All Fall Down (37 page)

This was a whole other kettle of fish.

Simone locked her fingers together and stuck them near Kate’s knees. ‘Hurry. I’ll give you a leg-up then I have to go, and so do you. Angelica will kill me if she sees us. Turn left out of the gate and keep going for about three miles – you’ll come to a place called Feverfew. Keep out of sight as much as you can.’

Kate grabbed the saddle, put her left foot into Simone’s hands, and just about managed to swing her right leg over the horse’s back, scrabbling to slide into the saddle properly.
She still only had one foot in the stirrup, and was practically lying on her stomach across the horse, clutching handfuls of its mane, when Simone slapped it hard on the rump and it set off at an unfocused canter towards the ranch gate. Kate didn’t have time to thank Simone, and didn’t dare swivel round to wave her gratitude – all her energy was concentrated on not falling off.

‘Egypt!’ she gasped. ‘Slow down!’ It felt like she was on a bucking bronco in some Western movie. She managed to grab one of the reins and pulled, but Egypt immediately started to turn – back towards the ranch. ‘Shit! No, not that way!’ she begged, gathering up the other rein and heaving on them both. Egypt snorted furiously at her, but straightened up and slowed to a trot. Kate made a monumental effort to get in synch with her mount. ‘Up, down, up, down, up, down,’ she chanted to herself, as Egypt careened out of the gate and turned left of his own accord, much to Kate’s relief, as she was pretty sure that, had he wanted to go in the other direction, there wouldn’t ha
ve been
much she could have done to persuade him otherwise.

She pondered Simone’s words, as she and Egypt settled into an uneasy sort of rhythm on the empty road:
Keep out of sight
. How the hell was she meant to do that, on a horse this size, if a car came by? Forest pressed in on either side of the road, too dense to try and manoeuvre a big horse through.

After a few minutes, during which time Kate’s thighs and buttocks started to ache violently at the shock of the unfamiliar exercise, she saw a road sign: FEVERFEW – 1 MILE.

‘OK, good, nearly there,’ she panted, risking taking both reins in one hand to give Egypt a brief pat on the neck. ‘Good boy.’ His flesh felt hot, as did hers – the sun was beating down on her bare head and forearms. She allowed herself a moment to relish freedom and the great outdoors after days of being locked up at the ranch and, before that, stuck in the lab. The air was so fresh up there, especially after the grim taint of Junko’s final breaths, and the too-recent memory of all the other deaths she had witnessed over the past week. Poor Junko, she thought again. She vowed to do whatever she could to give her a proper funeral, when all this was over. If it ever would be over …

Shaking off the maudlin thought, Kate forced herself back to the present. What did she need to do when she got into town? She had no money, phone or ID on her – would there be a police station there? All she needed really was a phone, to make a reverse charge call to Paul. But then how would she
get
to him? Were buses and trains still running? She hoped he had escaped from California and had somehow got to Dallas to be with Jack. ‘We might have to ride to Dallas, my friend,’ she said to Egypt. ‘Best conserve your energy.’ She refused to even allow the thought that Paul might be sick, or dead.

She heard the sound of a car engine behind her in the distance, and froze in the saddle. Were they coming after her already?

Desperately she yanked on Egypt’s reins, trying to haul him off the road but, as she’d already suspected, the forest was too thick. Egypt couldn’t figure out what she was doing, and reared up angrily, catching Kate’s arm on the spiky point of a branch, ripping a long deep cut across her forearm near her elbow. There would be no point in trying to outrun them on horseback. There was nowhere else to go.

Kate was about to jump off the horse and run into the forest when suddenly the vehicle rounded the corner and was upon her, a rattly old pick-up truck driven by an enormously fat man wearing a face mask and denim overalls. He slowed down and stared curiously at Kate, but did not stop, leaving her shaking like a leaf, blood dripping down her arm, feeling as though she was going to throw up. She spurred Egypt into a canter, praying that there would be no more unexpected surprises.

The forest began to thin out, and Kate turned a corner to see a valley below her, with a few blocks of houses on either side of what passed for a main street. There was a crossroads, and a railroad track, and not a lot else. The chances of finding a police station were slim to none, she decided.

‘Stay still a minute,’ she instructed Egypt, pulling on the reins. He shuffled his big feet, complaining, but obeyed. Kate examined her arm, which was beginning to throb badly. The cut was oozing blood at a steady rate, soaking through the beige three-quarter sleeved top that Brandi had brought her when she first came to the ranch and that, along with the matching beige cotton pants and espadrilles two sizes too large, she’d been wearing ever since. She needed a bandage.

She yanked hard at the seam on the blood-stained sleeve, but nothing happened. Cursing, Kate tucked the reins under her leg to keep them at hand, and peeled off the top, clenching the saddle hard between her aching thighs to maintain her balance. She was past fretting about whether anyone would see her sitting on a horse in her bra – in the current circumstances people had more important things to worry about, like trying to avoid catching Watoto. At least that was one problem she didn’t have. This was the second time she felt grateful for having caught it as a kid, after she’d discovered that Gaunt tried to kill her with it at the Cold Research Unit.

Using both hands, Kate was able to tug hard enough to rip the sleeve right off the thin top. She wrapped it several times around the cut, tying the ends and using her teeth to pull the knot tight. The fabric smelled of the ranch – a sweet, faintly cloying scent of lily and incense, and it made her shudder. She tried to pull off the other sleeve too, but the stitching held firm and wouldn’t budge, so she put the top back on as it was. Feeling more conspicuous than ever in her one-sleeved top, she picked up the reins again, kicked Egypt into motion and rode into town.

The clip-clopping of Egypt’s hooves was the only sound penetrating the eerie silence. Kate felt like a cowboy in a Western movie. Main Street was deserted. Every establishment she rode past was closed. There was a small restaurant, a bank, a drug store, a store selling crafts and – ah! She spotted a phone booth on the corner outside a tiny cinema.

She steered Egypt towards it, throwing the reins over the top of the Perspex hood of the booth to tether him, and leaned down in the saddle far enough to reach the receiver. Wedging it between her shoulder and ear, she managed to
punch in the numbers 011 8000 REVERSE that she had
taught Jack to use in case of emergency, though she had never had cause to do it herself during all those years she lived in the US, gripping on to the hood with her free hand to keep her balance while Egypt fidgeted beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a white Porsche pull up behind her, but paid no attention to the muscly woman with short dark hair who climbed out of the car, and didn’t notice how the woman’s cold eyes fixed unmovingly on her back.

Paul waited outside the diner, beside the car. Diaz was in the back seat, dozing after his huge breakfast, his hands on his belly, while Harley paced up and down talking into his phone. Paul could only make out snatches of the conversation, the occasional exclamation of surprise. Finally, he put the phone away and came over to Paul, shaking his head.

‘Well?’ Paul asked impatiently. ‘Do you know where he is?’ He was by now convinced that if Mangold was behind the outbreak, he must have Kate. He would have been behind the bomb at the hotel, and the raid on the lab. Paul didn’t know who else was involved – was Mangold’s granddaughter somehow mixed up in this too? – but there was no doubt that Mangold had achieved even more than his old buddy Gaunt in unleashing hell upon this earth. Paul bounced from foot to foot, desperate to get moving.

‘We have an address for Mangold’s late daughter, Tara – a ranch outside Feverfew, in Cherry Valley, about a hundred miles from here. And get this—’ Paul sneezed and Harley looked at him in alarm. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s … an allergy, that’s all.’

Harley backed away, trying to make it look like he wasn’t scared. ‘OK. Well, listen to this – I ran the name Angelica Mangold, to see if the address was registered as hers, and an alert came up. That’s what took so long: I had to wait for someone from the Agency to call me back.’

‘The Agency?’

‘Yes, the CIA. Angelica Mangold was a CIA officer. And she’s been missing for the past two years. Presumed dead, in fact. She was operating overseas – in Tanzania – and broke contact. Nobody has seen or heard from her since then.’

Paul scratched his head. His scalp was so sensitive that even the slight rake of his fingernails hurt. ‘So, according to Diaz, Mangold was recruited by the US Government to help them develop viruses – biological weapons, in other words. And judging from your reaction, that doesn’t strike you as too far-fetched. No, don’t interrupt. And now we find out his granddaughter was working for the CIA. My God.’

He sneezed again. His body was screaming at him: go to bed, rest, turn out the lights. And he was scared. If he had Watoto, the clock was ticking fast. They had to get Diaz to Mangold fast, so Diaz would give up the cure. And if Diaz messed them around, they would just have to extract the information from Mangold, using whatever methods Harley and his colleagues had at their disposal.

He found a tissue in his pocket and blew his nose, then opened the car door. ‘So we’ve got the address – come on, let’s go.’

Harley walked round the car and climbed in. ‘Mangold’s daughter died years back, but there’s no record of the property being sold.’

‘Did you say it’s a hundred miles away? That’ll take what – ninety minutes? Can’t you get us a helicopter or something?’

Harley sighed. ‘It would take as long for it to get to us – assuming there’d be one free. They’re all being used for border patrols and to airlift sick VIPs to out-of-state clinics.’

‘For pity’s sake.’

‘I know, right.’

‘Well, you’d better drive fast.’

As he sank into the passenger seat, Paul’s head was thumping with pain, his throat full of razor blades. How much worse would he feel in an hour or two, by the time they got to Mangold’s ranch?

The answer crept up slowly as they covered the miles between Long Beach and Feverfew, Harley driving, not saying much. In the back, Camilo rolled the window down and stuck his head out like a dog. At least somebody’s happy, Paul thought miserably.

With each passing mile, he felt more and more sick. In his increasingly feverish imagination he could picture the virus populating his body like an invading army, battling his beleaguered defence force of antibodies, slaying them in silent combat, advancing on all fronts. His head was Baghdad under aerial bombardment, his nose and eyes were the damp trenches of Belgium, his skin burned like a napalm-scorched jungle. He shivered in the passenger seat, barely aware of the passing scenery, occasionally opening his eyes to take in the deserted highways, cars parked by the roadside with the bodies of entire families inside, nightmarish visions that might or might not have been hallucinations. At one point, they passed a line of tanks, a helicopter floating above them, but then minutes later he was unsure whether he’d imagined it.

He dozed. In his shallow sleep, he dreamed he was a soldier in some unnamed war zone, far from home, the dead and dying all around him. He was writing a letter to his sweetheart, telling her how much he missed her, how he wanted to come home soon. Stephen was there, lying on the bunk next to his. A telephone was ringing not too far away. Stephen appeared to be sleeping, but when Paul looked closer he saw that his brother’s skin was charred black, his hair burnt to the roots, the stench of cooking meat rising off him. Suddenly his eyelids sprang open and his eyeballs swivelled towards Paul, then he opened his grotesque, lipless mouth, and said, ‘Hey, are you going to answer that?’

Paul opened his eyes, with no idea where he was. He could hardly breathe. But the phone was still ringing.

Harley said, ‘Are you going to answer it?’

Paul groped in his pocket and pulled out the iPhone. It had two per cent of charge left. He thumbed the screen and said, ‘Hello?’

A robotic voice said, ‘You are being called reverse charge by—’ and then Paul heard the sweet, sweet sound of Kate, saying her own name. ‘Do you accept the charges?’

‘Yes, yes, YES,’ Paul said, as loudly and clearly as his aching throat and fuzzy head would allow. Just hearing her name cut right through the fuzziness like a shot of pure adrenaline.

‘Oh, Paul, Paul … It’s so good to hear your voice.’

‘Kate, baby, my darling, how are you? Where are you?’

Beside him, Harley jerked to attention.

‘I’m in a place called Feverfew. I—’

She stopped talking and he thought she must have got cut off. But then he heard another voice, a woman’s voice. He couldn’t make out what she said.

‘Kate? Hello? Hello?’

She was gone. He threw the phone down into the footwell with frustration and anger. His body was rocked by a sneeze.

In the back seat, Diaz said, ‘Was that the famous Dr Maddox?’

Paul was too upset to reply.

Harley asked him gently, ‘Where did she say she is?’

‘Feverfew.’

Harley nodded excitedly. ‘Bingo.’ He floored the accelerator and they hit 100 mph on the empty road. ‘We’re almost there. Let’s go and get her.’

After twenty hours almost continuous driving, it was fair to say that the novelty of life on the road had worn off. Jack and Bradley sat in the back of the car throughout the night, alternately dozing, playing on Bradley’s DS, and randomly punching each other when the boredom became too overwhelming. An increasingly morose Riley sat hunched over the steering wheel, smoking out of the window and listening to vintage heavy metal CDs. By the time they reached Tucson, Bradley and Jack could sing most of the lyrics to ‘Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter’.