The First Prophet (16 page)

“Maybe it wasn’t that at all.”

Tucker fell silent, frowning a little as he guided the car onto an exit ramp where
signs promised several fast-food restaurants. He didn’t speak again until they had
collected coffee, orange juice, and several sausage biscuits from a drive-through
and were once again on the highway heading north.

“So…what we know or think we know is that there’s someone after you. Possibly because
you’re psychic, but we don’t really know that. We think they want to kill you—but
we don’t really know
that
. And we think we should head north, maybe to look for somebody, but we don’t know
who or why.”

“We don’t know a hell of a lot, actually.” She bit into a second biscuit with more
determination than appetite.

“No, but it ought to be an interesting trip.” He laughed a little.

She looked over at him, more wary than reassured by his humor. “Tucker’s excellent
adventure.”

He met her gaze briefly, then returned his to the road as he began unwrapping another
biscuit. “Don’t run away with the idea that I think this is just a game, Sarah. In
games, you don’t end up dead. In this…well, it’s a definite possibility.”

But you don’t understand what that really means, I think. You don’t know just how
brutal real bad guys can be.
But all she said was, “Then why are you getting such a damned kick out of it?”

“Not a kick—just a certain amount of…intellectual enjoyment. What can I say? I love
puzzles. And I’m good at them.”

Sarah finished her juice and then started on the coffee, brooding. She was too tired
to think and she knew it, but it was impossible to turn off her mind. She felt curiously
adrift, caught up in a current that was carrying her along in a direction she hadn’t
chosen and didn’t want, and since it was not her nature to be so helpless, it bothered
her.

But this is my fate. My destiny.

She was here with Tucker because she was supposed to be. Heading north because she
was supposed to be, because there was someone waiting for her and because it would
end in the north. Running for her life because that, too, was part of the plan. Letting
Tucker set the pace and make decisions because she was supposed to.

She wasn’t supposed to think. To question. She was just supposed to accept.

Because it’s my destiny.

Even as that litany echoed in her mind, Sarah frowned. Somewhere in the dim recesses
of her consciousness, rebellion stirred, and resistance. Why did that statement rise
in answer to so many of her questions? For the first time, she wondered whether that
was simply another of the voices in her head, not a beckoning future she
couldn’t escape but someone—or something—intent on shaping her destiny to suit some
shadowy purpose.

I’m being led somewhere. Pushed. Guided. And how do I know it isn’t them? How do I
know they aren’t defining my fate, controlling my destiny? How can I trust even my
own mind not to betray me?

She couldn’t. That was the most terrifying thing of all.

Near Arlington, Tucker turned off the highway toward the west, which made Sarah vaguely
uneasy. She tried to pay attention, to listen to whatever was tugging at her, but
the sensation was just tenuous and uncomfortable, impossible to define, and only faded
some time later with another change of direction.

They turned again off the main road and onto a winding secondary road and, quietly,
Sarah said, “We’re heading north again.”

He looked at her quickly. “Still not the wrong direction?”

“I think…definitely the right one. I don’t know where we’re going, but it’s somewhere
to the north.”

Tucker turned onto an even more winding secondary road, and said, “Just a few more
miles now. The cabin’s on a small lake, quite isolated. There isn’t much of a town
nearby, but there is a small general store. Sort of.”

That last wry comment was explained some ten minutes later, when Sarah found herself
sitting in the car and staring bemusedly at a sign cheerfully proclaiming
WANDA’S BAIT AND PARTY SHOPPE
. It looked like the kind of small gas-station-cum-general-store found in many small
towns, selling everything from gas to groceries. And, apparently, bait.

Tucker went in alone to get the groceries, after telling Sarah it might be best if
he appeared to be traveling alone. If anyone was searching for them—and they had to
expect someone was—then they would be looking for and asking questions about a man
and a woman, not a man alone. It was a logical caution.

So Sarah sat in the car and waited. She didn’t have to wait long. Tucker returned
in about fifteen minutes, carrying several small plastic bags, which he put in the
backseat.

When he slid into the driver’s seat, Sarah asked mildly, “Who’s Wanda?”

“Beats me. Every time I’ve stopped by here—admittedly just a few times over several
years—the only one inside has been an old man watching television while one of his
relatives runs the cash register. Today it was a nephew.”

His voice had been light, but Sarah heard something else and looked at him intently.
“What is it?”

He started the car but paused with his hand on the gearshift and looked at her with
grim eyes. “There was a news program on. And a report about something that happened
in Richmond.”

“What?”

“They found a man’s body early this morning near an abandoned building. Shot through
the head. The city’s up in arms. He was a cop.”

Sarah felt a chill. “Not…Lewis?”

“Lewis. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. There are no suspects, at least
as far as the media knows. Just one very dead cop—who must have been killed not long
at all after we saw him at the apartment.” He paused, then added, “Unlike the late
sergeant, I don’t really believe in coincidence. So I’d say that, for Lewis, failure
was not an acceptable option.”

Sarah didn’t say a word.

Inside Wanda’s Bait and Party Shoppe, the old man looked toward the front counter
and spoke querulously. “You ain’t supposed to leave the desk!”

“It’s all right, Uncle,” the younger man said, in the loud voice one used to speak
to the hard of hearing. “No customers.”

The old man grumbled but returned his attention to the television and a morning game
show.

The younger man moved to the front window and gazed out at the Mercedes only now pulling
away. He watched it until it moved out of his sight, then returned to his place behind
the counter. He glanced at the absorbed old man, then reached for the phone and punched
in a long number.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said when the call was answered. “They’re on their way to the
lake.”

It was nearly four that afternoon when Sarah came out of the cabin’s single bedroom.
It was a rustic cabin only in
the sense that it was constructed of logs and river rock; it had all the modern conveniences,
including plenty of hot water Sarah had used in her shower, and a television connected
to a small satellite dish on the roof.

The television was on, turned down low and tuned to MSNBC. But Tucker was watching
another screen. He had his laptop set up on the coffee table and was obviously working
on something. But he immediately looked up when Sarah came into the room.

“Working on the book you’re going to get out of this?”

“No, something else. You look much better.”

“A few hours’ sleep and a shower can do wonders,” she agreed. “Did you manage to get
any rest?”

“A little.” He didn’t elaborate. “You should eat something.”

“You’re always trying to feed me,” she said, nevertheless heading for the corner of
the great room devoted to the kitchen.

“Well, aside from the fact that the fit of your clothes says you’ve lost some weight
recently—weight you didn’t need to lose—it’s also a good idea for people on the run
to follow the soldier’s maxim. Eat when you can, because you never know when you’ll
get another chance. Goes for sleep too. Basic survival training.”

Sarah didn’t reply to his comment about her weight; the too-loose fit of her clothing
was
obvious, and she knew it. Instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee and said, “I’m
not really hungry, so I think I’ll wait awhile. If you got stuff for a salad we can
have later, I’ll fix that.”

“I did.” He smiled slightly. “Need to keep busy?”

“Don’t you? What
are
you doing?” She came around the breakfast bar dividing the kitchen from the rest
of the room and perched on the arm of an overstuffed chair at a right angle to the
couch where he sat.

“Sleuthing.”

“Ah. And what are you sleuthing?”

Tucker smiled again. “The case of the missing psychics.”

Sarah thought about that, her gaze on the laptop’s screen. “There’s wireless Internet
out here?”

“Via the satellite dish, so it’s not the fastest, unfortunately. But it gives us some
access. You can find out almost anything if you know where and how to look, and I
don’t mean just using Google. The real trick is having enough firewalls and other
protection to ensure nobody else catches you looking.”

“Which you have.” It wasn’t a question.

“In these days of highly visible social networking, it pays to be at least a little
paranoid, especially if you create intellectual property vulnerable to theft. I protect
my work as best I can, and that includes whatever I happen to be researching.”

“So, have you found out anything?”

He leaned back on the couch and linked his hands together over his flat middle, frowning
now. “So far, I have more questions than answers. I’ve been checking newspapers in
major cities, looking for missing persons believed to have some kind of psychic ability.
I’ve gone back more than ten years, so far, and checked half a dozen cities.”

“And?”

“Come see for yourself.”

Sarah moved over to sit beside him on the couch, keeping a careful few inches of space
between them. She held her coffee cup in both hands, and looked at the laptop’s screen.
There was what looked like a brief newspaper article accompanied by a photo of a young
woman. She had to lean forward to read the article. It was dated March 17, 2008.

Sarah looked at Tucker, very conscious of his nearness. “What makes you think she
was psychic?”

“The program I’ve set up cross-references
missingperson and accident reports with available police reports. They had added her
school records to their files, and in those records were comments from several teachers
about the girl’s ‘unusual abilities.’ Also a few highlights from a psychological profile
I shouldn’t have been able to access; her parents took her to a shrink just before
she vanished because they were worried about her, and had been since she was small.
She ‘knew things’ she wasn’t supposed to know. Sound familiar?”

“Very.”

“Yeah. Anyway, the shrink believed she was a genuine psychic, recommended the parents
take her to be evaluated at Duke University or one of the other legitimate programs
set up to study parapsychology. They never got the chance.”

“Are you supposed to be able to access police reports?”

He smiled. “No.”

She decided not to ask. “I see. So—you did find a missing psychic.”

“Not just one.” Tucker leaned forward, his shoulder brushing hers, and tapped a few
keys, then leaned back again so that Sarah could see the screen. Another article appeared,
this one dated September 12, 2009.