I powerwalked right on past the motel, huffing and pumping my arms. Naturally I slowed down and took a curious look at the deputies' cars and the yellow crime scene tape as I went by; ignoring the goings-on entirely would have been suspicious. But I didn't stop, and after a few seconds of casual attention, I turned my head back toward the road and kept up the pace. I don't think a single deputy bothered to notice me.
I could see the sign of the small truck stop ahead, near where the east-west state route passed through the community. The store didn't get much bigger as I got closer; this apparently wasn't a frequent stop on truckers' routes. But it was open, and that was enough.
I slowed as I entered the parking lot. Only one other vehicle was there, a pickup truck parked in front of a pump, and the owner and his girl came out of the store and drove off while I was walking across the lot and cooling down.
I was the only person in the store except for the attendant, a large girl watching Conan O'Brien on the behind-the-counter TV. I bought a hotdog that had been in the warmer since the Clinton administration, paid with cash, and walked out confident that I had made absolutely no impression on her.
I found a spot along the front of the store as far from the lights above the door as I could get without looking like I was lurking, and ate my hotdog in small bites. When it was done, I put my hands in my pockets and waited, feeling the hotdog grumble at the pizza already in my stomach.
About twenty minutes after I reached the truck stop, an older Jeep Cherokee pulled in and slowed as it approached me. I stepped away from the wall as the passenger window rolled down.
"Are you waiting for someone?" said the female driver.
"Christine Blascomb," I said.
"That's me," she said.
I opened the door and hopped up.
"Rennie Avalon," I said, and offered my hand. She shook it automatically, then returned both hands to the wheel. All I saw of her was from the lights of the parking lot and the glow from the dashboard; she had a Roman nose, ear-length black hair with blonde highlights in the bangs, and black eyeliner with no eyeshadow.
She said, "I guess I'll take you back to Becka's place, unless there's something else I should do."
"That'd be fine," I said. "Thanks for picking me up."
She shrugged and paid attention to her driving as she wheeled around in the parking lot and headed back the way she'd come.
She let about five second tick by on the straight road before speaking again.
"So," she said. "Joe's in the sheriff's office."
"Yeah," I said.
"What are you going to tell me about all this? Because I know bugger-all, and it's really starting to piss me off."
"Christine," I said, "I'm going to try to tell you everything, unless you tell me to stop."
And I did. As we drove, I told her everything in condensed form, starting with "Joseph West" really being named Weston Blakely. I told her about Joshua Blakely, and his messianic ambitions. I told her about the murder of the rest of Weston's family. I told her about Weston's flight for his life, about his relocation here, about my hiring by Joshua, and my defection to Weston's side once I saw part of what was going on.
All through it, she kept her eyes on the road and the dash, showing no more reaction than she would to a string of radio commercials.
Finally, I brought the story up through the shootout at the motel, and Sammy and Weston being taken into custody. I stopped. And I waited.
Christine said, "So with J-- Weston... Dammit, I'm going to call him 'Joe' for now, okay? It's too hard to start thinking about it every time I mention him. I guess with Joe in the sheriff's station, everything'll come out now?"
"Maybe," I said. "Sammy's going to clam up until I get an attorney to him tomorrow, and I think Weston'll do the same. We don't want the sheriff focusing on the fake identity and everything else and not look for Joshua."
Christine shook her head absently. "You know, Joe does some crazy things. Everyone does, you know? And I always told him he was a headcase. Boy, if I had ever known about his brother..."
She bit her lip, then continued. "So Joshua thinks he gets to be the next Christ only when he's killed everyone he's related to, huh? The whole Blakely family?"
"That's how Weston explained it. Joe."
"Huh." The twitch at the corners of her mouth might have been a smile, or a grimace. "Well, Joshua may not be as close to winning as he thinks."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
Her eyes stayed trained on the road.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
"Oh," I said, as I frantically revised the scenario in my head to make room for this new information. "Does Wes-- does Joe know?"
"Weston, Joe, doesn't matter what you call him. I know who you're talking about. No, he doesn't know. I was maybe going to tell him this weekend. I guess that would throw a wrench into Joshua's plans, huh?"
"Christine, we're not going to let it get that far. He's fixated on finding Weston, and as long as he's trying to find him and kill him..."
I stopped. Pieces of information in my mind that had been shouting for me to notice them finally took it upon themselves to connect to each other.
Joshua wasn't following Weston. He was looking for him, but not once had he actually followed him.
Joshua was following me.
To Weston and Christine's trailer, obviously. But also to the motel. Joshua had known I was there, and only assumed Weston was.
Joshua wasn't the Messiah. I was damned sure of that. But what if he was... something else?
And I remembered something from years ago, from before I had been Beth's mother, before I had even been Rennie Avalon. Back when I was a Field Op only known as "Radiant," in a part of my life that was always hovering around the edges of my efforts to ignore the memories.
I had known a sensitive, one of our Resource Ops who assisted us but stayed out of the line of fire. She had had a peculiarly specific talent: She could track people she met. But only certain ones; only those who had been exposed to the nastiness that lies on the other side of what most people consider reality. Those who were "touched by the shadow," as she had put it.
What if Joshua Blakely, insane though he was with his messianic delusions, had a true talent? What if he, like that Resource Op, could unerringly follow and find those who had been "touched by the shadow"? I was his tracking beacon. Even after I thought I had stopped working for him, I was still working for him.
Christine was watching me ever since my last sentence had trailed off.
"Christine," I said, "I can't go with you. You've got to get rid of me somewhere."
