I opened my hand, releasing hope.
Chapter Thirty-One
Friday, March 31, 7:37 p.m.
Dad didn’t ask, when I came out of the holler, and I went back to telling him about the adventures of the past fifteen months as we worked our way home again. He occasionally interjected with stories about his own past several years, and by the time we got out of the mountains I thought maybe a hatchet had been buried. It felt good, if a little weird, and I ended up saying so just as the sun started slipping over the horizon.
Dad, watching it, crooked a smile. “And all it took was a day alone. I’m sorry, Jo...anne. For the mistakes I made. I thought I could protect you by keeping you away from your heritage, and for years I watched you heading right down that path anyway. I should have known better.”
“Probably, but—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—I’m not exactly one to throw stones about knowing better.” I hesitated, then offered my hand. “Friends?”
He looked at my hand, then took it and pulled me into an awkward hug. I grunted and knocked him on the back a couple of times, more overwhelmed than I wanted to admit. Then, very guy-like, we broke apart clearing our throats and pretended none of it had happened. I giggled about that all the way back to town.
When we got there, it turned out we’d been missed, after all. Half the CDC and all of the military was looking for me, apparently. A red-eyed Sara and patient Morrison were handling the crush when we arrived. The truth was I had no better answers than they did about what had happened, but I had been appointed ringleader in my absence. Sara got out of my sight as soon as she could, and Morrison stood by me as long as he could. After I gave the authorities a series of unsatisfactory answers, they hauled me off for blood testing and a military grilling which eventually led to me flopped in a chair-and-desk unit in a high school classroom with its windows boarded over, repeating, “The car doesn’t fly, General. It’s a car. I’m sure your people are completely reliable, but don’t you think a flying car would have come up on somebody’s radar before now?”
The general in question, a slender man in his late fifties who looked like he still ran a ten-mile PT course every morning, glowered at me so ferociously I reviewed what I’d said and winced. “I didn’t mean radar like...radar. I wasn’t trying to be clever.”
“I’m certain of that. Start again from the beginning.”
I sighed and started again. High-speed chase, yes. Impressive air under the wheels, sure. That happens in a car with a souped-up V-8 engine. But really, flying? I was okay with that party line until they brought Lieutenant Gilmore in. He was the only survivor of the chopper crew who’d seen Petite roar across empty air, and knew perfectly well that she had. Guilt stabbed me, but Gilmore kept a very calm steady voice as he denied their afternoon reports. It had been a mirage, a combination of dust and heat and the strain of awareness that they were working within American borders and were yet also on unfriendly territory. Yes, he knew what the in-flight recorders had them saying, but, permission to speak freely, General, thank you, frankly, sir, didn’t it sound like they were all a little hysterical? Himself included, sir, and no disrespect meant to the dead, but it had been an unusual and stressful situation—
Gilmore talked the entire military off the cliff, saved Petite from being eviscerated by men trying to figure out how she’d flown, and did it all with only the occasional glance at me that let me know he was absolutely aware he was feeding them a line of bullshit and had no other choice in the matter. When they finally, finally let us go, unsatisfied but unable to come up with any plausible answers to fit the described scenario, I was left alone with Gilmore for a minute or two.
I stood up, then grabbed the back of my chair as a head-rush slammed me around. He put his hand under my elbow, concerned, and I wobbled a minute, waiting for the dizziness to pass. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten in days. I just wanted to say thank you, and that I’m sorry. And...did they burn the bodies?”
“Yes, ma’am. All of them.” Concern flickered over his face. “We’ve been unable to locate the source’s body, though.”
For a few seconds that made no sense. Then clarity came like a knife’s point in my gut. “You mean Danny? You can’t find his body?”
“Not yet. We will, though.” Gilmore looked determined but not especially convinced.
I did not want Danny Little Turtle’s Raven-Mocker-infested body out tromping around the world, and had an unpleasant flashback to my little Pandora’s Box scenario earlier. “Let me know either way, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am. How will I contact you?”
I gave him my phone number and checked my phone at the same time, idly surprised to discover it still had a battery charge. There was a voice mail notification on it. I figured it was Morrison, calling sometime earlier in the day to wonder where the hell I was, and slipped it back into my pocket with a mental note to check it later. Gilmore escorted me out of the high school, where we both blinked in tired surprise at the rising sun.
Wonderful. Now I had neither eaten nor slept for days. My stomach roared and I got dizzy again. “If somebody doesn’t get me some food in the next ten minutes I’m going to start chewing my arm off.”
Gilmore smiled faintly. “Wish I could help, ma’am, but I have some duties to attend to.”
“No, it’s fine. I really am sorry, Lieutenant. Call me if you just want to talk, too, okay? It’s been a hell of a couple days.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He left me, and Morrison, who had apparently chosen to wait all night outside the school, came down the walkway looking far more refreshed than I felt.
I staggered over and flopped against him, much like I’d flopped in the chair earlier. “Oh, God, I’m glad to see you. I’m starving. Do you have a car?”
“I thought you were getting Petite.”
“Dad took me on a...thing. Side trip. And I don’t know what happened to the Impala I rented. Forget it, the diner can’t be more than a ten-minute walk.”
“Nothing’s ever as close on foot as you think it is when you usually drive, Walker. I’ll get us a car.” Morrison left me wondering how he would arrange that. I sat in front of the school and tested my arm for edibility until he came back ten or twelve minutes later with a set of keys. “Your Impala,” he reported. “Les took it off the mountain.”
“Okay.” I got up, fighting off another dizzy spell. “You drive.”
Morrison’s jaw fell open. “Walker?”
I chortled woozily, aware that I would have startled him less by taking my clothes off and marching down the highway starkers. That was fair enough. I wasn’t sure the words you drive had ever passed my lips before in that combination. Just this once, though, I not only said them, but also meant them wholeheartedly. “Seriously, you drive, Morrison. I’m in no shape. I can’t even stand up without nearly passing out. I’m so hungry I’m dangerous.”
“That diner better be open.”
“If it’s not I’m breaking down the back door and firing up the grill myself.”
Fortunately, it was open. Even in a crisis, people need food. Especially in a crisis, maybe. The place was packed, with nobody in any visible hurry to leave. Well, not until some of them saw me, and, angry at my part in the deaths of their elders, got up and left in protest. I would worry about that later. For the moment I took a seat in one of the booths, said, “One of everything,” when the waitress came by, and put my head on the table to wait for food to arrive.
Morrison said, “I think she means it,” to the waitress, which made me lift my head again. “I do. I want one of everything except coffee, I can’t drink coffee right now, my stomach is too empty. But one of everything else, starting with the breakfast menu. Include the desserts. No, hold off on them, I don’t want the ice cream to melt. Otherwise, one of everything. No, wait, start with a piece of pie, you can bring that right away, right? Apple pie. With ice cream. I don’t care if it’s warm. The pie. The ice cream probably shouldn’t be. And then cherry pie if there’s nothing else ready yet. Pie until food. Yes. Please.”