He looked at the sand, and trembled. There were things out there in the world that would be coming here soon.
His battles were beginning.
VI
"That issue is not under discussion," the T-H-R man said. "There can be no negotiations on the question of liberty."
"Aw shucks, Francis. Not even if I promise not to do it again?"
Dr Proctor's eyes twinkled. He was like a naughty little boy who knows he cannot be sent up to his room.
So this was the Tasmanian Devil. Wrapped up like Houdini before an escape, he didn't look like much more than a good-humoured man in early middle-age. How many had he killed? It didn't matter. He was unquestionably America's leading murderer. That was what made him of interest to Nguyen Seth, and, therefore, to Roger Duroc.
"You've never stopped doing it, Ottokar. We know that. We don't know how you've done it, but since you came to Sunnydales there have been a lot of deaths. Death by violence or accident or suicide among the inmates has risen by 28%, and among the guards…"
"89%. I read the sanitarium newspaper, you know."
"It may not be your hands, Ottokar. But it's your mind. We know that."
Dr Proctor laughed a little. "Prove it. Francis."
"We will."
"And then what are you going to do? Lock me up, and throw away the key? You already did that. There's not much you can punish me with, is there Francis?"
"We can unlock your cell, chain you up like you are now, and let some of your victims' relatives visit you with blowtorches…"
Dr Proctor didn't betray anything more than mild amusement. "And is that an official promise, Francis? Because if it is, then my lawyers will be most perturbed."
"Frank," cut in Russell. "Couldn't we bring this meeting to order. The President has authorized me to…"
"Ah yes, Oliver. How is Oliver, Julian?"
"He's well."
"And the kids? Recovered from the birthday party?"
Duroc knew that the President's children played pass-the-parcel with a severed arm at a White House social event just before Dr Proctor's arrest. It had been the Devil's idea of a joke.
"The nightmares are slowly going away."
"That's good news."
Dr Proctor signalled with his head for the sergeant to take his baby-cup away.
"I don't suppose anyone has a cigarette?"
Nobody did.
"So few people smoke any more. Dreadful habit, but it passes the time. I have a lot of time, you know."
"Ottokar," said Wicking. "We are sanctioned to offer you books, videotapes, magazines, and a limited, monitored access to telephonic and written communication with the world outside."
"I have those things."
"We can increase them, sweeten the deal…"
"You could," he allowed.
"The President is very concerned, Ottokar," said Russell. "He would like you to take a look at these trade figures…"
The Treasury man held out his papers, and spread them on the table in front of Dr Proctor. The chained man ignored them. He was enjoying this, Duroc knew.
At his trial, Dr Proctor had admitted that he had deliberately encouraged the North administration to follow near-suicidal economic policies in order to foster an increase of chaos in the world. When asked about his motivation, he had referred them to Jungian theory. "Our collective unconscious is becoming too ordered," he had claimed, "someone had to do something to bring back the element of surprise." Now, the government kept having to crawl to a convicted mass murderer to ask him to help them sort out the spaghetti tangle of figures he had left behind him.
Dr Proctor raised an eyebrow as he casually glanced at Russell's documents. "Tut tut tut. Those tax rebates aren't working out at all, are they? Silly me. I should have seen that loophole all the Japcorps are squirrelling through, shouldn't I? You know, national economies mean less than corporate systems these days. I might devote a monograph to the subject. Take the case of the growing conflict between GenTech East and the Soviet Union, for instance. Logically, their trade war could develop into a shooting match, and then where would we be? You should have the CIA keep a close watch on this Blood Banner Society. Nationalism and commerce make a nasty team."
"Ottokar, the President has personally asked me to convey to you his best wishes, and authorized me to offer to you any liberties up to but not including freedom from this institution if you'll only agree to work in an advisory capacity for a six-month period, just until the budget has passed."
"I'm truly sorry, Julian, but I'm not interested."
"We'll let you accept ZeeBeeCee's offer of another TV series. You can host the talk show."
"TV. It's just a toy. Close down all the television stations in the United States. Now, there's some sound economic advice for you. Cut out the admass, and decrease useless consumption. Cut out the lifebite, and throw people back on their own devices. Your friends in Deseret have the right idea, M. Duroc, bring back the pioneer spirit. When it was just a question of a man, a rifle and a horse against the savage Indians."
"This is getting us nowhere," said Wicking. "As usual. He's freaked the country, and now he's sitting back and surveying the mess."
"I really think we're close to a breakthrough," said Russell.
"You work out of New York, Francis. What's playing at the Met. Did you see Sir Oswald Osbourne in Pagliacci?"
Wicking threw up his hands, and slumped in his seat. His jacket opened, and Duroc saw he was carrying a discreet gun. Dr Proctor saw it, too.
Time passed, and everyone in the room looked at each other.
Finally, Dr Proctor broke the deadlock. "M. Duroc, talk to me. Tell me what you can offer. Tell me about Jessamyn Bonney and the Josephites."
Duroc was impressed. The man might be as crazy as a backstreet Bonaparte, but he was sharp, and he had sources of information nobody knew about. He hadn't tested ESP-positive in his medicals, but there were ways round the examination.
"Well?"
Duroc drew in a breath. "Dr Proctor, I do not represent the government. Unlike Mr Wicking and Mr Russell, I have no legal authority here. I am not even an American citizen. I am French by birth, but my current passport lists me as a resident of Deseret—you know what that means?"
"Oh yes, an interesting geopolitical experiment, Deseret. Oliver should never have gone along with it. A bad precedent. Within seven years, Missouri, Arkansas and Kentucky will petition for secession from the Union. And perhaps Tennessee. You heard it here first. It will come. Oliver should send reinforcements to Fort Sumter. I'm sorry. I digress. Academic footnotes, it's a bad habit."
"That's quite all right. The Church of Joseph would like to employ you as a consultant in the case of Jessamyn Bonney. You know her?"
"I know of her. We haven't moved in the same circles."
Duroc brought out his file. It had been amended a little since the death of Bronson Manolo.
"This is ridiculous," Dr Proctor said. "Please may I have a hand? The left will do."
Wicking chewed his lip, and signalled to the sergeant. Gilhooly drew his pistol, and held it to Dr Proctor's head while he fussed with his keyring. A manacle fell, and Dr Proctor waved his hand about to get rid of an ache.
"One move, Otto…" Gilhooly stood behind the man in the chair, his gun cocked and pointed at Dr Proctor's pineal gland. "I'd like it, you know."
Dr Proctor leafed through the Jessamyn Bonney data.
"Hmmn. Interesting girl. What's her score?"
"Nowhere near, Ottokar," said Wicking. "You don't have to worry about the record. Yet."
"Don't be vulgar, Francis. It's not a game, you know. It's not basketball."
"What is it then? All the killing?"
"It's an Art. It's the authentic American Folk Art."
The Tasmanian Devil looked up from the file. "Well, M. Duroc?"
Duroc put his hands on the table. "We would like Jessamyn Bonney dead."
"That shouldn't make you happy, but certainly won't make you lonely."
Russell said, "Roger, I don't see where this is leading us. Your people didn't say anything about…"