“We have to go,” Denver said. “Right now. Come on.”
“All set.” Sandy climbed into the back, shut the doors, and went up to the front passenger seat.
“Have to go,” Andrew nodded. “Gotta get to Montana. Please go.”
They had to be able to help him there. They had to be able to do something about this.
They had to.
Andrew noticed his feet were bare. He had no idea what had happened to Denver’s shoes.
From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Twenty Three
I’d never been so far away from home in my life, but after three hours of desert and no good stations on the radio, the experience kind of lost its novelty.
The car was some kind of classy Oldsmobile with all the extras. I’m pretty sure it had cruise control, but I never could figure out how to use it. At least it was an automatic. Otherwise, this whole plan would have been screwed—more screwed—from the start. My mother never taught me how to drive a stick.
I had Denver Colorado’s directions, along with the name and address of a hotel in Provo, Utah, he’d written in his little notebook. I had about fifty bucks’ worth of gas-station food and drink to keep me going: lots of health-food energy bars and nuts and stuff. Every now and then, I pulled over to the shoulder and took a piss. By the time I’d traveled through Las freaking Vegas, I think I passed my behind-the-wheel test a few times over.
I had a lot of time to think. That’s why I kept changing the station on the radio. I heard a lot of country music and a lot of gospel. There was a station playing rock most of the way through California and almost to Vegas, but it faded out eventually.
I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to dwell on what had happened in Kirby Lake. What I’d done. Who knew, by now. What would happen. It was hundreds of miles in the past, and at least at the moment, it was entirely out of my control anyway.
So I kept my eye on the road, got really good with the radio and the air conditioning but not so good with the cruise control, and focused on the destination. When my mind wandered, I coaxed my thoughts in the direction of what was next.
Finding my dad. Warning him about “Lou” from PrenticeCambrian. Joining him on the road to the Donner Institute. Maybe even seeing Byron Teslowski.
Everything else, like the woman who’d tried to kill me, Lina, Eric Finn, my mom—I tucked away in a little box in my head that might as well be locked in the trunk.
Yeah, it knocked around a little, back there. I turned up the radio when it did.
My legs started to get a little jumpy right before I reached the Arizona border, which was pretty good timing for stretching my legs, since I’d need gas before long, too. I considered stopping somewhere in Mesquite, but it looked a little too…populated. I was, don’t forget, a national celebrity. Of a sort. And even if my face hadn’t been rendered on supermarket tabloids in gorgeous airbrushed black-and-white for the last several months, once you saw me, you remembered me.
All things considered, it was better if I didn’t get seen by too many folks. I’d managed to skip the busier gas stations so far; it made sense to skip Mesquite.
I crossed from Nevada to Arizona and saw signs for a truck stop just north of the freeway. That would have to do—the gas tank wouldn’t allow for much else, and I didn’t know when the next place might come along. I took the exit and pulled in to the self-serve gas pumps.
I got out of the car, arched my back, and inhaled deeply. Who knew when I’d get another chance to take in the scents of wherever-in-the-hell I was?
Sure, there were all the usual gas-station odors, all tangy and sweet and vaguely nauseating, but above that, outside of that, sneaking in on the wind, was the smell of the place. This was the northwest corner of Arizona, a stretch of freeway maybe thirty miles long, and now I knew how it smelled.
I smiled at the novelty of it all, the idea that I was on the same road that started all the way back in southern California, that I was in freaking Arizona, pumping gas in a truck stop, Arizona wind sending Arizona scents into my brain.
Then the guilt hit. I shouldn’t be enjoying myself. I was at a truck stop in Arizona less than twenty-four hours after I’d hurt the guy who’d tried to rape my girlfriend. Less than a day after I’d fucked up my relationship with Lina but good, thanks to that.
Just a few hours after I’d killed someone with my bare hands.
It was self-defense. It was. But I did it. I did it.
Standing there next to the big Olds, I damn near started to bawl. I was in so much trouble, that wasn’t even enough of a word. I wasn’t even the same person I was the day before yesterday.
My brain wanted to keep going down that road, but I couldn’t let it. I had to keep it together. I had to fuel up and get going.
The 15 to the 90 to the 93. A Super 8 motel somewhere in Provo. The 15 to the 90 to the 93. A Super 8 motel.
Then my dad. And then…who knew what.
I sighed hard. I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of Denver Colorado’s shirt. I glanced around, self-conscious, but no one paid any attention to me. That was good.
I went into the station to pay for my gas. The guy who took my money gave me a long look.
“You just pump and get going, all right?” He had a sour look on his long face.
“Ah…yeah. That’s the plan.”
“Had enough trouble around here today,” he volunteered. “I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but we’ve had enough trouble here.”
“I’m just…”
The guy stared hard. I could feel the eyes of a few other people in the place on me, too. A woman scooped up her little girl and they hustled out. The man with them glared at me.
“I’m not…I’m not here to make trouble,” I said. “I’m just buying some gas, all right?”
The attendant nodded sharply. “We already called the cops on you people once today. I don’t care what the rules are; I’ll call the cops. Watch me.”
You people.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I was tired, to the bone, to the soul, but this kind of shit bugged the hell out of me. “What people, anyway?”
“All you Sovereigns, rolling through here on the way to your big party or whatever. Last guy terrorized a whole family; tried to go after their dog.” He squinted at me. “You know him?”
Shit. I probably did. “Ah…what…happened?”
“Big freakout.” He put emphasis on “freak” and backed it up with challenge in his eyes. He had no fear on his scent. “But I guess you all aren’t so hot.” He scoffed and looked superior, like I was automatically part of the Sovereign club and so must be personally put in my place for whatever had gone down. “Guy got scared off by a dude in a wheelchair.”
Well, that pretty much cinched it. Mother fucker.
I got out of there. I filled the tank. I had three dollars and twenty cents of change coming to me. I didn’t go back to collect. It wasn’t my money, anyway.
I got back on the road. As I drove, my imagination made up a steady flow of little movies about what kind of “freakout” my dad put on when he had passed through there.
Going after a family. Going after their dog.
The last time I saw my father, he’d been a mostly crazy, bloodthirsty wild man. Did I think he’d be any different just because he’d apparently had a haircut and a bath?
Did I seriously think he’d be able to help me at all? That he’d even need my help, assuming this Lou guy got to him before I did?
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I put Arizona behind me and slipped into Utah wondering what the hell I was doing.
From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Twenty Four
Another three hours and change on the road, and I found the place. The clock on the dash said six-twelve, but I hadn’t moved it back an hour to account for the fact that I was in a different time zone. It seemed way too light out for being almost a quarter after six.
Funny what you remember.
>
I pulled into the parking lot and drove around the back of the Super 8 motel. The motel was on my right. The left side of the lot ended near the start of a low hillside.
Through the windshield of the Olds, I saw Denver’s white Econoline van right away, and pretty much right after that, what do you know, a motel room door opened, and here comes Denver himself, in his wheelchair, pushed by the gray-haired lady I recognized from the weird videos.
And hello…next out, all crouched and nervous, came my dad.
I did it. I found him.
I didn’t know if I should honk, or park and come over to them totally casual, or what. I grinned like a kid at Christmas.
Then a section of doorframe right next to my dad’s head exploded.
From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Twenty Five
My dad leapt back into the room so fast it was like he’d disappeared. The lady, ducking low, hustled Denver behind the van.
I slammed on the parking brake and got out of the car.
A little puff of disintegrated stucco blew off the wall of the motel just beyond the door frame. From my left, somewhere on that hillside, came a very faint, sharp pft and a louder noise like a crack.
My sensitive olfactory nerve registered, almost as faintly, the tangy, smoky smell of gunpowder.
I put the two together. Whoever was shooting was on that hillside, hidden from sight.
Who could that be but Lou from PrenticeCambrian, Lou from the answering machine…Lou with the dirty pictures of his roommate?
Lou. Shooting at my dad. Well, fuck that.
I ran across the parking lot toward the chain-link fence marking the base of the hill. I’ll never be as fast as my dad, but I’m pretty damn quick, especially in a sprint. Even so, I kept expecting the guy to turn his gun on me.
He fired again, all right, but he was still aiming for my dad. I wished I could spare a glance toward the motel, but my sensorium had done its work.
I knew where Lou was.
A second leap, and I was on the edge of a concrete drainage ditch running horizontally along the hillside.
A third leap, and I was on his back.
I don’t want to make it sound like I’m some kind of action hero. That’s not how it was. Not even.
It’ll probably take you longer to read all this than the time that passed from when I got out of the car to when I reached the guy.
Also, I’d just spent several hundred miles and pretty much the entire day thinking about what would happen when I saw my dad. The idea that one of these PrenticeCambrian assholes would kill him before that could happen was so far off the table, it was, like, ridiculous. Offensive, even.
My head went like this: hey, my dad! Hey, someone’s trying to kill him! Fuck that! Make it stop!
Adrenaline kicked in. My crazy augmented muscles got me where I needed to be. I even got my hands on the barrel of the rifle and managed to yank it out of the shooter’s grasp.
I didn’t expect it to be so hot. I tossed it away by reflex.
While I was doing that, the guy twisted around and kneed me in the nuts.
Another heartbeat, and I was on my back in the drainage ditch. I hit the back of my head on the concrete and saw stars even as he got on top of me and started pounding me with his fists.
He was heavy. Like, overweight-heavy. But he was really strong, and he knew just where to land those punches on my chest and gut and sides.
Pain was everywhere and kept coming. I felt pinned by the sloping sides of the ditch.
I finally got my arms between him and me. I pushed; he got off of me.
In the scrambling moment it took for me to get off my back and onto my hands and knees, fire wracking me all up and down my torso, barely able to draw a decent breath, he was up and ready.
He’d also managed to pull a pretty big knife. I didn’t know shit about such things and still don’t, but it sure seemed to me like he knew how to use it. And planned to.
I couldn’t get to my feet. I was freaking out.
“She’s dead,” I barked to buy some time. “She’s dead!”
“What?”
“I killed her, all right?” Something in me insisted I say her name. “Evelyn. She’s dead.”
His face, which had been red from our struggle, paled a notch. His small eyes widened. His mouth dropped open.
I recognized his reaction as a vulnerability. The wild part of me took over in that thin slice of time. Pain flew out of me in a red rush that seemed to close around my head and narrow my vision down to nothing but this man who had just turned into prey.
I knocked him back, and we played our previous scene with the roles reversed. He lost his grip on the knife. I got on him and started to punch and kick with zero finesse, not that I really had any to display. I sucked at fighting, this was clear, but my augmented strength and speed and reflexes made up for it.
I was crying.
I don’t know why I didn’t use my fingernails on him. That would have been it, right then and there, and I would have had another death on my hands in every sense of the word.
I’ve given that a lot of thought. Things would have turned out very differently if I’d just hooked my hands and given him a couple of slashes across his throat in that mossy, cold, wet gutter. That would have been it.
Instead, I hit him and screamed at him and cried like a crazy person. He did his best to fight back, but I was too fast, too strong, too out of my head. Pretty quickly, it was all he could do to curl into a fetal position and cover his soft parts.
Something very strong gripped my shoulders, pulled me off the guy, and spun me around.
I found myself staring through my tears at my father’s face.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop it now.”
From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Twenty Six
The last time I’d seen my father in the flesh, his hair had been a long, dreadlocked, filthy mess tangled with an equally long, dreadlocked, filthy mess of a beard. His clothes had been layers of rags. He’d stunk like a mildewed pile of feral old socks and trash bin meat.
The man who stood over me on the hillside next to the Super 8 motel bore a scent that was something like my own, something like the warm, vaguely comforting smell of a dog just a few days past its bath…with just a hint of soap. Not rangy or unpleasant at all.
His hair was gray and closely cropped. His bare face was pale and surprisingly smooth.
I knew him by his eyes, though. Green and vibrant, red-rimmed and wide. Half, or more than half, crazy.
He looked past me to where his would-be assassin lay curled up and groaning on the damp concrete of the drainage ditch.
“Didn’t remember you as much of a fighter.”
I looked at the guy named Lou and fought the black urge to keep going on him. At the same time, I was almost giddy to see he was still breathing.
“Sorry,” I said.
“What for?”
My father crouched down on the balls of his feet, wrists on his bent knees. He sniffed at the killer, who looked at him with one swollen, bright eye full of fear and tried to curl into an even tighter ball.
My dad grabbed him by an ear and lifted his head off the ground. “Wonder…should I finish?”
“No!” The thought of seeing another death, of seeing my father kill, of hearing the sounds and smelling the blood and shit and terror…it was terrible to consider. “No! I…I think we should, like, question him. Besides…I thought you didn’t want me to hurt him anymore?”
“Didn’t want you to do it,” he specified. “Still wanna do it. Tried to shoot me!”
From the parking lot, I heard Denver’s voice. “Nate? Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing here?”
I turned and looked down the slope at Denver and his friend. “I…I came to find you guys. To, um…go with you.”
Andrew straightened up and stood over the assassin guy. “How’d you do that?”
The woman with Denver scowled. “There’ll be plenty of time
to catch up later. We have to go.”
I noticed more than a few people watching us from their motel room windows. Some were trying to be careful about it, peeking around curtains. Others just gawked. It was easy to guess that someone had called the cops.
“We should take him with us,” I said in a rush. “He’s some kind of spy or something. For the people behind the whole thing…the same company as Brenhurst.” I looked from Denver to my dad and back to Denver again. “I totally think we should take him with us to the Institute.”
From the ditch, Lou coughed. It was a wet, painful sound. He sobbed, “Evelyn!”
Chills ran down my back. “We can’t leave him!” He’d talk to the cops if we did. And they’d know to check the house in Kirby Lake. And I’d be fucked.
My dad nudged him in a rough way that wasn’t exactly a kick. “Should finish him.”
Denver leaned forward, his hands tight on the arms of his wheelchair. “Are you nuts? You can’t just kill people, Andrew! Come down, both of you.” He shook his head and muttered, “Damn kid. Damn kid,” but if he was hoping I wouldn’t hear him, that was just stupid.
“We have to go right now,” Denver’s friend said again.
My dad’s head tilted, and his eyes widened even more than usual. “Yep. Gotta go.”
I heard it a second later. Sirens. Far away, but coming closer, fast. That settled it. We’d have to leave the PrenticeCambrian assassin there to be found by the cops.
“Get in the damn van!” Denver started to wheel himself away from his friend.
She grabbed the chair. “We can’t take the van! The hotel has the license number.” She shot me a no-nonsense look. “How’d you get here?”
I pointed to the Olds, which was right where I left it, the front door hanging open and the engine running. “Right there.”
Denver looked pissed but resigned. He didn’t waste any time wheeling over to the car. “Open the trunk and throw the chair in. One of you will have to put me in the car. Who’s driving?”
I started to reply, but his friend cut me off with a tone not too different from how my mother sounded when she wasn’t interested in my opinion, only the results she wanted.
The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage Page 23
