Kathy Reichs - Cross bones

Hurried footsteps, then silence.

I put my ear to the wood.

A sound like surf, overridden by the drone of a radio commentator.

Stay quiet? Draw attention?

What the hell.

I pounded.

I called out.

Seconds later the office door slammed inward against a wall.

Heart plowing, I shrank deeper back toward the ell.

A strip of light under the closet door.

Rubber soles.

The bolt clicked open.

The door swung in.

I’D NEVER BEEN SO GLAD TO SEE ANYONE IN MY LIFE.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jake’s tone was all shock.

“Did you see her?”

“Who?”

“Purviance.”

“Who’s Purviance?”

“Never mind.” I pushed past him and grabbed an arm. “We’ve got to stop her.”

I tugged. We both ran.

“She’s got no more than a three-minute lead.”

Out the office. Down the hall.

“Who’s Purviance?”

“The lady with your shroud bones.”

Gripping the rail, I took three stairs at a time. Jake stayed with me.

“You drove?” I threw over my shoulder.

“I’ve got the crew truck. Tempe-”

“Where?” I was breathing hard.

“In the drive.”

As we flew out the door, a car blew past, driver’s head barely clearing the wheel.

“That’s her,” I panted.

The car shot the gate.

“Move!”

Yanking the doors, Jake and I threw ourselves into the truck.

Jake turned the key and flooded the engine. It roared in neutral. Jake threw the gearshift, then tacked a triangle of short turns.

As we came about, Purviance’s car was disappearing from the foot of the drive.

“She’s turned left onto Sultan Suleiman.”

Jake jammed the gas. Our tires spit gravel and we rocketed forward.

“What’s she driving?”

“Citroën C-3, I think. I only got a quick look.”

We plunged downhill. Across the way, the Old City was swallowed in mist.

Barely braking, Jake jerked the wheel hard left. I lurched right and my shoulder slammed the window.

Up ahead, the Citroën’s taillights were again hooking left.

Jake pounded the accelerator.

I reached back, tugged and clicked my seat belt.

Jake made the turn onto Derech Jericho.

The Citroën had lengthened its lead. Its taillights were now two tiny red blurs.

“Where’s she going?”

“We’re on HaEgoz at this point, but behind us it’s called the Jericho road. She could be heading to Jericho. Hell, she could be heading to Jordan.”

Few cars moved along the pavement. Fog swirled the streetlights.

Purviance kicked it to fifty.

Jake stayed with her.

Purviance kicked it to sixty.

“Hang on.”

I placed two hands on the dash.

Jake floored it. The gap closed.

The air in the truck felt damp and close. Mist filmed the windshield.

Jake hit the wipers. I cracked a window.

Lights flicked by on both sides of the street. Apartments? Garages? Nightclubs? Synagogues? The buildings were black LEGO blobs. I wasn’t sure where we were.

A tower took shape on my right, neon logo shimmying in the haze. The Hyatt. We were about to intersect the Nablus Road.

Purviance made the turn.

“She’s heading north,” I said. Nervous talk. Jake knew that.

The traffic signal went red. Ignoring it, Jake spun the wheel. We fishtailed. Jake muscled the back wheels into line with the front.

The Citroën’s taillights had shrunk to dots. Purviance had picked up a quarter-mile lead.

My heart was doing flip-flops. My palms felt damp on the dash.

Now and then a billboard framed into view, faded. We raced on.

Suddenly signs flared out of the fog. MA’ALEH ADUMIN. JERICHO. DEAD SEA.

“She’s heading for Highway One.” Jake’s voice was guy-wire taut.

Something was up. The Citroën’s taillights were now expanding.

“She’s slowing down,” I said.

“Checkpoint.”

“Will they stop her?”

“This one’s usually a wave-through.”

Jake was right. After a brief pause, the Citroën blew past the guardhouse.

“Shall we tell them to stop her?”

“Not a chance.”

“They could pull her over.”

“These guys are border patrol, not police.”

Jake braked. The truck slowed.

“Let’s ask-”

“No.”

“This is a mistake.”

“Don’t say a word.”

We rolled to a stop. The guard looked us over, bored, then waved us through. Before I could speak, Jake hit the gas.

A sudden thought.

Back at the museum, Jake never asked about Blotnik.

I hadn’t given him time?

He already knew that Blotnik was dead?

I looked sideways. Jake was a black silhouette, long neck corrugated by the bony tube of his throat.

Sweet Jesus. Did Jake have an agenda of his own?

Jake accelerated hard. The truck lurched forward.

My palms slapped the dash.

The terrain turned desolate. My world narrowed to the two red blurs at the Citroën’s rear.

Purviance goosed it to seventy, then eighty.

We ran hard through desert older than time. I knew what stretched to either side of the highway. Terra-cotta hills, furnaced valleys, Bedouin camps with their shoddy huts and slumbering herds. The Judean wilderness. A moonscape of bleaching bones and seeping sand, tonight all lost to the fog.

Mile after mile of stillness. Nothingness. Now and then a rare lamp bathed the Citroën in artificial light. Seconds later, our truck would blink through. I’d see my hands, salmon surreal, bracing the dash.

Purviance edged toward ninety. Jake matched her.

The Citroën rounded curve after curve, taillights winking into our vision, then out, then in again. Our truck strained. We began to drop back.

The tension in the cab was palpable. No one spoke as each of us focused on those pulsing red eyes.

We hit a bump. Jake downshifted. The front wheels went airborne. The rear followed. My head whiplashed as the truck slammed down.

When I looked up, the Citroën’s taillights were disappearing in mist.

Shifting back into fourth, Jake gunned it. The lights ballooned. I stole a peek in the side-view. No one behind us.

In my memory, what happened next happened in slow motion, like an instant replay. In reality, the whole thing probably took a minute and a half.

The Citroën entered a curve. We followed. I remember glistening blacktop. The needle nearing ninety. Jake’s hands, tight on the wheel.

A car appeared on the other side of the highway, headlights blurry ribbons slashing the mist. The ribbons wavered, then swooned toward the Citroën.

Purviance jerked the wheel. The Citroën pitched right, dropped two tires onto the shoulder. Purviance jerked again. The Citroën hopped back up onto the pavement.

The oncoming car crossed the center lane, illuminating the Citroën. I could see Purviance’s head wagging back and forth as she fought the wheel. Steady red told me her foot was slammed to the brake.

The oncoming car veered wide, away from the Citroën. Action and reaction. The Citroën also veered wide, and again bit gravel.

Purviance cut hard to the left and regained the blacktop. Inexplicably, the car then surged back to the right. The Citroën bounced from the road, and careened off the guardrail. Sparks flew.

Panicked, Purviance fought to go left. The Citroën hit slickness, hydroplaned, and spun.

The oncoming car was now hurtling toward us, tires straddling both lanes. I could see the driver’s head. I could see a passenger.

I braced for the impact.

Jake jerked the wheel. We shot right and our front tire dropped.

The car thundered past.

Our rear tire dropped.

Jake’s leg pumped, his hands death-locked the wheel.