Darkness Falls (17 page)

The aching in his lungs finally forced him to take in some of the gas-laden air as Jonas turned and ran at him again, knife outstretched. The kitchen was too small for any real maneuvering and the German wasn't going to fall for the same feint twice. Erin thrust his own knife out in front of him, realizing there was no way to avoid Jonas's attack this time. All he could hope to do at this point was take the son of a bitch with him.

He tensed, hoping there would be enough adrenaline flowing through him to mask the pain caused by a knife penetrating his chest and allow him to concentrate entirely on the pleasure of jamming his in Jonas's neck. Instead, the German jerked unexpectedly to the right, his blade slicing through Erin's side instead of delivering the fatal blow he'd been expecting.

His own knife missed completely, and in a desperate bid to keep the German from slashing again, Erin grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him as they toppled.

He'd built the entire house with his own hands and knew every inch of it, including the exact position of the concrete countertop behind him. He continued lifting as he fell backward, tucking his head forward and narrowly missing the edge of the counter. Jonas wasn't so lucky. The crack of his forehead slamming into the hard surface filled the room just before Erin's back slammed into the floor.

He twisted out from beneath the German, trying to get away from the knife, but then realized he was the only one moving.

After sliding the switchblade across the floor to a safer distance, he fell back against the cabinets, finally realizing why he was still alive. From her position on the floor, Jenna was looking up at him, her hand still holding the leg of Jonas's pants.

Jenna used her sleeve to wipe away the blood running from the gash near her temple and concentrated on bending the needle in her hand to a satisfactory curve.

"You've done this before, right?"

She didn't answer, instead, plunging it into one side of the gash in Erin's ribs.

"Jesus! What are you using? A knitting needle?"

"Hold still. If you squirm, it's going to take longer."

He stared directly forward, jaw clenched as she continued to stitch the wound left by Jonas's knife. It was hard not to dwell on the fact that she was once again causing him horrible suffering, so she focused on the throbbing in her own head. Unfortunately, it wasn't all that bad. As always, she had screwed up and he had taken the hit. It had been a mistake to come there a selfish mistake. He could have died.

"Thanks, by the way," he said, his voice constricted from the pain.

"What?"

"If you hadn't tripped him, he would have gotten me with that knife. You saved my life."

She tied off the last stitch and backed away, stepping over Jonas's still-unconscious body on the floor behind her.

"Jesus, Erin. Don't thank me, okay? Just don't."

He looked down at his side and then began the difficult process of putting his shirt back on. "Are you married?"

"What? No, of course not."

He nodded slowly, his brow slightly furrowed. It was a mannerism she remembered well. He had something to say, but was having a hard time finding the right words.

"Why did you do it, Jenna?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't mean Alaska. I don't care about that. I guess what I want to know is, was it easy for you to walk away and make me think you died?"

"Easy? It was the hardest thing I ever did. I . . ." She fell silent for a moment. "At the time, I thought what I was doing was more important than me or you or anything."

"You don't have to lie to make me feel better, Jen. I know you didn't like what I had to say in my book. I mean, our relationship was built on things we had in common just like everybody else's. Maybe I changed and you didn't. I can understand why you could have stopped loving me."

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know."

She stared down at the duct tape securing Jonas's hands, but didn't really see it. What was the right thing to do? She wanted to tell him the truth -- that there hadn't been a day since she'd left that she hadn't thought about him. But would that just make things worse?

"We need to call someone," she said, silently praying that he would let this go. At least for now.

He turned and walked out of the house without a word.

What had she expected? A joyous, easygoing reunion with no baggage or expectation?

When she found him, he was standing at the edge of his driveway, looking out into the dark desert. Her footsteps made no sound at all in the soft ground, but he seemed to sense her coming up behind him.

"Erin. We've got to call someone."

He didn't answer and Jenna took a few steps closer, but stayed behind him.

"If you're right and Michael is targeting the rest of the water-injected wells, we've got to try to stop him."

"It's too late, Jenna."

"It's not too late! It can't be. What's going to happen if he succeeds? We're not talking about a minor irritation anymore, Erin. We're talking about people starving. Starving because of my bacteria. Because of something / did."

"Yeah. Because of something you did." "Thanks, Erin. That's just what I needed to hear."

"What you needed to hear?" he said suddenly turning toward her. "I'm sorry, have I said something indelicate? Are you feeling a little put out that you trashed my life and fucked the world over?"

They hadn't fought much when they'd been together but when they did, it had always been at the very edge of control. They were both so passionate about so many things, and those things didn't always mesh.

"You're always right, aren't you, Erin? You'd never do anything that isn't calculated to the fifteenth goddamn decimal point, would you? But who was it that used to come and get you when you'd been drinking? Or get between you and some motorcycle gang you picked a fight with?"

"You're equating a little drunk roughhousing with destroying the planet's energy supply?"

"I'm acknowledging that I fucked up. And that I did it in a really big way. But you of all people should have some inkling of why I did it."

They both fell silent, staring at each other through the darkness, neither wanting to be the first to speak.

As usual, he broke down before she did. "The government's looking for someone to blame, Jenna, and if we call them, it'll be you. They aren't going to care that you had nothing to do with it."

"I had everything to do with it."

"You know what I mean," he said. "You should run. Go to Eastern Europe or South America or Africa or something. If you need money, I've got enough for you to live on for the rest of your life."

"I have money."

"The money Teague gave you?"

"We don't have time for this, Erin."

"I'm not going to do something that ends with you in Guantanamo. How is that going to help anyone?"

"So your plan is to do nothing?"

He shrugged.

"And what about Jonas? He's taped to your living room floor."

"You disappear and give me your word you'll stay that way. In a couple of days, when I know you're safe, I'll call the guy in charge of the investigation and hand Jonas over."

"A couple of days?" she said. "A couple of days is too late."

"Teague's been at this forever. What's two more days going to matter?"

"Think, Erin. It's what you're good at, right? How did Jonas get here from Montana?"

Erin folded his arms defiantly across his chest. "I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"He probably flew, I guess. He used to pilot Teague's plane."

She nodded. "So it seems kind of likely that his plane is at an airport somewhere around here. Probably with a flight plan that will take the FBI right to Michael's door."

"Fuck the FBI. They'll just have to get to his door a few days from now."

"Come on, Erin! How long until Michael realizes that he can't get in touch with Jonas? And the minute that happens, he'll be gone."

Chapter
21.

Mark Beamon entered the oval office quietly, pausing for a moment to scan the faces of the men and women sitting in a semicircle around the president's desk. Jack Reynolds was there, as was the chief of staff. The rest of the people were only vaguely familiar. What was it Carrie was so fond of saying? "Sometimes it's hard to tell all you rich, white government guys apart."

Everyone was focused on the president, so no one paid any attention as Beamon took a chair at the far left of the group. Not far enough, though. He hated the White House. Almost by definition, if a guy like him was there, it meant something had gone horribly wrong.

"So we think there's a connection between the attacks and the Al Jazeera story?" the president said.

The man directly to Beamon's right responded. "Obviously, the Saudis were having problems before, but we're talking about three hastily organized bombings in one day. It's probably that the growing insurgency there sees this as something they can exploit to bring down the monarchy."

"And then we end up with a bunch of fanatics running Saudi Arabia," the president said. "How much does Al Jazeera know?"

"Not that much. The story started running last night. They know there's a bacterial contamination at Ghawar and that there have been some shut downs. They've made speculative comparisons to Alaska, and they're being fairly alarmist about how widespread the contamination is, but, ironically, their worst-case scenario is still a lot better than our predictions. You can count on the U. S. networks picking the story up by this afternoon and for Al Jazeera to keep expanding their coverage. I think you can expect the American press to connect the Saudi problems and the fact that the gas shortages we're having can't be explained by the shut downs in Alaska. It's the puzzle piece they've been looking for."

Beamon glanced at his watch. This thing was just about to blow up all over television and here he was -- indefinitely bogged down in a political strategy meeting that had nothing to do with him.

"The Saudi government is requesting help," the man continued.

"What's in it for us?" the president asked. "I'm told that ninety percent of Saudi Arabia's oil comes from the Ghawar field and, as far as anyone can tell, that field is on its way out over the next year. If Saudi Arabia collapses, how are we affected?"

"It could destabilize the region even more, and that could amplify the effects of the damage to the reservoirs. If the Middle East descends into chaos, you could easily see another forty percent drop in exports."

"Bullshit," the president said. "A seventy-five percent drop in exports from the Middle East is unacceptable. This country can't run with that kind of an energy reduction. What about military options? Can we take control of the production and distribution facilities that are still viable?"

There was a brief silence before one of the military men spoke up. "No, sir. They're simply too spread out to defend. And the amount of fuel we would need even to attempt an operation like that would be more than we'd get back."

"Jesus Christ," the president said, running a hand nervously through his hair. Even at a distance, Beamon could see that he was actually sweating. "Sir, the Saudis --"

"I don't give a fuck about the Saudis!" the president shouted. "I've got both GM and Ford getting ready to announce more layoffs. I've got every airline in the country drawing up bankruptcy papers and canceling flights because of a lack of fuel availability. And all I can get from you is that there isn't anything we can do?"

"Mr. President," his chief of staff started, making a valiant attempt at a soothing tone. "In the end, the media picking this up has a silver lining for us. It'll go a long way to explaining the administration's reaction, and it's going to help us get through whatever regulations we need to. Also, the windfall profit tax on the oil companies is almost ready to go to Congress."

"Any resistance?" the president asked.

"It'll pass almost unanimously. The oil companies aren't fighting it because they know it'll be largely symbolic. Their profits from increased prices will be offset by writing off the losses resulting from the damaged fields."

Beamon shifted impatiently in his chair. Accounting? Now he was going to have to sit through a goddamn accounting discussion?

"What about Canada?"

"A couple of people were injured at a protest in front of their embassy yesterday."

Beamon sighed quietly. As one of the world's larger oil producers, and with a population of less than thirty-five million, the Canadians were actually benefiting from all this. Their fuel prices had barely budged, and they were seen as gouging by the average American waiting in line to pay one hundred and thirty dollars to fill up his tank. Of course, the truth was much more complicated -- an incomprehensible web of international agreements, oil company contracts, and free market pricing -- but the media didn't like to be bogged down with facts when there was blood in the water.

"The Canadian government is understandably angry, and they're demanding we do something about the bad publicity they're getting."