A semi-truck stretches along beside us, gaining the lead, easing back unsure, then finally deciding to throttle forward. I watch its How's my driving? bumper sticker until it is in our lane and so far ahead I can no longer read it.
"I've been thinking." The words have been dangling on my tongue a long time as I've considered and reconsidered voicing them. Now they sound too rehearsed when I finally do speak. I look over at Dax.
He clutches the steering wheel, hands in nine and three position. Not once has he allowed the speedometer to go over fifty miles an hour, which is five miles under the speed limit. He cautiously takes his attention off the road to glance aside at me. "Oh? About what?"
"Whether or not he'll behave."
Acting on instinct, Dax quickly straightens in his heated leather seat to peek into the rearview mirror. But there's no need to worry. I've already taken a glance over my shoulder just seconds ago. And Trip is dead to the world in the backseat. Head tilted forward, dark rimmed eyes finally closed, breathing calm and deep, he would have looked peaceful enough, almost child-like—like a kid on his way home from an eventful day at the park—that is, if I hadn't seen him wedge his pistol between the door and his seat. His hand rests on leather, in snatching distance.
"Finally," Dax whispers, settling back. "If he fell into a coma I wouldn't be surprised. Then again... maybe he's used to running on fumes."
"He might be."
"Geez, what did Government do? Teach him everything he needed to know to escape them? Not exactly the brightest idea."
I know what he means. Following Trip around the parking garage felt like walking a car lot looking to buy. All it took was for Dax to slow to a stop and give an impressed whistle at the black BMW sitting lonely in a corner. A moment later, Trip was picking the lock with the paper clip I found at the bottom of my purse.
It took thirty seconds to get the door open and to shut off the alarm, and moving smoothly, systematically, as if he'd done it a million times before, Trip had found and disabled the kill-switch, disconnected the built-in GPS's tracking system, and hot-wired the car—all in under a minute. Dax, who I'm sure saw it as a grander form of hacking, watched the whole thing with newly kindled admiration in his eyes. And I admit it; no matter how many times I tried to remind myself I was witnessing as well as assisting grand theft, I too couldn't help watch Trip with a queasy sort of awe. Even after seeing him kill, it wasn't until right then, as I watched Trip rev the engine to life, that I knew just how right Dax was. Knowing everything Trip is capable of, Government must really be scared out of their minds.
Me and Dax, on the other hand, are lucky. Paradoxically.
Following a brief pause, possibly entertaining the same thoughts, Dax finally says, "I'm sure he'll behave, by the way."
Sighing, I adjust my seat belt so it isn't digging into my neck. "I don't know."
"I think he can be civil."
"I know he can. He can put on a show. I've seen him do it before."
"Well, there you go."
"But it's only to get what he wants. If he thinks it will be easier to hold a gun to your friend's head to get her to cooperate, he'll do it. And if he thinks she'll pose a threat..."
"I'm not worried about that."
"I am."
"I thought you agreed going to Aubrey's sounded like a good idea back there."
"I said it was our only option."
"Oh come on, Eve. It'll be okay." Dax sounds so sure. He even smiles. "Besides, maybe this will be, I don't know... good for him. You know, being away from the City, being some place..." For a moment he struggles to find the right word, glancing up at the sky through the sunroof. He settles with, "Homey."
I arch an eyebrow.
"Maybe," he says, "it will chill him out."
I have to check the laugh that jumps out of me. A quick look at the backseat to see if my outburst stirred Trip—it didn't—and I'm facing forward again. "I seriously, seriously doubt that, Dax. It feels like we're about to unleash a beast on your friend. We might have a plan, but as soon as we get there he'll do what he wants. We have just as much control over him as Government does."
"He can control himself."
I stare at Dax for the longest time.
He looks from me to the road, me to the road. "What?"
"You're being uncommonly optimistic."
"What are you talking about?"
"You were scared to death of Trip this morning, and now you're completely content bringing him to someone's house you really care about."
"Well..." Dax hesitates, head drooping to the side, shoulders raised in a frozen shrug. "Maybe I'm starting to get kind of used to him around, maybe I realize he isn't set on killing me, and I just, you know—I don't know."
"Just what?"
"I just... want to help."
"You want to help him?"
"Well, yeah."
I continue to stare. "Have you gone insane? Where is this coming from?"
"I guess I've been doing some thinking too."
"And?"
"And... the thing is... well, the way I see it..." Dax's thumbs drum uneasily on the steering wheel. He inhales, cheeks puffing out, and then expels a sigh. "You know when I got into that predicament I told you about with Government?" He glances sideways at me to make sure I remember, and I nod. "Well, when they brought me in, when they told me to hack for them, I was too afraid to tell them no. Even though I knew what they were telling me to do wasn't right—I knew it was wrong, I knew, I just... I copped out. They paid me, and I just kept quiet and followed orders, because I didn't want to go to prison. I guess I'm just a wuss like that."
I can't deny he's a wuss, but when he glances at me again I don't nod this time. "What are you getting at?"
"Triple left." A seriousness I haven't seen in Dax is sinking over his expression now—sobering his gaze, knitting his eyebrows. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he twitches his shoulders in another shrug, this one quick and nervous. "What happened back there made me think about that. I mean, he wasn't too afraid to separate himself from Government and the slave they made him be, and he's facing something worse than prison."
Unable to come up with a response, I quiet and let those words sink in, take shape. That's a different point of view than what I've become used to, and it just shifts and sharpens my focus a little more — not only on Trip, but on Dax, too. His honest, open confession makes me wonder if somewhere deep down inside Dax he's not all wuss.
Another semi whirs up beside us, attempting to pass, but it quickly falls behind as we approach a bridge. With the lull in our conversation prolonging, our car ascends, up, up, up, and in my mirror the view opens. Streetlights march along each side of the bridge, glaring across the Bay underneath. The City, afar, is a battalion of lights. The last flakes of the sunset are a deep cherry and violet backcloth. Stomach lifting as we peak the bridge, I draw in a deep breath and take in the scene.
"That's a sight," Dax mumbles.
"Yeah."
But it doesn't last long. Almost as quick as it opened, the view closes as we begin the descent, the City slowly vanishing behind the top of the road like a sideshow wipe.
Good-bye again, City.
Realizing I've pent up my breath, I release it, set my head back on the headrest, and watch the semi roll by fast on the decline. Its taillights play over the windshield of the car.
"Maybe that's why," I whisper, "he chose to come to you in the first place, Dax."
"Hm?"
"Maybe, somehow, he knew you could relate."
"Yeah. Maybe."
Like the darkness slowly creeping in on the world now, my fatigue—days worth of fatigue—slowly creeps in on my body. One by one my muscles and tendons start to release their tension and give in to gravity. And gradually, my mind loosens its grip on my nerves. Headlights and taillights beam on the road. Music plays low through the car speakers, and Dax hums along with it—just a small, soothing vibration in his throat. It's not very long before my eyes droop. And...
Dreams of bright lights. Needles?
The sensation of slowing down, stopping. Voices. Trip's voice. Doors slamming. Motion. My eyes drag open once, catch a glimpse of Trip—driving, thinking, stressing. Poisoning my blood again. My eyes close.
And I'm in a hospital room.
On the screen in front of me a green line bounces up and down. Every low bleep that vibrates throughout the room grows longer and more distorted than the last. Daniel asks me how it's going.
"Fine, just fine."
He asks me if I'm okay.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" My eyes tear away from the screen. Daniel is standing at the head of a gurney, surgical mask hiding his mouth. But I can tell by the crinkling around his eyes that he's smiling at me. Slowly, my gaze lowers to the gurney. "What did you do? You didn't get the dosage right or something. He's waking up."
Daniel assures me he's not. But he is. Fingers twitching, lungs swelling with a deep gasp, he's waking up.
My heart quickens. "Doctor Hampton, he's waking up."
Blood reflecting in his spectacles, the doctor looks up from his work and suggests stepping out of the room for a moment. I should get some air, take a break. Maybe I shouldn't be present at all.
But the man's eyelids are fluttering. I take a step forward, looking closer at his face. It's Addison Wilkes. But it's not. In the very pit of my stomach there's a sinking, sickening feeling that tells me the eyes under those fluttering lids aren't brown. Look what you've done.
"Something's not right," I say, shaking my head, stumbling, backing away from the gurney. "This shouldn't be happening."
A stern look crosses the doctor's expression then. But it must happen, Evette. This has to be done, and I should know that, Evette, you should know that, you're a nurse, buck up and do your job. Donna, eyeing me with the same deep frown puckering her forehead, whispers something to the doctor— "...might be upsetting her..." —and she turns on her heels. My gaze follows her to another gurney—follows the white sheet she quickly sweeps over a body.
My stomach sinks more. And I just know. All of a sudden, I just—
"Wake up, Ashford."
And I'm alert, wide awake, with a sharp, almost painful intake of air. Eyes flying open, head whipping around to look at Trip in the driver's seat.
He's looking down, blue dashboard lights gleaming over his pale eyes.
Quick, panicky, my gaze darts around me. The car is stopped. The windows are black as pitch.
"Shit. What do you think he wants? What if he doesn't try again?" Dax asks in my ear. I jolt, surprised to find him in the back, close, leaning forward between the front seats. At my girlish squawk, he glances at me apologetically. "Sorry, Eve."
"He'll try again," Trip says.
"What is it?" My voice is amazingly calm despite my confusion, despite the hard knocking in my chest. "What happened?"
Trip doesn't look up. "Can I trust you, Ashford?"
"What?" Am I still dreaming?
"Answer me."
"Yes."
Suddenly, there's a buzzing sound. Trip's face lights up, and my eyes drop to the bright screen of my phone vibrating in his hand.
"Then answer this," he says, holding it out to me. "It's your father."