Arrows plopped into the lake, smooth and sleek, leaving only tiny splashes in their wake.
Why were they shooting at him?
Why weren’t they helping him?
The phone remained silent. Marina’s stomach tightened painfully. She pushed the button again, peering over the expanse of water … looking. Hoping.
Hoping for what?
He couldn’t save himself.
“Gabe!” she turned, slapped the phone into his hand, and stripped off her shirt and pants. “Call her back!”
She heard his angry bellow as she dove over the side of the boat.
The cold water enveloped her like a heavy shroud, and Marina felt the shock through her body. Colder than Lake Superior.
Keep your mind blank. Keep it blank. Don’t think. Just swim.
Stroke. Stroke. Breathe.
She focused on her strokes toward the last place she’d seen her father, tried not to think about the depths below … the blackness that settled far below her. She kicked, swam, breathed, counted … .
And finally grasped the sodden clothing of her father.
His eyes were closed, and thanks be, he didn’t struggle. Marina wasn’t a strong swimmer; but somehow, she managed to hook her arm under his chin and cut strokes through the sparkling, cold water toward the boat.
The Skalas were close now; she could see the hair matted to the forehead of the closest one as he swam through the lake like an Olympic gold medalist.
How on earth had that frail man made it this far?
How had she?
“Marina!” She heard her name and the roar of the boat over the roar in her ears.
Through a glaze, she looked up as the boat came near. She saw Gabe standing, holding the phone to his ear.
He didn’t have to say more; she knew.
“Purple to left. Purple to left! That’s it! That’s all!” she screamed with what felt like her last breath.
The water closed over her; her limbs wouldn’t move.
The boat sluiced through the water next to her, and at last she felt the weight lifted from her arms. She let him go. She couldn’t hold on any more.
She’d saved her father. Somehow she’d saved him. Just as she’d saved Dennis Strand. And others.
And maybe, just maybe she’d saved Detroit … .but herself? She couldn’t move. Her arms were frozen, paralyzed … .
Marina heard a shout behind her and she barely turned in the water; she felt someone behind as he grabbed for her leg.
With a scream that came from nowhere, and a last burst of energy, she kicked, hard, caught something soft, and then suddenly she was lifted up and dragged over the harsh metal edge of the boat.
She tumbled onto the floor, next to something else relatively warm, and as the roar of the motor filled her ears she looked over.
Somehow Gabe had pulled Victor up. And her.
They’d done it.
Had they?
Marina looked up and saw Gabe, grim-faced, staring into the wind that buffeted their watercraft.
“Gabe!” she cried, fearing the worst. That it had been for naught.
He looked down, surprised, and he nodded. A small smile curved his lips.
They had done it.
-47-
July 16, 2007
Later, when Marina recalled those next hours after their escape from the Skaladeskas, three things remained clear and burning in her mind.
There was the warmth, the solidness of Gabe as he pulled her close to him on the slippery deck of the boat. He surrounded her with his heat and arms and long legs, pushing the wet hair out of her face as he framed her jaw with his hands. The kisses were long and ferocious, slick and hot and frantic. And they promised much more.
When her heart settled, and she was warm at last, cuddled against Gabe’s chest, a realization suddenly crystallized in her mind.
It was the certainty, the innate understanding that, for some reason, Varden had deliberately given her everything she needed—the information, the opportunity, and, in his own arrogant way, the impetus—to stop the destruction in Detroit.
Her brain was frozen, but she mulled and reviewed and rewound, and it was the only explanation that made sense. Whenever Varden had lashed out with particularly nasty, inciting comments, they had come at a time when she’d believed all was lost. They served to anger her, as in the time he’d mocked her about Gabe’s imminent execution; and to renew her determination to act.
And every bit of detail … he’d told her everything she needed to know to stop the bombs. He’d even given her the chance to leave the room, Command Central, when he sent her to the toilet to puke, and find Gabe and his gun.
But the most telling point was the fact that he’d had a point-blank shot at Gabe and had not killed him. How easy it would have been to put a bullet into his head.
Why not?
She wondered if it had even been Varden who’d put the wristband in her cupboard. It had appeared shortly after their conversation in which she’d asked for one.
Asked him, and no one else.
And if so, why?
She didn’t know; may never know. But she would be grateful to Varden for the role he’d played in her escape, regardless of his ulterior motive.
And then there was the other memory, which alternately horrified and mollified her.
When she recalled that last part of her adventure, Marina tried not to think about those later moments on the boat, with Victor huddled on the floor, coughing and shaking, trembling at her feet, but alive.
At one point, he looked up at her with gratitude and although Marina knew he would have liked it, she could not move herself to embrace him.
She couldn’t touch him.
She’d saved his life; but she’d have done the same for anyone struggling, anyone at risk. That he was her father—the kind of father he’d been—didn’t matter to her.
She couldn’t cross that line.
Marina looked under the seats and found more blankets. She wrapped them around him and tried to make him as comfortable as possible; but her sympathy was impersonal. She couldn’t help it. She felt nothing—less than nothing, really.
She’d done her duty, she’d helped him. But she’d never be his daughter. Just as he couldn’t be the father she’d wanted.
It was the most they could give each other.
Perhaps she could have had some kind of relationship with him if he’d helped her when she begged for it—when she was trying to save Gabe.
But he’d turned away.
It wasn’t until he had no choice, until he was faced with a gun, that he stepped forward to help them. And even then, had he really meant to help them escape?
“Marina.” His voice was weak, and he began to cough with the effort. “Thank you.”
She nodded, tried to smile, and pulled her own blanket around her. Gabe had moved away to drive the boat, and they were alone. “You’re welcome.” She tried to sound like she meant it. She really tried. Tears threatened her eyes.
She turned and sat, watching Gabe, as he navigated the boat while it sped through the choppy water.
And then, Victor had started coughing uncontrollably. He couldn’t catch his breath; he coughed, and spasmed, and coughed.
Marina, kneeling on the floor next to him, could do nothing for him but watch him struggle for breath as the boat thumped speedily through the water.
It was only because she was kneeling next to him that she heard his last words before he died.
There was no mistaking them; she heard them and they burned into her brain.
POSTLUDE
July 18, 2007
The Pentagon
“The pod’s been destroyed. The entire cave area that you traveled through has been devastated by some kind of explosion.” Colin Bergstrom bore an expression that lined his face with stress. “There’s no way to find our way back to the Skaladeska compound.”
Bergstrom, Helen Darrow, Gabe MacNeil, and Marina sat around the small table in a conference room at Pentagon. Marina presumed this was what the professionals called a debrief. To her, it was more like the beginning of another chapter.
“The GPS readings from my sat phone are long gone. If they were even accurate in the first place,” Gabe said. His arm was wrapped in white bandages, and Marina knew from personal examination—and some intimate activity—that under his button-down shirt, more white wrappings hugged broken ribs and a nasty gash along one hip. “And when we left the compound, we were traveling in bad weather and at night. The boat had no navigational system, and I have no idea how long we traveled, or how far, or in what direction. Until we ran out of gas, then we floated for awhile, made our way to shore and then walked for miles over rough terrain.” They’d had to leave Victor’s body, for Marina and Gabe had barely been able to trudge along themselves, propped against each other.
“We’ve sent a crew over to the vicinity of where you were, where you finally were able to contact us,” Bergstrom said. Marina already knew that. She supposed that information was for Helen Darrow’s benefit. “Radar isn’t picking up anything. It’s as if they didn’t exist.”
“But they did. They do.” Helen’s voice was firm and well-modulated, and she never looked at Gabe unless she had to. “They’re not going to go away, are they Marina?”
No. They weren’t. “Roman will be furious that things didn’t happen according to plan … I’m sure he’ll put some other plot into place as soon as he gets his bearings. They really believe —Lev does, for certain—that it’s their responsibility to protect Gaia. To save her; save the world. The end justifies the means … .And according to Lev, Gaia, the Earth, will work to expel any species that threatens the whole. They believe they are Gaia’s instrument.”
Around the table, an array of serious faces looked at her. “We’re going to need your expertise, Dr. Alexander,” Bergstrom said unnecessarily.
Marina looked down at her hands—scarred, bruised, scraped. She thought of the mark on her foot, the genes that tied her to those people … and the same burning lust for the knowledge and the protection of the ancient teachings locked away somewhere in Siberia.
