by Ahern, Jerry
But, as he released the handlebar a moment to push his glasses up from the bridge of his nose, Rubenstein wondered—had John Rourke found them yet?
Tildie had wandered ashore minutes after Sarah had taken Michael out of the water; Annie had been the first to spot her. The animal was visibly shuddering.
Sarah had built a fire by the shoreline in the shelter of some rocks and a red clay embankment; then having done what she could to warm the children, she had mounted Tildie—feeling the only way to warm the animal was to exercise her, then rub her down. Promising to keep them in sight, Sarah had started along the water's edge perhaps twenty feet above the shoreline, the wind of the slipstream around her and the animal, chilling her to the bone, but the animal responding.
Sarah clutched the patched-together reins, leaning into Tildie's mane to let the animal break the wind for her. The air temperature was cold, but vastly warmer than it had been. In her heart, she knew the reason why she rode—to think; and she had another reason as well, to search for Sam, her husband's horse, her son's horse. Tildie couldn't carry Michael, Annie, and herself for very long.
And there was affection as well, the affection between human and animal; she wanted to know that Sam was
alive or dead, not half-broken and crushed and suffering.
She reined m Tildie, about a quarter-mile closer to the damtiow. On tire red clay embankment beneath her she could see a shape, stained with mud, moving in the tree line.
"Sam!" Sarah wasn't ready to risk the embankment with Tiidie. She dismounted, securing Tildie's reins to a sapling Georgia pine, then started down the muddy embankment toward the trees by the shore. She could see the form clearly now—an animal.
She broke through the tree line, stopping. "Sam!"
The horse, its white hide covered in a wash of red— blood?—started toward her. Closer now, she could see it was only mud. She held out her hands.
The animal, frightened and weary, came toward her, nuzzling against her outstretched hands.
"Sam!" She hugged the animal to her, the wetness of her own clothing seeming to wash away some of the red clay mud on the animal's neck. She checked the saddle, that it was secure, then swung up, catching up the rein almost as an afterthought. Her feet dangled below the stirrups which had been set to Michael's leg length.
"Gotta get you out of here, Sam," she cooed, stroking his once-black mane and his red-smeared white neck. "Gotta get out of here." She nudged the animal forward with her knees. . . .
It had taken time to find a way up the embankment, one that the exhausted animal under her could navigate; then she had gone back for Tildie. Sarah had switched to Tildie's back and led Sam, his cinch loosened and some of the mud covering him already flaking away.
By the time she returned to the children, Annie was
shivering uncontrollably and Michael was gone. Her heart seemed to stop, but then Michael reappeared, more wood for the fire cradled in his arms.
She suddenly noticed he had no jacket—he had given it to Annie.
She warmed Annie with her own body until the shivering subsided to where the little girl could control it. She talked, not to Annie or Michael, not really to herself, but just to think. "I lost my rifle. The horses are exhausted. Those maniacs, the one with the human-teeth necklace and the others, are probably still out there."
She heard something which at once frightened her and comforted her. It would be Brigands; but the sound was lhat of a truck engine. . . .
She left Michael with Annie and the horses, a half mile away, and hid herself, shivering in her wet clothes, in a bracken of pines not far from the water's edge. There was one truck, a pickup, and in the back of it, she noticed cans of extra fuel. With extra gasoline, she could run the truck's heater. It was a Ford, and she had driven Ford pickups often. She could drive this one.
There were ten Brigands in sight, and if two rode the pickup truck it matched with the number of motorcycles—eight bikes in all. Holding her husband's . automatic in her right fist she wiped the palm of her hand against the thigh of her wet jeans. She did not know whether gunpowder was destroyed by water; would the gun shoot at aff, would it blow up on her?
There wasonfy one way to find out.
She started down from the trees, edging closer toward the shore. The Brigands huddled by a fireside away from the vehicles, their weapons on the ground beside them or leaning beside tree trunks. She recognized some of the
guns as Colt-type rifles, perhaps AR-s like the gun she had lost in the lake.
All would be lost if the key had been removed from the truck. She knew cars and trucks could be started without keys, but she didn't know how.
Her track shoes squishing, the bandanna wet over her hair, her body shivering under the woolen coat, she edged toward the front of the truck.
She ducked, hiding by the grill, listening as one of the Brigands rasped, "I gotta take a leak—be back in a second."
She heard gravel crunching—louder, coming toward her.
She pressed her body against the front of the truck; the engine was still warm and she could feel its heat. The gravel crunching and the sound of the Brigand's feet against the dirt were coming closer, becoming louder.
The ., cocked with the safety off, was in her right hand. She held her breath.
The man passed her, walking off into the trees from which she had come.
She let out a long sigh, then upped the safety on her pistol and peered around behind the rear of the truck, toward the other Brigands.
They still huddled around the fire—nine of them. She pushed herself up to her full height and came around toward the driver's side. The button on the door was up. Before touching the door, she looked inside. "Thank you, God," she murmured. The keys were in the ignition.
She shifted the pistol to her left hand, then with her right hand tried the door handle. It opened easily, the door creaking slightly on its hinges. She waited. None of the Brigands turned around.
She started up into the truck, then heard, "Hey—
hey, bitch!"
She glanced behind her, toward the front of the truck. It was the man who'd passed her, gone into the trees to urinate. In that instant, she cursed men for being able to do it so fast.
Sarah Rourke shifted the gun into her right hand, worked down the safety with her right thumb and pointed the pistol straight out between the open door and the body of the truck. She didn't say, "Hold it—don't come any closer." An old Sarah Rourke would have said that. She felt it in her bones. She pulled the trigger, the pistol bucking once in her right hand; the man's face exploded in blood.
She dismissed him mentally, climbing aboard and setting down the pistol, the safety upped again. Her right hand worked the ignition, her left foot the clutch, her righl foot the gas. She hadn't driven in so long, she thought. The engine rumbled reassuringly, then caught.
With her left elbow, she pushed down the door-lock button to give herself an extra instant while she found the emergency brake.
She heard the creaking of hinges, looked across the seat, and saw a face—one of the Brigands. "What the fu—" She picked up the pistol as the man started for his, and she fired. His left eye seemed to explode and the body slumped away.
She found the emergency brake, released it, and popped the clutch, looking to her left; there was a man clinging to the driver's side of the truck.
She kept driving, hearing the man's muted curses, the hammering of his fist against the window.
Looking behind her, seeing the angry eyes of the man who held on, Sarah worked the transmission into
reverse. She accelerated, the rear end of the Ford smashing into the motorcycles, her body lurching as she stomped on the brakes. She forgot the clutch; the engine died. The man still hung on, hammering against the window. She depressed the clutch with her left foot, working the key again. The engine wasn't catching. She could hear gunfire, shots pin
ging against the hood of the truck. She sucked in her breath, almost screaming; there was a smashing sound, of glass. She saw what the bullet had hit—the right-hand outside mirror was gone.
She tried the key again, murmuring, "Please—start— please!"
The engine rumbled to life and she put the stick into first; then as she started downward pressure on the gas, she popped the clutch, the truck lurching ahead under her. She glanced into the rear-view—the bikes were a mass of twisted metal behind her, jammed into the trees like paper clips into a box.
The man clinging beside her was still hammering on the glass. Another of the Brigands threw himself toward the hood. Sarah cut the wheel hard right, and the man slid away.
There was more gunfire, the window behind her head spiderwebbing with a bullet hole, but not shattering.
She kept driving, the man behind her hammering on the glass with his head now, screaming at her. She had to gel away. A stray bullet could hit the gasoline in the back of the truck, could kill her—and what would happen to Michael and Annie.
She couldn't roll down the window to shoot the man. Instead, she sideswiped the Ford into the trees, and the man screamed so loudly she could hear it distinctly.
There was red blood smeared against the driver's-side
window now as she upshifted and started away; men, visible in the outside mirror on the driver's side, were running behind her, firing. But she didn't think they would catch her. , After leading the Brigands off, she returned for Michael and Annie. Then she checked the gasoline. It would be enough to get them to Tennessee, to the Mulliner farm, or close enough at least, she judged.
The children, for the last ten minutes, had been wrapped in the blankets found in the back of the truck. They were sitting in the truck cab, naked under the blankets, the heat running full.
She picked up Sam's saddle and tossed it inside the truck bed, then did the same with Tildie's saddle.
She walked over to the animals, hugged Tildie at the neck, and stroked Sam's forehead between the dark eyes. "I love you guys," she whispered, kissing Tildie's muzzle, then slipping her bridle. She slipped Sam's bridle, then swatted both horses on the rumps, sending them off aiong the shoreline. She looked after them for an instant, manes cutting the wind, tails high. She turned away and cried.
The air felt almost warm to her. The wind lashed back her hair as the borrowed motorcycle rumbled between her legs, her body leaning into it as she navigated a tight turn, and read a sign, water-stained and half knocked down. There had been a museum there; it was now a barracks.
Natalia gunned the Kawasaki ahead. The response didn't seem like that of Rourke's bike. Rourke, she thought.
She wondered if he had found them yet. Were they back in the Retreat, picking up their lives together? And Paul—she smiled. He was a good man, a good friend to them both.
"Both," she repeated into the wind, not hearing it because of the slipstream. Words like both, or us—they were meaningless to her now.
The shore of Lake Michigan seemed remarkably peaceful to her—she watched the smallish whitecaps far off beyond the parkways, liking her view, but sorry for it. She squinted her eyes tight shut, then opened them, realizing how tired she was. She had not wanted to stay with the Soviet troops who had found her with Paul. She had driven with them toward Gary, Indiana, then
borrowed the motorcycle, taking something called "Skyway" and winding her way toward South Lake Shore Drive through what remained of Chicago. The buildings stood, but not a tree grew, not a blade of grass; not a dog yelped in the streets. There were no children. The neutron bombing had seen to that.
She followed the drive north, toward the museum that Varakov so religiously preserved, despite the fact that her uncle used it as his headquarters. And the KGB headquarters were there as well. She wondered, almost absently, if Rozhdestvenskiy had arrived yet from the Soviet Union, to replace her late husband. There had been rumors that he had, and unconfirmed though they had been, she hadn't doubted them.
She almost missed the turnoff, left into the small drive past the museum; not bothering to stop, she slowed so the guards could identify her.
She made a left onto the southbound drive, then a fast left into the museum parking lot, past more guards. The guards saluted, Natalia only nodding.
She parked the bike at the foot of the museum steps, dismounting as she let down the stand. She ran her hands across her face, through her hair.
"Major Tiemerovna . . . you are—"
"Alive." She smiled, looking at the face that belonged to the voice. It was that of a young corporal, a frequent sentry at the museum. "Thank you for caring." She smiled again. "Please, make arrangements to return this motorcycle to Captain Konstantin with the forces in Gary, Indiana; it was a loan."
"Yes, Comrade Major." The younger man saluted. She nodded, gesturing toward her clothes, then started up the steps, two at a time, the pistols shaking in the holsters
against her hips; the gun barrels with the American Eagles on them had elicited raised eyebrows on her comrades in Indiana. She smiled thinking about that. A gift given in friendship—she would use them from now on.
She stopped at the height of the steps to look at the sun, appearing reddish orange over the lake.
How long would from now on be? she wondered. She thought of Rourke, and she shook her head, tossing her hair back as she moved through the brass-looking doors into the museum; then she started across the vast main hall. She saw the figures of the mastodons that her uncle seemed so obsessed with watching, studying. And beyond them, on the small mezzanine, where she had thought she would find him, he stood, staring—at the mastodons.
There were men and women moving about the main hall, office workers, messengers. Ignoring them, she shouted, running now, past the mastodons, "Uncle Ishmael!"
The face turned toward her as she called again "Uncle!" She saw his thick lips forming into a smile, his arms outstretching, his uniform blouse opening. And as his arms expanded toward her and she took the mezzanine steps two at a time, running, his jacket opened wider, revealing the potbelly he had always had ever since her first remembrance of him—like a father. And like a daughter, she came into his arms, hugging his neck, feeling the strength of his arms around her.
"Natalia Anastasia," he murmured.
"Uncle." And she held him tightly.
"You are well, child?" he asked, folding her in his right arm, turning to stare across the museum's
great hall.
She stood beside him. "Yes, Uncle—I am well."
"The storm—when I heard that our troops found you, my heart—if an old man's heart can sing, then mine did," he said, not looking at her.
She studied his face.
"When I did not receive word from Chambers, the American president, I was frightened. For you."
"John Rourke flew all of us out of Florida, Uncle; he helped Paul Rubenstein find his parents. We took off just as—"
"Just as the final tremor hit. Thank—" He looked at her and laughed. "Yes, thank Lenin's ghost, child." And he laughed again. "That man, the mole agent who accompanied you when our troops found you, I assume he was Paul Rubenstein, the young Jew?"
"Yes, Uncle," she answered, her voice low, looking away. "I couldn't—"
"Betray a friend? I would not have expected you to, child. But I need to know. It is important. Is it the young—"
"Yes. It was Paul Rubenstein," she told him, fishing in her bag for her cigarettes, finding one, then a lighter, working the lighter, and then inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs.
"Such a bad habit—this smoking. You do it more since the death of Karamatsov."
"I know." She smiled, exhaling the smoke through her nostrils, watching it hang on the air for a moment, then begin to dissipate.
"You may see Rourke again—soon. Does this distress your "He's been captur—"
"Captured? Hardly. I think h
e is more ghost than man, sometimes. No. But I must speak with this man of yours."
She felt her hand trembling as she touched the end of the cigarette to her lips, inhaling the smoke. "He is not—"
"The wrong phrase, then." Varakov smiled. "Can you find Rourke for me?"
"Uncle, I—"
"I would not ask if it were not of vital importance. I need someone who has honor, someone who—I will explain it all to you later, Natalia. You cannot find him?"
"I do not know where to look, Uncle," she answered. "The storm—he went into it, to search for his wife and children—"
"Alone. And he sent this Rubenstein with you, to care for-you?"
"Yes. I tried to tell him I could—"
"It matters little, child, to a man who loves a woman, that she can care for herself, perhaps better under some circumstances than he could care for her^ or have her cared for. He did what I would have done. He has two lives, and is loyal to them both. He pursued one while he sent the other of his two lives under the care of this man who seems to be his best friend. He should be Russian, this Rourke."
"I wish he were." She smiled, then looked away.
Her uncle, Natalia not looking at him as he spoke, said, "You will give me as complete a description as possible of Rubenstein, of the vehicle he drove—"
"A motorcycle—like Rourke's, only blue."
"A motorcycle—only blue, yes. And the direction in which he would be traveling. Even now Rozhdestvenskiy
is rerouting my retreating troops, forming a strike force. I must talk with this Rubenstein in order to find Rourke. He has a place where he operates from—and this Jew can find it for me. I must talk with Rourke."
"Why?" She looked at her uncle then.
"You must trust me—that Rubenstein will not be harmed, nor will Rourke.
And while my men search for this young man, I have a job for you. It is perhaps the most dangerous mission you have ever had."
"Where must I go, Uncle?"
"Into Rozhdestvenskiy's private office. Walk with me and we shall discuss it."
Her palms sweated as she stubbed out tbe cigarette in a pedestal ashtray, then followed him slowly—because his feet;hurt, she could tell—down the steps.