Chimera (50 page)

Chapel reached out and put his hand on her arm. She didn't shy away.

For a long moment they just stared into each other's eyes.

“Angel,” CPO Andrews said, “can you book these two a room? Another room, I mean?”

Julia and Chapel turned to face her as one. “What?” they both asked.

The CPO just smiled knowingly.

“Are you going to try to stop me from going to Alaska?” Chapel asked Julia.

“I guess not. Just consider it to be against medical advice.” Julia turned around and started gathering up her things. “It'll be cold in Alaska. It's probably still winter there. Angel, can you order us some parkas? And maybe some nice, warm boots.”

“I'll have them sent to the plane,” the speakerphone told her.

IN TRANSIT: APRIL 15, T+75:37

There were no mandarin oranges or goat cheese salads left on the jet—the tiny galley had never been meant to be used so often. Besides, it felt wrong to ask CPO Andrews to act like a stewardess now that she was part of their conspiracy. The three of them waited for takeoff together and ate cold chicken, the remains of the meal Andrews had gathered in Boulder.

On the table between the jet's seats lay a cell phone, a cheap disposable flip phone that they left open so Angel could join their conversation. There was no need for hands-free sets now, since Chapel wanted Julia and Andrews to hear everything that was said.

“It's five and a half hours in the air to reach Fairbanks International,” CPO Andrews told them. “That's the closest airport to the address we have for William Taggart. Probably another hour in ground transport. That probably means snowmobiles, of all things. My weather data says it's still very much winter up there—the snowpack won't melt until May—and there are drifts five feet deep in the surrounding areas.”

“Snowmachines,” Chapel said. “In Alaska, they have snowmachines, not snowmobiles.”

“What's the difference?” Julia asked.

“In Alaska, they're called snowmachines. Everywhere else they're called snowmobiles.”

Julia stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed. It was good to see her smiling again. He'd worried that the trauma she'd endured might have broken her spirit. Of course, every time he'd thought the woman must surely be at the end of her rope, she'd surprised him by coming back stronger. He should have expected no less.

“Angel,” Chapel said, “assuming Ian was traveling by train, how long would it take him to reach Fairbanks?”

“It's hard to say. There's no direct rail service—Amtrak only takes you as far as Vancouver,” Angel answered. Chapel could hear her clacking away at her keyboard. “If he was driving a car, it would take three days and nine hours, but of course, he won't know how to drive. So it has to be longer than that, given the weird ground transportation options he's looking at. How much longer I can only estimate. Say, a minimum of three and a half days.”

Chapel checked his watch. “So we'll still arrive before him. It'll be close, but we'll make it.”

Everyone sighed a deep breath of relief.

“What about Laughing Boy?” Chapel asked. “Have you had any luck tracking him?”

Angel sounded apologetic. “No. He checked himself out of the hospital in Atlanta shortly after you left Stone Mountain. Since then he's been a ghost. I did find out one thing you're not going to like. There was a fire at the visitors' center on Stone Mountain. A bunch of park rangers died. I think we can assume that was no accident.”

Chapel leaned forward in his seat. “What about Jeremy Funt?”

“Still in a hospital in Georgia. Still under armed guard—guards sent there by Director Hollingshead,” Angel pointed out. “Banks may very well want him dead, but Hollingshead is protecting him.”

Chapel nodded. He had a sudden hunch. “What about Ellie Pechowski? Have you been in touch with her at all?”

“She's very much alive, if that's what you're asking. Do you want me to go down the list? Ellie, Marcia Kennedy, Olivia Nguyen, and Christina Smollett are all fine; there's no sign they've been visited by the CIA or anybody else who might wish them harm. I got a phone call from Marcia Kennedy just an hour ago, asking if it was still dangerous for her to go outside. I told her yes, but I think you were right, that Laughing Boy needs to have proof someone's been exposed to the virus before he can kill them. I think they're safe, as long as Ian doesn't come to see them.”

“That's what we're going to try to stop, now,” Chapel told her. “I almost hate to ask, but what about Franklin Hayes?”

“Perfectly healthy,” Angel told him, “and giving nonstop press conferences. He's still reporting that you're dead, that you died saving him from Quinn.”

“Wishful thinking,” Chapel said. “He's probably assuming Laughing Boy will kill me before I can prove him wrong.”

“In the press conferences, whenever he talks about the ‘assassin,' he always uses the term ‘domestic terrorist.' There's been no release of information concerning Quinn's identity—or the fact that he wasn't quite human. The media's going crazy with the story, though, trying to link Quinn to everyone from Timothy McVeigh to the Unabomber to the Earth Liberation Front. Both sides, Democrats and Republicans, have been quick to blame the lunatic fringe of the other party. I'm guessing that Franklin Hayes won't be getting any tricky questions at his confirmation hearing when he goes before the Senate. If they stop short of giving him a Bronze Star, I'll be surprised.”

“Civilians aren't eligible for that medal. You can only earn it during wartime.”

Angel laughed. “Honey, they're already calling him a frontline veteran of the culture wars.”

Chapel fumed, but he had worse enemies to face yet. Maybe someday, when the case was broken wide open, he'd have a chance to tell the real story and take Franklin Hayes down a peg.

Maybe.

IN TRANSIT: APRIL 15, T+76:06

Once they were in the air, CPO Andrews brought a bottle of Scotch and three tumblers out of the galley and they all shared a drink. “This is good stuff. Sorry you can't join in, Angel,” Chapel said, as he sipped at the brown liquor.

“I've got a Red Bull here and some leftover Chinese food,” Angel told him over the phone that lay on the table. “Works for me.”

Chapel exhaled deeply and lay back in his seat. “We should all try to get some sleep,” he said, and the women agreed. CPO Andrews helped them recline the seats so they became full, comfortable beds. She dimmed the cabin lights and then headed back toward her galley.

“You're not going to sleep in one of these things?” Julia asked.

“I have a bunk back there and a little TV set,” Andrews said, shrugging. Chapel thought she might have winked at Julia, but he couldn't be sure. “I'll be fine.”

Before she left, Chapel had one question for her. He glanced toward the front of the cabin, toward the jet's cockpit. “I've never seen the pilot of this plane,” he said.

“No, and you won't,” Andrews told him. “He has his own exit from the cockpit, and he never needs to come back here. Hollingshead wanted it that way—he holds all kinds of meetings in this jet, and the things he has to say aren't for everyone's ears. Don't worry about the pilot. He has no idea what we're up to, and he doesn't want to know. He's cleared to receive my orders about where we fly to and that's it. If we need to communicate with him or vice versa, there's an intercom system, but it's only used in emergencies.”

Chapel nodded. It was for the best, of course. CPO Andrews had probably wrecked her career already by conspiring with him and Julia. There was no need for the pilot to be implicated.

“Good night,” Andrews said, and she headed aft.

“Good night,” he told her. He lay down in his seat-turned-bed and grabbed a blanket. Before he could pull it over himself, though, Julia came and lay down next to him, spooning up against him in the seat. He didn't ask why. Frankly, he was glad for her warmth lying against him.

Julia said nothing. She pulled a pillow around to support her head, pulled the blanket up over their shoulders, and was probably out like a light. Maybe she was learning a few things, like how to sleep anywhere and whenever she was given the chance.

He regretted that she'd had to learn that. Or what it felt like to kill a man. But he was grateful she'd been there—grateful that she'd saved his life so many times, but also just grateful that he'd gotten a chance to know her. To be with her.

For a long while he just lay next to her, watching her red hair stir in front of his face, blowing this way and that with his breath. Eventually he lifted his arm and gently placed it around her waist.

“Mrmph,” she muttered, and snuggled back against him some more. The smell of her, the presence of her, filled his senses. It was like they were alone, floating on a cloud high over the mountains, high above the world.

He couldn't help it. He leaned forward and kissed the back of her neck. In response she brought her hand down and placed it over his. He kissed her neck again and she shivered, then laced her fingers through his.

“Can't sleep?” she whispered. She wriggled back against him again and gasped in surprise. He had a pretty good idea what she'd just felt. “Apparently not,” she said. She turned her head so she could look at him over her shoulder.

“I'm just glad you're here,” he told her.

She twisted around enough to kiss him on the lips. “Me too,” she told him. She rearranged herself to spoon him again as if she planned on going back to sleep, but she stroked his thumb with hers, and he knew she was at least half awake now.

He kissed her neck again, and this time her back arched. She let out a pleased sigh and pulled his hand up to her mouth. She kissed each of his fingers in turn. “This might be our last chance,” she said, and he knew exactly what she meant, but he waited for her to make the next move.

She did so by bringing his hand down to cup her breast. He squeezed it gently and she sighed again. Through her sweater and her bra he felt her nipple begin to harden and he stroked it with his fingers. He kissed her neck more passionately now, and she squirmed against him, rubbing up and down on him until he couldn't stand it. He moved his hand down between her legs and felt the heat there, heat and a little dampness, even through the thick fabric of her jeans.

“Ohhh,” she said. “Chapel . . . last time, in Atlanta, it was about comfort. This time it's more. Right?”

“Yes,” he told her, and he pressed his mouth against her neck, her back. He unbuttoned her jeans and unzipped them. She moved his hand down inside her panties and he slipped a finger inside of her, feeling how wet she was.

With her help he pushed her pants down, then unzipped his own fly. Her hand found him and guided him into her from behind. Their bodies fit together effortlessly. She was more than ready for him and he grabbed her hip, ready to thrust deeply into her, but she pushed back. “No,” she said. “Take it slowly. In fact, don't move. You shouldn't be exerting yourself.”

“Oh,” he said. “Should I . . . stop?” He moved his hand against her body, his fingers making circles through her damp pubic hair, finding the right spot.

“No,” she told him. “No, I didn't say that. I didn't say that at . . . all.” Her ass slid back and forth against him in tiny movements that were going to drive him insane. “Just . . . stay there. Oh, yes. Right there.” She ground against him and he started to gasp. It was torture, utterly sweet torture, and he desperately wanted to grab her and just fuck her, but he knew how to obey orders. The tip of his index finger made tiny circles on her clitoris and she moved with her own rhythm, her own pace. He could feel her body shivering, feel her rising toward climax. Deep inside her, he felt his own body surging with blood as she took him along for the ride.

“Right there,” she said again, and pushed her hand down over his, crushing his fingers against her body. “Right . . . yes . . . there . . . yessss . . . Don't you dare stop,” Julia told him, and pushed his hand back to where it had been. The whole time her ass shifted against him, rubbing up and down in tiny increments until he complied. He forgot all about—whatever it was that had made him stop—and moved his finger in quicker, ever smaller circles until Julia was bucking against him, thrusting backward with her ass again, and again, and again, and—

“Chapel, I'm going to come,” she told him, and looked back over her shoulder at him. “I'm going to—I'm going to—” Her lips were slightly parted and her hair had fallen down over one of her eyes. “I want you to come with me,” she begged, and he kissed her deeply even as their bodies jerked and ground together, and he felt himself surging, passing the point where stopping was even an option. She pushed herself back against him one last time and then put her free hand up over her face as her body squeezed him inside of her, as they came together. He pulled his hand free of hers and lifted her fingers away from her face so he could watch her, watch her eyes as she came. He stared deep into her eyes and saw what he was looking for there, even as his own body released all his tension into her. He cried out and she covered his mouth with hers and they kissed, just kissed for the longest time as they rode out the wave of their shared orgasm.

Eventually she relaxed and dropped back against him, her back wriggling against his chest. She turned her face toward the pillow and just breathed, breathed in the same rhythm as his own breath. She took his hand in both of hers and used it for a pillow and in a moment he realized she was falling asleep, spent and in perfect comfort with him there, still inside of her.

IN TRANSIT: APRIL 15, T+80:49

Chapel woke later to find the cabin lights slowly coming back on. He blinked his eyes and gently stirred Julia. “I think it's time to get up,” he said.