by Boo Walker
“I got ‘em!” I yelled out into the forest. “You can come on out!”
Francesca came out down the road.
Once she got close, I said, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks, tough guy.”
She helped me lift the live one into the backseat of the Suburban.
“Leanne!” I yelled. “You out there? We need to move. The others heard those shots. I can promise you.”
I listened. The dogs were getting closer.
“C’mon, Leanne. Let’s go!”
As if it couldn’t have gotten any worse, another vehicle appeared at the end of the road. They were hauling ass toward us.
I looked back to the woods. “Leanne!”
“I’m coming!”
“Run your ass off!”
I got into the driver’s seat, and Francesca got in the back with our prisoner. I put the Suburban in Drive and held my foot on the brake. “Take shotgun!” I yelled through the open window to Leanne, who had finally made it to the road.
She got in just in time.
I pressed my right foot down just as a bullet tore through the side window. Two men came out of the forest, running toward us, firing. The two Dobermans were up ahead of them.
But we were moving, and only two more bullets made contact, burying themselves into the door.
I was moving the needle as fast as I could, testing the limits of the Suburban, but the vehicle behind us had too much speed. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw a ram on the hood. It was the Dodge I’d seen at the cabin. They’d be on us in no time.
“He’s dead,” came Francesca’s voice from the backseat.
“What?” I turned. “That bullet got him?”
“No.” Francesca had pulled his head up and was pushing it away from her. Foam was coming out of his mouth. “More cyanide.”
CHAPTER 33
We came to a fork in the road, and I swerved left with no idea where we were heading. The Dodge Ram was right up on us now. A gun rose out of the window, and they started firing.
“Get down!” I warned, just as the back window exploded.
“Keep it steady,” Francesca said. “I’ll get them.”
I turned to see her loading the rifle with bullets from the dead man’s pocket. She aimed and fired. Their windshield cracked. Another shot. The Dodge took a hard left and smashed into a tree.
I didn’t slow down for another half mile. Once I felt like we were safe, I slowed to a stop on the side of the road. “Get him out of here,” I said.
Francesca didn’t argue. She stood and dragged the guy out by his shoulders, pulled him a few steps behind the tree line, and climbed back in. “You know Jacobs is going to be all over us. Won’t be hard to figure out we were a part of all this.”
“At this point, it doesn’t matter. We’re into some serious shit, and the only way out is to get to the bottom of it. Then Jacobs will give us a break.”
“We hope.”
I pulled back onto the road. “I know if we go to him now, he’ll put us in jail.”
“And without us, he’s not going to get anywhere.”
“Then, it’s settled. We go at it alone. Ted would do the same thing for us.”
We drove back to the ferry terminal and left the Suburban in the lot. I wiped down the keys and left them in the ignition. We boarded via the pedestrian walkway, looking way out of place. We got in line to get a bite to eat and something to drink, and the cashier certainly did a double take as I paid. What, lady? A little sweat and dirt scare you? You should see the burn under my shirt.
We hired a cab back to Seattle. First, we dropped off Leanne at a friend’s place and asked her to forget everything she saw. It didn’t take much convincing. She hated cops. All she needed to hear was that I’d make things right. I promised her justice.
We grabbed our stuff at the Pan Pacific and headed over to Fremont to a small motel. The front desk clerk gave me no trouble when I paid in cash. He checked my ID but didn’t copy it. We split a room for safety reasons, and trust me, that was all I was thinking about. Safety.
I took a look outside the window. Not much scenery: a large fir tree and lots of concrete. Francesca sat on the end of her bed and started scrolling through channels on the television. “So we’ve lost our cars and our computers. And we have no idea what to do next. I don’t, at least. Do you?” She looked up at me.
I had taken off my shirt and was looking at the triskelion they’d burned onto my stomach.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry I let them do that to you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I tried as hard as I could to get out of there fast.”
“I understand. How’d you get out?”
“Getting halfway up was easy, but then the wall curved back in toward the hole. It was like I’d fallen into a cavern. I kept digging my fingers in, trying to reach the lip, but I had no holds. It was all dirt. Finally found a root and it got a lot easier.”
“I guess I believe you.”
“I couldn’t have made it up.”
I raised my eyebrows and nodded. I guess I still trusted her.
“Turn it up,” I said, noticing CNN. They were talking about Dr. Kramer’s murder. We watched for a little while. They’d released more details. Kramer had died of blunt-force trauma injuries to the head. In other words, someone had hit her in the head multiple times with a blunt object, and then they had pushed her body into the lake. I realized something about it just didn’t seem right.
“You know what doesn’t make sense?” I said. “This isn’t the same kind of murder as the others. We go from a well-planned assassination in a high-security environment at the Summit, to a sniper on the street, to some kind of hate crime. Someone bashed her head in with a rock. Doesn’t line up.”
“Well,” Francesca said, “we’re talking multiple murderers already. Each individual may have his or her own method. This is a group. The same group that just branded you…don’t forget that. I wouldn’t put anything past them.”
“Oh, I won’t. Trust me. I’m just saying…it seems inconsistent.”
“We do have an admission of guilt. What else do you want?”
“What if someone else sent that letter claiming responsibility for Kramer’s death? A copycat. Or what if there is some turmoil in the group…maybe two different factions of the Soldiers of the Second Coming. We see it all the time in the desert. Two leaders go their different ways. I’m just saying, Kramer’s murder seems different than the other two. Like there was a different motivation. A different thought process. Something more personal.”
“I hear you, Harper. We certainly don’t need to make any conclusions yet. That’s for sure.” She shrugged her shoulders and stood up. “Anyway, I’m going to go grab a few things from that store down the road. You want some meds for your burn? Looks like you could use an ice pack for your forehead, too.”
“All of the above, please. And some Advil.”
“You got it.”
“Hey, Francesca?”
“Yeah.”
“Please be careful.”
She smiled. “Isn’t that sweet. You’re still worried about me.”
“This is just almost more than two people can do on their own.”
“I’ll be very careful.”
She left as I was peeling off my clothes and turning on the water. I left it cold so it wouldn’t burn as badly. I stepped in and the water instantly dirtied at the bottom of the tub. It was a mixture of blood and dirt and sweat, and the cold felt good on my skin. I closed my eyes and let it run over my face and down my body for a while. I was nearly overwhelmed by what was going on. I didn’t even know where to begin, and to tell the truth, I was losing hope.
***
Francesca came back with two bags. “Lie back,” she said, pulling a box of Neosporin and a bandage out of the bag. I put my head on the pillow. She sat on the bed and applied the c
old gel onto my burn with a gentle touch, covering every bit of the blister. She was close enough that I could feel her breath against the wound. Then she unwrapped a bandage, pulled the sticky part off, and pressed it against my stomach.
She patted my chest. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Be there in a second.”
“Don’t even think about it.” She shook her head and disappeared into the bathroom. I was in desperate need of some rest. Making sure the Ruger was loaded and within arm’s reach, I let my eyes close and soon drifted off.
Not too long after, the demons came.
***
“Harper!” It was a female voice. “Harper. Wake up!”
My eyes opened and the shock of reality hit like someone had dumped a cooler of ice water on me. I gasped for air and started swinging at whoever was touching me.
It was Francesca. She caught my hands and pinned them down. I stopped fighting and gasped for more air.
“You’re okay, Harper. Breathe deep.”
I fell silent and lay limp on the bed. I could feel the trickle of sweat rolling down my face. Francesca leaned over me and turned the light on, and curled up next to me. She put a hand on my chest. “You with me?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m with you.”
“That was a bad one, huh?”
I rubbed my eyes, feeling ashamed and embarrassed.
Francesca got up and came back with a couple hand towels soaked in water. She was wearing a T-shirt and panties. She put one towel on my chest and folded the other and laid it on my forehead. Putting her leg up over my waist and her arm around my chest, she held me tight.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling for a while. All that healing I’d done had broken down. I hadn’t had such a nasty dream in two years. It felt like the dream had lasted days, but the clock said it was only 2 a.m.
I watched that ceiling for almost three hours, Francesca’s touch comforting me. I was too exhausted and depleted to think about what had happened the past couple days and what she’d told me about being engaged, so I just lay there and felt her touch and thought about how nice it would be to take her back to Red Mountain.
CHAPTER 34
The Riverside Church of the Woods wasn’t really in the woods. It was across the street from a shopping center near the highway in Renton. Right smack-dab in the middle of all the shit I hate about America: Olive Garden, Fred Meyer, McDonald’s, et cetera, et cetera. Any kind of chain. Matter of fact, I think I hate anything that is big enough to have a CEO.
The church was a massive establishment, its property taking up two full blocks. A four-story cross rose out of the ground and reached up past the roof.
We pulled in at 10 a.m., hoping that meant they were open for business. We’d cleaned up, eaten, gone for a walk along Lake Union, and talked about what we should do next. Her contact had given us more information regarding the cabin and Jake’s Woodworks. Jameson Taylor owned the cabin, and I had a feeling his wife didn’t know that. Another man owned Jake’s, and it wasn’t a guy named Jake. We’d go see them again soon enough, though I had a feeling those involved were already far out of our reach. As I’ve mentioned, I’d been doing this a long time. I could smell a dead end.
Besides, a visit to see the preacher, Wendy Harrill, was long overdue. Apparently, judging by how much I’d seen her on the news lately, she loved media attention just as much as she loved Jesus Christ. We had watched quite a bit of the local and national news that morning, and Wendy had been talking specifically about the letter the Soldiers of the Second Coming had penned claiming responsibility for Dr. Kramer’s death. She had gone on and on about how the pursuit of Transhumanism—the idea of using technology to transform the human condition—was leading us into a time that we could not control, that we were flirting with powers we did not understand. She made it quite clear, though, that she did not condone any violent acts, such as the murder of Dr. Kramer, and that the Soldiers of the Second Coming was a radical and unwelcome group amongst other Christians.
I couldn’t find any news about what had happened on Whidbey Island the day before. No report of the men I’d killed. No news, period. We could only assume that Jameson and his men had cleaned it up quietly. And taken the Range Rover.
With both of us carless, we took a cab to the church. I asked the driver to wait for us across the street, and we walked up to the front door. It was locked, so we went around to one of the smaller buildings. A flower delivery guy was just coming out, and he held the door for us.
There was a welcome area with a long hallway leading to what looked like offices. A picture of Jesus hung on the wall. The flowers the man had delivered were on a tall table in the corner. They were white lilies. Madonna lilies. I knew because my mother used to grow them. The woman behind the desk was munching on a biscuit as she said, “Good morning. Can I help you?”
“I think so. My name’s Salvi and this is Chess.” I paused for effect, making sure Francesca heard my amazing jest, but I didn’t look over. “We’re thinking about joining the church but wanted to see if we could meet with Mrs. Harrill before we went any further.”
The woman smiled. “Sure. We can set up an appointment for later in the week.”
“Does she have any time today? We’re only in town for a few hours. We live down in Portland for the time being…moving up here in about a month. Finding a church is important to us so we’re scouting them out now.”
“I understand completely. You two married?”
I did my best blush. “Not married…we’re engaged.” I squeezed Francesca’s hand, and she dug her fingernails into my skin.
“Well, congratulations. You guys are such a cute couple.” She didn’t look down to see if Francesca was wearing a ring. Even if she had, it was Seattle. People are into bucking trends like wearing diamonds.
I threw my arm around my “fiancée.” “Don’t we look great together? Her parents love me.”
“I’m sure. Let me see what I can do.”
“Thanks so much. We don’t need a lot of time, just need to make sure we’re the right fit.”
As the woman checked Wendy Harrill’s schedule, I snuck a peak at Francesca. She was eyeing me like she wanted to kick me. I gave her a wink.
“Tell you what,” the lady came back. “Wendy isn’t in yet, but she should be here in the next thirty minutes. If you could wait a little while, I’ll see if she could see you briefly.”
“We’d be happy to wait.” I held back the urge to ask her some questions. I didn’t want to make her suspicious of my intentions, and I had a pretty good feeling that Wendy Harrill would have all the answers we needed. “We’ll walk across the street and get some coffee. Be back in just a little while.”
A Tully’s Coffee was across the street—a somewhat less corporate establishment than the coffee house I will not name—and we headed that way. I let the cab driver, a thirty-something Ethiopian man, know it would be a little while longer, and he didn’t seem to mind. He was taking in the Steve Job’s biography on tape. Besides, he was racking up a nice fare, one I wasn’t looking forward to paying.
The traffic was heavy as we crossed at the intersection. Nothing triggers me more than traffic and crowds. Lots of people in one place. I hate it. I hate the people, the congestion. All the mediocrity out there, marching in line to eat their shitty fast food and buy crap from Wal-Mart that they don’t need just because it’s cheap. Sheep. Damn sheep everywhere!
I don’t even know why this stuff bothers me. It’s not that I’m above mediocrity. Hell, I’d love to be called mediocre, average…normal. But somehow so much of America bothers me. That’s what happened after my last couple years in the desert. Whenever I’d return, I’d nearly lose my mind over the littlest of things.
Lines, the homeless, fat people, loud people, annoying people, angry people, happy people, people who didn’t do what they said they were going to do, patronizing sons of bitches, loud noises, stoplights, politicians, spam mail, bad service at restau
rants or wherever, having to fill up my gas tank when it wasn’t convenient…even bottled water. If you’re near a tap, drink the damn tap water. Quit filling up freaking landfills with useless stuff. Not that I was some tree hugger. I hated them, too.
They were all things that didn’t matter—that I’d been dealing with all my life—but now they bothered me in a way that no civilian could ever understand. I thought I’d ridded myself of these little stresses, but they were coming back in full-force with every passing hour. I needed to be back on the vineyard, stat. I’d already exposed myself enough to Francesca, so I kept my thoughts to myself.
“So what was that you said to the cab driver when we got in?” Francesca asked.
“You mean Selam Dehna Neh?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s ‘hello, how are you.’ Or something like that, in Amharic.”
“Very impressive.”
“A good Ethiopian friend of mine taught me a couple things,” I said.
After slinging yet another cup of caffeine down my gullet, feeding my growing rage, we walked back to the church. Wendy Harrill was just inside the door, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the rack in the corner. She was about to meet the not-so-nice Harper Knox, but I was intent on suppressing that for as long as possible.
“Here they are,” the secretary said to Wendy, a smile in her voice.
CHAPTER 35
We both threw out our smiles again and regarded Wendy Harrill in person for the first time. She was captivatingly attractive in her blue business suit. Every strand of her brown hair was cut to the exact same length, and it fell very professionally to her shoulders, but her face was far from formal and uptight. Her young, sexy eyes made her look younger than she probably was; I guessed a little over forty. Probably a man-eater back in the day. Maybe she still was. She was certainly still in great shape, and carried herself with supreme confidence.