You're going to have to get out, Ellery, she told herself. Sitting here isn't going to make it any cooler. You would think that after all the time you've spent driving back and forth across this nation, you would be used to climatic variation. Taking a deep breath, she climbed out of the car into suffocating heat.
Using her hand to shade her eyes, she turned in a circle. Stretching to the horizon, tilled earth baked in the noonday sun. Dust devils spun and died as if it took too much energy to whip across the parched land. A flock of crows, pecking among the dry furrows, lifted their heads every now and then to caw their displeasure into the hot wind. On a nearby fence post, a woodpecker chattered into rotting wood.
She rubbed a finger back and forth across the mailbox numbers. This was the right address. Keeping her hand to her forehead, she stared down the rutted lane branching off the main graveled road. In the distance, something flashed, and flashed again. At last, she recognized the broad tips of blades turning in the wind.
An operating windmill. She had thought those disappeared a hundred years ago.
Leaning down, she picked a half dozen cockleburs from her slacks before climbing back into the car. She guided the vehicle along the deep ruts, wincing each time the center mound scraped against the chassis where the reserve electric panel was housed. I'll be lucky if I haven't ruined the cell block, she thought as the lane topped a slight rise.
A weathered gray house struggled to dominate a weathered gray yard in the hollow below her. A tired-looking woman held a watering can over a patch of pink, while several yards to the side, the windmill pumped a thin stream of water into a rusted metal catch trough. Two young boys leaned against the trough, holding their hands under the stream. Ellery breathed a sigh of relief as the car finally bumped onto a flat space in front of the house.
As she climbed out of the car, a screen door banged and three girls bunched together on the sagging porch.
"Are you lost?" their mother called out, setting down the watering can.
"I hope not. I'm looking for Katie Hudson."
"I'm Mrs. Hudson." She made a shooing motion to the children on the porch. "You girls get back in the house and finish your chores."
Ellery wiped a handkerchief across her forehead. "Is Kansas always this hot?" From the corner of her eye, she saw the two boys sauntering toward the house.
"Yes." The young woman laughed. "Didn't used to be, if you can believe the tales my husband's grandfather told about his grandfather. According to him, spring was a right cool part of the year. I wouldn't know the truth of that, though." Her clear blue eyes studied Ellery. "We don't get many visitors out here. A neighbor once in a while, that's all." The boys walked up beside their mother and stood quietly.
Ellery's heart skipped a beat as she gazed into their pale violet eyes—the color of curiosity. Now she was certain. This was a Dakotan family.
"It must get lonely sometimes. Could we go inside and talk?"
"About what?"
"You're Dakotan. We need to talk." Ellery knew she sounded blunt but she had to get past Katie's guard. Color drained from the young woman's face. Ellery looked at the boys. Their eyes had deepened to darkest amethyst as they stood ready to defend their mother. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I have driven a long way to find you. It's important." She reached out her hand. "I'm also a Dakotan."
Katie peered hard at Ellery's face. "You boys go on, now," she said. "This lady and I are going inside for a little while."
The two stood steadfast, their gaze never leaving Ellery.
"I said go on, now. I'll be just fine." With a final glare of flashing color, they turned back toward the pumping water.
"I have two sons about your age," Ellery said as they climbed the steps to the wooden porch. "Only one daughter, though."
"You saw my daughters and two of my sons," the woman said, holding the screen door open for Ellery. "My oldest son, Oliver, is upstairs. He's feeling a little poorly today." She led the way into a worn but spotless kitchen. "Would you like some tea—what did you say your name was?"
"Jensen. Doctor Ellery Jensen. Please call me Ellery." She slid a chair back from the round oak table, sat down, and scooted the chair forward. The woman pulled a frosted pitcher of tea from the refrigerator and filled two large glasses.
"How did you know I have Dakotan ancestry?"
"Your two sons, for one thing. They carry the mark of all Dakotan males." Ellery smiled at the question on the other's face. "Their eyes."
Katie's face turned bright red. "They're protective. I apologize for their lack of manners."
"No need to apologize. I have seen the same reaction with my own children. If I'm not mistaken, you keep their hair slightly long to cover the growth at the base of their skulls."
The young woman's head jerked up.
"That growth is normal for a Dakotan male," Ellery said gently.
"There aren't many of us, are there?" Katie toyed with her glass. "That's probably just as well. When my son was born with that awful thing on his neck, my mother told me I had something called a BH gene—inherited from my grandmother's side of the family—and that's what caused the growth. The Dakotan curse she called it, but she would never tell me why. Mama died last year. Her last words to me were that we should never have been born to start with." A hint of moisture clouded her eyes.
Reaching across the table, Ellery gathered up the callused hands lying so still. "Don't ever think that again. Your mother didn't know about the gift she has given you. No one knew until recently. As for not many of us, I've counted seventy-two children so far—with more on the way," she chuckled. "We're expanding every day, it seems."
Katie appeared to relax.
"Do you want to hear more?" Ellery asked.
The other nodded.
Sparing nothing in the telling, Ellery quickly related the story of the three thousand women, the high cost of failure with the program, and the pain left behind.
"I've flown more than four thousand miles and driven twice that far, searching. I've tracked down thirty-two second generation descendants and fifty-four third generation, counting you." She lifted her glass and swallowed tea, but her eyes never left Katie's face. She set down her glass. "Some have talked to me. Some have thrown me out. You're the last one on my list."
"Excuse me, please." A girl with chestnut braids poked her head around the door frame. "Mama, Ollie says his headache is getting worse and he feels sick to his stomach and can he take two more aspirins?"
The woman frowned and twisted in her chair to look at the stove clock. "He took two not an hour ago. Tell him in maybe another hour, I'll see."
Ellery jerked back. "Your son. How old is he?"
"He turned fifteen yesterday. Why?"
"He's in the development process." Ellery shoved her chair backward and leaped to her feet. "How long has he felt sick—had the headache?"
"It started about seven o'clock this morning." The mother's voice rose with alarm. "What's wrong? What's happening?"
Six hours, Ellery thought. We still have time to prepare him. "Where's his father?" she said. "We may need him."
"He'll be coming home any minute now to eat."
"Ropes. Do you have any ropes?"
"In the barn, I think. Will you tell me what's happening?" Katie grabbed Ellery's shoulders. "I want to know what's happening to my son!"
"The brain bud is ready to open. We have things to do if we're going to help him. We'll need the ropes—and cloth strips to pad them so they won't cut. Have your girls start tearing sheets. I'll find the ropes." Ellery banged through the screen door and collided with a tall, muscular man.
"Whoa, there. Where's the fire?"
"This is my husband, Mrs. Jensen. It's Ollie, Verlin. Something's happening to Ollie." Katie stood in the doorway, her face pale.
"Did she do something to him?" Verlin's brown eyes hardened.
Stepping backwards, Ellery held up her hands. "All right, all right. We're wasting valuable time, but I can se
e nothing's going to get done this way." She turned to the woman behind her. "At least put your girls to work on the sheets."
Katie called her orders up the stairs. Startled questions echoed down. "Don't ask me why, just do it!" She focused hard on Ellery's face. "Now, Doctor Jensen. I want an explanation."
With quick, precise words, Ellery told them what they could expect within the next few hours and the four days following.
"I watched my own sons and six nephews go through this, so I know what I'm talking about." She looked from one glazed, disbelieving face to the other. "I've been a doctor most of my adult life. I'll do all I can if there's trouble." She looked down. "You aren't going to like my next requirement. Your three daughters must be involved in the preparation and they must watch how the developing is handled. Your other two sons also."
"No!" Katie cried, her head jerking side to side. "They are children, not even half grown. I cannot allow it."
"They are Dakotans, Mrs. Hudson. Your girls will pass the gene, your boys will develop." Ellery looked at Verlin. "It is imperative they know and understand. I won't be here when your next son develops. You may not be here. Your sons will remember precisely each step taken, each position, each knot. Your daughters must have no fear. There is additional training but I'll explain about that when this crisis is over."
Ellery's eyes never wavered from the man's searching gaze. At last, he gathered his wife into his strong arms. "They'll be there," he whispered.
"Good. While you gather the supplies, I'll speak with your son. I can never prepare him completely for what's to come, but perhaps I can take some of the fear away." She looked at her watch. "It's been six and a half hours since the headache began, if Katie had the time correct. This early stage takes a minimum of eight hours but never longer than twelve before the unfolding begins. That time goes rapidly." She looked at Katie. "If you will show me to Ollie's room."
With the last binding still being knotted, the soft tissue at the base of Oliver Hudson's skull glowed crimson and began to writhe. Ellery took her turn beside the boy's bed as the fever raged and his body thrashed with the impact of strange dreams and strange voices.
She talked with the parents until her vocal chords refused to issue any sound above a whisper. At times, Verlin Hudson held his hands over his ears, banging through the door into the sweltering heat to stand staring at nothing. Katie watched every move her daughters made. Tears welled, were splashed with cold water, and patted dry. On the evening of the third day, the anger came; it flashed against the gray tilled lands like summer lightening and burned with the fury of a prairie fire sweeping across dry grass plains.
Ellery waited. It would pass. Acceptance would come. Leaving the Hudsons to comfort one another, she returned to their son's room. She would take the first watch tonight. As the hours passed, she dozed in a chair beside the boy's bed, her chin almost touching her thin chest.
"I'm thirsty."
The plaintive voice jerked her awake. Leaning over the bed, she put the back of her hand to Oliver's neck. It was cool. She lifted her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured. "Dear God, thank you."
The boy struggled to sit up. "Can I have some water, please, Ma'am?"
"You bet you can. All the water you can drink." She tousled his hair. "I'll get it." She left the room, tiptoed down the hall, and tapped on the second door.
"Coming. I'm coming." The bedroom door flew open. Verlin's eyes were blurry and red—and frightened. Behind him, his wife struggled with the sleeve of her robe.
"Ollie. Is—"
"Would you happen to have a large glass of water around?" Ellery grinned. "Your young man is thirsty."
"Awake! He's awake?" Robe forgotten, Katie tore across the room, her short gown flapping at her hips.
Ellery jumped aside as the couple tried to charge through the open doorway at the same time. "A body could get trampled around here," she muttered aloud, grinning at their dash down the hall to Oliver's room. "Guess I might as well put the coffee on." As she reached the stairs, Verlin ran from the boy's room.
"Out of my way, Doctor Jensen," he shouted with glee. "Like you said, my son wants a drink of water!"
That same afternoon, Ellery drove back down the rutted lane with words of grateful thanks still ringing in her ears. A warm and wonderful family, she thought as she turned left onto the graveled road. A Dakotan family to cherish. An hour later, she left the world of tilled fields and entered the twelve-lane throughway that would take her home. She pulled the overhead shade down to block the merciless rays of the western sun from her eyes. Her thoughts turned inward.
Most of the families she'd spent time with had agreed that Chi training was important, but going to San Francisco? Heads would shake back and forth and eyes would turn away. What with ever increasing taxes and the spiraling cost of food and other essentials, few could handle the additional expense. All this coupled with an eroding income . . . well, she could see their dilemma. To send even one member to San Francisco would push their budgets past the breaking point.
For Ellery, there was no dilemma. She was Dakotan and so were they. Learning the Chi was vital to their survival. She would make all travel and housing arrangements for their stay.
She chuckled softly as she remembered. Offering her assistance had been the easy part. Getting past pride had taken some diplomatic finagling. But, one by one, agreements were made. In the end, those who would make the trip volunteered to become instructors for the Dakotans who could not come and, after much discussion, each family had reluctantly consented to add their knowledge to the fountainhead.
Ahead, the road glimmered with patches of false water. The foothills around her were dry and brown. Everywhere I go, heat, she thought. Washington Hill has got to do something about their environmental controls or this world is going to turn into one brown ball.
She looked at the leather notebook lying on the seat beside her. Five more Dakotans, none of which were in Grandpa's journals. Katie's words rang in her mind. "I have two sisters, Ellery. One has a son twelve and another on the way. The other has two daughters—fifteen and sixteen. Verlin and I will talk to them."
Nodding, she patted the binder. Bianca Raborman hadn't found the Hudson family, and now—if she did—she would learn nothing.
She pulled to the side of the road and put the LectroMerced in park. Leaning back against the headrest, she rubbed her thumb and forefinger across her eyes. Her head ached. Leaning forward, she turned on the radio and began twisting the dial.
"The weather report for . . . In a nighttime foray, the Aristocrat rebels . . . Today, the Tartarus Foundation announced that . . . Your all day music station—" The Tartarus Foundation. Ellery frantically twisted the dial backward.
". . . was the spot chosen for the center. Construction will take approximately three years per Bianca Raborman, Tartarus Director. When asked if she thought there would be much call for a preservation center of the size planned, Doctor Raborman said: 'We have received over three thousand applications since our first brochure mailing, and the sacks of mail keep coming in. Five thousand vaults is probably conservative.'" There you have it, folks. If you believe what the Pittman Scrolls tell us—and a large share of our listening audience does—guaranteed revival in the future does sound intriguing. Now, here's Jim with the—"
Ellery turned the radio off. Resting her arms on the steering wheel, she dropped her head onto their softness. Preservation center? Guaranteed revival? Pittman Scrolls? What in God's name was Bianca up to now?
An image flashed. She was creeping around Bianca's laboratory, caution refusing to turn on the lights. Her foot banged against hard metal. In the dark, her hands traced a tall, cylindrical shape as eyes glowed red from shadowy cages. In her later forays, the tank that had been clearly marked as industrial oxygen had disappeared from her awareness like the painted pattern on the laboratory wall.
Her head jerked up. A freezing tank! All that time, Bianca'd had a freezing tank. How clever of my star pupil
to conceal a holding tank by designing it with such familiar contours, she thought. She pounded her fist against the dashboard. How many innocent wretches did she kill before she perfected her technique?
Ellery punched the start sensor, jammed her foot against the power pad, and roared down the roadway. The speedometer flashed a red warning. I have to find a phone, she thought. I have to call Matthew and stop this madness.
"Killing yourself on this highway isn't going to help, Ellery," she scolded herself. "It's on the news, for God's sake. Matthew listens to the radio, too." Slowly, her foot eased and the red faded.
A bleep from the dashboard brought Ellery's attention to the chargeometer. Just what I need, she thought. Out in the middle of nowhere on a steady uphill climb and ten minutes to dead batteries. Five minutes later, she crested the grade and breathed a sigh of relief. Junction 40 loomed ahead, snaking off to the right along the edge of a small town. Slowing to the required fifteen miles per hour, she exited. Forty yards ahead, she spotted a jolt station with a small cafe at the rear. Her eye on the charge meter, she waited politely while six men and five women paraded across the entry drive, waving signs as inflammatory as the faces behind the signs. What in the world is going on here? Ellery wondered as the group passed. Shaking her head at the craziness of it, she pulled into the station. The car rolled up to the pump with forty-five seconds to spare.
"What's that all about?" she asked the attendant, motioning toward the placard wavers.
He eyed her, eyed the car. "Poor folks with a bitch, I reckon. Wantin' more out of life than they're getting. Full load?"
Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms Page 25