The Dark Remains (56 page)

“Nice,” Travis said, holding on to the seat with a death grip. “Now tell me where in this thing you keep the barf bags.”

Grace was beginning to think Travis’s request hadn’t been out of line. It was clear the pickup had lost its suspension somewhere on the rugged landscape of Davis and Mitchell’s high plains ranch, and the two men hadn’t bothered to go look for it. She bounced on the seat, periodically whacking her shoulder against Travis or her head against the ceiling.

They had called Farr again. Travis had spoken to the Seeker, explaining that they had a vehicle and were driving fast. Then, in mid-sentence, Travis frowned and lowered the phone.

“I think the battery just died.”

Grace hoped that wasn’t an omen.

Now a glittering complex of office buildings slid out of view behind them, and the pickup crested a rise. Colorado Highway 128 stretched ahead—two asphalt lanes winding up and down a series of rolling hills. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached this place yet, and the land was empty and brown: beautiful with the forlornness that comes only to lonely spaces. Ahead, to the west, rose the tumbled granite slopes of the Flatirons, which Grace knew dominated the skyline above Boulder.

“Any sign of them?” she called over the whining of the engine. She didn’t know how many gears this truck had, but whatever it was it didn’t seem to be enough.

Davis squinted blue eyes. “I don’t see anything. No, wait—there’s something going on up there.”

It was a construction zone. There were a couple of backhoes parked at odd angles, and a dump truck took up most of the road. Orange cones were scattered all around, and a man in a matching orange vest held a stop sign. Mitchell slowed the truck.

“We don’t have time for this,” Travis said.

The dump truck rolled a few feet, closing the small gap that remained, then came to a halt.

Grace clenched her jaw. They didn’t know how much of a lead Duratek had—they could already be to Boulder by now. And there were a dozen major roads into and out of the city.

The construction worker was waving the stop sign now.

“You’d better slow down, Mitchell,” Davis said.

A few other cars were stopped. Mitchell started to bring the pickup to a halt behind them. None of the pieces of construction equipment seemed to be moving now. How long was this going to take?

“Travis, Grace,” Vani said quietly, “I am not yet familiar with all the customs of this world. But if these are workmen, tell me why are they dressed in such fine clothes?”

Grace leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The pickup was nearly stopped. Two of the workmen in orange vests were approaching. One of them reached into the pocket of his black dress pants. Beneath the orange vest, he wore a white button-down shirt and a tie. Then she saw it, lurking near one of the backhoes: a shiny black sedan.

Of course, you should have known. The dump truck is empty, and the road hasn’t been torn up
.

The men were a dozen feet away. The one started to draw his hand from his pocket. There was something in it.

“Mitchell!” Grace shouted. “Get us out of here—now!”

He must have realized the truth at the same time she did, because even as she screamed the words he punched the accelerator and the pickup sprang forward. Mitchell cranked hard on the wheel, clipped the bumper of the minivan ahead of them, then maneuvered the truck onto the right shoulder. The approaching men scrambled to avoid being struck.

Davis grabbed the dashboard. “Might I ask where you’re going, honey?”

“I haven’t exactly figured that out yet.”

The shoulder was too narrow. On one side was a steep embankment, on the other one of the backhoes. It wasn’t going to work. Mitchell hit the brakes, leaned into a hard turn. The pickup spun in a half circle, then charged straight across the road.

A sound like a backfire set Grace’s ears ringing, then the back window of the truck disintegrated into a glittering cascade of crumbled glass. She shook glass from her hair, then glanced back through the empty space. The two men in dark suits and orange vests held guns out before them.

“Get down!” Travis yelled.

Grace huddled against the seat with Travis, but not Vani. There was another report, and a hot whistling sound.

The sound ceased abruptly, and Grace glanced up. Davis stared with wide blue eyes at Vani’s closed fist two inches from his face. Vani opened her fingers. In her hand was a small, bright bullet.

The truck lurched again.

“Hold on, everyone!” Mitchell called out.

Grace couldn’t see from her vantage. The arm of a backhoe flashed by the window, then suddenly the world outside the pickup tilted wildly. She saw sky, then the flat line of the horizon leaning at a peculiar angle. A curious feeling of weightlessness came over her. The truck was going to roll.

“Now, Mitchell!” came Davis’s shout.

Again the pickup lurched, then with a jolt that caused Grace to clamp her teeth down on her tongue, sky and earth righted themselves outside the windows. The engine roared as the truck gathered speed.

Trying not to cut herself on broken glass, she pulled herself upright alongside Travis. The construction equipment was rapidly shrinking outside the back window. She could see the tire gouges in the embankment on the south side of the road—which was barely less steep than the other, and which Mitchell must have used to gain their freedom. She saw the men in black suits throw off their orange vests and run to the sedan. But it was on the other side of the dump truck. They waved their hands frantically, but the shadow inside the dump truck seemed to be having trouble operating it, and it struck one of the backhoes.

The pickup descended over a hill, and the scene was lost to view. Grace turned around. Travis was watching Davis and Vani. She handed Davis the bullet.

“Keep this for luck,” she said.

Davis still stared at the bullet. “That I will, ma’am. That I will.”

Travis studied Vani, his gray eyes intent. As if aware of his attention, she lowered her head, gazing at her hands in her lap.

The land rose and fell beneath the truck. The mountains loomed closer.

“How much farther to Boulder?” Grace said.

Davis answered. “I don’t think it’s far. If I remember right, this road hits Highway 93 just east of the foothills. It’s 93 that heads on up to Boulder.”

“And it also heads south to Golden,” Mitchell said.

“Faster,” Grace breathed in Mitchell’s ear.

She watched the speedometer climb to the right: 70, 80, 90. The truck rattled as if it were going to fly apart.

A green sign flashed by outside the window, too quickly
for Grace to read. They reached the top of a large hill, and the land fell away into a deep, dun-colored bowl. Where the highway flattened out at the bottom was a black tangle.

Five eighteen-wheeled trucks were stopped on the road. The first one had jackknifed and fallen on its side, blocking the road. A column of black smoke billowed into the air. The second truck had smashed into the first. The others had managed to avoid a collision, but the drivers had steered them in various directions to keep from striking the trucks ahead.

“There!” Travis said, pointing through the windshield. “Do you see it? Just past the first truck.”

His new eyes were too good, and there was too much smoke. Then the smoke coiled, breaking apart for a moment, and Grace did see. Lying across the road was a black limousine. Its side was smashed in by the impact with the first truck. It must have pulled out onto the highway just as the caravan reached it. There had been no time for the trucks to stop—or for the limousine to roll out of the way.

“Deirdre,” Travis whispered, voice hoarse.

In her mind, Grace spoke another word.
Farr
.

On the sides of the black trailers, crescent moons gleamed in the waning daylight. Dark figures were climbing out of the cabs, stumbling among the wreckage. The accident must have just happened.

“All right,” Mitchell said. “We found them. Now what?”

It was Vani who spoke. “There is room to the right side of the road. You must use it to get us to the head of the caravan. If they are yet alive, the Seekers will be there. Perhaps they will have discovered in which vehicle the knight is being held.”

Mitchell shifted gears. “Yes ma’am.”

The pickup roared down the hill.

Be all right, Farr
, Grace said to herself, not even sure
why she did, only that it was all she could think of right then.
Damn it, you had better be all right
.

The black length of the rearmost truck sped by. Two big men in black jeans and T-shirts looked up, faces dazed. Guns were holstered to their sides. One of them clasped a hand to his head while blood seeped through his fingers. Before they could react, the pickup blazed by.

Mitchell wove around the next trailer. Another of the guards dived and rolled on the asphalt to avoid being run over. Mitchell gunned the engine, swerving back across the road.

“Stop!”

It was Travis.

Mitchell slammed on the brakes, and Grace nearly flew into the front seat. Only Mitchell’s thick shoulders stopped her.

Davis eyed the truck’s mirror. “We’re going to have company soon. This is not necessarily a good place to stop.”

“Look, Grace. Do you see it?” Travis pointed to the back of the eighteen-wheeler they had just been about to pass. “Low on the left door.”

She saw them: three horizontal lines had been drawn with a finger in the dirt on the door.

“It’s just graffiti.”

“No.” His voice was soft. “No, you’re wrong.”

He reached into his shirt, drew something out. It was a piece of bone on a leather string. Etched into the bone were three parallel lines:

With a jolt of energy, Grace understood. “It’s a rune.” He nodded. “The rune of hope.”

“What’s it mean?” Davis said, frowning.

Vani opened the door of the pickup. “It means their friend is in this vehicle.”

“We’ll be needing those rifles,” Mitchell said.

Grace brushed broken glass from one of the rifles, then wrested it from the gun rack. Travis grabbed the other, and together they piled out of the pickup.

“Stop now and drop those guns,” a deep voice said.

Grace froze next to Travis, Mitchell, and Davis.

The man stood twenty feet away, the bulging muscles of his arms hard as he thrust the sleek pistol out before him. A trickle of blood ran from a cut on his cheek. With his small eyes fixed on them, the guard released the pistol with one of his hands and adjusted the skewed audio headset he wore, bringing the microphone close to his mouth.

“I’ve got them contained,” he said. “We’re behind transport three. I need a—”

His words ended in wet gurgle as his head twisted to one side. There was a
crack
, and the guard went limp, his heavy body crumpling to the ground. Both Davis and Mitchell stared at the dead man, their faces pale. Even before the air rippled, smoothed, and her eyes caught up with the too-swift motions of the other, Grace knew what—no,
who
—she would see.

Vani wiped her hands on her leather pants. “There are more guards in the frontmost part of this vehicle.”

A bullet whizzed not far above Grace’s head. Together, the five pressed themselves against the back of the truck, out of view of the front cab. Slowly, Davis peered around one side, Mitchell around the other.

In stereo, rifle blasts thundered on the air. A second later came the sounds of two doors shutting.

“I think our friends decided they’d rather stay in the cab for a while,” Davis said, his grin back at full strength.

“Keep watching that direction,” Vani said. “I will guard the rear of the vehicle.”

The air shimmered, and she was gone.

Davis let out a whistle. “How the hell does she do that?”

“Keep your eyes on your man, Davis,” Mitchell said.

“I thought you were my man.”

“You know what I mean.”

The two cowboys held their rifles ready, keeping watch on the front of the truck. Grace could hear booted feet against asphalt. Somewhere came a faint, gurgling cry of pain, quickly cut short. Vani was out there somewhere.

“We’ve got to open these doors,” Grace said.

Travis tried the handle. It didn’t move; the truck was locked. Panic flooded Grace. What were they going to do?

Before she could speak, Travis pressed both his hands against the doors. He bowed his head, eyes shut, jaw clenched.

“
Urath
,” he murmured.

Grace waited, but nothing happened. It was no use. Just like the Weirding, his rune magic was too thin, too weak here on Earth. Travis staggered away from the truck.

The doors swung open.

She stared. “But I thought …”

He held up his right hand, wonder on his face. On the palm, a symbol glowed as if it had been drawn on his skin with molten silver: three crossed lines.

“Something’s different,” he said. “My power—it’s stronger here.”

“What’s going on back there, Travis?” Mitchell said, eyes still fixed forward.

He glanced at Grace; she nodded.

“We’re going in,” he said.