“You’re green!” says Miles from next to me. “Not just green. Kind of greeny brown, like camouflage.”
“Let’s go!” I urge, and we set out toward the car. Miles opens the driver’s-side door and then drops the keys on the ground. As he bends slowly to pick them up, I slide past him and slither into the passenger’s seat, pushing myself as low down under the dashboard as possible, in case my camouflage wears off.
Miles gets in the car, closes the door, and starts the ignition. I watch him smile and wave good-bye to the nurse before putting the car in gear and looping around his driveway and back down the drive.
“Was she watching?” I ask, not daring to move until we are well away. We pull out onto the main road, and Miles floors the gas pedal.
“She waved at me,” he says, “and as soon as I waved back, she turned and walked off in the direction of your bedroom. She’ll be finding out about now that you’re gone. And the call will go straight in to my dad.”
I raise myself up off the floor to sit on the passenger seat and strap my seat belt across me. Miles looks over at me and smiles a wide smile. “We did it!” he crows.
I lean my head back against the headrest and exhale a deep sigh of relief. I feel the Conjuring leave me and look down to see my own suntanned skin, jeans, and tennis shoes.
“All right. Dad will have someone following us as soon as he knows you’re gone. I won’t be able to use any of my credit cards, so I hope you’ve got money.”
“I lost my bag in the scuffle back in Salt Lake City,” I say mournfully.
“No, you didn’t,” he says. “It’s back there.”
I lean over the seat and see my bag sitting on the floor and almost faint from relief. “Miles, thank you. My whole life is in that bag.” I pull it over the seat to rummage through. Everything’s still there, except my crossbow, of course, which I dropped when I was seized outside Whit’s car. Although I feel defenseless without it, I still have my knife.
“Next stop, New Mexico!” Miles says.
“Woo-hoo!” I yell.
But our excitement disappears seconds later when Miles glances in the rearview mirror and starts swearing. I turn to see what he’s looking at. A block away, coming upon us at a frightening speed, is an army-green Jeep.
61
JUNEAU
MILES FLOORS IT. THIS IS HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, and he manages to stay ahead of the Jeep. And then he takes a right, and suddenly we’re leaving the suburb and heading toward a desolate landscape dotted with sparse trees and sagebrush.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To the desert. I think we can lose them better out here. I know of a place we could hide. A place my friends and I used to go to hang out when we didn’t want our parents to find us. It’s an old shack.”
“But Miles, out here we’re easy prey. There’s nothing to hide behind. It’s just a matter of who’s faster.”
“It’s the only plan I’ve got,” he says with a worried frown.
For a while, we stay ahead, but the Jeep gains a little with each mile. Finally, when it’s only a few yards behind us, the Jeep swerves into the left lane and speeds up until we are almost side by side. Whit is in the passenger’s seat, his window down, waving at us to pull over. “Stop!” I can see him yell, but the roaring of the motors drowns his voice.
And then everything happens at once: the guard in the backseat lifts a gun and pulls the trigger before I have time to react. “No!” I scream, just as there is a loud crack of gunfire. Whit turns and wrestles with the guard. The gun goes off again. Miles makes a grunting sound, and our car swerves dangerously to the right. I grab the wheel and straighten us as Miles slumps over toward the window.
“Miles!” I yell. “Are you okay?”
“I think I just got shot,” he says. “Take the wheel.”
I unfasten both of our seat belts, grab the wheel, and scoot over to knock Miles’s foot off the pedals. He slumps down to lean back across the seat, pulling his legs up toward him to make room for me. I am numb all over. My body has taken over, since my mind can’t deal with what just happened.
I stare over at the Jeep and see Whit’s white face in the open window. He looks horrified. He hadn’t expected his guy to shoot—that much is clear. I feel a wave of nausea hit me and have to concentrate to keep from trembling. It’s my second time behind the wheel, and I’m barreling down a desert highway at top speed. Just stay on the road and keep the pedal down, I tell myself.
I know I can’t outdrive Whit’s men. I have to do something. Reach the Yara. I’ll never be able to calm myself enough to connect. But those were Whit’s rules, I remind myself. And though my heart’s beating like a drum against my rib cage and my breathing is erratic, I wipe everything from my mind and focus on the force that runs through everything: me, Miles, the car, the road, and the air around us. This force is mine to use and I, in return, am its tool. I feel the lightning bolt of connection, and suddenly I am clear. Focused.
Both cars have slowed down. It looks like Whit is yelling at the guy in the backseat and not completely focused on the road. I glance at the Jeep and imagine the inside of its motor. I picture the silver-and-white spark plugs that I Read before, and think water, focusing on taking any moisture in this dry landscape and gathering it right there, right between the connection of the plugs and the motor. And all of a sudden the Jeep skids out.
I watch it in the rearview mirror, spinning in circles on the road behind us before flying off the road and landing on its side. That’s all I have time to see before we pass over a ridge and out of sight.
Miles moans from beside me. “Miles!” I yell. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m alive,” he says, “but I think he got me in the chest.”
“Miles, we can’t go back to town if that means passing the Jeep. If they’re still alive, they might try to shoot us again.” I slow the car down enough so that I can think. Now that the strength of the Yara has left me, I feel numb with shock. “Where is this place you wanted to hide?”
“It’s just this old shack. Take a right past the Exxon sign, hidden behind a boulder,” he says, panting hard. I see an Exxon billboard in the distance and head straight for it, then take the dirt road behind it so fast that the back of the car fishtails. My heart leaps to my throat, but I manage to straighten out and stay on the road.
“Let’s go!” I urge, and we set out toward the car. Miles opens the driver’s-side door and then drops the keys on the ground. As he bends slowly to pick them up, I slide past him and slither into the passenger’s seat, pushing myself as low down under the dashboard as possible, in case my camouflage wears off.
Miles gets in the car, closes the door, and starts the ignition. I watch him smile and wave good-bye to the nurse before putting the car in gear and looping around his driveway and back down the drive.
“Was she watching?” I ask, not daring to move until we are well away. We pull out onto the main road, and Miles floors the gas pedal.
“She waved at me,” he says, “and as soon as I waved back, she turned and walked off in the direction of your bedroom. She’ll be finding out about now that you’re gone. And the call will go straight in to my dad.”
I raise myself up off the floor to sit on the passenger seat and strap my seat belt across me. Miles looks over at me and smiles a wide smile. “We did it!” he crows.
I lean my head back against the headrest and exhale a deep sigh of relief. I feel the Conjuring leave me and look down to see my own suntanned skin, jeans, and tennis shoes.
“All right. Dad will have someone following us as soon as he knows you’re gone. I won’t be able to use any of my credit cards, so I hope you’ve got money.”
“I lost my bag in the scuffle back in Salt Lake City,” I say mournfully.
“No, you didn’t,” he says. “It’s back there.”
I lean over the seat and see my bag sitting on the floor and almost faint from relief. “Miles, thank you. My whole life is in that bag.” I pull it over the seat to rummage through. Everything’s still there, except my crossbow, of course, which I dropped when I was seized outside Whit’s car. Although I feel defenseless without it, I still have my knife.
“Next stop, New Mexico!” Miles says.
“Woo-hoo!” I yell.
But our excitement disappears seconds later when Miles glances in the rearview mirror and starts swearing. I turn to see what he’s looking at. A block away, coming upon us at a frightening speed, is an army-green Jeep.
61
JUNEAU
MILES FLOORS IT. THIS IS HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, and he manages to stay ahead of the Jeep. And then he takes a right, and suddenly we’re leaving the suburb and heading toward a desolate landscape dotted with sparse trees and sagebrush.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To the desert. I think we can lose them better out here. I know of a place we could hide. A place my friends and I used to go to hang out when we didn’t want our parents to find us. It’s an old shack.”
“But Miles, out here we’re easy prey. There’s nothing to hide behind. It’s just a matter of who’s faster.”
“It’s the only plan I’ve got,” he says with a worried frown.
For a while, we stay ahead, but the Jeep gains a little with each mile. Finally, when it’s only a few yards behind us, the Jeep swerves into the left lane and speeds up until we are almost side by side. Whit is in the passenger’s seat, his window down, waving at us to pull over. “Stop!” I can see him yell, but the roaring of the motors drowns his voice.
And then everything happens at once: the guard in the backseat lifts a gun and pulls the trigger before I have time to react. “No!” I scream, just as there is a loud crack of gunfire. Whit turns and wrestles with the guard. The gun goes off again. Miles makes a grunting sound, and our car swerves dangerously to the right. I grab the wheel and straighten us as Miles slumps over toward the window.
“Miles!” I yell. “Are you okay?”
“I think I just got shot,” he says. “Take the wheel.”
I unfasten both of our seat belts, grab the wheel, and scoot over to knock Miles’s foot off the pedals. He slumps down to lean back across the seat, pulling his legs up toward him to make room for me. I am numb all over. My body has taken over, since my mind can’t deal with what just happened.
I stare over at the Jeep and see Whit’s white face in the open window. He looks horrified. He hadn’t expected his guy to shoot—that much is clear. I feel a wave of nausea hit me and have to concentrate to keep from trembling. It’s my second time behind the wheel, and I’m barreling down a desert highway at top speed. Just stay on the road and keep the pedal down, I tell myself.
I know I can’t outdrive Whit’s men. I have to do something. Reach the Yara. I’ll never be able to calm myself enough to connect. But those were Whit’s rules, I remind myself. And though my heart’s beating like a drum against my rib cage and my breathing is erratic, I wipe everything from my mind and focus on the force that runs through everything: me, Miles, the car, the road, and the air around us. This force is mine to use and I, in return, am its tool. I feel the lightning bolt of connection, and suddenly I am clear. Focused.
Both cars have slowed down. It looks like Whit is yelling at the guy in the backseat and not completely focused on the road. I glance at the Jeep and imagine the inside of its motor. I picture the silver-and-white spark plugs that I Read before, and think water, focusing on taking any moisture in this dry landscape and gathering it right there, right between the connection of the plugs and the motor. And all of a sudden the Jeep skids out.
I watch it in the rearview mirror, spinning in circles on the road behind us before flying off the road and landing on its side. That’s all I have time to see before we pass over a ridge and out of sight.
Miles moans from beside me. “Miles!” I yell. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m alive,” he says, “but I think he got me in the chest.”
“Miles, we can’t go back to town if that means passing the Jeep. If they’re still alive, they might try to shoot us again.” I slow the car down enough so that I can think. Now that the strength of the Yara has left me, I feel numb with shock. “Where is this place you wanted to hide?”
“It’s just this old shack. Take a right past the Exxon sign, hidden behind a boulder,” he says, panting hard. I see an Exxon billboard in the distance and head straight for it, then take the dirt road behind it so fast that the back of the car fishtails. My heart leaps to my throat, but I manage to straighten out and stay on the road.
