End Time (43 page)

The EMT staggered from the driver's seat. He didn't seem injured too badly, just shaken up pretty good. He threw a dopey grin at the two men coming toward him across the parking lot. Even as he waved okay his arm jerked; his leg twitched. He found a comfortable spot on the ground by the back wheel and got out his iPhone, calling for backup. The ambulance siren was gone, but you could still hear noise from inside the dented vehicle. The EMT had been playing the radio as he drove; you could hear the brassy pitch for that hot new show everyone seemed to be listening to:
Does the Night Have More Fun for It Being Dark? Listen to Piper, Night to Night.…

Billy Shadow plucked his partner's sleeve, drawing Bhakti to his side. “I wouldn't get too close, in case he bites. Look at this.”

He pointed down at their feet. The cracked asphalt surface was dotted with ant colonies here, there, everywhere. Little grainy mounds of sand with their volcano holes covered with armies of ants. Except all the ants lay dead, red ants and black ants mixed together. Claws and pincers, cut throats and thoraxes, scattered broken body parts. No, these little creatures didn't require a story framed for them or put in context. Some hidden power, like the gaunt man on every TV show or radio station, had sent his minions forth like every other vermin to wreak havoc and die. And they simply obeyed orders. Not a single ant moved. They'd fought a war, the war was over—and both sides lost.

*   *   *

Cheryl heard the ambulance siren wail across the river. Maybe the second or the third time that morning. Busy day out in the big world, apparently. How long had she been sitting in the Marriott lounge? Hard to say—a couple of hours at least. She got up from the beige couch and went to the ladies' room. Muzak dribbled faintly from a ceiling speaker; then the announcer said,
This is Mr. P. with his favorites for a lovely afternoon. Coming up, Mantovani and his orchestra plays “Charmaine.”

The cold water from the sink felt good on her face. Another woman joined her in front of the mirror, like girls at the prom primping. The woman hovered a little too close.

“Try the other sink if you're in a hurry.” Cheryl patted the water from her eyes.

“I'm in no rush,” the other woman said softly.

Cheryl glanced in the mirror and nearly choked on her own spit. She whipped around, banged her funny bone on the sink, and yelped as the flash ran up her arm.

Cheryl clutched her tingling elbow.

Rachel stood in the Marriott ladies' room,
wearing what appeared to be a hospital gown. There was a scratch on her forehead, a patch of hair missing. Her scalp was discolored and dented in. They'd stapled it closed. Rachel patted her hair, looked sadly in the mirror, dwelling on the bald patch where some ER doc had shaved her head.

“You'd think they'd let you look your best for times like these, but
Nooooo
.” Rachel sighed in dismay, shrugged at the inevitability of it all. “Lemme tell you, coming and going, you always look the same.”

Rachel peeked down the neckline of her hospital gown. “See, no autopsy scar.” A wry grin. “I guess they were pretty certain on the cause of death, eh? Hey, don't you talk anymore?”

Cheryl's honey-dark skin had gone gray. She stood stock-still, quietly questioning her own sanity, but not questioning too much. “I speak,” she stammered.

“Great.” Rachel fluffed out her hair as best she could. “You know the amazing thing about death?” She didn't wait for an answer; how the hell would Cheryl know? “The amazing thing is that you
always know
what people are thinking. You can read their minds. And you know what else? You can be in three places at once. No kidding. Right now, not only am I in this really elegant ladies' room with you, I'm also haunting that putz doper who ran me off the road,
walking away without a scratch I might add—
he's seeing me with my head bashed in every time he looks in a plate-glass window or a mirror or a teaspoon. Anything shiny. And he's not handling it well.”

Rachel paused to chuckle at herself. “I'm also terrorizing the piss out of the family of the late lamented Ricardo Montoya, the Sweet Jane Killer. I rearranged a crucifix on their dining room wall so it hangs upside down. Every time they set it straight, I flip it over again. Then I scrawled
Forgive
in red indelible marker over the hanging Jesus.
Perdonar
in Spanish. And lemme tell you, Lucy, the family of the late lamented Ricky are freaking out. A whole new kind of wrongful death. Y'know I think they're gonna drop that civil suit. They're arguing about it anyway, and that's a start. Cool huh?”

Cheryl had no words.

“Also, I'm sorry about changing the will. I'll see what I can do to sort it out. I wasn't in my right mind when we, when we…” Rachel didn't finish.

Cheryl tried to figure out a reply. What do you say to a ghost? Nice to see you? Finally, after a moment's thought, “Do you want me to come to the funeral?” she asked. “Should I fly back?”

“Oh
that
.” Rachel laughed. “Day after tomorrow. In the firm's big conference room, flowers and a cellist and readings from the Torah or Sappho, I can't remember which.” She shook her head sadly. “I hate the cello.”

Rachel's ghostie thought for a moment: Should Cheryl go, or not go? Did she really want Cheryl there? “No, no point in rushing back for that grim scene. Call Arthur Boedeker and tell him you're sick. Everyone else is—gallstones or hemorrhoids or something. He can send you the DVD in the black crepe case—”

“Oh, Rachel,” Cheryl blurted, tears welling into her eyes. “It's so good to see you again.”

Suddenly the ladies' room door opened—the young woman from the reception desk smiled briefly and disappeared into a stall, latching the door. Cheryl could hear the sounds of her sliding up her skirt and yanking down her pantyhose. Rachel put a finger to her lips.
Shush
. When they were both out of the ladies' room and alone by the beige couch, Rachel explained, “I don't think anybody should see you talking to yourself.”

Cheryl nodded. “Very thoughtful. So … can I ask you some questions?”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you here? How long do you plan to stay? And of course, is there life after death?”

Rachel flopped on the beige couch, crossed her bare legs, and bashfully patted her hospital gown; highly self-conscious as it did
nothing
for her.

“Why am I here? To show you something, I think. What am I supposed to show you? Can't say. How long do I get to stay? Haven't a clue, but I'll know when it's time to leave. Nobody explains anything in the sweet bye-and-bye; being dead is as mysterious as being alive. Figures, right? And as for the last question…” She paused to consider the matter of life
after
death; looked down at herself in the schmata hospital gown. “If there is life in the great beyond, we don't have to shave our legs anymore.”

A flash of light came through the glass doors and windows of the Marriott; out in the parking lot the white Dodge minivan pulled into a parking spot.

“Oh, why look it's the American Indian and Indian-American,” Rachel remarked; then to Cheryl, “Better stop staring at me, Girlie. They'll think you're tetched.”

 

23

Deal or No Deal

Finally, a slim lead on the Chen girl.

Billy Shadow had gotten a message, not from the Great Skin Walker in the Sky but from Lattimore's Aerospace CTO. Even from the confines of a hospital bed, tubed up on a cocktail of antiparasitics, quinine, and doxycycline, Jasper found what he was looking for—an Internet Protocol address tracking the mysterious Chargrove, PhD, back to a source and a digital fingerprint. The confused confession wasn't coming from the Pi R Squared complex directly, instead traced to an e-mail recipient with the promising name of [email protected].

The digital fingerprint boosted from a Wi-Fi account in the little town of Vandalia, Ohio—a roadhouse called Big Bea's Bar and Grill. Some kind of saloon in the Dayton area. Jasper's search engine, Tassology, had snatched the needle from the supposedly “private” Zmail haystack.

Sure, it felt like grasping at straws. But if you wanted to find the Chen girl alive, why not do a look-see on those who wanted to find her alive as well?

The pursuers left Council Bluffs a little before noon, and rolled eastward onto the interstate. Cheryl drove the revived yellow Toyota 4Runner, which the dealership had finally and miraculously managed to fix. Rachel, wearing her hospital gown, sat in the back and tried to act inconspicuous. With an agony of effort the two women refrained from talking; no need to spook innocent bystanders, especially Bhakti. In any event, the first couple of hundred miles from Council Bluffs to Des Moines wasn't a happy trip. Another freaky text message from Eleanor came over Bhakti's BlackBerry.

Bacteria here, Staff-Staph fear. But DON'T come near. Not Here Dear, not here.

What the hell was going on at that loony bin? First she wants a rescue, now she doesn't? Was Eleanor sane or insane? Guess it depended on the time of day. When his wife didn't respond immediately to his texting Bhakti switched to cell phone, calling Guy and Lauren in Fairfield. How soon could they get to Connecticut Valley Hospital? But the call kept disconnecting; Bhakti's side of the conversation with his in-laws going like this:

I don't understand Lauren. What do you mean you're not leaving the house?

Will you please put Guy on?

Well, can you or can't you walk outside?

It's the whole town?

The call disconnected into a dead zone one more time. Bhakti slapped the device into the dashboard, grousing, “They sound crazy. Like the wandering sickness hit Fairfield and everyone's in hiding. Except it's not St. Vitus' Dance, it's, it's—I dunno, yellow fever I think.” Then with irritation, “Can't you drive faster?”

“Is he always like this?” Rachel asked from the backseat.

To which Cheryl replied to both, “Yes.”

The wicked fact that strange maladies were spreading from coast to coast got the cop in Cheryl thinking. The presence of firemen, EMTs, bright lights, and smart uniforms reassured folks. When an ambulance crashed, another ambulance showed up. But when light switches stopped working, when milk turned sour in the supermarket case, and people started paying with bottled aspirin, things could get ugly very fast.

The good citizens of Fairfield, Connecticut, were in hiding, and nobody on the outside knew? Or if they did know—the Big
They
—they didn't care. So where else didn't they care? The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta? The nation's capital? When society mandated that everyone care, nobody did.

Shortly after 6 p.m. the yellow SUV and the white minivan pulled off the highway at a truck stop in Galesburg, Illinois. A dark ceiling of clouds rolled in from nowhere, making the service area's floodlights gleam. The air felt thick, full of expectant ozone, heavy weather on the way, thunderstorms, maybe hail. Hanging off the back of the minivan, Cheryl and Bhakti picnicked on deli food: Italian combos, Pepsi, and potato chips. Billy Shadow relayed the latest video call from Lattimore HQ via Jasper in his hospital sickbed.

“Jasper says that IP address is still hot.” A few clicks got Billy an address, a telephone number, a Google listing. “Looks like a biker bar.”

Bhakti did thumbkins on the tiny BlackBerry keyboard. He shook his head, confused. “I'm getting another text from Eleanor.” He repeated aloud what she wrote to see if anyone else could make sense of it:
“‘Don't you dare let her mother's milk back up the meat seam to the birthing chamber. Don't you dare let her anywhere near them—'”
The
her
most likely meant the Chen girl, but as for the rest?

Cheryl put her hand on his arm. “We'll get her, Bhakti, I promise. We'll get Lila, you'll see.”

“Yeah,” the Punjabi scientist replied, but you could see he didn't believe it. Bhakti left the group and for some moments sat alone in the yellow Toyota. Sitting alone with Janet's ashes in the backseat, he put his hand on the Nambe urn in the unzipped black duffle. He started quietly speaking to himself, then began murmuring to the ashes as if having a private conversation. Finally he left off.

“Mind if I drive alone for a little while?”

Cheryl didn't argue. “Let me get my bike off the trailer.”

The last lap of their trip became a headlong rush. Cheryl's Harley devoured the broken white lines while the headlight stared into a roaring tunnel of night. Rachel's stubborn spirit rode with her, ghostly arms clinging to Cheryl's waist, loose hospital gown flapping in the wind, two witches on a 1200cc fuel-injected broomstick. A few minutes before midnight they pulled into the saloon parking lot. A serviceable roadhouse in Unabomber longhouse style: single-storied, green metal roof, with electric signs for Budweiser and Jägermeister.

No crowd tonight, the lot almost empty.

One lonely vehicle sat by itself: a fully restored Ford Gran Torino. A Starsky & Hutch muscle car, except this one wasn't fire-engine red with the white vector streak, but a dark grape color, neon purple that morphed seamlessly to electric blue along the hood. Whiplash on Mag Wheels. A real head-turner.

As Cheryl climbed off her own bike, she noticed a small sticker on the corner of the Gran Torino's rear window:
UNITED DAUGHTERS OF THE CONFEDERACY
over the motto LOVE, LIVE, PRAY, THINK, DARE. Not exactly the rebel battle flag, but still … Southern heritage associations took on darker shades the closer you got to the schoolhouse door, making her wonder if there wasn't a folded white hood in the trunk of the purple Ford.