Factory, spanning acres in every direction. At Keane’s knees were several squash plants whose large, three-pronged leaves were covered with flat-backed, grayish-brown bugs; it was one of several spots in the garden he’d been praying over for most of the morning
“It is time you left for your journey. It would not be right for you to keep the Governing Council waiting when it is you they’ve asked for without so much as an explanation why,” Doli said, ignoring Keane’s half-hearted attempt at levity. She knelt behind him, hugged him, and kissed his up-turned cheek. “But first, I have news.”
“What is it?” Keane asked, turning further into Doli’s embrace. He put a hand on the ground against his failing balance, leaving the other on Doli’s waist.
“There is news on the television. It is bizarre. News I have not found a way to understand. There was an incident with a Navajo last night. It was on the national wire, AP,” Doli said, a mixture of concern and excitement growing in her voice.
“You were watching TV?” Keane asked incredulously. “Now that is a story.”
Doli snorted disapprovingly but couldn’t suppress her smile.
Keane laughed a little but focused his eyes on Doli’s so she would know he was listening; Doli could be a bit tricky to read, and today he’d yet to figure out what kind of mood she was in. Doli’s aunt still kidded him, saying she’d warned him about bluebirds being tough to live with.
“They have video of him. A Navajo Brave,” Doli said breathlessly, forgetting to inhale.
“A Brave? This Navajo from the news is a Brave?” Keane tried to keep his tone level so he would not offend his wife by revealing his doubt. Though he knew and loved many powerful Navajo, he had never met one who legitimately walked in the spirit of the old ways, the ways common before the white man came.
“If you see his face, you will know. It is the face of the forefathers. I have seen their faces in my dreams many times. Whoever he is, he is a Brave.”
CHAPTER 8
The truck loomed over Archer, swallowing him in its shadow as it outran the sun.
Drums hammered somewhere in the distance.
Alvin could see letters forming into words in his brain: Kill him! As each character turned to sound, it seared his gray matter with a pain that finally erased the need to understand what was happening. Faster! He must die! He’s the reason you can’t find her...
“He’s as good as dead!” Alvin yelled in answer. One fat hand pushed a river of sweat from his eyes. Alvin’s head was bobbing up and down in time with his torso, a volcano of psychotic energy in the throes of eruption.
The odometer had climbed to 70 miles an hour. Impact with the intended target was imminent. Still the cyclist was unaware.
“He can’t live. His blood will engulf us!” Alvin babbled.
Mere seconds behind the cyclist, Alvin stamped his accelerator for all it was worth and lurched onto the shoulder. Alvin would strike his target with the back wheels and claim he’d never seen him in the truck’s blind spot. Pitching further into the deathblow, the truck’s huge back wheels tore up the curb behind Archer, the transition causing an out-of-control skid. Tires and cement collided in a startling cacophony. The lorry struck a letterbox before fishtailing violently back onto the street, its front end staggering uncontrollably.
The other truck didn’t have a chance when Alvin’s white lorry jumped back over the curb into oncoming traffic. The collision was earsplitting, and powerful enough to propel an unbuckled Alvin through his windshield and onto the hood of the eighteen-wheeler he’d just ploughed. His body rolled unceremoniously sideways, bounced off the torn left fender and onto the cement, where blood and mucus pooled around the flattened features of Alvin’s face.
From the moment Archer had gotten on his bicycle at Trinity College, he’d felt the rare feeling athletes have when their training and hard miles come together at just the right time. Anything was possible, even in spite of last night’s excessive pubbing with Alvin. As he bolted from Trinity’s gates into Dublin traffic, Archer had noticed the near-collision between the big white delivery truck, the red double-decker buses, and himself, but there wasn’t time to worry about who was at fault; it didn’t look like any real damage had been done anyway. Now was the time to enjoy the ride. Final exams were near and Archer was homesick for Wisconsin and his friends.
One song after another shuffled through Archer’s iPod as he charged down Stillorgan Street. Traffic had been great, the strain in his legs balanced, the sun as bright as it had been all summer. Slowing down to cut around a clot of students from University College, Archer suddenly felt the unusual sensation of his eyes staying fixed in one place while his body and bike continued forward. The exotic beauty holding his gaze with her provocative smile was gesturing for him to pull over; the motion of her hands pulling him toward her was curiously emphatic. Archer acted impulsively, turning hard up a dip in the sidewalk next to Seafield Road twenty feet from where she stood.
Archer’s reciprocal smile had only begun to form when alarm bells rang from deep within.
Horrible panic gripped him in an instant.
Archer couldn’t look over his shoulder in time to see what lurked behind. It was there already, wrapping its arms around him.
A violent roar thundered through his headphones, drowning reality.
Pressure from the collision of truck and rider left Archer oddly tranquil as his body lifted into the air and spun 180 degrees, his bicycle clattering away in another direction. What am I seeing? he thought, pain already ripping white-hot through his body.
An explosion of sound and heat engulfed him.
Archer’s ass landed first, tearing a large whole in the thin fabric of his cycling shorts as layer upon layer of cheek peeled away. A bump in the roadway caused his body to roll sideways for another ten feet, scraping elbows, hips, and knees for good measure.
Even after his body finally came to rest, Archer braced himself for more sensation. Ginger turns of his head revealed the scene: two trucks were buried in one another. Thick smoke poured from their crumpled hoods and fluids gushed across the pavement. Already cars were stopping and cell phones were jammed to ears. Archer could see one man moving in the truck furthest from him and was shocked to see the other driver, or someone, only feet away from him on the pavement.
Archer flushed at the sudden realization that it was a miracle he was still alive. If he hadn’t turned towards the girl when he did, moving several feet off the road in the process, he would have been hit head-on. It wasn’t a pretty thought. A crowd was already gathering, yet no one moved to help Archer. To him, the on-lookers seemed captured in a picture or deep water, unable or unwilling to help.
Just then he saw the prone man’s hand twitch. He reached to take it in his own, having crawled only a few feet to be at his side. Archer hoped the man was okay, though it was clear his body was laid at impossible angles. The prospect that the man might be dying sent a chill down Archer’s spine.
Pulling off a bloody cycling glove, Archer carefully placed his hand on the biggest hole in the man’s chest. He was surprised at how hot the blood was as it flowed out and around his fingers. Archer, more for himself than anyone else, nearly choked on reassurances. “Help is on the way. Just hang in there. You’ll be fine.”
For
