Red (45 page)

She approached it in a crouch. Tried the door. Open! She slid in and searched madly for keys. Visor. Passenger seat. Cup holder. Dash.

They were in the ignition. She twisted and looked out the rear window. Still no sign of pursuit. But if she started the car . . .

Monique gently pulled the door closed, heard the latch click. No lights—she couldn't dare use lights. The driveway was gray enough to see despite the lack of moonlight. She prayed the car had a decent muffler, fired the engine, pulled the stick into drive, and rolled over the dirt, holding her breath to help the silence.

She made two short turns before driving behind a hill. Still too close for lights. Still too close to rev the engine. He might hear or see, even at this distance. For all she knew, Carlos was sprinting across the meadow now. Over the hill to cut her off.

The moment she entered the trees she picked up her speed, but she dared not turn the lights on. Without them, she could hardly see. She drove at ten kilometers per hour for a kilometer. Then two. Still no one behind.

But that wasn't true. Thomas was behind. An image of his body filled her mind. Bleeding from the head. Dead.

She wiped her eyes to see the road.

After five kilometers, Monique turned on the lights and shoved the gas pedal to the floor.

25

DEPUTY SECRETARY Merton Gains adjusted the receiver to give his neck a break. He'd been on hold for ten minutes despite the assurances that the president would take his call immediately. Immediately had always meant a short wait, but ten minutes? This was the new meaning of immediately—the one that came after a week of beating their heads against this brick wall called the Raison Strain.

Gains always vaguely feared it would come down to something like this. It was why he'd introduced his bill to change the way vaccines were used in the United States. Of course, he'd never anticipated a crisis as widespread and terminal as this one, but the danger had always lurked out there. Now it had bitten them in the rear end without so much as a warning.

He'd seen Raison Strain simulations a dozen times. It grew quietly and then struck with a vengeance, rupturing cells in indiscriminate, systemic fashion.
It was precisely how the political fallout from the crisis would develop,
he thought.

At this very moment, a hundred governments were on the verge of ending the silence they'd managed so far. A thousand reporters were sniffing and starting to come up with questions no one could answer. The world's genetics labs were working overtime, and the thousands of scientists on the Raison Strain were murmuring already.

This didn't include the military personnel who had been involved in the massive movement of hardware to the eastern seaports. They'd been trained to keep their questions to themselves and their mouths firmly shut. But all told, over ten thousand people now directly engaged the Raison Strain, and most of those suspected that the new virus that had been restricted to a small island south of Java wasn't nearly so isolated as everyone was saying.

He'd taken a call yesterday from Mike Orear with CNN. The man was on to them. He didn't say how he'd uncovered his information, but he knew that terrorists had released a virus of some kind, and he threatened to break the story in twenty-four hours if the president didn't come clean. It was all Gains could do to hold the man back. He couldn't very well refuse to comment, and a flat denial might push Orear over the edge. Gains had threatened the man with a long list of national security violations, but in the end, it was apparent the man knew too much. Orear had finally agreed to hold off until Gains had spoken with the president.

That was twenty-four hours ago, and the president had seemed surprisingly ambivalent about the prospect of CNN breaking the story. When the news broke, it would boil over and swamp the world. God only knew to what end.

There was only one way to temper the news.

“Merton?” The president's voice took him off guard.

“Yes, hello, Mr. President. I, um . . . I just got off the phone with England, sir.”

“I don't mean to push, but I'm late for a meeting with the World Health Organization.”

“Yes, sir. I just got off the phone with Monique de Raison. She called me from Dover about twenty—”

“She's alive?”

“She evidently escaped from an undisclosed location in France. She managed to get across the English Channel.”

“And Thomas?”

“He was killed during the escape.”

The receiver hissed quietly.

“You're sure about this?”

“About which—”

“About Hunter! You're sure he's dead?”

“Monique seems quite sure.”

Gains hadn't realized how much stock the president had put in Thomas, and hearing the admission in his tone brought surprising comfort. Amazing that certain things didn't change even in the face of crisis.

“Does she have it?” the president demanded.

“She thinks so. At least a very strong lead.”

“Okay. I want her here now. Put her on the fastest plane we have out of our air base in Lakenheath. Use an F-16—use whatever we have that can make the flight. The British are aware of this?”

“I'm waiting for a callback.”

“Callback? This isn't a time for callbacks! I want her here in four hours, you understand? And make sure that she's under a heavy guard the whole way. Send an air escort with her. Treat her like she's me. Clear?”

“Yes sir.”

26

RACHELLE CRESTED the dune that overlooked the Horde camp when the sun was halfway up the eastern sky.

Find Thomas,
Justin had said. The words had haunted Rachelle as she stumbled over the sand.
No matter how terrible,
he had said. What could possibly be so terrible?

She ran down the dune toward the Horde camp. In all truth her spirit soared. Yes, Thomas was in the Horde camp, their virtual prisoner, and yes, there was danger on every side—she could feel it like the sun on her back.

But she'd found Elyon! Justin was the boy; she was sure of it. He'd changed her skin from gray to flesh tone, and he'd healed her wounds with a single word. Elyon had come to save his people! She couldn't wait to tell Thomas.

She understood that Monique had made a connection with her. What Monique was doing now, she had no clue. Unlike Thomas, who seemed to have an awareness of both worlds at all times, her and Monique's connection was apparently sporadic and depended on Thomas.

Rachelle began to yell when she was still two hundred yards out, before anyone had seen her. Whatever happened, she couldn't risk them misunderstanding her intentions as hostile.

“Thomas! I need to see Thomas of Hunter!”

She must have screamed it a dozen times before the first soldiers appeared at the perimeter. And then there were a hundred of them, staring out at the strange sight. This unarmed woman screaming in from the desert, demanding to see Thomas of Hunter.

She pulled up panting, twenty paces from the line of ugly beasts.

“I've been sent to speak to Thomas of Hunter. It's urgent I see him.”

They stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. And why would they ever agree to let her see him? Thomas was their insurance.

“What business do you have?” one of them demanded.

“I am here because my lord needs me,” she said, remembering what Thomas had told her about the way the Horde women spoke of the men. Several seemed stunned by her request. Was something wrong with Thomas?

“I am here to ensure that nothing is wrong with him. I am sent by our Council to know that he's in good health.”

The Scab who'd assumed charge scowled. “Be gone, you wench! Tell your commander that we don't accept spies.”

Rachelle panicked. “Then Mikil will cut Qurong's throat!” she screamed.

That set them back.

“If you turn me back, I will go straight to them and tell them that you've betrayed them, and Qurong will die. If I don't return in good health myself, then the same will happen. So don't think of hurting me.”

The leader, a general by his sash, studied her for a moment. “Wait here.”

He backed away, conferred with several other warriors, sent one of them off with a message, then returned.

“Follow me.”

She entered the camp surrounded by a small army. The smell was hardly tolerable, and so many shrouded eyes peering at her made her skin crawl. She tried to breathe in shallow pulls, but it only made her dizzy. So she breathed deeply and forced her mind from the stench.

No women that she could see. Naturally, the Horde didn't allow their women to fight. She couldn't bear to look the men in the eyes, but she refused to look any less than a warrior herself, so she walked tall and straight, praying that she would be directed at the next possible moment into a tent to see Thomas.

They led her to a large tent in the middle of the camp. If she was right, this was the royal tent where Thomas had found the Books of Histories.

A guard parted the front flaps and she stepped in. The general who met her was named Woref, if she understood the guards correctly. His eyes had the look of a snake, and his face looked as though it might crack if he tried to smile.

“Where's Thomas?”

“We did nothing to him. You should know this. His wounds are self-inflicted.”

“What wounds? Take me to him!”

He dipped his head and led her down a hallway. The serpentine bat they worshiped was everywhere—decorative paintings on the walls, molded statues in the corners. Teeleh.
Elyon, protect me.
They entered a large room where a half-dozen guards stood at the ready. A long table was spread with an array of fruits and wines and cheeses.

But where—

A body lay on a cushion along one of the walls. The head was bloody.

Thomas? Yes, it was him; she recognized his tunic immediately. He was wounded!

Rachelle ran over to him, dropped to her knees, and stared in horror at a round hole the size of her finger in his head. Blood had run into his hair. Dried.

“Thomas?”

But he was dead. Dead! And by the looks of him, he had been dead for some time.

She couldn't breathe. It wasn't possible! No, this couldn't be happening! Justin had found her, and she had just been saved, and Samuel and Marie were still children, and . . .

What could have made this kind of wound? No weapon of this world.

Something had happened to Thomas in the other reality. She recalled that Monique had been sleeping next to him under the boulder. Carlos must have found them! Now Thomas was dead. But she was still alive!

The thoughts drummed through her head painfully. Her heart didn't feel like it was moving. And behind her the Scabs were staring.

She spun around. “Out! Get out!” she screamed. Her vision was clouded with the pain. “Leave!”

The general scowled but left her alone with the body.

Rachelle sank slowly to her knees, knowing precisely what she had to do. Elyon had told her to find Thomas, not this dead body. Justin had healed her from near death. He carried the power of the fruit in his hands, they said, because he
was
the power of the fruit.

And now she would use that same power.

She rested both hands on his cheeks. Her tears fell on his face. “Wake up, Thomas,” she whispered. “Thomas, please.”

But he didn't wake up.

Now her voice rose to a soft wail. “Please, please. Save him, Elyon. Wake him from the dead.”

Waking from the dead isn't like healing
.

“Yes, it is!” she shouted. “Wake up, Thomas! Wake up!”

But he still didn't wake up. There was still a hole in his forehead. He was still dead.

She kissed his cold lips and began to sob. What if Justin didn't know he was dead? No, that was impossible. “Wake up,” she cried again, slapping his face. “Wake up!”

Justin had to know. He knew everything. They didn't know; they didn't even remember—
Remember me. Remember my water.

His water. She frantically grasped the canteen still hooked to Thomas's belt. Pulled it free from the clip. Spun off the cap.

She splashed some on his face before she'd really thought it through. The clear liquid ran over his lips and his eyes and filled the small wound on his forehead.

She dumped more on. “Please, please, please . . .”

Thomas's mouth suddenly jerked open.

Rachelle cried out and jumped back. The canteen flew from her hands.

Thomas gasped. The wound closed, as if his skin was formed of wax that had melted to fill itself in. She had seen nothing like it for fifteen years, when she chose Thomas by healing him of the deadly wounds he'd suffered in the black forest.

Thomas's eyes opened.

Rachelle lifted both hands to her lips to stifle a cry of joy. Then she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his throat.

“Get off me, get off me, you . . .”

He didn't know who she was! She lifted her head so that he could see her face. “It's me, Thomas!”

She kissed him on the lips. “Me. You remember my mouth if not my face.”

“What . . . where are we?” He struggled up.

“Be quiet; they're outside,” she whispered. “We're in the Horde camp.”

He jumped to his feet. The blood was still on his face, but his wound was gone. She could hardly take her eyes off his forehead.

“You were dead,” she said. “But Elyon's water healed you.”

“His water heals again? I . . . how is that—”

“No, I don't think his water's changed. I think he just used it to heal you. Justin is the boy, Thomas.”

He lifted a hand to his hair, felt the blood, looked at his fingers. “I was shot. But I didn't dream. I don't have any memory of a dream.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. What was it like coming back to life? Hopefully he was putting the pieces of his memory back in place.