Quicksilver

by Dean Koontz

We were on the federal highway, approaching its intersection with the interstate, which was at this point somewhat elevated above the lesser road. Heavy rain slashed the night, the skeins dividing it into diagonal slivers like a completed puzzle in which the narrow slices of the image did not quite align. Bridget let our speed fall. Leaning over the steering wheel to squint through the rain-blurred windshield, she said, “That cluster of lights on the interstate, to the west. There’s been an accident—or it’s a roadblock.” From the back seat, leaning forward, Panthea said, “Roadblock. The ISA is looking for us. And a blockade to the west means there’s also one in the eastbound lanes we can’t see from here.” Bridget pulled to the side of the road and stopped and switched off the headlights. “We can’t go back to Peptoe,” Sparky said. “They know we were there. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be setting up roadblocks to catch us leaving. But they can’t be sure we’ve left, so they’re still in Peptoe, behind us and ahead of us.”

Panthea said, “With lights off, if you parallel the interstate but stay at least half a mile from it, they won’t see us, not in this downpour and the dark of the moon.”

Half a mile to our left, on the elevated interstate, the lights of the ISA vehicles at the roadblock and those of motorists lined up for inspection glimmered, dull and rutilant, through the screening rain, like the balefires of a cult that burned alive the sacrifices that its gods demanded.

A vehicle without running lights crossed in front of us, moving at a reckless speed.

I expected the transport’s motorized spotlights to burst with light and swivel toward us, but that did not happen. Bridget corrected course to parallel to the interstate, and tramped on the accelerator.

“He’s coming after us,” Bridget said, her observation based on intuition rather than on anything she could see. “Why doesn’t he pin us with those spotlights?”

Night-vision goggles”—and

“Hang on,” Bridget advised, as if we had any other option.

BACK IN THE DAY

THE BOY, THE FATHER, THE FISH

PART 4

380 MILES TO MORDOR

25

“If he was crazy enough to try to T-bone us,” I said, “then he’ll side slam us.” The military-style transport was heavier than the Explorer and had a lower center of gravity. SUVs like ours were prone to roll in extreme conditions, and being repeatedly bashed by a five-ton vehicle was the definition of extreme. “He’s going to side slam us for sure.”

We raced westward at forty-five miles per hour, then fifty, fifty-five, over furrowed ground on which the tires drummed, testing the springs. The body of the Explorer rattled at every connection to the chassis, and we accelerated to sixty, sixty-five. The transport closed to six feet, so near to us now that the previous illusion of immateriality could not sustain.

With a sudden respect for public property, that profligate driver might have dramatically cut his speed at the last moment, when he realized what lay ahead, or perhaps the greater weight of his vehicle proved less aerodynamic than that of Ford’s finest, or maybe we met the arroyo at a slightly narrower point in its course than he did. Whatever the explanation, the transport fell faster than our SUV, and fell short. As I saw that armored vehicle drop out of sight into the arroyo, Bridget and I completed our harmonized response—“Ohhhhhhh, shit!”—as the Explorer’s front tires met the riverbank an instant before the back of the SUV touched down with a jolt. The steering wheel whipped out of her hands, but she regained control a moment later. We rocked on, no less blind than before, as from the back seat came two voices, each expressing relief and incredulity, one with a vulgarity and the other with a reference to the deity, and Winston barked just once.

26

Sparky said, “What happened back there was a piece of cake. We’re not in a fix. I’ve been in a lot worse situations than this, should’ve lost a limb or an eye on a hundred occasions, but I’ve still got all my pieces. As long as we’re not soaked in blood and trying to stuff our intestines back into our bodies through a gut wound, we’ll be okay.”

Bridget and I turned and stepped off the highway, into the autonomous zone, where the laws of the United States did not apply.

27

Erskine’s voice was as gentle as that of a truly caring grief counselor, his expression as kindly as that of a fairy godmother in a Disney cartoon. “Wallace and I believe that if you want to build something better, you must first burn down everything that exists.” My fiancée smiled with tender malice. “Just give me the matches.” Putting us through the perverse equivalent of an ethics exam, Erskine said, “History is the enemy of the future.” Bridget called him and raised him one: “The past is a cancer that kills all dreams of progress.” “Power is beauty, beauty power.” Lifting her chin and thrusting her chest forward as if she took overweening pride in her beauty, she said, “Keats was such an idiot, confusing truth for power.”

Bridget put her hands together as you do when you’re praying, and she nodded at Erskine. “Thank you so much, padrino. But the Mountaineer is all we need.” “Very well, then. Thirty-five thousand.” “Sold,” I quickly declared. “Forty thousand,” he said. “Wait a second. We had a deal at thirty-five.” Erskine smiled sadly at me and then with amusement at Bridget. “Mrs. Torgenwald, I recommend that you prevent your husband from playing poker.” “Forty thousand,” Bridget agreed. “Give him twenty, darling, and I’ll give him the other twenty.” “Please pay Wallace,” Erskine said. “My nephew takes such delight in counting money.” Bridget and I got to our feet and together handed eight rolls of hundred-dollar bills to Wallace Beebs. Remaining in his armchair, Erskine combed one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, which was when for a moment it ceased being a hand and became an utterly alien appendage of six tentacles, each tipped with a wickedly sharp talon.