After the End (20 page)
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.
“Who are you?” I ask, knowing exactly who they are but wondering what else I can find out.
“We are your escorts to Blackwell Pharmaceutical. Mr. Blackwell has something he wants to chat with you about.”
“So you’re just going to kidnap me and drive me to L.A.?” I ask defiantly.
“No,” the man in the backseat says. I turn to look at my other captor. He’s got a brown crew cut and thick neck, and his clothes look too small. He sees me looking and puts two fingers inside his collar to loosen his tie. “We’re not driving you to L.A. You get the special princess treatment.” He glares at me as Baldy pulls into the Salt Lake City airport. “We’ve been looking for you for days,” he says, as if I have been hiding expressly to piss them off.
“That’s not my fault,” I say.
“Well, it doesn’t make me like you more,” he says.
We pull into an isolated section of the airport with signs for
PRIVATE: CHARTER AIRCRAFT
, and drive straight up to a tiny plane with
BLACKWELL PHARMACEUTICAL
painted on the side. My stomach drops, and I feel all the blood leave my face. I’m going up in the air. In an airplane. Oh Gaia.
Baldy clicks the unlock button, and we all get out of the car. “Don’t bother running,” he says, opening his jacket to show a gun holstered across his chest.
They need me. They’re not going to shoot,
I think, and take off running across the pavement. I am immediately tackled from behind.
Baldy slaps handcuffs on my wrists and pulls me writhing to my feet. The heels of my hands are scraped raw, and my elbows and knees sting from my collision with the concrete.
“Got a live one,” he chuckles to Necktie, but he’s red and panting with exertion.
I take a deep breath and try to look calm. “You guys are going to feel pretty stupid when you take me to Mr. Blackwell and I tell him I don’t know anything about a drug formula.”
“Not our problem,” says Baldy, and puts a hand on my back, steering me toward the plane. There’s nothing I can do but go with them. I consider metamorphosis, but that only lasts a few minutes, and there’s nowhere out here to hide once I’m visible again.
I grasp for straws . . . I could try to call any animals in the vicinity. I glance around at the barren landscape. Nothing to work with.
I could try to Conjure a strong wind,
I think, but before I can form a plan, I am walking up the stairs toward a man in a pilot uniform who steps aside to let us board.
“Didja get my message?” Baldy asks him.
“Yes. Ready to go,” the pilot confirms. I am trying to control my shaking, but my bowels are twisting and I feel like I’m going to be sick. And we haven’t even left the ground.
Planes were one of the evils of society that Dennis taught us about. They polluted the air and gobbled fossil fuels. In the Seattle newspapers, I saw the term “carbon footprint.” If Dennis had known that term, he would have used it.
I saw pictures of planes in the EB. I know that the pilot sits in the cockpit, in the front of the plane. That the passengers sit behind in rows. But this plane only has six seats, and they look more like overstuffed armchairs, all grouped around tables. I stand there, not knowing what to do, and Necktie points to one of the chairs. “You sit there,” he says, and pushes me down into a cream-colored seat that smells like new leather. As soon as the pilot closes and locks the door, Necktie produces the key to my cuffs. “You can’t go anywhere now, but you can be a pain in the ass. Tell me you won’t, and I’ll uncuff you.”
“I won’t,” I say, but only because I haven’t yet thought of a plan.
I’m not sure what to do once I’m uncuffed, but I watch Necktie pull seat belts up from the sides of his chair and click them together, and I begin to do the same. And then I remember something and unclick the belt. “I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.
“She needs to go to the bathroom,” he yells to Baldy, who has stuck his head through the cockpit door and is talking to the pilot. The sound of the plane’s roaring engine and spinning propellers is deafening.
“Well then, let her go to the bathroom,” Baldy shouts back, shooting him a
what are you, stupid?
look.
“It’s back here,” Necktie says, and standing again, leads me to a door in the back, stationing himself just beside it, thumbs through his belt loops as he waits.
“Are you going to wait here by the door while I pee?” I ask, raising my chin. Daring him.
He looks offended. “No!” And he sits back down in his seat.
I squeeze into the toilet, find the door lock and pull it over, and then fish in my pocket for the paper that Whit left for me. It’s a page torn from a map. Printed across the bottom is “. . . w Mexico.” About an inch above Roswell—in the middle of nowhere—is a circle drawn in blue ink. And at the bottom of the page, in handwriting that I know as well as my own, Whit has written, “Things aren’t as they seem.”
“IS JUNEAU IN DANGER WITH THOSE MEN?” WHIT asks.
I cross my arms defensively and stare at him.
“Are you and the men who took her working for Blackwell Pharmaceutical?” he asks, and something in my expression must be giving it away, because he nods like he’s thinking,
I knew it!
One of the guards in the backseat shuffles uncomfortably.
“Since when does Murray Blackwell hire teenagers to do his dirty work?” he prods.
I don’t say a word. I just give him my
eat shit and die
look. But it doesn’t seem to be working on him because he just gives me an astonished look, like he read my mind and knows exactly who I am. And then I notice that his hand is positioned over the gearshift so that his fingers are lightly touching my jacket.
“You were Reading me!” I say.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Whit protests, but something in his eyes tells me that’s exactly what he was doing.
“Come on, let’s get this show on the road,” urges Thick-tongue from behind me.
Whit puts the Jeep in gear, and I scrabble to pull up the door lock while yanking on the handle.
It’s already unlocked!
I manage to think before I tumble out the door, landing hard on the sidewalk and sending a shock wave of pain through my right shoulder. Rolling to my hands and knees, I leap forward and make a run like mad for the Dairy Queen.
I hear swearing behind me, but don’t dare look as I sprint across the parking lot and in through the glass door. I push it closed behind me and see Thick-tongue stop mid-run as Whit yells something at him. The burly guard turns his head and gives me a scorching glare, pointing his thumb and index finger at me like a gun. He shoots. And then he turns and stalks back to the Jeep. They drive off in a screech of rubber, leaving skid marks on the sidewalk.
“May I help you?”
I swing around to see a teenage girl standing behind a cash register. I stick my hand in my pocket and pull out my cash. Juneau paid for our uneaten lunch, so I still have change. “What can I get with a dollar twenty-nine?” I ask.
“Water,” she says snippily.
I look back at the street. They’re definitely gone, although who knows if they’re just turning around to come back for me. I have two choices: hang out drinking water in Dairy Queen in case they come back, or risk it and make the trek back to my car.
“That’s okay,” I say. “Not thirsty.”
She rolls her eyes, and I walk out the door.
A twenty-minute walk later and I’m amazed to see that my keys are still on the ground where I dropped them when Portman and Redding smashed into the Jeep. Our lunch is still sitting in the bag on the dashboard where Juneau had set it. And Juneau’s pack is still in the backseat.
I’ve got this Tabasco-hot anxiety burning in my chest, but it quickly turns into anger as I think of Dad’s men snatching Juneau. They better not lay a finger on her. I’m comforted by the knowledge that Dad will treat her well as long as he thinks she can help him. But knowing her, she won’t be very helpful. Even if she knows the formula or technique or whatever it is that they use to stay young, there’s no way in hell she’s going to give it to him.
I think of her face when she’s angry and can’t help but smile. I wouldn’t want to be my dad before a wrathful Juneau. If Portman and Redding are taking her to L.A., like I imagine they are, she’s going to be majorly pissed off. Her goal right now is New Mexico, and the longer Dad keeps her from it, the angrier she’s going to get.
But my frown returns when I think of my father and how cutthroat he is when he can’t get something he wants. He’s got a whole corporation, money, and manpower behind him. And what does she have? Her earth magic. I start the car and buckle in. There’s going to be a major face-off in L.A., and I need to be there to stop it.
As I pull out of my parking space, something black lands on my car and blocks my view through the windshield. I hit the brakes and see that it’s Poe, wings spread wide as he flaps to get my attention. I unbuckle and jump out of the car. “What the hell are you doing here?” I say, and then realize. “You led Whit here, didn’t you? You . . . you traitor!” The bird squawks and struts across my hood to look me in the eye.
I know Poe was just an unwitting tool, but I still want to strangle his little feathered neck.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and go find Juneau?” I say. He leans his head to one side, as if considering my question. Then he squawks loudly and flies off to the north—the opposite direction of where Juneau’s being taken. I’m obviously not “close enough to the Yara” to use him as a messenger raven.
I climb back into the car. How did I ever get involved in this mess? Oh yeah. Dad. Dad’s greed. And a girl who may or may not be holding the secret to a drug for immortality.
I shake my head and try to find a radio station. Country and oldies are all I’m picking up. It’s going to be a long drive to L.A.
I FLUSH THE MAP DOWN THE PLANE’S TOILET after memorizing exactly where the circle is drawn. I wash the grit off my scratched hands and pat my bloody knees with a wet wad of toilet paper. And then I make my way out to my chair and strap myself in. Necktie is watching my every move. I trade him a scowl for his leer, and he picks up a magazine so he doesn’t have to look at me.
And then we’re moving. Baldy comes back and takes the seat across from me, strapping himself in as we begin to taxi down the runway. I want to throw up. I have never left terra firma.
Be strong,
I urge myself.
Don’t show any weakness.
I cross my arms over my chest and close my eyes, like I’m settling in for a nap. Squinting with one eye, I see that the men are both engrossed in sports magazines and no longer watching me.
I have been thinking about what I could do to stop the plane.
Does a plane have spark plugs?
I think. But the fear that I would do something that would kill us all keeps me from trying a Conjure with the engine.
I turn to look out the window just as we are lifting off the ground at a slow incline. Parting with earth. Joining the sky. When I think of airplanes, I think of bombs being dropped from them. Missiles travel by air. Nuclear weapons are delivered by air. The mushroom clouds and green haze of radiation that have populated my nightmares since I was a little child explode like an apocalyptic Fourth of July before my eyes, and I can’t help but shudder.
I dig my fingernails into my palms and try to calm myself. And suddenly we’re in the midst of the clouds, traveling through a fog. No visibility. Just when I think I see something flickering to one side of us and wonder if brigands could have hijacked an army plane, we burst through the cloud and are floating above a sea of soft cotton. And I remember that there was no World War III. That this airplane I am in right now, this destination I am hurtling toward, are all a part of a functioning, modern world.
IT’S A LONG SIX HOURS FROM SALT LAKE CITY TO Vegas. I’ve given up on the radio and already sang all the songs I knew with the window down. (Somehow my voice doesn’t sound as bad that way . . . not that I would dare sing a note if anyone was within hearing distance.) So the only thing I have to do, after finishing my third rendition of “Sweet Home Alabama” (complete with instrumental guitar noises), is think.
And man, my brain is racing around, trying to make sense of what has happened to me over the last week. I try to remember everything that Juneau told me about her past, about Yara, and about her “earth magic,” as I’ve come to think of it. But it’s hard to recall most of it, mainly because I was so sure she was spouting crap that I was only half listening.
They don’t grow old. They don’t get sick. The kids all have those star things in their eyes. They cut themselves off from the rest of the world three decades ago. They believe in this thing called the Yara, which allows for transfer of knowledge between anything in nature. And which also allows nature to be manipulated.
And . . . there’s something her clan’s got that powerful people want bad enough to kidnap them and hunt down Juneau.
Everything makes sense now. Juneau’s sullenness, her self-protectiveness, her weird reaction to anything modern . . . anything created in the last thirty years. It’s got to be hard for her, knowing that the people she always respected have lied to her for her whole life. And now she’s risking her own safety to find them.
I think about what I would do if my father were in trouble: how far I would go to rescue him. I can’t really imagine it. But with a pang the size of Texas, I know in an instant that if she let me, I would do anything to save my mom. And that certainty helps me understand Juneau’s fierceness in her will to reach her goal. She’s tough. Determined. But she’s just one girl up against at least two powerful factions, including my dad and his multibillion-dollar corporation.
Although I try to stop it, my mind insists on wandering back to the night I kissed her in the tent. I feel my pulse pick up as I remember the softness of her mouth, the surprise and then acknowledgment in her eyes, the weight of her body on mine. I’ve probably kissed a dozen girls. But none of them were like that kiss.
Juneau is different. She makes me want to be a better person. My heart falls when I remember the look on her face when I told her the reasons I was kicked out of school. I want to be someone she respects. Admires. But in order for that to happen, I’m going to have to change. To become stronger. As strong as her.
It’s 9:00 p.m. when I reach the
WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS
sign. The only stop I made was for gas and supplies. I used Dad’s Shell card to stock up on a square meal of Cokes, Rolos, pretzels, and chips, which was all they had at the service station. And when I tried to collect-call Dad, he didn’t pick up the phone. I push aside the heavy feeling in my gut. There’s nothing I can do from this far away at night.
I drive down Miracle Mile past all the flashing lights and continue on until I’m out of town. My eyes are closing by themselves when I decide I can’t go farther. I pull the car well off the road and am so exhausted that I lie down in the front seat, draping my coat over myself, and within seconds I am dreaming.
Juneau is walking toward me through a snowy winter landscape, an ice-capped mountain behind her. She is wearing furs, and thick black hair hangs halfway down her back. A small box is nestled in the palms of her hands, and out of the open top, light pours out. Golden light, as if daylight were transformed into liquid. It spills in pools around her feet as she walks, but does not touch her. My heart skips around like a mad cricket in my chest. Juneau is no longer angry, defensive, bitter. She is beautiful and serene. She smiles as she nears me and stretches her hands forward as if offering me the box.
The liquid sunlight spills onto my feet and burns me as it slowly travels upward—up my legs—and climbs, inching toward my torso. The burning becomes severe, and I cry out, but I’m paralyzed and can’t move. Now the gold has spread across my chest and has seized me by the neck. I sputter, but I can’t inhale: it is strangling me.
Juneau’s expression has shifted from serenity to compassion. “Miles,” she says, though her lips don’t move. “You are one with the Yara.”
I am on fire. A golden statue alight, flames licking around me, melting the snow into puddles at my feet, heating Juneau’s face and reddening her nose and cheeks. She leans in closer until her lips are touching mine. And as she kisses me I disperse into a million tiny flames, sparks flying up into the cold winter air and diffusing once they hit the starry night sky.
I open my eyes and glance at the dashboard clock. Three a.m. I lie there stunned by dream hangover and fatigue until I finally sit up and buckle myself in. I start the car and continue toward Los Angeles, spending the remaining four hours thinking about Juneau.
