Paige pointed to the battered Chevy pickup truck parked in the ditch on the side of the road. The front left tire was flat. A spare was lying next to the flat, the jack lying on top of the spare. The spare was also flat. The bed of the pickup was clean except for some empty cardboard boxes and scraps of cloth. Paige said, "My father's truck."
"Been there awhile," Eric said, indicating some fresh grass that had grown in the skid ruts in the dirt.
They approached the truck cautiously.
Paige peeked through the driver's window as she pulled open the door. She gasped, though there was nothing inside. "Christ," she sighed, shaking her head.
Eric hopped down from the truck bed. "What'd you expect to find?"
"I dunno. A body, I guess, like in those spooky movies. Somebody's always opening a door and a body's always falling out on them."
"Any sign of your father?"
"Like what? A coded note addressed to me pinned to the dash?"
"Take it easy, Doctor."
"Yeah, right," Paige said, climbing into the truck. "And quit calling me Doctor. You don't know what it's like to be called Doctor all the time. Even your friends introduce you as Doctor so-and-so, and everyone goes ohhh, like they expect you to solve their problems. I mean, people still ask me for medical advice. I tell them my doctorate's in physics and they say that's all right, do your best. Shit, you don't know."
"Sure I do," Eric said. "Meet Dr. Ravensmith, Ph.D., history. Also frequent dispenser of medical advice. Everything from cold sores to hemorrhoids. Mrs. Dietrich down the street stopped talking to me when I refused to prescribe Valium for her."
Paige looked directly at him. "History, huh?" She looked away quickly, a little embarrassed. During the past few hours traveling with Ravensmith, she'd been figuring him out, categorizing him. He didn't talk much, but when he did, he knew what he was talking about. He also knew how to move them quickly through the back roads and underbrush. They hadn't run into any other people, which meant that the flyers had worked in scaring off most of the area's inhabitants. But not Ravensmith. She stole another glance at him as he crouched down to look under the truck. He was handsome all right, even with that weird scar along his jaw and neck. He had a prime cut body, too. Not beefy like Steve's, a leaner, wilder musculature. Steve's looked like his had been developed in a gym; Ravensmith's looked like he'd gotten his chasing down coyotes. Still, she'd managed to dismiss him as just another ex-military type, cocky and bullying. Except for his single-minded drive to recover his son. That touched her. Now she finds he's got a goddamn history doctorate. Bastard wasn't easy to pigeonhole.
"History, huh?" she repeated.
"Yeah."
"Professor?"
"Assistant professor." He smiled. "But with tenure."
She stared into his eyes, noticing for the first time how penetrating they were. Even when he was smiling at you, he was searching, probing.
"So, Dr. Lyons," he said. "What shall I call you?"
"Try Lyons."
"How about Paige?"
She shrugged, flipped open the glove compartment. "Sure, OK. Whatever."
"Move over." Eric nudged her.
She gave him an annoyed look but scooted across the dirty seat while pawing through the mess of papers and used tissues that stuffed the glove compartment. "Dad hasn't changed. Still a slob."
Eric noticed the warm affection under the chiding tone, filed that away. Something to use later. He knew she had no intention of taking Tim back on the Columbia, that she was just using him. But he'd find a way. First, though, he had to find her father. And Tim.
"My God, I don't believe it," she said, reaching deep into the glove compartment. Crushed styrofoam cups spilled onto the floor. When Paige's hand reappeared, it was wrapped around a full can of Coke. "He used to drink at least a six-pack of these every day. We'd all sit around the breakfast table drinking orange juice and he'd be guzzling a can of Coke." She smiled fondly at the memory. "Told us if it weren't for cola he'd have been an alcoholic."
Eric looked at the can, felt his taste buds contract. He hadn't had a soft drink or a beer in months. Finding fresh water had been enough of a chore. "You going to drink that?" he asked softly.
"Are you kidding. It's warm."
Eric took it from her and carefully eased the pop-top open. He didn't want to do it too fast and have it all fizz out. He wanted every last drop. The top hissed, sprayed some warm cola onto his pants and across his hands. He licked his hands while waiting for the foam to die down. He leaned his head back on the seat and drank half the can in one swig. "Jesus, that's good."
She gave him a disgusted look. "Just don't belch, OK? I hate that."
He drank the rest of the Coke. Belched. "Couldn't be helped," he said.
Paige ignored him, continued rummaging through the glove compartment. "Nothing here. Mostly trash. Credit card receipts for gas, grocery lists, deck of cards, a Doonesbury cartoon book. Some tape cassettes of Judy Collins."
"No top secret documents to save the world?"
"Half a pack of Juicy Fruit. You interested?"
"Stale?"
"What's the difference? I'm surprised you didn't rip open the Coke can and lick the insides."
Eric said, "You haven't been here long enough to pass judgment on my manners, lady."
Paige flushed, her cheeks glowing red. She jumped out of the passenger side and slammed the truck door hard. The truck rocked. She marched all the way around the truck before standing in front of Eric, her face still a bit pink. She was breathing hard, her mouth a tight slit. Then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it was as if a different person was staring out. "I'm sorry, Eric. I mean it. I know how I act sometimes, I mean I can see me making a fool of myself. Inside I cringe, but that only makes me charge ahead even harder. You're right, I tend to pass out judgments on people like I was sent directly from God. I don't mean anything by it. Really."
Eric said, "Does that mean I get the Juicy Fruit?"
She laughed. "Ladies first." She unwrapped one stale piece, shoved it in her mouth and began chewing. She tossed the rest of the pack to Eric. "Help yourself. Only I suggest kneading it with your tongue before chewing. Save your teeth."
Eric stepped out of the truck and looked around. "How far to the cabin?"
"Another couple miles. Three at most."
"Then the truck was coming from the cabin, not going toward it."
"Looks that way."
"It also looks like he had the truck loaded with some of his stuff. Got a flat tire here, but when he took out the spare, he found that was flat too."
"Typical of him to have a flat spare."
"Absent-minded professor, huh?"
"No, not really. Just didn't care much about the details of daily living. He didn't forget things, he just ignored them."
"Like his daughter?"
"No!" she snapped, the anger back. Then it was gone, under control. "No. Actually we were very close until I got into the astronaut program. Then we didn't see much of each other. Not his fault. He called every Monday, invited me to fly out just about twice a month, planned dinners with me whenever he was in D.C." Paige sighed. "I was the one who drifted away. So busy trying to make it on my own, proving I wasn't just the famous Dr. Lyons's daughter, that I, well, pushed us apart, I guess."
"When's the last time you saw him?"
"Over a year before the quakes. A year and a half."
"Well, from the looks of things here, whoever was driving this truck probably returned to the cabin. Maybe to look for something to repair the tire."
"Then why didn't they come back? Where did the stuff that was in the back go?"
"I don't know. Maybe he realized there was no place to go anymore. Figured he was safest staying home. Maybe he carried the stuff back or someone else made off with it. No way of knowing until we find the cabin."
"Then let's go."
"Just a second," Eric said, reaching back into the truck's glove compartment and grabbing the two cassette tapes. He stuffed them into his shirt pocket.
"You some kind of Judy Collins fan?"
"Sometimes. Only right now I'm just curious."
"About what?"
"About why he's got the cassette tapes in the truck, but no cassette player."
"That's the cabin," Paige whispered. Only it really wasn't a cabin at all. More like a converted barn. "It looks different."
"You sure this is the place?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. It's just… oh, never mind." How could she explain that she remembered it as it was when she'd last seen it, through a sixteen-year-old's romantic eyes. It had been their family retreat, a place to hike and run and yell at the top of your lungs if you wanted. Christ, now it looked old, weather-beaten. Shabby.
She started toward it, trancelike.
Eric touched her shoulder. "Better wait."
"For what?"
"To make sure it's safe."
Paige let the implication register for a moment. "OK."
"Besides, what makes you think he wouldn't have taken off with the others when he read your phony flyers?"
"No way. Not Dad. He'd know the government would have to get him out sooner or later, and he'd certainly recognize this silly ploy as their style."
Eric stared at the house awhile. Nothing unusual about it. Someone had spent a lot of money a long time ago to have this place built. It wasn't a barn, merely built to look like one that had been converted, a popular style years ago. But time and neglect had ravaged its appearance. Yet there was something a little funny. The windows were clean.
"How was your father on housework?"
"A menace. Last time I saw him he told me he'd converted entirely to paper plates and plastic forks rather than wash any dishes."
"Better call in again, see if your friend's made it back."
"Right." Paige pulled the transmitter from her backpack, tapped out a coded message. It wasn't Morse or any of the others Eric knew, so he just watched the house while she and Dr. Bart Piedmont conversed in dots and dashes. It didn't matter anyway; he already knew what the answer would be.
"Well, Steve isn't back yet." She was trying to sound casual, but Eric could hear the tightness in her voice. "Guess he's slower than we thought."
"Might have sprained an ankle or something."
"Yeah, right." Paige began chewing on her thumbnail, a habit she'd been fighting for the past fifteen years. "Could have sprained an ankle, or gotten a little lost."
"Uh-huh."
"But you don't believe that?"
"I don't know. But just in case, we'd better start working fast, OK?"
She nodded. "OK."
"Let's go; Keep three feet behind me and to the left. If anything spooks me, I'm diving to the right. You drop where you are and get ready to shoot. Clear?"
"Clear."
They both lifted their HK 93s, checked the clips and flipped the safeties off. Eric's crossbow was slung over his shoulder.
"Just don't accidentally shoot my father, OK?" She wasn't being smart, it was a sincere plea.
"As long as he doesn't shoot at us."
"He's never even fired a gun in his whole life."
"Lucky man. Only since the quakes, a lot of people have done a lot of things they'd never done before, or ever thought they could do." He pointed his gun at the front of the house. "Like I said, people have changed, but most haven't gotten neater. You say your dad was a slob, but those windows are spotless. That's unusual out here. Most people are too busy surviving to do anything more than the minimum of cleaning."
"You've made your point, Eric. Let's get on with it."
Eric lead the way through the thick weeds and thorny underbrush. Paige gripped her HK 93 tightly, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached.
The thirty yards around the house were cleared. What weeds and grass grew there had been pulled or tramped down. Eric stopped when he reached the edge of this yard. He tensed his finger around the trigger with one hand and cupped the other around his mouth. "Hey!" he shouted at the house. "Dr. Lyons?"
There was no answer. He could see no one at the windows either.
"Anybody in there? We're not looking for any trouble."
Paige waded forward a few steps and shouted, "Daddy! It's Paige."
No answer.
"Now what?" Paige said, more to herself than Eric. Her voice was heavy with disappointment. She let the HK 93 sag to her side.
"Maybe he's being cautious."
"Sure," she said. "And maybe he's dead."
"Maybe. But as I understand your mission, you're to bring back either your dad or his papers. Right?"
"Yes."
"Then we go ahead. If he's not in there, maybe there's some sign of where he went."
"Like a body."
"Like a map, a letter."
"A treasure map?" She scowled at him. "You think I'm only here for his lousy plans, don't you? Little Paige, government robot who follows orders no matter what. Maybe that's how you were, mister, when you were in 'Nam, but I'm not built that way. Yes, I want his papers, but I want him more."
Eric touched her shoulder. "I didn't doubt that, Paige. I didn't mean a treasure map, but something to indicate where he might have gone. You said he was expecting to be rescued."
"Yes." She brightened. "Yes, he might have done something like that. He was very meticulous when it came to his work."
"Well, let's find out." He started toward the house, crouching low, the gun set on semiautomatic.
A movement behind the window, someone peeking and ducking away. Too fast for Eric to see a face clearly. "Someone's home," he whispered over his shoulder.
"Let's huff and puff and blow the house down."
Eric patted his HK 93. "That's what these are for."
They were only fifteen yards away now, Paige still behind and to the left of Eric. She was chewing on a sliver of thumbnail that had come off earlier.
"Come on out," Eric said to the front door. "We don't mean you any harm."
The front door flew open and they all came charging out at once.