Rise the Dark

by Michael Koryta

  He let a few seconds pass, and when he spoke, he was still facing the window. “Clearance,” he said. “Sure.”

  “You’re right to be angry with me. I lied to you. For whatever it’s worth, I also thought you might be lying to me. Especially after you were right there with me, and then gone in the middle of the night, and they came to the door.”

  “I don’t blame you a bit. Let’s call it the cost of business, right? Neither of us trades much in trust.”

  “I disagree.”

  He looked back at her. Her confidence was wavering. Her posture hadn’t changed, but something in her face had.

  “What you don’t know,” she said carefully, “is the way I actually felt that night. And sometime, I’d like to tell you. If you want to listen.”

  He leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and held her eyes. She didn’t look away. At length, he nodded and said, “Down the road, if it works out, we could go somewhere by the water and have a couple drinks. We could talk there, the way we did the first time. But a little differently.”

  “I hope it works out,” she said softly. “Somewhere down the road, as you say.”

  She seemed to want to say more, but didn’t.

  Mark rose. “Hell, it was my fault, anyhow.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I should have known you were full of shit. You’re not a good enough detective to work with the Pinkertons. But for the government…that seems right.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed her face. “I’m building my résumé for the Pinkertons.”

  78

  It had been five days on the road and she had slept only three hours per day. Speed was critical, because they had to travel a great distance, and as panic gripped the nation and rumors of new attacks spread, roadblocks went up in unpredictable locations.

  Police were everywhere. Police, and the military. In Missouri, a militia group had taken control of a national forest campground, and a standoff with the FBI was building. In Kentucky, seven were killed in an attack on an army base. In New Hampshire, a husband and wife drove a van loaded with explosives into the statehouse and blew themselves up, wounding a dozen. For every incident there were a hundred threats; for every threat, a thousand rumors. Worldwide, terrorism alerts were raised to their highest levels, and police presence increased around the globe. More than twenty groups had claimed a role in the attack on the American electrical grid; a dozen more had been accused.

  The fear virus was flowering, and if Eli had been alive to see it, he’d have reveled in the moment.

  She avoided the interstates, sticking to back roads and using her map of the electrical grid as much as her GPS, because she knew the areas where they would be hearing the worst of the rumors. She was disappointed in the lack of action but held out hope. The seeds of fear had been planted and carefully tended and soon they would flourish.

  In occasional breaks, she sent e-mails and posted on forums and social networks and then destroyed the devices, leaving a trail of shattered iPads and cell phones from west to east.

  It was important that people heard from Eli. Important that they understood all the news they were being offered was a lie.

  The only truth ever spoken had been between Eli and Janell.

  Approach from the south. You’ll see me. We’ll watch the train go through, and then we’ll leave.…Together.

  And so they had.

  While she drove, she talked, and took comfort in his presence. The smell of charred flesh, so repellent when she had gathered him into her arms in the sparking blue flashes and orange flames, had become tolerable by the time she reached the Mississippi, and it was almost comforting when she drove through New Hampshire.

  On the morning of the sixth day she sat alone on the rocks, the mountains at her back, and watched the sun rise over the North Atlantic. Somewhere out across that water, over some three thousand miles of open sea, the harbor town of Rotterdam was already awake, the day well under way.

  That was where she had met him. So long ago.

  The memory brought tears to her eyes for the first time since she’d understood that the corpse at her feet was his, and she allowed them to flow. She cried into the rocks as the sea crashed and threw foam at her feet, and when the sun was fully risen and there was a golden glow across the water, she was done and she knew that she would not cry again.

  Ever.

  She looked at that shimmering golden line between sun and land, splashed over the sea like the careless paintbrush stroke of the gods, and she thought that it must lead back to the place where all of this had begun, to that crowded, sweaty pub with the cloying smell of fish, to a man whose eyes held all the secrets of the world.

  Dead now. Burned alive.

  This is Markus Novak.…We are long overdue.

  She supposed the man named Jay Baldwin was to blame, but by now she’d learned enough from the radio to tell her that Sabrina Baldwin had escaped before Jay found his courage, and while the media was giving Sabrina and the agent named Lynn Deschaine credit for their survival, Janell could not be so gracious. What she remembered was that first message on the radio, the first slip on what soon revealed itself as pure black ice.

  Each time she tried to accept that this was the way of the world and not her responsibility, she remembered Novak standing above her behind his harsh beam of light, her knives just out of reach, and then she heard his voice over the radio.

  We are long overdue.

  Yes. Already, she could agree with that sentiment. Already, it had been too long for them.

  And his mother. The news reported her death, and it was probably true, which meant only that Janell had lost another chance, because Violet Novak deserved to die at her hand. She had lost Eli because of a woman who could not be trusted. He’d stayed in the West with her because she could not be trusted, and he had died because of that.

  The sun had warmed the rock beneath her by the time the tide was high enough to put the small boat in. She carried what was left of the greatest man she’d ever known, what was left of the only true love she would ever have in this life, as delicately as possible. He was wrapped in a blanket, but the smell was still heavy, even against the ocean wind.

  She wanted to go slowly, to linger with him, but she knew the risks. If his body was found, the questioning of the truth would cease.

  That could not be allowed.

  She motored out into the sea, enjoying the strength of the slapping waves, knowing how he had always loved listening to the immensity of the sea, a sound that told of its astonishing depths and promised its unfathomable power. Dormant power now, but it would rise again. It always did. And the fools who didn’t listen to its promises would perish, and then they would settle back into their ways, only to be shocked when it rose once more. Year after year, civilization after civilization.

  Always surprised by the power of the world.

  She followed the golden light out, out, out. As far toward Rotterdam as was possible in such a small craft and with so much work yet to do.

  She killed the engine and took a moment alone with the sounds of the sea.

  Then she spoke.

  “Your energy lives,” she said. “You know that, right? You can feel it? In all of this?”

  The waves crested and fell, crested and fell.

  “They can’t kill your energy,” she said. “Can’t trap it, can’t guide it. They’ve merely released it from its latest form. So it takes a new form, resurrected and refocused, but still in motion. Onward it goes. You know this.”

  Spray soaked her, and the taste of the salt on her lips was perfect.

  “And so I follow it still,” she said. “Lead on. Always.”

  She gathered his blanketed remains gently, lifted him above the bow, and eased him into the water. The sea accepted him gratefully, and why not? Power understood power.

  She watched as he sank slowly, watched until the blue-gray water had hidden any trace of him, and then she started the motor, turned
the boat, and piloted it west, toward the rocky Maine coast, with the sun of the new day warming her back.

  79

  Mark and Lynn were at the airport by eleven in the morning for their flight to Virginia. Billings International—all four gates of it. The only restaurant in the airport was outside of the security gates. Once you were inside, there was a food counter that looked like it belonged in a bowling alley, but they served booze along with the hot dogs and nachos. The television was tuned to the news. A retired FBI agent was expressing his concern that so many groups were claiming the attack on the western electrical grid. A middle-aged couple was watching, and arguing. The husband thought it was ISIS, no matter what the government said. His wife didn’t believe the government would lie about it. What was to gain?

  Panic, he said. If the United States admits they hit us right in the heart of the country, it will be panic, and the stock market will collapse. That’s all that really matters to anyone—the money.

  She said she didn’t think it was ISIS. If it was anyone foreign, it was the Chinese.

  Mark closed his eyes. He was sitting in a chair with his hand in his pocket, touching the dive permit the police had returned to him and wishing for the spent bullet casing that they had not, when Lynn appeared with two bottles in hand. Moose Drool.

  Mark grinned and straightened in the chair. “Montana’s finest tempts you even this early in the day, eh?”

  “Something that delicious? Obviously.” She handed him one of the bottles and sat down beside him. “Cheers to a flight out of here.”

  They clinked bottles and drank and she made a sour face. “I have to admit I preferred the Rainier.”

  “Never admit that.”

  They finished the beers and then moved to their gate, pausing to check the flight-status monitors. Everything was on time. They were routing through Minneapolis. When Mark looked at the alphabetical destination list, his eye caught on one just below Minneapolis—Portland, ME—and his mother’s voice returned to him.

  His name was Wagner. Isaac Wagner. He was from Maine.

  It doesn’t matter, Mark thought. I didn’t have a father; I had a donor. His name and his history do not mean a thing. Not after all these years. He turned away from the monitors and took a seat at the gate, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Lynn sat beside him, close enough that they touched slightly. Just a graze. The contact felt good in the way he didn’t want it to, but it also felt comfortable. Hell, he felt comfortable. He’d slept no more than three hours at a stretch for at least six days now, and the weight of it was pressing on him. It was warm in the airport, and his eyelids were heavy. He felt himself beginning to doze, barely aware of the conversation around him and of the announcement that boarding for Detroit had begun, and he opened his eyes lazily, a sleeping cat’s blink, checking on the surroundings before checking back out, and one of the passengers boarding for Detroit turned and looked in his direction, and while Mark watched, the stranger’s eyes filled with whirls of smoke.

  He sat bolt upright, moving so fast that Lynn gave a little shout. The stranger boarding for Detroit gave him a curious look too—from behind blue eyes. There was nothing abnormal about him at all. The smoke was gone. No, the smoke had never been there.

  Obviously.

  Of course it hadn’t.

  Lynn put her hand on his leg. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just started to…have a nightmare, I guess. I expect I’ll have a few of them from this place. A few more of them, that is.”

  “Trust me, I know,” Lynn said. “I’ve woken up in cold sweats every night, feeling like the handcuff is still on my wrist.”

  He nodded and leaned back in the chair, but she didn’t move her hand, and he was grateful for that.

  My mother, he thought. What a gem. My last words with her, and they give me nightmares. Couldn’t have gone any other way with her, though. Whatever parting shot she offered, it was bound to mess with my head.

  He closed his eyes again, tried to find sleep again, but it was harder now. His mind was too active, bouncing from image to image, memory to memory.

  There will be smoke, she’d said. There will be smoke and there will be voices. Premonitions.

  It wasn’t all a lie.

  Even his uncle had heard that much. But for days now, Mark’s thoughts had returned, time and again, to the impossible words he’d thought he’d heard. First from the man he’d killed on his way up the mountain, then from his mother after she was dead. He wanted to dismiss them but they continued to surface, just as the last words of Ridley Barnes had taunted him for months. She doesn’t want you yet. Then came his mother’s words, unheard by his uncle but so clear to Mark, so real. She doesn’t want that.

  Stress. It was stress and adrenaline and fatigue. The mind did funny things under great stress—this was well understood, researched, documented. It required no questioning.

  Beside him, Lynn said, “Are you kidding me?”

  He opened his eyes and followed her pointing finger to the monitor above their gate—the status had changed from ON TIME to DELAYED. The revised time was an hour later. Still enough leeway for their connection, but it would be tight.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Want another beer?”

  “Might as well.”

  Thirty minutes later, a crowd began to gather around the main status monitors. Nobody looked happy, and most of them were putting cell phones to their ears. Mark raised an eyebrow and Lynn frowned and they walked over to see what the situation was.

  A third of the board had gone red with canceled flights. As they watched, several others went red. The screen looked more like a stock-market index than a flight-status monitor now, one city name after another ticking into the red.

  “Unbelievable,” Lynn said. “Let’s go see what the deal is. Maybe we can reroute.”

  Mark followed her, but he was a step behind. He was a little dizzy suddenly, and there was the faint popping sound in his head, the one that had been blissfully missing for the past few days. By the time he caught up to her, Lynn was in midsentence with the gate agent, asking what the options were.

  “I’m afraid it’s unlikely you’ll make it there today. Anything on the East Coast is a mess.”

  “Storms are that bad?”

  “It’s not weather. It’s more outages.”

  Lynn’s face drained of color.

  “Ma’am? We can try to rebook you, I’m just saying that all connections are—”

  Lynn turned from the gate agent before she could finish, stepping aside as the next flier pushed forward to ask the same question about rebooking. As the rest of the travelers at the gate began to rise from their seats and form into a disgruntled, muttering line and cell phones were put to ears all around them, everyone dialing the help numbers or travel agents who they believed could set this right, neither Mark nor Lynn spoke. They just looked at each other. They were alone amid the bustle, the only travelers not concerned only with scheduling.

  He said, “It’s a small airport. They’re going to run out of rental cars fast.”

  Lynn nodded. “Let’s get one.”

  Mark shouldered his backpack and they walked away from the gate together as the loudspeaker came on and a voice filled the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please bear with us here—there seems to be some trouble on the Eastern Seaboard…”

  Acknowledgments

  First, foremost, and forever—thanks to Christine, who not only improves the books but somehow endures me while I write them.

  I’ve had the enormous good fortune of patient and helpful early readers, and to the people who are willing to give of their own time and energy, I can’t offer enough gratitude. But I can name you here!

  Tom Bernardo, Stewart O’Nan, and Bob Hammel have hung in there with me through many drafts on many books, and their guidance and encouragement are always critical. John Houghton also brought a wonderful eye and a lot of passion to these pages, for no apparent reason other than his abunda
nce of kindness. And I really can’t say enough about the insight, questions, and patient discussions that Pete Yonkman provided. It’s a better book because of him, and I also had more fun with it than I would have. Deepest thanks, Pete.

  A few professionals played a role too. Namely, Joshua Kendall, who is a remarkable and tireless editor. If he has a point of fatigue, I haven’t found it yet. It is a privilege to work with you, Josh.

  Richard Pine’s guidance and enthusiasm steers the ship on good days and bad. In fact, Richard doesn’t really allow bad days. Much appreciated. Gideon Pine might not know yet how much he helps. Angela Cheng-Caplan better know how much she helps by now. Same for Lawrence Rose.

  Amanda Craft and Lacy Nowling help me to exist in the social media world. I’m grateful for their enthusiasm and work.

  The teams at Little, Brown and Company and Hachette Book Group are consistently fantastic: Michael Pietsch, Reagan Arthur, Sabrina Callahan, Nicole Dewey, Heather Fain, Craig Young, Terry Adams, Garrett McGrath, and so many more.

  Tracy Roe’s copyedits save me time and again. Parse on, Tracy! Parse on.

  Anything I got right about high-voltage work is thanks to Jim Staats and Jim Koryta. Anything I got wrong is my own fault.

  The people of Cassadaga, Florida, couldn’t have been better to me, and the same goes once again for the people of Cooke City and Silver Gate, Montana. Particular thanks to Doug and Cathy Pate, Bill and Carol Oriel, and Michael and Rita Hefron, as well as Troy “the Storechief” Wilson.

  Most important, thanks to the booksellers, librarians, and all readers.

  About the Author

  Michael Koryta is the New York Times bestselling author of twelve novels, most recently Last Words. His previous novels—including The Prophet, The Ridge, and So Cold the River—were New York Times Notable Books and national bestsellers and have been nominated for numerous awards. A former private investigator and newspaper reporter, Koryta graduated from Indiana University with a degree in criminal justice. He lives in Bloomington, Indiana.