Until the Beginning (7 page)

MILES WANTS TO DRIVE, SO I LET HIM TAKE OVER
while I trace our progress on the map. As we leave the bosque and head east, the strip of lush green land bordering the Rio Grande turns abruptly brown. The kind of barren brown that I had always imagined the earth looked like outside our hidden Alaskan paradise. An apocalyptic brown that suggests nothing’s ever going to grow here again.

“We need to stop for gas,” Miles says, and like magic a sign for a gas station appears ahead. We pull into the gravel courtyard of Pump-n-Shop, and Miles starts filling the tank.

We ate the last of the food this morning, and since I don’t know how long it will take to run surveillance on my people’s captors before we can act, I decide to stock up on supplies. I work my way through the grocery section, picking out milk, cereal,
and bread, as well as packaged cinnamon rolls and canned soups and beans.

“What, no Pop-Tarts?” Miles remarks as he joins me in front of the cash register, where an old man is typing in the prices of my items.

“Didn’t have them,” I say. “But I think this should make up for it.” I hold up a six-pack of Snickers.

“I’m not sure how environmentally correct your elders would consider this stash.” Miles gestures to the pile of groceries and gives me a wry smile.

This grin, which used to make me want to slap him, now fills me full of bubbles—I feel ready to burst. In just ten days he’s swapped the antagonistic jabs for affectionate teasing. It’s not hard to choose which I prefer.

“Look at the selection,” I say, gesturing toward the sparsely populated shelves. “If we could stay in one place for a little while, I’d have a garden up and growing in no time. But since we’re on the run, I’ll take what I can get.”

Miles smiles broadly. There’s something jubilant in his expression . . . like now that it’s established that we’re together, he’s supremely proud to be with me. He winks and then leans forward on the counter and asks the man, “Is there a zoo somewhere nearby?”

“A zoo?” the old man asks, confused.

“If we wanted to see something like, I don’t know, lions and zebras, is there anything like that around?” Miles asks.

“There’s a zoo back in Albuquerque,” the man says, lifting up
his cowboy hat and scratching the fuzz of hair that’s squished down underneath. “No zoo around here, though.”

Miles nods. “Thanks,” he says, and picks up the bags as I count out the cash for the gas and groceries.

“Although, if you wanted to shoot yourself some zebras, there’s a crazy Texan who runs a hunting range over southeast of Vaughn,” the man continues. “Don’t know who he’s paying off to look the other way, but he’s got all sorts of wild animals over there. Fancy-pants businessmen fly in and pay top dollar just to shoot themselves some antelope or some such bullshit.”

Miles lifts an eyebrow and peers at me out the side of his eye.

“You say he’s south of Vaughn?” I confirm, my heart racing.

The man pulls an area map out of a rack next to the cash register, and unfolds it on the counter. He picks up a pen, then hesitates. “You gonna buy this?” he asks, looking up from the map.

I nod.

“Okay, then,” he says. “Here’s us.” He draws a star on the east-west road we’re on and, then moving the pen southwest to an area that looks completely bare besides a patch of green in one corner, he outlines a large rectangle.

“He’s got himself this huge tract of land stretching from the desert south of Vaughn up into the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains here,” he explains, pointing to the green part. It’s in the same general area that I had guessed at in our atlas.

He shoves the map toward me. “That’ll be five bucks,” he says,
and I add another bill to the money on the counter.

“Says he’s able to reproduce the animals’ ‘natural habitat,’” the man continues, wiggling his fingers in the air like quotation marks. “Natural habitat, my ass,” he mutters to himself, handing me my change and slamming the cash register drawer closed with a jingle of coins.

“Thanks so much,” I say, slipping the change into my pocket.

“If you’re not on one of his safaris, you won’t be able to get anywhere near enough to see the animals, though,” the man says, as Miles and I make our way to the door. “Crazy bastard’s got the whole place electrified. Even has his own security guys guarding the place. Thinks he’s running his own private army. Bunch of thugs, all of them. Not the type you want to get mixed up with, that’s for damn sure.”

Miles hesitates at the door. “What’s the name of the guy who owns the place?”

“Avery. ‘Hunt’ Avery,” he says, using his fingers again to punctuate. “Craziest bastard I ever did meet. Comes through here once in a blue moon. Richer than God. Thinks he
is
God.” The man shakes his head, and turns to organize the cigarette packs.

Miles holds the door for me, and once we’re outside I drop my bag and fling my arms around him, squeezing him with everything I’ve got. He stands there holding the grocery bags and looking amazed. “This could be it, Juneau. A man like that—filthy rich, own private army, huge tracts of land—that’s the kind of guy who could kidnap a whole group of people.”

I let go of him, scoop up my bag, and almost skip to the truck. “This is it, I can feel it,” I say excitedly, as I climb into the cab. “We’ve found my clan.”

The only thing to see on the two-hour drive to Vaughn is a flat expanse of dry grass stretching all the way to the horizon. In the distance to the south, a mountain range is barely visible, just a smudge of purple against the powder-blue sky.

The road is bordered by wood or metal fences, and a couple of times we pass vast herds of cattle. Miles plays with the radio dials, listening to one song until the reception turns static, and then pressing buttons until he finds another that works. We switch between country-and-western, Spanish-language stations, and what Miles calls “oldies.” I find it all fascinating. The only music we had in the clan was the kind we made ourselves.

“You’ve never heard of the Beatles?” he says at one point when I ask about the song he knows all the words to.

“Of course I’ve heard of the Beatles,” I say. “Marge, Kenai’s mom and head cook, knew their songs by heart—and she sang on baking days. Plus, the Beatles had a whole paragraph in the EB.”

“Ah yes, the 1983
Encyclopaedia Britannica
, font of all knowledge,” Miles jokes.

I cross my arms in challenge. “Do you know what a pangolin is?”

“Some kind of antique guitar?” Miles ventures.

“It’s an African armadillo,” I respond. “Some call it a scaly anteater. EB volume fifteen, Pachyderm to Primates. Don’t knock the EB.”

“Now that’s exactly the type of information I wish I had at my fingertips,” Miles says. “And in fact, I
would
have at my fingertips if you hadn’t fried my iPhone five minutes after I met you.”

I smile. “Frankie was right about that, too,” I muse. “What if I hadn’t broken your phone? You would have called your dad before we had even left Seattle.”

“True, true,” Miles says, thoughtfully stroking an invisible beard. “But only a week later, I saved you from him. Freed you right from under his nose.”

“After which
I
saved
you,
” I say.

“It’s a good thing we’re not keeping score.” Miles laughs. “Because I’m not sure I could top your bringing me back from the dead.”

He moves one hand from the steering wheel, and raises my fingers to his lips. “Rescued by my valiant lady,” he says.

The kiss sends tingles through me, and Miles can tell. “Hmm, Juneau likes hand kisses,” he says, and presses his lips to the soft skin beneath my knuckles.

I shiver. “You have to say the ‘valiant lady’ bit with it to score top points,” I insist.

Miles bursts out laughing. “I’m glad you’re telling me what you like,” he says. “Because every time I think I know you, you pull the rug out and take me completely by surprise.”

“Wouldn’t want you to get bored,” I respond.

“Not much risk of that,” Miles murmurs, shaking his head.

I grab his hand back off the steering wheel and hold it in mine. “I wonder if your dad’s still looking for us,” I say finally.

“I’m sure he is,” Miles replies. “But we’ve gone so far that there’s no way he’ll find us now. I can imagine him calling in the California state troopers to look for us on some trumped-up runaway story, but we’re two states away and I doubt he’d put out a nationwide alert.”

“Now all we have to worry about is the crazy Texan billionaire with the private army,” I say. “Those had to be his men with Whit.”

“The map Whit gave you pointed to the same area we’re headed to—south of Vaughn—right?”

“Right.”

“And this morning when you Read the river, you saw lions and zebras in the same compound as your clan, right?”

“Right again.”

“And the guy who owns the wild-animal shooting range also keeps a private army, according to gas station man.” Miles shoots me a look like
and two plus two equals
. . .

“It all adds up,” I agree. “I saw those two military-looking guys with Whit in Alaska the day my clan was kidnapped. And there were more of them at the port in Anchorage looking for me. How many people have their own private army? It’s got to be this Hunt Avery guy. But how in the world would Whit have a connection to someone like that?”

“He was probably offering Avery the same thing he was offering my dad. I’ll bet if we looked into his business interests, he’d be the owner of a pharmaceutical company. Probably one of my dad’s competitors.”

“That would make sense,” I say, and my heart sinks another inch. Why is there still a tiny part of me that hopes Whit is innocent? That this is all a mix-up and that he’s somehow being manipulated? What did he mean when he said, “Things aren’t as they seem,” in the note he sent with Poe?

A squat patch of earth-colored buildings huddles on the horizon, growing gradually bigger and turning into a town. We pass a sign that says
VAUGHN, POPULATION
737.

The first building looks abandoned. The next two, with signs reading
AUTO REPAIR
and
GINGER
’
S GIFTS AND OFFICE SUPPLIES
, are empty as well.

“It looks like a ghost town,” says Miles. He takes a right at the main crossroad, and up ahead we see a neon sign lit up with
STEVE
’
S BAR
.

“We could stop here and ask about the ranch,” I suggest.

“Or not,” Miles says as two brawny men in a very familiar-looking camouflage uniform walk out of the bar. As we pass, one of them pulls a cigarette pack out of his jacket and offers it to the other.

I look in the side mirror and see them glance our way. “Go, Miles!” I urge.

Miles peers into the rearview mirror. “Right now they’re not paying attention to us,” he says. “But if we speed off, they’ll be after us in a second.”

The truck jerks and slams as we cross over train tracks. I’m so tense, my head feels like it’ll explode. “It’s definitely them,” I say. “I saw them in Alaska. The guy who was smoking is the one
who was sitting outside of the boat, checking all of the passengers when I left Anchorage.”

“They’ve got the same uniforms as the two who were with Whit,” Miles agrees.

“No question now,” I say. “We’re in the right place.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” Miles eases the truck over another set of train tracks. We leave town and head into the desert. “We located the right group of steroid-fueled weapon-toting giants. Now all we have to do is rescue a few dozen people they’re keeping captive right from under their noses. Easy peasy. Right?”

He tries to make his tone light, but I can see that he finally understands the danger we’re getting into. Miles is scared. And frankly, so am I.

AS WE LEAVE VAUGHN AND HEAD SOUTH, WE
drive over a small ridge to find ourselves facing a road that continues straight ahead until it gets so tiny that it disappears on the horizon. The land around us is flat and brown. Off in the distance on one side is a faraway mountain range. The green trees on its slopes make it stand out like an oasis in the middle of sand dunes.

I pull off the road and put the truck in park. “There’s no way we can hide in the middle of this wasteland,” I point out. “They’ll see us coming from miles away.”

Besides getting that wild glint in her eye when she told me to speed away from the bar back in Vaughn, Juneau seems completely unafraid. She’s in leader mode again, 100 percent practical. No room for emotion.

She unfolds the map and points to where we are, a couple inches northwest of the penned-in rectangle. “It looks like the guy’s ranch is mostly desert,” she says, “but over here”—she puts her finger on the green—“it extends to include some of those mountains up ahead.”

“Should we head for those, then?” I ask.

Juneau studies the horizon, and then says, “Let’s think about this like a hunter would.”

“You think like a hunter. I’ll think from a military tactics point of view,” I say. Juneau shoots me a skeptical look. “Remember my skill set? Video games and movies: best tactical training you could ask for!” I wink and Juneau rewards me with a smile.

Then, pressing her lips together, she considers things for a full minute before speaking. “Say that Avery and I are both predators and my clan is our common prey. Avery’s already captured them, but he wants to trap me too. If Whit is working with him and gave me the map, he knows I’m coming. He’s using his catch to lure me in. Daring me to steal it so he can trap me, too. We have to swipe Avery’s prize from under his nose while he waits for us to do it.”

She pauses and looks at me.

“Okay, then,” I say, translating what she’s just said into the storyline of one of the war games I’m so good at. “I can think of two ways to do that: stealth or strength. With the stealth option, we’ll have to somehow trick them or distract their sentries so that we can help your clan escape while they’re not looking. Strength option means that we fight Avery’s army head-on, which would
involve surprise, speed, and heavy weaponry.”

“Plan A’s looking kind of good right now,” says Juneau.

I nod. “Either would require a good knowledge on our part of where everything is and what we are up against.”

Juneau nods at me, a glimmer of respect in her eye. “You’re pretty good at this,” she says.

“Well, it’s not quite as impressive as sticking my entire fist in my mouth,” I say.

“False modesty,” Juneau lobs back.

“Oh, sorry. I am AWESOME!” I say, striking a muscle-man pose.

“Better,” she says, grinning. She looks back down at the map. “Now, my first reaction would be to want to drive straight across the desert, and then once we’re near the gate, leave the truck and go the rest of the way on foot, hiding along the way. To get to my clan as quickly as possible.”

“Won’t they spot the truck?” I ask.

“Even if Avery has a few dozen men, this is a huge area to guard,” Juneau says, tapping her finger on the rectangular area, “But, yes—if someone is patrolling the perimeter, like I saw in the Reading, they will at some point see the truck.”

I frown at Juneau, skeptical. “You said that’s your first reaction. What’s your second?”

“To use restraint. Head for the mountains and take more time scouting the area from the outside before breaking in. We could take this road,” she says, pointing to a tiny black line on the map. “It’s a little farther and will take us longer, but we avoid the ranch
and stay hidden. We could drive the truck as far as possible into the trees, and then hike till we hit the corner of the perimeter fence that extends into the woods.”

“I vote for the creeping-around-in-the-woods option over the barging-in-like-gangbusters one,” I say without hesitation.

Juneau nods. “Normally in a situation like this I would ask for a sign from the Yara. But seeing the future would require an oracle—” she begins. I put my hand up in a hold-everything gesture, and she continues, “But we’re not going there.”

There is an uncomfortable silence, which she finally breaks. “I want to go straight for my clan. To get this over with. But I’ve learned in the past that my emotions aren’t always an indicator of the best possible plan. I have to go deeper, to my instincts. And those tell me that the best thing to do is to set up a base camp in the woods, do surveillance of the ranch, and assess what advantages nature offers us before we act.”

“Then it’s decided,” I say, and putting the truck in gear, I head toward the mountains. I keep an eye out for any vehicles heading our way, but our car is the only thing moving for miles around.

We ride in silence for a few minutes before I say, “Can I ask you something about your religion?”

“I don’t have a religion,” Juneau says, looking curious. “Oh—do you mean my clan’s relationship with the Yara?”

I nod.

“That’s more metaphysical than spiritual. We don’t worship anyone or anything. It’s more a way of thinking about our
position in relation to the rest of nature and the way we fit in with everything else.”

“But I’ve heard you mention Gaia before. Isn’t that the Greek earth goddess?”

“The Gaia Movement used the term to mean everything in earth’s superorganism—living things, rocks, oceans, air—they’re all mixed into one being called Gaia. Gaia exists in the past, back to the origins of life, and in the future as long as life exists. That’s why we can ask the Yara—the force that runs through Gaia—to see in the past and the future.

“Time is relative. The past and the future have both happened—we’ve just figured out how to access those past and future ‘memories’ by Reading.”

“Okay, this is where I screw my head off, shake it out, and screw it back on again,” I say.

Juneau gets this sardonic smile on her lips and says, “Posturing.”

“Huh?” I say.

“You keep doing this false modesty thing. Acting like you’re no one special. Or that you don’t understand what I’m saying because it’s complicated. When in fact you’re probably as smart as I am—”

“Ha!” I can’t help from blurting out.

“What?” Juneau asks, confused.

“Try not to be too modest,” I jibe.

Juneau just looks at me for a moment, and then says, “Why
would I try to be modest? I’m super-smart, with potential for genius, from what the educators in our clan say. And from what I can tell, so are you. So why try to hide it? Why imply that you aren’t?”

I just keep driving with my mouth hanging open. I might have made some sort of gurgling noise, but am otherwise speechless.

Juneau continues to push me on it. “Is it some kind of cultural thing, this false modesty about your capacities? If this had been a week ago, I would have thought you were misleading me about your intelligence to put yourself at some sort of advantage. But now it just pisses me off because you’re not being honest. With
me
!”

I finally get my voice back. “Stop! Holy crap, Juneau, ixnay with the inquisition! I’m not trying to pull anything over on you. It’s cultural . . . definitely cultural. But I’ve never really thought about it before. Just give me a second.”

I try to formulate my thoughts into something she will accept. “You . . . I mean, people . . . in society . . .” How do I even say this? “You’re not supposed to act like you know you’re smart because it’s considered rude,” I say finally.

Juneau starts laughing. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. When you’re in a group, you offer your skills for the use and survival of the group. You don’t pretend you don’t have them. It’s not only disingenuous, it’s withholding your donation to the common good.”

“Is everyone in your clan like this, or are you the only one who hasn’t been socially conditioned to act like a normal person?”

“That depends on your definition of normal,” she shoots back, and then bites her lip. “I suppose a bit of both. Everyone knows one another’s strengths and weaknesses because they’re vital to our survival. But also, since I was five, I was expected to lead the clan. To be the clan Sage. So everyone expected me to be capable. False modesty would have been ridiculous.”

I like the fact that Juneau listened to me, so I try to understand what she’s explaining. To understand the role she had . . . that she still does. It’s the reason she’s like she is. And it’s the reason we’re here: because of this heavy burden she’s always carried.

Her clan would expect her to try to save them. So that’s exactly what she’s going to do.

And in order for her to fully trust me, I’m going to have to sacrifice some of my own habits. Number one being my defense mechanisms. I’ve already sworn to myself not to hide my feelings behind jokes. Now she wants me to be completely honest with her about myself. Which means being vulnerable to getting hurt. Again.

What can be worse than your own mother abandoning you?
I think, my gut twisting as the thought barges in from where it hides in my subconscious. And the answer comes with a double blow to my solar plexus:
the girl you’ve fallen for doing the same damn thing
.