He floored the vehicle, got it up to near eighty on packed dirt, slammed on the brakes, and turned the wheel. The antilock system kept him from skidding or even hinting at going over. He couldn't wait to compete with whatever toy the GC was using in its stakeout in Des Plaines.
Buck had to calm himself. The idea was to pick up Zeke undetected. He considered stopping at the station like a normal customer and ramming the GC as they came to investigate. But they had phones and radios and a communications network that would hem him in. If he could find a way to approach the station from the back, lights out, they might never see him, even after he pulled away with his quarry.
His phone chirped. It was Zeke. "You close by?" the young man said.
"Not far. What's up?"
"We're gonna hafta torch this place."
"Why?"
"Once they figure they've busted every rebel that used to gas up here, they're going to torch it anyway, right?"
"Maybe," Buck said. "So why not let them?"
"They might search it first."
"And find what?"
"The underground, of course. I can't even think about gettin' all the stuff outta here that could give my dad away."
"What more can they do to him?"
"All they got him on now is sellin' gas without GC approval. They fine him or make him sit a month or two. If they find out me and him was runnin' a rebel forgery biz outta here, he becomes an enemy of the state."
"Good thinking." Buck never failed to be amazed at the street wisdom of the unlikely looking Zeke. Who would have guessed that the former druggie-biker-tattoo artist would be the best phony credentials man in the business?
"And remember, Mr. Williams. We were feedin' people outta here too. Groceries, you name it. Well, you know. You bought a bunch of 'em. OK, here's what I'm thinkin'. I rig up a timer to a sparking device. You know, it ain't the gas that burns anyway."
"I'm sorry?" Buck felt stupid. He had been a globe-trotting journalist, and a virtual illiterate was trying to tell him gasoline fires aren't what they seem?
"Yeah, it's not the gas that burns. When I was workin' above ground, helpin' Dad in the station when it was legal and all, I used to toss my cigarettes in a bucket of gas we kept in the service bay." "No, you didn't." "I swear." "Lit cigarettes?"
"Swear to – I mean, honest. That was how we put 'em out. They'd hiss like you was tossin' 'em into a bucket o' water."
"I'm confused."
"We kept gas in there to clean our hands on. Cuts grease, you know. Like if you just did an axle job and now you gotta go fill a tank or write on a credit card receipt or something."
"I mean I'm confused about how you could throw a cigarette into a container of gasoline."
"Lots of people don't know that or don't believe it." "How'd you keep from blowing yourselves to kingdom come?"
"Well, if the bucket of gas was fresh, you had to wait awhile. If you saw any of that shimmerin' of the fumes over it, like when you first pour it in there, or when you're fillin' your tank, well, you don't want any open flame of any kind near that."
"But once it sat and the, uh, shimmering fumes were gone?"
"Then we tossed our cigarette butts in there."
"So, it's the fumes."
"Yeah, it's the fumes what burns."
"I get it. So, your thoughts?"
"See, Mr. Williams, it works the same in an engine. Like a fuel-injected engine shoots a fine spray of gas into the cylinders and the spark plugs spark and burn it, but they're not burning the spray."
"The spray is emitting fumes and that's what's, in essence, exploding in the cylinder," Buck said. "Now you've got it."
"Good. I'm heading your way, so cut to the chase." "OK. I moved two huge boxes of stuff out by the pile of dirt in the back, and I got one big canvas bag. All my files, my equipment, everything is there. Even had room for some food."
"We have plenty of food, Zeke." "Never have enough food. Anyway, the stuff's out there waitin'. I figure if you don't get seen comin', I can be waitin' for ya and load my stuff in there real quick before I jump in."
"Sounds like a plan. Back to the torching." "Yeah. I've got auto parts down here. I cut a feed from the pipe that leads to the storage tank, which runs right by the wall we dug out here, and I hook a fuel injector to it. When I leave, I turn the spigot, the gas runs through the fuel injector and starts sprayin' gasoline."
"And pretty soon the underground is filled with gas." "Fumes."
"Right. And you, what, toss a match down the stairs on your way out to the car?" Zeke laughed.
"Shh."
"Yeah, they can't hear me. But no, tossing a flame down here then would blow me all the way to Chicago. Save you a trip, eh?"
"So how do you ignite it?"
"Put a spark plug on a timer. Give myself five minutes or so, just in case. At the right time, kaboom." "Kaboom." "Bingo."
"Zeke, even if I agreed, you'd never have time to rig that all up. I'm not ten minutes away." "I figured you'd agree." "And so-?" "It's all done." "You're kiddin' me."
"Nope. If you're ten minutes away, I'll set the timer for fifteen, and when I leave I'll open the spigot." "Hoo, boy, you're resourceful." "I know how to do stuff." "You sure do, but do me a favor." "Name it."
"Set the timer for five, but don't start it until after you've turned the spigot on your way out. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Oh, and one more thing. Make sure I'm there before you open that spigot."
"Oh, yeah, right. That would be important."
"Kaboom, Zeke."
"Bingo."
"Call you when I get there."
"Her name is not in our system, David," Nurse Palemoon said. He tried to sit up and she shushed him. "That doesn't have to mean the worst."
"How can you say that? The sun is coming up, and I haven't heard from her. She'd communicate with me if she could!"
"David, you must calm down. This room is empty but not secure. Your friends are on their way, but you can't trust anyone else."
"Tell me about it. Hannah, you have got to get me out of here. I can't stay here another few days. There is so much I have do before leaving New Babylon."
"I can supply you with extra meds and dressings and try to make sure you're set, but you're going to be sore."
"I'm not worried about that. Will you-" His throat caught and he couldn't say it. "Ah, would you-"
"You want me to check the morgue?" She said it with such compassion that he nearly broke down.
He nodded.
"I'll be right back. If your friends get here while I'm gone, remind them there are ears everywhere."
Rayford and Albie and their human cargo from Colorado put down at a tiny airstrip near Bozeman, Montana, rather than try to get back to Kankakee without sleep. Albie bluffed and blustered the tiny GC contingent at the strip, who bought his story of transporting a criminal and let the three of them borrow a jeep to get into town.
Such as it was. Bozeman had been left with few amenities, but one was a nearly deserted motel where they rented two rooms. "I don't guess we have to worry about you bolting," Rayford told Hattie.
"Compared to Buffer," she said, "the new safe house sounds like heaven."
"You'll be in for the pitches of your life," he said. "There are more of us, and you're going to be our prime target."
"I might just listen for once," she said.
"Don't say that lightly." "I don't say anything lightly anymore." Hattie had a million questions about Pinkerton Stephens, but Rayford and Albie told her only that "he is one of us." Then she wanted Albie's story, and he told of becoming a believer after a lifetime as a Muslim. "You know who I mean when I mention Tsion Ben-Judah then?" he said.
"Do I know?" she said. "I know him personally. Talk about a man who loves the unlovable…"
"Are you speaking of yourself, young lady?"