She processed information at an amazing speed, analyzing the geological and the anthropological history of Montana in ones and zeroes. Even as she did this, she devoted a portion of her attention to the graphic representation of herself—the video avatar—that Ganesh and others on the project saw every time they conferenced directly with her. She’d studied the human concept of beauty across all cultures as depicted in centuries of fine art and literature, with special attention to contemporary preferences. Now, as she searched for the Other, Artimis also made small adjustments to the pixels that constituted the face that she revealed to the world, so that it might inspire more delight and affection in those with whom she interacted.
78
The orchard that overlooks the eastern end of Lake Sapphire is maybe four hundred yards from the single-story ranch house. In the current tempest, no one who shelters in that distant residence can hear the Land Rover as Asher Optime approaches overland. When the house comes into view, he kills the headlights and switches on the lower fog lights, rendering the vehicle even less visible through the skeins of rain. He parks among the heavily leafed and laden apple trees, douses the fog lights, and turns off the engine.
Because of a washed-out bridge that required him to find an alternate route, he has taken longer to get in position than he expected. Nevertheless, he believes he’s at least an hour ahead of the boy and the bitch.
He’s wearing waterproof boots and pants. On the passenger seat lies a knee-length, hooded, black slicker with an adjustable Velcro closure at the throat; either of the two deep, zippered pockets can protect his pistol from the rain. Soon he’ll slip into the slicker, get out of the Land Rover, and move forward through the trees to a point from which he can observe the place where the trail they’ve surely taken exits the forest. They will come down a long, gentle slope to the lakeshore. Miserable after their ordeal, eager to be out of the storm, they’ll head directly toward the house where help can be found—and pass the orchard.
The protocols Asher established require that his targets endure two deaths. First their spirit must be killed, so they realize that human beings are the lowest form of animal life on the planet, of less value than any vermin or serpent, and only then should they suffer physical death. In the case of these two, he must make his first exceptions to the rule. Having escaped Zipporah and drawing near to the help that waits in the ranch house, they will be in high spirits. Asher has neither the time nor the privacy necessary to bring them death in life before then taking their lives. To ensure success, he needs the element of surprise. He will let them pass, step quietly behind them, and shoot them from behind—once each in the back to take them down, and then once in the back of the head, point-blank, to take them out. In the rush of wind and rain, with the thunder rumbling periodically, pistol fire won’t be heard at a distance or, if heard, won’t be recognized for what it is. Loading the corpses into the Land Rover won’t take long, as neither the brat nor the bitch is a large person.
Asher Optime isn’t concerned. He is confident about his future. Since coming to Montana and settling into Zipporah, he has felt . . . protected somehow. It’s almost as if Destiny is not just a concept, but is in fact a power, an invisible agent, that watches over him and will ensure his ultimate success.
79
The radio station in Buckleton didn’t reach beyond the county line, and its on-the-hour news consisted of local stories that were the journalistic equivalent of warm fat-free milk, but the music was the best of classic and contemporary country. Listening to Patsy Cline singing “I Fall to Pieces” as he drove through rain that seemed to symbolize the singer’s pain, Vance Potter didn’t feel at all inconvenienced. Instead, he was captivated by the beauty of the song and storm, and grateful that his marriage to Edna had endured so long and was such a blessing—after the foolish thing he’d done just three years after their wedding.
Past the west end of Lake Sapphire, he swung off the public road and onto the private driveway that led more than a mile to the main residence at the ranch. When he had traveled two thirds of the lane, the headlights went dark and the engine died. Before the truck could roll backward, he engaged the emergency brake. He keyed the ignition, but the engine wouldn’t turn over.
The battery had not gone dead. Patsy Cline was still singing—
—and then she wasn’t. An ominous voice issued from the radio: “You are a parasite. Pestilence. Liar. Deceiver. Filth. Despoiler of the Earth.”