The Falling Away (18 page)

Li smiled. “No such thing as a good seed, when we talk about humanity. We lost that when we turned away from Earth.”

Dylan smiled. “You've got the sound bites down, I'll give you that.”

Li returned the smile, and Dylan felt his own fade. The combination of Li's penetrating eyes and smile made him look like a hungry predator.

“Oh, it's not just a sound bite. Here at the HIVE, we get back to humanity's roots—literally. We came from the land, and we are worthless until we return to the land.”

“So the path to enlightenment is a healthy bit of self-hatred.”

Li pursed his lips. “You're something of an authority on that subject, I suspect.”

Dylan, uncomfortable with the conversation, tried to shift the subject. “So you're probably wondering why we're here.”

“You're running.”

Dylan stayed quiet, staring for a few moments into Li's eyes. Even in the low light of the tabletop lamp, Li's smile sparkled in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he finally said.

“Also part of the sorry state of earth. Humans run from themselves. Even when they think they're running from something else.”

Dylan, unsure how to respond, nodded and cleared his throat.

“You can stay as long as you want. Of course, you can leave any time you want as well—but I don't think there's anything waiting for you out there, is there? Nothing good, anyway. And in here . . . well, I think you may be surprised what we can do for you.”

“Like what?”

Li rose from the bed and walked to the front door again. Dylan, uncomfortable, stood from his own chair as Li turned to face him again. “We'll talk more tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Dylan said.

Li opened the door and was gone as quickly as he'd come.

Dylan wished again for a lock on the door but did his best to ignore the unease inside as he transferred the clothes Li had brought from his bed to the desk. A shower could wait until morning. Right now, like Webb, he needed sleep more than anything.

He undressed and slid into the bed, welcoming the feel and smell of the crisp sheets and a warm blanket.

Within moments, he was out.

29

It hadn't been difficult for Quinn to shake the snowplow driver. When they reached Eddie's Corner—so named, she'd always assumed, because the guy who started the lone fuel station/convenience store here years ago had been named Eddie—the snowplow driver expressed surprise at not seeing vehicles from the highway patrol or other law enforcement agencies.

She'd been prepared for that. “They probably already made the bust,” she said. “I bet they were here fifteen minutes ahead of us, and they're probably on their way to Billings to book 'em on federal charges.”

The driver eyed her suspiciously as he brought the snowplow to a stop on the east side of the service station, put it in park, and left it idling. “Maybe I should call in now, though,” he said. “Let them know where I'm at, find out if they've heard anything.”

“Good idea,” she said, opening the door. “I gotta use the facilities; be right back.”

He had nodded as he picked up his two-way. She shut the passenger door and walked to the front of the building, continued past the front entrance without hesitating, and went to the large parking lot on the west side of the building, where most of the people making a pit stop at Eddie's Corner parked. She knew, even before reaching the other side of the building, that she would find a car with the keys in it; Montanans, as a rule, weren't worried about people stealing their cars, and at a place such as this, when they were just running inside for a pack of cigarettes or a quick bathroom break, many of them were unlikely to take the keys and lock their vehicles.

She did even better than that. Parked in the front row, running, was a silver Pontiac Grand Am. When it snowed and blowed, many folks played even faster and looser with their vehicles; they left their cars running while they went inside.

Mr. Silver Pontiac Grand Am had obviously made this mistake. Quinn slid into the front seat and backed out without hesitating. The question was: Where was Dylan? Headed to Billings? Maybe, maybe. An injured animal often returns to its den when hunted by a predator.

She held on to that hope as she pointed the Grand Am south.

30

Quinn's first destination in Billings was a quick drive-by at Dylan's home. She saw no activity, which came as something of a surprise.

It was a good bet that the friendly snowplow driver she'd abandoned at Eddie's Corner had spilled his guts to his bosses at MDT, the highway patrol, Fergus County sheriff, and even the FBI. They would have been able to talk to the state trooper she'd incapacitated, review the footage on his car's cam, and track Dylan's plates back to his home address in minutes.

She'd expected a whole alphabet soup of law enforcement agencies to swarm Dylan's home long before she hit Billings city limits, and because of that, she'd also expected to see some evidence of them doing a full search at his house. Yellow tape, the whole CSI thing going.

She wheeled around the block, drove two more blocks, and parked. Well, maybe that was a good sign. Maybe law enforcement had simply staked out Dylan's house, hoping to catch him sneaking back home. It would be stupid for him to do, granted, but people under distress did stupid things. Certainly, she didn't expect him to come back here. Billings . . . maybe. His house? No way.

Still, if the place were simply staked out, it meant he wasn't in custody yet. So she had a chance to find him before they did.

Law enforcement would also be trying to figure out who the mystery woman was in Dylan's whole scheme, of course, but she wasn't worried about that. The Plymouth Satellite had been registered under a ghost name for years, and her real name—Quinn Simmons—wasn't on any government registry anywhere. No social security number, no driver's license, no nothing. She was, in a very real sense, nonexistent. One of the perks of becoming part of the Falling Away.

It was a shame she'd had to leave behind the beloved Plymouth Satellite, but she'd check and see where they towed it. She had a key; she'd be able to boost it back once everything cooled.

Enough of that. She needed to concentrate on the task at hand, get a lead on where Dylan and his friend Webb might have gone.

Inside, pressure was beginning to build. She'd lost them mere miles from the HIVE, and that was the most unsettling part. If Li found them, and if Li then found out what Dylan was . . .

No time for that. Only time for thinking. Dylan wasn't stupid enough to go to his home, but he'd look for familiarity. Krunk? No. If Webb had been shot, that meant something had gone wrong with the drug deal. Krunk was the last person they'd want to talk to.

But she could start with the neighborhood. She was parked on the south side, just a few blocks south of the tracks that ran through downtown Billings.

Dylan wasn't much of a drinker, she knew, but he did venture to the Western and Rainbow bars on occasion. She could at least start there, see if she could pick up any information that might help. Then she'd tap into a few people she knew in Krunk's network, find out if they'd dug up any leads.

She opened the door of the stolen car, got out, and hiked a couple blocks to the Montana Rescue Mission. Funny how she found her way to the homeless shelters of any city she visited. For two years with her mother, and then two years on her own, those shelters had, in fact, been her one and only home. Even today, whenever she walked into a shelter anywhere, she felt as if she could sense her mother's presence.

“I said, can I do anything to help you?”

Quinn came out of her memories, shook her head, looked at the young woman at the intake desk of the homeless shelter. Doing her best to look pathetic, Quinn asked if she could get some clothes.

The woman looked at her, obviously noting that her clothes were in good condition. “A jacket, I mean,” Quinn said. “Something hooded—it's cold out there.”

The woman smiled, and she found Quinn a dark green hooded sweatshirt with a Rocky Mountain College logo on the chest.

“Great. Now, uh—”

“Go ahead,” the helpful young woman said. “You're safe here.”

“Well, I'm wondering. Do you have reading glasses? My eyes aren't so good.”

“Reading glasses?”

Quinn offered her own broad smile. “For reading my Bible.”

The woman seemed taken aback for a moment. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

“If you could find reading glasses, it would help me a lot.”

“Certainly. We'll get you some reading glasses, then get you something to eat. How's that sound?”

“Sounds great.”

An hour later, after eating, Quinn slipped out of the rescue mission with her fresh hooded sweatshirt and reading glasses.

The glasses were the kind of large, wire-framed monstrosities she'd hoped for; they magnified her eyes, changing her appearance, while the hood hid her hair. She'd listened to news radio while driving the stolen car to Billings, expecting to hear some update on the state trooper debacle, but none had come. Not yet, anyway, but it could happen at any time. If they had a clear image of her from the trooper's dash cam, her face would likely start to show up in news outlets.

She made her way to the Western, just two blocks away, and walked through the front door.

A few people glanced at her as she sat at the bar, but no one took particular interest; she looked like another wayward drunk off the street, which was what she'd intended.

“Cold out there,” the bartender said to her. He was bald, with a graying mustache and the top of some kind of tattoo showing above the collar of his neck. Looked like maybe the tattoo was a dagger, with just its handle showing.

“Yeah,” she said. “But no snow. That's good.”

He nodded. “Getting hammered through the central part of the state, I hear. Seemed to miss us.”

Pleasantries about the weather dutifully exchanged, the bartender paused so she could order.

“I'll take a draft,” she said. “Whatever's cheap.”

He smiled. “It's all cheap.”

Thirty seconds later he returned with a frosty mug of pale beer and put it in front of her, then took the five-dollar bill she'd placed on the counter and made change. She left the change sitting there and sipped at the beer. She hated beer, but it was the kind of thing you drank in bars like this. Especially if you were here late in the evening, when all the serious drinkers were in attendance. The amateurs had long since gone home.

A battered television, mounted on a homemade shelf at the end of the bar, presented a car chase.
COPS: World's Wildest Police Chases
, some kind of show like that.

“Whatcha watching?” she said to an old-timer sitting on a stool a few spaces away. He seemed intent on the program.

“Idiots running from cops.”

“Been there,” she said.

The old-timer cast an eye at her. “You mean running or watching?”

She smiled. “I think I'd better take the fifth on that one.”

He shook his head, turned his attention back to the TV. “No good comes from running, I can tell you that. Always get caught.”

“If it's the Mounties.”

He furrowed his brow.

“The Mounties. Canadian police, you know: the Mounties always get their man.”

He still seemed confused, then a look of understanding dawned in his eyes. “You must be talking about those Canucks got killed this morning.”

Okay, so it was obvious the old-timer had no clue about the Mounties. “What happened to them?” she asked. “Car wreck or something?”

He shook his head again. “Don't you ever watch the news?”

“Not really.”

“Some guy killed a couple Canadians and a highway patrolman. They're after him now.”

She felt the breath constricting inside her chest. In her palm, the embedded paper clip began to itch, but she did her best to ignore it. “Killed a highway patrolman? Where?”

“The Canucks were . . . I don't know. Up by the border somewhere. Got the highway patrolman just outside Eddie's Corner.”

Had to be her highway patrolman. Quinn had not shot the highway patrolman, merely disabled him with a choke hold. Her mind was already telling her what had happened, but she didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it.

The old-timer waved at the bartender. “Hey, Dave, you put that on CNN for a second?”

“Why? You got a crush on the weather girl?” Titters around the bar.

“Just change the channel.”

This bar didn't seem like the kind of place that ever flipped the television to a news channel—more like professional wrestling and NASCAR—but Quinn said nothing.

The bartender grabbed a remote and clicked it through several channels, coming to a stop on a blonde-headed news anchor. A crawler appeared across the bottom of the screen, something about a fire at a factory in Tennessee.

“Just wait,” the old-timer said.

Quinn tried another sip of the beer, but it tasted like vinegar.

“There! There!” the old-timer said.

Quinn looked at the screen, caught the CNN update saying authorities were searching for fugitives in the murder of a Montana highway patrolman and two other unidentified Canadian citizens.

“You see?” the old-timer asked.

She nodded to him slowly, but her mind was racing. A dead highway patrolman. And two others. Canadians. She already knew Dylan and Webb had run into some trouble dealing with Canadians; Webb had been shot. Coincidence?

No. Not at all. It could only mean one thing, the thing she had dreaded since this whole long tailspin of a day began with Andrew's call.

If the patrolman had been shot, that meant someone else was on the trail now. HIVE. Somehow they'd got a whiff of Dylan while her back was turned. And now, they'd want to sink their teeth into him.