by Amy Plum
This kiss isn’t urgent and needy like the last one. It’s a slow kiss that promises more to come. Which is exactly what I want: more Juneau. More time.
“We need to get you out of here,” I say finally, forcing myself to pull away from her embrace.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says.
“I am going to tell my father that you were too tired to talk,” I say. “That I can try again in a few hours.”
I start to get up, and she squeezes my hand to stop me. “Miles?”
I raise an eyebrow, waiting. Keeping a totally straight face, she says, “Even though you make a crappy fire and wouldn’t survive more than ten minutes in the wilderness, there isn’t anyone I’d rather be with at a time like this. You’re my desert island friend.” And she grins.
I laugh. “Even though you could probably kill me in fifteen different ways with a table fork, and even though you barbecue bunnies, I like you, too, Juneau. So let’s get out of here and get our butts to New Mexico.”
“A very good plan,” she says. I stand and lean over the bed and kiss her forehead. She gives me her crooked mouth-closed smile, and I feel a rush of relief. She’s going to be okay.
My dad is waiting in the den, wearing his “caring father” expression. “Did she tell you anything?” he asks expectantly.
He probably thinks I can’t see through his act. Well, I learned my lying skills from the very best. I rearrange my face to show concern and disappointment. “She was too tired to really talk,” I say, and his face falls. “But she did mention that you said something about her eye being a genetic mutation?” Dad nods and, leading me into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge. He pours us both a glass and takes a swig from his.
“The girl’s eye is a mutation, and if all the children in her clan have the same one, as she claims, it means that their parents all did something that would produce that dramatic of an effect in their offspring.”
“And you think this has something to do with a drug.”
“What I was told, Miles, is that a group of greenie scientists were working on a drug to solve the problem of endangered animals. To help species that were dying out resist disease and extinction. They tried it on themselves and found that they were immune to every illness they tested. It would have been at least a year—nine months, of course—before they could find out that it had an effect on a developing fetus. And when they knew what they had, they escaped America for somewhere they could live undetected, in seclusion.”
“Just to hide their kids’ eyes?” I ask doubtfully.
My father sets his glass down on the counter and looks at me intently. “I’m guessing that they didn’t initially know what they had. But they stayed when they discovered they had stopped aging.”
“So that’s what Amrit is,” I say, confirming my theory from before—from when I saw Whit with my own eyes. “It’s a drug that stops aging.”
“If you want to get technical about it, Amrit doesn’t completely stop aging. But it slows it down to an imperceptible rate—at least that’s what Dr. Graves claims. It’s the holy grail, Miles. The fountain of youth. They have figured out how to cheat death.”
I just stare at Dad, at the greed on his face, and feel sick. “Not only do I think you’re all crazy,” I say, “but I think you’ve been duped.”
Dad holds a finger up, like he’s scolding me. “Believe it or not, it’s true. I’ve seen the test results. I’ve seen Mr. Graves himself. I know what’s possible with this drug, Miles. And Blackwell Pharmaceutical will own its patent.” He turns and leaves the room.
I’m not going to let this happen. When I hear his office door close, I sneak away to the carport and start cleaning out my car, leaving all the camping gear in the back. We’re going to need it. Hopefully soon.
60
JUNEAU
THE BUZZING IN MY EARS HAS FINALLY STOPPED. My vision is normal, but I feel shaky. And the last time I went to the bathroom, the nurse had to come over and help me walk. My legs feel like rubber bands.
No one knows what happened to me. The paramedic said I could have just fainted or had a panic attack. It could have been the stress of the last few days. All I know is that when Mr. Blackwell said what he did about the elders taking a drug and having mutant babies, something snapped in me. Maybe because it made sense. Maybe because I didn’t want it to be true. My clan’s lies are never-ending. We kids are experiments. The whole thought of it made me sick.
I am left alone with my thoughts and for once don’t want to be by myself. It’s just me and the realization that what Mr. Blackwell said about a drug is true. I didn’t make the connection before, didn’t realize that what I thought was a complicated ceremony to unite a person to the Yara could actually be broken down to one essential component. That the singing and dancing and arrangement of the body was just a farce. That the tying of elements to the hands and feet, the nine sips of pure water, the furs and feathers and candles and crystals were all symbols. Like Whit’s totems. They were all a sham.
Only a second of the eight-hour ceremony counted for anything, and that was when the concoction of plants and minerals was poured down the initiate’s throat. It was a drug. And it had a name: Amrit.
I didn’t think I could feel any worse, but this has made me numb with shock. United with the Yara? What a joke. I have a bitter taste in my mouth, and if I weren’t sitting in someone’s nice bedroom, I would spit.
I hear the sound of a door slamming, and a minute later the roar of a car engine starting up and driving off. Miles bursts into the room. “Dad just got called into the office for something urgent. We’ve got to get you out of here before he gets back. The closer Dad thinks he’s getting to the truth, the more pressure he’s going to put on you. You’re never going to be able to get away until he gets what he wants, and maybe not even after that.”
Miles grabs my shoes from beside the door and hands them to me. “The nurse is watching TV. If we go out the back, she won’t see us leave the house, but she can see my car out of the window. And if she sees you outside, she’ll definitely phone my dad to let him know. Do you think you could do your disappearing act for the length of time it takes you to walk from the side of the house until you get into the car?”
I nod, although I’m not really sure. I lace up my second shoe and rise unsteadily to my feet. Miles puts an arm around me, and we tiptoe out of the bedroom and down a corridor to a glass door leading out to a flagstone patio. Miles turns the key in the lock and opens the door, careful not to make a noise.
We slip out onto the patio, and I follow Miles around the side of the house. He looks at the car, and then points to the front window. The nurse is sitting facing the window, watching an enormous flat-screen TV that is to one side of it, but with a clear view down the drive.
“I’m going to walk first, open the car door, and hesitate a second before I get in. If you can slip past me in through the driver’s-side door and stay invisible until we drive off, the nurse will think it’s only me who left.”
“Okay, just give me a second,” I say, and closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Suddenly losing my equilibrium, I stumble, and Miles reaches out to grab my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his brow knit with worry.
I nod. “Closing eyes—not a good idea,” I say. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to connect to the Yara while standing up. I’m still so dizzy.”
“Okay, how about if you hold on to me while you walk. Would that work?” he asks.
“Let’s try,” I say, and looping my arm through his, put some of my weight on him. “Put your arm down a little, or it looks like you’re holding someone up.” Miles puts both of his hands in his front pockets, and I get a good grasp of his arm. “That’s perfect,” I say. “Now hold still.”
I stand, holding Miles’s right arm with both hands, and keep my eyes open this time. Metamorphosis, I think, and look at the colors around me. Green everywhere. The gra
ss, bushes, and trees make an almost solid verdant backdrop, and I picture a chameleon in my mind, skin changing to meld in with its environment. I feel the Yara flash through my body like a lightning bolt as I change to resemble my surroundings.
“You’re green!” says Miles from next to me. “Not just green. Kind of greeny brown, like camouflage.”
“Let’s go!” I urge, and we set out toward the car. Miles opens the driver’s-side door and then drops the keys on the ground. As he bends slowly to pick them up, I slide past him and slither into the passenger’s seat, pushing myself as low down under the dashboard as possible, in case my camouflage wears off.
Miles gets in the car, closes the door, and starts the ignition. I watch him smile and wave good-bye to the nurse before putting the car in gear and looping around his driveway and back down the drive.
“Was she watching?” I ask, not daring to move until we are well away. We pull out onto the main road, and Miles floors the gas pedal.
“She waved at me,” he says, “and as soon as I waved back, she turned and walked off in the direction of your bedroom. She’ll be finding out about now that you’re gone. And the call will go straight in to my dad.”
I raise myself up off the floor to sit on the passenger seat and strap my seat belt across me. Miles looks over at me and smiles a wide smile. “We did it!” he crows.
I lean my head back against the headrest and exhale a deep sigh of relief. I feel the Conjuring leave me and look down to see my own suntanned skin, jeans, and tennis shoes.
“All right. Dad will have someone following us as soon as he knows you’re gone. I won’t be able to use any of my credit cards, so I hope you’ve got money.”
“I lost my bag in the scuffle back in Salt Lake City,” I say mournfully.
“No, you didn’t,” he says. “It’s back there.”
I lean over the seat and see my bag sitting on the floor and almost faint from relief. “Miles, thank you. My whole life is in that bag.” I pull it over the seat to rummage through. Everything’s still there, except my crossbow, of course, which I dropped when I was seized outside Whit’s car. Although I feel defenseless without it, I still have my knife.
“Next stop, New Mexico!” Miles says.
“Woo-hoo!” I yell.
But our excitement disappears seconds later when Miles glances in the rearview mirror and starts swearing. I turn to see what he’s looking at. A block away, coming upon us at a frightening speed, is an army-green Jeep.
61
JUNEAU
MILES FLOORS IT. THIS IS HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, and he manages to stay ahead of the Jeep. And then he takes a right, and suddenly we’re leaving the suburb and heading toward a desolate landscape dotted with sparse trees and sagebrush.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To the desert. I think we can lose them better out here. I know of a place we could hide. A place my friends and I used to go to hang out when we didn’t want our parents to find us. It’s an old shack.”
“But Miles, out here we’re easy prey. There’s nothing to hide behind. It’s just a matter of who’s faster.”
“It’s the only plan I’ve got,” he says with a worried frown.
For a while, we stay ahead, but the Jeep gains a little with each mile. Finally, when it’s only a few yards behind us, the Jeep swerves into the left lane and speeds up until we are almost side by side. Whit is in the passenger’s seat, his window down, waving at us to pull over. “Stop!” I can see him yell, but the roaring of the motors drowns his voice.
And then everything happens at once: the guard in the backseat lifts a gun and pulls the trigger before I have time to react. “No!” I scream, just as there is a loud crack of gunfire. Whit turns and wrestles with the guard. The gun goes off again. Miles makes a grunting sound, and our car swerves dangerously to the right. I grab the wheel and straighten us as Miles slumps over toward the window.
“Miles!” I yell. “Are you okay?”
“I think I just got shot,” he says. “Take the wheel.”
I unfasten both of our seat belts, grab the wheel, and scoot over to knock Miles’s foot off the pedals. He slumps down to lean back across the seat, pulling his legs up toward him to make room for me. I am numb all over. My body has taken over, since my mind can’t deal with what just happened.
I stare over at the Jeep and see Whit’s white face in the open window. He looks horrified. He hadn’t expected his guy to shoot—that much is clear. I feel a wave of nausea hit me and have to concentrate to keep from trembling. It’s my second time behind the wheel, and I’m barreling down a desert highway at top speed. Just stay on the road and keep the pedal down, I tell myself.
I know I can’t outdrive Whit’s men. I have to do something. Reach the Yara. I’ll never be able to calm myself enough to connect. But those were Whit’s rules, I remind myself. And though my heart’s beating like a drum against my rib cage and my breathing is erratic, I wipe everything from my mind and focus on the force that runs through everything: me, Miles, the car, the road, and the air around us. This force is mine to use and I, in return, am its tool. I feel the lightning bolt of connection, and suddenly I am clear. Focused.
Both cars have slowed down. It looks like Whit is yelling at the guy in the backseat and not completely focused on the road. I glance at the Jeep and imagine the inside of its motor. I picture the silver-and-white spark plugs that I Read before, and think water, focusing on taking any moisture in this dry landscape and gathering it right there, right between the connection of the plugs and the motor. And all of a sudden the Jeep skids out.
I watch it in the rearview mirror, spinning in circles on the road behind us before flying off the road and landing on its side. That’s all I have time to see before we pass over a ridge and out of sight.
Miles moans from beside me. “Miles!” I yell. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m alive,” he says, “but I think he got me in the chest.”
“Miles, we can’t go back to town if that means passing the Jeep. If they’re still alive, they might try to shoot us again.” I slow the car down enough so that I can think. Now that the strength of the Yara has left me, I feel numb with shock. “Where is this place you wanted to hide?”
“It’s just this old shack. Take a right past the Exxon sign, hidden behind a boulder,” he says, panting hard. I see an Exxon billboard in the distance and head straight for it, then take the dirt road behind it so fast that the back of the car fishtails. My heart leaps to my throat, but I manage to straighten out and stay on the road.
We are coming up to a massive boulder-like rock formation. A nearly invisible path winds behind it, and right there in the middle of nowhere, but invisible from the main road, stands a shack.
I screech to a stop between the shack and the boulder, hiding the car from anyone who might drive by. Jumping out, I run around to the passenger’s side and open it. Miles is lying on his back with his legs bent. There’s blood all over the place: I can’t even see where it’s coming from.
“Oh, Miles,” I whisper. Though I’m used to hunting—to seeing blood and gore—I feel powerless.
“Do you think you can walk?” I ask.
“I’ll try,” he says. His voice is weak. That scares me more than all the blood.
Be calm, I think. You have to be strong. Now is not the time for emotions.
“Let’s get you inside the cabin,” I say. “The Jeep flipped onto its side, but they might be able to get it back on the road.”
“When he finds out you’re gone, Dad will be after us too,” Miles says.
“Don’t worry about that,” I say, and prop him into a sitting position, pulling his legs to swing them around and out of the car. I loop his arm over my shoulder and heave him up. We half stumble over the pebbled ground toward the ramshackle house, Miles groaning and pressing his hand to his side. I get him up onto the porch and, seeing that the door is ajar, kick it open. I take a look around. There is nothing insi
de. No sink. No furniture. No electricity. Just one small room with beer bottles and cigarette packets strewn about.
I help lower Miles to the floor, then rip off my jacket, fold it a couple of times and place it under his head. I run back out to the car and pop the trunk to drag my bag and the camping gear in, in case there’s anything in there that will be of use.
It’s dark inside the room, so I light some of the camping candles and put them around Miles’s body. I don’t take the time to unbutton his cotton shirt, I just rip it and let the buttons fly. The T-shirt beneath is so thoroughly soaked in blood I have no idea what color it was originally. I take scissors out of my pack and cut straight up the middle of the shirt through the neckline, and then down through the sleeves, so he is lying bare-chested and the bullet hole in his side, between two ribs, is exposed.
Miles lets out another groan and, wrapping his arms around his chest, writhes in pain.
“Shh, Miles. Try to stay still,” I say, and bring a candle closer so I can see his wound. It is a round hole the size of my fingertip, with blood oozing from it. I touch it, pulling the flesh apart enough to see that the bullet is embedded a couple of inches in. I don’t know what to do. I glance around the room once more, assessing what I have available to me.
I should call someone to come help us, but there’s no phone in this shack. “Miles, you didn’t get a new phone, did you?” I ask. He shakes his head no. I wonder how close the nearest hospital is. I doubt I’d even be able to find it in time. And I could try to flag someone down on the road, but I have no idea if Whit and his men have their Jeep back up and running.
This is up to me, I realize. Miles’s life is in my hands. I inspect the bullet hole again, and then, digging through my bag, pull out my bowie knife. I’ve dug thousands of crossbow arrows out of dead prey, but never a bullet.
