Abandon The Night (30 page)

Shit.
She hadn’t thought about that. Zoë took her time arranging the glasses, thinking. She had to say the right thing. “I want what everyone wants,” she said, turning to look at him. “I want to live forever.”

Quent limped along the floating walkway, the Taser safely back in his boot, his Eeker in hand masquerading as a cane, and his eyes fixed on his target. Mecca rose in a low smattering of angular buildings, shining in the sun like an angular, flat Taj Mahal, or a pure white Paris.

He knew from Marley that the streets circled the oblong islandlike compound, angling around and around and up the small incline in the middle. Two main thoroughfares cut the island into quarters, ending in a large circle encompassing City Center, which was where Fielding’s quarters were. The closer to the center of the city, the larger and more powerful were the residents who lived in the cookie-cutter buildings with Babylonian vines hanging from them.

Quent gave little thought to Seattle and his comrades, who were likely still recovering from the one-two-punch-and-slash tase he’d given them when they’d been foolish enough to acquiesce to his request for food, water, and a chance to wash up. He’d garnered no more respect for the hotheaded bounty hunter who’d left the work to his less-than-competent men while he relaxed.

If he’d acquired a bounty that would “set him for life,” Quent would have taken much better care of it.

At any rate, they were behind him now and he was on his way to find Fielding. The only hiccup was that he’d lost his gloves in the tussle with Seattle and his cohorts, but Quent had become more confident in his ability to keep the pounding images of his psychometry under control. He’d never been more focused in his life, and he intended to stay that way.

The guards at the gatehouse on shore had been reluctant to allow him access until they were tased into two crumbled heaps on the ground. Quent had to admit, the reformulated electric razor was one hell of a handy weapon, especially when one pretended to stumble into one’s opponent with one in hand.

As he limped along, he passed several other people moving in both directions along the walkway. None of them gave him a second glance, nor did he recognize any of them. And as he drew closer to the island, he located the building with the red tiling. His heart picked up its pace and he felt the familiar cold, dead sentiment weight his belly.

The same feeling he always had when he knew he’d be around his father.

More than fifty years had passed since he’d seen Fielding, and the man still had the ability to affect him. To drive his actions. To give him sleepless nights, and to put his belly in knots.

To destroy his life.

Fathers, good or bad, had untold influence on their sons’ lives. Quent wondered, as he had more than once, what sort of influence it would have been if he’d had parents who actually
cared
. Just one.

One thing he tried not to think about on the seemingly endless walk was Zoë. Seattle’s taunt still hung in the back of his mind. He didn’t want to believe the implications that she’d bargained for her freedom with Quent, giving the bounty hunter information about him in exchange for…whatever.

The possibility left him cold, and threatened to paralyze his thoughts—which was a distraction he didn’t need right now, especially being gloveless. So he thrust it away. If he made it out of Mecca, he’d hunt her down and find the answer. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.

That was what he told himself. Over and over. Step by limping step.

Once he alighted from the walkway onto the actual ground of the compound, he realized it was soil. Solid ground—dirt, clay, and stone made up the surface. He wasn’t certain how deep it went; was it possible this was simply part of Nevada or California and hadn’t been completely buried by the change in the Pacific’s shoreline? Or had Fielding and his Elite accomplices somehow built a floating piece of land?

As he walked alongside the ever-present aqueducts of flowing water toward City Center, he passed residents of the community. Most of them wore loose, simple clothing in what appeared to be undyed linen. They kept their eyes averted and seemed to be out on some mission, for they walked quickly and purposefully without interacting with others. Rickshaws spun by, pulled by brawny young men, and, occasionally, a brawny young woman. Most of them were empty, but occasionally a well-dressed man or woman in white was seated inside, watching languidly from their perch.

Quent felt as though he’d slipped back in time to some exotic nineteenth-century resort, and a strange unpleasant taste settled in the back of his mouth. Did his father reign supreme over this medieval Shangrila? Was this how Fielding and the members of his cult pictured their utopia?

White and pure and unemotional.

The only significant patch of green was a golf course, empty of players at the moment. Rolling hills and sand traps splayed beyond tall walls making up no more than nine holes. And as he walked by, Quent noticed that it was
moving
. The ground undulated slowly, buckling, flattening, tilting as if it were a thick green blanket and a sleeping giant beneath it shifted in its sleep.

He stopped and watched for a moment while ten acres of ground rolled and flattened, rising and peaking. When it stopped moving, he realized it had changed the terrain of the course. So that the Elite would never play the same nine holes twice, as though they needed to never leave their island.

Bloody clever. And yet, eerie.

Another half mile later, he came to stand in front of the large building that reminded him of a Meso-american pyramid. Red tiles alternated with white ones around the highest level, and blooming bougainvillea vines hung from the corners. Windows glazed the walls at all four levels, making glass stripes around the structure.

“Step away,” said a guard, materializing from a small gatehouse. He wore white, which implied that he was crystaled—though Quent couldn’t see a glow through his crisp shirt.

Even in the midst of this compound, Fielding had security.
Bloody interesting.
Whom did he need protection from?

He’d decided on boldness and honesty as the most efficient way to get him to his father’s presence, so he said, “Inform Fielding that Quent is here to see him.”

The guard seemed to hesitate, but Quent spoke again. “He’ll want to see me. And I guarantee if you turn me away and he finds out…well, I’m certain you know how thorough Fielding can be.”

The man grumbled and shook his head, clearly annoyed. But he picked up a wired phone. He spoke for a few moments in a low voice, and his eyes were wide when he looked up. “I’ll escort you in.”

“Not necessary. Just tell me where to go.” He limped heavily over to the gate, which opened silently.

Inside, Quent bypassed the butler, who nevertheless insisted on directing him. He noticed the white marble floor, devoid of black or red veining but cut through around the edges for the ever-present water channels. He took note of smooth white walls, rounded white ceilings, and sparse furnishings. Because of the many windows lining each wall, there was little room for other adornment, although he saw occasional white sconced lighting.

At last he reached the room to which he’d been directed. The translucent glass doors were open and Quent paused. His mouth had gone dry and that awful weight sagged in his middle.

He limped into the room.

Fielding was standing there, waiting, watching the door.

They stared at each other for a moment and Quent shut the door behind him without using his fingertips. The only sound was the rush of water, gurgling and splashing along the edge of the room.

Fielding spoke at last. “It is you. I refused to believe it until I saw for certain.”

Quent didn’t trust himself to speak. Loathing and revulsion swarmed him, battering him from the inside. He took care not to meet his father’s eyes for fear he’d read the hatred there.

“Come in, son,” Fielding said, and made a sweeping gesture. “Sit. We have much to catch up on.”

Quent’s fingers curled more tightly around his weapon-cane. He fought with himself to keep from lunging toward the man across the room. Not yet. “I should say,” was all he managed. “What have you been doing with yourself for the last fifty years?”

Fielding smiled and walked over to a glass table with a vase of orchids. “I must confess, not very much at all. I live quite the life of leisure. Although there are times when even I must attend to things. It’s necessary when one is surrounded by incompetents.”

“You don’t have to do much to keep yourself safe? To run your new…what is this? A country? A kingdom?”

“I sense a note of disapproval in your voice, Quent,” Fielding said, pouring a glass of something golden amber. “I can’t imagine why you should since, by all rights, you would be the heir to what I’ve built. As my only son.”

He wore a suit that looked like Armani, but was probably a post-apocalyptic knockoff. Slate gray, with a black shirt, gleaming shoes. “Scotch?” he asked, glancing over at Quent. Without waiting for his reply, Fielding poured a second glass. “I’m sorry I don’t have Dalmore. We are a bit limited nowadays.”

“Limited?” Quent managed to reply. “What a shame. You can live forever, but you can’t have it all.”

Fielding’s face darkened for a moment, then he smiled. The smile that wooed the world, charmed his competitors, beguiled his colleagues. “But look at what I do have, Quent. And what could be yours as well. I have everything I could ever want. Forever.” He took a large swig of his Scotch, and for a moment Quent thought he looked unsettled.

“Where’s Starla?”

“I’m sorry to say, but your mother didn’t make it through the Evolution. It was tragic, really. She was on location in—oh, somewhere. I don’t even recall where.” His smile didn’t waver as he brought the glass over and set it on a table next to Quent. “She didn’t deserve to come along.”

“Obviously you felt the same about me.”

Fielding tilted his head. “Is that what you think? Unfortunately, no one—including you—has ever been able to anticipate my plans. In fact, I made arrangements for you. After all, you are my only son. My progeny. Who else could even try to fill my shoes?” He sipped again, a more controlled taste this time. “I’d actually given up on your appearance—it’s been fifty years.”

“Arrangement? What the hell are you talking about? You have nothing to do with me being here.” Quent drew in a deep breath, and reminded himself to remain unruffled. Fielding thrived on oversetting his opponents.

“Is that what you believe?” Fielding looked down at him, despite the fact that Quent was taller. It was an affect he’d perfected. “In fact, it’s only because of me that you’re here.” Setting his glass down, he pulled off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, just as he had done many times in the past. Usually, that sort of action was a precursor to getting out a riding crop or some other form of entertainment.

This time, Quent would be ready for him. “I know you believe in your power absolute, but that’s impossible. Father.” He forced out the word he’d refused to use since he was twelve.

“But you’re wrong, my son,” Fielding said in a dulcet voice. “I had it all under control. You were in Sedona when the Evolution happened, weren’t you?”

Quent nodded. “Far away from you and your Cult of Atlantis.”

Fielding’s eyes danced. “Ah, so you’ve put at least that together. I hoped you’d be clever enough to do so, but I wasn’t certain. I meant for you to join, you know, when the time was right. But things moved along too quickly for me to have you initiated. The opportunity arose and I had to take it. So I decided to wait until after the Evolution. I didn’t dream it would take fifty years for you to find me, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Quent kept his mouth closed. Too soon to give way to his anger. He didn’t know where Fielding wore his crystal; although that wouldn’t stop him. He could easily subdue the man and find out. The one benefit of walking out of that Sedona cave was the superhuman strength that came along with his psychometric ability.

“I knew you were going to be in Sedona. I planned it that way,” Fielding said.

Quent looked at him, allowing the disbelief to show in his eyes. “
You
planned it.” It took effort to keep from laughing at the absurdity. His father had no influence on his life, let alone access to his calendar.

Fielding nodded and sipped again. “I knew we’d been…estranged…for some time, but I knew that after the Evolution, you’d want to join my ranks. Stand by my side. I wanted you to.”

Quent picked up the Scotch and took a sip. It was the only way he could keep from going off on the man before him. Not yet. Not—

Zoë.

He shook his head to clear it. He looked at the crystal glass in his hand, where the images and memories threatened to seep into his mind.
Zoë.
Impossible. But he felt her. Sensed her.

Quent focused on the white wall across from him, battling the impossibility, the slur of images, trying to keep his face blank, to hide the internal battle from his too-perceptive father.

“Son?” Fielding said, breaking into his thoughts. Just the sound of that name coming from Fielding’s mouth made Quent want to puke, and it had the additional effect of helping him to gather control. “What is it? Do you at last see what I’ve done for you?”

Quent pressed his lips together, squeezed his eyes tightly, and gave himself the moment to feel, to test the images. Controlled.
By God, it
was
Zoë
—she’d been
here.
Recently. Willingly.

He gulped the rest of the glass’s contents back. The searing warmth blazed through him and filled his uneasy stomach. But it didn’t take the edge from his realization.

“I’m flattered. Overcome,” Quent managed to say. He focused on the calming sound of flowing water and gathered himself together. Then he looked up at Fielding, praying that the shock and confusion wasn’t in his eyes, and that his father saw what he wanted—expected—to see. Reverence. Or at least gratitude. “You did this for me?”