State Of Fear

But of course they had.



Equally disturbing was the image of so many different forests taking over, one after another. Evans had never wondered what had existed before the redwood forests. He, too, had considered them primeval.



Nor had he ever thought about the landscape that the glaciers would have left behind. Thinking about it now, he realized that it probably looked like the land he had recently seen in Icelandcold, wet, rocky, and barren. It stood to reason that generations of plants would have to grow there, building up a layer of topsoil.



But in his mind, he had always imagined a sort of animated movie in which the glaciers receded and redwood trees popped up immediately along the receding edge. The glaciers pulled away leaving redwood forest behind.



He realized now how silly that view had been.



And Evans had also noticed, in passing, how frequently Jennifer had spoken of a changing climate. First it was cold and wet, then it was warm and dry and the glaciers melted, then it was wetter again, and the glaciers came back. Changing, and changing again.



Constant change.



After a while, Bradley excused himself and went to the front of the plane to call his agent. Evans said to Jennifer, "How did you know all that stuff?"



"For the reason Bradley himself mentioned. The dire threat of global warming.' We had a whole team researching dire threats. Because we wanted to find everything we could to make our case as impressive as possible."



"And?"



She shook her head. "The threat of global warming," she said, "is essentially nonexistent. Even if it were a real phenomenon, it would probably result in a net benefit to most of the world."



The pilot clicked on the intercom, telling them to take their seats because they were on their final approach to San Francisco.



Chapter 63



SAN FRANCISCO



TUESDAY, OCTOBER 12



6:31 P.M.



The anteroom was gray, cold, and smelled of disinfectant. The man behind the desk wore a lab coat. He typed at his keyboard. "Morton amp;Morton amp;Yes. George Morton. Okay. And you are amp;"



"Peter Evans. I'm Mr. Morton's attorney," Evans said.



"And I'm Ted Bradley," Ted said. He started to extend his hand, then thought better of it, pulled it back.



"Oh. Hey," the technician said. "I thought you looked familiar. You're the secretary of state."



"Actually, I'm the president."



"Right, right, the president. I knew I'd seen you before. Your wife is a drunk."



"No, actually, the secretary of state's wife is a drunk."



"Oh. I don't get to see the show that often."



"It's off the air now."



"That explains it."



"But it's in syndication in all the major markets."



Evans said, "If we could make the identification now amp;"



"Okay. Sign here, and I'll get you visitor tags."



Jennifer remained in the anteroom. Evans and Bradley walked into the morgue. Bradley looked back. "Who is she anyway?"



"She's an attorney working on the global warming team."



"I think she's a plant for industry. She's obviously some kind of extremist."



"She works right under Balder, Ted."



"Well, I can understand that," Bradley said, snickering. "I'd like her working under me, too. But did you listen to her, for God's sake? Old-growth forests suck?' That's industry talking." He leaned closer to Evans. "I think you should get rid of her."



"Get rid of her?"



"She's up to no good. Why is she with us now anyway?"



"I don't know. She wanted to come. Why are you with us, Ted?"



"I have a job to do."



The sheet draping the body was spotted with gray stains. The technician lifted it back.



"Oh Jesus," Ted Bradley said, turning quickly away.



Evans forced himself to gaze at the body. Morton had been a large man in life, and now he was even larger, his torso purple gray and bloated. The odor of decay was strong. Indenting the puffy flesh was an inch-wide ring around one wrist. Evans said, "The watch?"



"Yeah, we took it off," the technician said. "Barely got it over the hand. You need to see it?"



"Yes, I do." Evans leaned closer and stiffened his body against the smell. He wanted to look at the hands and the nails. Morton had had a childhood injury to the fourth nail on his right hand, leaving the nail dented, deformed. But one of the hands of this body was missing, and the other was gnawed and mangled. There was no way he could be sure of what he was seeing.



Behind him, Bradley said, "Are you done yet?"



"Not quite."



"Je-sus, man."



The technician said, "So, will the show go back on the air?"



"No, it's been canceled."



"Why? I liked that show."



"They should have consulted you," Bradley said.



Evans was looking at the chest now, trying to recall the pattern of chest hair that Morton had had. He'd seen him often enough in a bathing suit. But the bloating, the stretching of the skin made it difficult. He shook his head. He could not be sure it was Morton.



"Are you done yet?" Bradley said.



"Yes," Evans said.



The drape went back on, and they walked out. The technician said, "Lifeguards in Pismo made the discovery, called the police. The police ID'd him from the clothes."



"He still had clothes on?"



"Uh-huh. One leg of the pants and most of the jacket. Custom made. They called the tailor in New York and he confirmed that they had been made for George Morton. Will you be taking his effects with you?"



"I don't know," Evans said.



"Well, you're his lawyer amp;"



"Yes, I guess I will."



"You have to sign for them."



They went back outside, where Jennifer was waiting. She was talking on her cell phone. She said, "Yes, I understand. Yes. Okay, we can do that." She flipped the phone shut when she saw them. "Finished?"



"Yes."



"And was it amp;"



"Yes," Ted said. "It was George."



Evans said nothing. He went down the hall and signed for the personal effects. The technician brought out a bag and handed it to Evans. Evans fished in it and pulled out the shreds of the tuxedo. There was a small NERF pin on the inside pocket of the jacket. He reached in and came out with the watch, a Rolex Submariner. It was the same watch Morton wore. Evans looked at the back. It was engraved gm 123189. Evans nodded, put it back in the bag.



All these things belonged to George. Just touching them now made him feel inexpressibly sad.



"I guess that does it," he said. "Time to go."



They all walked back to the waiting car. After they got in, Jennifer said, "We have to make another stop."



"Oh?" Evans said.



"Yes. We have to go to the Oakland Municipal Garage."



"Why?"



"The police are waiting for us."



Chapter 64



OAKLAND



TUESDAY, OCTOBER 12



7:22 P.M.



It was an enormous concrete structure, adjacent to a vast parking lot on the outskirts of Oakland. It was lit by harsh halogen lights. Behind the cyclone fence, most of the cars in the lot were junkers, but a few Cadillacs and Bentleys were there, too. Their limousine pulled up to the curb.



"Why are we here?" Bradley said. "I don't understand."



A policeman came to the window. "Mr. Evans? Peter Evans?"



"That's me."



"Come this way, please."



They all started to get out of the car. The cop said, "Just Mr. Evans."



Bradley sputtered, "But we are"



"Sorry, sir. They just want Mr. Evans. You'll have to wait here."



Jennifer smiled at Bradley. "I'll keep you company."



"Great."



Evans got out of the car and followed the policeman through the metal door into the garage itself. The interior space was divided into long bays, where cars were worked on in a row. Most of the bays seemed to be given over to the repair of police cars. Evans smelled the sharp odor of acetylene torches. He sidestepped patches of motor oil and gobs of grease on the floor. He said to the cop accompanying him, "What's this about?"



"They're waiting for you, sir."



They were heading for the rear of the garage. They passed several crushed and blood-covered wrecks. Seats drenched in blood, shattered windows dark red. Some wrecks had pieces of string that stretched out from them in various directions. One wreck was being measured by a pair of technicians in blue lab coats. Another crash was being photographed by a man with a camera on a tripod.



"Is he a policeman?" Evans said.



"Nah. Lawyer. We have to let 'em in."



"So you deal with car wrecks here?"



"When it's appropriate."



They came around the corner and Evans saw Kenner standing with three plainclothes policemen, and two workers in blue lab coats. They were all standing around the crushed body of Morton's Ferrari Spyder, now raised on a hydraulic lift, with bright lights shining up at it.



"Ah, Peter," Kenner said. "Did you make the identification of George?"



"Yes."



"Good man."



Evans came forward to stand beneath the car. Various sections of the underside had been marked with yellow cloth tags. Evans said, "Okay, what's up?"



The plainclothesmen looked at one another. Then one of them began to speak. "We've been examining this Ferrari, Mr. Evans."



"I see that."



"This is the car that Mr. Morton recently bought in Monterey?"



"I believe so."



"When was that purchase made?"



"I don't know exactly." Evans tried to think back. "Not long ago. Last month or so. His assistant, Sarah, told me George had bought it."



"Who bought it?"



"She did."



"What was your involvement?"



"I had none. She merely informed me that George had bought a car."



"You didn't make the purchase or arrange insurance, anything like that?"



"No. All that would have been done by George's accountants."



"You never saw paperwork on the car?"



"No."



"And when did you first see the actual car itself?"



"The night George drove it away from the Mark Hopkins Hotel," Evans said. "The night he died."



"Did you ever see the car prior to that evening?"



"No."



"Did you hire anyone to work on the car?"



"No."



"The car was transported from Monterey to a private garage in Sonoma, where it remained for two weeks, before being taken to San Francisco. Did you arrange the private garage?"



"No."



"The rental was in your name."



Evans shook his head. "I don't know anything about that," he said. "But Morton often put rentals and leases in the name of his accountants or attorneys, if he didn't want the owner or lessee to be publicly known."



"But if he did that, he would inform you?"



"Not necessarily."



"So you didn't know your name was being used?"



"No."



"Who worked on the car, in San Jose?"



"I have no idea."



"Because, Mr. Evans, somebody did rather extensive work on this Ferrari before Morton ever got into it. The frame was weakened at the places you see marked by the yellow tags. Anti-skidprimitive, in a vehicle this oldwas disabled, and the discs were cross-loosened on the left front, right rear. Are you following me, here?"



Evans frowned.



"This car was a death trap, Mr. Evans. Someone used it to kill your client. Lethal changes were made in a garage in Sonoma. And your name is on the lease."



Downstairs in the car, Ted Bradley was grilling Jennifer Haynes. She might be pretty, but everything about her was wrongher manner, her tough-guy attitude, and most of all her opinions. She had said she was working on the lawsuit, and that her salary was paid by NERF, but Ted didn't think it was possible. For one thing, Ted Bradley was very publicly associated with NERF, and as a hired employee she should have known that, and she should have treated his opinions with respect.



To call the information he had shared with those kids "bullshit"a talk he didn't have to give, a moment he had offered out of the goodness of his heart and his dedication to the environmental causeto call that "bullshit" was outrageous. It was confrontational in the extreme. And it showed absolutely no respect. Plus, Ted knew that what he had said was true. Because, as always, NERF had given him a talking points memo listing the various things to be emphasized. And NERF would not have told him to say anything that was untrue. And the talking points said nothing about the fucking Ice Age. Everything Jennifer had said was irrelevant.



Those trees were magnificent. They were sentinels of the environment, just as the talking points claimed. In fact, he pulled the talking points out of his jacket pocket to be sure.



"I'd like to see that," Jennifer said.



"I bet you would."



"What is your problem?" she said.



See? he thought. That kind of attitude. Aggressive and confrontational.



She said, "You're one of those television stars who thinks everyone wants to touch your dick. Well, guess what, oh Big Swinging One, I don't. I think you're just an actor."



"And I think you're a plant. You're a corporate spy."



"I must not be a very good one," she said, "because you found me out."



"Because you shot your mouth off, that's why."



"It's always been my problem."



All during this conversation, Bradley felt a peculiar tension building in his chest. Women did not argue with Ted Bradley. Sometimes they were hostile for a while, but that was only because they were intimidated by him, his good looks, and his star power. They wanted to screw him, and often he'd let them. But they did not argue with him. This one was arguing, and it excited him and angered him in equal proportions. The tension building up inside him was almost unbearable. Her calmness, just sitting there, the direct way she looked into his eyes, the complete lack of intimidationit was an indifference to his fame that drove him wild. All right, hell, she was beautiful.