Levin was still staring at Mark.
“There’re no Germans here but us good Germans, that it?”
The river’s edge, Artie thought. The young boy being held over the rushing waters while his throat was cut. For a brief time he had been a member of the Tribe, he had been one of
them,
and they had been … had been … What? Human. Very human. Even Professor Hall had suggested that.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“These two?”
“All of them.”
Levin shrugged. “I imagine we’ll develop DNA tests so we can identify them. I suppose they’ll be camps for them, like there were for the Nisei during World War Two.”
“Gas chambers, Levin? Down the road?”
“Christ, Banks, what the hell are you thinking of?”
He couldn’t tell whether Levin was really shocked or not. Everybody had committed genocide at one time or another, Artie thought. Nobody had clean hands. And then he realized that after all of this was over, Levin would be a hero. And he thought of Mary again:
If you want to know what you were like in the past, look at what you are today.
“Susan’s my wife,” Artie said slowly. “Mark’s my son.”
Levin’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you remember what Cathy looked like?” he asked softly. “James and Andy? Their Hound did that, all by himself—no proxy murder that time. Remember Lyle? Nobody liked Lyle, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. And Paschelke and Hall, did they deserve it? And what about yourself? You almost did a swan dive off your rear balcony—three stories up onto concrete, Artie. Think you would have survived? They would have picked you up with a blotter.” He waved his gun at Susan and Mark again. “Do you think they would have shed any tears?”
That was one of the few things he had never told Levin. That somebody had cried “Dad!” and the next thing he knew Mark had pulled him off the railing and was kneeling over him on the porch, the rain beating in his face, his wheelchair left behind in the doorway. Mark had dropped the pretense to save him; he had risked betraying his own species to do so.
“We can’t give up the world, Banks—you know that. For events that only anthropologists care about, events that happened thirty-five thousand years ago? It’s tragic but it’s simple. It’s us versus Professor Hall’s Old People. Do you think they would let us live?”
No, Artie thought bleakly, no they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. But that didn’t stop him from loving Susan and Mark. He’d always loved them more than they loved him, always would. That equation hadn’t changed.
Or had it? In the back of his mind, a part of him was wavering.
Levin shrugged again.
“It’s war, Artie. When you look at the world twenty years from now, what do you want to see?”
Garbage world, Artie thought chaotically. Poisoned streams, empty oceans, thousands of species that had died and hundreds of others that existed only in the concrete and steel confines of a zoo.
Levin cocked his head, listening.
“The choppers are coming.”
Artie thought he heard something in the distance but he wasn’t sure Levin was right; he’d served in ’Nam too long to be mistaken. Enlisted men knew the sound of choppers better than officers, probably because they spent more time in the front lines.
Mark suddenly lunged off the couch in a desperate leap at Levin. Susan screamed. Levin fired once and Mark crumpled to the floor.
For a split second time was stationary, impressions and thoughts flashing through Artie’s mind. Levin would take Susan and Mark back to Washington and he would be the interrogator, the one who always got the information he wanted but whose methods would make you sick. Levin would ask Susan and Mark to identify the Hounds. He would never believe them when they said they couldn’t. Captain Levin was firmly convinced there was always an answer, that there
had
to be an answer.
Artie fired twice then, right through his jacket pocket. His first shot hit the bulb in the lamp and the room abruptly went dark. There were only the stars and a full moon lighting up the room now—just enough moonlight to glint off the frame of Mitch’s granny glasses.
After all these days of doubt and indecision,, Artie finally knew exactly who he was and where his loyalties lay. Above all else, he was a man whose whole life was his family. How in the world could Mitch have misjudged that?
His second shot shattered the left lens of Mitch’s glasses.
They got back to
San Francisco on Christmas Eve, driving the whole way in silence. Dr. Ryan had patched up Mark’s shoulder, urging Artie to get further treatment for him in the city. The muscles had been torn, nothing serious, but somebody should check him for possible infection once he got home.
Levin had been mistaken. They weren’t choppers, though perhaps he had thought so because he’d been operating with a ’Nam mind-set plus a bad case of wishful thinking. It was his chance for an intelligence coup, to become a national hero. He must have called Washington, but the message had never been delivered. The Old People had Hounds in D.C. as well as San Francisco and besides, Levin’s old friend was probably tucked away in a minor bureaucracy of the DOD. Without proof, who would pay attention to what a semiretired intelligence officer told them?
The “choppers” had actually been several cars from Willow, the passengers armed. They had been too late, and for that Artie had been grateful. Susan and Mark would never have survived any shootout; it had been bad enough as it was: Doc Ryan had been along and helped Mark, but there was nothing to be done for Levin. It had been a lucky shot, an instant kill.
Artie had left the house with his arm protectively around Mark’s good shoulder. He’d glanced once at Levin lying on the floor and had felt everything from grief to pity to relief that he had been so lucky and Susan and Mark were still alive. Then he’d had a brief flashback to the days in the Haight when he had lived in a crashpad with half a dozen others, including Mitch, and spent more than one evening smoking joints and laughing uproariously at the Three Stooges on the tube.
But there was little connection between that Mitch and this.
The doctor and the others would take care of the body. Levin had left San Francisco in his BMW and disappeared. There would be an investigation, but nobody in Willow had seen either him or his car. The case would end up in an open file, be shuffled toward the back, and eventually forgotten.
Susan’s parents had told her they would be back at midnight but Artie didn’t want to stick around to meet them. Somebody else could fill them in. Susan had left them a note; she didn’t want to stay either. He hadn’t argued with her one way or the other; he couldn’t care less.
Back at the house on Noe, he and Mark had taken a nap, then gone out shopping for a Christmas tree. Afterward he called Connie to wish her and the Grub a Merry Christmas and to report that his family was together again. He’d bitten his tongue when he said it, but was glad he’d told her. A little of the Christmas spirit had managed to infect Connie and the news had cheered her even more.
“Merry Christmas, Artie, and don’t drink too much eggnog. Oh, yeah, Monday’s a working day and you better be here, damn it—you’ve just run out of excuses.”
They had spent late afternoon trimming the tree and Susan had eventually joined in. Mark was cheerful and talkative; Artie didn’t have much to say. Susan said nothing at all.
They ordered out for pizza, waited an hour and a half for it to show up, and ate a cold mushroom-and-double-sausage in stony silence.
After he had finished one slice, Mark shoved his plate away, angry.
“You two got something to talk about but I don’t think I want to hear it.”
He stalked out to the porch and yanked the sliding glass doors shut behind him. Artie could see him leaning on the railing, looking out at the lights of the city twinkling in the gathering dusk. San Francisco at its prettiest. A fairly warm evening, the fog just beginning to roll in and a sea of colored lights below that seemed to go on forever.
Artie pushed his own plate aside and walked into the living room, Susan following. He sat on the edge of the couch, Susan on the edge of the big recliner, tense and uneasy. She still hadn’t looked him in the eyes.
“Where do you want to start?” she finally asked.
“Why did you marry me?” He had wanted to be dispassionate and objective, but to himself he sounded despairing.
Women will break your heart all your life, Arthur.
“Because I wanted a father for Mark. And for protection. I was afraid of what might be coming.”
Like a few Jewish women did in Nazi Germany, Artje thought. Married to an Aryan, they had hoped for protection during the holocaust that had followed. If they married high enough up, it helped. But not always.
“Why me?” Artie repeated.
She looked at him then, a slight flush of anger on her cheeks.
“You want me to read off your virtues? You’re brave, you’re stable, and you’re a family man. I realized that early on. You wanted a family badly and when you got one, I knew it would mean everything in life to you. Do you remember the conversations we had after we first met? You wanted me, but you really wanted a family more. I couldn’t give you everything you wanted—I warned you about that—but I could give you enough, and with Mark I could give it to you all at once. As I remember, you said you liked that.”
“Protection,” Artie said, sullen.
“That’s right, and for protection. For myself and Mark. Especially Mark.”
“But not for love,” Artie said. It hurt to say it.
She looked away.
“No, not for love.”
He had asked for the truth and gotten it, and now he was sorry he had asked. But he couldn’t blame her for that.
“Your first husband—you’ve never told me much about him.”
“I’d known Michael in college. We graduated during a recession and he ended up in construction, as labor. He was on a work site one day and a wall collapsed on him. He died immediately.”
Artie knew better but he had to ask it anyway.
“You loved him.”
“No.”
He looked surprised and she said, “He was a friend. I wanted children and if you’re one of us that means an arranged marriage. You have to be matched—both of you have to be species typed. My family knew his, and both families approved. My father thought the world of him.”
Which explained why her parents hated him, Artie thought. They would probably have hated anybody who followed Michael.
“I hoped to grow to love him.” Her voice was dry, emotionless. “I think I might have.”
“You told me you couldn’t have any more children. The truth is you didn’t want any more, right?”
“That’s not true. But they would have been sterile and nothing on heaven or earth would have enabled them to have children in turn. How do you think they would have felt? How do you think I would have? I would have condemned them to a childless marriage. It wouldn’t have been fair. Not to them. And not to you, either—you would have wanted grandchildren.”
“They could have adopted,” Artie said. “It wouldn’t have mattered to me.”
She stared at him, contemptuous.
“And you’re so sure you can speak for them?”
Hubris, Artie thought.
He was guilty of it, guilty as sin. But he couldn’t help himself.
“Chandler was your Hound,” he said. “Cathy was his lover and told him everything about Larry’s research. She didn’t know what he was.” For just a moment he was back in Chandler’s little theater, watching as Dave peeled off his makeup and became somebody Artie had never known, somebody who had almost squashed him like a bug. “Charlie Allen shot him.”
“Chandler?” She looked surprised.
“You never knew?”
She shook her head.
“Of course not.” Then: “You don’t understand how … underground we’ve had to be. Nobody knows who the Hounds are. They’re the only army we have, if you want to call it that. We couldn’t tell you who they are even under torture because we don’t know. We live in cells, little groups of us scattered around the country. There aren’t many of us—there never were. A town like Willow, of almost a thousand, is unusual. I don’t know of any others, though I’m sure there are some. A very few of us have contacts outside the group, like Dr. Ryan has contacts in Washington. But otherwise, we’re in—”
“—deep cover,” Artie finished.
“That’s right. We have to be.”
“Mark’s school,” he said. “It never was a school for the handicapped, was it?”
She looked tired.
“Schools, even private ones, have too many physical examinations, too much probing by doctors and nurses from the state. Maybe they never would have discovered anything unusual. Maybe they would have. We don’t get sick very often—we’re immune to most of your diseases. We couldn’t take the chance that somewhere along the line somebody would get curious. Perfect attendance records, an A in health. Always. And stronger, much stronger, than average …”
“So you opened your own schools. Like Bayview.”
“Mark and I have our own family doctor, too. You never knew.”
“What happened with the academy? I met one of the students there; he said it had been sold.”
She shrugged.
“It was time to fold it. State examiners were suspicious the last time they came around. They were due again right -after the first of the year and we felt we couldn’t risk it.”
“Why not?”
She half smiled then.
“You saw Mark. None of the students were handicapped; it was a sham, a show for anybody who came around.”
“Like me.”
“Like you.”
Collins had been very good. Artie would have sworn he had a withered right arm. And Mark had fooled him for five years. The car accident had been faked. Both he and Susan had gone out of their way to deceive him.
“You knew Larry was going to be killed.”
She shook her head, denying it.
“I didn’t know. Certainly not then. Cathy had told me what Larry was working on, swearing me to secrecy, and I knew it would be dangerous. I knew … eventually … a Hound would come after him. But aside from Mary and myself, I didn’t even know there were any others of us in the Club. The police called Cathy shortly after Larry’s death and she called me just before she left the house. She wouldn’t say where she was going.”
The timing would have been right, Artie thought. He wouldn’t have known about the call; he’d been at Soriano’s, waiting for Larry to show.
“So you called your folks and said you’d be coming up—maybe for an extended stay—and they were delighted. You decided to fake your father’s illness.”
“Something like that. Hal suggested it—I needed a last-minute reason for going. They didn’t want you to come along, said you’d just bring danger up with you.”
“You never left the house when you were in Willow, did you?”
“I didn’t want anybody to know I had gone up there. After Larry was killed, I knew there would be an investigation, that sooner or later the police would want to talk to me. Perhaps to Mark. I didn’t want to risk it.”
Artie was suddenly angry again.
“You knew I was a good friend of Larry’s, that I was one of those with his neck in a noose. You knew it all along, and you never warned me. That morning when you left, you asked me what Larry had to say at the meeting, and all the time you knew he was dead. You lied to me.”
She sighed.
“Yes, Artie, I lied to you.” Then it was her turn to be angry. “If I had warned you, I would have had to betray my own species and betray Mark. I couldn’t do that. You should know about divided loyalties—they’re not easy to handle, are they?”
He had a glimmering of the truth then, only a glimpse, and then it was gone.
“I would have sacrificed everything for you and Mark.” He cursed the plaintive tone in his voice.
“That’s why I married you. In turn, I would have sacrificed everything for Mark. I still would, I would offer up my own life for him as easily as I would offer up yours. I did my best to get him out of here. I ordered him to come up to Willow and he refused. We agreed on a day or two later, as soon as school was out. But school wasn’t his reason for staying.”
Artie couldn’t hide his bitterness. “A week of romance. An early Christmas present to himself.”
She looked at him, startled.
“You can’t really believe that!”
Artie didn’t answer her. He was lost in a flashback of the last dream he’d had, when he had stood watch in front of the cave, looking at the wolf just beyond the firelight and wondering if it could be trained to guard the cave in return for scraps of meat.
“You married me to be a watchdog,” he said with sudden insight.
She had shifted slightly so her face was in shadow. “Not against any of our Hounds—against yours. And you were a very good watchdog. You more than lived up to expectations.” There was a sudden tinge of pity in her voice. “I knew that somewhere along the line you would have to make a choice. I didn’t think it would turn out to be the particular one you had to make.”
Moe and Curly and Larry on the tube and a very young Mitch Levin sitting beside him on the dirty floor mattress, doubled up in laughter.