Angel, Page 78

Page 78

 

  The restaurant was brightly lit, with piped-in music that throbbed at his skull. It took Alex almost an hour on the pay phone to find someone who could come out, and then almost two hours more of waiting, his muscles stiff with tension, until they arrived. By the time the tire was finally changed and he was behind the wheel again, the digital clock read 2:46. The Church of Angels’ service would begin in just over an hour; Willow would be attempting to disrupt the gate in just over three. The thought clutched at Alex’s stomach; he still had to get over the rest of the Rockies. I’ll make it, he told himself, pulling back onto the road and accelerating hard. I’ll make it or die trying.

  Soon he was deep in the mountains, on a twisting highway. The route was familiar to him; he’d been to Colorado many times. Alex blew out a breath. He should be in Denver by around four thirty — he’d have time to spare.

  But then the traffic stopped.

  He was about twenty miles outside of Denver when it happened. For the last hour or so, the stream of cars on the highway had been steadily increasing, slowing him down. His hands tight on the wheel, Alex kept glancing at the clock, trying to reassure himself that he still had time, even with the traffic.

  The flow of movement became slower and slower, until finally he was hemmed in on all sides by cars creeping along in fits and starts, no faster than about five miles an hour. Finally they just ground to a halt altogether. Alex sat staring at the unmoving cars, his heart thudding wildly as the minutes passed. Ten minutes. Then fifteen, with no movement at all. Christ, what the hell was going on? And then it hit him, like a drench of arctic water.

  Everyone was going to the Church of Angels. Tens of thousands of them, all heading in the exact same direction he was.

  Alex got out of the truck and jumped up onto the hood. His blood froze. He was on a slight rise; he could see miles of unmoving cars stretched out before him, glinting in the sun. Far ahead, people were standing outside their vehicles with the doors open, looking as if they’d already been there for hours. He was still more than fifteen miles away; it was a quarter past four now.

  He wasn’t going to make it. Willow would die alone, thinking that he hated her.

  No. No.

  Alex leaped off the truck and flung open the passenger-side door. His gun was in the glove compartment; he grabbed it and shoved it under his T-shirt. Then he started to run.

  Dimly, he was aware of cars and people moving past his vision. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, feet thudding rhythmically on the shoulder. At the gym, he could run almost eight miles in an hour. This was harder — he was on a hilly road; the mountain air was thin. It didn’t matter. Setting his jaw, Alex ran faster, pushing himself. After a few miles, he abandoned his jacket, throwing it to the side of the road.

  He lost track of the time. There was only the endless concrete and running and the frantic beating of his heart. Finally he came up over a rise and saw two motorcycles parked on the grass to the side of the shoulder. A man and a woman were standing beside them, looking like they’d stopped to rest; they were pulling on their helmets. On the highway, the line of cars stretched out, as unmoving as ever.

  The couple stopped mid-motion, watching Alex in amazement as he jogged up to them. He put his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath; he could feel the sweat coursing down his face. “What — what time is it?” he panted.

  The man had long brown hair in a ponytail, a braided goatee, and sunglasses. He took a cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. “Five twenty-seven,” he said.

  No. Oh, God, no. “How far to the Church of Angels?”

  The man made a face. “Ah, dude, you’re not one of those, are you? I don’t know, five or six miles?”

  Alex’s blood pounded in his brain. Half an hour. Willow might die in just over half an hour, and he wasn’t going to make it in time; he wasn’t going to be there for her.

  “Here,” said the woman, handing him a bottle of water. She was short, with a round face and long black hair, and was staring at him in concern. “You look like you need it. ”

  His hands were shaky; he gulped down half of the water at once. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he handed the bottle back and said, “I’ve got to get to the cathedral by six o’clock — I’ve got to. Do you think you could give me a lift?”

  The man shook his head with a grin. “Sorry, we’re heading down to Colorado Springs; we’ll be taking the next exit off. I can give you a tip, though — the angels aren’t really coming, so you don’t need to bother. ”

  “No!” Alex struggled to sound halfway calm; knew he wasn’t managing it. “It’s my girlfriend. I’ve got to get to her; she’s in trouble. Please, I’ve got to be there — it’s life-or-death, I mean it. ”

  The smile faded from the man’s face. “Well — I sure wish we could help you, dude, but . . . ”

  “What do you mean, life-or-death?” broke in the woman, her eyes wide.

  Oh Jesus, Willow might die and he was actually standing here talking to these people? “I can’t explain,” he said tightly. “I’ve just got to be there. ” He glanced at their bikes; one was a vintage Harley; the other an aging Honda Shadow. “Could I buy your bike?” he burst out.

  The man’s eyebrows shot up over his sunglasses. “Are you serious?”

  Alex felt like punching him. “Yes. Look, I’ll give you a grand for the Honda, cash — please, just let me have it. ” It would only leave him with a few hundred; he knew it didn’t matter. If Willow died, he didn’t want to live anyway.

  The woman’s mouth had dropped open. Slowly, she closed it and looked at her boyfriend, who shrugged. “You were thinking of getting a new one,” he said to her.

  She shook her head. “Well — yeah, but I only paid eight hundred for it, and that was two years ago —”

  “Great, you’ve made a profit. ” Alex grabbed his wallet, counted out the bills, and thrust them at her.

  She stared down at the money. Finally she took it, tucking it into a leather bag across her chest. “Well — OK. ” She shrugged, laughing in surprise. “Here, I guess you’d better take this. ” She handed him the blue helmet she’d been about to put on.

  “You do know how to ride, right?” said the guy as the woman took her things out of the motorcycle’s side storage compartment.

  Strapping on the helmet, Alex nodded as he straddled the bike. It had been a few years, but Juan had had a motorcycle back at the camp; he and Jake used to take turns on it. The woman handed him the keys. “Here,” she said. “And — good luck. I hope you get to your girlfriend in time. ”

  “Yeah, me too,” muttered Alex. He started the engine; twisting the throttle in short bursts, he steered the bike past a car and out into the center of the wide-laned highway, where there was space between the lines of traffic. Then he kicked the clutch and gunned it.

  Even with having to maneuver around cars and stragglers, it was far faster than running, and relief drenched through Alex — along with terror that he still wasn’t going to make it in time. The final few miles went quickly as he wove in and out of the traffic. Finding the cathedral was easy — there were huge signs every mile or so. He took the exit, leaning into the turn. Dimly, he noticed that the cars he was passing now were abandoned; the devotees had apparently decided to just give up and start walking.