Blood of the Reich

6

North of Seattle, United States

September 4, Present Day

You don’t think I’m Rominy Pickett?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to shock you. But I know you’re not.”

“Then either you’ve kidnapped the wrong woman or you’re even loonier than I thought.”

Jake Barrow looked straight ahead, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, like a driving student, the pickup a careful six mph above the speed limit, just enough not to risk a ticket. He seemed to have a clear idea where he was going. The freeway north of Seattle was an artery, its cars corpuscles, the vessel walls dark evergreens. Broken overcast kept everything the habitual Northwest gray. “Look, I realize I should have broached this subject a little less dramatically,” he said. “Car bombings are not the way I usually meet my sources.”

“I’m not your source, Mister Investigative Reporter, if that’s what you really are. I’m your victim, and you’ve probably committed about eighteen felonies to get me to this point. Do your editors approve your tactics?”

His lips were tight. “My editors advised me to drop the whole thing.”

“Touche.”

“But they’re wrong.”

“The lunatic creed.”

“You’re the biggest story of my life, and I never dreamed it would play out this way. A skinhead wannabe spilled something about a car bomb. I realized I couldn’t just research any longer and had to check you out in person. Then I saw their Explorer across the parking lot near your vehicle and didn’t know what else to do. It was tackle or watch you blow up.” He sounded more embarrassed than triumphant. And less like a serial killer than she’d have expected. Was there a chance, however slight, that this guy wasn’t totally full of bullshit and homicidal intention? If he was behind the bomb, why tackle her?

“But why would anyone-what, skinheads?-want to kill me?”

“Because they’re Nazi knotheads who think you know a lot more than you do.”

“About what?”

“A seventy-year-old secret, a fairy story, about strange powers and a lost city.”

“Jake-if that’s really what your name is-”

“I have a press card…”

“Whoopee. I’m sorry, but you’re not proving your sanity here. I mean, you’re getting goofier by the minute, I can’t open my truck door, your own editors don’t believe you, and we’re almost to Everett.” She held up her cell phone. “Sounds like it’s time for 911.”

“Wait.” His look was pleading. “If the cops come and my editors get wind of this fiasco, I’m probably finished, I know it. No story, I’m trying to give answers I don’t have, and you still don’t know who you really are. I will look like a criminal, or a nut job. But if you give me a day-two days, at most, on your turf-you might get something that will turn your life around, I get the big scoop, and maybe the good guys even win. Maybe. But I need you to give me a chance to explain without holding that cell phone like it’s another bomb. And I’m serious, the skinheads can track us with that thing.”

“Why do you keep saying I don’t know who I really am?”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Benjamin Hood?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re his heir.”

“I’m what?” Rominy glanced at her cell phone and noticed there were no bars. In fact, there was no display at all. Of all the times to have it off. She pushed the power button. She needed a backup plan instead of trusting Mr. Jake Barrow, and it involved the Washington State Patrol.

She pushed and pushed.

Nothing happened.

“My cell won’t work.”

Barrow looked relieved. “A sign from God, don’t you think?” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Shit!” He slammed the accelerator and the pickup rocketed and swerved, throwing her against the door that wouldn’t open. “Shit, shit, shit!” They lurched across two lanes and back, cars honking, and then hung on the rear quarter of a tanker truck, its warnings of explosive cargo spattered with mud.

“What, what!”

“Get down, it’s them!” Another burst of speed and they shot ahead, pulling narrowly in front of the truck, its horn blaring. Barrow’s hand, wide and powerful, grabbed Rominy’s head and shoved it down on the bench seat so hard that her cheek bounced against the old vinyl, her only view his blue-jean thigh and the dirty floor of the pickup. “Stay down, they might shoot!”

She didn’t dare look, imagining bullets puncturing the old truck as if it were aluminum foil. They were weaving like Road Warrior lunatics, and all Rominy’s attentions were focused on trying to recall half-forgotten Hail Marys for what she was convinced were the last seconds of her life. The nuns were right, she should have gone to Confession.

“They’re coming…”

She squeezed her eyes shut. She could hear the full-throated roar of a heavy SUV or truck and the answering whine of the old pickup. Then a pop, and a whistle of wind.

“Damn.” He seemed resigned. “They’re shooting.”

“Please, please, stop this thing…”

“Cops!” He sounded exultant and their speed abruptly slackened. “They tried to keep up and the Patrol nailed them!” They swerved a final time and steadily decelerated. “Hallelujah yes, the cops are stopping them! Oh boy, they’d better get rid of that gun.”

“Are the police following us, too?” she asked with hope.

“No, thank God. They’re busy with skinheads.” The truck’s sound changed, and she sensed they’d taken an off-ramp. She was shaking in fear and confusion, humiliated at having her head almost in this bastard’s lap. Then they coasted to a stop.

He put his hand on her head again. “Stay down, for a light or two.”

Of course, maybe he’d saved her life once more. Or he was a complete schizoid. Hail Mary, what in heaven is going on? “Where are we?”

“Everett. We’ll go through town to make sure we’ve shaken them before getting back on the freeway.”

“Please go to the authorities.” She felt defeated, exhausted, hopeless.

“I told you, the police can’t help us, not yet. Though I gotta say, three cheers for the Washington State Patrol. They nailed those bastards. That’s a big ticket, driving like we were. They’ll have to breathalyze, the whole nine yards. I think we’re safe, Rominy. At least for the next five minutes.”

“I don’t feel safe. I thought we were going to crash.”

“I’m a better driver than that.”

“It felt like Mister Toad’s Wild Ride in Disneyland.”

“I’ve done some amateur stock car.” He gently touched her shoulder. “You can sit up now.”

They were on an avenue that ran by Puget Sound, still heading north, a bluff with houses to their right. Rominy felt sick, and light-headed from fear. Her cheeks were wet from tears, and she was ashamed of them. Shouldn’t she be braver?

“I just want it to end.”

“Sorry, it’s just beginning.” He gave her a sympathetic look, his features strong but not unkind. “But we’ll make it, you’ll see. It’s important, or I never would have involved you.”

She groaned and noticed a draft of cool air by her neck and a thin whistling. She turned.

There was a bullet hole in the pickup’s rear window and a web of radiating cracks.