by Ted Dekker
Carlos sidestepped, blocked the man’s heel as it came around, and stabbed up with the knife. The blade sank into flesh.
Hunter grunted and twisted his legs against the blade, forcing it out of Carlos’s hand. He landed on both feet, blade firmly planted in his right calf. He snatched it out and faced Carlos, blade ready.
The reversal was completely unexpected. Enraging. Enough—he was running out of time.
Carlos feigned to his left, ducked low, and jerked back. As expected, the move drew a quick stab with the knife. Still on his heels, he dropped back to one hand and swung his right foot up with his full strength. His shoe caught Hunter in the wrist. Broke it with a sharp crack. The knife flew across the room.
He followed his right foot with his left to the American’s solar plexus.
Hunter staggered back, winded.
The phone rang.
Carlos had taken far too long. His first concern had to be the girl. She was the key to the vaccine. Another ring. The blonde? Or the front desk. Taking the American was no longer an option.
He had to finish this now.
Nausea swept through Thomas’s gut. The phone was ringing, and it occurred to him that it might be Kara. The ringing seemed to unnerve his attacker slightly, but he wasn’t sure it mattered any longer. The man with the face scar was going to take Monique.
Both of Thomas’s arms were bleeding. His wrist was broken, and his right leg was going numb. The man had disarmed him without breaking a sweat. Panic began to set in.
The man suddenly broke to his left, bounded for Monique. She swung both feet at him in a valiant effort to ward him off.
“Get away from me, you—”
He swatted her feet to one side and scooped up the gun. He turned casually and pointed the weapon at Thomas.
Thomas’s options were gone. It was now simply a matter of survival. He straightened. “You win.”
The gun dipped and bucked in the man’s hand. A bullet plowed through Thomas’s thigh. He staggered back, numbed.
“I always win,” the man said.
“Thomas!” Monique stared in horror. “Thomas!”
“Lie on the bed,” the man ordered.
“Don’t hurt her.”
“Shut up and lie on the bed.”
Thomas limped forward. His mind was fading already. He wanted to say something, but nothing was coming. Surprisingly, he didn’t care what the man did to him now. But there was Kara, and there was Monique, and there was his mother, and they were all going to die.
And there was his father. He wanted to talk to his father.
He heard himself whimper as he fell onto the bed.
Phewt! A bullet tugged at his gut.
Phewt! A second punched into his chest.
The room faded.
Black.
Deputy Secretary of State Merton Gains ducked out from under the umbrella and slid into the Lincoln. He’d grown used to the showers since moving to Washington from Arizona. Found them refreshing, actually.
“Boy, it’s really coming down,” he said.
George Maloney nodded behind the wheel. “Yes it is, sir.” The Irishman didn’t show a hint of emotion. Never did. Gains had given up trying. He was paid to drive and paid to protect.
“Take me to the airport, George. Take me to drier parts of Earth.”
“Yes sir.”
Miranda had insisted on living in their Tucson home for at least the winters, but after two years, the Washington life wore thin, and she found excuses to return home even in the warmer months. Truth be told, Merton would do the same, given a choice. They were both bred in the desert, for the desert. End of story.
Rain splashed unrelentingly on the windows. Traffic was nearly stalled.
“You’ll be back on Thursday, sir?”
Gains sighed. “Tucson today, California tomorrow, back on Thursday; that’s right.”
His cell phone vibrated in his breast pocket.
“Very well, sir. Maybe this rain will be gone by then.”
Gains withdrew the phone. “I like the rain, George. Keeps things clean. Something we can always use around here, right?”
No smile. “Yes sir.”
He answered the phone. “Gains here.”
“Yes, Mr. Gains, I have a Bob Macklroy on the phone for you. He says it could be important.”
“Put him on, Venice.”
“Here you go.”
At times Washington seemed like a college reunion to Gains. Amazing how many jobs had ended up in the hands of Princeton graduates since Blair had been elected president. All qualified people, of course; he couldn’t complain. He’d done his own share of upping the Princeton quotient, mostly through recommendations. Bob here, for example, was not exactly a Washington insider, but he was working as the assistant secretary in the Bureau for International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs office in part because he had played basketball with now Deputy Secretary of State Merton Gains.
“Hello, Bob.”
“Hi, Merton. Thanks for taking the call.”
“Anytime, man. Tim treating you good down there?”
Bob didn’t bother answering the question directly. “He’s in Saõ Paulo for a few days. We’re not sure if you’re exactly the right person. This is a bit unusual, and we’re not quite sure where to take this. Tim thought the FBI might be—”
“Try me, Bob. What do you have?”
“Well . . .” Bob hesitated.
“Just tell me. And speak up a bit, it’s raining hard. Sounds like a train in here.”
“Okay, but it’s all very strange. I’m just telling you what I know. It seemed appropriate with your involvement in the Gains Act.”
Gains sat up a bit. This evasiveness wasn’t like Bob. Something was up, not only in his voice but in this mention of the narrowly defeated bill Merton had introduced two years earlier when he was a senator. It was up again, with some alterations and his name still attached. The bill would impose strict restrictions on the flood of new vaccines hitting the market by demanding they pass a comprehensive battery of tests. Two years had passed since his youngest daughter, Corina, had died of autoimmune disease after mistakenly being administered a new AIDS vaccine. The FDA had approved the vaccine. Gains had successfully had it barred, but other vaccines were entering the market every month, and the casualties were mounting.
“If you don’t spit it out, I’m going to send some muscle over there to force it out of you,” he said. It was something he could say only to a man like Bob, the locker room cutup who’d once owned the best three-point shot in college ball. They all knew Merton Gains would go out of his way to step over an ant if it wandered onto the sidewalk.
“I’ll remember to keep my door locked,” Bob said. He sighed. “I got a strange call a couple of days ago from a man who called himself Thomas Hunter. He—”
“The same Thomas Hunter from the situation in Bangkok?” Gains asked. The incident had fallen in his lap earlier today. An American citizen identified as Thomas Hunter from flight records had kidnapped Monique de Raison and another unidentified woman in the lobby of the Sheraton. The French were up in arms, the Thais were demanding intervention, even the stock market had reacted. Raison Pharmaceutical wasn’t exactly unknown. The timing couldn’t have been worse—they’d just announced their new vaccine.
In Gains’s mind, the timing was about right.
“Yes, I think it could be,” Bob said.
“He called you? When?”
“A few days ago. From Denver. He said that the Raison Vaccine would mutate into a deadly virus and wipe out half the world’s population. Nutcase stuff.”
Not necessarily. “Okay, so we have a nut case who’s managed to wing his way over to Thailand and kidnap the daughter of Jacques de Raison. That much the world already knows. He say anything else?”
“Actually, yes. I didn’t think about it until I saw his name today on the wires. Like you said: a nut case, right?”
“Right.”
“Well,
he told me that the winner of the Kentucky Derby was Joy Flyer.”
“So? Wasn’t the Derby three days ago?”
“Yes. But he called me before the race. He got the information from his dreams, the same place he learned that the Raison Vaccine—”
“He actually told you the name of the winner before the race?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Crazy, I know.”
Gains looked out the side window. Couldn’t see a thing past the streams of water sliding down the glass. He’d heard of some crazy things in his time, but this was shaping up for prime bar talk.
“Did you place a bet?”
“Unfortunately, I put the call out of my mind until today, when I saw his name again. But I did some checking. His sister, Kara Hunter, won over $300,000 on the race. They were in Atlanta where they made a bit of a scene at the CDC.”
Something definitely wasn’t right here. “So we have two nut cases. I haven’t seen her profile.”
“She’s a nurse. Graduated with honors. Sharp gal, from what I can see. Not your typical nut case.”
“Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking this kid knows something.”
“I’m just saying he said he knew about Joy Flyer, and he did. And he says he knows something about this Raison Vaccine. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Okay, Bob. Suffice it to say that Thomas Hunter is thoroughly deluded—the street corners of America are filled with similar types, usually of the variety who carry signs and rant loudly about the end of the world. This is good. At least we have motivation. You’re right, though, this needs to get to the CIA and the FBI. Have you written it up?”
“In my hand.”
“Then get it out. The profilers will have a heyday with this. Fax me a copy, will you?”
“Will do.”
“And do me a favor. If he calls again, ask him who’s winning the NBA championship.”
That got a chuckle.
Gains folded his phone and crossed his legs. And what if Thomas Hunter did know something other than who would win the Kentucky Derby? Impossible, of course, but then so was knowing who would win the Kentucky Derby.
Hunter had flown out of Atlanta. The headquarters for the CDC were in Atlanta. That would make sense. Hunter thinks a virus is about to ravage the world, he goes to the CDC, and when they grin at his preposterous claims, he goes straight to the source of the so-called virus.
Bangkok.
Interesting. A true-blue nut case. Certifiable.
Then again, how often did lunacy win you $300,000 at the horse track?
22
“THOMAS.”
A sweet voice. Calling his name. Like honey. Thomas.
“Thomas, wake up.”
A woman’s voice. Her hand was on his cheek. He was waking, but he wasn’t sure if he was really awake yet. The hand on his cheek could be part of a dream. For a moment, he let it be a dream.
He relished that dream. This was Monique’s hand on his cheek. The strong-headed French woman who’d been horrified that he might actually die. Thomas! she’d cried. Thomas!
No, no. This wasn’t Monique. This was Rachelle. Yes, that was better. Rachelle was kneeling beside him, caressing his cheek with her hand. Leaning over him, whispering his name. Thomas. Her lips were reaching out to touch his lips. Time to wake the handsome prince.
“Thomas?”
He jerked his eyes open. Blue sky. Waterfall. Rachelle.
He gasped and sat up. He was still on the beach where he’d fallen asleep during the night. He glanced around. No animals were in sight. No Roush. Only Rachelle.
“Do you remember?” she asked.
He did remember. The lake. Diving deep. Ecstasy. It still lingered here on the sound of the waterfall.
“Yes. I’m beginning to remember,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Midday. The others are preparing.”
He also remembered the Crossing and Teeleh’s claim that he’d crash-landed. “They’re preparing for what?”
“For the Gathering tonight.” She said it as though he should know this.
“Of course.” He looked at the lucent waters that stretched across the lake, tempted to swim again. Could he just dive in anytime he wanted to? He pushed himself to his knees. “Actually, I don’t remember everything just yet.”
“What don’t you remember?”
“Well . . . I don’t know. If I knew, I would remember. But I think I understand the Great Romance. It’s about Elyon.”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes.”
“It’s about choosing and rescuing and winning love because that’s what Elyon does.”
“Yes!” she cried.
“And it’s something we do because we are like Elyon in that way.”
“You’re saying that you want to choose me?”
“I am?”
She arched a brow. “And now you’re trying to be tricky about it by pretending that you’re not. But really you’re desperate for my love, and you want me to be desperate for your love.”
He knew that she was exactly right. It was the first time he could admit it to himself, but hearing her say it, Thomas knew that he was falling in love with this woman who knelt by him on the banks of the lake. He was meant to woo her, but she was wooing him.
She was waiting for him to say something.
“Yes,” he said.
Rachelle jumped to her feet. “Come!”
He pushed himself up and brushed the sand from his seat. “What should we do?”
“We should walk through the forest,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I will help you remember.”
“Remember the forest?”
They started up the slope. “I was thinking other thoughts. But that would be nice too.”
She turned back and stopped. “What is that?”
He followed her eyes and saw it clearly. A large blotch of red discolored the white sand where he’d slept.
Blood.
He blinked. His dream? The fight in the hotel flashed through his mind.
No, it couldn’t be. It was only a dream. He had no wounds.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I swam through some red waters in the lake, maybe from that?”
“You never know what will happen with Elyon,” she said. “Only that it will be wonderful. Come.”
They left the lake. But the red stain on the sand lingered in Thomas’s mind. There was the possibility, however remote, that he was different from Rachelle. That he really wasn’t from here. That Rachelle was falling in love with someone who wasn’t what he seemed.
That Teeleh was right.
An hour later the thought was gone.
They walked and laughed, and Rachelle toyed with his mind in lovely ways that only strengthened his resolve to win her. Very slowly they began to set aside the charade and embrace something deeper.
She showed him three new combat moves Tanis had shown her, two aerial and one from a prone position, in the event one fell while fighting, she said. He managed them all, but never with the same precision she demonstrated. Once she had to catch him when he toppled off balance toward her.
She had rescued him. He found it immensely appealing.
He immediately returned the favor by fighting off a hundred phantom Shataiki, sweeping her from her feet in the process. Unlike Tanis and Palus, he did not fall. It was quite a feat, and he began to feel very good about himself.
Rachelle sauntered beside him, hands clasped behind her back, lost in thought.
“Tell me more about your dreams,” she said without looking at him.
“They’re nothing. Nonsense.”
“Oh? That’s not what Tanis thinks. I want to know more. How real are they?”
Tanis was talking about his dreams? The last thing on Earth Thomas wanted to do right now was discuss his dreams. Particularly with Rachelle. But he couldn’t very well lie to her. “They seem real enough. But they’re the histories. A totally different reality.”
“Yes, so you’ve said. So it’s like you’re really living in the histories?”
“When I’m dreaming? Yes.”
“And what do you think of this place”—she motioned to the trees— “in your dreams?”
It was the worst question she could have asked. “Actually, when I’m dreaming it’s like I’m there, not here.”
“But when you’re there, do you remember this place?”
“Sure. It’s . . . it’s like a dream.”
She nodded. “So I’m like a dream?”
“You’re not a dream.” Thomas could feel himself sinking. “You’re walking right beside me, and I have chosen you.”
“I’m not sure I like these dreams of yours.”
“And neither do I.”
“You have a mother and a father in these dreams?”
“Yes.”
“You have a full life, with memories and passions and all that makes us human?”
This was positively not good.
She stopped on the path when he didn’t respond. “What are you doing in your dreams?”
He had to tell her at some point. She’d forced the issue now. “You really want to know?”
“Yes. I want to know everything.”
Thomas paced, thinking of the best way to put it so that she could understand. “I’m living in the histories, before the Great Deception, trying to stop the Raison Strain. Trust me, it’s a horrible thing, Rachelle. It’s so real! Like I’m really there, and all of this here is a dream! I know it’s not, of course, but when I’m there, I also know that is real.” Was this a good way to put it? Somehow he doubted there was a good way to put it.
He continued before she could ask another question. Better that he control the direction of his confession.
“And yes, I have a full history in my dreams. Memories, a family, the full textures of real life.”
“That’s absurd,” she said. “You’ve created a fantasy world with as much detail as the real one. Even more because in your dreams you haven’t lost your memories. You have your own history there, but here you don’t. Is that it?”
“Exactly!”
“It’s preposterous!”
“I can hardly stand it. It’s maddening. Just before you woke me up by the lake, I was fighting a man who was intent on killing me. I think he did kill me! Three shots with a gun to the body.” He tapped his chest.
