“Sweet Jesus, he did it!” Richards cried. He grabbed Quentin’s shoulder and shouted, “Follow me!” He pointed to the terminal and waved for them all to follow.
As they moved away from the plane, Quentin turned to look up. Staring at them through one of the jet’s windows was Dr. Saskia, a broad smile on his face. In the window next to him was the face of Captain William Kessel, wearing a look that was as far from a smile as it could have been.
Getting teleported somewhere wasn’t what Bobby thought it would be. There was no tingly feeling, just the sudden noise from the planes. And the air was different. It smelled like oil and pollution.
But there was no time to think about this. They were running, following Colonel Richards. The colonel understood now how dangerous the Lamotelokhai was. Bobby was starting to wonder if anyone would be able to use the Lamotelokhai without killing people.
As soon as they entered the terminal, an airport security guard stopped them. The guy stared at them, and Bobby realized they must look pretty strange. Except for Colonel Richards, they all wore the plastic flip-flops and blue shirts and pants from the hospital. They looked like mental patients on a field trip.
Richards took charge. “I’m Colonel Roger Richards, from the U.S. Embassy, Indonesia.” He opened a wallet and showed an ID. “These civilians I am escorting have suffered an appalling ordeal, and it has been rendered worse by a diversion to an alternate airport. I’m procuring a rental vehicle and getting them the hell out of here.”
The guard asked to see everyone’s identification.
The colonel scowled. “As I said, these people have just been through an ordeal. They’ve lost their possessions and have been transported back to the States on a military-sanctioned flight. There are special circumstances involved.” Richards glanced at his watch and looked around the terminal. “Look, son. We’re taking your valuable time. You obviously have a situation on your hands here. Here’s my card.” He pulled a white card from his wallet. “Feel free to confirm my objective, but I’ve got to get these people to their destination.” Richards then nodded at them to follow him. The man stepped aside and let them go.
Soon they were out the front doors. They following the Ground Transportation signs and headed across a street lined with waiting taxicabs. They stopped briefly on a divider and then darted across another three lanes and into a parking lot filled with rental cars. They approached the glass-fronted building. “We’re not in the clear yet,” Richards said. “We need to secure a rental before the place is overrun.”
At that moment, screaming sirens filled the air. Police cars pulled up in front of the terminal on the far side of the street. Behind the police cars was a string of black SUVs. If they had crossed the street only seconds later, they would have been directly in the cars’ headlights.
“Time’s up,” Richards said.
They entered the rental building and moved to a row of seats hidden from the front windows by one of the counters. Richards stood at the counter and rented a vehicle. Bobby peeked over the counter to watch the activity across the street. Men piled out of the vehicles and ran into the terminal. Four men in suits waited outside with the vehicles, but then one of them pointed across the street. They started walking toward the building.
“Colonel Richards!” Bobby hissed. “Those men are coming.”
Richards pushed a paper across the counter and snatched up a key that was lying there. “Please take us to our vehicle,” he said to the woman behind the counter. “We’re late.”
They left through a door on the side of the building just as the men finished crossing the street. They were led to a red minivan. The rental lady started doing some kind of inspection, but Richards hastily signed a clipboard and waved her away. As they piled into the van, the four men came out the side door of the building and one of them spotted Colonel Richards. The man pointed at them and yelled something.
Richards mumbled a curse. “I’ll have to talk to these boys. As soon as I get them out of view, you get the hell out of here.” He dumped some things that Bobby couldn’t see onto the driver’s seat and tossed the key to Mr. Darnell. “Remember, a media blitz. Whatever it takes, make it happen.” Then he closed the door and walked toward the men.
Mr. Darnell climbed into the driver’s seat, moving the things Richards had put there under his seat. Mrs. Darnell and Ashley still stood outside the sliding door, and they quickly got in.
Richards tried guiding the men back to the building, but it didn’t work. They continued toward the van. Richards waved his arms for them to drive away. Mrs. Darnell slammed the sliding door shut as the van backed out of its slot. Then the men were there, just outside, looking in. The locks popped down as one of them reached for the door.
“Sir, please open the door,” the man said.
For a second, Mr. Darnell looked like he might unlock the doors. But Colonel Richards was waving like mad. The van leapt forward.
Bobby turned around. The men were running after them. They almost caught up as they turned a corner at the end of the row. But then the van sped up and bounced through an exit onto a street. They made a few more turns and then merged onto a ten-lane highway.
For several minutes everyone sat in silence. They were running away from the government, probably the FBI. There would be APBs and roadblocks, maybe even helicopters.
Ashley finally broke the silence. “Okay, now what?”
“I imagine it’s too late to go back and apologize,” Lindsey said as she moved up into the empty passenger seat.
Quentin shook his head. “Richards was right. We have to let everyone know. He probably gave up his career to help us do this. We can’t go back now.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Lindsey said. “Those men have already called for help. They know what we’re driving. We’ll be stopped in no time.”
“Lindsey, please,” Quentin said. “I just need some time to figure this out.” He stared at the road before him and tried to focus on the problem. Richards had suggested a media blitz, but it would take time to arrange that. Even if they managed to convince a TV station to interview them, one station could be suppressed. The story may never get out. It would have to be an organized event, where multiple TV stations would be willing to broadcast live. In order to arrange an event like that they needed ideas and they needed time.
“We go home,” he said at last. “We arrange a media event in Newton.”
There was a moment of silence.
“How are we going to get all the way to Missouri?” Lindsey said.
Quentin had no idea, so he didn’t bother answering. But if they stayed on the interstate, they would be spotted. He exited onto Westminster Boulevard. According to the compass on the van’s console, they were headed east. Quentin did some calculations. Los Angeles was at least 1,700 miles from Missouri. That was close to thirty hours of continuous driving, more if they were cautious and took minor roads.
“Quentin?” Lindsey was still waiting for him to respond.
“We’re driving to Missouri,” Quentin said. “We’ll take the back roads. It will give us time to arrange a media event there, something so big that no one can do anything about it.”
“Why can’t we arrange something like that here?”
Ashley spoke up. “Just have Addison make a T-Rex, or have him make a skyscraper disappear or something like that. Then you’ll have your media event.”
“We can’t,” Bobby said. “We’ve killed too many people already. It happens every time.”
Everyone was silent. Bobby was right. Based on their previous experiences it would be reckless to ask the Lamotelokhai to do anything spectacular, particularly in a densely populated area. After privately stewing over discrepant events of past days, Quentin had made a reluctant conclusion about what waited for them in Newton. If he was right, and if they showed up there on live television, it would draw serious attention without blindly requesting another ill-advised action from Addison.
In his mirr
or Quentin saw Addison sitting quietly in the back of the van, gazing out the window like a normal teenage boy. By itself the Lamotelokhai was passive and posed no threat. It simply granted any request. But the minds of humans made it a horrifying menace.
“Taking it to Newton is the best idea we have,” Quentin said.
Lindsey gazed at him. “Alright, then. We’re going to need road maps and clothes for everyone. We don’t exactly blend in with these clothes. The most immediate problem is that they know what vehicle we’re in. I suggest we get another one.”
Carlos spoke up. “Maybe we can change this one’s color. I bet Addison can do that.”
“Jesus,” Quentin said. “Have you guys done this before?”
He stopped at an all-night convenience store. It would take time to initiate a large-scale search, so it was best to make a stop now. The gas tank was nearly full, but Quentin wanted to top it off anyway. He peeled some bills from the stack Richards had given him. They were all twenties. Once inside the store, he found a rack of t-shirts and grabbed six of them. There were no road maps to be found, but he loaded his arms with drink bottles and snacks and dumped everything in front of the bulletproof glass that protected the gray-haired man behind the counter. Quentin pulled the bills from the pocket of his hospital pants and inspected them. They looked real enough. He thumbed through them. Oh crap. They all had the same serial number.
Quentin glanced at the cashier, but the man was busy ringing up the purchase. He casually wrinkled several bills so they wouldn’t look so similar. As he waited, three teenagers entered the store. They eyed Quentin’s hospital clothes for a moment then laughed and mumbled to each other. Quentin silently willed the cashier to hurry.
The total was over eighty dollars. Quentin slid six bills under the glass, telling the cashier he wanted twenty dollars worth of gas. He held his breath as the guy thumbed through them, counting, and then finally stuffed them into the register drawer. Quentin got his change, scooped up the items, and left. The van took only eight dollars of gas, but he drove away without going back in.
They drove for another half hour, making their way northeast using the van’s compass. Lindsey turned on the radio and flipped through some stations. Disembodied voices described the LAX plane crash. All those on board the unscheduled flight from Indonesia were killed. Beyond that, the voices had little more to say. The number and identities of passengers were still unknown. The purpose of the flight, unknown. The cause of the crash, unknown. No mention of a duplicate plane or a search for fugitives. Hearing reports of their own deaths was unnerving, so Quentin switched the radio off.
It was now midnight, and they had not yet made it beyond the suburbs of Los Angeles. If the police had been notified, it was only a matter of time before they were stopped. The van had no GPS, so Quentin stopped again to get a road map. This time he found a larger store—a truck stop—and parked the van in the shadows behind the main building.
Lindsey and Ashley had to use the toilet. They put on t-shirts from the previous stop. Both displayed a gold logo for Cuervo tequila. With their hospital pants and flip-flops, this hardly improved their credibility. Quentin gave them a wad of bills and warned them about the identical serial numbers. Then they walked around the corner of the building and were gone.
Unable to think of anything else, Quentin counted 470 seconds until they returned. They had a handful of state highway maps and pairs of shorts for everyone.
Ashley tossed the shorts into the van. “The guy said we’re only a block from Pomona Freeway, which goes east to Interstate 10. That will take us all the way to Arizona.”
“Bobby?” Lindsey said. “Do you think you can get Addison to change the van’s color?”
“You can ask him yourself,” Bobby said. “He’s right here.”
Lindsey hesitated. “Okay. Addison, can you do that?”
Addison stepped out of the van. He held his hand against the red paint on the sliding door. “Yes,” he said. “What color would you like it to be?”
Lindsey looked around. She pointed at the building’s cinderblock wall. “I’d like it to be white like that wall.”
Addison stared at the wall, his hand still on the van. The paint under his hand changed. Slowly an asymmetrical area of white began spreading. He pulled his hand from the van and looked at Lindsey, expressionless.
She shook her head. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
When the others were in, they closed the sliding door. Quentin pulled the van onto the street. By the time he merged onto Pomona Freeway, he could see the white color expanding across the vehicle’s blunt hood.
They drove by the San Bernardino Mountains, but it was too dark for Bobby to see much. Eventually, flashing lights lit up the night ahead. A roadblock. They exited onto a smaller road before being trapped. They didn’t know if the roadblock was for them, but the Darnells didn’t want to take the chance.
Several hours later, Mr. Darnell stopped to get gas again. After filling up, he headed to the restroom. No one else had to go. But a minute later Bobby changed his mind. He left the van and passed through rows of bright candies and chips and automotive stuff until he found the restrooms in the back.
As he entered he heard a voice from one of the stalls. “It was four years ago, the first day of spring break. That’s exactly how she said it. You remember.” There was a pause. “Like I said, because I was there.”
It was Mr. Darnell’s voice. Bobby stepped up to one of the urinals, trying to be quiet.
“All I ask is that you have an open mind,” Mr. Darnell said. “Think about what I’ve told you. I could go on, but I don’t have time. We should be there sometime tomorrow, maybe thirty or so hours from now. We’re coming, regardless.” A pause. “Please don’t do that. That might create results you really don’t want. If anyone calls or comes there before we do, just claim that you don’t know anything about this.” Another pause. “Please help us.”
Bobby finished peeing and backed quietly away from the urinal. But the urinal detected his movement and flushed loudly. The stall door popped open, and Mr. Darnell stepped out. He had a smartphone to his ear.
“I have to go now,” he said. He switched off the phone and put it in his pocket. “Bobby, is everything alright?”
Bobby couldn’t look him in the eye. “Yeah, it’s fine. Just had to use the bathroom.” Bobby went to the sink and washed his hands.
“This phone is from Colonel Richards. He gave it to me when he gave me the money.”
“I didn’t know you had a phone,” Bobby said.
“I thought it might be best if we didn’t talk about it.”
Bobby pushed a lever for a paper towel. “Who were you talking to?”
Mr. Darnell opened the door and nodded for him to go on out. “Just trying to get help from someone I know.”
Chapter Nine
The hours dragged on as they drove east. Orange clouds began to glow on the horizon ahead. Carlos was sleeping, so Bobby talked to Addison.
“What happened to the other Addison when the plane crashed? Are there two Lamotelokhai now?”
Addison stared out the window at the darkness as he answered. “No. The Lamotelokhai on the other plane allowed itself to be destroyed.”
“How do you allow yourself to be destroyed?”
“By changing the properties of my parts.”
“That’s not a very good answer,” Bobby said. “It’s kind of like not answering at all.”
Addison turned to him. “It would require much talking to explain. I decided that you would probably not want to do that. Was I wrong?”
“No, you were right,” Bobby said. “Could you survive a plane crash if you wanted to?”
“Yes.”
“Those people on the other plane—were they copies of us, or are we copies of them?”
“The other Bobby was the same as you,” Addison said. “There were no differences.”
“It makes a difference to me. Am I the original Bo
bby, or just a copy?”
“There were no differences. But now the other is dead and you are alive. That is the difference now.”
“So I have to go the rest of my life thinking I’m just a copy of someone? That really sucks.”
Addison’s eyes glinted orange from the sky ahead. Or maybe they were shifting colors again. “Something that really sucks is a bad thing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is.” Then Bobby said. “Why do you make your eyes change colors sometimes?”
This time, Addison’s eyes really did shift to golden yellow. “My creators enhanced their talking with colors. I thought it might help you to know when I am thinking carefully about something. Would you like me to stop?”
“No. I mean I don’t care. But if you want people to think you’re a normal person, maybe don’t do it.”
Addison gazed at him with blue eyes.
“I want to know more about Peter Wooley,” Bobby said. “Colonel Richards said he invented Kembalimo. Did he learn Kembalimo from you?”
“My knowledge of Kembalimo is only what I have heard in your talking. Peter Wooley talked to me using the same symbols you did when you first talked to me. He probably made Kembalimo based on those symbols.”
“Why did the Papuans try to kill him?”
“The Papuans believed Peter would take me away. They did not want him to do that.”
Bobby considered this. “But they let us take you away.”
“Because of you, Bobby.”
Bobby felt a tingle on the back of his neck. “Why me?”
“You knew how to talk to me when you came to them. Because of that they knew, and I knew, that it was time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for what is next.”
Bobby frowned. “And what is next?”
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