Her words knocked him back a step. Who was she to determine their agenda? Returning her direct gaze, he sensed that the way he responded would shape an important dynamic to their relationship. He'd always been a leader himself, yielding authority to no one, especially a woman. She might have more experience in covert matters, but did her knowledge of the criminal mind and her prowess with weapons give her a right to assume control of their destinies? As he opened his mouth to protest, the ice machine loudly dumped a tray of ice into its holding bin.
Allen jumped and snapped his head toward the machine, feeling Stephen tense up beside him. Julia didn't flinch, merely continued to watch him. It seemed that surviving in the shadowy underworld of dark villains had made her unflappable. He had to admit, regardless of her gender and age, she was the most qualified to see them through this insane battle.
"What?" she asked.
"I think I feel a second wind coming on."
She spun and strode out the far end of the breezeway, heading for the street that ran parallel to Broadway Avenue.
He was glad she hadn't smiled. Stephen stepped past him, briefly patting him on the back with a mitt-sized hand.
"I will not give sleep to my eyes, or slumber to my eyelids," he said and walked on.
"Come again?" Allen moved to catch up with him.
"Psalm 132. David was determined to build God's temple. Julia is determined to triumph over these people after us." Stephen was walking in great strides now, either feeling no pain or simply ignoring it. The right side of his shirt clung to his skin. The blood on it had spread like a perspiration stain under his arm, spanning down to his hip.
"We have been moved already beyond endurance and need rest," Allen recited. At Stephen's inquisitive look, he said, "John Maynard Keynes, first Baron of Tilton."
"'Be strong, show yourself a man.' First Kings."
Allen laughed. "'A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.' Steward Alsop."
"Oh-ho!" Stephen roared, ready to counter.
They walked on like that, lobbing the wisdom of others at each other. Julia marched silently ten feet ahead, leading them toward the motel. While the bright sun warmed their skin, a gentle breeze sweeping off the mountains kept them from perspiring. Traversing this quiet back street so soon after arriving eased their sense of being pursued. This place, where an occasional dog barked from its backyard home and children drew hopscotch grids with colored chalk in driveways, was galaxies away from the pit that spawned germ-creating madmen and their bloody minions. Tension evaporated in the heat like morning dew. For a few minutes, they even felt safe.
The slowing movements of Julia's head revealed that her darting scrutiny of their surroundings had turned to careful observance. They deviated from their course once to patronize a drugstore she spotted across Broadway. Stephen purchased medical supplies and an XXL T-shirt emblazoned with the message HUGGABLE, which he probably should have slipped into at the store, but he decided to wait until they were ensconced in the motel. All three picked up toiletries.
Ten minutes later, Julia brought the group to a halt.
"Okay, there's the motel." A portion of its sign was visible over the roof of a house. "Allen, we'll say we're married. Stephen, hang out here for about fifteen minutes, then come. Our room will be the one with the washcloth sticking over the top of the door. We'll try to get one around back."
In the glow of the first brotherly camaraderie he had experienced in years, Allen had almost forgotten their fugitive status. "Why should he wait here?" he asked.
"Two shall live where three would die." She grinned and walked away.
"Shakespeare?"
"Julia Matheson," she called over her shoulder.
Allen threw Stephen an exasperated look and hustled after her.
forty-seven
All the rooms at the motel faced busy Broadway Avenue, so Julia insisted on keeping the curtains closed. Even with the lamps on, the room, decorated in brown hues, appeared murky. It was the sort of room for illicit rendezvous, drunken binges, suicide. Allen was sure it had seen its share of each; the stark ugliness of it alone could drive someone to self-destruction. As Julia fiddled with the zipper of her gym bag, he plopped onto the bed and pulled a pillow over his face.
"Did Goody say anything else?" she asked.
He lifted the pillow up to look at her.
"You said he mentioned Ebola, that it was man-made, coming here . . . Anything else?"
He thought. "He said something-
"Lit? L-i-t?"
"I guess. I Googled
"Barrett."
"Barrett. He said to tell them he loved them."
