Pipe Dreams (19 page)

CHAPTER 33

Lying in the dark, the
afternoon and early evening flashed through Vanessa's mind. After their hours in the
foul sewer, the cell had floundered in the fresh, bright light of the shore. They had emerged on a narrow, rocky beach that faced the mainland. At the edge of the water, small waves beat the boulders in a rhythmic slap. Somewhere, a bird had called. Vanessa had squinted up at the sky, trying to find it, but the glare was too much. In the clean, cool air, she had been reborn. The sludge and deep of tunnel dark were like a womb from which she had emerged wholly grown and new. For the first time in many years, the bird cry had not made her shiver with trepidation. Its wild shrill was an invitation to live or even to soar. The sound it sang to the wind was freedom. Hearing it, she had cried.

Michael
had put a hand on her shoulder and Vanessa had marveled at his dirt streaked, golden skin and the dreadlocks that framed his round face. His deep eyes had gazed inward as he stared across the lake. When he glanced down at her, she had reached up to him, touching his jaw, brow, and cheeks. Then she had kissed him, daring the moment to be the harbinger of change.

He
had kissed her back with smooth, soft lips. The warmth of his mouth on hers was nectar, sweet and honeyed. She had longed to feel his arms around her, but his crutches were in the way and she did not want him to fall. Nor did she want to support his weight. Like the bird, the kiss had sung freedom and vanished as quickly. She had smiled. He had smiled back. When a commanding voice beckoned, the moment had ended. They had joined Mariah and the other cell members on the dark rocks. A black-clad SEAL motioned to them. His name was Joe. He was from Texas. Texas was real.

F
ollowing his terse instructions, they had waited hours for dark to fall and the boats to arrive. Vanessa had been tired. Like a newborn, the stimulus of light and air had exhausted her. She had dragged herself up the hill, rested on the flat surface of a big boulder, and stared out across the slick surface of the lake. It had been pleasant there. The steep slope of the hill hid the concrete and decay of the city and her perch had reminded her of the bench in the park.

Now, as the past hours whirled in her head, she conjured visions of dark and light, fear and safety, fury and hope. Her bed was really a cot, a hard mattress on wire springs. There were two to a bunk and the bunks lined the floor of the barracks in long, neat rows. The rise and fall of breaths from the sleeping people around her was like the stirring of wind in leaves. She could not join them in their easy slumber.

She thought it unlikely she would ever see the bench again. And what of those they had left behind? Her stomach knotted. Envisioning Ashley running past her in the sewer pipe, she thought of Jeremy, wracked with pain and fever, alone in the burning building. Ramirez was also out there and she doubted he knew the object of his quest didn’t need his heroism after all. If it were not so sad, it would be funny. Like Don Quixote, Ramirez would roam the countryside looking for heroic deeds to perform, or women to rescue, without ever realizing he was the one who needed to be saved.

Vanessa turned her attention back to her new surroundings. The army base was neat and efficient. The soldiers, hiding their curiosi
ty, had gone about their duties scarcely glancing at the refugees. It was as if they were ghosts, briefly visiting an earthly abode they no longer inhabited.

She was vacuous, drifting. Everything was surreal. The sewer pipe, the SEALs, the cold spray of water over the bow on their short journey to the mainland, and the dinner that refused to digest in her belly were scenes and props in a bizarre play. The one thing of substance was the kiss. She savored the memory. In that brief instant, she had been real. Nothing else had mattered. Was it possible to feel this?  To want to touch and hold a man? To want to be touched and held?  A week ago, she wouldn
’t have believed it. Even now, she was not sure she did. What, after all, was a week?

She imagined Michael, his supple, golden skin, and the way his pen scratched when he wrote. His languid calm concealed an unknown and beautiful deep. A week was a lifetime, just as the hours she had spent enduring the grunts and thrusts of her driver were an eternity. Time was not measured in minutes.

Restlessly, she shifted in her narrow bed. The borrowed, cotton tee shirt and soft, boxer briefs were constricting. She ran her hands over her breasts and down her belly, hungering for Michael’s touch. A low groan stilled her. Recognizing the timber of the voice, Vanessa swung her legs over the mattress, stepped onto the cold floor, and tiptoed across the barracks to where the men slept. Michael lay in the third bunk from the door. She had said goodnight to him there before joining the women and children on the far side of the room.

Light seeped under the doorframe and she used it as a guide. When she whispered his name, he did not reply. Instead, he patted the bed, beckoning her to him. As she neared, he drew down the blankets and she climbed on top of him. The narrow cot prevented them from lying side by side.

His hard, plaster cast chafed her bare leg and she stifled a giggle. Michael wrapped his arms around her. Burrowing her head into the hollow of his neck, she breathed musk and honey. He stroked her hair and then trailed his hands along her back. She reached up, touching his face, his lips. He grew hard beneath her when she kissed him, his bare skin hot under her hands. She explored his chest, arms, and nipples. Wanting to feel her skin against his, she pulled off her shirt. The cool air contrasted with the heat of his body. The sensation filled her with an urgency she had forgotten. Movement silenced thought. She was liquid and without form, lost in touch, taste, and the intensity of the moment. He moaned, arching against her, and tugged at her briefs.

Her hair swung against her face. Sweat made their bodies slippery. He was in her. She was in him. They moved in shared rhythm and need, expanding, falling, and exploding together. Finally still, he whispered her name. “Vanessa,” he said. “Oh
god...” 

She shushed him with a kiss and laid her head on his chest. Lingering in the silence, she listened to the rise and fall of his breath. Too soon, however, the awkward position took its toll on her limbs and she had to move. Gingerly climbing off him, Vanessa felt around for her clothes. When dressed, she bent to kiss him again. He caressed her face, his hand warm like the sun. She left without saying anything. Words would only get in the way.

Back in her own bed, she reveled in the sensations coursing through her body. Her muscles throbbed from tensions released. Everything felt realigned. She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Wide awake and too hot under the blankets, a cold anger flared inside her. The events of the last ten days had shaken her awake. Tossing and turning, she raged against everything she had lost and everyone who had stolen her world. She had wanted the terror to end, but Michael’s sweet scent on her body, and the memory of his lips on hers, gave rise to a different desire. She would have her vengeance and reclaim her body. More, she would rekindle her dreams. When the men who had abused her suffered the knifelike edge of her apathy as they pleaded for their miserable lives, she would finally be free to love.

She willed herself to relax. Anger would not accomplish anything. The administrators were readying an airborne version of the Priscilla virus. If successful, they would control the world. Only the SEALs could save them. Or could they? No one had stopped the designers yet. And what of Isaac? Was he really part of their horrific plan? She had trusted him completely and the revelation of his deceit was a jagged slash, a bloody wound. His involvement was impossible. She had to be missing something. Isaac had loved her. Of this, she was certain. If part of the
NSO, why would he have warned people on the mainland of the new Priscilla virus? None of it made sense.

Suddenly, an image of Harry Rose appeared in her mind. He was the key to understanding Isaac. Though she did not know how or why she knew this, she trusted it like she trusted her feelings for Michael. Remembering the time she had spent with Harry as an assistant was difficult, but she raked through the years. Unlike the others, Harry had never hurt her. The most he ever asked her to do was to rub his back. For a time, he had even been kind. Vanessa had seen him angry only when Lewis had pressed him. There was something between the two of them she had only understood when Lewis took her as his assistant. Harry despised cruelty and Lewis was exceptionally cruel.

She had been lying on her side, squeezing the small pillow against her chest. Now, she rolled onto her back and stuffed the pillow under her head, remembering Harry’s house. Richly furnished with ornate antiques, oriental rugs, and art objects from all over the world, every room had been a testament to his wealth and taste. For all its opulence, it had also been warm and comfortable. As she recalled that time, she realized Harry and Isaac enjoyed similar environments. Though Isaac had lived modestly in his small Brownstone, he had exquisite taste. Everything he had gathered around him was steeped in beauty and history. She easily imagined them in each other’s company.

Something nagged at her, but she could not place it. Frustrated, she jerked the pillow out from under her and flipped it, resettling her head on its cool surface. Searching the recesses of her mind, she sought validation for her instinct. If the two men had known each other, the link between them would explain Isaac
’s involvement. Her memories, however, were fading. Aching from exhaustion, her eyes grew heavy. She slowed her breathing and tried to sleep.

CHAPTER 34

The slap of her feet
through sewer sludge exacerbated the hideous stench, but Ashley had grown accustomed to it. Forcing herself to concentrate, she cursed her lack of foresight. She should have grabbed the lantern from Mariah before fleeing. Now, she had to use the slimy surface of the pipe as her guide.

The run had made her breathless, yet even after she slowed, fear for Jeremy kept the blood surging in her veins. She knew something bad had happened to him or he would have caught up with them. The others had been willing to leave him behind, but she couldn
’t.

At sixteen, the adults had started to take her seriously, but only on occasion. To them, she was just a kid. What they refused to recognize was that she had grown up after the rebellion and her early memories were about as real as her dreams. As such, she wasn
’t bogged down with grief. The streets and alleyways were her playground and, for the most part, she loved her life. From what she had garnered from the books in the library, her circumstances were better than average.

Until now, she had a home, food sources, and freedom unknown by most. She didn
’t have bosses, lords, or ruthless dictators. The cell was free. Ashley was certain that if the others would stop worrying about what they had lost, they might discover what they had. The adults didn’t agree, preferring to think her foolish and headstrong. Their condescension was idiotic. Jeremy should never have been allowed to stay behind alone. How could they have let him? He was too sick to go back into a burning building by himself.

She smelled the smoke before her fingers found the metal rungs that led to a narrow landing and service door in the side of the huge pipe. Unencumbered by the slow group with whom she had first traversed this path, the reverse trip went quickly. Her wet sneakers slapped on the hard-packed, dirt floor in the escape tunnel. Though thirsty from sustained exertion, she tried not to think about it as she hurried up the slope. Instead she concentrated on Jeremy.

In her mind, she saw him clearly. His dark-skinned face could have been carved from rock and his bright, black eyes gleamed. She remembered the way his thin mouth had crinkled in concern on the day he had rescued her from the cold, winter streets. She had been welcomed into the cell and the warm, secret basement had become her home. What if it were gone?  What if Jeremy was dead?

She pushed herself to go faster. As she neared the end of the narrow path, the smoke got thicker and covered her mouth and nose with the
hem of her shirt.

Having been in the dark for so long, the sliver of light that filtered into the tunnel was a welcome relief. It outlined her exit, but she did not rush through. Instead, she approached cautiously, feeling for heat. Cool air greeted her and she hurried forward.

A small, red bulb still burned in the ceiling socket. Other than the wisps of smoke that curled in the air above her head, the room was empty. Remembering the light Michael had taken from a shelf at the mouth of the escape route, Ashley turned, running back into the darkness from which she had come. On a dusty wooden shelf, just inside the entrance, she found an electric lantern. Turning it on, she crossed to the steel door that opened into the main tunnel. Where had Jeremy gone?  What did he need so badly he would risk his life to get it? 

Turning right, she headed toward the basement. The concrete path led upward and her thin light showed rust red doors against gray walls and a worn floor. When they had fled after the fire started, she hadn
’t bothered to count them, trusting Jeremy to lead them to safety. Not for the first time, she regretted her carelessness.

Ashley turned off the lantern, hoping to orient herself in the familiar darkness, but it didn
’t help. With the light back on, she moved up the sloping path, trying each door. The smoke was getting thicker. It swirled in thick clouds instead of fine wisps. Crouching low, she squinted against the acrid assault.

When the seventh door opened into a room she recognized, she cried out in relief. Grow lights lit long, raised boxes containing precious seedlings. The room smelled wet, warm, and earthy. In spite of the smoke, the organic aroma gave her a small measure of comfort. She hadn
’t expected to find the sanctuary intact.

Ashley searched the room. At the beginning of each row of seed beds she called out softly, praying Jeremy would answer. Only silence met her urgent whispers. She wanted to yell, but the threat was too great. Somewhere above ground, the leaders of the
NSO had their soldiers at work. A purge was underway and the men would be hunting. They had set the fire for a reason. She had to find Jeremy and then they had to get off the island. There was no other option.

When all the rows had been explored, Ashley turned her attention to the back of
the room where the supplies were kept. Big, plastic bins lined the far wall. Piles of bagged dirt and work benches – made from sawhorses and plywood planks – were strewn in front of them. Holding the lantern high, Ashley picked her way around the obstacles. She made slow progress as she checked underneath each bench and between every pile. Thinking she had found him, she startled once, but the two bags lying near each other were just an illusion. In the dim light, the lumpy sacks looked like a body curled on the floor.

She continued to hiss as she walked, “Jeremy!” Then she heard an almost imperceptible noise. The scarcely audible moan came from a short distance away. She pushed past the plywood planks, shoving them askew in her hurry to locate the sound.

It only took a minute to find him. Jeremy was sprawled on the floor next to an overturned bin and spilled seed packets. Rushing to him, Ashley dropped to her knees. As she touched his cheek, his eyes rolled open and he tried to smile, but the effort transformed the hard planes of his face into a Halloween mask. He burned with fever and a thin line of dry spit coated the corner of his mouth. “Oh, Jeremy!” Ashley exclaimed. “I’m so sorry!”