Gabriel's Stand (15 page)

It was after midnight. Snowfeather had decided to replace Vince's car on the street and return to her almost empty apartment. Using the land line, she phoned Gabriel's office and left another nonchalant message. She tried to reach her mother at home and got the chirpy recording.
Must be with Dad
, she thought, the left a message. “Hi guys,” she said. “I'm going to be away from my apartment for a while. Actually I've decided to take a vacation. Just wanted to hear your voices…”

It was early morning before she turned out the lights.

At 4:45 A.M., after fitfully trying to sleep, Snowfeather turned on all the lights and started a pot of coffee. Holding her first cup in both hands, she stared at her phone, contemplating another call to her father.

Then the phone rang. She had not disconnected the old style answering machine.

Her hands began to shake so badly it was hard to put the hot cup of coffee down without spilling. She watched while her message greeting played out. Then
beep…
and dead air.

Snowfeather took a quick, huge breath, and dialed her father. She almost wept with relief when he picked up immediately.

“Is that you, Little Princess?” his familiar, gruff voice asked. “We were worried sick.”

“Dad, thank God you picked up.”

“Hello? Hello? Snowfeather, are you there?”

“Dad?”

“Hello? Hello?” Click.

Snowfeather dialed again. Busy signal. The back of her neck was tingling.
I'm so scared, Dad
.

Clicks on the line!

Now Snowfeather was shaking uncontrollably. She replaced the phone, leaning forward, letting the smell from the coffee center her.
Don't panic. You probably have some time here. Nobody expects you to run.
Then the phone rang.

“Snowfeather, if you're screening, I'm calling for Tan. She is concerned for you. Please pick up.”

The bus. I'll get out on the bus. I'll take a small carry-on, hit the cash machine one last time and run.

“We will be coming by to make sure you're all right,” the voice continued. “Don't worry about a thing.”

Sure.

Snowfeather pulled out her cellphone, pried open the case, pulled out the battery, and tossed it through the window into the street below. Then she pried out the SIM card. She would leave nothing behind in the apartment except old food and coffee grounds. She glanced at her watch.
Fifteen minutes, girl. GO!

——

Snowfeather squirmed in her seat as the bus rolled through downtown Seattle. She held a knapsack clenched between her legs, sitting near the front of the bus with a clear view of the driver—a large bony woman in her fifties. She had sprinted from her tiny apartment building to a cash machine, and dashed to the bus stop. It was before dawn, and through the foggy window on her right she could see the street lamps glistening on wet pavement. It had been one painful, fretful hour, more stops than she could count, and the Greyhound station was still a half hour away.
Why didn't I get a taxi?

Her mind raced in circles.
There! That man in the business suit—much too expensive for bus travel. Damn—he's looking at me again
. The man had picked a seat three rows behind her on the left, visible through a large mirror next to the driver.

Am I that conspicuous?
How could she be, dressed in jeans, old sweatshirt, running shoes? Her hair was drawn up into a tight bun under a baseball cap and she wore no makeup. On the other hand, she was as nervous as a colt among wolves. The man had gotten onto the bus ten minutes ago.
Strange time of morning
, she told herself.
Still,
they wouldn't have somebody like that looking for me. Would they? He can't know what I look like. Can he?

That Roberto guy did. God!

An ancient woman was sleeping in the seat on her left. She had a wonderfully wrinkled face that hinted at Native American ancestors. Next to her on the aisle, a bright-eyed boy of about nine with orange hair sat engrossed in a paperback, sitting across the aisle from his sleeping mother. Snowfeather leaned her head against the window. She didn't dare doze, even for a second.

The bus stopped at a traffic signal. Across the aisle, Snowfeather could see that a police car had pulled up abreast the bus on the left side. Snowfeather turned to look back. The man in the seat three rows behind was also looking at the patrol car. When the signal changed, the man turned his attention to the front. Snowfeather quickly turned away—then she risked a glance in his direction. The man smiled. She smiled back and slumped down into her seat. The police car glided into traffic and the bus rolled on. Eventually fatigue triumphed over tension.

“Are you getting off here?” Snowfeather looked up, startled, disoriented. She had been sleeping. The old woman and the boy were gone. The bus was stopped in front of the Greyhound station. The man was standing in the aisle looking down at her. The bus was otherwise empty.

“Thanks,” she managed to mumble, now fully awake.

“My daughter goes to U-dub,” the man said. “You never know, you could be a friend of hers,” he added. Snowfeather managed a weak smile and darted up the aisle, not looking back. Outside, she walked briskly in the opposite direction. When she stole a look back, the man had disappeared.

——

An hour later, the Greyhound bus was lumbering south on Interstate 5, carrying seventeen passengers. There was a bus change in Portland where Snowfeather bought a sack of candy bars and juice. When the bus stopped in Oakland fifteen hours later, Snowfeather began to breathe a little easier. Then Snowfeather noticed that the bus to Salt Lake City and Denver would not leave for forty-five minutes. After a dreadful bathroom stop, she decided to risk a call to Gabriel's private number in Washington DC. In the absence of a working pay phone, she was forced to buy a prepaid cell from a kiosk.

Standing Bear's message machine answered. “Princess, if you call, let us know how to reach you. Please check back.” Beep. “Hi. I'm okay so far,” she said. “I love you guys.”

Tears stung her tired eyes as Snowfeather pulled the phone's battery, removed the SIM card, wiped the smooth surfaces and tossed it in the gutter.

I can't go home
.

——

By Salt Lake, Snowfeather had been on one bus or another for twenty-eight hours. She stood outside for several minutes, staring at the sky, stretching her cramped limbs. The air outside the station was as crisp as if it had blown across a glacier, and her breath was frost white. Shivering, she returned to the overheated station and its stale air, just as the dawn's orange light struck the buildings across the ice covered street.

Chill fire, just like home
.

She sighed as she saw a bus leave for Idaho, but decided to wait for the later bus. She had decided to go south. Snowfeather found an empty a bench near the vending machine and dozed. When the next bus arrived, she climbed aboard and promptly fell fast asleep.

When Snowfeather awoke again, this time in the back of the bus, she was itching and desperate to move in the outside air. It was late evening and she was thirsty. Shaking her head, she pulled the last, lukewarm cola from a plastic bag and followed it with half of a stale sandwich.

Two hours later, a road sign announced Las Vegas.
God
, she thought
, give me a sign
. In Nevada, she visited the restroom, stocked up with sandwiches and drinks and caught the US 93 Bus to Tucson.

Several hours later, she saw a road sign announcing Tucson in 135 miles. Snowfeather reached into wallet. The business card.

Professor Roberto Kahn
. A Tucson address. University of Arizona.
Fred Loud Owl lives near Santa Fe.
Maybe, just maybe…

Professor Roberto Kahn left his Constitutional law class at noon. As he headed across the plaza in the growing heat, he noticed a small disheveled figure step outside the shade of the engineering building. A young woman, wearing a baseball cap, her black hair mostly tied back, a rumpled, denim shirt and worn jeans was walking toward him. She carried a backpack, and her luminous gray eyes were unmistakable.

“I know you,” Roberto said.

“Hello, Roberto Kahn. You gave me your card.”

“Yes…on the ferry from Shaw. Helen Snowfeather, right?”

“You can call me Snowfeather,” she said, dropping the bag on the hot pavement.

“You look tired,” Roberto said. “No offense.” He smiled warmly. “I was just going for lunch. Please come along.” Professor Kahn reached down and scooped up Snowfeather's bag.

“Thank you,” she said. “I've been hauling that thing forever.”

“Where are you headed?” he asked. Snowfeather walked along in silence, her eyes tearing. “Whoops. I've asked the wrong question. Sorry.”

“I am so tired,” she said. “God, I so hate the bus.”

“I should have asked—What are you running from?”

——

Five minutes later, they were in Roberto's car and he was dialing home. “Hi,” he said. “How would you like to feed me and one renegade radical activist?” Listening with his earpiece, he winked broadly at Snowfeather. “Canned chili and iced tea?” he asked her. Snowfeather nodded vigorously. “Sounds like a hit,” Roberto said to the phone. “See you in ten.”

“Your wife?” she asked.

“No. Deborah died of cancer four years ago,” he said. “That was my son, Isaac. I'm home-schooling him for one more year.”

“Home-schooling without being home?”

“It's quite a trick. I have access to the entire University library online. I just assign Isaac homework, he does it, usually on time and I grade it, usually fairly. The kid is smart.”

“Like his dad.”

“Like his mom. Look, I am not going to pry. You obviously need refuge. We have a guest room with its own bath. I work long hours at my two jobs, and you will have the place to yourself pretty much because Isaac studies in his bedroom when he's not out with his friends. So if you have no other plans…”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

——

At 1:00 A.M., A limousine left downtown Seattle carrying a man with a missing hand, and a storm swept through Vancouver, Canada, bringing tree-snapping wind and horizontal rain.

At 4:22 A.M., on a narrow tree-lined avenue in Vancouver, water was still cascading from the roofs of the old craftsman homes, turning street gutters into creeks. The windshield of the limousine was sheeted with running water, the lights at the approaching intersection only dimly visible. Tree branches littered the pavement and the old style street lamps were shrouded in fog.

In the back seat, a bandaged and half-conscious man stirred. “Where am I?” Dr. John Owen asked.

While Ken Wang drove, Colonel Dornan twisted to face the rear. “It's me, John.” He peered down at Owen. “It's Bill. Can you see me?”

“What am I doing here?”

“John, you passed out on the street in Seattle. You'd lost a lot of blood. Ken found you in a hospital. Hang in there, buddy. We're almost to a safe place, your townhouse in Vancouver.”

“Good.”

“We're close, John. Real close. How you doin'?” There was a long silence. Dornan peered into the darkness. “John?”

“Elisabeth. Gotta protect Elisabeth.”

Dornan turned to the front and looked at Ken. “He's right,” he whispered. “They'll be after her, too.”

“I warned her, but I will follow up,” Ken said. “As soon as we get where we're going.”

“Is that you, Ken?” John's voice was weakening.

“Yes, sir.” Another silence.

“Won't be long now, John, about one more block,” Dornan said, leaning over the back seat again. He felt John's forehead, then turned back to face the front. “Take it very slow through here, Ken, until we can see our people out in front of the place.” In the driver's seat, Ken Wang complied, squinting through the rippling windshield. “Use the brights,” Dornan said. Ken complied again. “Do you see them?”

“Not yet,” Ken muttered. “That van is in the way.”

“Two of them should be outside by now,” Dornan said, wiping the fogging glass with a tissue. “There.”

Between the van parked at the curb and the doorway to Owen's townhouse a figure in a trench coat stood out in the middle of the street and began waving.

“All right,” Ken said, stepping on the gas.

“No. Wait!” Dornan said abruptly, his hand on Ken's arm. “The van doesn't look right… Shit! Not ours!”

“Whoops,” Ken said, already braking and shifting. Thirty feet away, the van's doors opened and six dark figures leapt out, moving smoothly. Their shapes were suddenly lost in the flare of muzzle flashes.

Ken had thrown the limousine into reverse and was accelerating, the sound of its tires squealing overmatched by the piercing, percussive volley of high velocity automatic weapons' fire. Forty-five bullets pelted the car like hail, denting the armor and turning the reinforced windshield into a maze of cracks. One bullet got through, shattering the rear mirror and lodging in the headliner over the back seat. Dornan reached over Ken and killed the headlights. As the rearward careening limousine reached the corner intersection, Bill shouted, “Keep backing up! On my signal, prepare to turn the steering wheel anti-clockwise for a right turn…NOW!” And before Ken could execute, Dornan yanked the steering wheel sharply left. The limousine screeched around the corner in reverse. “Brake now!” Dornan shouted. The rear bumper crunched the side of a parked Mercedes. “Good. Now forward! Go! Go! Go!”

Ken gunned the engine and the car roared across the intersection, taking another two slugs in the left side as it crossed the line of fire. “Where?” Ken shouted. But Dornan was reaching over the back seat trying to get John to keep his head down.

“Just GO!” Dornan shouted back. Seconds later he slid back into the passenger seat, just as the limousine sped through a red light. Dornan peered at the auto-map screen in the console, punching keys. “Okay, okay. We have some options. Aha. Turn right at the next intersection. I'll call ahead.” Dornan pulled out his cellphone and keyed a speed-dial number. “This is Bill. We need emergency shelter. Big time. Yes. No bull.” He peered out the window. “Make that five minutes. A black limo… with fresh bullet holes. Thanks.”

“What now?” Ken asked.

“Left at the next intersection. Three miles, then a right. Try not to be too conspicuous.”

“But keep my lights off and hurry, right?”

“I didn't say it was easy.”

They drove in silence for a while. Dornan turned. “Stay down, John. You doin' okay?”

“Been better.”

“Hold on, buddy. Won't be long now.”

“Bleeding again.”

Dornan muttered an inaudible curse. The car droned on through empty streets. Finally, “Here,” he said to Ken, pointing ahead to the right. “That driveway.”

Ken turned into a garage that was a truck repair service housed in a sooty cement block building with four large steel doors. “Pull slowly towards the second bay.” Dornan rolled down the passenger window and looked up and down the deserted street. “Clear,” he said. “Flash your light three times and wait for the door to open.”

Ken flashed the lights. Nothing happened immediately. He glanced nervously out the side window. “Okay,” Dornan said as the door began rising. “Use the parking lights and roll forward.” The limo glided inside. “Stop,” Dornan said. The door began grinding shut. “Lights out.” Ken killed the power. Silence.

A moment of total darkness followed. Only human breathing, the patter of rain outside and the ping of cooling metal could be heard. Then a small light came on inside the shop, emanating from a distant corner, casting large shadows. Seconds later, the overhead fluorescent lamps began to flicker. The lights revealed a huge enclosure. The four bays faced an open area filled with three large trucks in various states of disassembly, surrounded by repair consoles, tools, overhead cables and pipes.

Dornan exited with a flashlight in hand. “Harry,” he called out, “all lights out please.”

“Got it,” a male voice replied. A second later the inside of the limo was an oasis of dim illumination, and Dornan's flashlight was casting a moving puddle of light on the oil stained floor. Sirens erupted in the distance, while in the back seat of the car John Owen was trying to release his shoulder harness. John fumbled with his remaining hand while trying to keep his right wrist elevated. His face was ash white and the bandages were seeping fresh blood. Ken stepped over and released the catch on the belt.

“Harry!” Dornan shouted, “We'll be needing that couch in your office right away. And I need you to call Dr. Shor. Have him bring a company nurse, an IV, whatever else he needs. John has lost a hand.”

“Crap,” Harry said from the office doorway. “I'm on it.” He turned on the office desk lamp on, creating a second oasis of light twenty feet away.

Ken followed Harry's silhouette moving inside the office. He could make out a middle-aged black man dressed in a yellow rain slicker, phone in hand.

“Ken,” Dornan said, “you take John's left side and I'll take the right. John? We've got to walk you about twenty feet.”

“I'm okay,” John said dully, trying to stand. “You take care of Elisabeth.” Ken was gripping John's left elbow. “Ken, promise me. Nothing happens to her or the baby.”

“I promise, sir.”

John's knees buckled and the two men strained to hold him up. “I'm okay,” he rasped.

“Sure you are, my friend.” Dornan said, gently supporting John's right shoulder. “Sure you are.”