Ken Follett: The Hammer of Eden

Priest dropped the wrench.

He heard a vehicle, but it did not sound like a big truck. He glanced up. A moment later a tan pickup came over the ridge, bouncing along the rough track. It was a Dodge Ram with a cracked windshield: Mario’s car. Priest suffered a pang of unease. What did this mean? Mario was supposed to show up in the seismic vibrator. His own car would be driven north by one of his buddies, unless he had decided to sell it here and buy another in Clovis. Something had gone wrong. “Shit,” he said. “Shit.”

He suppressed his feelings of anger and frustration as Mario pulled up and got out of the pickup. “I brought you coffee,” he said, handing Mario the paper sack. “What’s up?”

Mario did not open the bag. He shook his head sadly. “I can’t do it, man.”

Shit .

Mario went on: “I really appreciate what you offered to do for me, but I gotta say no.”

What the hell is going on?

Priest gritted his teeth and made his voice sound casual. “What happened to change your mind, buddy?”

“After you left the bar last night, Lenny gave me this long speech, man, about how much the truck cost, and how I don’t gotta give no rides, nor pick up no hitchhikers, and how he’s trustin’ me, and stuff.”

I can just imagine Lenny, shit-faced drunk and maudlin — he probably had you nearly in tears, Mario, you dumb son of a bitch .

“You know how it is, Ricky. This is an okay job — hard work and long hours, but the pay is pretty good. I don’t want to lose this job.”

“Hey, no problem,” Priest said with forced lightness. “So long as you can still take me to San Antonio.” I’ll think of something between here and there .

Mario shook his head. “I better don’t, not after what Lenny said. I ain’t taking nobody nowhere in that truck. That’s why I brought my own car here, so I can give you a ride back into town.”

And what am I supposed to do now, for Christ’s sake?

“So, uh, what do you say, you wanna get going?”

And then what?

Priest had built a castle of smoke, and now he saw it shimmer and dissipate in the light breeze of Mario’s guilty conscience. He had spent two weeks in this hot, dusty desert, working at a stupid, worthless job, and had wasted hundreds of dollars on airfares and motel bills and disgusting fast food.

He did not have time to do it again.

The deadline was now only two weeks and one day away.

Mario frowned. “Come on, man, let’s go.”

“I’m not going to give this place up,” Star had said to Priest on the day the letter arrived. She sat next to him on a carpet of pine needles at the edge of the vineyard, during the midafternoon rest period, drinking cold water and eating raisins made from last year’s grapes. “This is not just a wine farm, not just a valley, not just a commune — this is my whole life. We came here, all those years ago, because we believed that our parents had made a society that was twisted and corrupt and poisoned. And we were right, for Christ’s sake!” Her face flushed as she let her passion show, and Priest thought how beautiful she was, still. “Just look at what’s happened to the world outside,” she said, raising her voice. “Violence and ugliness and pollution, presidents who tell lies and break the law, riots and crime and poverty. Meanwhile, we’ve lived here in peace and harmony, year after year, with no money, no sexual jealousy, no conformist rules. We said that all you need is love, and they called us naive, but we were right and they were wrong . We know we’ve found the way to live — we’ve proved it.” Her voice had become very precise, betraying her old-money origins. Her father had come from a wealthy family but had spent his life as a doctor in a slum neighborhood. Star had inherited his idealism. “I’ll do anything to save our home and our way of life,” she went on. “I’ll die for it, if our children can continue to live here.” Her voice went quiet, but her words were clear, and she spoke with remorseless determination. “I’ll kill for it, too,” she said. “Do you understand me, Priest? I will do anything.”

“Are you listening to me?” Mario said. “You want a ride into town or not?”

“Sure,” Priest said. Sure, you lily-livered bastard, you yellow dog coward, you goddamn scum of the earth, I want a ride .

Mario turned around.

Priest’s eye fell on the Stillson wrench he had dropped a few minutes earlier.

A new plan unfolded, fully formed, in his brain.

As Mario walked the three paces to his car, Priest stooped and picked up the wrench.

It was about eighteen inches long and weighed four or five pounds. Most of the weight was at the business end, with its adjustable jaws for gripping massive hexagonal nuts. It was made of steel.

He glanced past Mario, along the track that led to the road. There was no one in sight.

No witnesses.

Priest took a step forward just as Mario reached to open the door of his pickup.

He had a sudden disconcerting flash: a photograph of a pretty young Mexican woman in a yellow dress, with a child in her arms and another by her side, and for a split second his resolve wavered as he felt the crushing weight of the grief he would bring into their lives.

Then he saw a worse vision: a pool of black water slowly rising to engulf a vineyard and drown the men, women, and children who were tending the vines.

He ran at Mario, raising the wrench high over his head.

Mario was opening the car door. He must have seen something out of the corner of his eye, for when Priest was almost on him he suddenly let out a roar of fear and flung the door wide, partly shielding himself.

Priest crashed into the door, which flew back at Mario. It was a wide, heavy door, and it knocked Mario sideways. Both men stumbled. Mario lost his footing and went down on his knees, facing the side of the pickup. His Houston Astros baseball cap landed on the ground. Priest fell backward and sat heavily on the stony earth, dropping the wrench. It landed on a plastic half-gallon Coke bottle and bounced a yard away.

Mario gasped: “You crazy—” He got to one knee and reached for a handhold to pull his heavy body upright. His left hand closed around the door frame. As he heaved, Priest — still on his butt — drew back his leg and kicked the door as hard as he could with his heel. It slammed on Mario’s fingers and bounced open. Mario cried out with pain and fell to one knee, slumping against the side of the pickup.

Priest leaped to his feet.

The wrench gleamed silvery in the morning sun. He snatched it up. He looked at Mario, and his heart filled with rage and hate toward the man who had wrecked his careful plan and put his way of life in jeopardy. He stepped close to Mario and raised the tool.

Mario half turned toward him. The expression on his young face showed infinite puzzlement, as if he had no understanding of what was happening. He opened his mouth and, as Priest brought the wrench down, he said in a questioning voice: “Ricky …?”

The heavy end of the wrench made a sickening thud as it smashed into Mario’s head. His dark hair was thick and glossy, but it made no perceptible difference. His scalp tore, his skull cracked, and the wrench sank into the soft brain underneath.

But he did not die.

Priest began to be afraid.

Mario’s eyes stayed open and focused on Priest. The mystified, betrayed expression barely altered. He seemed to be trying to finish what he had started to say. He lifted one hand, as if to catch someone’s attention.

Priest took a frightened step back. “No!” he said.