In another ten minutes, they were standing outside, in the late afternoon sunshine.
"God, that feels good," said Tizzie, gazing upward.
"I have to say, I didn't think we were going to make it."
"And you believe that someone caused the cave-in?"
"I think it's a distinct possibility."
"If that's the case, then they must have overheard us. They know everything."
"Maybe."
Less than half an hour later, Jude thought he found proof. They had climbed up from the open pit to the narrow drive where he had parked his car.
It was not there.
He walked over to the edge of the escarpment and looked down into the valley. The signs were there to read: a deep gash on the red earth twenty feet straight down, brown indentations where rocks had been knocked out, some gashes in the trees farther down. His eyes followed the trail until they reached the bottom, where he saw, deep in the valley, a mangle of glass and steel.
"It could have been them, or it could have been anybody," said Tizzie. "Some antisocial types who want to keep out visitors."
Jude thought of the motorcyclists. He glanced up at the shack where their huge machines had been parked. They were gone.
They walked a mile down the road, back toward Jerome, to get Tizzie's car, parked beside the road on a turnoff. She pulled the keys out of her pocket, unlocked it, put their flashlights in the trunk and started the ignition. The sound of the engine made his heart soar.
They bypassed Jerome and instead took 89A toward Prescott across Mingus Mountain. A strong wind swept across the bald summit. It was chilly with pockets of old, dirty snow tucked into the shadows of rocks and hills and wafer-thin coatings of ice over mud puddles in the shoulder. There was an elevation sign (7,743 feet), a wooden ranger's station and a tree-trunk barricade over a gravel road, but not a soul in sight. The few pine trees were scraggly and bent over from the wind.
Going down the other side of the slope, the car kept gaining in acceleration, so much so that Tizzie lowered the gear and even then had to pump the brake from time to time. They fishtailed around the curves and felt the change in pressure in their ears, a clogged ringing.
They passed a sign facing the opposite direction, and Jude looked through the rear window to read it: JEROME.
Ten minutes later, they came to a pass that was scooped out of the mountains, and in it was a cluster of buildings. The structures were all of unpainted wood, leaning against each other like tombstones, with wooden porches and boardwalks. An empty riverbed, the banks eroded from flash floods, ran through it. There was no name that they could see.
One of the buildings was a roadhouse, and they decided to stop. They both wanted a drink. Half a dozen other vehicles were parked out front, pickup trucks and jeeps.
Tizzie looked down at their clothing, thick with dirt. "God, we're a mess," she said. "I've got a sweater I can put on, in the backseat. You're just going to have to do the best you can, I guess."
Inside, a fire was raging in a stone fireplace that took up one whole wall, casting a flickering glow. What looked to be elk antlers were hung over it, slanting to one side. Oddly, cut-off neckties were hanging from the ceiling.
Four men at the bar, separated by empty stools, looked up when they walked in but did not say hello or seem to find anything odd about their appearance. Tizzie was the only woman in the place, except for a waitress with frizzy hair and a short black skirt.
They found a booth and took turns washing up in the bathroom and brushing their clothes as best they could. When Tizzie emerged, her face scrubbed, two of the men stared at her. The waitress took their order: two beers.
Tizzie took small sips, but Jude drank half the mug in one gulp, set it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You know," he said, "there's a web site for Jerome. It's called W, which stands for double you. Get it?"
"I got it. What's on it?"
"It seems to be an ongoing discussion group about the horrors of old age.
One guy in particular, Methuselah, he struck me as smart and plugged-in."
"Do you think he was a member of the group?"
"Well, he was certainly extoling the virtues of life extension — almost preaching."
"That doesn't surprise me. Face it, we're dealing with fanatics."
"Yeah. But they're also paranoid. That underground chamber we saw is like something the government would have constructed in the cold war to keep secrets from the Russians."
"So?"
"So, why would you go to such lengths to keep something secret and at the same time turn around and start a web site? It doesn't fit."
"Maybe they were engaging in public relations. You know, get the issue talked about, begin to raise consciousness, put their views across."
"Toward what end?"
"Sooner or later, they're going to have to go public. You can't have people living to one hundred and forty years without other people knowing about it. Maybe they wanted to clear the way."
She had a point, but it didn't strike Jude as convincing. He felt once again how little they knew about the Lab — how it operated and what its objectives were.
"You know, I was thinking while I was washing up — you said you thought this guy Henry was going to ask you to spy on me."
"Yes."
"I think you should tell him you will."
She looked at him, confused.
"You've got to get close to them. You've got to get them to trust you. It's the only way we'll ever learn what they're up to."
"Jude, you can't be serious."
But she knew he was. And she also knew, without stopping to analyze it, that he was right.
"You want me to be a double agent?"
"Not really. 'Cause, according to you, you were never a spy to begin with."
She reached across the table. "Jude, I don't blame you for being suspicious. But I wish I could convince you — we're on the same side."
"You, me and Skyler."
"Yes."
"Against them."
"Yes. Against them."
"Well — infiltrating the Lab would certainly be convincing."
When they left, the men on the bar stools did not look up. Outside, it was already getting dark.
Driving down the mountain, Jude became aware of headlights behind him. He noticed them because they came up so quickly, seemingly from nowhere — bright lights shining through the rearview mirror right into his eyes.
He pointed them out to Tizzie, who told him about the lights that had seemed to trail them back from Mr. Lucky's the other night.
"I can't say if it's the same ones," she said.
"Just don't call it a coincidence. There are too many coincidences happening around here."
Jude stepped on the gas, and the car behind did the same, keeping pace. He took a curve dangerously fast, sliding almost to the shoulder. The car behind fell back for a while, and then on a straightaway caught up again.
"Could it be somebody from the roadhouse?" she asked. "That was a pretty ugly group of guys back there. Did you see how they were staring at us?"
"I don't know. But I don't want to find out."
He pushed the pedal almost to the floor. The car was on a downgrade, so it leapt ahead. Below the steering wheel, he could see the needle on the speedometer rising steadily, but he didn't want to take his eyes off the road to read it. He looked in the mirror: the lights were trailing now, but not as far back as he would have expected. It definitely seemed to be on their tail.
Tizzie tightened her seat belt. The car was weaving across the road now, and on the hairpin turns, the wheels skidded to one side so that it came close to the guardrail. Once Tizzie looked down and saw the valley far below, the scattered lights gleaming in the twilight. She looked over at Jude, clutching the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, staring ahead. He gave it more gas.