“They used to get together for poker games every Wednesday. Even when Bertram Grunwald was teaching at Harvard, Emerson’s father used to fly up there for the game. That was how he gave Professor Grunwald his first million, by deliberately losing to him. It was their little joke.”
“Emerson doesn’t seem to be friends with the Grunwald boys.”
“They never hit it off. And they didn’t get to see much of each other. There was a big difference in age.”
“Emerson’s father must have been devastated when Bertram died.”
“I suppose. Although it’s rumored they had a falling-out shortly before Bertram passed. I don’t know what that was about.”
Riley looked around. “It’s hard to see in the dark, but it looks like Vernon’s RV is all alone here. Where’s your house?”
“My place is down the road a bit,” Myra said. “Vernon lives here in a cabin tucked into the woods. He likes it here because he’s right on a good fishing pond. We’ve got a couple hundred acres of property between us. Most of it’s uphill and downhill. Larry can stay in the RV and the rest of us can all stay in Vernon’s little cabin tonight. I guess tomorrow you and Emerson will be taking off. I imagine he has a plan all laid out.”
—
Vernon’s cabin was half a notch above a man cave. Not a lot of frills but clean and comfortable, with indoor plumbing and a flat-screen television. Riley slept in the loft, where she was stuffed into a sleeping bag. Vernon and Myra had bedrooms, and Emerson slept on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Everyone was up early drinking coffee and eating Myra’s pancakes.
“You know how to drive a Redhawk, right?” Vernon asked Riley.
“Not only can I drive it,” Riley said, “I can change the oil and rotate the tires.”
“Good to know she’s gonna be taken care of,” Vernon said. “She’s borrowed from my friend Andy Gattle. He’s got a bunch of these old girls that he rents out to city people looking for a country experience. I gave him a jug of our special moonshine for it, and he brought it over at the crack of dawn all gassed up and everything.”
“I thought we were taking your RV.”
“No way,” Vernon said. “You’re going off the grid. You take mine and the feds will be on you like flies on a fruitcake.”
They hiked a short distance in the chill mountain air, and Vernon handed keys over to Riley. “Your RV is the one next to mine. She’s a beauty, right?”
Riley bit into her lower lip to keep from whimpering. It was a total hunk of junk. Rust everywhere. Nondescript paint job. She thought it might have at some point been painted with rainbow colors. Bumper sticker from Mama Jolene’s Campground, and another advertising the NRA. Hula girl bobblehead on the dashboard.
“I know it looks a little over the hill,” Vernon said, “but Andy keeps his girls tuned up and ready to roll. Plus you got an extra case of motor oil in the storage under your vehicle in case you need it.”
Riley climbed into the driver’s seat, and Emerson climbed in next to her. What few worldly possessions they had were stashed in the back, and Emerson had his rucksack at his feet.
Riley started the engine, slammed the Redhawk into reverse, and took out a lawn chair. She put it in park and leaned out the window. “Sorry about that, Vernon.”
“Never mind that old chair,” Vernon said. “I got three more.”
Riley eased the Redhawk off Vernon’s property, down the country road, and pointed it at the highway.
“Son,” she said to Emerson, “we’re going on a road trip.”
“You sound like Vernon.”
“I like Vernon. He reminds me of my brothers.”
Emerson took a large fold-up map of the United States out of his rucksack and opened it. A bright yellow line had been traced across it with a highlighter.
“I’m guessing the yellow line is our route,” Riley said. “What’s at the end of it?”
“Nevada. When we were in Günter’s office I showed you a note that said ‘Shipments made to Groom Lake.’ In light of all that’s happened I feel it could be significant. Günter’s office had been swept clean, but this note was handwritten on a yellow pad and overlooked.”
“Groom Lake and Area 51 are all within Nellis Air Force Base,” Riley said.
“Precisely. It’s a top-secret government installation. People have theorized for years about what goes on there, but the NSA keeps them away.”
“Everyone knows that aliens are kept at Area 51 along with all the X-Files and Close Encounters doodads,” Riley said.
“Doodads?”
“That’s the technical term.”
“I suspect possibly a quarter of the world’s gold supply, some of which is mine, is being housed there along with the doodads.”
“And you’ve reached this conclusion on the basis of five words written on a piece of paper?”
“Correct.”
I’m hooked up with a fruitcake, Riley thought. The man takes the term “loose cannon” to a whole new level. He’s a loose cannon with a bunch of nuts and bolts missing.
“I’d feel better about this road trip if you had something a little more concrete driving your gold theory,” Riley said.
“Sometimes one must take a leap of faith,” Emerson said. “Follow the yellow line.”
Riley blew out a sigh and headed down Interstate 81. She hadn’t driven a monster like the Redhawk in years, and she’d forgotten how cumbersome they were to maneuver. The reaction time was slow on the brakes and steering, and gusting wind rocked it side to side.
They stopped for lunch in Tennessee, and Riley studied the map while she ate her bacon cheeseburger. Emerson had chosen a southern route taking them through Nashville, Oklahoma, and the Texas panhandle. They’d be passing very close to Bishop Hills, her hometown. It would be tempting to stop in and see her family, but Riley couldn’t see it happening. They were supposed to be off the grid. She knew that included more than electronics. It included family. And most important, she didn’t want to put them in jeopardy.
“What are we going to do when we get to you-know-where?” Riley asked Emerson.
“Look around.”
“I am not breaking into any more gold vaults.”
“I doubt the gold is kept in a normal vault,” Emerson said. “That would be too obvious.”
“I’m also not breaking into a high-security military installation,” Riley said.
“We’ll see.”
“No! There’s no ‘we’ll see.’ People get shot doing things like that. And it’s very against the law. What would the Siddhar think of that?”
“I haven’t spoken to the Siddhar about it.”
“Who is this guy anyway? Is he like Yoda?”
“He’s more like Master Po. From Kung Fu Panda.”
“Okay, but what is he like? Where does he come from? How old is he?”
“He’s like himself. I don’t know how old he is or where he comes from. He lives in a monastery outside Port Blair in the Andaman Islands.”
“How did you meet him?”
“It was when I was sailing around the world. I dropped anchor at Corbyn’s Cove in the Andamans. He was in the water. I saved him from drowning.”
“Drowning? If he was so wise, why didn’t he know how to swim?”
“Why don’t I know how to drive? There are some holes in everyone’s knowledge. The point is that I was lost. I was wandering. He saved me, as well.”
“I can see that.”
“He is still teaching me many things. The traditional medicine of the villages of Tamil Nadu. The varmam martial arts. The ultimate goal is to attain the videha mukti.”
“What’s that?”
“Leaving the body at the time of death. To attain an unbroken union with the divine and blend into the transcendent Self.”
“That’s heavy.”
“I’m told at the time of death it feels quite light.”
“Looks to me like you’re a part-time student.”
??
?I suppose that’s true. I have responsibilities now. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing. The Siddhar likens my plight to the story of Kaubathar. Once upon a time, Pathanjali took the form of Adisesha and stayed in the Thillai forests for a long time. He wanted to teach the vyagarana suthiram to his disciples. However, Pathanjali was afraid that, since he was in the form of Adisesha, his disciples would be burnt to death when they came near him. So he made a partition between himself and his disciples. But the students were anxious to see the master’s face. One student pulled the partition down. All the students were immediately burned to a crisp.”
“Remind me not to have you tell my kids bedtime stories.”
“One of the students, Kaubathar, did not attend the lecture on that day. Pathanjali was happy that one of his disciples was alive, so he changed his form to one less fatal and taught all his skills to Kaubathar.”
“Is that the end? Is there a moral to that story?”
“Sometimes being away from your teacher is the best lesson. In a manner of speaking. I am here in body. There in spirit.”
“That explains it.”
“What?”
“A lot. And, by the way, I have no idea who Pathanjali or Adisesha are. I imagine Adisesha is something horrible, and Pathanjali doesn’t sound like a treat either.”
“I can drive, you know,” Emerson said. “It’s just that it’s been a while and my license has lapsed. I imagine driving a car is like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never really forget. Of course, I never learned how to ride a bicycle, so I couldn’t say if that’s true.”
“Maybe I’ll keep driving.”
Riley got off the highway at Jackson, Tennessee, and found a Walmart.
“We need necessities,” she said. “Clothes and food.”
“I asked Vernon to stock food for us,” Emerson said.
“I looked through the cabinets and fridge. They’re filled with beer and chips and beef jerky. Get some money out of the duffel bag. We’re going shopping.”
An hour later they had new sweatshirts and jeans, all of the basic food groups plus M&M’s, and the RV tank full of diesel fuel.
“We can park here for the night,” Riley said. “No one would think of looking for Emerson Knight in a Walmart parking lot.”
—
Riley slept in a T-shirt and sweatpants in the cab-over bunk and Emerson took the queen bed in the back. Emerson slept like the dead, and Riley woke with every sound. A little before seven she stuffed her feet into her sneakers, zipped up her new sweatshirt, and shuffled off to Walmart. She returned minutes later with coffee and doughnuts.
“You made the morning news,” she said to Emerson. “Me too. It’s awful. They had the snack bar television tuned to a Washington station, and the news came on while I was waiting for fresh coffee. The conjecture is that you and an accomplice broke into my apartment and kidnapped me. They described you as an eccentric billionaire gone berserk. Anyone seeing either of us should contact the authorities immediately.”
“Did they show pictures of us?”
“Yes. You were in a tux and you had a ponytail. I almost didn’t recognize you. My picture looked like a mug shot. I think it was taken on my first day at Blane-Grunwald for my employment file.”
“Did anyone recognize you?”
“Not that was apparent, but we should get on the road. A lot of people saw us yesterday while we were shopping and getting fuel. I’m sorry I made us go shopping. It was a bad idea.”
“Not at all. We had to stop for fuel anyway. At least they don’t know where we’re going. Not yet, anyway.”
Eight hours later Riley pulled into a KOA campground on South Choctaw Road near Oklahoma City.
“I can’t keep driving,” Riley said. “I can’t sit anymore, and I’m having a hard time staying awake.”
“This should be okay as long as we don’t give them our real names,” Emerson said. “There’s no reason why anyone should suspect we’re in this motor home.”
“We should have gotten disguises and fake IDs,” Riley said.
“That would be helpful,” Emerson said. “I didn’t anticipate television coverage.”
Riley hadn’t anticipated any of this. She could barely believe it was happening. When she’d woken up this morning her first thought had been to decide what she should wear to work. This was instantly followed by a mental reboot, because there was no work. At least not at Blane-Grunwald.
She eased the Redhawk into visitor parking and Emerson went into the office to register. Not a lot going on in the campground. It was off-season on a weekday. Mostly empty spaces. Emerson returned and directed Riley to a spot toward the back of the campground.
“Who are we?” she asked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dugan.”
“We’re married?”
“It seemed appropriate.”
“You don’t intend to act married, do you? I mean, at night and all.”
“Do you think I should?”
“No!”
“Then I guess I won’t.”
There was a long silence.
“Was that awkward?” Emerson asked.
“Yes.”
“I could cloud your mind so you don’t remember.”
“Do not mess with my mind. Why did you pick the name Dugan?”
“I had a dog named Dugan.”
“What kind of dog?”
“Brown. I don’t remember him very well. I was quite young and we didn’t have him very long. He bit my father, and my father replaced him with a giraffe.”
“You had a strange childhood.”
“Everyone’s childhood is strange. It prepares you for the strangeness of adulthood.”
Riley maneuvered the RV into its assigned space, and Emerson jumped out and plugged them into the electrical hookup.
“All the comforts of home,” Emerson said, back in the Redhawk, settling into a swivel club chair.
“No television.”
“Is that important to you?”
“It would be nice to get the news,” Riley said.
“I get the news on my computer.”
“We don’t have one of those either,” Riley said.
“The news is overrated anyway,” Emerson said. “We tried listening to the news on the radio this morning and it was depressing.”
Riley was pacing in the RV, trying to get some exercise without going out and showing her face. They didn’t have any immediate neighbors, but she thought the campground might have security cameras. She was freaked out enough. She didn’t want the Grunwald goon squad breaking her door down in the middle of the night.
“I don’t see how this is going to end well for us,” Riley said.
“I have a plan.”
“Does it involve fleeing to a foreign country and surrounding ourselves with bodyguards?”
“I’m going to find the stolen gold and expose the Grunwalds. They’ll be put in jail and we’ll be heroes.”
“How are you going to do this?”
“I haven’t got the details worked out.”
“You have no clue.”
“Not at the moment, but I’m sure it will come to me.”
“You think the gold is hidden on the air force base.”
“Yes. Or in the vicinity.”
“Are you familiar with the air force base? Do you have a map? Aerial photographs? Inside information?”
“No, no, no, and no.”
“That’s not the answer I wanted to hear.”
“I’ve made arrangements for a guide,” Emerson said.
Riley nodded. “I guess that could work. It’s someone reliable, right? Knows the area in and out?”
“I really don’t know. Vernon made the arrangements.”
“Oh boy.”
“You grew up in Texas,” Emerson said. “Groom Lake was practically in your backyard. You must have some familiarity with it.”
“Nope. Just the usual urban legend. When we took a vacation we opted for Six Flags. Groo
m Lake wasn’t in the running. It’s actually about a twelve-hour drive.”
—
Riley was back on the road after another restless night. The sky was a brilliant blue and the air was crisp. Emerson was silent in the seat next to her. Her second cup of coffee of the day was in the cup holder. She was on Interstate 40 and in six hours they’d reach Amarillo. If she took loop 335 she’d be home in Bishop Hills.
Ten years ago she’d been the country girl going off on a great adventure, anxious to leave Texas. She loved her family but she’d wanted independence. She’d wanted to experience a larger world, to make her mark. And now here she was heading back to Texas under strange circumstances. Not the triumphant return she’d hoped for. And she wouldn’t be taking the loop road this trip either. Too dangerous.
“I need to find a way to contact my parents and tell them I’m okay,” Riley said.
“Understood. I’m sure I can find a way to make an untraceable contact when we get to Vegas.”
He’s on the hunt, Riley thought. He’s stimulated by this. She could see it in his eyes and in his posture. She could feel the energy radiating off him. He wasn’t the hunted. He was the hunter. And that’s where they differed. She felt hunted. She was numb with disbelief that her life had taken this turn. She was going through the motions of putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was in survival mode, and Emerson had become the Caped Crusader. Okay, she admitted to herself, Emerson has probably always been the Caped Crusader. The man has no fear. It’s all like a game to him.
The ache in her chest started an hour before they reached Amarillo. She was homesick. The road and the landscape were familiar and she could feel the pull of family. She hadn’t been home since Christmas. Too long, she thought. If she somehow made it through this she’d visit more often.
They motored along without speaking, Emerson lost in his own thoughts, Riley not trusting her voice. They were on the outskirts of Amarillo, and Riley felt the ache begin to lift. The road was forcing her to look forward. They were approaching the no-man’s-land between Amarillo and Tucumcari, New Mexico, now. One of those stretches where it seemed like the white lane lines went on forever and never seemed to reach human habitation.