Velocity. Part 41

"Give me one of those," Billy said.

Chapter 68.

An alcove off the diner served as an internet cafe. Six work stations offered links to the World Wide Web.

A trucker sat at one computer, working the keyboard and the mouse, fixated on the screen. Maybe he was checking out his company's s.h.i.+pping schedules or playing an Internet game, or browsing a p.o.r.n site.

The computer was bolted to a table that provided room for food. A cut-out in the table held Billy's Big Shot.

He didn't know the name of Valis's site, so he started with sites about performance art in general and linked his way to www.valisvalisvalis.com.

The artist maintained an elaborate and inviting site. Billy streamed colorful video of the Australian bridge to which Valis had fixed twenty thousand red balloons. He watched them pop all at once.

He sampled artist statements about individual projects. They were overblown and semicoherent, slathered with the unmusical jargon of modern art.

In a windy interview, Valis said that every great artist was "a fisher of men," because they wanted to "touch the souls, even capture the souls" of those who saw their work.

Valis helped aficionados better understand the intention of each of his projects by providing three lines of "spiritual guidance." Each line contained three words. Billy pored over several of them.

From his wallet, he extracted the paper on which were printed the six lines that had been contained in three doc.u.ments on the red diskette that he'd found in Ralph Cottle's clasped hands. He unfolded it and smoothed it flat on the table.

The first line-Because I, too, am a fisher of men.

The fifth line-My last killing: midnight Thursday.

The sixth line-Your suicide: soon thereafter.

The second, third, and fourth lines were chillingly similar to the "spiritual guidance" that Valis provided to a.s.sist his admirers in reaching a fuller appreciation of his works.

The first line of these guides always referred to the style of the project, of the performance. In this case, the style was Cruelty, violence, death.

The second line summarized the techniques by which the artist intended to execute the work of art. With Billy, the technique was Movement, velocity, impact.

The third line described the medium or media in which Valis proposed to create. In this current performance, the media were Flesh, blood, bone.

Sometimes the most successful serial killers are vagabonds, footloose roamers who cover a lot of ground between their homicidal activities.

The freak didn't look at killing as a game. Only in part did he view it as a performance. For him, the essence was the art of it.

From the performance-art Web sites, Billy had learned that this artist of death had always been camera-shy. Valis claimed to believe that the art should be more important than the artist. He'd seldom been photographed.

Such a philosophy allowed him celebrity and wealth-and yet a degree of anonymity.

www.valisvalisvalis.com offered an official portrait. This proved to be not a photo but a realistic and detailed pencil drawing that the artist himself had done.

Perhaps intentionally, the portrait was not entirely faithful to Valis's actual appearance, but Billy at once recognized him. He was the Heineken drinker who, on Monday afternoon, had sat in patient amus.e.m.e.nt as Ned Pearsall had regaled him with the story of Henry Friddle's death by garden gnome. You're an interesting guy, Billy Barkeep.

Even then, the freak had known Billy's last name, although he had pretended ignorance of it. He must have known almost everything about him. For reasons only Valis might ever understand, Billy Wiles had been identified, researched, and chosen for this performance.

Now, in addition to the other selections under the portrait, Billy noticed one t.i.tled h.e.l.lo, Billy.

Although he no longer had much capacity for surprise, he stared at it for a minute.

At last he moved the mouse and clicked.

The portrait vanished, and on the screen appeared instructions: PRIVATE LEVEL-ENTER CODEWORD.

Billy drank coffee. Then he typed Wiles and pressed ENTER.

At once he received a reply: You are worthy.

Those three words remained before him for ten seconds, and then the screen went blank.

Only that and nothing more.

The pencil portrait returned. The selections under it no longer included h.e.l.lo, Billy.

Chapter 69.

No lights brightened the ma.s.sive dimensional mural. The wheels, flywheels, gears, crankshafts, connecting rods, pipes, and strange armatures dwindled into the darkness.

Tormented, besieged, the giant human figure was dark-shrouded in its silent struggle.

The yellow-and-purple tent stood in shadowed swags, but inviting amber light shone at the windows of the big motor home.

Billy first pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the highway and studied the vehicle from a distance.

The sixteen artists and artisans who were building the mural under Valis's direction did not live on site. They were block-booked for six months at the Vineyard Hills Inn.

Valis, however, lived here for the duration. The motor home had electrical and water hookups.

Its waste-water holding tanks were pumped out twice a week by Glen's Reliable Septic Service. Glen Gortner was proud of his fame by a.s.sociation, even though he thought the mural was "something I ought to be pumping away, too."

Not sure if he would stop or just cruise past, Billy drove the Explorer off the shoulder of the road, down a gentle embankment, into the meadow. He swung around to the far side of the motor home.

The door to the driver's compartment stood open. Light angled down the steps and painted a welcome mat on the ground.

He stopped. For a while he sat with the engine running, one foot on the brake, one poised above the accelerator.

Most of the windows were not covered. He couldn't see anyone in the s.p.a.ces beyond.

Only the windows toward the rear, which were probably in the bedroom, featured curtains. Lamps glowed there, too, filtered by a golden material.

Inescapably, Billy concluded that he was expected.

He was loath to accept this invitation. He wanted to drive away. He had nowhere to go.

Less than twenty hours remained until midnight, when as foretold the "last killing" would occur. Barbara, still in jeopardy.

Because of evidence that Valis might have planted in addition to what had been on the cadavers, Billy remained a potential suspect in the disappearances that would soon become known to the police: Lanny, Ralph Cottle, the redheaded young woman.

Somewhere in his house or garage, or buried in his yard, was the hand of Giselle Winslow. Surely other souvenirs, as well.

He put the Explorer in park, doused the headlights, but did not switch off the engine.

Near the dark tent stood a Lincoln Navigator. Evidently it was what Valis used for local travel. You are worthy.

Billy pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves.

Some stiffness but no pain troubled his left hand.

He wished he had not taken a Vicodin at Lanny's. Unlike most painkillers, Vicodin left the mind clear, but he worried that if his perceptions and reflexes were dulled even half a percent, that lost edge might be the death of him.

Maybe the caffeine tablets and the coffee would compensate. And the lemon pie.

He switched off the engine. In the first instant thereafter, the night seemed as silent as any house of the deaf.

In consideration of the unpredictability of this adversary, he prepared for action both lethal and otherwise.

As to the choice of a deadlier weapon, he preferred the .38 revolver because of its familiarity. He had killed with it before.

He got out of the Explorer.

Songs of crickets rose to dispel the silence, and the throat-clearing of toads. Pennants on the tent whispered in the barest breath of a breeze.

Billy walked to the open door of the motor home. He stood in the light but hesitated to ascend the steps.

From inside, all edges smoothed off by the high-quality speakers of the motor-home sound system, which apparently doubled as intercom, a voice said, "Barbara could be allowed to live."

Billy climbed the steps.

The c.o.c.kpit featured two stylish swiveling armchairs for the driver and co-pilot. They were upholstered in what might have been ostrich skin.

Remotely operated, the door closed behind Billy. He a.s.sumed that it locked, as well.

In this highly customized vehicle, a bulkhead separated the c.o.c.kpit from the living quarters. Another open door awaited him.

Billy stepped into a dazzling kitchen. Everything in shades of cream and honey. Marble floor, bird's-eye maple cabinets with the sinuous rounded contours of s.h.i.+p's cabinetry. The exceptions were black-granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances.

From the in-ceiling speakers, Valis's mellow and compelling voice made a proposal: "I could whip up an early breakfast if you'd like."

The marble floor continued into a built-in dining area that could comfortably seat six, eight in a pinch.

The top of the maple table had been inlaid with ebonized wenge, carnelian, and holly wood as white as bone, in an intertwining ribbon motif-spectacular and expensive craftsmans.h.i.+p.

Through an archway in another bulkhead, Billy entered a large living room.

None of the fabrics cost less than five hundred a square yard, the carpet twice as much. The custom furniture was contemporary, but the numerous j.a.panese bronzes were priceless examples of the finest Meiji-period work.

According to some of the tavern regulars, who'd read about this motor home on the Internet, it had cost over a million and a half. That would not include the bronzes.

Sometimes vehicles like this were called "land yachts." The term wasn't hyperbole.

The closed door at the farther end of the living room no doubt led to a bedroom and bath. It would be locked.

Valis must be in that final redoubt. Listening, watching, and well armed.

Billy swiveled toward a soft noise behind him.

On the living-room side, the dining-area bulkhead had been finished with beautiful narrow-reed bamboo tambour. These panels slowly rolled up and out of sight, revealing secret display cases.

And now blinds of brushed stainless steel descended to cover all the windows, but with a sudden pneumatic snap that startled.

Billy didn't think those blinds were solely decorative. Getting through them and out a window would be difficult if not impossible.

During the design and installation phase, they had most likely been called "security" devices.

As the ascending tambour panels continued to reveal more display cases, the voice of Valis came from the speakers again: "You may see my collection, as few ever have. Uniquely, you will be given the chance to leave here alive after seeing it. Enjoy."

Chapter 70.

The padded interiors of the cabinets behind the tambour panels were upholstered in black silk. Clear gla.s.s jars of two sizes held the collection.

The base of each jar nestled in a niche in its shelf. A black-enameled clamp held the lidded top, fixing it to the underside of the shelf above.