Ahern, Jerry - The Web

The plan was simple—the only one possible under the circumstances. The heart of the storm seemed to be to the south and west. With luck, Paul and Natalia would be driving out of the storm while he, Rourke, drove into it.

With its intensity, Rourke assumed it couldn't last much longer at any event.

Rourke would start from Tennessee and cut down into Georgia, perhaps as far down as the massive craters that had once been metropolitan Atlanta; he still had a Geiger counter, as did Paut. Then he would zigzag back and forth with his farthest range being the lower Carolinas. Paul, after leaving Natalia in safe territory, would travel back, retracing the route down from northern Indiana to Tennessee, then strike straight for Savannah from there. With luck one of them would intercept Sarah and Michael and Annie. In two weeks, he and Paul would rendezvous at the Retreat—hopefully one of them with Rourke s family in tow.

The Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported six-inch Colt Python in the flap holster at his waist, Rourke began making a last minute check of his gear. The Python and his other guns had been freshly lubricated with Break-Free CLP

which would resist the sub-freezing temperatures. The Lowe Alpine Systems Loco pack was secure behind the seat of the Low Rider, the CAR-wrapped in plastic and secured to the pack, a blanket under the plastic to protect the gun in the event of a skid. He glanced along the icy road surface; a skid was highly likely.

He started his bike, letting the engine warm up as he walked back toward Natalia and Paul. Rubenstein's bike

was already loaded and started.

Rubenstein started to say something, but Rourke cut him off. He wasn't certain why, but an urgency seemed now to obsess him. "You memorized those strategic fuel supply locations so you can get gasoline?"

"Yes—yeah, I did," the younger man said, looking strange without his glasses; but with the snow falling, it would have been impossible to see through them.

"And (ake it real slow—really slow until you start getting out of this.

Just be careful all the way, even after you've gotten through the weather—a sudden temperature—"

"John—I'll do all right. Take it easy." Rubenstein extended his gloved right hand, then pulled the glove away.

Rourke hesitated a moment, then pulled off his own glove. "I know you will Paui—I know. I just—ahh . . ." Rourke simply shook his head, clamping his jaw tight and wishing he had a cigar there to chew on.

"I'll walk you back to your motorcycle," Natalia said quietly, taking Rourke's bare right hand as soon as he released Paul's grip.

"All right," Rourke answered her softly. "I'll see you Paul."

"Yeah, John. I'll be right behind you real soon."

Rourke simply nodded, then started back toward his machine, feeling the pressure of Natalia's hand inside his. Her hand was warm. He looked at her once, then looked away. One of his big bandanna handkerchiefs was tied over her head to cover her ears; his own ears were freezing. It was blue, making the blueness of her eyes even bluer. The sleeping bag bound around her made her figure virtually vanish under it and finally, as they

stopped beside his Harley, without looking at her he murmured, "If you ever need to disguise yourself as a plump Russian peasant girl that's the perfect outfit."

He felt her hand let go of his, then her hand on his face as he turned to her.

"I love you, John Rourke—I'll always love you. Forever." She kissed his mouth hard, and he thought he saw a faint trace of a smile—a strained smile—on her face. She turned and ran away, almost slipping once on the ice as he watched her. She clambered aboard the snow-splotched bright blue Harley Low Rider and didn't look back as Rubenstein gunned the machine, shot a wave over his shoulder, and started off.

John Rourke stood there for a moment—cold. He was alone. It was a lifelong habit.

Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna hugged her arms tightly around Paul Rubenstein; she thought of him as a brother, as Rourke thought of him.

Rourke had said it to her more than once. She held Paul in order to stay aboard the slowly moving motorcycle, and for the warmth his body radiated—and to give him the warmth of her body.

It had been three hours by the face of her ladies' Rolex and the ice and snow had allowed them, she estimated, not more than a hundred miles, perhaps less. "Do you think the storm will intensify as John heads south?"

she asked.

There was no answer from Rubenstein. She repeated the question—louder. "Do you think the storm will intensify—as John goes south, Paul?"

"I think so. May be slacking up a little soon for us— looks like it up—"

"Paul!" It was the first time he'd turned his face toward her in more than an hour. His eyebrows were crusted over with ice, his face red and raw to the point of bleeding on his cheeks. She suddenly realized that while his body had shielded hers from the wind, his face had had nothing to protect it. "Stop the bike—now. You have

to," she shouted to him.

"What—" But then he shook his head slowly and she could hear the sounds of engine compressionas he geared down, making the stop slowly to avoid a skid. They had almost had one perhaps ten miles back but Rubenstein had kept the bike aright somehow, although Natalia didn't know how he had done it.

The bike slowed then, stopping, slipping a little as Paul shifted his weight, Natalia's feet going out to balance it as well. "You let me drive," she said, dismounting.

Paul looked at her, his eyes tearing from the wind, but smiling despite it. "If I let anything happen to your face—well, aside from the fact John'd never forgive me—I wouldn't forgive myself," he told her.

She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him a moment, then stepped back.

She had long ago resigned herself to Rourke's chauvinism—and liked it in her heart. And Rubenstein treated her the same way. She pulled the blue-and-white bandanna from her hair, her ears instantly feeling the cold. She started toward Rubenstein again, saying, "Then you tie this over your face and stop for five minutes every half-hour—either that or I don't go another mile, Paul."

"But—"

"No!" She decided then that if Paul insisted on treating her like a woman, then she could treat him like a little boy—and impose her will. She bound the handkerchief at the back of his neck, pulling up the sides until the handkerchief covered all his face just below his eyes. "You look very, very much like a bandit—a handsome bandit." She smiled.

Rubenstein shook his head, shrugging his shoulders,

his voice sounding slightly muffled as he said, "We go again?"

"Yes—if you think you can. But only for a half-hour—then a rest."

"Agreed," Rubenstein told her, straddling the Harley once more. She climbed on behind him. As the machine started along the road, she huddled her head down into the sleeping bag which formed a collar for her—at least as much as she could, for her ears tingled already with the cold despite her hair covering them.

She had bathed his face and now massaged it as they huddled from the slightly diminished storm under the shelter of a bridge, ground clothes anchored to the bike and to the bridge itself to form a windbreak for them. It was dark—night had come early because of the darkness that had filled the skies throughout the day. "You don't have to—"

She cut him off. "I massage your face because I love you and want you to be well."

He turned and looked at her. "You don't have to—"

"I do. I love both of you. You know that."

"But you love him differently—I know that, too. The kid isn't always asleep when you think he is." Rubenstein smiled, then winced, his face evidently hurting when he moved.

"Rest," she told Paul.