what is going on. Nor can anyone else connected with her. This, my dear Sammy, is a virtual impossibility. Given the limitations of our mandate, I see no way in which we can protect Lila Simms unless-and this is my point-we remove her from her present environment.
Thus:
(1) Sextant will come after her in Rockhill.
(2) Given our limits, there is no way that we can protect her in Rockhill.
(3) We have to remove her from Rockhill, and place her in an environment that we can control.
(4) How do we do that, and at the same time preserve the limitations of our mandate?
(5) Turn page for the answer.
Sammy turned the page and found himself looking at a duplicate of the notification to Lila Sims, advising her that she had won a week's vacation at Hightower Mountain. He read it carefully, then looked up, and smiled.
"Not bad. Fast work."
"The Workshop did it. We were up all night. I haven't been to sleep yet."
"When will Lila get it?"
"She got it this morning." When Sammy raised an eyebrow, she added, "Jerry Becker in Postal took care of it. He owes us."
"You're close to a breach of security there."
"Sometimes you have to bend the mandate. I had to get it to her today. Sextant's time frame begins in four days, and I want her out of there in three. Of course, I'll be leading the party."
"You'll need transport."
"The Workshop is organizing a minivan."
"Rooms at the inn?"
"All the logistics will be locked up by this afternoon. There's just one other point that I have to clear with you."
"Yeah, I see it coming." Sammy sat back, and his smile was gone. "You need four teenage kids to fill out the group."
"Four kids who can ski. Four seniors I can trust all the way down the line. I want George Shackley, Pam Costis, Linda Bryce, and Terry Krazewski."
"They're not operational."
"Okay, you had to say that, but who else can I use? I know they're not operational, but they're all seventeen, less than a year away from assignment. They're not aces yet, but they're damn close. They can do the job, and I need them. Now, are we going to sit here and argue all morning, or can we cut to the bottom line?"
"Who's arguing? You can have them."
"I can?" Martha's surprise showed on her face. "I thought I was going to have to wrestle you."
"No, they're the obvious choices, and, as you said, sometimes you have to bend the mandate. But you can only have three, you can't have Krazewski."
"Why not?"
"He's in the infirmary with the flu. Not a chance."
"Sammy, I have to have four."
"So take four. Take Little."
"Chicken?" Martha stared at him. "You're kidding."
Sammy shrugged. "It's up to you, but he's the only other senior."
"But he's a disaster."
"I know."
"He's a menace."
"I know."
"He's a monster."
"I know."
Very slowly, and carefully, Martha said, "Sammy, we both know that he may be a deuce. It's taking a hell of a chance."
"I know that, too. Do you have a choice?"
She shook her head. "I guess not."
On the night of that same day, Sextant prepared to go out on the town. He had been working hard, and it was time to play. He had been in Rockhill for a week, doing the painstaking research that was the hallmark of his work, establishing a clear pattern of his target's routine. After a week in Rockhill he knew what time Lila Simms went to school, where she ate lunch, who she met at the Dairy Queen, what time she came home, and where she went in the evenings. He knew the food she ate, the clothes she wore, and the pace of her walk. He could pick her out in any crowd. After a week in Rockhill he knew as much as he needed to know, and now, with the time frame of his assignment only four days away, he was ready to make his move. But first it was time to play.
Sextant was fifty-three years old, but he looked to be less than forty. His body was slim and hipless, his face unlined, and his hair a rich chestnut that needed only an occasional touching. Preparing for the evening, he inspected his wardrobe in the closet of his motel room. The leather and chains wouldn't draw flies here in Rockhill, much less what he was after. The bell-bottoms and bolero jacket? Not very subtle; might as well wear a skirt. Cowboy boots and stone-washed jump suit? Too campy by far. What was needed was a touch of swish, just a touch. He decided on pencil-thin Italian slacks, a ruffled shirt, and a blazer that nipped at the waist. He laid the clothing out on the bed, showered and shaved, and, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he went to work on his face. He used a Revlon misty rose for a base, a soft beige Max Factor cream puff, and a Maybelline liner for his eyes; a touch of shadow, and then ever so lightly with the velvet black mascara. He worked slowly, and when he was finished, he inspected himself in the mirror.
"Just enough," he murmured, and dabbed a drop of Persian Mist behind each ear. "Wouldn't do to cause riots."
Jimmy's Grill was ten minutes out of town on Route 9. Outside it was fake bluestone and neon strips. Inside it was Naugahyde and pickled pine booths, a moose head on the wall, and a flashing BUD sign behind the bar. The food was burgers, fries, and chili dogs; and the music on the box was country. The place was as dim as a cave full of bats, and it smelled of stale beer and Lysol.
Sextant made a calculated entrance, moving with just enough of a sway to draw eyes as he walked to the bar. He put his back against it, leaned there languidly, and surveyed the scene. The customers were mostly men, and they looked like men who worked with their hands, men who wore Levis and steel-capped boots, flannel shirts and gimme caps. They sat around in groups of three, and four, and five, and most of them were drinking beer. Some of them were hard-working men relaxing at the end of the day. Those were the older ones, and Sextant ignored them. He was looking for animals.
"What'll it be?" said a voice in his ear.
Sextant turned. The bartender was a young man with a full beard. He wore a red T-shirt with a Maltese cross and the legend: R.V.F.D.
ENGINE CO. NO. 2.
"A glass of white wine, please."
The bartender poured, and Sextant sipped. The wine was disgusting. He gave a counterfeit sigh of pleasure, and said, "Lovely." He tipped his head toward the juke box, and asked, "Rockin' Chair Money?"
"That's it."
"Junior or senior?"
"Senior. I don't believe Hank Williams Junior ever cut that song."
"I'm sure you're right. My name is Ralph, what's yours?"
"Uh… Patsy."
"Are you really a fireman, Patsy?"
"What? Oh, the shirt. No, I just picked it up somewhere."
"Quel dommage! I absolutely adore firemen, don't you?"
"How's that?"
"Just think of what they do. Dashing into burning buildings, throwing their arms around people and rescuing them. It's all so sweaty and manly."
The bartender looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, they do good work, I guess."
"Good? Only good?" Sextant leaned closer. "Let me tell you, my dear, from personal experience, that firemen can be absolutely fantastic."
The bartender took a good look at the ruffled shirt, the languid manner, and the made-up eyes. He swallowed hard, and moved down to the other end of the bar. Sextant smiled, and forced himself to take another sip of wine as he looked around the room. He was as out of place as a rose in an onion patch, and he knew that there were eyes on him. His own eyes settled on three men sitting at a table near the far end of the bar. They were young, early twenties at the most, and they sprawled lazily in their seats. Two were tall, lanky, and lantern-jawed, and they looked enough alike to be brothers. The third had a beer-gut that hung over his belt, and small eyes set in a fleshy face. He got up, and came over to the bar. He whispered something to the bartender. The bartender nodded. Beer-gut laughed, and went back to his table.
Perhaps, thought Sextant. Perhaps.
He finished his wine in one convulsive gulp, held up his glass, and called out archly, "Bartender, another wee drop of ambrosia, please?"
That brought more eyes to him. The bartender came back, looking unhappy. Sextant pushed his empty glass across the bar, but the bartender did not take it. He said, "Look, mister, you don't really want another drink."
"Oh, but I do. It's delicious."
"No, you don't." His voice was firm. "What you want is to pay me for the one, and find yourself another place."
Sextant registered surprise. "Are you refusing to serve me?"
"I didn't say that. I was making a suggestion."
"Not a very friendly one, I must say. You make it sound as if I'm not welcome here."
The bartender held up his hands. "I didn't say that, either. The law says I gotta serve you so long as you're not drunk, and you're not. I'm just trying to give you some good advice."
"But why? I thought we were getting along so nicely."
"Now look…"
"I thought we had established the beginnings of a true rapport."
Patsy said indignantly, "We didn't establish anything. You gonna take my advice?"
"Certainly not, I have no intention of leaving. I like this place, and I'm enjoying myself." Sextant manufactured a shiver. "It's so… gritty."
"Suit yourself," the bartender muttered. He poured wine, slopping some on the bar, and went back to the far end. Beer-gut came over to confer with him, and, again, there was laughter.
Sextant turned his back on the scene. Wait for it, he told himself. He counted silently to ten. When nothing happened, he counted to twenty. He was up to eighteen when he heard the sound of someone sliding onto the barstool next to him. He turned around. "Hi there," said Beer-gut. "I hear you like firemen."
Sextant pouted. "Oh, he told you."
"Nothing wrong with that, Patsy's okay, he's just trying to be friendly." Beer-gut grinned, showing teeth the color of tobacco juice. "He said you liked firemen, and that's me."
"You're a fireman?"
"Rockhill Volunteers, best damn company in the Hudson Valley."
Sextant said doubtfully, "You don't look like a fireman to me."
"Hell, what's a fireman supposed to look like?"
"Sort of… athletic. I mean, how do you get up and down those ladders?"
"You mean this?" Beer-gut patted his belly. "That don't stop me from doing what I want to. Never has, and never will." He winked. "You know what I mean?"
"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean." Sextant flashed a glance at Beer-gut's table. The two men who looked like brothers were grinning broadly. Patsy stood at the end of the bar with a worried look on his face. "I don't believe you're a fireman at all. "
"You're a hard man to convince."
"Prove it then. If you're a fireman, where's your tool?"
"Say what?"
"Your tool. That long iron bar that the firemen carry. They call it a halligan."
"Oh, that tool. Well, hell, you don't expect me to carry it around with me, do you? It's out in my van."
"I don't believe you."
"Wanna bet? I'll bet you fifty bucks it is."
Sextant looked at him with cool contempt. "You're bluffing. Go ahead and get it."
"Bring it in here?" Beer-gut shook his head. "No way, might cause a panic, people think there's a fire. You want to see it, come on out to the parking lot, and I'll show it to you."
Sextant looked away. "How boring."
Beer-gut shrugged. "Suit yourself, pal, but that's the only way you get to see my tool."
Sextant looked back. "Let me see if I understand this. We go out to the parking lot, and look in your van?"
"Right."
"And if you can show me your tool, you win and I give you fifty dollars?"
"That's it."
Sextant glanced at the table again. The other two men were gone. He slid off his stool. "Let's go."
They left the bar, Beer-gut leading. The parking lot was dark beyond the pool of light by the door. Their shoes crunched on gravel. They turned a corner past a dumpster, and past the exhaust fan from the kitchen. Sextant caught a blast of foul air, and tightened his lips.
"Where's your van?" he asked.
Beer-gut's voice came floating out of the darkness. "Right back here."
"I don't see anything."
"Don't wet your pants, it's just a little ways."
Beer-gut stopped beside a Chevy van that once had been white. Now it was grey, and matted with rust. He slid open the side door, bent over, and reached inside. He said, "Should be around here someplace." He straightened up. He had a Softball bat in his hand.
Sextant said quietly, "That's not the tool I was looking for."
"I know that, sweetheart." Beer-gut tapped the bat against his leg. "But this is what you're gonna get."
Sextant stood very still. He heard the scrape of shoes on gravel behind him, and he knew that the other two were there. He said, "What is this?"
"It's time to teach you a lesson, faggot." The bat went tap, tap, tap. "You don't belong here. You got told that, didn't you?"
"Now, look…"
"You got told to get out, but you wouldn't. You think you can come into a decent place like this and go prancing around…"
"Look, let's just say that you won the bet. I'll give you the fifty."
"Fuck your money, and fuck you, faggot. This isn't for money, this is for what's right and what's wrong." A torrent of filth poured out of his mouth as he worked himself into a rage.
Sextant said calmly, "Now I'm sure you're not a fireman. A fireman would never use such language. A fireman is a noble creature."
Beer-gut raised the bat. "God damn you…"
Behind Sextant, somebody said, "Hey, stop talking so much and pop him one."
Beer-gut swung. Sextant moved inside the arc of the swing, and put his left fist into Beer-gut's belly. He turned his shoulder, and put his weight behind it. Beer-gut's eyes widened, and he doubled over. He dropped the bat. Sextant chopped down at his neck with the edge of his right hand. Beer-gut went flat on his face.
Sextant whirled to face the other two. They came charging at him awkwardly. He laughed. He waited until they were close enough, and then moved with the grace of a dancer. He kicked the first one in the pit of the stomach. He took out the second one with the same chop he had used on Beer-gut. They both went down. The second one lay without moving. The first one twitched and groaned. Sextant put two fingers to the side of his neck, pressed, and the groaning stopped. He straightened up, and looked around. He saw nothing but darkness, and heard nothing but the faint sound of the music from the tavern. He nodded in satisfaction.
He loaded the three men into the van, climbed in, and slid the door shut. He found the interior light, and flipped it on. There was a coil of greasy rope on the floor, but he preferred the fishing line he had in his pocket. He bound the three men hands and feet, and looked around for rags. There were none, but there was an old newspaper. He made wads out of the paper, and used the wads for gags. He checked the eyes of the three men; they were still out. He settled back to wait.
While he waited, he scrubbed at his face with a handkerchief, trying to remove the makeup he had used. Now that it had served its purpose he wanted it off as quickly as possible for, despite the masquerade he had just performed, he was not gay. Nor was he straight. He was a man without sexual interest, and had always been so. It was a drive that he lacked, but the lack did not bother him. He felt in no way incomplete, for he had his own compensations.
After a while he realized that the scrubbing was getting him nowhere, and he put the handkerchief away. He would need some cream and a proper wash. He sat back and waited. Beer-gut was the first to open his eyes. He looked around wildly, and strained to get free. He managed to raise his feet a few inches, and bang them on the floor. He did it twice.
Sextant said, "Stop that or I'll hurt you."
Beer-gut stopped, but his eyes were still wild. The other two came around slowly. They also strained, and then slumped back.
"Let me have your attention," said Sextant. He spoke in a low, calm voice. "We have something to discuss, and I'm going to take those gags out of your mouths, but you're going to keep your voices low, and you're not going to make any noise. Is that understood. Nod if it is."
They glared at him without moving. He sighed, and murmured, "I thought not."
He put his hand on Beer-gut's upper arm. He did something quickly with his fingers. Sweat popped out on Beer-gut's face, and he made a strangled noise behind the gag. Sextant did the same to the other two, and got the same result.
"I can give you that sort of pain any time I want to," he said. "And I should also mention that I enjoy doing it. Now, are you going to play nicely?"
Three heads nodded. Sextant flipped the wads of paper out of their mouths. They were breathing heavily. Beer-gut was the first to speak.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Just a guy who likes firemen."
"Shit, you ain't no faggot. Ain't a faggot alive can hit like that."
"Don't be too sure of that."
"Well, are you?"
"You'll never know."
"What is this?" asked one of the others. "What you want with us?"
"Actually," Sextant said brightly. "I want to offer you a job. All three of you."
It took a moment for that to sink in. Beer-gut spluttered, "A job? You did this just to… you said a job?"
Sextant nodded.
"Mister, this is one hell of a way to run an employment agency."
Sextant did not smile. "I had to be sure of what I was getting. I need three animals, three thoroughly loathsome creatures without a scrap of moral sensibility. I think you'll do nicely."
"That's just calling names," said Beer-gut. "You let me loose, and we'll see who calls names."
"You were loose when I took you out. Do you want to try it again?"
After a moment, Beer-gut shook his head. "You can hit, that's for sure. What's this job you're talking about?"
Sextant told them. He told them in detail. By the time he was finished, all three were grinning broadly.
"Are you sure you won't have some coffee?" asked Violet Simms. "I have it hot in the kitchen."
"Thanks, but I really have to be going," said Martha. "We have a long drive ahead of us."
"What time will you get to Hightower?"
"Late this afternoon."
"With the roads all icy, yes. You'll have to drive slowly."
They sat in the Simms living room, an orderly place that had been dusted and polished to perfection. Lila was out in the van with the other kids. The four from the Center had been drilled for two days, learning their cover stories pat. Martha had been pleased and impressed by the way they had taken the news of their assignment. There had been no explosions of juvenile excitement, nor, as far as she could tell, had there been any signs of anxiety. They had been told in detail the nature of the mission (there had been some debate with Sammy over that), and they knew that their job was to provide a ring of warning and security around Lila. They had reacted with an air of cool professionalism that was partly assumed, but also the result of their training. Even Chicken had kept himself under control, although he had been visibly disappointed when he learned that they would not be carrying weapons. Now they were out in the van with Lila, with instructions to make her feel welcome, while Martha chatted with her grandmother.
"We'll be driving slowly," Martha assured her, "and the radio says that the weather looks good further north. There's nothing to worry about, really."
"I know that, Martha." They had known each other only fifteen minutes, but they were using first names. Martha had that way with people. Violet reached out to touch the younger woman's arm gently. "I can see that you're a responsible person. It's just that this all came up so quickly. I'm still not used to the idea."
"We can thank the post office for that," Martha said briskly. She had no wish to dwell on the subject. "Lila should have received her notice weeks ago, along with the others."
"Well, it all worked out," Violet conceded, "and she's thrilled to be going. I'm sorry to be such a worrier, but it hasn't been easy for me, raising my daughter's child."
"From what I can see, you've done a wonderful job." Martha stood up. "I really must go now, and please don't worry. She's in good hands."
Violet watched from the doorway, as Martha went out to the van. The roof-rack was loaded with skis, and the rear area was filled with luggage, boots, and poles. Lila sat up front, Pam and Linda behind her, and George and Chicken in back.
"Okay, let's roll it," said Martha, as she got into the van and started up. "Call out for pit stops, but let's try and keep it to a minimum, okay?"
There was a murmur of assent. Head-to-head, Martha said, Let's have your reports. Pam?
Nothing unusual. She seems like a nice kid. I don't think we'll have any trouble with her.
If we have any trouble, it won't come from Lila. Linda, anything?
Same as Pam.
George?
She's sort of… innocent. We'd better watch our language with her.
Good point. Chicken? There was no answer. Chicken? Martha sighed to herself. As usual, Chicken wasn't tuned in. Will one of you please poke him?
George, who was sitting next to Chicken, did it. He did not do it gently. Chicken jumped, and was about to poke back when George nodded at Martha.
Chicken, do you read me?
Uh… yeah, I got you.
I know it hurts, but you have to stay tuned to me. Will you do that, Chicken?
I'm sorry, I'll try. What do you want?
I was asking the others about Lila. What do you think of her?
I think she's cute.
Great.
Well, she is.
Go back to sleep. The rest of you, keep alert.
All this in the time that it took to start the car, and pull away from the curb. Martha drove down Linden Avenue, and made a left at the corner. She had already made her turn when another van, which once had been white and now was matted with rust, pulled out to follow.