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Authors: Dean Koontz
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from his anguish. And he had been right. Raging at the imagined occupant of some celestial throne was wasted effort, as ineffective as throwing stones to extinguish the light of a star.
People, however, were a worthy target of his rage. The people who had concealed or distorted the exact circumstances of the crash of Flight 353.
Michelle, Chrissie, and Nina could never be brought back. Joe's life could never be made whole again. The wounds in his heart could not be healed. Whatever hidden truth waited to be uncovered, learning it would not give him a future. His life was over, and nothing could ever change that, nothing, but he had a right to know precisely how and exactly why Michelle and Chrissie and Nina had died. He had a sacred obligation to them to learn what had really happened to that doomed 747.
His bitterness was a fulcrum and his rage was a long lever with which he would move the world, the whole damn world, to learn the truth, no matter what damage he caused or whom he destroyed in the process.
On a tree-lined residential street, he pulled to the curb. He switched off the engine and got out of the car. He might not have much time before Blick and the others caught up with him.
The queen palms hung dead-limp and whisperless in the heat, which currently seemed to be as effective an embalming medium as a block of fly-trapping amber.
Joe looked under the hood first, but the transponder wasn't there. He squatted in front of the car and felt along the underside of the bumper. Nothing.
The clatter of a helicopter swelled in the distance, rapidly growing louder.
Groping blindly inside the front wheel well on the passenger side and then along the rocker panel, Joe found only road dirt and grease. Nothing was concealed inside the rear wheel well, either.
The chopper shot out of the north, passing directly overhead at extremely low altitude, no more than fifty feet above the houses. The long graceful fronds of the queen palms shook and whipped in the downdraft.
Joe looked up, alarmed, wondering if the crew of the chopper was looking for him, but his fear was pure paranoia and unjustified. Southbound, the aircraft roared away across the neighbourhood without a pause.
He hadn't seen any police seal, no lettering or insignia.
The palms shuddered, shivered, then trembled into stillness once more.
Groping again, Joe found the transponder expansion-clamped to the energy absorber behind the Honda's rear bumper. With batteries, the entire package was the size of a pack of cigarettes. The signal that it sent was inaudible.
It looked harmless.
He placed the device on the pavement, intending to hammer it to pieces with his tyre iron. When a gardener's truck approached along the street, hauling a fragrant load of shrub prunings and burlap-bundled grass, he decided to toss the still-functioning transponder among the clippings.
Maybe the bastards would waste some time and manpower following the truck to the dump.
In the car again, on the move, he spotted the helicopter a few miles to the south. It was flying in tight circles. Then hovering. Then flying in circles again.
His fear of it had not been groundless. The craft was either over the cemetery or, more likely, above the desert scrub north of the Griffith Observatory, searching for the fugitive woman.
Their resources were impressive.
----
TWO
SEARCHING BEHAVIOR
----
5
The Los Angeles Times booked more advertising than any newspaper in the United States, churning out fortunes for its owners even in an age when most print media were in decline. It was quartered downtown, in an entire high-rise, which it owned and which covered one city block.
Strictly speaking, the Los Angeles Post was not even in Los Angeles. It occupied an aging four-story building in Sun Valley, near the Burbank
People, however, were a worthy target of his rage. The people who had concealed or distorted the exact circumstances of the crash of Flight 353.
Michelle, Chrissie, and Nina could never be brought back. Joe's life could never be made whole again. The wounds in his heart could not be healed. Whatever hidden truth waited to be uncovered, learning it would not give him a future. His life was over, and nothing could ever change that, nothing, but he had a right to know precisely how and exactly why Michelle and Chrissie and Nina had died. He had a sacred obligation to them to learn what had really happened to that doomed 747.
His bitterness was a fulcrum and his rage was a long lever with which he would move the world, the whole damn world, to learn the truth, no matter what damage he caused or whom he destroyed in the process.
On a tree-lined residential street, he pulled to the curb. He switched off the engine and got out of the car. He might not have much time before Blick and the others caught up with him.
The queen palms hung dead-limp and whisperless in the heat, which currently seemed to be as effective an embalming medium as a block of fly-trapping amber.
Joe looked under the hood first, but the transponder wasn't there. He squatted in front of the car and felt along the underside of the bumper. Nothing.
The clatter of a helicopter swelled in the distance, rapidly growing louder.
Groping blindly inside the front wheel well on the passenger side and then along the rocker panel, Joe found only road dirt and grease. Nothing was concealed inside the rear wheel well, either.
The chopper shot out of the north, passing directly overhead at extremely low altitude, no more than fifty feet above the houses. The long graceful fronds of the queen palms shook and whipped in the downdraft.
Joe looked up, alarmed, wondering if the crew of the chopper was looking for him, but his fear was pure paranoia and unjustified. Southbound, the aircraft roared away across the neighbourhood without a pause.
He hadn't seen any police seal, no lettering or insignia.
The palms shuddered, shivered, then trembled into stillness once more.
Groping again, Joe found the transponder expansion-clamped to the energy absorber behind the Honda's rear bumper. With batteries, the entire package was the size of a pack of cigarettes. The signal that it sent was inaudible.
It looked harmless.
He placed the device on the pavement, intending to hammer it to pieces with his tyre iron. When a gardener's truck approached along the street, hauling a fragrant load of shrub prunings and burlap-bundled grass, he decided to toss the still-functioning transponder among the clippings.
Maybe the bastards would waste some time and manpower following the truck to the dump.
In the car again, on the move, he spotted the helicopter a few miles to the south. It was flying in tight circles. Then hovering. Then flying in circles again.
His fear of it had not been groundless. The craft was either over the cemetery or, more likely, above the desert scrub north of the Griffith Observatory, searching for the fugitive woman.
Their resources were impressive.
----
TWO
SEARCHING BEHAVIOR
----
5
The Los Angeles Times booked more advertising than any newspaper in the United States, churning out fortunes for its owners even in an age when most print media were in decline. It was quartered downtown, in an entire high-rise, which it owned and which covered one city block.
Strictly speaking, the Los Angeles Post was not even in Los Angeles. It occupied an aging four-story building in Sun Valley, near the Burbank
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