The Julian Year Page 18

  She closed her eyes but didn’t sleep, and half an hour later rose from the bed, stripped its covers, and arranged the sheets loosely on the mattress. She set her coat, jeans, and sneakers on top of the sheets, then used scissors to cut the sheets with as little noise as possible, which took longer. Then she wrapped her garments in the cut sections and secured them with duct tape. She pulled on her jeans and used strips of the sheets to cover the bands of duct tape, then she put on her coat and did the same with that. She wrapped her sneakers in the white fabric, taped them, and wrapped them again.

  It was not enough to cut holes for her eyes and mouth in one corner of the pillowcase and secure it with a strip around the neck; she secured it with strips around the forehead, chin, and beneath her nose, creating a firm mask. When she was covered head to toe in white and resembled a cross between a ninja and a mummy, she wandered over to her window overlooking the backyard and raised it. Cold air whipped inside as the searchlight swept over the snow below.

  Rachel swung one leg out the window, then the other, and sat on the ledge with both legs dangling. I’m crazy, she thought. Then she pushed herself off the ledge.

  Free fall: her stomach tightened like a vise, and she moved her arms in small circles as she plummeted to the earth. Her legs knifed into a snowbank and she bent her knees, the shock wave of impact traveling through her body. She rolled over facedown in the snow just as the searchlight swept over her.

  For a horrible instant, the light engulfed her. She held her breath, then the light moved on, leaving her alone.

  Rachel sprang to her feet and ran, white on white in the darkness, straight toward the guard tower, where two armed soldiers stood. She pumped her arms faster, her shins sinking into snow. At any moment, machine-gun fire could cut her in half. She ran faster. Then she reached the tower and ducked under it.

  There’s no way they can see me now.

  Her heart pounded. The week of cardiovascular training had helped strengthen her legs and endurance, but running in the snow still proved difficult, and she wished she had snowshoes. She followed the progress of the searchlight, which circled the back property. When it passed the point she desired, she ducked beneath a wooden beam and resumed her run, praying shewouldn’t be spotted and shot in the back.

  Why would they shoot me? They want me alive.

  She ran faster.

  March 7

  Rachel trampled pinecones, and needles whipped at her face, which was protected by the pillowcase mask. Then she broke through the trees and saw two vehicles parked on the road with their headlights off: a silver SUV and a red Ford Focus. Pausing to scan the road for soldiers, she sprinted to the vehicles, her chest on fire.

  Calvin Ethridge stepped out of the SUV.

  Rachel slowed and staggered toward him, becoming exhausted in an instant. She fell into his arms, and he kept her from falling. She pulled at the straps around her head, and the mask came away.

  “Right on time,” Ethridge said.

  She managed to laugh, then looked at the Focus. “Is that mine?”

  “I’m not giving you my SUV.”

  “How did you get it up here?”

  “My brother drove it. He’s sitting in my passenger seat.”

  “How much?”

  “Four grand.”

  “I’ll find a way to repay you.”

  “Forget it. It’s not like the rest of us are saving for retirement anymore.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out the wallet with her fake ID. “Repay me by not getting caught.”

  She gestured at her garb. “Help me out of this.”

  Kneeling in the snow, he removed the straps from her legs and arms, the duct tape, and finally the sheets. “The KKK took my baby away.”

  Laughing, she slipped the wallet into her coat pocket.

  Ethridge stood and handed her the car keys and a Glock nine. “There’s extra ammo under the driver’s seat.”

  She looked into his eyes. “I wish there was time . . .”

  “I know.”

  She kissed him, then turned and ran to the Focus and got in. Starting the engine, she watched Ethridge climb into the SUV. Then she drove around the larger vehicle and took off.

  Twenty-four

  Driving through isolated darkness, Rachel pressed the radio controls, jumping from station to station. She kept glancing in the car mirrors, and her body tensed whenever headlights appeared.

  Her future depended on when the army discovered she had escaped. If no guard checked her room until she failed to rise for breakfast, then she would be halfway across the next state before the military sounded the alarm. But if wind blowing into her unit through the open window created a disturbance—snapping the curtains or blowing over loose objects—and the guard discovered her empty bed soon, she would no doubt encounter trouble. Or maybe the guards in the tower would notice her window was open.

  What will they do? Call out the dogs? The choppers? They aren’t going to kill me or risk me killing myself. I’m too important. If they go public with my escape, they’ll only be exposing me to the Regan MacNeils. Those possessed pricks won’t be looking for me unless they know I’m free.

  The Focus rolled up and down hilly terrain, surrounded by dark trees beneath a bright gray sky that glowed with moonlight reflected off the snow-covered ground. The car heater sounded like a small jet, so she had to crank the radio to hear it.

  “God has visited his wrath upon us because of our tolerance for homosexuality and other perversions,” a flabby-sounding man with a Southern accent said. “If we hope to survive this divine act of retribution, we must correct our errant ways and learn to stop showing friendship to those who have strayed from the glorious path of—” Rachel changed the station, and a rumbling bass shook the car, followed by a lilting flute. She didn’t recognize the classical piece but hoped it would keep her awake.

  Ethridge had come through for her, as she knew he would. Car, cash, identification—enough to get by for a limited time while she formulated a longer term plan.

  A final plan, she thought.

  The urge to search for her parents became almost unbearable, but she resisted it.

  No contact. Cut everyone off. It’s the cost of freedom.

  Instead, she drove into Pennsylvania.

  The sky grew brighter but remained just as cloudy. On a narrow stretch of rural landscape parallel to the highway, Rachel turned in to a gas station. Parking the Focus near a pair of blocky, primitive-looking pumps, she slipped the Glock into her waistband, got out, and crossed the slushy pavement to the store.

  A bell jingled as she entered, and a plump woman with medium-length gray hair, pinned back with barrettes, looked up at her from behind bulletproof glass.

  Rachel took a pack of cupcakes from a rack and pushed it through the opening in the glass. “Forty-five on one, please.”

  “It’s 46.70,” the woman said. “Cash.”

  Rachel opened her handbag and took out the cash, which she counted and set before the woman. “Keep the change.”

  Staring at Rachel, the woman collected the cash. “ID?”

  “I left it in the car.”

  “I can’t take your money without seeing ID.” The woman’s gaze flicked to the ceiling behind Rachel.

  There’s a camera up there, Rachel thought. She reached into her bag. “Oh, never mind. Here it is.” She handed the forged ID to the woman.

  She took it, raised it close to her face, then stared at Rachel again. “You have a safe trip.” She handed her ID back.

  “Thank you.” Rachel returned to the Focus, filled its tank, and devoured her cream-filled cupcakes.

  The sun had been up for an hour when Rachel saw her first horse-drawn carriage. The driver of the carriage stared straight ahead as he passed her, his face framed by a long beard but no mustache, and he wore a black hat with a wide brim and a black ribbon.

  Amish country, Rachel thought as she entered Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. The roads grew narrower, and houses s
tood close to the road, separated only by narrow ditches. She drove over brooks and past fields soaking in slush. Spring wasn’t just in the air; it was all over the land. A traffic sign with a silhouette of a horse and buggy advised her to slow down, and she drove across a covered bridge.

  Welcome to Intercourse, a wooden sign announced.

  Rachel felt a sense of displacement and wonder as she entered the village. Horse-drawn buggies traveled the streets at a surprising speed, while others sat parked outside businesses. She had arrived during morning rush hour, and men and women dressed in “plain” clothing crossed the street side by side with their counterparts who wore modern clothes. Brick buildings, farm supply stores, furniture outlets, arts and crafts shops, bakeries—everything had a rustic feel to it. Somehow people from two different cultures had found a way to work together in a manner that seemed beneficial to each.

  She turned in to the parking lot of a Best Western. Emerging from the car, she scanned the commercial district, then opened the Focus’s trunk and discovered a laptop and a rolling suitcase.

  Ethridge thought of everything. I can only imagine what he packed me.

  She took the suitcase and laptop out, closed the trunk, and pulled the suitcase toward the registration office.

  A pleasant-looking young woman looked up from the counter. The plastic tag on her green vest identified her as Shelly. “Hi. Can I help you?”

  Rachel looked over the courtesy coffee setup. “I’d like a room. I don’t have a reservation.”

  “Just yourself?” Shelly said.

  “Yes.”

  “How long will you be staying with us?”

  Rachel considered the question. “Two nights. May I have some coffee?”

  “That’s what it’s there for. Name?”

  “Kozack.”

  “First name?”

  “Marlene.”

  “ID?” Rachel showed her ID.

  “How will you be paying for your stay?”

  Rachel filled a paper cup with steaming coffee. “Cash.”

  “I’ll still need a credit card for security purposes.”

  She poured in two creamers. “Really? Damn, I forgot it at home. Will you take a cash deposit instead?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Rachel stirred her coffee, then carried it over to the counter. “Then why don’t we do this: you enter your own credit card number, and I’ll give you a hundred dollars for your trouble.”

  Shelly raised her eyebrows. “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. No one will know. It’s just a simple transaction between you and me; I’m thanking you for a favor. That’s all. No one’s breaking any laws, so there’s no way this can blow up in your face and cost you your job. I need a nice, comfortable place to stay for a couple of nights. Can’t you use that hundred bucks?”

  Shelly hesitated and Rachel knew she had her.

  “When’s your birthday?”

  Shelly swallowed. “April 23.”

  So soon, Rachel thought. She almost felt guilty exploiting it. “I know it isn’t much, but take this money, put it away until you’re on your last two weeks, and buy yourself something nice.”

  Without saying anything, Shelly turned to her monitor as she tapped her keyboard. “Breakfast is served at the restaurant next door each morning from 6:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m.” She printed out a form, which she set before Rachel with a pen. “I just need your signature here.”

  “I have my own pen.” Rachel reached into her purse and brought out the pen and a hundred-dollar bill. She signed the form, then handed it back to Shelly with the money.

  “Enjoy your stay,” Shelly said.

  Rachel entered her ground-floor room and closed the door. Two queen-size beds dominated the room, which had a reading chair, a desk, a bureau, an old console TV, and a mini-refrigerator. She tossed her rolling suitcase onto one bed and opened it. Ethridge had provided her with panties, socks, jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters. Also one jacket, a hair coloring kit—apparently he desired to see her as a blonde—and a CD she assumed was a mix tape. She used the bathroom, then climbed into bed and slept.

  She awoke at lunchtime and took a shower. Turning on the TV, she leafed through the hotel brochure and learned that portions of the movie Witness, starring Harrison Ford, had been filmed in and around Intercourse, and the hotel showed the movie around the clock on its internal channel.

  Rachel went out for a walk and explored the town. The sight of horse-drawn buggies continued to delight her, and she prowled the shops admiring the arts and crafts on display. She had no intention of buying anything, though: her budget was finite, and she was homeless, a nomad. Still, she picked up several items she thought her mother would enjoy, then set them back down.

  Mom and Dad are homeless too after the Regan MacNeils drove that truck through their house.

  She was glad she had killed all of them.

  A police car circled the block, and she spotted two pairs of National Guards walking down the sidewalk. Even this peaceful hamlet had been forced to cope with the invasion. One block farther up, three men wearing boots, jeans, and coats held rifles in a casual manner.

  Neighborhood watch, she thought.

  Surrendering to hunger, Rachel entered the restaurant next to the hotel. Like most of the village she had seen, it exemplified handcrafted Amish woodwork. Other than an older couple who sat in the back, the only people were two employees, a teenage boy and girl. She ordered lunch from the girl, then watched an Amish girl the same age enter and walk behind the counter. The two girls chatted like any two teenagers. The Amish girl giggled, and Rachel wondered if mankind could ever coexist with the MacNeils.

  Never.

  The first girl brought Rachel her food—roast beef and mashed potatoes slathered in gravy. As Rachel ate she thought about her partners, Ethridge and Steve. Both had shown their love for her. At least Ethridge was still alive, but she knew they could never be together. Even if she had allowed him to come with her, a relationship between them would never have worked out. She needed something indefinable that she had to discover on her own. Maybe she would find what she needed right here in Intercourse.

  Four soldiers entered the restaurant, three men and one woman, and one of the men, a Hispanic, looked at her.

  She averted her eyes, then worried the action made her appear guilty.

  Stop second-guessing at every turn.

  Intercourse was not her destination.

  It’s too close to New York, she thought.

  She ate her lunch, listening to the laughter of the soldiers, and stared out the window at the village with the horse-drawn buggies.

  A woman in her early twenties, with long dark hair, looked up from behind the glass counter as Rachel entered the salon. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to have my hair dyed.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “No, I’m a visitor.”

  “Tracy has an opening in half an hour.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marlene Kozack.”

  The woman lowered her voice. “We only accept cash.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Have a seat and I’ll let Tracy know you’re waiting.”

  Rachel sat down and stared at the large bubbling fish aquarium for a few minutes before turning her attention to old magazines on a stand. Other women sat fidgeting around her.

  Any one of them could be two days away from possession. When they join the One Mind, will they remember seeing me? Will the MacNeils then know I’m free? Will they declare a bounty on my head?

  Half an hour later, a tall woman walked over to her. “Marlene? I’m Tracy.”

  Rachel manufactured a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  “So you want your hair dyed?”

  “Yes.” Rachel studied the stylist’s blonde hair. “Make me a redhead.”

  With her hair shorter and flame red, Rachel did some grocery shopp
ing at a gourmet market and returned to the Best Western with salad ingredients and energy drinks. She turned on the TV and searched her room, verifying that no possessed assassins lurked there.

  Satisfied with her security, she studied her new cut in the mirror. In her estimation, she remained feminine despite the drastic alteration. She put the energy drinks in the refrigerator and chopped up her salad with a wide plastic knife with a serrated edge that she intended to keep. She had bought a salad bowl as well, and she deposited chopped lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and red and green peppers into it.

  Easing into the reading chair with the salad bowl on her lap, she turned on her new laptop. After catching up on The Julian Year, she watched Witness.

  Twenty-five

  March 10

  Ninety minutes outside Akron, Ohio, Rachel steered the Focus along a road dividing expansive snow-covered farmlands. According to the radio stations, the freak storm had dumped a foot of snow across half the state, enough to cripple the infrastructure. When possible, she drove in the middle of the road, her vehicle straddling two lanes, because the ditches on either side were at least six feet deep. If she slid off the road, the only way she’d make it out would be on foot.

  She passed farmhouses, barns, silos, and grain elevators but saw few people; perhaps they all huddled inside their homes, safe from the big storm. Someone had painted Begone, devils on the side of a barn in bright orange letters. She had become accustomed to religious slogans on billboards since entering the state, but this was the first direct reference to the possessions.

  The wreckage of a jet airplane lay in a field on her left, surrounded by handmade crosses pushed into the upturned earth around it. She doubted the wreck would ever be removed.

  She tightened her grip on the steering wheel as a large shape came into view. Slowing down, she saw a middle-aged man in a green coat standing near the ditch. He wore glasses, and his brown hair was combed straight back. He held a pump-action shotgun.