“The old railyards off North Mission Road, just above where the One-oh-One runs into the Ten,” said Emilio. “You can get there easily by taking West Sunset past North Alameda to North Mission Road. There should be no roadblocks or checkpoints until you get to the railyards themselves. I have a letter of transit drafted and signed for you.”
Letter of transit, thought Leonard. He’d never heard that phrase outside of the movie Casablanca. Now Don Emilio Gabriel Fernández y Figueroa was reaching into his desk and drawing out and handing to him such a document. Emilio’s bold signature took up most of the width of the page.
The two men stood and Leonard used both his hands to shake Emilio’s liver-spotted, heavily veined, but still powerful hand. “Thank you, my good friend,” said Leonard. He was terrified and exhilarated and close to weeping.
Emilio called to him before he got to the door. “Your grandson… he will go with you?”
“He’ll go,” Leonard said grimly.
“Good. I doubt if we shall see each other again… at least in this life. Go with God, my dear friend.”
“And you,” said Leonard. “Good luck, Emilio.”
Outside in the hallway, his former guide and Emilio’s son Eduardo were waiting with three armed men.
Val came home early that evening, in time for dinner. As they ate their microwaved meal, Leonard told his grandson of the plan to leave at midnight of the next day. He did not phrase it as an option for the boy.
“I’m told the convoy will take about ten days to get to Denver,” finished Leonard. “You’ll see your father in a week and a half.”
Val looked at him calmly, almost appraisingly. Whatever objection he was going to raise, Leonard had the answer. If necessary, he would take Eduardo Emilio Fernández y Figueroa up on his offer to have two reconquista fighters come to Leonard’s home and carry Val to the midnight rendezvous point.
But surprisingly—amazingly—Val said, “Midnight Friday? A convoy to Denver? That’s a great idea, Leonard. What do we take with us?”
“Just what we can get in two small duffel bags,” replied his astonished grandfather. “And that includes our own food for the trip.”
“Great,” said Val. “I’ll go pack the few clothes I want to take. And a couple of books, I guess. Nothing else.”
Leonard still couldn’t believe it was going to be this simple. “You don’t have to go to school tomorrow,” he said. “And we can’t let anyone know we’re leaving, Val. Someone might try to stop us.”
“Yeah,” said the sixteen-year-old, his eyes slightly unfocused as if he were thinking about something else. “But no, I’ll go to school. I need to clean a few things out of my locker. But I’ll be home by nine tomorrow.”
“No later than nine!” said Leonard. He was afraid of what the boy might be doing with his friends on that final evening.
“No later than nine, Grandpa. I promise.”
Leonard could only blink. When was the last time that Val had called him Grandpa? He couldn’t recall.
Leonard spent the day sick with worry. The two duffels, packed full of food bars, canteens, fresh fruit, and a few clothes and books, sat near the kitchen door as if to mock the old man.
He’d started to phone Nick Bottom to tell him that they were coming and then put it off. He’d wait until they were actually on the road.
I don’t believe this was his actual thought. He’d believe it when they crossed the California line into Nevada.
Val came home a few minutes after eight o’clock. The boy’s clothes were filthy with mud and there was blood on his forehead and shirt. His eyes were wide.
“Leonard, give me your phone!”
“What? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Give me your fucking phone!”
Leonard handed the phone to the crazed boy, wondering whom he was going to call and with what news. But Val smashed the phone under the heel of his heavy boot—once, twice, as many times as it took for the components to spill out. The boy grabbed the chip and ran out the door.
Leonard was too surprised to chase after him.
Val was back in three minutes. “I tossed it onto the back of a truck headed west,” he panted.
“Val, sit down. You’re bleeding.”
The boy shook his head. “Not my blood, Grandpa. Turn on the TV.”
The Los Angeles News Channel was in the middle of a special bulletin.
“… of a terrorist attack at the rededication of the Disney Center for the Performing Arts earlier this evening. Shots were fired at Advisor Daichi Omura, but the Advisor was not injured. We repeat, Advisor Omura was not injured during the terrorist attack, although two of his bodyguards were killed along with at least five of the terrorists. We have video now of…”
Leonard could no longer hear the announcer’s words. Or, rather, he could no longer make sense of them.
There on the screen were the dead faces of several of the terrorists. They were all boys. Their faces were blood-streaked, their dead eyes open and staring. The camera paused on the last dead face.
It was the face of young William Coyne.
Leonard turned in horror toward his grandson. “What have you done?”
Val had both duffels and was shoving one against his grandfather’s chest. “We gotta go, Leonard. Now.”
“No, we have to call the authorities… straighten this out…”
Val shook him with a strength that Leonard never would have imagined in the boy. “There’s nothing to straighten out, old man. If they catch me, they’ll kill me. Do you understand? We have to go!”
“The rendezvous at the railyard’s not until midnight…,” mumbled Leonard. His extremities were tingling and he felt dizzy. He realized that he was in shock.
“It doesn’t matter,” gasped Val as he splashed water from the kitchen sink onto his face, wiping the blood away with the small towel hanging on the washing machine. “We’ll hide there until it’s time. But we have to go… now!”
“The lights…,” said Leonard as Val dragged him out the back door.
Val said nothing as he tugged his grandfather to the bicycles and the old man and the boy began pedaling madly down the unlit alley.
1.07
Six Flags Over the Jews—Monday, Sept. 13
There was a man crucified above the iron gates of the Denver Country Club but it didn’t slow Nick down in his Monday-morning commute up Speer Boulevard to Six Flags Over the Jews. The phone news had no identity on the crucified man and there was no announcement yet on the reason for his crucifixion. Traffic moved briskly and Nick had to flog the gelding to keep up, getting only the briefest glimpse to his left of various emergency vehicles around the entrance and cops on ladders. The once -expensive and -exclusive country club hadn’t been a country club for some years now and the golf course and tennis courts were covered with several hundred windowless blue tents of the sort the UN liked to bring in to Third World countries after tsunamis or plague. No one that Nick knew was aware of the purpose for these tents here at the club—or, for that matter, which country or corporation owned the country club these days—and no one seemed to care, including Nick.
He’d used all the flashback Sato had given him and slept all Sunday afternoon and Sunday night. This sort of full-systems crash happened often with heavy flashback users; the drug’s effect seemed like sleep, down to the rapid eye movements, but it wasn’t sleep. At least not the kind of deep sleep the human brain required. So once every couple of weeks, flashback users crashed and slept for twenty-four hours or more.