TWO WEEKS AGO, hell, last week, Tony Nicholson had been popping five-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne when he was thirsty. Now here he was, huddled in the rain at a filthy I-95 truck stop like some third world alien on the run.
Mara waited inside, watching through the plate glass window of the Landmark Diner. When he looked back, she tapped her wrist and shrugged, like maybe he’d forgotten they had somewhere else to be.
He knew, he knew.
The alternative to this had been no alternative at all—rotting in a cell at the Alexandria Detention Center. At least now there was the promise of passports, plane tickets, and enough cash to get them off this plasticized continent for good.
But his contact was late, and Nicholson felt a little more paranoid with every passing minute. On top of it all, his bad knee was only getting worse in the rain and cold, and it throbbed like a sonofabitch from standing too long.
Finally, another five minutes later, there was movement in his line of vision.
A panel truck of some kind flashed its lights from across the front parking lot. Nicholson looked over, and the driver motioned him to come that way.
He motioned again—more urgently.
Nicholson’s heart jumped into his throat. Something was off. It was supposed to have been a car, not a truck, and the meeting point was supposed to be right here, where people could see. Where nothing funny could happen.
Too late. When he looked back at the diner again, Mara was gone. A little boy stood where she’d been, hands cupped around his face behind the glass, looking out at him like this was a remake of Village of the Damned.
Pulse racing, Nicholson motioned to the driver that he’d be right back, and gimped toward the door at what he hoped was a natural enough pace.
Inside, the restaurant and newsstand were mostly empty, with Mara nowhere in sight.
A quick check of the deserted ladies’ room told him what he already knew: This had just officially become an individual sport. He continued out the back door by the loos and kept moving.
The rear lot was quiet and looked empty. He’d parked the rental maybe fifty yards away, which right now seemed like fifty too many. When he checked over his shoulder, someone was coming out the same door he’d just used—maybe the truck driver, maybe not; it was hard to tell in the blowing mist and rain.
He broke into an excruciating, lopsided run, but now he could hear faster steps than his own slapping the wet pavement behind him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the panel truck again, skirting the lot. Pete’s Meats, it said on the side, and even now some part of his brain registered the irony.
Mother of God, I’m dead. So’s Mara. Maybe she is already.
He got as far as one hand on the rental-car door. A calloused palm slapped over his mouth, absorbing any scream he had to offer. The man’s arms were massive, and Nicholson felt himself twisted around as though he were a small child.
For a split second, he felt sure his neck was about to be broken. Instead, something stabbed up under his chin, creating a stomach-churning flash of pain and disorientation.
His vision fluttered. Parking lot, sky, and car all swam together in a blur, until the curtain came down for Tony Nicholson and everything went far, far away.