Thirst No. 5 (37 page)

“These are his brothers,” I say with a straight face. Of course, neither Seymour nor Matt looks the least bit like Mr. Grey. Dr. Tower reacts like he’s heard the line a thousand times before and doesn’t care that it’s a lie.

“Please keep your visit short,” he says and walks away.

“How are we going to break him out?” Seymour asks.

“All we need is a gurney,” Matt says.

“I don’t understand why he needs to come with us,” Seymour says.

“He wouldn’t be here unless it was important,” Matt says.

Talk about an odd remark. I fix my eyes on Matt. “Explain,” I say.

Matt shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”

“You’re acting like you know who he is,” I say. “Who he
really
is.”

“Because I have a pretty good idea who he is,” Matt says.

“Tell us,” Seymour demands.

“Patience,” Matt says.

I snort. “You accuse me of keeping secrets. Breaking him out of here could be dangerous. The move might kill him.” I add, “You know he has a family.”

“He’s the one who made you promise not to leave him behind,” Matt says. “It’s his choice, not yours.”

I groan inwardly. “All right. But let’s try to keep whatever drug-laced IVs are flowing into his veins intact. He just had his head sawed open. We have to be careful he doesn’t get a seizure or a blood clot.”

“We should borrow one of the hospital’s ambulances,” Matt says.

“ ‘Borrow’?” Seymour says. “Will they see it again?”

“Doubtful,” Matt says, and smiles. He has not smiled in a long time, not even while making love to me. Something is about to happen that he’s looked forward to for a long time. I see it in his face without having any idea what it is.

Naturally, the medical staff on duty are no match for me and Matt. At most the doctors and nurses see a few weird blurs
and suddenly one of their patients is missing. The only bump in our great escape is that Brutran is waiting for us beside the ambulances.

“Did you think I would stay at the hotel and watch HBO?” she says.

“Who’s watching Jolie?” Seymour asks.

“The hotel has an excellent babysitting program. Anyway, Jolie’s asleep. I’m hoping we get back before dawn.” She says the last with a glance at Matt.

“There’s an excellent chance we’ll all be dead by dawn,” Matt says.

Brutran is not intimidated. “I’ve been living on the edge so long I feel lost without it.” She goes to climb in the ambulance. I’m surprised when Matt blocks her way.

“I’m serious,” he says. “What we’re about to do . . . it’s extremely dangerous. Jolie needs her mother.”

Brutran can’t believe the guy she’s been kissing up to is betraying her at such a critical moment. “None of you would have gotten this far without me,” she snaps.

“We’re grateful,” Matt says. “But that changes nothing. You’re staying.”

Brutran looks to me for help—without much hope—before her eyes switch to Seymour. He just hangs his head but I detect a faint smile. Finally she turns back to Matt.

“What am I supposed to do if none of you return?” she asks.

“Try your best to live a decent life,” I say.

Matt puts a hand on her shoulder. “I do this for your daughter. That’s the only reason. Go, one of us will call you tomorrow. I promise.”

Brutran is sharp enough to know Matt is immune to her persuasive powers. “Best of luck,” she says before she walks away. When she is out of earshot Seymour pokes the side of Matt’s arm.

“How come you’re not worried about me getting killed?” he asks.

Matt just smiles. But it is not a reassuring smile.

We load Mr. Grey—and an assortment of tubes, needles, and bags of fluids—into the ambulance and hit the road. Matt drives while Seymour and I sit in the back. The rear seats are uncomfortable but I want to keep an eye on Mr. Grey.

Joshua Tree is 250 miles southwest of Las Vegas, a four-hour drive. I figure we’ll reach it before sunrise. If perchance we get lost, I remember the towering Joshua trees that mark the historic spot.

Which makes for a curious coincidence.

Matt has already made it clear that the
vimana
—it’s hard to imagine that we’re actually going in search of a spaceship—is guarded by two magnificent Joshua trees. As we drive toward the national park, I feel a sense of having come full circle.

While we drive, I let Seymour study
The Story of Veronica
. He devours it in one greedy read. He’s always been a fast reader.

“I want the last chapter,” he complains when he finishes.

“Mr. Grey told me he hasn’t translated it yet,” I say.

“There’s only one page left,” Seymour says.

“I know, he’s lying,” I reply.

“Why?”

I frown. “That I don’t know.”

“It’s interesting how the Master and Krishna sound so similar.”

“The same but different,” I say. “Like General Grant and General Patton.”

“It’s hard to imagine they were the same person.”

“The same soul. That’s the whole point. The personality changes as the body changes.” I add, “That might even be the same with Krishna and Christ.”

“Do you think the Master that Veronica spoke to was Christ?”

“What do you think?” I ask.

“Nothing he said sounded like the Bible.”

“True. But he was talking to a young woman about her life. She never heard him address the public.”

“And time has a way of distorting even the wisest words. Who knows what Christ even taught?” Seymour stops. “But whoever Veronica’s Master was, I would have loved to have met him.”

“And her,” I say. “She was a gutsy little thing.”

Halfway to Joshua Tree, Mr. Grey wakes up. He opens his eyes and carefully scans the compartment. He smiles when he sees me.

“Thank you, Sita,” he says.

“You’re welcome, I hope. You know this trip could kill you.”

“This is where I belong. Do you know where you’re going?”

“Matt’s the one who’s driving. He’s taking us to Joshua Tree National Park.” I pause. “What would your superiors say to that?”

“They would be pleased.” He pauses. “It’s time I checked in with them. Do you have a cell I can borrow?”

I hand him mine. “You’re going to talk to them in front of us?”

“Not exactly.” At first I think Mr. Grey is sending a text message but he only hits eleven keys—like a phone number. I hear it ring on the other end. Someone picks up. Mr. Grey hits another button before hanging up. Obviously he’s sending someone a prearranged message. He keeps the phone and I don’t ask for it back.

But I’m not happy with what he’s done.

“I thought you might call your family,” I say.

“Not yet,” he says.

A few minutes go by. Outside, beneath the glow of the moon, the dark desert rolls along. Matt is driving at eighty miles an hour. I don’t worry about getting stopped by the police. Matt will know when one is in the area. No, my concerns are much more serious.

“Did you translate the end of Veronica’s story?” Seymour asks.

“Not yet,” Mr. Grey repeats. He is definitely lying, and I have never heard him lie before.

I still care for him but I suddenly don’t trust him. The opposing emotions are hard to bottle up inside. I should, though, it would be the wiser move. But I seldom do the wise thing when I’m pissed off.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Weak. Sore. Do you have any water?”

“Seymour, open one of those Evian bottles. Be sure to put a straw in it. Thank you.” Seymour hands me the water and I hold the straw to Mr. Grey’s mouth. He drinks hungrily and then coughs. I quickly pull away the bottle, saying, “Small sips. You don’t want to choke.”

He gestures to the IVs in his arms. “Are these necessary?”

“Dr. Tower says you need your medicine,” I say.

“I’m pretty sure Dr. Tower is wondering where I am about now,” Mr. Grey replies with a grin.

“How about Sarah Goodwin?” I ask.

Mr. Grey blinks. “Pardon?”

“Is she wondering where you are? Where we are?”

“I don’t know.” Mr. Grey looks suddenly pale in the moonlight that peeks through the ambulance window. Or else he’s frightened by my grim expression. “What’s the matter, Sita?” he asks.

“Who did you call just now?”

“It’s not important.”

“But it is. Tell me.”

Mr. Grey lies back and closes his eyes and mutters, “Damn.”

“What’s going on?” Seymour asks, confused.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I call to Matt.

“Mr. Grey sent someone a signal,” Matt calls back.

“Who did he call?” Seymour asks.

“He dialed the number Shanti scribbled on the back of the lawyer’s business card. That mysterious number none of us dared to call.” My eyes narrow on Mr. Grey. “Are your superiors and Tarana one and the same?”

Mr. Grey opens his eyes. “No. They have nothing in common.”

I go to yell at him but catch myself. I hear truth in his words. But then I begin to doubt the accuracy of my own abilities. I fell for Shanti’s lies. Perhaps Mr. Grey is deceiving me just as easily.

“Why?” I ask.

“You can’t save Sarah Goodwin unless someone brings her to us.”

“How do you know they’ll bring her?” I ask.

“They used her grandmother last time and it worked. They’ll use Sarah this time.” Mr. Grey glances at Seymour. “They’ll use whatever it takes.”

“Damn you, I saved her grandmother from the camp. I saved her grandfather. It didn’t work last time. How dare you . . .” I don’t finish, I can’t. I’m so angry I can’t find the words.

“Are you saying the people who have been trying to kill us are going to be at the spaceship?” Seymour asks.

“In a manner of speaking,” Mr. Grey replies.

Seymour is obviously shaken by the possibility—he is not the only one. However, at the same time, I can tell he is thinking deeply, and that he is aware that I feel betrayed. He reaches over and takes my hand.

“Sita. Think,” he says. “Whoever posted the game on the Internet knew the solution to the game. So whoever they are, they’re not using us to find the
vimana
. They already know where it is. They want something else from us.”

“Logical,” I say, appreciating his insight. “Are you suggesting they want to bargain with us?”

“I suspect it will be more of a duel than a negotiation,” Seymour says.

“Like Auschwitz,” I say.

“Possibly,” Seymour says.

“But I won at Auschwitz,” I say.

“If you’d won, you wouldn’t be fighting the same battle all over,” Mr. Grey says. “At best you reached a stalemate with the enemy during your stay at the concentration camp, and that’s being kind.”

“Tell me straight,” I say. “Are you working for Tarana or us?”

Mr. Grey stares at me with his warm brown eyes. “I’m loyal to you. Only to you.”

Damn, I could swear he’s being sincere. For the life of me I don’t know what the hell is going on.

We reach Joshua Tree an hour before dawn and park well off the road. Matt appears confident that we’re close to our goal, but suddenly I’m not so sure. The area looks different from the last time I was here, when John was just an infant. I don’t see as many Joshua trees, and the ones near the road are not very impressive.

Yet Matt radiates certainty. Climbing out of the ambulance, he points to a distant hill. In the glow of the full moon it looks like a levitating lake—possibly because its soil is a lighter shade than the surrounding terrain.

“We’re almost there,” Matt says. “That’s where the game ended.”

Seymour groans. “That hill’s a four-mile walk.”

“More like three miles,” Matt says, searching the area. “I think we got here first. I don’t hear anyone.”

“We’re alone,” I say.

“What do you want to do with Mr. Grey?” Matt asks.

“Shoot him,” I say.

Matt is amused. “He finally pissed you off.”

“Duh. He called Tarana. Or whatever human being Tarana happens to be inhabiting.”

Matt nods. “All right, I’ll carry him then. But I’ll have to remove his IVs.”

Matt turns to the back of the ambulance while Seymour
and I collect a handful of water bottles and stuff them into a pack. The air is cool but bone-dry. We won’t have to walk far to get thirsty. Tossing the pack over my back, I start toward the hill.

“What are we looking for exactly?” Seymour says. “The
vimana
that crashed during the Mahabharata war?”

“I’m not sure. A lot more happened that night I spent with Karna and Duryodhana. I wish I could get over this memory block. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is. Hell, I remember everything I did for the last five thousand years.”

“Every person you killed?”