Black Read online

  He began to scream, flailing in the water, rushing deeper into the dark tunnel. Pain raged through his entire body. He felt as if his flesh had been neatly filleted and packed with salt; each organ stuffed with burning coals; his bones drilled open and filled with molten lead.

  For the first time in his life, Tom wanted desperately to die.

  Then he saw the images streaming by, and he recognized where he must be. Images from the Crossing, from his dreams, strung out here for him to see.

  Images of him spitting in his father’s face. His father the chaplain.

  “Let me die!” he heard himself shrieking. “Let me diiiieeee!”

  The water forced his eyes open and new images filled his mind. His mother, crying. The images came faster now. Pictures of his life. A dark, terrible nature. A red-faced man was spitting obscenities with a long tongue that kept flashing from his gaping mouth like a snake’s .Each time the tongue touched another person, they crumpled to the floor in a pile of bones. It was his face he saw. Memories of lives dead and gone, but here now and dying still.

  And he knew then that he had entered his own soul.

  Tom’s back arched so that his head neared his heels. His spine stressed to the snapping point. He couldn’t stop screaming.

  The tunnel suddenly gaped below and spewed him out into soupy red water. Blood red. He sucked at the red water, filling his spent lungs.

  From deep in the pit of the lake a moan began to fill his ears, replacing his own screams. Tom spun about, searching for the sound, but he found only thick red blood. The moan gained volume and grew to a wail and then a scream.

  Elyon was screaming! In pain.

  Tom pressed his hands to his ears and began to scream with the other, thinking now that this was worse than the dark tunnel. His body crawled with fire, as though every last cell revolted at the sound. And so they should, a voice whispered in his skull. Their Maker is screaming in pain!

  Then he was through. Out of the red, into the green of the lake, hands still pressed firmly against his ears. Tom heard the words as if they came from within his own mind.

  I love you, Thomas.

  Immediately the pain was gone. Tom pulled his hands from his head and straightened out slightly in the water. He floated, too stunned to respond. Then the lake was filled with a song. A song more wonderful than any song could possibly sound, a hundred thousand melodies woven into one.

  I love you.

  I choose you.

  I rescue you.

  I cherish you.

  “I love you too!” Tom cried desperately. “I choose you; I cherish you.” He was sobbing, but with love. The feeling was more intense than the pain that had racked him.

  The current suddenly pulled at him again, tugging him up through the colors. His body again trembled with pleasure, and he hung limp as he sped through the water. He wanted to speak, to scream and to yell and to tell the whole world that he was the luckiest man in the universe. That he was loved by Elyon, Elyon himself, with his own voice, in a lake made by him.

  But the words would not come.

  How long he swam through the currents of the lake, he could never know. He dived into blue hues and found a deep pool of peace that numbed his body like Novocain. With the twist of his wrist, he altered his course into a gold stream and trembled with waves of absolute confidence that come only with great power and wealth. Then a turn of his head and he rushed into red water bubbling with pleasure so great he felt himself go limp once again. Elyon laughed. And Tom laughed and dived deeper, twisting and turning.

  When Elyon spoke again, his voice was gentle and deep, like a purring lion.

  Never leave me, Thomas.

  Tell me that you’ll never leave me.

  “Never! Never, never, never! I will always stay with you.”

  Another current caught him from behind and pushed him through the water. He laughed as he rushed through the water for what seemed a very long time before breaking the surface not ten meters from the shore.

  He stood on the sandy bottom and retched a quart of water from his lungs in front of a startled Michal. He coughed twice and waded from the water. “Boy, oh boy.” He couldn’t think of words that would describe the experience. “Wow!”

  “Elyon,” Michal said, his short snout split with a gaping grin. “Well, well. It was a bit unorthodox, diving in like that.”

  “How long was I under?”

  Michal shrugged. “A minute. No more.”

  Tom slopped onto the shore and dropped to his knees. “Incredible.”

  “Do you remember?”

  He looked back at the waterfall. Did he remember?

  “Remember what?”

  “What village you come from. Who you are,” Michal said.

  Did he?

  “No,” Thomas said. “I remember everything since falling in the black forest. And I remember my dreams.”

  Where he was sleeping, he thought. Waiting to awake. But he knew that he wouldn’t wake there until he fell asleep here. It could be two days here and one second there. That’s the way it worked.

  Assuming he ever dreamed again. He certainly didn’t want to. The lake had revived him completely. He felt like he’d slept a week.

  He dropped to his back and lay on the sandy beach, gazing up at the moon.

  21

  Monique blinked. Her head throbbed. She was lying on her side. Her vision was blurred. Her cheek was pressed into the carpet. She could see under the bed ten feet away. She’d fallen asleep?

  Then she remembered. Her pulse spiked. Someone had broken in while Thomas was sleeping! He’d come in like a whirlwind and smashed her head before she could do anything. Something else had happened, but she couldn’t remember what. Her throat was sore; her head felt like a balloon.

  But she was alive, and she was still in the room.

  She had to wake Tom!

  Monique was about to lift her head when she saw the shoes under the end of the bed. They were connected to pants. Someone was standing at the end of the bed.

  She caught her breath and froze. He was still here! Tom’s breathing sounded ragged. He was hurt? Or sleeping.

  Monique closed her eyes and tried to think. The strips of bedsheet still bound her arms and feet. But her mouth. He’d taken the gag off. Why? Was this her rescuer? Had the police come to take her away? If so, then why had the man knocked her unconscious?

  No, it couldn’t be anyone who had her safety in mind. For all she knew, he was crossing the room at this very minute, knife in hand, intending to finish the job.

  She opened her eyes wide. The shoes hadn’t moved. She rolled her eyes upward as far as she could, desperate for a glimpse of her attacker.

  Black shirt. There was a long scar on his cheek. His arm was extended. He had a gun in his hand. The gun was pointed at Thomas.

  Monique panicked. She jerked up as hard as she could and screamed. “Thomas!”

  The man spun to her, pistol leveled, eyes wide. Thomas bolted upright on the bed, like a puppet on strings. The man dropped to one knee and whipped the gun back toward Thomas.

  “Don’t move!”

  But it was too late. Thomas was already moving.

  He threw himself to his left. The gun spit. A pillow spewed feathers. Monique saw the American fall from the bed, hit the floor on the other side. He moved with lightning speed, as if he’d bounced off the carpet.

  Then he was in the air, flying for the black-clad intruder.

  Phewt! The gun spit again, ripping a hole in the headboard. Tom entered a scissors kick, like a soccer player lining up for a goal. His foot connected with the man’s hand.

  Crack!

  The gun flew across the room and slammed into the wall above Monique’s head. It fell to the floor at her side.

  She was powerless to get it. But she swung her legs to cover it.

  Thomas had rolled up onto the bed after his kick and now stood by the ruptured pillow, facing the attacker in a familiar ready stance.
/>   The man glanced at her, then at Thomas. A smile twisted his lips. “Very good. I did underestimate you after all,” he said. Mediterranean accent. Schooled. Not a thug. Monique pushed herself up, ignoring a splitting pain in her head.

  “Who are you?” Thomas demanded. His eyes were wide, but otherwise he was surprisingly calm. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “No? Then perhaps I did underestimate you.”

  “You’re the one who wants the vaccine,” Thomas said.

  The man’s left eye narrowed barely. Enough for Monique to know that Thomas had struck a chord.

  “How did you know?” Thomas asked.

  “I have no interest in a vaccine.” The man’s eyes darted to a jacket lying by the door. Tom saw it as well.

  “I tipped you off, didn’t I?” Thomas demanded. “If I hadn’t said anything to anybody, you wouldn’t be here. Isn’t that right?”

  The man shrugged. “I only do what I’m hired to do. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He eased toward the front door. Brushed his hands against each other and raised them in a show of surrender. “In this case, I was hired to return the girl to her father, and I must tell you that I fully intend to do that. I have no interest in you.”

  Thomas shook his head. “No, I don’t believe you. Monique, 375,200 base pairs. HIV vaccine. Am I right?”

  She stared at him. They hadn’t published that information yet. How could—

  “Am I right?” he demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Then listen to me.” Tom looked at her, then at the attacker. Tears filled his eyes. He looked desperate. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I really don’t ,you hear me? But we have to stop this man. I mean, no matter what happens, we have to stop him. They’re real, Monique. My dreams are real. You have to believe me!”

  The man had taken another step toward the door. She answered to calm Tom more than to agree with him. “Yes, okay. I do. Watch him, Thomas! He’s going for the jacket.”

  “Leave the jacket,” Thomas said.

  The man arched an eyebrow. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “This is absurd,” he said. “You think you can actually stop me from doing what I want? You’re unarmed.” He casually reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. The blade snapped open. “I am not. And even if I were, you would have no chance against me.”

  “You promise?”

  “You want me to—”

  “Not you! Her. You believe me, Monique? I need you to believe me.”

  His conviction made her hesitate.

  “This could end badly, Monique. I really, really need you to understand what’s happening here.”

  “I believe you,” she said.

  The man suddenly lunged for his jacket.

  Monique had never seen anyone move as fast as Thomas did then. He didn’t jump; he didn’t step. He shot, like a bullet. Straight at the floor between the bed and the front door where the jacket lay folded.

  He rolled once, sprang to his feet, and hit the black-clad man broadside with the heels of both hands.

  Carlos had killed many men with his bare hands. He’d never, in a dozen years of the finest training, seen a man move as fast as the American. If he could get to the transmitter in the jacket, there would be no fight. He was now certain Thomas Hunter would capitulate when faced with the prospect of the French woman’s terrible death.

  He saw Hunter hit the floor and roll, and he knew precisely what the man intended to do. He even knew that what the man had gained by putting gravity to work in his favor might mean Hunter would reach him before he could reach the jacket. But he had to make a decision, and, all things considered, he decided to finish his attempt for the jacket. It was the only way to avoid a fight that would undoubtedly end in Thomas Hunter’s death.

  The fact was, he wanted Hunter alive. They needed to learn what else he knew.

  The man reached him too quickly. Carlos shifted to accept Hunter’s blow. The American hit him on his left arm, hard. But not hard enough to knock him from his feet.

  Carlos whipped the knife in his right hand across his body. The blade sliced into flesh. The American dropped to his belly. Rolled over the jacket and came up ready. Blood seeped from cuts in both his forearms.

  He flung the jacket across the room. Unfazed. He bounced on the balls of his feet twice and threw himself at the wall adjacent Carlos, feetfirst.

  This time he knew the man’s trajectory before he could line up his kick. He was going for the knife.

  Carlos sidestepped, blocked the man’s heel as it came around, and stabbed up with the knife. The blade sank into flesh.

  Hunter grunted and twisted his legs against the blade, forcing it out of Carlos’s hand. He landed on both feet, blade firmly planted in his right calf. He snatched it out and faced Carlos, blade ready.

  The reversal was completely unexpected. Enraging. Enough—he was running out of time.

  Carlos feigned to his left, ducked low, and jerked back. As expected, the move drew a quick stab with the knife. Still on his heels, he dropped back to one hand and swung his right foot up with his full strength. His shoe caught Hunter in the wrist. Broke it with a sharp crack. The knife flew across the room.

  He followed his right foot with his left to the American’s solar plexus.

  Hunter staggered back, winded.

  The phone rang.

  Carlos had taken far too long. His first concern had to be the girl. She was the key to the vaccine. Another ring. The blonde? Or the front desk. Taking the American was no longer an option.

  He had to finish this now.

  Nausea swept through Tom’s gut. The phone was ringing, and it occurred to him that it might be Kara. The ringing seemed to unnerve his attacker slightly, but he wasn’t sure it mattered any longer. The man with the face scar was going to take Monique.

  Both of Tom’s arms were bleeding. His wrist was broken, and his right leg was going numb. The man had disarmed him without breaking a sweat. Panic began to set in.

  The man suddenly broke to his left, bounded for Monique. She swung both feet at him in a valiant effort to ward him off.

  “Get away from me, you—”

  He swatted her feet to one side and scooped up the gun. He turned casually and pointed the weapon at Tom.

  Tom’s options were gone. It was now simply a matter of survival. He straightened. “You win.”

  The gun dipped and bucked in the man’s hand. A bullet plowed through Tom’s thigh. He staggered back, numbed.

  “I always win,” the man said.

  “Thomas!” Monique stared in horror. “Thomas!”

  “Lie on the bed,” the man ordered.

  “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Shut up and lie on the bed.”

  Tom limped forward. His mind was fading already. He wanted to say something, but nothing was coming. Surprisingly, he didn’t care what the man did to him now. But there was Kara, and there was Monique, and there was his mother, and they were all going to die.

  And there was his father. He wanted to talk to his father.

  He heard himself whimper as he fell onto the bed.

  Phewt! A bullet tugged at his gut.

  Phewt! A second punched into his chest.

  The room faded.

  Black.

  Deputy Secretary of State Merton Gains ducked out from under the umbrella and slid into the Lincoln. He’d grown used to the showers since moving to Washington from Arizona. Found them refreshing, actually.

  “Boy, it’s really coming down,” he said.

  George Maloney nodded behind the wheel. “Yes it is, sir.” The Irishman didn’t show a hint of emotion. Never did. Gains had given up trying. He was paid to drive and paid to protect.

  “Take me to the airport, George. Take me to drier parts of Earth.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Miranda had insisted on living in their Tucson home for at least the winters, but after t
wo years, the Washington life wore thin, and she found excuses to return home even in the warmer months. Truth be told, Merton would do the same, given a choice. They were both bred in the desert, for the desert. End of story.

  Rain splashed unrelentingly on the windows. Traffic was nearly stalled.

  “You’ll be back on Thursday, sir?”

  Gains sighed. “Tucson today, California tomorrow, back on Thursday; that’s right.”

  His cell phone vibrated in his breast pocket.

  “Very well, sir. Maybe this rain will be gone by then.”

  Gains withdrew the phone. “I like the rain, George. Keeps things clean. Something we can always use around here, right?”

  No smile. “Yes sir.”

  He answered the phone. “Gains here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gains, I have a Bob Macklroy on the phone for you. He says it could be important.”

  “Put him on, Venice.”

  “Here you go.”

  At times Washington seemed like a college reunion to Gains. Amazing how many jobs had ended up in the hands of Princeton graduates since Blair had been elected president. All qualified people, of course; he couldn’t complain. He’d done his own share of upping the Princeton quotient, mostly through recommendations. Bob here, for example, was not exactly a Washington insider, but he was working as the assistant secretary in the Bureau for International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs office in part because he had played basketball with now Deputy Secretary of State Merton Gains.

  “Hello, Bob.”

  “Hi, Merton. Thanks for taking the call.”

  “Anytime, man. Tim treating you good down there?”

  Bob didn’t bother answering the question directly. “He’s in SaõPaulo for a few days. We’re not sure if you’re exactly the right person. This is a bit unusual, and we’re not quite sure where to take this. Tim thought the FBI might be—”

  “Try me, Bob. What do you have?”

  “Well . . .” Bob hesitated.

  “Just tell me. And speak up a bit, it’s raining hard. Sounds like a train in here.”

  “Okay, but it’s all very strange. I’m just telling you what I know. It seemed appropriate with your involvement in the Gains Act.”