Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

He would remember her, and that baby, for the rest of his life. She had carried the infant like she was heading for a touchdown. Steven guessed that she kept her hand in her pocket to cover the dark circular wound Gilmour had told them marked Nerak’s victims. And she had not pre-boarded the plane and that was strange: a young mother with a child, travelling alone, who waited to board with the mass of fleshy businessmen and pushy suburbanites heading to DC for the weekend. Jesus, that baby was dead now.

When the plane exploded, Steven was already running up the jetway. The force of the blast threw him across the concourse and headlong into the check-in desk at the opposite gate. He suffered a serious gash across his right shoulder, and a large purple bruise welled up on his cheek. His clothes were on fire, and he had to roll around for a few seconds to smother the flames; his ears rang, and his hearing had not returned until later that evening, but otherwise, miraculously, he had been spared serious injury.

Although the airports reopened the following day, he couldn’t risk purchasing another ticket: his name would appear on their this-guy-is-supposed-to-be-dead list. The FBI would spend six weeks asking him where he had been for the past several months and why, when he had finally returned, aeroplanes had started exploding all around him.

So he drove Arthur Mikelson’s car, a Lexus with leather interior – the nicest car he had ever been in – and he cried as he listened to radio reports of faulty ignition systems and gas fumes from the fuel truck, and he burned with an intense desire to tear Nerak’s decomposing black heart out and feel the dark prince’s demonic blood drip from his fingers.

The Charleston Airport parking lot had been mayhem, too, but he had his first stroke of luck when he reached the booth beside the parking garage, for there was no one inside to collect his fee. The toll collectors were standing on top of a grassy rise, watching the burning terminal. Steven squeezed the Lexus between the toll gate and the row of hedges marking the edge of the soft shoulder, scratching the rear panel. No matter; it was a day for ignoring minor injuries.

His second stroke of luck was managing to bypass any roadblocks: he had no idea where the city police were, other than a few cruisers, lights ablaze, which escorted ambulances and fire trucks into the airport. Maybe it took the locals a while to respond in the wake of such a disaster, but whatever the reason, he thanked God.

He didn’t stop again until Knoxville. The Lexus was running on empty, and Steven needed food and a few minutes’ rest. He used some of Arthur Mikelson’s money to buy new clothes: jeans, underwear and socks, a heavy cotton shirt, and a sweater, beige, so as not to stand out as Mark had when they had first arrived in Estrad Village. He wanted a lined Gore-tex jacket, but he was nervous about using his credit card, and he wanted to conserve as much of Mikelson’s $400 cash as possible. As he planned to be in the car until he reached home, Steven decided against the jacket; he could collect his own before returning to Eldarn. He flipped the car’s dashboard heater to ‘full’, turned west and pressed on.

If he drove five or ten miles above the speed limit, Steven estimated the trip would take around thirty hours, but soon he began to worry that Nerak would somehow find a way to reach Idaho Springs before him. Outside Nashville, he pulled over to buy a box of crackers, a half gallon of orange juice, and a crescent wrench. Sitting in the parking lot, he broke down – despite his promise to himself to be strong – and sobbed like a frightened child. We might not make it. Then he gritted his teeth, wiped his face and drove on.

Early the following morning Steven detoured six hours to St Louis and used the wrench to steal a set of Missouri licence plates from an old pick-up truck parked behind a motel. The truck didn’t look like it was used often; he hoped to be in Colorado before anyone noticed the tags were missing. He was back on the highway before the sun broke the horizon.

In Boonville, he threw Arthur Mikelson’s South Carolina licence plates into the Missouri River, purchased a box of doughnuts, a couple of apples, a very large cup of coffee and a padded envelope. In Blue Springs, he tried to sleep for a bit, but nightmares of the baby – was it a boy or a girl? – haunted him after only a few minutes’ rest. Waking with a start, Steven rubbed his eyes, ate an apple and several doughnuts, and started driving again.

His second night out from Charleston found him in central Kansas, the prairie rolling past in a seamless dirge of muted winter colour, and he had nearly driven off the highway twice in a losing battle to stay awake. Trying to keep himself alert, he began singing in the numbingly repetitive tradition of ‘Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall’,

Put up a sign, put up a sign, put up a goddamned sign… oh… put up a sign, put up a sign, Governor, won’t you put up a fucking sign when you’re halfway across this boring state.

Finally, too tired to continue, he gave up, parked the Lexus across the street from a motel and, using more of Mikelson’s cash, registered for a room.

Two cheeseburgers with extra tomato, onion and mayo, two orders of crispy French fries with extra ketchup and a large vanilla milkshake later, Steven walked across the street to the motel and punched in a 3.30 a.m. wake-up call. With any luck, he would be in Denver by late the following morning. He turned on his television and ran through the cable channels until he found a 24-hour news programme, then emptied his pockets onto the bedside table: $123.00 and some change, a black leather wallet that had been soaked and dried out so many times it was barely recognisable, his Visa card, receipts and the crescent wrench.

He was half-listening to the report of the on-going investigation into the Charleston tragedy Medical examiner reports more than 215 lost -

He pulls off the sweater and cotton T-shirt; he is too thin.

– still making contact with victims’ families -

The cheeseburgers roll in his stomach, summer thunder.

– FBI is cross-checking manifests for evidence of -

Steven freezes. His Visa card rests in the stark light of a cheap high wattage bulb in the bedside lamp. The FBI.

Slowly, he reaches for the remote and turns off the television. ‘They will know I wasn’t on the plane. They will know where I used this card.’

For a few moments Steven paced around the room in a desultory fashion. The bathroom. No help there. The door. Nothing outside. The FBI could be out there right now. The TV. No, leave it off. What to do now, goddamnit, what to do? He turned a complete circle, reached for the phone, then the remote, and finally for the Visa card. Sitting heavily on the bed he held the card up close to his face, as if directions how to proceed might be scribbled there in exceedingly small type.

‘I can’t use this anymore,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll be looking for me. I’m a fugitive. At least, I will be when the medical examiner confirms I wasn’t on that plane. Shit.’

He rubbed his temples and glanced at the bedside clock. 8.17 p.m. ‘They’ll think I was away all that time preparing the attack. They’ll think I’m a terrorist.’ For a moment he reconsidered making contact with his parents, then, shaking his head, discounted the notion. ‘Time to get going,’ he murmured and pulled the T-shirt and sweater back over his head.

Outside, it had begun to snow.

Driving through a winter storm in Kansas made Steven feel as though snow fell horizontally, and that all the news reports showing flakes falling from above had been fabricated in a great communications conspiracy. Westerly winds off the Rocky Mountains caught up with clouds of dry billowy snow and blew them in wild torrents until they slammed headlong into the Appalachian Mountains a thousand miles away. By the time the snow reached central Kansas, it appeared to be travelling at just shy of the speed of sound. At any minute Steven felt his car would be lifted, nose-first, and thrown backwards into rural Missouri.