Clay's Ark (2 page)

Green Shirt glanced into the back seat at Keira. "I think that one's dead," he said casually. This was supposed to be a

joke about Keira's sound sleeping, Blake knew, but he could not prevent himself from looking back at her quickly-just

to be sure.

"Hey, Eli," Green Shirt said, "they really are his kids, you know."

"I can see," Eli said. "And that makes our lives easier. All we have to do is take one of them and he's ours."

It was beginning to rain-fat, dirty, wind-whipped drops. In the distance, thunder rumbled over the howl of the wind.

Eli spoke so softly to Rane that Blake was hardly able to hear. "Is he your father?"

"You just admitted he was," Rane said. "What the hell do you want?"

Eli frowned. "My mother always used to say Think before you speak.' Your mother ever say anything like that to you,

girl?"

Rane looked away, silent.

"Is he your father?" Eli repeated.

"Yes."

"And you wouldn't want to see him get hurt, would you?"

Rane continued to look away, but could not conceal her fear. "What do you want?"

Ignoring her, Eli held his hand out to Green Shirt. After a moment, Green Shirt gave him the wallet. "Blake Jason

Maslin," he read. "Born seven-four-seventy-seven. 'Oh say can you see.' " He looked at Rane. "What's your name,

baby?"

Rane hesitated, no doubt repelled by the casual "baby." Normally she tore into people who seemed to be patronizing

her. "Rane," she muttered finally. Thunder all but drowned her out.

"Rain? Like this dirty stuff falling on us now?"

"Not rain, Rah-ney. It's Norwegian."

"Is it now? Well, listen, Rane, you see that woman over there?" He pointed to the red Mercedes alongside them. "Her

name is Meda Boyd. She's crazy as hell, but she won't hurt you. And if you do what we tell you and don't give us

trouble, we won't hurt your father or your sister. You understand?"

Rane nodded, but Eli continued to look at her, waiting.

"I understand!" she said. "What do you want me to do?"

"Go get in that car with Meda. She'll drive you. I'll follow with your father."

Rane looked at Blake. He could feel her trembling. "Listen," he began, "you can't do this! You can't just-"

Green Shirt placed his gun against Pane's temple. "Why not?" he asked.

Blake jerked Rane away. It was a reflex, a chance he would never have taken if he had had time to think about it. He

pulled her head down against his chest.

At the same moment, Eli pulled Green Shirt's gun hand away, twisting it so that if the gun had gone off, the bullet

would have hit the windshield.

The gun did not go off. It should have, Blake realized later, considering Green Shirt's tremor and the suddenness of

Eli's move. But all that happened was some sort of brief, wordless exchange between Eli and Green Shirt. They looked

at each other -first with real anger, then with understanding and a certain amount of sheepishness.

"You'd better drive," Eli said. "Let Meda watch the kid."

"Yeah," Green Shirt agreed. "The past catches up with you sometimes."

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"She's a strong girl. Good material."

"I know."

"Good material for what?" Blake demanded. He had released Rane, but she stayed close to him, watching Eli.

"Look, Doc," Eli said, "the last thing we want to have to do is kill one of you. But we don't have much time or

patience."

"Let my daughters stay with me," Blake said. "I'll cooperate. I'll do anything you want. Just don't-"

"We're leaving you one. Don't make us take them both."

"But-"

"Ingraham, get the other kid out here. Get her up."

"No!" Blake shouted. "Please, she's sick. Let her alone!"

"What? Carsick?"

"My sister has leukemia," Rane said. "She's dying. What are you going to do? Help her along?"

"Rane, for God's sake!" Blake whispered.

Eli and the green-shirted Ingraham looked at each other, then back at Blake. "I thought they could cure that now," Eli

said. "Don't they have some kind of protein medicine that reprograms the cells?"

Blake hesitated, wondering how much pity the details of Keira's illness might evoke in the gunmen. He was surprised

that Eli knew as much as he did about epigenetic therapy. But Eli's knowledge did not matter. If he was not moved by

Keira's imminent death, nothing else was likely to touch them. "She's receiving therapy," he said.

"And it isn't enough?" Ingraham asked.

Blake shrugged. It hurt to say the words. He could not recall ever having said them aloud.

"Shit." Ingraham muttered. "What are we supposed to do with a kid who's already-"

"Shut up," Eli said. "If we've made a mistake, it's too late to cry about it." He glanced back at Keira, then faced Blake.

"Sorry, Doc. Her bad luck and ours." He sighed. "Well, you take the good with the bad. We won't hurt her-if you and

Rane do as you're told."

"What are you going to do with us?" Blake asked.

"Don't worry about it. Come on, Rane. Meda's waiting."

Rane clung to Blake as she had not for years.

Eli gazed at her steadily, and she stared back but would not move. "Come on, kid," he said softly. "Do it the easy way."

Blake wanted to tell her to go-before these people hurt her. Yet the last thing he wanted her to do was leave him. He

was terrified that if they took her, he would never get her back. He stared at the two men. If he had had his gun, he

would have shot them without a thought.

"Use your head, Doc," Eli said. "Just slide over to the passenger side. I'll drive. You keep your eyes on Rane. It will

make you feel better. Make you act better, too."

Abruptly, Blake gave in, moved over, pushing Rane. He wanted to believe the gray-skinned black man. It would have

been easier to believe him if Blake had had some idea what these people wanted. They were not just one of the local car

gangs, obscenely called car families. No one had looked at the money in his wallet. In fact, as he thought about the

wallet, Eli tossed it onto the dashboard as though he were finished with it. Were they after more money? Ransom?

They did not sound as though they were. And they seemed strangely resigned, as though they did not like what they

were doing-almost as though they were under the gun themselves.

Blake hugged Rane. "Watch yourself," he said, trying to sound steadier than he felt. "Be more careful than you usually

are -at least until we find out what's going on."

Blake watched Ingraham follow Rane through the muddy downpour, watched her get into the red Mercedes. Ingraham

said a few words to the woman, Meda, then exchanged places with her.

When that was done, Eli relaxed. He thrust his gun into his jacket, walked around the Wagoneer as casually as an old

friend, and got in. It never occurred to Blake to try anything. Part of himself had walked away with Rane. His stomach

churned with anger, frustration, and worry.

After a moment of spinning its wheels, the Mercedes leaped forward, shot all the way across the highway, and onto

another dirt road. The Wagoneer followed easily. Eli patted its dashboard as though it were alive. "Sweet-running car,"

he said. "Big. You don't find them this size any more. Too bad."

"Too bad?"

"Strongest-looking car we saw parked along the highway. We didn't want some piece of junk that would stall or get

stuck on us. One tank full and the other nearly full of ethanol. Damn good. We make ethanol."

"You mean it was my car you wanted?"

"We wanted a decent car with two or three healthy, fairly young people in it." He glanced back at Keira. "You can't win

'em all."

"But why?"

"Doc, what's the kid's name?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Keira.

Blake stared at him.

"Tell her she can get up. She's been awake since Ingraham took your wallet."

Blake turned sharply, found himself looking into Keira's large, frightened eyes. He tried to calm himself for her sake.

"Do you feel all right?" he asked.

She nodded, probably lying.

"Sit up," he said. "Do you know what's happened?"

Another nod. If Rane talked too much, Keira didn't talk enough. Even before her illness became apparent, she had been

a timid girl, easily frightened, easily intimidated, apparently slow. Patience and observation revealed her intelligence,

but most people wasted neither on her.

She sat up slowly, staring at Eli. His coloring was as bad as her own. She could not have helped noticing that, but she

said nothing.

"You get an earful?" Eli asked her.

She drew as far away from him as she could get and did not answer.

"You know your sister's in that car up ahead with some friends of mine. You think about that."

"She's no danger to you," Blake said angrily.

"Have her give you whatever she's got in her left hand."

Blake frowned, looked toward Keira's left hand. She was wearing a long, multicolored, cotton caftan-a full, flowing

garment with long, voluminous sleeves. It was intended to conceal her painfully thin body. At the moment, it also

concealed her left hand.

Keira's expression froze into something ugly and determined.

"Kerry," Blake whispered.

She blinked, glanced at him, finally brought her left hand out of the folds of her dress and handed him the large manual

screwdriver she had been concealing. Blake could remember misplacing the old screwdriver and not having time to

look for it. It looked too large for Keira's thin fingers. Blake doubted that she had the strength to do any harm with it.

With a smaller, sharper instrument, however, she might have been dangerous. Anyone who could look the way she did

now could be dangerous, sick or well.

Blake took the screwdriver from her hand and held on to the hand for a moment. He wanted to reassure her, calm her,

but he thought of Rane alone in the car ahead, and no words would come. There was no way everything was going to

be all right. And he had always found it difficult to lie to his children.

After a moment, Keira seemed to relax-or at least to give up. She leaned back bonelessly, let her gaze Hicker from Eli

to the car ahead. Only her eyes seemed alive.

"What do you want with us?" she whispered. "Why are you doing this?" Blake did not think Eli had heard her over the

buffeting of the wind and the hissing patter of the rain. Eli obviously had all he could do to keep the car on the dirt road

and the Mercedes in sight. He ignored completely the long, potentially deadly screwdriver Blake gripped briefly, then

dropped. He was a young man, Blake realized-in his early thirties, perhaps. He looked older-or had looked older before

Blake got a close look at him. His face was thin and prematurely lined beneath its coating of dust. His air of weary

resignation suggested an older man. He looked older, Blake thought, in much the same way Keira looked older. Her

disease had aged her, as apparently his had aged him-whatever his was.