He put his shoulders and all his weight into the swing. The sound of iron I-bar hitting thick glass was unbelievable. The secondary noises, as Wilmer trimmed the bottom edge of the hole so they could walk through, were not much better. And then suddenly the only sound she could hear was his heavy breathing.
“Come on. We’ll try the door on the left, and if it’s . . .”
It was unlocked. Before she had time to think, Celine was through and standing outside on flat concrete. It was the school’s playground. In front of her stood a row of swings, a monkey puzzle, and a seesaw. The sight was so normal and yet so surprising that it made her breath catch in her throat.
She looked around. On their left was a line of rounded hills. To the right, a half-moon hung low in the sky. The face shone a curious orange-yellow — an effect of Supernova Alpha? A week ago they had been coasting far beyond it, approaching a crescent Luna that partnered a crescent Earth.
She sought familiar stars. Wilmer was ahead of her. “That’s north,” he said. He was pointing in front of them. “See, there’s Cassiopeia, and there’s Polaris. Which way do we go?”
He expected her to provide an answer. She didn’t have one. In a sense, it didn’t matter. They simply had to escape from the Legion of Argos. But the whole escape would be pointless if they did nothing with the information that they had gained.
Reza had been a damned good pilot, with a pilot’s instinctive sense of place. He thought he had brought them down somewhere north of Richmond. If that were the case, the hills on the left would be part of the Shenandoahs. And Washington would lie ahead, to the northeast.
Then there was the moon. It was to the east of them, so it must be rising. That meant they would have light to see by — or to be seen. By dawn, they must be far enough away to go safely to ground.
“We go east,” Celine said. “It will be flatter in that direction. We’ll make faster progress.”
“Right.” Wilmer lifted the iron bar. “Do we still need this?”
“No. You can dump it.”
Celine spoke without thinking, and she took for granted Wilmer’s prompt release of their homemade club. But then, as she led the way east toward the strange orange moon and across a spongy damp meadow scattered with Queen Anne’s lace and tall ferns, she thought very hard.
What has happened inside, to turn me into a woman who gives orders and expects to be obeyed without question?
How different are Celine Tanaka and Zoe Nash and Pearl Lazenby? Are we all sisters under the skin?
Maybe, as long as I have thoughts like this, I’ll be all right.
32
Art and Dana were heading for Washington, after a night where a hot meal and a soft bed had been wonderful luxuries. Yasmin Silvers had tried for an aircraft from Indian Head, but all the planes were assigned to other missions. She had settled for a topless converted Jeep, with an engine so loud that Yasmin as driver had to turn and shout if Art and Dana were to hear a word.
It didn’t matter to Art. He had always preferred driving to flying. The morning continued yesterday’s heat wave, the snow was gone, and a breeze felt good on his face. The sun warmed the top of his head and threw golden highlights off Dana’s hair. He had never seen it so light in color. His only problem was a terrible thirst.
They were approaching the city from the south, cruising along the elevated freeway. The AVC system that controlled vehicle speeds and separations was out of action, but the road held an amazing amount of traffic. Most of it was cars less than ten years old, presumably with fix-ups that bypassed fuel injectors, catalytic converters, and anything else that depended on chips. Tinkerers must be in huge demand. But Art also saw square-built Japanese imports from the eighties, a diesel Rabbit like the first car that he had ever owned, vintage Harleys, a finned American monstrosity older than he was, a dune buggy, a Knighton DB-4 in perfect condition, and dozens of VW bugs — the originals, not the late nineties reissue.
Happy days, when a car still made you a king. Art closed his eyes, snuggled down in the seat, and lost himself in memories.
That was when Dana reached out, touched his hand, and said, “Don’t worry. Your friends will be fine.”
She had noticed his silence, but misunderstood. At breakfast Art had confided his worry that Seth Parsigian and Oliver Guest were heading for his home in Catoctin Mountain Park, while he was forced to go to Washington. He had friends there.
But in the Jeep he had not been thinking about them at all. The sight of the cars from other generations had pushed him far into his own past. He had been reliving the September evening when a multivehicle pileup totaled their van and came so close to killing Mary.
Art had no intention of telling any of that to Dana, even though she would probably be sympathetic. And he didn’t need to, because she assumed that his mind was on the situation up at Catoctin Mountain.
So what was he doing, head close to Dana’s to overcome the engine noise, staring up into a smoky blue sky and explaining what had happened thirty years ago? He blurted out everything, all the details; more than he had ever told anyone before. That was before an AVC system existed, he explained, and the cause of the pileup was a doctor who had changed lanes sharply to avoid a truck entering the freeway. The domino effect went all the way to the fastest lane. Mary had been overtaking there when her van was sideswiped and pushed farther over. Another two feet and she would have hit a concrete overpass support, head-on, at sixty miles an hour.
She had been untouched. Later they had laughed about it together, agreeing that it was the close call of a lifetime. Who could have guessed, then, that she had only six years left?
As Art fell silent, Dana reached out and patted his arm. “I’m sorry. Sad memories. But I’m glad you told me.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“Of course you should,” Dana said. “You needed to.” She turned, presenting Art with a view of the back of her blond head.
He looked beyond her. As they came closer to the center of Washington, traffic slowed to a crawl. The roar of the Jeep’s engine reduced to a threatening grumble and normal conversation became possible. Every traffic light was out, and the police at major intersections lacked experience. The Jeep had halted with a dozen cars in front of it, waiting for the hand signal to proceed. A boy about ten and a girl not much older were pushing a baby carriage along the median beside the line of stopped cars. A hand-lettered sign on the front of the carriage said fresh frutes and vegatibles.
“One more casualty of Supernova Alpha,” Dana said. “Without spell checkers, maybe we’ll learn to spell again.”
“We never did before we had them.” Art leaned out of the Jeep as the carriage reached them. “What fruit do you have there?”
The grubby-faced boy held up a little basket. “Strawberries. That’s all. Nothing else ripe yet.”
“How much?”
The boy conferred with the girl, then asked, “How would you pay?”
“Dollar bills.”
“All right. Twenty dollars.”
Art exchanged looks with Dana — good news; currency was back in use again, at least in Washington — and said, “I bet there’s not more than a pound in that basket. Talk about robbery!”
The girl scowled at him. “It’s not. You’re lucky to get these. It’s supposed to be too early for strawberries, but most are already rotted. Take ’em or leave ’em.”
Art handed over the money and gave the basket of strawberries to Dana. He peered into the baby carriage as it went by.
“Now that’s interesting.”
“What is?” Dana was turning over the fruit, looking for the ripest. She handed one forward to Yasmin, gave another to Art, put one in her own mouth, and said indistinctly around it, “These haven’t been washed. They’re not very big, either. What’s interesting? They seemed like ordinary vegetables to me.”