that still the case?”
“I don’t know.” He sounded like a girl at a dance who didn’t get many takers and decided to play hard to get.
“I drove all the way out here. Can you at least tell me what it is you want to give me?”
He tilted his head sideways and regarded her. “You’re washed in the blood of the Lamb?”
“Yes.” She had been baptized. Or christened, since she was raised Catholic. She wondered if Catholics fit into Peter Deuteronomy’s worldview. Decided not to ask.
“He was a nice guy,” Deuteronomy said. “I liked his dog.”
“I liked his dog, too.”
“You met his dog?”
“Yes. She’s got a new home now.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I only chain Bullet here up when someone’s coming. He looks scary, but he’s friendly. Just a mutt, you know.”
“I like dogs.”
“You want to pet him?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” He let the dog loose and it launched at her. But Tess could tell he was friendly. He slavered all over her, jumping at her chin, wriggling his hind end, gyrating with happiness. She rubbed him all over and was rewarded with slobber on her arm.
“Bullet, get back here!”
The dog bounced away and jumped at his owner.
“Okay,” Deuteronomy said. “You don’t know it, but you passed the test.”
Tess smiled.
“Wait right here, okay?”
He went into the trailer and she heard him rummaging around in a drawer. He stepped outside. “Stay where you are, okay? I don’t like people to get too close to me.”
“Sure.”
He crept out into the dirt between them. Tess couldn’t see what was in his hand. If she hadn’t seen genuine appreciation over her friendliness with his dog, she would have kept her hand close to her weapon.
He dropped something daintily in the dirt and backed away.
It was blue, plastic, and small.
CHAPTER 42
In the desperate moments that followed, Michael didn’t have a chance to think about the hints he’d gotten, gratis, from the universe. He didn’t think about the generic white truck that had tracked him through Tucson traffic until it dwindled far back in his rearview. He didn’t think about the truck that turned onto 386, how he’d tried to draft behind it just for fun, and he certainly didn’t notice that there was a temporary sticker on the rear window. (He remembered
But he knew immediately when, only one curve down from the observatory, the white truck came up behind him.
Fast.
There were no other cars. Not one to see them. He was alone.
Even before it became clear the guy was trying to run him off the road, Michael felt an atavistic shiver run up through his body like a power line. He sensed, even then, what was about to happen. And then the truck’s grille loomed close and Michael was desperately looking for a place to get off the narrow road and away from the truck.
He hugged the edge of the road. Knew there were two or three curves, and each one of them stopped at the edge of space—hundreds of feet down. But he couldn’t think right now how far down he could go if he went over. He was too busy trying to save himself.
He could feel the heat of the engine behind him. He could hear the diesel rumble. He glanced back and each time thought he saw the menacing grille coming forward.
He would be squashed like a bug.
Michael took off diagonally for the other side. The truck was on him. His tires skittered over rocks and dirt and grass as the truck’s rumble filled his ears. In his panic, he could not see—everything was shaking and moving and the truck was pinned to his ass. He feinted right, he feinted left, aware that there might be a car coming up the mountain, around the next curve.
The truck stayed on him.
He pedaled hard, faster—and got up a head of speed. Arrowed down the middle of the road. The truck seemed to falter, than came back, clinging to his back wheel like it was trying to get a draft.
Another curve. Had to stay away from the edge, had to stay in the road…
They came around the next bend.
Terror wiring through him. Adrenaline spiking. Heart bursting with fear.
The truck relentless.
He was being driven to the right, his tires jittering on the dirt verge. Down below the valley stretched like a sleeping golden lion—beautiful. It might be the last thing he’d ever see. Thinking, couldn’t help the thoughts that crossed through his mind, thinking about his broken body hitting boulder after boulder, smashed flat like a bug on a windshield.
The truck’s rough grumble.
He was terrified.
Around the next curve. The Pinarello held the line but the wheels almost slipped out from under him. He was going so fast.
The next curve loomed. This was one of the cliffs. He could go right off. Oh shit—
His bike shimmied. The tires bit into the rocks, the dirt. He almost went over. The truck was on him like a dog on a little animal, ready to savage him. He saw it hit him, saw his broken body flying—
But the tires held. The bike stayed up. Suddenly encouraged, knowing that there would be fewer places to go off—he knew this road so well—he pushed forward.
“I’m gonna beat you, motherfucker!”
Around the next curve.
And right in front of him: the tour bus.
Too late to stop.
Michael was airborne. Cartwheeling. He’d managed to turn at the last moment. His bike rammed into a rock at the edge. He hit and he thought he slid. Grass, dirt, rocks, scrapes.
Came to rest facedown in the dirt. Alive. Whole.
The last thing he’d seen was the back of the tour bus. He’d swerved, headed right for the cliff. And hit the guardrail. He thought he hit the guardrail.
Shaking, he stood up and looked up at the road.
The truck had accelerated past the tour bus and was gone. All there was around him was the wind and emptiness. Blood on his knee, blood on his shin. Road rash from his hip down his thigh, his shorts on that side in tatters.
He staggered up to the guardrail and stepped over gingerly. He could see the next curve in the road below. He saw the bus disappear around the curve as if nothing happened.
