The Countdown (The Taking) (4 page)

Tyler sprang into action. “Let’s go.” His voice rumbled against my ear as he tugged me toward our camp.

Panic gripped my throat, Darth Vader–style.

We should’ve been unfindable. My dad had taken extreme measures to ensure no one, not even Simon and the others, would know where we were.

But what if it was them? What if they’d somehow tracked us down and were here . . . now, Agent Truman and the rest
of his creepy Daylight Division? They’d like nothing more than to pin Tyler and me down, like dried-out butterflies in their collection.

Oddities to be marveled at.

Without thinking, I started to reach for Nancy’s collar as I passed her, but she snarled at me and I recoiled, torn somewhere between fear and rejection.

So we left her. My dad would have to deal with her.

When we reached camp, my dad wasn’t far behind. To say I was impressed by his stamina would have been an understatement. Still, he was more than a little winded when he appeared in the small clearing, his breath coming in hard, heaving gasps. He waved the flashlight around at our tent and all our stuff, which was scattered around the dead remains of what had once been a campfire. “Leave . . . it. All . . . of it,” he wheezed. He fumbled in the pocket of his jeans and, probably because I’d never passed my driver’s test, he tossed the keys to Tyler. “You . . . drive.”

Oblivious to the fact that it was me who’d set Nancy on edge, my dad half dragged the unwilling dog and shoved her in the backseat of the truck before climbing in after her. She was still growling, but it was lower now, coming out in breathy woofs. But the awareness that she didn’t want to be anywhere near me crawled over my skin like a million fireflies . . . unpleasant and unwanted.

I took shotgun as Tyler fired up the ancient pickup truck. If my dad had somehow lost whoever he’d been running from in the woods, there’d be no fooling them now—the
engine was big and old, and crazy loud. It rumbled as Tyler slammed the truck into gear, the transmission grinding before it caught, and then we were bouncing over backwoods gravel roads that were riddled with potholes, hills, and ruts.

“All right, we need to sort out what just happened back there,” I managed, finally able to breathe normally as my dad gave up his stakeout and swung around to face us.

For the first hour or so after we’d slammed out of the campsite, my dad refused to say a word, keeping a silent vigil through the grimy back window, which was fine because somewhere along the way, during that hour, Tyler had reached over and taken hold of my hand. It hadn’t stopped him from focusing on driving though, as he alternated his attention between the road we were flying down and the rearview mirror.

I thought for sure he’d have to let go of my hand eventually whenever we’d hit a particularly treacherous pothole or when he had to make a perilously sharp turn, especially since my dad’s ancient truck clearly didn’t have power steering. But he never once did.

And every now and then, his thumb would stroke my palm, or his fingers would tighten, just enough to let me know he still knew I was there, and even though we were running for our lives, I’d momentarily forget to be terrified.

“I think we lost them.” My dad shot one last look over
his shoulder, a just-to-be-sure look, before settling forward in his seat. If he noticed that Tyler didn’t have both hands on the wheel, he didn’t mention it.

“Who?” I asked, my own gaze dropping to Nancy beside him. She hadn’t stopped making those warning sounds from the back of her throat . . . not growls exactly, but low mistrustful whines. “And why is she doing that?”

My dad rubbed Nancy’s head and she quieted down a bit. “Your eyes. Pretty sure it’s your eyes. Spooked her.” He leaned over my shoulder and pointed to the glove box. “In there. Sunglasses. See if those don’t help some.”

My eyes? I mean, weird since she’d seen them before, over the past few nights, but I supposed it was possible; we were all a little spooked right now.

My hand felt cold when I let go of Tyler’s to dig through the cluttered contents of my dad’s glove box. I moved aside stacks of worn receipts and crumpled paperwork—an old tire warranty, several outdated registrations, fast-food receipts, and some maps. Beneath them my fingers brushed something more substantial and at first I thought it must be the sunglasses. But when I lifted the mound of mostly garbage out of the way, a hard jolt shook me from the inside out.

A gun.

My dad had never been that guy: a gun guy. He’d always been opposed to guns. Opposed to violence of any kind, and now he was what? Packing heat?

My gaze slid sideways to Tyler, to see if he’d noticed what I had. He raised his eyebrows, letting me know he hadn’t missed it.

I flinched again as my dad’s hand closed over my shoulder. Yet his touch was familiar, comforting, and my tension eased somewhat. “You okay, kiddo?”

“Dad, what’s the gun for?”

“Things have changed, Kyr.”

If I’d have been standing at that moment my knees would’ve buckled because of the way he said my name. It was the way he used to say it, like I was still the old me. But that wasn’t what this was about, and I couldn’t let my emotions sway the fact that my dad had let this . . .
this whole situation
change him. “Yeah . . . but a gun? Is that really necessary?” I was sure I was being unreasonable. Weren’t Agent Truman and his guys armed? Didn’t it make sense for us to have weapons too?

But wasn’t that just it? What was it my dad always taught me? Two wrongs don’t make a right.

Did that even apply when we were talking life and death?

He squeezed my shoulder again, so much like before, the way he used to do just before a big game or whenever I needed cheering up. “I gotta make sure I can protect you. Keep you kids safe.”

I crossed my arms, not feeling cheered at all by his response. I didn’t feel safer knowing my dad had altered his entire belief system . . . all because of me.

“So what do we do now? We lost pretty much everything
back there.” My gaze slid to the glove box, and the gun inside. “Where do we go from here?”

My dad tapped Tyler enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Pull off up ahead there,” he directed. “First thing we need to do is regroup.”

We’d crossed into Wyoming now, which wasn’t so strange. For days we’d been zigzagging across state lines as my dad tried to steer clear of the Daylighters, and considering my current obsession, it shouldn’t have surprised me that the next exit was exit 17. We were on a highway that could barely be called a highway and there was a roadside diner with a flashing neon sign that had a pig wearing a cowboy hat. The pig promised the World’s Best Pie.

I had no idea what one had to do with the other.

Unlike the narrow road we’d been on, the parking lot was wide and vast, and way more congested than the time of night warranted. When we pulled in, I had to ask, “You sure this is a good idea? There’re a lot of people here. What if the Daylighters catch up with us?” Just to make my point, I turned to scan the road behind us, but no one was there.

My dad scowled at the mention of the Daylighters, but he was already buttoning the flannel shirt he’d been clutching when he’d come sprinting out from between the trees, which was probably a good thing because there were still sweat marks beneath the underarms of his T-shirt. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Trust me, they won’t find us here.”

Sliding me a sideways glance, Tyler pulled into the crowded lot without saying a word. He managed to wedge
the battered pickup between two enormous semis, making my dad’s truck look miniature-sized, like some sort of windup toy.

I still wanted to talk to Tyler, but not here. Not with my dad listening.

“Wait here,” my dad told Nancy as he ruffled her head, but she refused to be appeased by a little affection. “Don’t be like that,” he promised. “I’ll bring you some leftovers.” As if that was the reason she growled when I reached for my door.

Whatever had really spooked her, she’d definitely transferred her fears onto me. In her mind, I’d become the boogeyman.

Transference
—I’d learned the term in psychology, but now the word itself held so many more meanings to me.

Transference could literally mean moving something from one place to another, like the way I’d been taken, literally plucked from the road that night on Chuckanut Drive. Or the way my memories had been moved from my old body to this new one.

My dad reached back in the truck and came out with the pair of sunglasses I hadn’t been able to find. He offered them to me. “It’s still dark. We don’t need anyone noticing us.”

“Me,” I corrected, hardly able to hide my annoyance at being singled out, even though no one else’s eyes were glowing. “You don’t want anyone noticing me, you mean.”

“Kyra . . .” My dad sighed.

“Whatever.” I took the sunglasses and slipped them on. “It’s fine. I get it.”

I hoped the tint actually disguised my eyes rather than just making me look like some dork who thought it was cool to wear sunglasses at night.

Coffee. That’s why we’d risked pulling over. My dad needed coffee.

The World’s Best Pie was just a bonus.

“So how long do you think we have? Until they find us again?” Despite my strange choice in eyewear, I hadn’t drawn a single glance. Maybe because I wasn’t the only one with questionable fashion sense. I’d spotted at least half a dozen oil stains, several pairs of suspenders that were definitely
not
of the hipster variety, and more than a few (not-even-trying-to-hide-them) butt cracks. There was even one guy sporting a “Free Mustache Rides” T-shirt and an idiot’s grin. As if he really believed he had a shot at someone taking him up on his offer.

My dad ignored me and signaled to one of the waitresses wearing a cotton candy-colored uniform before she rushed past us with her coffeepot.

“Can I get a refill here?” He wore his own version of a cheesy grin as he waved his cup in her direction. She paused just long enough to top him off, and didn’t even acknowledge Tyler or me before rushing away again, eager to escape into the kitchen, probably hoping to steal a quick smoke break before having to go another round with Free Mustache Rides.

My dad settled the lip of his mug just beneath his nose,
lingering before actually taking a sip. I could smell the strong brew from the other side of the booth and tried to decide if that was a good thing or not. But from the blissed-out expression on my dad’s face I guess I had my answer. After finally downing several long slugs, my dad dug into the pie and that blissed-out expression shifted to shameless ecstasy.

“You have
got
to try this,” he said through a mouthful of the crumbling apple confection. He held out his fork, offering me a bite.

At any other time, and maybe for Old Kyra, the offer would have been tempting. But now, and to New Kyra, who had different, and less than impressive taste buds, the suggestion wasn’t all that appealing.

I shrugged. “Maybe next time,” I refused, like we were regulars and I wasn’t passing up my one and only opportunity for the World’s Best Pie.

“Ben, seriously,” Tyler interrupted. “Who the hell was that back there? Did you get a good look at them? Did they see you?” Tyler was leaning forward, his face screwed up in determination.

My dad scowled, the fork halfway to his mouth, and then he glared, first at me and then at Tyler, before setting it back down again. After a second he shook his head. “No, I didn’t get a good look.”

“Then how do you know it was them?” Tyler pushed, and I wondered if maybe it was never Agent Truman at all. If maybe my dad had seen—or heard rather—the same people Tyler had.

The Returned must die.

The hairs at the nape of my neck prickled.

My dad cleared his throat and then gazed at me intently. Despite the fact that my dad was sitting right there, Tyler threw his arm over my shoulder and yanked me closer to him reassuringly.

I wasn’t sure which of us was more surprised, me, my dad, or Tyler, but I smiled just a tiny bit.

Tyler wasn’t thinking the way I was. He still thought the Daylight Division had tracked us down. “How do you think they figured out where we were? Where did we go wrong?” he asked.

Ignoring Tyler, my dad reached across the table, his hand closing over mine. “I don’t think they did, kiddo. I don’t think it was that Truman guy or his jackbooted thugs.” He was hedging. For whatever reason, he didn’t want to come out and say what he thought.

I nodded. “So? What are we doing here?” I gestured to the diner around us. “If it wasn’t the Daylighters, then who were you and Nancy running from?”

He sighed again, a giving-up kind of sigh, then looked around, making sure no one was listening. And then he glanced up. Like
up-up
, toward the sky. “Them.”

My stomach dropped, and I wondered why I felt this way. Why I had that same sick feeling I’d had in his trailer, back when I’d first been returned. Back when he’d told me he thought I’d been abducted by aliens.

Back then the aliens had all been in his head. Make
believe. Fiction. The stuff of fairy tales.

Now . . .

Now I knew better. Now he was only confirming what had already been bugging me. What I’d already been telling myself couldn’t be . . . because no way was it them. Not here. Not again.

I tried to swallow but my throat felt like it was one long inflexible steel pipe, and my breath rattled along the hollow tubing. I kept my voice low . . . super,
super
low so no one could hear the kind of crazy talk coming out of our mouths. “What . . . makes you say that? Why do you think it was”—I leaned closer, our heads almost touching over the top of the table—“
them
?”

“I think they’re trying to send a message, Kyr. I think they’re after you.”

I stayed inside the bathroom stall for way too long, surrounded by metal walls that were plastered with so much graffiti they looked like they belonged in a high school locker room rather than an all-night diner. One particularly eye-catching piece—a Sharpie collage of a nude woman riding an elephant—was not only bizarre, but so detailed I had to wonder how much time the poor woman drawing it had been trapped in here. I hoped for my dad’s sake it hadn’t been The World’s Best Pie that had done her in.