“I think Bluebird and her crew might be onto something.”

36

“Do you have a tail?”

She’s been driving north on the 101 for about fifteen minutes, but it doesn’t feel like anyone’s following her. A few times she’s slowed down and let most of the traffic pass. The only holdout’s been a lumbering Mack truck. It’s still far back in her rearview and looks like it might be towing some kind of livestock.

When Cole offered to buy her a new car, she asked for something that could take almost as much punishment as she can when she’s triggered but wouldn’t stick out too much in pickup truck–filled Altamira. A day later, he had a brand-new Volvo V60 crossover wagon delivered to her house. It’s the color of weak tea, with tinted windows and black leather interior that don’t exactly scream I’m just a hometown girl! But it’s safe, and it drives like a dream.

“How about you let me handle the road?” she says.

For a while she drives in silence, so much of it she starts to wonder if the call dropped.

“You still there?” she asks.

“I am. Our conversation didn’t seem productive, so I decided to drop out.”

“Well, smell you, Nancy Drew.”

“Excuse me?” Noah sounds genuinely puzzled.

“I’m just always amazed by your ability to sound so completely superior no matter how insane you’re being.”

“I am superior. To most people anyway. I’m incredibly smart, and I’ve made an amazing drug. The majority of people will spend tonight watching some sort of vacuous TV show and wondering if that person they hate at work is going to hurt their feelings again.”

“And you’ll spend it under armed guard because of your crap judgment calls.”

“Oh, please. The tendency of this world to judge geniuses by the standards applied to middle management is going to produce a generation of dullards who think getting out of bed in the morning is an achievement.”

“For some people, it is. The ones who’ve had their lives screwed up by people like you. You used to pretend to care about people who’d been hurt, back when you were masquerading as a psychiatrist.”

“I care about helping people. In real, meaningful ways. Not just chatting them up about their perceived issues so that these so-called problems can loom ever larger in their self-obsessed minds. You needed some chitchat, so I gave it to you. It was the only way to get you to a place where you were ready for what I had to offer. And when it was all over, your life was ten times better, thanks to me. Admit that, and it will only continue to improve.”

“You know what I think your problem is, Noah Turlington, a.k.a. Dylan Thorpe?”

“Oh, I can’t wait.”

“You can’t see where your life ends and other people’s lives begin.”

“Good, because if I did, I wouldn’t give a damn about helping anyone. I’d just reap the rewards of my own genius. Alone.”

“What would that look like exactly?”

“Crime, probably. Lots of it. The profitable kind. I certainly wouldn’t allow myself to be held prisoner in this pretend, rustic . . . Christ, I don’t even know what this place is. I think it was Cole’s father’s idea of a hunting lodge, but there’re no weapons or trophies in it. Enough about me. How’s the lovemaking with your former bully?”

“Maybe you could give me some sense of how long this drive’s gonna take.”

“Why, so you can come up with ways of avoiding my questions?”

“Is it, like, Salinas long, or San Francisco long?”

“Why don’t you just say it?” he asks. “All of it. Say it now, Charley.”

“All of what?”

“Whatever you need to say. About me. About all the terrible things I’ve supposedly done.”

“I thought you hated talking.”

“No, I hate self-indulgent wound licking.”

“I’ve been honest with you right along. I still believe what I said at the farm.”

“We said a lot of things at the farm.”

“I think you picked me because you hated me. You thought I profited off the movies and the book and the murders.”

“Why would I need to hate you to pick you for this?”

“Because there was a chance I might tear myself apart. Literally.”

“No, there wasn’t.” He says it so casually it’s possible he’s just being dismissive of the possibility. “I knew you’d do just fine.”

He sounds strangely confident, but when has he ever not?

A text from Bailey lights up her phone’s screen. FYI, yr security in Amira is a JOKE.

“What?” Noah asks.

“It’s Bailey. He says our security in Altamira is a joke.”

“Well, for the time being that’s a good thing. Because I don’t want anyone to see where you’re going.”

When Julia Crispin’s name flashes on his cell phone, Cole tries to suppress a groan. He fails.

Fred Packard’s driving them to his living quarters and control center, which he’s described to Cole as a tiny tract house they’re renting for about the amount of money Cole spends per hour on fuel for his helicopter. Hardly the local command center Cole told Ed to establish.