TWELVE

•   •   •

Karen Patrick awoke in the truck with a start. She’d left the Starlight and driven nearly six hours before pulling into a rest stop a few miles east of Davenport, Iowa, with every intention of just dozing for an hour or so. But sleep had come quickly and she’d slept so soundly she hadn’t even dreamed. Morning light now filtered past the old towels she’d hung in the windows. She was glad Jed kept a stash of them under the rear seat. It was nearly eight o’clock. After bringing the seat to an upright position, she flexed her neck to the right, then to the left. A stiffness had set in that made her wince. She cracked the windows and pulled the towels away, squinting against the full force of the sunlight. She had to use the bathroom, then get on the road. She still had a very long trip ahead of her and had hoped to be much farther along.

After getting back on Interstate 80, Karen drove another two hours before she glanced at the gas gauge and noticed the Silverado needed a fill. Her mind had been on other things: Jed and Lilly. Their whereabouts. Whether they were safe or not. And the thumb drive in her pocket. More than likely, Murphy had already found out the one they’d given him was a dud, and Karen knew what was coming. They’d figure she had the real one and track her down. She had to be diligent; she had to be cautious and smart about every move she made.

The outside world seemed to not even exist. Morning commuters rushed along and beyond the traffic; trees whizzed by in smudged blurs. But she hardly noticed any of it. The hum of tires on the road and the thoughts that circled in her mind lulled her into a trancelike state. She’d also thought of Emma, the farmer’s wife, and how strange it was that the woman had simply appeared, shared what she shared, then left just as abruptly as she had arrived. Her words, though, resonated through Karen’s mind like a voice through the hallways of an empty building.

“God’s been down this road before with countless other folks. He knows the way. Trust him to lead you through it.”

Was she allowing God to lead? Was she following him, working off of his cues? He knew the way. Did she really believe that?

Now the gauge was nearing empty and telling her she needed to stop. She scanned the area and noticed signs for Joliet, Illinois. Passing the town on her left along 80, she veered off onto US 30 and found a filling station and convenience store a few miles outside of town.

The store was newer, like it had been built in the past couple years, and showed no evidence of aging yet. The glass was clean and clear, the signage bright and crisp. The pumps were all new as well and showed no indication of overuse yet.

Parking along one of the pumps, she left the truck and entered the store. The pumps were prepay only, and she needed food and drinks for the trip. The interior was clean and organized. Bright and roomy. A few other customers were present. Karen surveyed the store. A college-aged woman in a trendy beret paid for some items at the counter. A dark-skinned barrel-chested man with a goatee and round eyeglasses perused the snack food aisle, and an older man and a small child helped themselves to hot dogs.

She grabbed a premade sub, a container of fresh fruit, a gallon of springwater from the refrigerated section, and a bag of chips from one of the shelves.

Crossing the store to the counter, she noticed the man with the goatee put his phone to his ear. He glanced at her, then quickly looked away, focusing his attention back on the packaged cakes and cookies. Karen hurried to the register and paid for her items and the gasoline. Her heart rate had jumped into overdrive, and she found her hands trembling when she handed her money to the cashier.

As she left, she stole another glance at the man. He was still in the same aisle, phone to his ear, but he wasn’t speaking and he didn’t appear to be listening to someone else speak. He shifted his eyes to her, then away again.

Karen picked up her pace. She wished Jed were there. He’d know what to do. Reaching the truck at the pump, she tossed her items on the passenger seat and hurriedly removed the nozzle and shoved it in the vehicle’s fuel receptacle. She couldn’t see past a glare on the plate glass of the store, but she could feel the man staring at her, watching her, informing whoever he was on the phone with of her exact location, of what she was wearing, what she was driving.

How had they found her so soon? She was a dead woman. If goatee man in the store didn’t kill her himself, she’d surely be tracked down and eliminated at some rest stop or maybe whatever hotel she chose to spend the night in.

Her mind spun in wild circles; she had no idea what to do. Should she drive through the night? Sleep in the car? Should she get off the highway and try to get lost along the back roads and in the small towns of America? People did it all the time. Stay out of public view and you can become invisible.

After stealing a quick glance at her watch, she returned her attention to the storefront. The pump seemed to be working in slow motion; it was taking too long to fill the Silverado’s large gas tank.

C’mon, c’mon. She bounced her leg and squeezed the nozzle harder. She could feel her pulse all the way into her wrist and palm.

Before she reached the prepaid limit for gas, the man exited the store, looked around the lot, then settled his eyes on her. Karen’s heart suddenly jumped to her throat. He crossed the macadam, heading directly toward her. Nothing about him appeared sinister or threatening, yet Karen’s internal alarms screamed. She released her pressure on the nozzle and replaced it on the pump. She had every intent of jumping into the truck and tearing off, but the man reached her before she could get into the vehicle.

“Ma’am?”

She stopped. Froze. This was it. He was going to call her ma’am, play nice, put on a cordial, decent demeanor, then murder her right in the parking lot. Maybe put a gun to her head and end it quickly. Or thrust a knife into her back and twist. Or opt for a more hit man–like method and use a ligature on her.

He spoke again and this time she noticed he had an accent. Latino. Maybe Mexican. “Ma’am?”

Slowly, her chest thumping from the pressure of her banging heart, she turned to face him, bracing for whatever would come next.

The man’s face was soft and kind. There was no murder in his eyes. He held out a dollar bill with a worn, weathered hand. It was not the hand of an assassin. “You dropped this.”

Her hand trembling, she took the bill from him.

The man smiled and backed away. “Lo siento. I did not mean to scare you.”

She said nothing. Her mouth was too dry, her muscles too rigid. The man turned and left, and she watched him until he got into an old Ford F-150 and drove off.

Karen climbed into the cab, shut the door, gripped the steering wheel, and let the tears come. Floods poured from her eyes and sobs shook her whole body. She couldn’t do this, not on her own. She should have never left Jed. She was too vulnerable, too inexperienced. If they were looking for her —which they would be eventually —they’d find her; they’d kill her.

God, help me.

•   •   •

San Francisco’s Pier 33 was crowded when Jed arrived. He’d been careful during the drive to make sure no one had followed him. Just outside Monte Vista, California, he’d pulled into an empty parking lot and around the back of an abandoned warehouse to catch a few winks. He’d dreamed there, disturbing scenes of war and violence and death. Images and nightmares that stirred him several times, pulled him into a kind of trancelike wakefulness, only to plunge him further into the horror of that world, that hell. He’d dreamed also of Karen and Lilly, frightened, wounded, on the verge of death. He’d sensed such great pain, such suffering, such loss. He’d awakened at nearly 8 a.m. with the sun bright in the sky. The warehouse sat in a clearing along a local road and was surrounded by towering pines that jutted from the ground like arrow tips. It had reminded Jed of the clearing where their cabin was located back in Idaho. Jed had also changed out of his shirt in the car and donned the Alcatraz Island polo shirt that had been supplied for him. Not surprisingly, it fit as if it had been tailored specifically for him. The hat fit perfectly as well.

Now, standing in the middle of a crowd on the pier, waiting for the ferry, ball cap pulled low on his forehead, Jed assessed his surroundings, the buildings, the entrances and exits, the security cameras, the people. Most were tourists, families, couples, middle-aged men toting old-school cameras, children talking excitedly. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just everyday people doing everyday things. And even to Jed’s trained eye, nothing seemed out of place. No goateed men in blazers, no snipers with rifles, no black-suited federal agents from space.