Three Days to Never by Tim Powers Page B

anymore.
    It’s all been one war for me, Lepidopt thought—and he made a narrow fist with the thumb and three fingers of his misshapen right hand.
    B ozzaris had said something to him. Lepidopt looked up. “What?”
    â€œI said the dead woman on Mount Shasta was definitely the woman known as Lisa Marrity. I got my sayan on the phone, and I had him call police departments in L.A. and Shasta and ask about a Lisa Marrity, with two r s. The guy just called back—a hospital in Shasta pronounced her dead at 12:20 this afternoon. Driver’s license says she was born in 1902 and lived at 204 Batsford Street in Pasadena. The Siskiyou County sheriff wants to look into it—it may have been suicide, since she had hardly anything but a note on her with next-of-kin phone numbers—which my man got and passed on to us, yes!—and witnesses say there was a big gold swastika on the grass under her body, made out of gold wire, just like Sam saw at noon. Real gold, theyclaim, though it was all gone by the time the cops got there.”
    â€œSome hippies,” said Lepidopt, echoing what poor old Sam had said. He got to his feet. “Airline tickets, gas receipts?”
    â€œNone, and no keys at all, and no cash or credit cards at all. And she was barefoot, like Sam said, no shoes anywhere near her. Way up a hiking trail, and no cuts on her feet.”
    â€œHuh. So who are these next of kin?”
    â€œA Frank Marrity—two r s—and a Moira Bradley. Frank’s in the 909 area code, that’s an hour east of Pasadena, and Moira’s 818, which is Pasadena.”
    Bozzaris was in the kitchen with the Pasadena telephone directory. “Bradley,” he read, “Bennett and Moira, as in ‘Uncle Bennett,’ note. 106 Almaraz Street. We haven’t got any 909 directories here.”
    â€œYes, that’s got to be the ‘Uncle Bennett’ that Sam caught a reference to,” said Lepidopt. “Right before ‘pulled the tombstone down.’ Get your sayan to look up Frank Marrity. And then you can take Sam to Pershing Square. Don’t forget to take off the holograph talisman.”
    â€œI won’t. But you’d better get Tel Aviv to send us another remote viewer to hang it on.”
    â€œYes. Won’t be as good as poor old Sam, I’m sure. I’ll send Admoni an e-mail tonight.” He wasn’t looking forward to sending the report—the Mossad strongly disapproved of letting sayanim get hurt, much less killed; still, Glatzer had been in his seventies, and a heart attack had never been unlikely. “What’s our safe-house situation like in the 909 area?”
    â€œThe two apartments are still stocked and paid up, in San Bernardino and Riverside,” said Malk. “But for this kind of work your best bet is—”
    â€œI know,” said Lepidopt. “The tepee place.”
    â€œThe Wigwam Motel on Route 66, right.”
    â€œBook us a room. A tepee. A wigwam.”
    I’ll start with Frank Marrity, Lepidopt thought. He’s almost certainly the guy Glatzer was reading this afternoon, the guy with the little girl.

Five
    H uck Finn is told by Huck Finn himself, from his point of view.”
    Suddenly unwilling to read whatever sentence might follow that first one, Frank Marrity let the Blue Book test pamphlet fall into his lap. The stack of similar Blue Books stood on the table beside him, but he had just this moment decided to call in sick tomorrow, so they didn’t depress him nearly as much as they had when he had sat down.
    He was in the uphill living room, in a chair by the cold fireplace, and Daphne was asleep on the couch in front of the uphill TV set. She had drifted off during Mary Poppins, and he had turned the set off. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, and he was reluctant to wake her.
    He tamped his pipe and puffed a cloud of smoke toward the set of Dickens on the mantel. His hands weren’t