The Furies by Mark Alpert Page A

the backseat with her. With great reluctance he turned away from her and focused on the lever for the driver’s seat, tilting it as far back as it would go. This would be his bed for the night. Then he reached over his head to turn off the dome light. As he flicked the switch he glanced at the passenger seat, where he’d put the Pennsylvania license plates he’d taken off the Kia. The last thing he saw before the light went out was IVY4EVR.
    â€œThank you, John.” Ariel’s voice was softer now, a whisper in the darkness. “Thank you for everything.”
    He should’ve just said “You’re welcome” and left it at that, but he was too agitated. Over the past twenty-four hours he’d been tricked, seduced, and ambushed. He’d nearly been killed by assassins carrying assault rifles, and now he was fleeing across the country with a modern-day witch whose family might execute him to protect their secrets. But oddly enough, his greatest worry wasn’t Sullivan or the Elders of Haven. His thoughts kept circling back to what Ariel had told him this morning: Meeting you wasn’t an accident. I chose you.
    â€œCan I ask you a question?” He turned toward the backseat, even though he couldn’t see a thing. “About the news story you saw on the Internet? The story about me?”
    â€œCertainly. What do you want to know?”
    â€œWas it the article that ran in The Philadelphia Inquirer? ”
    â€œYes, it was.”
    John took a deep breath. Several newspapers had published articles about the shootings on Kensington Avenue, but the Inquirer story was the worst. “It wasn’t true. None of it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAll those things they said about me? All that saintly turn-the-other-cheek crap? It didn’t happen that way.” He clenched his hands. “I was ready to kill them. I was going to shoot every last one of those bastards.”
    Ariel didn’t say anything at first, but he could hear her moving in the backseat, propping herself up to a sitting position. He stared hard into the darkness, and after a moment he thought he could make out her silhouette.
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?” she finally asked.
    He wanted to. Very badly. But he’d promised never to tell. He’d sworn an oath on his daughter’s grave, just fifteen minutes after he’d lowered her coffin into the ground.
    â€œNo, I can’t,” he said. “I just want you to know I’m not a saint. I would’ve killed them. I was going to.”
    She fell silent again. For the next ten seconds all he could hear was her breathing. Then he felt a caress on his cheek. She’d reached out and touched his face.
    â€œIt’s all right, John. I never thought you were a saint. Now go to sleep, okay?”
    He closed his eyes. Her hand was so warm. “Okay,” he said.
    She kept her hand on his cheek for another few seconds. He leaned toward her, pressing his face against her palm, luxuriating in her touch. By the time she withdrew her hand and lay down in the backseat again, he was calmer. He kicked off his shoes and reclined in the driver’s seat. Within moments he was asleep.

EIGHT
    She was close. Sullivan could sense it.
    He and Marlowe were riding their Harleys up I-75, about ten miles north of Bay City, Michigan. To the east was the dark expanse of Saginaw Bay and to the west was Gladwin State Forest, which looked equally dark at four o’clock in the morning. The forest was a good place to hide, and the girl was expert at hiding. She’d spent more time outside Haven than anyone else in the community, and she knew all of Michigan’s secret places. Sullivan knew them too, but he doubted he could find her now. Not in the dark, not in that vast tract of woods. No, he’d have a better chance of catching her tomorrow. The state police were already checking each car that crossed the Mackinac