Reamde

barrel of the Glock, just at the top of the ladder.

Another leg thrust, another hand-over-hand, and a desperate adrenaline-fueled reach gained him enough altitude to grip the first rung above the rope break. He got both hands on it, performed a chin-up, did more desperate pawing and kicking, finally got to a place where he could get his feet planted against the rock prominence. Then he covered a few rungs very fast.

The ladder had begun to jerk and dance madly, and he realized that someone at the base of the cliff was either climbing it, or else yanking on it trying to break the rope. He paused in his climbing long enough to pull out the knife and sever the remaining cord just beneath the rung that was supporting his feet. The ladder sprang out away from the cliff and fell from view. Watching this was a mistake, since it gave him vertigo. He saw muzzle flashes from below. But at the same time he drew courage from the fact that many of the sight lines connecting him to the flat ground between here and the river were blocked by the dense foliage of evergreen trees. Most of the jihadists were shooting blindly, or trying to draw beads on him through small gaps between branches, or running around trying to find a position from which they could do so.

It would not be accurate to say that a man of his age and weight could scamper, but he felt as if he scampered the last ten rungs and finally hurled himself on his belly at the top. Zula withdrew from her perch almost in unison with him and they ran for a hundred or more feet into the forest, side by side, before stopping. As if the bullets could chase them over the lip of the cliff and hunt them through the woods. But they couldn’t, of course. Only Jones and his men could do that. And as Richard had understood the moment he’d seen it, the ladder had given them a long head start on the jihadists.

Then Zula got in front of him and pulled a sharp U-turn and body-slammed him and wrapped her arms around his torso and ratcheted them down like enormous zip ties. Her face was in his chest and she was sobbing. Which Richard almost felt was his prerogative, since she had saved him; but he wasn’t about to make an issue of it. He was still so astonished by all that had happened in the few minutes that had elapsed since he had hopped away from the campsite to answer the call of nature that he could do very little but stand there dumbfounded and await the cardiac arrest that seemed as though it ought to be inevitable. He got the back of Zula’s head in the crook of his elbow and pulled it firmly in against his chest, planted his feet wide, and breathed.

IT WAS SHE who recovered first. He heard muffled noises and realized that she was trying to talk. He relaxed his grip on her, saw her face turn up toward him. A miracle. Every time he saw that face for the rest of his life he would call it a miracle.

Her lips were moving.

“What?” he said.

“Chet’s up above the falls,” she said. “He’s hurt badly.”

“Crap,” Richard said. “You know we have to get over to Prohibition Crick and warn Jake.”

“Yes,” Zula said, “I do know that. But I’m just saying.” In her tone was a kind of incipient, Furious Muse–like shock that Dodge would even consider not going back to check in on Chet.

“Did those fuckers shoot him?” Richard asked, jerking his head back the way they had come.

“Different fuckers,” she said. “But all part of the same group, as you may have guessed.” She added, “I’m not even sure if Chet is still alive, frankly. He was looking pretty bad.”

“Do you think you can find your way to Jake’s from here?”

This set her back on her heels for a second. “You’re saying we should split up? That I should run ahead to Jake’s while you circle back and see how Chet is doing?”

“Just a thought. I know a shortcut; I can get back to where Chet is in no time.”

“I think it’s the only way,” she admitted, looking like she was going to start crying again. A whole different kind of crying. The last jag had been letting go of terrible pent-up emotions. The coming one was sadness that she would have to go out on her own again so soon.

“The only thing is,” Zula said, and stopped, looking embarrassed at what she’d been about to utter.

“I have to get word back to the re-u.”

“Yeah.”

“I have to tell the story that you survived Xiamen, you survived whatever the hell you’ve been through the last couple of weeks, and you went on alone to warn the others.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Which means you have to survive.”

“I have to survive,” he corrected her, “if you don’t.”

“That’s true,” she said, as if he had made some cogent point during a business meeting.

“The flip side is—”

“I have to survive if you don’t,” she said. “But you will. You always do.”

“No one does always,” he corrected her. “But I will try very hard to do so, knowing that only by surviving will I have the joy and privilege of telling your story to the world.”

“It’s not that great of a story,” she said shyly.

“Bullshit. Hey, look. Chet’s dying. The fucking terrorists are headed for Jake’s. We have to put this plan into execution. Even if that is a miserable fact that would never obtain in a good and fair world. Agreed?”

“Yeah.” She held up one gloved hand, palm out.

He met it with his hand. They clasped them tight for a few moments. “You’ve always been a sort of herolike figure to me,” he told her.

“You’ve always been my… uncle,” she answered.

“Honored.”

“See you.”

“Haul ass,” he said. “And remember, if you just get close and then empty that clip into the air, that’ll be enough to put Jake and his fellow wack jobs on red alert. Because it doesn’t take much.”

“Noted.” And she turned her back on him and began to walk away. After a few steps, she broke into a run.

“This must be kind of obvious by now,” he called after her, “but I love you.”

She turned her head and gave him a shy look over her shoulder, then bent to her work.

CHET WAS VISIBLE from half a mile away, sprawled on a boulder like a skydiver whose chute had failed to open. A stream of blood was running down the side of the rock. Something ungainly dangled from one hand. As Richard trudged up the mountain—a procedure that seemed to take forever—he resolved it as a pair of binoculars.

All that time on the elliptical trainer was paying off. Any other portly man of his age would have dropped dead a long time ago. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been panting and sweating.

He had quite satisfied himself that Chet was dead when the arm moved, the body sat up, the binoculars rose to his face. Richard came very close to screaming, just as anyone would who saw a dead man taking action. It almost made him not want to come any closer. But the agonizing slowness of travel on talus gave him plenty of time to get his primitive emotions under control as he got closer.

“Hey, Chet,” he said, when he was close enough to be heard. Chet had lain down again and not moved in a while.

“Dodge. You came.”

“You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I know you’re busy. Got a ton of stuff on your mind.”

“There’s always time for you, Chet. I’ve always tried to be clear about that.”

“It’s true. Appreciate it. Always have.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Aw, Dodge, you know I’m a dead man.”

“But you were a dead man once before—in the cornfield. Remember?”

“No. Had amnesia. Remember?” Chet laughed, and Richard grinned at him.

“That was when understanding came to me,” Chet went on, “about the parallels and the meridians. The fact that we live in curved space. Parallels run straight. Meridians bend toward each other and at their beginnings and