“We aren't running away.” For some reason, I feel the need to clarify.
Libby smiles. “Of course you aren't. I was very, very sorry to hear about Rafe's threats, and even sorrier to hear he shot your cousin. I know people were scared and angry, but I begged him not to do it. Rhonda didn't do anything wrong, and neither did you. I’m so sorry.”
I lean down and kiss Rose's perfect forehead. The smell of her hair fills me with hope.
“We're looking for a virus,” I say, “one that might consume Tercera. If we can find it, we hope the accelerant won't matter anymore. It's a long shot, but don't give up, okay?”
When I pass baby Rose back to her mother, Libby catches my hand. “Ruby, even if you fail, you gave me more time. If this doesn't work, remember it's not your fault.”
I nod my head, but I can't speak another word as I watch Libby walk back toward central Baton Rouge. Typically we'd wait until morning to leave on any sort of trip, but we don't even discuss a delay, not after seeing Libby, not after the accelerant bombs. We're literally the last hope for tens of thousands and seconds matter right now. Rafe gave Uncle Dan and Wesley an old broken down truck, so all three of our vehicles are waiting for us, along with my stressed out and overwrought guards. Frank's so relieved to see me safe and sound that he races toward me, spins me around, and pulls me close for a hug. I stiffen involuntarily and then he won't meet my eyes.
“I'm so sorry Your Royal Highness, but I'm just so relieved that you're okay.” Frank's eyebrows pull together and his hands close and open, close and open.
I'm lucky to have people who care whether I'm alive or dead. I hug Frank and this time I don't stiffen when his arms squeeze me. I don't think he even notices the tear I wipe away when I finally let go. Sometimes you need a hug, even when you don't think you do.
When we load up into the vehicles, I don't argue about Frank sitting in the jeep with Job, Sam and me. I do finally understand why Sam never wants to drive in the dark. He insists on taking point this time and the guards, too shell shocked from our time in Baton Rouge and the recent attack, don't argue. The shiny, new jeep from WPN jounces and jolts over potholes, logs and other debris that even Sam can't spot quickly enough to entirely avoid. We wouldn't have risked this at all, except that we've got brand new cars, but I hope we don't bust a drive chain. The vans struggle a bit more than we do, but they don't slow us down too much. And every time Sam needs to stop, the guards pour out quickly to lend a hand.
It's nice to have their help, but I miss our drive down from Port Gibson, when it was only Sam and me. Rhonda was alive, and I thought she and Job were safely back at home. Things seemed so much simpler then. I wanted the cure to help Wesley, but no one I knew was imminently dying if I didn't find it. None of the bad things were my fault yet. My dad's fault and his partner's fault yes, but I was simply Donovan Behl's child, daughter of a scientist who got confused and was killed for his efforts. I'm still his daughter, I remind myself. And we do have a chance to fix things, even if the grains of sand are slipping through an hourglass too quickly while we crawl along this road in the dark.
It should only take about three and a half hours to Port Gibson, according to Sam's estimates. It’ll take another few hours to search my old home. If we locate the documents, and they name the partner, then we’ll have to develop a time estimate on finding this Jack. I'm assuming that if he's alive, he can probably be tracked from Galveston, since most of the survivors started out there and spread to the other Port Cities slowly. That's another full day, or a day and a half's drive, but at least I have a little pull with them. I’m sure if he’s alive and still with WPN, we can locate him.
I close my eyes and attempt my first ever prayer. I think if there really is a God, he doesn’t need fancy churches or impressive words. He’s got to care mostly about what’s in my heart, right? Surely? I whisper the words as softly as I possibly can.
“Please God, if there is a God, let Dad's partner be alive, and maybe in Galveston so I can do something about finding him. Too many people have already died. I can’t handle more.”
If God exists, he doesn’t bother answering me, but I feel a little calmer. Maybe that’s the point.
Once I've mapped out a mental timeline for finding the hacker virus before the Marked die, I fret about my mom and Adam. “The accelerant couldn't have come from anywhere else? Or could it?”
Sam sighs. “We know WPN has the accelerant. We don't know whether others have it too.”
“Could the Unmarked have done it? Do you have any reason to believe your dad might have meant the Marked kids harm?”
Sam shrugs. “He certainly would take that kind of action if there was a purpose to it, if that's what you're asking. He wouldn't have qualms about killing them, but I can’t think of a way it benefits him. My dad does nothing without a reason.”
I bite my lip. “Would Adam have done it? Did I misread him entirely? Maybe he was in the Port Heads' pocket all along.”
“I genuinely doubt it,” Sam says. “But we don't know him very well. I suppose anything is possible.”
Or there could have been a coup already. Or one of the Port Heads could have simply taken action themselves. I close my eyes and massage my temples. I wish I had a spy network or something.
“Your mother didn't oppose the Cleansing when David Solomon was alive,” Sam says.
“No, she didn't. Do you think Adam could've convinced her to reverse positions when it was the one thing I told them not to do? I don't know what's worse. Having my mom and brother betray me like that, or thinking the Port Heads have seized control and they're in danger.”
“I think the most likely answer is that one of the Port Heads acted unilaterally,” Sam says. “Technically it wasn’t an attack. They didn't take a single life. If one of them had a cache of accelerant, he or she might’ve decided to fix things on their own.”
“Which means I let Rhonda die for nothing.”
I glance back at Job. He's still staring out of the window, with no sign he's even hearing anything we say. His eyes are glazed, his hands tapping the glass rhythmically. Because I'm looking back at him, I notice a small campfire off the side of the road. It wasn't visible from our northern route, but looking backward the flames shine brightly.
“We should check that out,” I say.
Sam glances over. “A single campfire?” He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. Too dangerous to stop at night.”
“It can't be more than one person. They could need help, and I'm sure they're cold if they've risked a fire.”
Sam shakes his head again and panic inexplicably floods my body. We should press on but for some reason, I need to stop. We may be unable to save anyone else, but we have to help him or her.
I put one hand on his arm. “Please Sam. I can't explain it, but I feel like we should.”
He groans and pulls the jeep over. I reach for the door, but he slides over and yanks me back. “I'm doing what you asked, but you do not get out, do you hear me?”
I want to argue, but I don't waste my breath. Sam climbs out of his side and signals the guards to follow. I count slowly to ten. Sam and the guards have circled the campfire, but they don't seem to have found anyone. I can't see what's happening from here. Sam's going to be annoyed, but I gave him a head start.
“I'm following them,” I say to Job.
No response. Job's still staring out the window despondently. Apparently unless I need him imminently, Job has checked out.
I bite my lip. I've waited and waited. Sam knows me well enough by now to expect this. I hop out and run up behind them. A brand new sleeping bag lays near the campfire, but it's conspicuously empty. He must've heard us coming. I glance around, hoping the traveller will come out, whoever he is.
“Gone,” Sam says.
Frank nods. “Ran off. Probably hiding from something or someone. If they don't want to be found, it's for the best we leave them be.”
Sam orders the guards back to the cars. “T
ime to go, sunshine. Can't help someone who doesn't want it.” He takes my arm and I let him lead me back to the jeep.
Something catches the corner of my eye, a flash of gold. I turn back and my breath catches when I see the red knit cap, poking out of the top of a nondescript black backpack. A gold puffball adorns the top. It's absolutely hideous, but my heart surges in my chest when I see it. Because I made that cap.
“Rhonda!” I scream and spin in a circle. “Rhonda, it's Ruby! Come out!”
Sam covers my mouth with his hand. “Stop that right now. You'll alert anyone within miles to our presence. After that accelerant attack, the Marked are volatile. Plus their attacker could be out here, waiting to see how they react.”
I point at the red cap poking out of the open pocket of the backpack and Sam lets me go, his eyes scanning the darkness with newly found excitement. “Maybe someone took if after,” Sam says. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
A stick cracks behind us, somewhere deep in the pitch-blackness of the woods and my heart races.
“Ruby?”
Rhonda emerges from the woods, her boots crunching twigs and dry foliage underfoot. I barrel toward her as fast as my legs can propel me. I want to spin her around and throw her up in the air, but I'm not strong enough. I settle instead for clinging to her like a baby koala. Tears stream freely down my face. “You're supposed to be dead.”
Rhonda pats my back. “Rafe had to execute me. His people were losing faith. They were talking about choosing a new leader, about storming the Unmarked towns or attacking Galveston in real numbers. He had to show them he was taking action and would soon be making progress.”
I shake my head, and swipe at my wet cheeks. “But you're alive.”
“He insisted on doing it himself,” Rhonda says. “He took me out past the old Baton Rouge Zoo and held the gun to my temple. He shook his head back and forth, clearly agitated.” She sighs. “I actually felt sorry for him. Or, you know, I would have if I hadn't been tied up and defenseless, waiting for my brains to be blown out.”
“And?” I ask.
“A wild hog burst through the underbrush, barreling straight toward us. Rafe shot it, and then he got a strange look on his face. He yanked his belt knife off and sliced it open. He wiped blood on his arms and cut my ropes. He made me swear never to come back to Marked territory, and then he made me run. He said I couldn't stop until I ran past Baker. Ten or fifteen miles, I'm not sure. I don't know what he would have done if that pig hadn't surprised us, and I don't know what he did after that, but I'm guessing he didn't tell another soul exactly who or what he killed that day.”
I close my eyes. The things I said to him, the fight between Sam and his brother. I can't take any of it back and he didn't even do it.
Sam smiles. “I'm glad you're okay.” He pats Rhonda's arm, and she pulls him against her for a hug, all of us laughing at his awkwardness.
Job never left the car, apparently not even recognizing Rhonda's name amid our shouting. When I realize that, I sprint back to the jeep. “Job.” I tap on the glass.
He stares at me blankly.
Last time he only focused when I needed him. “Help me, Job. I have a problem.”
His eyes orient and meet mine. “What's wrong?”
“Get out of the car right now.”
Job opens the door and looks around frantically. “Why'd we stop? What's wrong?”
I point behind him and Job's eyes follow my finger. When he sees Rhonda, his jaw drops, his eyes widen and his hands shake. Rhonda jogs toward him, and when she slams into him, she looks so much like a golden retriever puppy that I'm surprised when she doesn't lick his face. Even with the time constraints we're under, the minutes ticking by while I watch Job with his twin don't make me anxious or impatient. They're entitled to take a breath to recover, especially Job.
I catch Rhonda up on what's happened while we drive toward Port Gibson. By the time 33 dumps onto 61, she's up to speed. Of course, that's when my nerves kick into overdrive. I haven't seen Port Gibson in weeks, and the previously familiar surrounding areas look alien to me now.
When we pull up to the checkpoint, I recognize the guard.
“Hey Barrett,” Sam says.
Barrett's chocolate brown eyes widen as they take us all in.
“Will you let us through?” Sam asks. “The vans back there are with us. They're from WPN, but they answer to me. I'll vouch for all of them.”
Barrett coughs. “I doubt you can really vouch for anyone. You're in a lot of trouble, Sam. Mayor Fairchild isn't pleased you left when you did.”
“My departure ended the Marked attacks though, didn't it?”
Barrett runs one hand through his short, dark brown hair, leaving it sticking up all over. “There was one more, but then yeah, they stopped. How'd you know?”
Sam sighs. “Let me past.”
Barrett’s fingers fidget on his clipboard.
“It's me here in the back, Bar,” Rhonda says. “I'm sure you saw my dad pass through not long ago with Fairchild's son. His no-longer-Marked-son.”
Barrett nods.
Rhonda smiles. “You aren't sure what to do because that already caused a lot of unrest.”
Barrett nods again.
“Trust me, okay. Sam was your boss, but I'm a friend. We're here for a good reason and we're all healthy. You can let us in.”
Barrett takes a deep breath. “Okay, you can pass.” He points behind us. “But they have to wait outside.”
Frank is not going to like this.
Sam agrees to Barrett’s terms, and he and I walk back to ask them to wait outside the city wall. I worry Paul's head is going to explode, but ultimately none of them can take Sam in official rank, or physically if it came to that. Eventually, they agree to set up camp just past the southern barricade. It's a good thing we brought some supplies from WPN and that Rafe left their food and tents in the vans.
“I think we should head straight for your house,” Sam says after we climb back into the jeep. “I'm guessing Dan and Wesley have at least been there.”
We all agree. When we pass the Claiborne County Medical Center, it looks smaller somehow, less impressive now that I've seen bigger facilities. When we turn on Greenwood Street, my hands begin to shake. I expect our house to look different too, smaller or shabbier, but when we turn onto College Street and it comes into view, it looks exactly the same. Partially enclosed front porch, freshly painted light blue siding that probably needs to be replaced soon. Two stories tall with a tiny window at the very top that looks out from my bedroom. My greenhouse looks the same from the outside, but I'm sure all my precious little plants are already dead.
No vehicles are parked out front. Rafe said he gave Wesley and Uncle Dan a red pickup truck. Shouldn't it be parked here? When I glance at Sam, he shrugs. I hold out my hand for him when we walk up to the front door, but he doesn't take it. Rhonda frowns at me and lifts one eyebrow.
I shake my head. I'll have to explain later. I wish being dumped didn't hurt so much.
I grab the knob, but the door's locked. Job grabs the hide-a-key from under a family of stone owls that live in our front flowerbed and unlocks the door. When it swings open freely, I wonder who repaired the damage Sam did the day we left. The day he handed in my Path for me, and I fled my home of almost nine years.
“Uncle Dan?” I call. “Are you home?”
Silence.
“Wesley?” Job yells as he walks up the stairs. “You here?”
Nothing.
My heart rate accelerates when I jog toward my aunt's office, but not because of the exertion. Job's feet clomp back down the stairs, and he and Rhonda follow behind me, eager to help. I start with the office drawers, while Job begins with a bookcase, and Rhonda opens boxes that are stacked in the corners.
“Where should I look?” Sam asks.
“Maybe you should find Uncle Dan,” I say. “I'm sure he'd love to know Rhonda's with us.”
Sam shakes his head. “We aren'
t splitting up. I have no idea what reception your uncle found.” He doesn't mention that it's not promising that Uncle Dan isn't home. He doesn't have to. We all know.
Sam dives into the second box next to Rhonda.
Two hours later, minutes until midnight, we've searched every piece of paper in the office and checked my aunt and uncle's closet. We even rummaged around in the garage without success.
“No one has seen a single thing that could’ve been Donovan Behl's?” I ask. “Or Donald Carillon's?” My dad assumed a fake name when he stole me from my mom and ran, which makes me wonder how many of his papers I might have seen without even knowing they were his.
Rhonda and Job shake their heads.
“How can that be?” I groan. “It was all sent to Aunt Anne, I'm sure of it.” I rock back on my heels, deflated, borderline depressed.
“It's possible they left it in Nebraska, isn't it?” Job asks. “Didn't Mom say they only looked through the boxes right before they left? Maybe they didn't think financial paperwork was important enough to bring.”
Aunt Anne's words rise up in my memory. “She found boxes of journals and his briefcase.” I look around the room despondently. “No briefcase. I bet they left it.”
I want to curl up and sob. All those kids. I was counting on finding the name of Dad's partner with time to track him down.
“Mom and Dad had to travel with me and Job, you, and Sam. That’s four kids for just three adults, the two of them and Sam’s dad. I would've left boring financial paperwork behind too,” Rhonda says. “If I was headed into the unknown. Especially if I was already hauling a box of cumbersome old journals.”
“We're wasting our time here.” Uncle Dan hasn't come home by midnight, and I need to know why. “Your dad might remember whether they left that stuff.”
Job and Rhonda look at each other and nod. “Fairchild’s our best bet for finding Dad.”
I sigh. Wesley's house isn’t too far. Wesley came with Uncle Dan, and his dad's the one controlling Aunt Anne's fate.
As quickly as we arrived, we load back up in the jeep headed for Wesley's house. It's almost midnight, which isn't exactly an ideal time to be knocking on the Mayor's door. During the drive, I wonder whether Mr. Fairchild has seen Wesley yet. I wonder whether he's amazed and excited, or just relieved. I hope he's in a better mood. Maybe he'll be pleased enough about his son's return to release my aunt. I hope my blood helps her, or if not, that we can find this hacker virus. My foot taps a staccato rhythm on the floorboard.
Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set Page 62
