"Without breaking a sweat," Stephen said. If the strong resonance of his words was any indication, he was feeling better.
"How are you doing?" Julia asked.
"Flesh wound."
"So what was that kung fu stuff back there?" Allen asked.
"Tang soo do, actually," Stephen said. "Like tae kwon do, but its emphasis is on respecting the humanity of your opponent. The object is to use only the moves and the force necessary to stop an attack, escalating the severity of your blows only as the threat becomes greater."
"How much greater could that warrior's threat have been?"
"Shoulda brought a rocket launcher."
"You should have brought some brains," Julia snapped. "That was a stupid move, taking him on."
Stephen looked hurt. Allen realized that Julia's bold actions had impressed his brother as well.
Stephen said, "I knew if we just ran, he'd overtake us, shoot us or something. I thought the only chance we had was for me to confront him. Turned out that was like a gazelle picking a fight with a tiger."
"I thought you did well," said Allen. "And you're right, we'd probably all be dead if you hadn't fought him."
"And that's how we'll all end up if we don't get moving." Julia shifted the gym bag to her right shoulder. "Let's take a back street to the motel."
The thought of a cool, dark motel room made Allen drowsy. He'd risen early yesterday after a restless night, only to put in a typically hectic day, followed by a decidedly untypical night of escaping from gun-toting killers. Three hours of fitful sleep in the cramped front seat of Stephen's Vega just didn't cut it. He heard himself say, "Four hours of undisturbed slumber sounds like nirvana to me."
"No sleep, Allen. We don't have time. I have some calls to make, and you have some errands to run."
Her words knocked him back a step. Who was she to determine their agenda? Returning her direct gaze, he sensed that the way he responded would shape an important dynamic to their relationship. He'd always been a leader himself, yielding authority to no one, especially a woman. She might have more experience in covert matters, but did her knowledge of the criminal mind and her prowess with weapons give her a right to assume control of their destinies? As he opened his mouth to protest, the ice machine loudly dumped a tray of ice into its holding bin.
Allen jumped and snapped his head toward the machine, feeling Stephen tense up beside him. Julia didn't flinch, merely continued to watch him. It seemed that surviving in the shadowy underworld of dark villains had made her unflappable. He had to admit, regardless of her gender and age, she was the most qualified to see them through this insane battle.
"What?" she asked.
"I think I feel a second wind coming on."
She spun and strode out the far end of the breezeway, heading for the street that ran parallel to Broadway Avenue.
He was glad she hadn't smiled. Stephen stepped past him, briefly patting him on the back with a mitt-sized hand.
"I will not give sleep to my eyes, or slumber to my eyelids," he said and walked on.
"Come again?" Allen moved to catch up with him.
"Psalm 132. David was determined to build God's temple. Julia is determined to triumph over these people after us." Stephen was walking in great strides now, either feeling no pain or simply ignoring it. The right side of his shirt clung to his skin. The blood on it had spread like a perspiration stain under his arm, spanning down to his hip.
"We have been moved already beyond endurance and need rest," Allen recited. At Stephen's inquisitive look, he said, "John Maynard Keynes, first Baron of Tilton."
"'Be strong, show yourself a man.' First Kings."
Allen laughed. "'A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.' Steward Alsop."
"Oh-ho!" Stephen roared, ready to counter.
They walked on like that, lobbing the wisdom of others at each other. Julia marched silently ten feet ahead, leading them toward the motel. While the bright sun warmed their skin, a gentle breeze sweeping off the mountains kept them from perspiring. Traversing this quiet back street so soon after arriving eased their sense of being pursued. This place, where an occasional dog barked from its backyard home and children drew hopscotch grids with colored chalk in driveways, was galaxies away from the pit that spawned germ-creating madmen and their bloody minions. Tension evaporated in the heat like morning dew. For a few minutes, they even felt safe.
The slowing movements of Julia's head revealed that her darting scrutiny of their surroundings had turned to careful observance. They deviated from their course once to patronize a drugstore she spotted across Broadway. Stephen purchased medical supplies and an XXL T-shirt emblazoned with the message HUGGABLE, which he probably should have slipped into at the store, but he decided to wait until they were ensconced in the motel. All three picked up toiletries.
Ten minutes later, Julia brought the group to a halt.
"Okay, there's the motel." A portion of its sign was visible over the roof of a house. "Allen, we'll say we're married. Stephen, hang out here for about fifteen minutes, then come. Our room will be the one with the washcloth sticking over the top of the door. We'll try to get one around back."
In the glow of the first brotherly camaraderie he had experienced in years, Allen had almost forgotten their fugitive status. "Why should he wait here?" he asked.
"Two shall live where three would die." She grinned and walked away.
"Shakespeare?"
"Julia Matheson," she called over her shoulder.
Allen threw Stephen an exasperated look and hustled after her.
forty-seven
All the rooms at the motel faced busy Broadway Avenue, so Julia insisted on keeping the curtains closed. Even with the lamps on, the room, decorated in brown hues, appeared murky. It was the sort of room for illicit rendezvous, drunken binges, suicide. Allen was sure it had seen its share of each; the stark ugliness of it alone could drive someone to self-destruction. As Julia fiddled with the zipper of her gym bag, he plopped onto the bed and pulled a pillow over his face.
"Did Goody say anything else?" she asked.
He lifted the pillow up to look at her.
"You said he mentioned Ebola, that it was man-made, coming here . . . Anything else?"
He thought. "He said something-pora. I didn't catch all of it. I thought maybe purpura, a rash of purple spots caused by internal bleeding. It fits. He mentioned some names. Karl Litt."
"Lit? L-i-t?"
"I guess. I Googled Karl L-i-t and L-i-t-t. Nothing. He said to tell Jodi and Brice and Brett—"
"Barrett."
"Barrett. He said to tell them he loved them."
"His wife and sons," Julia said, dropping down on the bed, the laptop forgotten in her hands.
"And you."
"Huh?"
"After 'Barrett,' he said 'Julia.'"
"He did?"
"'Tell them I love them. Jodi, Brice, Barrett, Julia.'"
Stephen's hearty thumps resounded through the door. Allen rose with a groan to admit him.
"Check the peephole," Julia said, turning away, wiping her eyes as if she were scratching an itch on her eyebrow.
"I am, I am," Allen said, though he wouldn't have without her warning.
Even through the peephole's fish-eye lens, there was no mistaking the hulking figure outside the door. Allen pulled it open. With the sun at his back, Stephen looked truly haggard. His hair and beard stood out in all directions; a tuft of fur protruded from a place just above his belly where his shirt had lost a button; blood, road dirt, and concrete dust scuffed his clothes; the lines on his face were deeper than they'd been the night before. Clutching the crumpled bag from the drugstore, he was a poster child for the homeless and destitute. He sauntered in, lowered himself into an armchair nearly as tattered as he. He stretched out his long legs and planted his feet on the bed.