Cat’s Cradle
Christine Rimmer
Contents
Prologue
Overhead, the desert night exploded with fireworks: trailing comets, rockets, bursting stars. It was the Fourth of July in Las Vegas, and Dillon McKenna was about to jump a motorcycle over the man-made volcano that erupted every fifteen minutes in front of the Mirage casino.
The crowd seemed to stretch out forever along the Strip. Dillon cruised down the middle of the street, working the crowd like the pro he was. He popped a few wheelies. He rose with a quick, agile leap and stood on the seat. For a moment, as he balanced like a wirewalker, he let go of the handlebars and carefully straightened to his full height. He bowed.
The crowd went nuts. They waved their miniature American flags and threw their red, white and blue hats in the air.
Under his breath, as he bent for the handlebars again, Dillon muttered a low curse. It was hotter than hell’s basement in the heavy crash helmet and the star-spangled jumpsuit that L.W. had ordered made especially for this jump. Sweat ran in Dillon’s eyes, burning. He blinked to clear it away.
He thought, This is the last jump for me. After this, I’m done.
The thought soothed him somehow. Made him care a little more about doing it right for the people this last time around.
The people had been good to him, over the years. They deserved a good show. They didn’t know that he was quitting. Nobody knew yet.
Dillon slid his feet off the sides of the seat and dropped. His boots landed neatly back on the pegs. He waved. The people screamed and stomped and waved frantically in return.
He’d reached Flamingo Road. Time to turn it around and head for the ramp. A voice from the small speaker inside his helmet told him he had two minutes before the volcano went off. He raced the engine, letting off the clutch just enough to make the tires scream and skid as he turned the bike. Then he gunned it again. The bike, which he’d modified himself for this jump, sounded good to him. It sounded just fine.
All up and down the Strip the chant had begun.
“Dil-lon. Dil-lon. Dil-lon. Dil-lon...” A thousand voices speaking as one. To Dillon the sound was barely more than a whisper beneath the roar of the bike.
“One minute,” the voice from the speaker inside his helmet warned. Then the countdown began. “Fifty-nine seconds, fifty-eight...”
Dillon gunned the engine again. He let out the clutch. The faraway chant of the crowd faded to nothing as he shot forward, picking up speed, headed for the takeoff ramp that rose over the lagoon at the foot of the volcano. He hit the base of the ramp and zoomed for the jump. Ahead and beneath him, the eruption began. A sharp, high burst of fire.
He took off from the ramp and soared out into the half block of nothingness going seventy-five miles per hour, with fire belching skyward below him. He rocketed higher, higher, leaving the people and the fire behind. He was standing on the foot pegs, gripping the handlebars, leaning forward, his eyes on the landing ramp, his mind on trajectories, on the arc of himself and the machine. And then he was over the top, into his descent, heading right on course for the landing.
He felt the heavy thud all through him as his rear wheel came down on the lip of the ramp. For a fraction of a second, he thought he was home free.
But then everything went wrong.
Too fast! I’ve hit the ramp too damn fast!
The thought came blasting into his mind as the bike came alive beneath him, fighting him. The handlebars ripped themselves free of his hands.
Nothing held him. He left the bike and catapulted into the air. He fell, somersaulting, noting in a distant way that beneath him, fire had rimmed the volcano and was beginning to bleed down the sides to set the lagoon aflame.
He came down hard on the ramp in front of the runaway bike. Man and bike became tangled. Over and over they tumbled toward the hard pavement below.
The last thing he heard before he blacked out was his dead father’s taunting voice echoing in his head.
It’s your last jump, all right, you worthless piece of trash. ‘Cause you’re a dead man...
* * *
He was back in his hometown of Red Dog City, California, standing on the Beaudines’ front porch. It was a fall evening. He could smell burning leaves. There was a chill in the air. He was seventeen years old. And mean Cat Beaudine was telling him off.
“All I asked was that you get my sister in by nine, Dillon McKenna. One little request. And you couldn’t manage it.”
Adora, Cat’s sister and his high school sweetheart, was holding on to his arm. He wanted to impress Adora. And he wanted to show Cat Beaudine that he was at least as tough as she was.
He opened his mouth to tell Cat Beaudine just what he thought of her.
No words came out.
The porch faded away. Someone said something about vital signs. Faces in surgical
