Seed to Harvest: Wild Seed, Mind of My Mind, Clay's Ark, and Patternmaster (Patternist) (65 page)

Incongruously, the car was a beautiful, old, wine-red Mercedes—the last thing Blake would have expected to see coming out of the wilderness. It drove past him on the sand, traveling east, though the only lanes open to it carried westbound traffic. Blake wondered whether the driver would be foolish enough to try to cross the highway in the storm. He could see three people in the car as it passed but could not tell whether they were men or women. He watched them disappear into the dust behind him, then forgot them as Keira moaned in her sleep.

He looked at her, felt rather than saw that Rane also turned to look. Keira, thin and frail, slept on.

“Back in Needles,” Rane said, “I heard a couple of guys talking about her. They thought she was so pretty and fragile.”

Blake nodded. “I heard them too.” He shook his head. Keira had been pretty once—when she was healthy, when she looked so much like her mother that it hurt him. Now she was ethereal, not quite of this world, people said. She was only sixteen, but she had acute myeloblastic leukemia—an adult disease—and she was not responding to treatment. She wore a wig because the epigenetic therapy that should have caused her AML cells to return to normal had not worked, and her doctor, in desperation, had resorted to old-fashioned chemotherapy. This had caused most of her hair to fall out. She had lost so much weight that none of her clothing fit her properly. She said she could see herself fading away. Blake could see her fading, too. As an internist, he could not help seeing more than he wanted to see.

He looked away from Keira and out of the corner of his eye he saw something bright green move at Rane’s window. Before he could speak, a man who seemed to come from nowhere tore open her door,
which had been locked,
and moved to shove his way in beside Rane.

The man was quick, and stronger than any two men should have been, but he was also slightly built and off-balance. Before he could regain his balance, Rane screamed an obscenity, drew her legs back against her body, and spring-released them so that they slammed into his abdomen.

The man doubled and fell backward onto the ground, his green shirt flapping in the wind. Instantly another man took his place. The second man had a gun.

Frightened, Rane drew back against Blake, and Blake, who had reached for his own automatic rifle sheathed diagonally on the door next to him, froze, staring at the intruder’s gun. It was not aimed at him. It was aimed at Rane.

Blake raised his hands, held them in midair, clearly empty. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. He could only stare at the short, dull black carbine leveled at his daughter.

“You can have my wallet,” he said finally. “It’s in my pocket.”

The man seemed to ignore him.

The red Mercedes pulled up beside Blake’s car and Blake could see that there was only one person inside now. A woman, he thought. He could see what looked like a great deal of long, dark hair.

The man in the green shirt picked himself up and drew a handgun. Now there were two guns, both aimed at Rane. Thug psychologists. The green-shirted one walked around the car toward Blake’s side.

“Touch the lock,” the remaining one ordered. “Just the lock. Let him in.”

Blake obeyed, let Green Shirt open the door and take the rifle. Then, in an inhumanly swift move, the man reached across Blake and ripped out the phone. “City rich!” he muttered contemptuously as Blake realized what he had done. “City slow and stupid. Now take out the wallet and give it to me.”

Blake handed his wallet to Green Shirt, moving slowly, watching the guns. Green Shirt snatched the wallet, slammed the door, and went back to the other side where the two cars together offered some protection from the wind. There, he opened the wallet. Surprisingly, he did not check the cash compartment, though Blake actually had over two thousand dollars. He liked to carry small amounts of cash when he traveled. Green Shirt flipped through Blake’s computer cards, pulled out his Palos Verdes Enclave identification.

“Doctor,” he said. “How about that. Blake Jason Maslin, M.D. Know anybody who needs a doctor, Eli?”

The other gunman gave a humorless laugh. He was a tall, thin black man with skin that had gone gray with more than desert dust. His health may have been better than Keira’s, Blake thought, but not by much.

For that matter, Green Shirt, shorter and smaller-boned, did not look healthy himself. He was blond, tanned beneath his coating of dust, though his tan seemed oddly gray. He was balding. His gun shook slightly in his hand. A sick man. They were both sick—sick and dangerous.

Blake put his arm around Rane protectively. Thank God Keira had managed to sleep through everything so far.

“What is this, anyway?” Eli demanded, glancing back at Keira, then staring at Rane. “What kind of cradles have you been robbing, Doc?”

Blake stiffened, felt Rane stiffen against him. His wife Jorah had been black, and he and Rane and Keira had been through this routine before.

“These are my daughters,” Blake said coldly. Without the guns, he would have said more. Without his hand gripping Rane’s shoulder, she would have said much more.

Eli looked surprised, then nodded, accepting. Most people took longer to believe. “Okay,” he said. “Get out here, girl.”

Rane did not move, could not have if she had wanted to. Blake held her where she was. “Dad?” she whispered.

“You have my money,” Blake told Eli. “You can have anything else you want. But let my daughters alone!”

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 Rane’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 kids.”

“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 anymore. 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.”