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She isn’t sure how long they’ve been on the road, but there’s baby powder in her roots and a stick of spearmint gum in her mouth and she sure would like a hot bath, or even a hot shower, but this FBI imbecile has no sense of propriety in the face of duty.
“Give me the keys,” she says for what feels like the hundredth time.
“No. I’m fine, I can keep driving—”
“Albert. You’re not fine.”
“Yes, I am.”
No, it’s not duty. It’s devotion, which is a thousand times more dangerous.
“You’ve been awake for almost sixty hours and you’re going to get us both killed. Give me the keys.”
One of them was on the football team in high school, and it sure wasn’t Albert. In a matter of seconds, Denise has him on his knees, one hand twisting his wrist up sharply behind his back, the other clutching the keys to their impossibly dusty car. He swears under his breath.
Denise smiles. She might be a mess, but her lipstick’s still pulling its weight.
When they pile back into the car, Albert grumbles and whines from the passenger seat because he thinks that’s his job, and Denise tunes it right out because that’s hers. She finds a classical station—even out here in the desert, there’s always a classical station buried among the country-western.
An hour outside of El Paso, Albert starts to nod off.
He has to sleep eventually. That’s just biology.
And besides, if he doesn’t sleep, who’ll talk to Cooper?
(he is sitting in a chair)
(the room is ringed with red curtains that reach the floor)
(chevron stripes, black and dirty-white so far gone it’s nearly beige)
They’re not lost, per se. She knows exactly where they are. She’s got a map, a scanner, GPS, and periodic phone calls from Gordon Cole, who keeps meticulous track of the agents he hasn’t yet managed to lose.
But Albert’s been lost for a long time, in more ways than she can count. This is his vision quest, after all, following his spirit guide out into the desert.
She’s just along for the ride.
(he is not alone)
Denise takes them west on 10, backtracking up toward Phoenix, because it sounds like a better idea than chasing their own tails in Texas ever was. Cooper, or whatever’s riding him, is patient, and the trail’s been cold for days. And he’s clever, too. False names and cash will take you a long way when you’re the perfect uncatchable suspect: white male, average height, average build, dark hair, suit. Totally unmemorable until he opens his mouth. Of course, it doesn’t sound like he’s big on trees and Tibetans these days.
But the rider is predictable. He will kill again—and the trail will light up like wildfire.
Denise hums along to Mozart, then Tchaikovsky, as Albert’s head lolls toward his chest.
(he hears the shuffling of palms)
(sees a man in red to match the curtains, dancing)
(and a man in black who raises his hand, slowly)
(thumbs-up)
The dreams didn’t start right away.
It took time for Cooper to learn to send—he was a strong sender, he’d always said, but this was different, and Albert was nothing if not pig-headed when it came to accepting the difference between subconscious and supernatural. Coop had told him about his dreams. He’d met the one-armed man. That was plenty to bias the mind, to seed his otherwise random unconscious thoughts with curtains and chevrons.
It wasn’t until Cooper took a page from the Giant’s book and learned to prophesy that Albert began to wonder.
(“Coop?”)
(“Hǝ,s ɯʎ ɔonsıu.”)
(“Bnʇ poǝsu,ʇ ɥǝ looʞ ɐlɯosʇ ǝxɐɔʇlʎ lıʞǝ ᗡɐlǝ Ͻoodǝɹ¿”)