by Amy Plum
“But it’s not a drug, like you said he was looking for. It’s a whole way of being. Of living.” Juneau looks upset. Like reality is becoming clear to her as well.
“Living out in nature has nothing to do with health and aging,” I prod.
“No? Eating well doesn’t make you live longer? Clean air and water and growing and killing your own food doesn’t make for better health?” Her voice is defensive, but her expression is pleading. She’s still holding on to the “truth” she’s been taught.
“Of course it does,” I concede. “But Juneau, one generation of healthy living doesn’t wipe out disease, and definitely doesn’t make you immortal. That is where your logical thinking stops and brainwashing kicks in.”
Her eyes get all glittery, and she looks like she’s about to cry. She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw. “I don’t feel like talking about it anymore.”
“That’s okay. That’s fine,” I say, and fishing for something to change the subject, I say, “Hey. What about the riddle you hadn’t figured out? What was it anyway?”
Juneau takes a deep breath and looks grateful for the switch in topic. “Your exact words were, ‘You will go to the place you always dreamed of as a child.’”
“And?”
She shakes her head and begins playing with her napkin, folding it over and over into smaller and smaller squares. “It’s impossible to figure out. I dreamed of going just about everywhere as a child. Except Salt Lake City, that is.”
“Well, if under-the-influence me made the prophecy about the serpent and the lake, it must be a specific place here in Salt Lake City. Why don’t we drive around and see if anything jogs your memory?”
“Good idea,” Juneau says, and plops her origami napkin in the middle of the lake of maple syrup on her plate before standing to leave.
When we get to the car, she turns to me and in her solemn, grown-up way says, “Hey, Miles?”
“Yes, Juneau?” I respond.
“Thank you. For believing me. For wanting to help.” Her lips curve into a smile and her eyes crinkle, and I want to hug her so badly my arms ache. But she turns and opens her door. As she gets in she looks at me and says, “Just… thanks.”
51
JUNEAU
WE’VE BEEN DRIVING IN CIRCLES AROUND THE city for the last hour. Miles keeps a sharp eye out for his father’s security team, while I look for any place I could have dreamt of going as a child. Nothing is ringing a bell for me. Finally, Miles suggests that we get out of the car and walk. “We could park over by the library that I went to yesterday,” he says.
And it clicks. “The library!” I say. “The library’s the place I always dreamed of as a child.”
“A library?” He looks astonished. “Out of everywhere in the world you could pick as a child, you wanted to go to a library.”
“Where would you have picked?” I ask defensively.
“Disneyland,” he admits.
I laugh. “Miles, in my childhood Disneyland wasn’t an option. We had a hundred and thirty books in our clan. I know, because I read every single one of them at least five times. I practically memorized Moby-Dick. Reading was the only way I was allowed to escape. And I wanted more. In the EB, I mean in our encyclopedia, there was this illustration of the domed reading room at the British Library, with books going up the walls so high that they had ladders to reach them. That was the place I dreamed of going.”
“We’re going to the British Library?” Miles looks worried.
“No. Oracle-you brought us to Salt Lake City, not to London,” I remind him. “Whatever sign we’re looking for or Reading I’m supposed to do, it’s got to be in the Salt Lake City Library.”
“You haven’t seen the public library,” Miles grumbles. “It’s huge. We could spend weeks looking through all the books and find nothing.”
We pull up to a massive glass-paned building in the center of town. “See,” says Miles. “How are we going to find anything in that… monument if we don’t even know what we’re looking for?”
“Well, hopefully we’ll get a nudge from the Yara,” I reply. “Otherwise, we could be looking around for a long time.”
We walk into a huge atrium lined with shops and trees and topped with glass several stories up. Sunlight is streaming down, illuminating the entire interior of the building. Miles and I stand there gaping at the enormous, brightly lit foyer.
“Let’s sit down,” I suggest.
“Um, all right,” he says, looking overwhelmed.
We walk over to a table under a potted tree, and the heat from the glass-filtered sun toasts my back as I take in the layout of the building. There are five floors, and it looks like the middle three hold most of the books. Winding staircases take people from one floor to the next. I look through the transparent walls of the ground floor toward the outside and see two big lake-like basins of water hugging the curve of the building.
“That’s where we need to start,” I say, pointing to the water. Standing, I lead Miles through another doorway and into the building’s courtyard.
The water ripples green, reflecting the glass and concrete of the building. “What are you going to do?” Miles asks with the slightest hint of discomfort.
“I’m going to Read the water,” I answer. “It’s kind of like when I Read fire—I can get images from it, and it’s good for finding hidden things.”
Miles nods. “I’m just going to take your word for it.”
I reach automatically for my opal and then remember that I don’t need it. I loop the necklace over my head and hand it to Miles. “Could you hold this for me?” I ask.
“Anything to feel helpful,” he says, and tucks it into his back pocket.
The simple fact of separating myself from the opal has made me feel strong. It’s lit a flame of confidence in me, and I know without a doubt that I will be able to do this. I reach for the Yara, and my mind connects with it almost instantly, stunning me with its force.
I breathe out and focus on the surface of the water… on the reflection of the floors and floors of books, and my attention is caught by a flash of orange. I stare directly at it, and as I do, it is as if a magnifying glass is being held above the water, and the orange grows and becomes a book in a bookcase, its thick spine shining like a beacon in the glistening water.
Without breaking my gaze, I lean down and feel around at my feet until I’m grasping a small, flat stone. Turning slightly to the side, I flick my wrist and skip the stone across the surface of the water. “One, two,” I count, and the stone veers off to the left before plunging into the depths of the basin.
I turn to Miles, who is watching me expectantly. “Three skips,” I say. “It’s on the third floor, left-hand side. A big book with an orange spine. Let’s go!”
Miles looks bemused but says, “You’re the boss!”
Taking his hand, I dash into the library entry. We sprint up two flights of stairs, and head down the corridor toward the shelves on the left. “Don’t run,” an elderly man chastises as I speed past, and I slow to a fast walk.
“It’s probably near the window,” I say, and lead him toward the glass wall. We begin going up and down the aisles, and then there it is, near the window reflected in the water three floors below.
“Over here, Miles,” I say, but he’s already arrived and is running his finger down a row of books.
“Okay,” I say, and read the tag on the shelf aloud. “‘Geography and Travel, North America, Southwest.’”
“No way,” says Miles, and turns to me with this huge smile on his face. “The water led us to your Wild West!”
I slip the orange book out from its spot. “Scenic Landscapes of New Mexico,” I read.
Miles runs his finger along the other spines. “The whole shelf’s about New Mexico.” He looks up at me, incredulous, “Due southeast of Seattle. You were right!”
I smile back. “Looks like we know where we’re headed!”
52
JUNEAU
MILES AND I HUDDLE OVER A U.S. ROAD MAP THAT we pull from a neighboring shelf, and study the roads between Salt Lake City and New Mexico.
“A few of these smaller roads can get us to the Utah/New Mexico border, so we might as well head that way and I can try to Read again once we’re there,” I say. I look at the scale on the map and calculate. “It’s about eight hundred miles to the farthest part of the state.”
“That’s about thirteen hours nonstop,” Miles says.
“We are thirteen hours away from my father,” I say, breathless with excitement. “Thirteen hours from my clan.” And just as fast as it arrived, the excitement dissipates, leaving a feeling of despair. They tricked us, I remember for the thousandth time. It doesn’t matter now, I remind myself. My goal is to find them and free them. We’ll worry about explanations once everyone is safe.
Where will my clan even go if I can free them? I grab the box in my mind labeled “Open later” and shove all those thoughts inside. One step at a time. And the next step is getting out of Salt Lake City and as far away from our pursuers as possible.
We buy sandwiches in one of the ground-floor shops and take them to the car with us to eat while driving. I can’t wait another minute to get started. I have just thrown my pack into the backseat and placed our lunch on the dashboard when a hand grasps my arm. I look up into the face of someone more than twice my size—one of Whit’s guards is towering over me. “You’re coming with us,” he says, and jerks me out of the car.
My brain is in shock, but my body takes over, and all the hours spent practicing brigand raids instinctively kick in. In a heartbeat, I’ve twisted my arm out of his grasp. Since he’s tall, I aim high and kick him hard between the legs. He doubles over and stumbles back a few steps, giving me the time I need to grab my crossbow from the car’s floorboard.
I load an arrow and fire, hitting him in the shoulder. I turn to see the Jeep parked around the corner. Whit is behind the wheel, but the second guard is coming toward me. I shoot him, landing an arrow square in his upper arm, and he lets out a howl of pain and stumbles back to the car. He pulls it out with one hand and grabs something in the backseat to stanch the bleeding.
And then I see the impossible happen. The first guard pulls the crossbow bolt out of his shoulder, looks at it curiously, and tosses it into the grass. No blood comes out from under the hole it pierced in his shirt. He isn’t even wounded, and I shot him from mere feet away.
He grabs my arm and sends my crossbow clattering to the ground. I struggle and kick, but he’s much stronger than me and forces me toward the Jeep.
I see Miles standing next to his car, fear painted white across his face. Everything has happened within seconds, and he doesn’t know what to do now that the guard has me in his grasp.
“You two will be coming with me,” the guard says loudly enough for Miles to hear. “And no more scenes. Just close the door and follow me to my car.”
“What makes you think I won’t start screaming bloody murder?” I ask. I look around, but there’s no one nearby. “Anyone coming out of the library would see you dragging me away and come help.”
“Well, the fact that we know where your people are being held might change your mind about trying to draw attention,” he grunts.
My eyes widen. So Whit does know where they are. Something deep inside me refused to believe it until now. I turn and see him sitting behind the wheel of the Jeep with his shock of black hair sticking up messily and the sunlight behind him, hiding his features. A blinding surge of hatred sweeps through me, and I know that if, in this moment, I had the chance to hurt him—or even kill him—I would.
“If I come with you, will you let him go?” I ask, gesturing to Miles with my head, since my arm is still in the guy’s iron grip.
“I’m going wherever Juneau—” Miles starts to say, but the guard cuts him off.
“You’re both getting in my car. Now.”
We head toward the Jeep. The other guard is sitting in the backseat, wrapping a tourniquet around his arm and growling through clenched teeth. From behind the wheel, Whit is saying, “I told you not to take her on.” He leans over to open the passenger door from the inside and indicates I’m supposed to get in. “Juneau. Finally,” he says.
“You don’t want me to sit next to you,” I manage to say. I have to force the words out, because Whit’s sitting there looking like his same old self. The same man who mentored me for over a decade.
“Why not?” he asks, a fake smile plastered to his lips.
“Because I seriously doubt I’ll be able to refrain from scratching your eyes out,” I say evenly.
Whit pulls on an expression of false surprise. “No need for histrionics,” he says. And then, lowering his voice, he urges, “Get in the Jeep.” He glances down at a folded-up piece of paper sitting square in the middle of the passenger seat and raises an eyebrow, looking back up at me. “Get in! Now!” he yells.
All of a sudden, the sickening sound of crunching metal comes from behind the Jeep, and the vehicle lurches forward, its door springing away from me. As everyone swings around to see what happened, I scoop the paper from the seat and stuff it in my pocket.
“Sorry about that,” comes a man’s voice from the large black car that rear-ended the Jeep. “Let me get my insurance papers.”
The guard drops me and heads for the reckless driver. As I turn to see who hit the Jeep, another man jumps out of the black car and heads straight for me. I recognize him. He’s one of the guys who was trailing me around Seattle—he must work for Miles’s dad. Before I can run, he’s grabbed me around the chest and growled, “I’ve got a gun.”
I turn frantically to look for Miles, but he’s been pulled away by Whit’s guard.
“Miles!” I scream. But my new captor has shoved me into the black car, the driver jumps back behind the wheel, and we take off just as Miles realizes what’s happening. Away from Whit and his men. Away from Miles, who I watch running after us until it’s clear that he’ll never catch us.
Whit’s guard is right behind him and, seizing him by the arm again, leads him back to the Jeep. We turn a corner, and they’re gone.
53
MILES
THE GUY WHO GRABS ME HAS ARMS THE DIAMETER of a telephone pole. So guess what? I don’t even fight. I let him drag me by the shoulder to the Jeep and stuff me in the passenger seat. He hops in the back and we’re off.
There’s a young guy driving. His hair is like Albert Einstein’s if Albert dyed it with black shoe polish. He looks kind of crazy, but in a good way. Like your favorite science teacher at school—brilliant but hanging out in another dimension. He had exchanged a few words with Juneau, but I couldn’t hear what they said.
The two guys in the back look like they were made from the same cookie cutter. Neckless boulders of steroid-fueled muscle. Both dressed in khaki, green, and camouflage like they think they’re in the middle of a war zone. But the one is giving himself a shot in the arm and bandaging the wound Juneau gave him, and the other is unbuttoning his shirt to inspect the dent Juneau made in his Kevlar vest.
I taste copper in my mouth and realize that I’m scared. And then it occurs to me that I’m not afraid of them. I’m scared for Juneau. I don’t think that Portman and Redding will hurt her, but these guys look rough. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were wearing weapons strapped under their flak jackets.
We pull up to a fork in the road, and the driver looks both ways. There’s no sign of Juneau and her captors. They had too much of a head start: we’ve lost them. He pulls over onto the sidewalk next to a Dairy Queen and puts the Wrangler in park. “Where’d they take her?” he asks, turning to me.
There’s something off about his eyes. Like one of his pupils is slightly facing the wrong way. It freaks me out because I don’t know which eye to look at.
“No clue,” I respond, and receive a cuff on the side of my head from one of the GI Joes behind me.
“Ow!” I yell, and swing around to sta
re at him.
“Answer the man’s questions,” he says in a thick voice, like his tongue’s on steroids too.
“I’m being honest. I have no clue who those guys are or where they could be taking Juneau,” I lie, looking at Einstein’s right eye.
“You’re the one I saw camping with her,” he says.
What? We didn’t see anyone else when we were camping, I think, and then all of a sudden I get it. He used the bird to see us. This must be Whit.
But how can it be? This guy’s in his midtwenties. Thirty, max.
As if reading my mind, he says, “I’m Whittier Graves. I’ve known Juneau since she was a baby. And I need your help to find her. She could be in grave danger.”
The men in the back chuckle like Whit’s cracked a really good joke, and he glances back at them, exasperated.
“You can’t be Whit. Juneau told me about him, and he’s some old guy.”
“Good guess. Fifty-three. So I suppose Juneau hasn’t told you all our secrets.”
And then it hits me. The no-aging thing. I believed her, as much as I could, when she told me this morning. But here’s the proof, sitting right in front of me. I have no question now that what this guy’s got is what my dad is after: whatever’s keeping him young.
No wonder he’s after Juneau. And no wonder someone invaded her village. An antiaging drug could make its owner a fortune.
I ask myself just what my dad would do to get his hands on it. How far would he go if he could be the richest man on earth? All of a sudden I no longer trust Redding and Portman with Juneau’s safety.
54
JUNEAU
WHEN WE’RE FINALLY FORCED TO STOP BECAUSE of traffic, I try to slip up the door lock, but it’s frozen in place. “Child safety locks,” says the driver, who is bald and wearing sunglasses.