Ken Follett - The Hammer of Eden

Next to the map was a village notice board. Judy read about a folk dance workshop that was being organized to raise funds for the Expanding Light Fireplace fund. These people had an air of harmlessness that was remarkably plausible.

The agents entered every building and looked in every room, moving rapidly from house to house. After a few minutes a man came out of one of the larger houses and walked across to the traffic circle. He was about fifty, with disheveled hair and beard, wearing homemade leather sandals and a rough blanket around his shoulders. He said to Michael: “Are you in charge here?”

Judy said: “I’m in charge.”

He turned to her. “Would you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

“I’d be glad to,” she said crisply. “We’re looking for this woman.” She held out the photo.

The man did not take it from her. “I’ve already seen that,” he said. “She’s not one of us.”

Judy had a depressing feeling that he was telling the truth.

“This is a religious community,” he said with mounting indignation. “We’re law-abiding citizens. We don’t use drugs. We pay our taxes and obey local ordinances. We don’t deserve to be treated like criminals.”

“We just have to be sure this woman is not hiding out here.”

“Who is she, and why do you think she’s here? Or is it just that you assume people who live in communes are suspect?”

“No, we don’t make that assumption,” Judy said. She was tempted to snap at the guy, but she reminded herself that she had woken him up at six o’clock in the morning. “This woman is part of a terrorist group. She told her estranged husband she was living in a commune in Humboldt County. We’re sorry we have to wake up everyone in every commune in the county, but I hope you can understand that it is very important. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t have disturbed you, and, frankly, we wouldn’t have put ourselves to so much trouble.”

He looked at her keenly, then nodded, his attitude changing. “Okay,” he said. “I believe you. Is there anything I can do to make your job easier?”

She thought for a moment. “Is every building in your community marked on this map?”

“No,” he said. “There are three new houses on the west side just beyond the orchard. But please try to be quiet — there’s a new baby in one of them.”

“Okay.”

Sally Dobro, a middle-aged woman agent, came up. “I think we’ve checked every building here,” she said. “There’s no sign of any of our suspects.”

Judy said: “There are three houses west of the orchard — did you find those?”

“No,” Sally said. “Sorry. I’ll do it right away.”

“Go quietly,” Judy said. “There’s a new baby in one.”

“You got it.”

Sally went off, and the man in the blanket nodded his appreciation.

Judy’s mobile phone rang. She answered and heard the voice of Agent Frederick Tan. “We’ve just checked out every building in the Magic Hill commune. Zilch.”

“Thanks, Freddie.”

In the next ten minutes the other raid leaders called her.

They all had the same message.

Melanie Quercus was not to be found.

Judy sank into a pit of despair. “Hell,” she said. “I screwed it up.”

Michael was equally dismayed. He said fretfully: “Do you think we’ve missed a commune?”

“Either that, or she lied about the location.”

He looked thoughtful. “I’m just remembering the conversation,” he said. “I asked her where she was living, but he answered the question.”

Judy nodded. “I think he lied. He’s smart like that.”

“I’ve just remembered his name,” Michael said. “She called him Priest.”

On Saturday morning at breakfast, Dale and Poem stood up in the cookhouse in front of everyone and asked for quiet. “We have an announcement,” Poem said.

Priest thought she must be pregnant again. He got ready to cheer and clap and make the short congratulatory speech that would be expected of him. He felt full of exuberance. Although he had not yet saved the commune, he was close. His opponent might not be out for the count, but he was down on the canvas, struggling to stay in the fight.

Poem hesitated, then looked at Dale. His face was solemn. “We’re leaving the commune today,” he said.

There was a shocked silence. Priest was dumbstruck. People did not leave, not unless he wanted them to. These folk were under his spell. And Dale was the oenologist, the key man in winemaking. They could not afford to lose him.

And today of all days! If Dale had heard the news — as Priest had, an hour ago, sitting in a stationary car listening to the radio — he would know that California was in a panic. The airports were mobbed, and the freeways were jammed with people fleeing the cities and all neighborhoods close to the San Andreas fault. Governor Robson had called out the National Guard. The vice president was on a plane, coming to inspect the damage at Felicitas. More and more people — state senators and assemblymen, city mayors, community leaders, and journalists — were urging the governor to give in to the demand made by the Hammer of Eden. But Dale knew nothing of all this.

Priest was not the only one to be shocked by the announcement. Apple burst into tears, and at that Poem started crying, too. Melanie was the first to speak. She said: “But Dale — why?”

“You know why,” he said. “This valley is going to be flooded.”

“But where will you go?”

“Rutherford. It’s in Napa Valley.”

“You have a regular job?”

Dale nodded. “In a winery.”

It was no surprise that Dale had been able to get a job, Priest thought. His expertise was priceless. He would probably make big money. The surprise was that he wanted to go back to the straight world.

Several of the women were crying now. Song said: “Can’t you wait and hope, like the rest of us?”

Poem answered her tearfully. “We have three children. We have no right to take risks with their lives. We can’t stay here, hoping for a miracle, until the waters start rising around our homes.”

Priest spoke for the first time. “This valley is not going to be flooded.”

“You don’t know that,” Dale said.

The room went quiet. It was unusual for someone to contradict Priest so directly.

“This valley is not going to be flooded,” Priest repeated.

Dale said: “We all know that something’s been going on, Priest. In the last six weeks you’ve been away more than you’ve been home. Yesterday four of you were out until midnight, and this morning there’s a dented Cadillac up there in the parking circle. But whatever you’re up to, you haven’t shared it with us. And I can’t risk the future of my children on your faith. Shirley feels the same.”

Poem’s real name was Shirley, Priest recalled. For Dale to use it meant he was already detaching himself from the commune.

“I’ll tell you what will save this valley,” Priest said. Why not tell them about the earthquake — why not? They should be pleased — proud! “The power of prayer. Prayer will save us.”

“I’ll pray for you,” Dale said. “So will Shirley. We’ll pray for all of you. But we’re not staying.”

Poem wiped her tears on her sleeve. “I guess that’s it. We’re sorry. We packed last night, not that we have much. I hope Slow will drive us to the bus station in Silver City.”

Priest stood up and went to them. He put one arm around Dale’s shoulders and the other around Poem’s. Hugging them to him, he said in a low, persuasive voice: “I understand your pain. Let’s all go to the temple and meditate together. After that, whatever you decide to do will be the right thing.”