EARLY THE NEXT morning, King crept out of his hogan and into the adjoining hut where Becca was sleeping. He shuffled as silently as his heavy feet would allow, past Lucy, who was zipped up to the top of her head in a sleeping bag, and Elaine, whose hair was fanned out on the pillow like a beauty queen’s. Jeanine, who refused to share a room with Elaine, had chosen to sleep elsewhere with her fellow faithful.
Becca was curled up in a tight ball, her hands folded up beneath her chin. She looked delicate and childlike. Peaceful, King thought. And this made him happy. She deserved more peace than she’d had in her young life. He tapped her gently, and her eyes snapped open, almost as though she hadn’t been asleep at all. “What’s wrong?” she asked in an urgent whisper.
King put his finger to his lips and motioned for her to follow him. They walked through the slumbering camp until they reached the spot where Reno had parked his bike. “Hop on,” King said and inserted Reno’s keys into the ignition.
“Reno gave you his keys?” Becca hesitated.
“I’m riding his bike. I’m not sleeping with his woman,” King said.
“Exactly!” Becca said, which made King laugh.
“Unless you want me to swim back across that river, climb on,” he said.
They sped east. White light pooled along the horizon like the froth that collects on waves. Here were spindly bushes tipped with small yellow buds, flowers that resembled sea anemones. King had always loved riding out here. He loved the combination of space and isolation. Nothing to hem you in or slow you down. He loved feeling like he was close to the earth’s center. He tilted his face to the wind, letting his beard whip against his throat. The cold air chafed his lips, but he didn’t care. He’d felt so heavy ever since the CO had betrayed him and passed him over in favor of Becca’s husband or Bull or however it had happened. But it had happened, and time was moving on, and what could King do about it? He was resigned. Resigned to that betrayal, just like he’d resigned himself to the war and its aftermath and everything he’d lost. He was thankful to be healthy enough to ride. And he was conscious, in a way that he’d never been before now, that the girl sitting behind him was a product of himself: the ruined parts, the good parts, and even the parts that were ruined for good. She was a young woman who, for reasons he felt intuitively but could not explain, had chosen her husband because of him.
It remained to be seen whether that decision was the best thing she could have done or the worst. Probably it was somewhere in between, like most things. But he was partly responsible for the outcome, which meant that he had to step up. He had to stick with her and see it through. And the reason he had to do this was so simple, it was a wonder he’d failed to see it before: Leave no man behind.
They were a good ten minutes outside of Kleos and coming up fast on the mining tunnel.
Tracks lined the floor, and King went slow, his headlights barely piercing the dark. They rode downward, then upward again. The darkness echoed with water crashing from a great height. Finally, they rumbled out into the open. King turned right and proceeded down the center of a wash. He wove around scrub bushes and cacti in the riverbed and then gunned up the bank. Within five minutes, they hit highway and the silky pavement, which provided a clear view of the river and the buildings of the two ghost towns, old and older. Somewhere beyond was the graveyard of crosses, and Kleos. Out past that, the CO’s body still smoldered.
King pulled in beside the Death Star. It was covered with dust, as if it hadn’t been washed in years. “Not in the worst shape,” he said.
“Dad, it’s filthy!”
King laughed. “I did right handing this car over to you, huh?”
Did her father really not know what the car meant to her? What the gifting of the car meant? She rubbed away some dust with her forearm. The surface was newly scarred, covered with nicks and cuts.
“Broken beer bottles,” King said with the certainty of a forensic detective.
Becca’s excitement sank back to her stomach. But then King did something unexpected: he picked up his daughter’s hand. She turned to him, surprised to feel the roughness of his fingers. Two physical displays of affection in just twenty-four hours. Who was this man? He even looked different now, without the ponytail.
“Listen to me, Becca,” he said. She listened, watching his marcasite eyes sparkle. He pressed his thumb against her palm. “I’m a disappointment. I know.”
She shook her head.
“No, I am. Because I don’t have any good advice. I’m sure Ben got blind drunk and did that to your car.”
“Yeah.”
King looked at her sternly. “I’m also sure that he followed you here when you ran. Kind of like your mother ran after me.”
“You’re telling me that I’m like you, and Ben’s like Mom?”
“All I’m saying is that Jeanine wouldn’t let me go.” King looked down, bashful. Discussing important, painful topics, he always felt as though he were walking along a ledge; one wrong step and he’d tumble. “I’m just laying things out for you, Becca. In case you have so much muck in here”—he tapped his chest—“that it’s clouded up your head.”
“It’s your heart I’m worried about, Dad.”
King smiled. “I got your keys back from the hoplites last night.”
Becca took them gratefully and climbed into the battle-scarred car. Something was different. There was a strange object attached to the wheel. “Dad, what’s this?”
King peered inside the car, saw the hose that his daughter was holding with bewilderment, and started laughing to himself. It wasn’t funny. But Reno’s ingenuity—oh, how he loved his friend. “Reno said your car needed fixing. And this was the fix. To make sure Ben drove sober.”
King could not read the expression on his daughter’s face. Was it relief? Hurt? Plain surprise? Shouldn’t he be able to tell? Becca lay back against the seat and closed her eyes. For a full minute, he let her sit and feel however she needed to feel. But the road pulled at him. The past few days were rushing up behind him, nipping his tires. “Becca?” he asked and she opened her eyes. “Do you think you can find your way back to the compound through that pass under the river?”
“You’re going somewhere?” she asked, quick and helpless. “Does Elaine know you’re leaving? Does Mom?”
“Elaine, I’ll see before long. Your mother . . . I’m not sure we’ll ever really make our peace.”
“But where are you going?”
“I’ve always wanted to see Canada. British Columbia, maybe. There’s good riding up there, I hear.” There was a look in her eyes. It said, Deserter. But she had it all wrong. “I’m worried about my heart too, Becca. I’ve got a lot to think through. After all this . . .”
In fact, King did not want to think about it. He needed to ride, to let the wind sweep his many questions out of reach. The trouble wasn’t simply that the heart had gone to another man. More difficult to understand was the CO’s deception; he’d promised King a fair chance and then, without warning or explanation, he’d taken that chance away. Leave no man behind. It was the one promise you didn’t break. And the CO had. He’d left King out, then he’d left them all—all the men who relied on him for guidance and strength. What would happen to them now? Could Bull really carry them?
Because maybe the competition wasn’t about selecting a capable leader. Maybe Durga’s heart wasn’t as strong as the CO said, and the pain that he felt was about more than toxins flowing through his bloodstream. Maybe he was so desperate to ease this pain that he’d gone looking for one of his disciples to take it away. And if this was true, then King was forced to ask himself whether he could have been that man. He didn’t know.
And, of course, there was one final question, the one that King needed to escape most of all. Now that the CO had broken his most fundamental vow, King had no choice but to wonder whether any part of Durga’s story was true.
“I need the road, Becca.” King paused to see how this was going over. Becca’s eyes blinked quick and anxious. “And maybe you need some time too. After what’s happened.”
“You mean time away from Ben?”
“Or with him? I want to help you, Becca, but I don’t know what’s right for you.”
When he said this, she almost burst out laughing. What had she expected him to give her? Hadn’t she known from the start that her father was a dead end? “But I need you to listen carefully,” he continued. “I’m done with this place. And before long, I will come home. I’ll be there for you. Like I’m supposed to be.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I’m your father and you are my daughter. Because that, right there, is the oath I’m making.”
In any other situation, between any other people, these words would not have sufficed. But King had never made a promise to her. And so his words weren’t simply good enough. They were everything.
“Can I just see that tattoo once more before I go?” he asked.
Becca held up her wrist. There it was: KING.
He nodded, still looking perplexed by the finality of the thing. “I love you, Becca,” he said and touched her shoulder. “You are my child.”
They hugged once more. A real belly-to-belly hug, with her father giving her a heavy slap on the back. Then King climbed onto his own motorcycle, parked nearby, fitted the helmet over his head, and turned the key. A lion’s roar cracked the quiet. King raised his hand in farewell. He pulled out onto the road and sped away.