He sat bolt upright, moving so fast that Lynn gave a little shout. The stranger boarding for Detroit gave him a curious look too-from behind blue eyes. There was nothing abnormal about him at all. The smoke was gone. No, the smoke had never been there.
Obviously.
Of course it hadn’t.
Lynn put her hand on his leg. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I just started to…have a nightmare, I guess. I expect I’ll have a few of them from this place. A few more of them, that is.”
“Trust me, I know,” Lynn said. “I’ve woken up in cold sweats every night, feeling like the handcuff is still on my wrist.”
He nodded and leaned back in the chair, but she didn’t move her hand, and he was grateful for that.
My mother, he thought. What a gem. My last words with her, and they give me nightmares. Couldn’t have gone any other way with her, though. Whatever parting shot she offered, it was bound to mess with my head.
He closed his eyes again, tried to find sleep again, but it was harder now. His mind was too active, bouncing from image to image, memory to memory.
There will be smoke, she’d said. There will be smoke and there will be voices. Premonitions.
It wasn’t all a lie.
Even his uncle had heard that much. But for days now, Mark’s thoughts had returned, time and again, to the impossible words he’d thought he’d heard. First from the man he’d killed on his way up the mountain, then from his mother after she was dead. He wanted to dismiss them but they continued to surface, just as the last words of Ridley Barnes had taunted him for months. She doesn’t want you yet. Then came his mother’s words, unheard by his uncle but so clear to Mark, so real. She doesn’t want that.
Stress. It was stress and adrenaline and fatigue. The mind did funny things under great stress-this was well understood, researched, documented. It required no questioning.
Beside him, Lynn said, “Are you kidding me?”
He opened his eyes and followed her pointing finger to the monitor above their gate-the status had changed from ON TIME to DELAYED. The revised time was an hour later. Still enough leeway for their connection, but it would be tight.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Want another beer?”
“Might as well.”
Thirty minutes later, a crowd began to gather around the main status monitors. Nobody looked happy, and most of them were putting cell phones to their ears. Mark raised an eyebrow and Lynn frowned and they walked over to see what the situation was.
A third of the board had gone red with canceled flights. As they watched, several others went red. The screen looked more like a stock-market index than a flight-status monitor now, one city name after another ticking into the red.
“Unbelievable,” Lynn said. “Let’s go see what the deal is. Maybe we can reroute.”
Mark followed her, but he was a step behind. He was a little dizzy suddenly, and there was the faint popping sound in his head, the one that had been blissfully missing for the past few days. By the time he caught up to her, Lynn was in midsentence with the gate agent, asking what the options were.
“I’m afraid it’s unlikely you’ll make it there today. Anything on the East Coast is a mess.”
“Storms are that bad?”
“It’s not weather. It’s more outages.”
Lynn’s face drained of color.
“Ma’am? We can try to rebook you, I’m just saying that all connections are-”
Lynn turned from the gate agent before she could finish, stepping aside as the next flier pushed forward to ask the same question about rebooking. As the rest of the travelers at the gate began to rise from their seats and form into a disgruntled, muttering line and cell phones were put to ears all around them, everyone dialing the help numbers or travel agents who they believed could set this right, neither Mark nor Lynn spoke. They just looked at each other. They were alone amid the bustle, the only travelers not concerned only with scheduling.
He said, “It’s a small airport. They’re going to run out of rental cars fast.”
Lynn nodded. “Let’s get one.”
Mark shouldered his backpack and they walked away from the gate together as the loudspeaker came on and a voice filled the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please bear with us here-there seems to be some trouble on the Eastern Seaboard…”
Acknowledgments
First, foremost, and forever-thanks to Christine, who not only improves the books but somehow endures me while I write them.
I’ve had the enormous good fortune of patient and helpful early readers, and to the people who are willing to give of their own time and energy, I can’t offer enough gratitude. But I can name you here!
Tom Bernardo, Stewart O’Nan, and Bob Hammel have hung in there with me through many drafts on many books, and their guidance and encouragement are always critical. John Houghton also brought a wonderful eye and a lot of passion to these pages, for no apparent reason other than his abundance of kindness. And I really can’t say enough about the insight, questions, and patient discussions that Pete Yonkman provided. It’s a better book because of him, and I also had more fun with it than I would have. Deepest thanks, Pete.
A few professionals played a role too. Namely, Joshua Kendall, who is a remarkable and tireless editor. If he has a point of fatigue, I haven’t found it yet. It is a privilege to work with you, Josh.
Richard Pine’s guidance and enthusiasm steers the ship on good days and bad. In fact, Richard doesn’t really allow bad days. Much appreciated. Gideon Pine might not know yet how much he helps. Angela Cheng-Caplan better know how much she helps by now. Same for Lawrence Rose.
Amanda Craft and Lacy Nowling help me to exist in the social media world. I’m grateful for their enthusiasm and work.
The teams at Little, Brown and Company and Hachette Book Group are consistently fantastic: Michael Pietsch, Reagan Arthur, Sabrina Callahan, Nicole Dewey, Heather Fain, Craig Young, Terry Adams, Garrett McGrath, and so many more.
Tracy Roe’s copyedits save me time and again. Parse on, Tracy! Parse on.
Anything I got right about high-voltage work is thanks to Jim Staats and Jim Koryta. Anything I got wrong is my own fault.
The people of Cassadaga, Florida, couldn’t have been better to me, and the same goes once again for the people of Cooke City and Silver Gate, Montana. Particular thanks to Doug and Cathy Pate, Bill and Carol Oriel, and Michael and Rita Hefron, as well as Troy “the Storechief” Wilson.
Most important, thanks to the booksellers, librarians, and all readers.
About the Author
Michael Koryta is the New York Times bestselling author of twelve novels, most recently Last Words. His previous novels-including The Prophet, The Ridge, and So Cold the River-were New York Times Notable Books and national bestsellers and have been nominated for numerous awards. A former private investigator and newspaper reporter, Koryta graduated from Indiana University with a degree in criminal justice. He lives in Bloomington, Indiana.
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