Search (SEEK Book 1) (10 page)

“I’m positive.”

I nod and swing the door open.

“Hey, Keira?”

I turn to him, instead of watching what the heck I’m doing, and sink shin-deep into what feels like hungry mud. “Ugh!” I grab for the door but slip. Wet soil soaks clear through my jeans in a second flat. Goosebumps prickle down my thighs. “Cold! It’s cold!”

Jonathan clambers over the console, leans out the door, and peers down at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m…” I start to say fine, but then I see Jonathan’s betrayal.

At first there’s a tiny little twinge in his eyes and then his whole face erupts in laughter. In one swipe, I whisk his hands off the door handle and send him tumbling into a deep mound of soggy mulch next to me.

“No!”Jonathan snorts, still laughing as he scoops up a handful of earth and packs it like a snowball.

“You wouldn’t!” I cringe, ducking as the mud-ball sails and splatters against my shoulder. The wet soaks clear through my sweatshirt, dripping from my hair.

“You think that’s funny?” I squeal, packing a fist full of mud and plowing it into his chest.

“Uncle,” Jonathan wheezes, slumping over with a finger in the air.

I shouldn’t have fallen for it, but the next second I’m hit by a flying ball of dripping corn sludge in the left shoulder. Droplets of muck spray my face.

“You look like Hedorah!” Jonathan shouts between howls of laughter.

“Who?” I wipe my hand over my mouth.

“You know, the sludge monster from Godzilla?”

I have no idea what he’s yammering on about, but seeing Jonathan standing in the headlights, splattered in mud and slimy corn bits gives me an idea. “We need camouflage!” 

Four and a half hours later—after four bottled waters, one ruined silver scarf and a change of clothes—we roll into Lancaster Pennsylvania, the sun streaming over the flat-roofed buildings. I scope out the shop windows, most of which sell Amish furniture and quilts, while Jonathan drives.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Jonathan rolls down his window.

I sniff the air. The wafting smell of bacon and bread entices my stomach.

“A gift shop. Park here!” I say, spotting a black, horse-drawn buggy at the curb in front of an “Amish Farm and House” sign hanging over a black door.

The bell on the door tinkles as we enter.

“Now what?” Jonathan whispers, curiously peering around a bin of homemade sweets.

“I told you. Camouflage,” I answer, grinning mischievously.

“Something tells me I should be worried.” Recognition lights Jonathan’s face when he spots the Amish menswear lining the back of the shop.

Feeling smugly triumphant, I nod and saunter through the women’s clothing, grabbing three dresses that look identical, aside from color, and dash into the dressing room. I chose the drabbest blue, the least conspicuous option, figuring I’ll look equally ridiculous in all of them. After wresting the buttons into place I pull back the hand-stitched curtain and find Jonathan leaning against a split-timber post.

The sight of him in too-short navy slacks, a wide-collared lace-up shirt and a straw hat is more than I can take in my sleep-deprived state of mind. I clamp a hand over my mouth.

“Oh fine, laugh, but they’re actually surprisingly comfortable. And look at you.” Jonathan eyes me up and down, biting his lip.

“Don’t you dare!” I glower, turning to the full-length mirror on the tongue and groove wall. 

He laughs, slinging an arm around my neck as if we’re posing for a couple’s portrait.

Just then the clerk turns up carrying a white bonnet. “You must have hair covered to dress like Amish,” the rotund woman says in a thick Pennsylvania Dutch accent.

“Oh. Um, thanks,” I mutter.

Jonathan takes the cap, clearing the laughter from his throat. “Let me.” Softly, he lays the delicate linen over my head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear and examining the results. “Perfect.”

“Nee,” the shop owner snaps, muttering something in her native tongue as she rummages in a Mason jar for some bobby pins. 

“Right, you’re not done until it’s securely fastened to your head,” Jonathan says dramatically, then whispers in my ear as he slides the clip on. “Do you think she knows who we are?”

“Not a chance,” I whisper back. “No TVs or radios.”

“Right. Good thinking,” he says, handing the woman two one-hundred dollar bills. “Thanks, keep the change for your trouble.”

“Segne. Bless—bless. Danki,” she says with a smile. Then she’s bustling around us, snipping off the tags like we’re her favorite patrons.

I peer through the window at the row of horse and buggies. My stomach turning to knots. “Maybe tourists don’t do this. Won’t two Amish people climbing into a fancy SUV look suspicious?” I ask as we step out of the shop, door chimes bidding us goodbye.

Jonathan grabs my hand, ducking in between cars, and opens the back the hatch of the Hummer. “We’re young—we’ll say we’re on Rumspringa.”

“We’re on what? Is that a drug?” I stare at him blankly.

Jonathan chuckles. “No! It’s when Amish kids get to go into the world and see if they want to be English or Amish.”

“Oh.” I frown at the sidewalk, wondering why he would know that.

“Maybe we should wait to leave, have some breakfast.”

“We should have breakfast.” My mouth waters at the memory of bacon somewhere nearby.

“Look. We can watch the car to make sure no one is following us.” Jonathan points to the little diner across the street.

***

After I devour the best Eggs Benedict I’ve ever had I watch the people. It seems like a sleepy little town full of normal people going about their normal lives.

I had that once.

A grinding pit of homesickness stirs in my stomach. Remorse for my family whisked away from their lives. They know everything about me by now. How I was never in college. How I’ve been lying to them for over a year. I can imagine the disappointment on Dad’s face as he looks at Mom, as though my mistakes are somehow her fault.

“No one’s blaming you,”
the second voice in my head says sending goosebumps up my neck.

It feels so wrong and out of place in this backdrop of Americana that I drop the napkin in my plate and hop to my feet. “We should go.”

Without question Jonathan lets go of his fork, pulling out a couple of bills and tossing them on the table.

“You don’t have to pay for everything,” I say.

“Did you want me to wait while you go get your purse?” he asks earnestly.

“Give me the keys.” I snap my fingers, holding out my hand.

Jonathan hands them to me hesitantly and I march off.

“Hey, what’s up? Did you see someone?” Jonathan asks, catching up beside me.

“No, I just want to get out of here.” I wrench open the car door, starting the engine and throwing the rig in gear before Jonathan’s even in the car.

Wisely, Jonathan doesn’t argue. He just buckles his seatbelt and grabs the handle above the door.

“Don’t be reckless, Keira. It’s okay,”
a voice chimes in my head.

“Irkalla? Where are you?”
I answer back, but she’s gone again, like she was even there to begin with.

“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asks when the car just idles in place. 

“I think I’m going crazy.” I lean my head on the steering wheel. “I keep hearing voices in my head. Well, just one voice really. At first I thought it was Irkalla, but Irkalla would answer me when I talked to her right?”

The rustle of Jonathan shifting in his seat uncomfortably answers my question.

“Great,” I mumble.

“No, it’s not that you’re crazy, but Irkalla and Mayet are still in Kentucky. You have to rub your mark to call her, otherwise she can’t hear you, and I seriously doubt that you could hear her. I’m not an expert in Khayal communications, but I can only hear Mayet when she’s right next to me.”

“In any case, I started hearing this voice before I even met you, so I’m pretty sure I’m just crazy.” I glance at him.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. It started in the hotel room right after I checked in.”

“That couldn’t have been Irkalla; you hadn’t even made the bond yet,” Jonathan points out.

“God, you’re right.” I hide my face in my hands.

“You’re not crazy. I’ve heard of a few people who had extra abilities when it came to their Khayal. Maybe you’re one of them,” Jonathan adds.

I peek at him. He nods.

Feeling slightly better, I ease the rig onto the highway, keeping an eye out for horses. “Abilities to do what?”

“I don’t know. Episteme kept it very hush-hush.”

I tug the strap of the bonnet, feeling strangled by its confinement. “I hope you’re right. I can’t afford to lose my mind yet.”

***

The next leg of our journey is easier, almost peaceful. Jonathan hasn’t shut-up for over an hour, but I find his jokes and endless babble relaxing. I listen, nodding at the appropriate times, until we merge into New York’s metropolis and slowly approach Brookhaven Airport.

“Once I knew that Episteme was collaborating with Kistall, I knew Mayet was in trouble. I had to find a way out. I had Mayet feed them some bad Intel—I felt terrible using her that way, but I had to do it.”

“How do they pass Intel exactly? I haven’t been able to work that one out.”

“It’s cruel really. It has to do with the Khayal’s need to save humanity. But what Episteme does is trick them and use them. Episteme instructs their handlers to think about certain locations—where something is going down that they want to know about—and we tell the Khayal that there are sick and dying people there, only there isn’t.”

“How does that help anything?” I shrug.

“The Khayal have one consciousness.”

I shake my head, trying to understand what that even means.

“Well, Mayet is Bonded to me, right? So I’d think about a group of people at a particular address that needed help. Immediately, the Unbonded Khayal would hear her thoughts and flock to that location. It confuses them of course because they can sense no pain or despair, but they go anyway on Mayet’s word. And, as they’re searching for these lost souls, Mayet is relaying back to me the words that the Unbonded’s are thinking, which essentially is a play-by-play of what’s happening at the location. And that is what the Episteme Brotherhood is looking for.”

“Oh my God! That is outrageously sneaky,” I gasp.

“I know, and cruel. Taking advantage of angelic creatures who are trying to save us…”

In mid-sentence he stops talking, holds up a finger and pulls a cell out of his pocket, glances at it, and answers in Spanish. The only words I understand after hello and thank you are Challenger 300, hangar number four and a clearance code he rattles out by heart, only because he says them in English. 

“The plane’s ready. Take the turnpike, but make a loop around the runways before you stop the car. Look for anyone who might not belong or anything suspicious.”

That’s the most serious I’ve seen him.

I grip the steering wheel with both hands and turn into the airport’s entrance, studying every vehicle in sight. If SEEK is here, they’re doing a great job hiding.

“It’s all clear,” I announce when I complete the route and return to the same three-sided intersection.

We make half the loop around again and Jonathan points at the turn off to the hangars. The car creeps along at the posted ten miles per hour limit. I keep one hand on the handgun wedged between the seat and console. I slow the rig to a stop in front of a gray bay door with a giant number four painted on it. My heart pounds. There could be anyone in there. It could be the ambush SEEK’s been planning. The engine idols.

Jonathan reaches across me and honks the horn.

I hold my breath.

The bay door opens. Parked next to a limo, a sleek white Learjet slowly comes into view. I glance at Jonathan for the okay. His jaw muscles relax as he nods, pointing for me to park beside the long gray towncar.

In front of a metal shelving unit filled with tiny red bottles and greasy towels, I cut the engine and exhale long and slow. “Right at this moment, that is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen,” I say, staring out the driver’s side window appreciatively.

Jonathan opens his door and pauses. “We’re not free yet. Come one, the crew will take care of our bags.”

He climbs out of the car. I grab my gun and try to tuck it in my back, but realize there’s no where to put it. I stuff it in the pocket of the pinafore instead. It bounces awkwardly against my thigh. I follow Jonathan toward a tall man with a handlebar mustache waiting by the plane.

“Roberto, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Señor Steed, your plane is ready,” he returns warmly.

Jonathan clutches my back. “Roberto, this is Keira Donovan, my new partner.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Donavan.” Roberto says in perfect English. Then he rattles off something in Spanish with a slight bow.

Jonathan nods and steers me up the rubber-coated metal steps. My breath catches at the first glimpse of elegant interior. Eight creamy recliners line the softly lit cabin. Two rows of imbedded lights run the length of the pale leather ceiling. It feels like a dream: the kind where only movie stars and royalty belong. I think the term is posh.

“Have a seat. I’ll be right back,” Jonathan says, gesturing to a squishy recliner in the middle of the cozy seating arrangement.

Glancing from the plush ivory carpet, expensive-looking swivel captain’s chairs and shiny mahogany tables, I’m awed to the point of panic. “Where are you going?” I grab Jonathan’s arm.

“I have to give the pilots our destination. I didn’t want it compromised.” He pats my hand and disappears into the cockpit.

I turn back to the empty room, running a finger along a glossy table and catch a glimpse of the hangar door opening again. I jump into a chair as a low whir quickly turns into a growl. The engines awake. The cabin gently rumbles beneath my feet. Rubbing my sweaty hands together I stare blurry-eyed out the tiny window, fumbling to latch my seatbelt before the plane clears the hangar.

With a click and tug I’m strapped to the chair. My breaths come faster as we approach the tarmac. “Where is Jonathan?” I close my eyes, clenching the seat cushion.

Every time I’ve flown in the past, it’s been surrounded by daunting conditions. I’ve taken dozens of trips, flown from coast to coast in search of a doctor with a different prognosis for Lindy. Hours trapped in a coach with my weeping parents and a melancholy sister.

My eyes pop open wide as the jet lurches forward. I peer through the tiny window, relieved at least that there are no sirens or flashing lights. We taxi past the airport. I scope out each baggage handler as the carts buzz from bay to bay. None of them so-much-as glance our direction. Still, my stomach feels tethered to an anchor, sinking deep beneath the surface. The tiny cluster of runways is packed with other planes waiting for takeoff. Another jet soars into the air. I cringe.