Remo was suddenly interested. "What sort of trouble?"
"Talk is they murdered a guy recently," Lester confided in a whisper louder than most people's normal speaking voices. "Some kids were out snooping by the ranch one night a couple of months ago—you know how kids are. Anyway, they saw some of them Truth Church psychos gun this guy down in cold blood. At least that's what / heard."
Remo thought of the missing FBI agent.
"Why didn't the police check it out?"
"You've obviously never seen the place," the man snorted. "They've got guns up the wazoo. That Clear-Seer battle-ax runs a tighter ship than the U.S. Navy. No one leaves unless there's at least three of them together, and that's just to buy supplies. Ask old Harvey in here—" he jerked a dimpled thumb toward the hardware store window behind him "—those nuts have bought enough concrete to build a hundred Moscow tenements. They've got bunkers filled with ammo and explosives. Is that what you want to get yourself into?"
Remo said, "I'm full-grown now. Just point me in the right direction...."
"If I don't tell you, I'd be doing you a favor," Lester cautioned. "Why don't you come along to the rally with me? The whole town's already there. We got a lot more serious stuff going on than those Truth Churchers." He tapped his largest lapel pin, which declared The GOP Does It On Its Platform.
"Look—"
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"Senator Cole himself is going to be there," Lester interrupted. "This is his hometown, you know. He and me went to school together. You know, I remember one time..."
And with that Lester launched into a well-worn tale of how he had once backed up Jackson Cole in a junior-high-school fight.
Remo rolled his eyes heavenward and hoped that Esther Clear-Seer didn't die of old age before he had a chance to pay her a visit.
Senator Coles advance people had coordinated with the local police to ensure the senator would have a clear path from his limousine to the bandstand.
The townspeople of Thermopolis were cordoned off in a wide circle around the speaker's area, leaving enough room for the senator's family and staff, local politicians and business leaders, as well as their families, and whatever media were covering the relatively minor photo op.
As it was, there were only a few print reporters from nearby towns and a couple of camera crews. The first crew videotaping the speech was from a small local cable station, so it was naturally shuffled off to the back. The second was the more professional of the pair. It was from WONK, a larger station in Cheyenne that already had a deal with one of the major networks to run on the national nightly news any newsworthy footage they collected.
The WONK camera had the sweetest location for filming, directly in front of the bandstand, and when it was announced that Senator Coje's limo was a block away, the cameraman checked his small black-and-
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while receiver to make certain the picture was in perfect focus.
He saw an egg.
The cameraman squinted his eyes in confusion.
An egg?
He looked through the camera viewfinder. There it was, a little fuzzy, but it was definitely egg-shaped. He brought the camera into focus, and the edges of the egg grew more defined. It was tan and unevenly colored, with puffs of angel's hair on either side. And it had ears.
The cameraman stuck his face around the camera.
A bald head that looked like it had escaped from an ostrich nest was positioned directly between the camera and the bandstand. Beneath the head the back of a golden kimono with brilliant red piping cascaded down to the well-trampled grass.
"Hey, Gramps, you're in the way," the cameraman complained.
The sounds of cheers suddenly erupted from the edge of the crowd and swept inward, toward the stand. The senator had arrived.
The cameraman looked around desperately. He could turn the camera to catch the senator as he climbed from his limo, but the wizened figure before him was casting a shadow across the equipment.
"Hey, you're standing in my light."
The old man didn't turn.
Maybe the old guy was hard of hearing, the reporter thought, so he spoke up again, louder this time.
There was an ever-so-slight movement of the gossamer webs above the ancient Asian's ears.
"The radiance of the Master of Sinanju is light
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enough for a thousand of your recording devices," the old man intoned without turning.
"Wha—?" The cameraman looked around. The police were occupied with crowd control. The senator had climbed out of the car and was waving to the crowd. Graciously he helped his wife and daughter from the limo.
The wife was an attractive, sixtyish woman. Her hair color was right out of a bottle and her hair seemed lacquered so tightly into place that if one follicle broke free the entire cliff would explode in a spray of hairpins and dried Lady Clairol flakes. She smiled at the crowd with perfect capped teeth.
The senator was tall and gawky. His hairline had long ago scurried to the back of his head, and his awkward height had given him a slight hunch. Good humor danced in his beady eyes.
Their combined effort, however, was far greater than the sum of both their parts. The daughter, Lori Cole, was beautiful. Fifteen years old and already a heartbreaker. Her wave to the crowd was almost regal.
No sense thinking it, the cameraman thought. Fif-teen'll get you twenty, and besides she was said to be even more conservative than her old man. And anyway, he had a job to do.
A job!
He had forgotten about the old man.
The Asian still stood rooted before him, seemingly as immobile as an ancient, slender elm.
The arrival footage was completely ruined. Maybe he could make up for it with coverage of the speech itself.
The thick black cable that connected his mountain
of remote equipment to the WONK news van snaked directly beneath the robes of the tiny Asian.
The cameraman glanced around. The cops were still busy with the senator. No one was looking his way.
He grabbed the cable in both hands and yanked.
Later, when he awoke in the hospital, the cameraman was assured that he need never worry about adequate lighting again. The small battery-operated light meter that he usually affixed to his camera had somehow found itself embedded between his ribs. The far end had been lodged in his heart in such a way that any attempt to remove it would prove fatal.
One of the doctors suggested that until the batteries ran down, he might have a hard time sleeping, but he'd have no trouble reading in bed.