Velocity

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 amusement 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 titled Hello, 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 Hello, Billy.
     
     
     

Chapter 69
     
    No lights brightened the massive 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 association, 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 spaces 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