A Hideous Beauty Kingdom Wars I Part 34

With the water lapping the pilings several feet below me, I'd never felt more helpless. Telling myself I'd done all I could was hollow comfort. How could I have not seen what was really happening at the Douglas White House? And how could I have allowed myself to be spoon-fed the research that resulted in a glamorized account of Douglas's war record? I should have trusted less and dug deeper.

Despite the damage it would do to my career as a writer, when this was all over I was going to return to Montana and convince Doc Palmer to come forward and set the record straight.

"I'll tell you one thing," I muttered. "If I do write a final chapter to the biography, it won't be the one Myles Shepherd or Semyaza or whoever he is wants me to write. It'll be the truth."

I glanced across the bay again and wondered how much of the final chapter I'd be able to see from here.

That's when I saw him.

Semyaza.

It was as though I'd summoned him by speaking his name.

He stood just a couple of hundred yards away from me on the flight deck of the USS Midway, which was now a floating museum docked at Navy Pier. He just stood there looking across the water at me, his pants legs flapping in the breeze.

Eyes fixed on him, I made my way along the wharf to the pier, walking, then jogging, then running. I sprinted down the pier and up the gangplank, past a startled ticket-taker.

"Hey! You need a ticket to get in!" he shouted at my back. "You need a ticket!"

I burst onto the hangar deck looking for stairs or a ladder up to the flight deck. I found myself in an enormous metal cavern with several different aircraft on display.

At the far end, to my right, I saw a man in a Hawaiian T-shirt heading up some stairs. By the time he huffed and puffed his way to the top, I was right behind him.

The deck was a display area for nearly two dozen jets and helicopters. I started jogging in the direction where I saw Myles last, looking around fuselages and wings and rotors as I ran. Pa.s.sing the island superstructure, I found him standing at the far end of the deck.

I stopped running a hundred yards before reaching him, reminding myself of who he really was. Even now, without a ceiling overhead, I glanced up to see if there were any gargoyle demons close by.

His back was to me. He stood casually as though he was admiring the bay. "Glad you could make it," he said. "You're right on time. Predictable to a fault."

He was just trying to goad me and I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I'd boasted that I would stop him and had failed. Just like in high school, he'd bested me. But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of getting my goat.

I followed the line of his gaze.

A chill sliced through me and not from the breeze.

Semyaza wasn't looking at Coronado.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" he said. "I've always liked her graceful lines."

He was looking south at the bridge spanning the bay, a blue ribbon stretched over a series of arches, suspended between earth and heaven.

CHAPTER 27.

Her lungs were feeling the burn. With shoes in hand, Jana rounded the bend of the on-ramp, which looked more like a parking lot than a freeway. Bored drivers whistled, honked, or shouted suggestive comments as she ran by them. At the top of the ramp a pair of California Highway Patrol motorcycles blocked access to the bridge. Beyond them the upward slope of the roadway was empty of traffic in both directions.

Jana slowed to a walk as she pa.s.sed a school bus of screaming children, first- or second-graders from the looks of them. They were unattended. The door to the bus was open. The engine was turned off. The driver's seat was empty.

Between the front line of cars and the roadblock a drama with five actors was taking place, featuring two CHP officers and three women. The hoods of cars served as front row seats for bystanders who had nothing else to do while waiting for the motorcade.

Of the actors, the most animated was a woman with close-cropped, black hair, barely five feet tall and shaped like a fire hydrant. She stood toe to toe with the officers, waving a piece of paper under their noses. Two taller women who were dressed like elementary-school teachers-conservative style, comfortable shoes-backed her up. From the brunette's trucker vocabulary, Jana concluded she was the bus driver.

"Look at it!" she screamed. "Look at it! This is my pa.s.s! An invitation . . . on White House stationery!"

The CHP officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder presenting a united front. With their helmets, reflective sungla.s.ses, and headset microphones, they looked like Storm Troopers from Star Wars.

The taller of the officers said, "Lady, I don't care if you have a letter signed by Abraham Lincoln, we're not letting you through."

The brunette's solo turned to a trio as the women behind her added their voices to the argument. The CHP officers remained unmoved, unfazed by the barrage of arguments.

"But we have an invitation!"

"Explain that to a busload of kids!"

"They've been practicing for more than a month!"

"I want to speak to your supervisor."

". . . a once-in-a-lifetime experience."

Reclining on the hood of a blue Ford Mustang, a young couple looked on with amus.e.m.e.nt. Other drivers from the line of cars behind them had filtered forward and were standing around with arms folded, some shielding their eyes from the sun.

Jana moved among them, doing her best to blend in. She glanced in the direction of the motorcade route, a crazy scenario playing in her head of a black limousine slowing, the back door flying open, and Christina yelling from inside for her to jump in. It was a ridiculous idea, she knew, but nevertheless she positioned herself near the front, hoping that one or two of the bystanders would unintentionally run interference for her.

"Here he comes!" the man on the Mustang shouted.

All eyes turned toward the motorcade route as an a.s.sortment of limousines and oversized SUVs snaked up the freeway toward them. Six CHP motorcycle officers led the motorcade, their emergency lights flashing.

To Jana it looked like a funeral procession. She spotted the presidential limousine, marked with furiously fluttering flags that bore the presidential seal.

She tightened the grip on her shoes. Her heart hammered as she readied herself for whatever would happen next.

To cheers from the northbound ramp audience, the lead motorcycles zoomed by them impressively.

Then, to everyone's surprise, the motorcade slowed and stopped. Doors to three limos flew open, disgorging big men in dark suits with dark sungla.s.ses and one attractive blonde in a red skirt and matching jacket.

Christina.

"You go, girlfriend!" Jana muttered, impressed.

All but two of the Secret Service detail surrounded the presidential limousine, looking outward, vigilant, their heads in constant motion. The other two agents approached the roadblock. While they were still a good distance away, the brunette bus driver began making her appeal to them directly.

"Tell these n.a.z.i thugs to let us through! We have an invitation," she shouted, waving the letter as though it was a historic proclamation backing a n.o.ble cause.

While everyone else was watching the drama unfold, Christina caught Jana's eye. With a tilt of her head she motioned Jana toward the school bus. Jana signaled she understood with a nod. Turning, she wove her way through the crowd toward the bus.

She could hear Christina's voice behind her. "Officers, we need those children at the rally."

A deep male voice said, "Ma'am, we'll take care of this. Please get back in the car."

The now-familiar protest of the bus driver started up again, prompting a response from the CHP officers. The Secret Service agent played referee.

With everyone engrossed in the Jerry Springertype drama, Jana was able to wander unnoticed to the school bus. Slipping on her shoes, she casually climbed aboard as though she belonged with the children. Only when she was inside did she risk a glance back at the motorcade through the windshield.

She saw Christina climbing into the limo as the stout brunette thrust her fists skyward to a smattering of cheers and applause. The CHP officers mounted their motorcycles to move them out of the way. And the Secret Service agents returned to the motorcade, one of them bending down to give a thumbs-up sign to the back window of the presidential limo.

Maybe it wasn't Christina's doing after all. The president wants this bus at the rally. Why?

The driver and two teachers were making their way back to the bus. Jana turned and made her way down the aisle toward the back.

Curious eyes watched her. Some of the children smiled and waved. She smiled and waved back.

"We're going to sing for the president of the United States!" one girl told her proudly.

"I know!" Jana replied. "Sing pretty for him, OK?"

"Teacher! Manuel hit me!"

Next to the window a boy with innocent brown eyes was sitting on his hands.

"Stop hitting her!" Jana scolded him. Manuel didn't fool her for a second.

Jana made it to the back row just as the trio of adults was boarding the bus. She slid down low, displacing a skinny little boy from the back corner.

She whispered to him, "Thank you for sharing your seat with me."

"We're going to sing for the president of the United States!" he told her.

"I know."

"My daddy said that he didn't vote for the president, but that I could sing for him anyway."

"Can you keep a secret?" Jana said. "I didn't vote for the president either."

The boy grinned.

"Can you keep another secret?"

The boy nodded.

"Pretend like I'm not here, OK?"

He agreed. She won him over with her smile. Little boys, grown men, Jana knew her smile could get them to do whatever she wanted them to do.

From the front of the bus, adult voices issued orders for the children to sit down and be quiet. The motor roared to life. With a series of starts and jerks, the bus inched forward, backed up, then inched forward again as the driver maneuvered around the cars in front of them.

Hunkered down in the backseat, Jana congratulated herself. With Christina's help she was in the motorcade. Whatever happened from here, she would be there to report it.

With time to kill, she mulled over the Secret Service agent's thumbs-up sign. News copy for tonight's broadcast formed in her head.

Moments before the a.s.sa.s.sination the president stopped his motorcade to a.s.sist a busload of children who were scheduled to sing for him. Ironically, their song would be the last song he ever heard.

As the bus picked up speed Jana risked a peek out the rear window. With the city skyline behind them and the bay below them, they were about a quarter of the way across the bridge.

"Don't do this, Myles."

"Myles is dead. My name is Semyaza."

From the flight deck of the USS Midway I scanned the bay bridge and surrounding area for anything that could be a threat to the motorcade. Coast Guard patrol boats plied the waters beneath the bridge, duplicating my effort.

I felt as useless as the museum aircraft on the deck beside me.

The president's motorcade came into view, a long line of black vehicles followed by a yellow school bus.

"No!" I cried.

Semyaza grinned. "Nice touch, don't you think? The school bus was the president's idea."

The motorcade sailed smoothly across the bridge under clear blue skies. It was a perfect San Diego Chamber of Commerce day.

I had to find the threat and reveal it. What were the possibilities?

Sniper. No. There were no buildings close enough to the bridge for a sniper. Besides, the bridge was too high, the angles were all wrong.

Portable rocket launcher. But from where? Again, distance and angles were a problem.

Explosives. The pilings beneath the water surface could be rigged. But that was so obvious. It was the Secret Service's job to secure the bridge. But then, it was their job to secure buildings and they had missed the school book depository in Dallas in 1963, hadn't they?

Of course, if the president was part of the plot, any of the vehicles in the motorcade could be rigged to . . .

The school bus!

No! It was unthinkable.

I shot a glance at the nonhuman being beside me. Was human life so cheap to them that they would kill a busload of schoolchildren for show? What was I saying? Since when did Satan or demons have any regard for human life?

I have to warn them. I have to warn the people on the bus. Or maybe . . . maybe I don't have to warn them. Maybe the answer to putting a stop to this whole thing is standing beside me.

"You have the power to stop this, don't you? If not the power, the authority."

Semyaza sneered. "You cannot begin to comprehend the power I have," he said.