“A skillful lie,” Maya said.

“You’re right. It worked. Don Tedford loaned us his station wagon. Michael had already been driving for a couple of years on the farm. We loaded up the weapons and the duffel bag, then headed down the road. Mother lay on the backseat. I covered her with a blanket and she went to sleep. When I looked out the side window, I saw Minerva flying through the smoke up in the sky…”

Gabriel stopped talking and Maya stared at the ceiling. A truck came down the highway and its headlights cut through the window blinds. Darkness again. Silence. The shadows that surrounded them seemed to gain substance and weight. Maya felt like they were lying together at the bottom of a deep pool.

“And what happened after that?” she asked.

“We spent a few years driving around the country, and then we got fake birth certificates and lived in Austin, Texas. When I was seventeen, Michael decided that we should move to Los Angeles and start a new life.”

“Then the Tabula found you and now you’re here.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said softly. “Now I’m here.”

Boone didn’t like Los Angeles. It was ordinary enough on the surface, but there was an impulse toward anarchy. He remembered watching a video of a riot in the ghetto neighborhoods. Smoke rising to a sunny sky. A palm tree bursting into flames. There were a great many street gangs in Los Angeles and most of the time they just tried to kill each other. That was acceptable. But a visionary leader, like a Traveler, could stop the drugs and direct the anger outward.

He took the freeway south to Hermosa Beach, left his car in a public lot, and walked over to Sea Breeze Lane. A power company repair van was parked across the street from the Indian’s house. Boone knocked on the van’s rear door, and Prichett pulled up the shade that covered the window. He smiled and nodded eagerly-glad you’re here. Boone opened the door and climbed inside.

The three Tabula mercenaries were sitting in low beach chairs set up in the back of the van. Hector Sanchez was a former Mexican federale who had gotten involved in a bribery scandal. Ron Olson was an ex-military policeman who had been accused of rape.

The youngest of the group was Dennis Prichett. He had short brown hair, a chubby face, and a polite but earnest manner that made him seem like a young missionary. Prichett went to church three times a week and never used foul language. During the last few years, the Brethren had started to hire true believers from different religions. Although they were paid like mercenaries, they joined the Brethren for moral reasons. As far as they were concerned, the Travelers were false prophets who challenged whatever they considered to be the true faith. These new employees were supposed to be more dependable and ruthless than the regular mercenaries, but Boone distrusted them. He understood greed and fear much better than religious zeal.

“Where is our suspect?” he asked.

“On the back porch,” Prichett said. “Here. Take a look.”

He got out of his chair and Boone sat in front of the monitor screen. One of the more pleasurable aspects of his job was that it gave him the technology to look through walls. For the Los Angeles operation, the van had been equipped with a thermal imaging device. The special camera gave you a black-and-white image of any surface that produced or reflected heat. There was a white patch in the garage: that was the water heater. Another patch was in the kitchen: probably a coffeemaker. A third object-a human being-was sitting on the back porch.

The surveillance team had been scanning the house for three days, monitoring phone calls and using the Carnivore program to track e-mails. “Any messages sent or received?” Boone asked.

“He’s had two calls this morning about a weekend sweat lodge,” Sanchez said.

Olson glanced at a computer monitor. “Nothing in his e-mail but spam.”

“Good,” Boone said. “Let’s get going. Does everyone have a badge?”

The three men nodded. They had been given fake FBI badges when they arrived in Los Angeles.

“Okay. Hector and Ron, you go through the front door. If there’s any resistance, the Brethren have given us permission to close this man’s file. Dennis, you come with me. We’ll go down the driveway.”

The four men got out of the van and quickly crossed the street. Olson and Sanchez climbed onto the front porch of the cottage. Boone opened the wooden gate and Prichett followed him down the driveway. A crude hut constructed of sticks and patches of rawhide was in the backyard.

They came around the corner of the house and saw Thomas Walks the Ground sitting at a small wooden table set up on the porch. The Indian had taken apart a broken garbage disposal and was putting the pieces back together. Boone glanced at Prichett and saw that the younger man had drawn his 9-mm automatic. Tight grip. White knuckles. A loud cracking sound came from the front of the house as the other two mercenaries kicked in the door.

“It’s okay,” Boone told Prichett. “There’s nothing to worry about.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a fake federal warrant, and went up to the back porch.

“Good afternoon, Thomas. I’m Special Agent Baker and this is Special Agent Morgan. We have a warrant to search your house.”

Thomas Walks the Ground stopped tightening a bolt on the garbage disposal. He put down his socket wrench and studied the two visitors. “I don’t think you’re real police officers,” he said. “And I don’t think that’s a real warrant. Unfortunately, I left my gun in the kitchen, so I’m going to accept this particular reality.”

“That’s a wise choice,” Boone said. “Good for you.” He turned to Prichett. “Go back to the van and run communications. Tell Hector to suit up and use the sniffer. Ron stays on the front porch.”

“Yes, sir.” Prichett slipped the gun back in his shoulder holster. “And what about the suspect, sir?”

“We’ll be okay right here. I’m going to have a conversation with Thomas about his various options.”

Determined to do a good job, Prichett hurried back down the driveway. Boone pulled out a bench and sat at the table. “What’s wrong with the garbage disposal?” he asked.

“It jammed up and burned out the motor. You know what the problem was?” Thomas pointed to a small black object on the table. “A plum pit.”

“Why not buy a new disposal?”

“Too expensive.”

Boone nodded. “That’s right. We’ve examined your bank account and your credit card balance. You’re out of money.”

Thomas Walks the Ground continued his work, rummaging through the parts scattered across the table. “I’m very glad that a pretend police officer is concerned about my pretend finances.”

“Don’t you want to keep this house?”

“It’s not important. I can always go back to my tribe in Montana. I’ve stayed too long in this place.”

Boone reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, pulled out an envelope, and placed it on the table. “This is twenty thousand dollars in cash. It’s all yours in exchange for an honest conversation.”

Thomas Walks the Ground picked up the envelope but didn’t open it. He held it in the palm of his hand as if he was judging the weight. Then he dropped it on the table. “I’m an honest man, so I’ll give you the conversation for free.”

“A young woman took a taxi to this address. Her name is Maya, but she probably used a false name. She’s in her twenties. Black hair. Pale blue eyes. She was raised in Britain and has an English accent.”

“A lot of people visit me. Maybe she came to my sweat lodge.” Thomas smiled at Boone. “There are still a few openings for this weekend’s ceremony. You and your men should join us. Pound on a drum. Sweat out your poison. When you step into the cold air, you feel completely alive.”

Sanchez walked down the driveway carrying a white biohazard suit and the sniffer equipment. The sniffer resembled a hand-held vacuum cleaner attached to a shoulder power pack. There was a radio transmitter attached to the pack that sent the data directly to the computer in the van. Sanchez placed the sniffer on a lawn chair. He stepped into the suit and then pulled it over his legs, arms, and shoulders.