Rachel Souza woke to a sudden vibrating of the car and shot up from her seat. With a pattern of upholstered fabric imprinted neatly into her cheek. Next to her, Henry sat idly behind the wheel, staring ahead. They were pulled over on the side of the freeway.
“What’s wrong?”
He continued staring forward, absently, with eyes drooping. “I’m falling asleep at the wheel.”
She followed his gaze through the insect-covered windshield. “Huh?”
Yamada widened his eyes and stared again. “I’m too tired.”
The engine remained idling with desert in all directions and wavering heat rising from the sunbaked ground.
“Where are we?”
It took him a moment. “Highway 93. North of Kingman.” He turned to her with heavy eyes. “I need you to drive.”
“Sure.” She raised the seat and unfastened her seat belt. Then pushed her door open with a squeak and stepped out onto the broad shoulder of sand and gravel.
She was instantly hit by the heat. Dry and hot, like an oven. She circled the aged Nissan as quickly as possible and waited while Yamada groggily climbed out.
A large SUV passed in the far lane with a whoosh, followed by a blast of hot air and a light shaking of their vehicle. But once inside, she pulled the door closed behind her and said a small prayer for the working air conditioner.
She adjusted the seat and rearview mirror, while Yamada climbed into the passenger side and leaned his seat back without hesitation.
“Get some sleep,” she offered, and merged back onto the vacant freeway.
The only Waterman they could locate in Pahrump was named Devin. Devin Waterman. With an address on Pioche Street and nothing else. No description. No phone number. Nothing of any use for contacting or even identifying the man. Assuming he was still there. A lot had changed in the last two decades, making the odds of Waterman still being there reasonably low. But at this point, it was all they had.
Even if Waterman was gone, hopefully they could find out where he went. And pray that he wasn’t too far away, and was still alive. The mortality rate had skyrocketed over the last several years, and she and Henry both worried those fatalities had taken Reiff’s friend, too.
At least, she hoped they were friends.
She checked herself in the mirror and stretched open her jaw to wake up.
A few trucks appeared like dots on the opposite side of the freeway, slowly approaching and passing. Reminders of the long struggle to recover. The Great Struggle, as it was called. Devastating for everyone and terminal for many. Making the project with Robert Masten all the more miraculous. At a time when landing any job would have been an achievement. But something that could actually help people at the same time was beyond exciting. It had been almost beyond belief—too good to be true.
But it had been true. Just as Masten had promised at the time, he found funding when funding was nearly impossible to come by. And resources and equipment. Just attaining the materials necessary to build the Machine had seemed miraculous. But he’d done it.
How, she had no idea. And frankly, at the time, she hadn’t cared. The Struggle had been so hard for so long; the last thing she wanted was to jinx it. Of course, now, in retrospect, she realized she’d been a fool. A stupid, naive fool. Williams was dead, and everything they’d worked for had been a sham. She didn’t know what they wanted, but she knew it couldn’t be good. People don’t get murdered to keep good things secret.