The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(51)

“What the hell is going on?” I try asking, but a grunt-mumble hybrid comes out instead. My voice is hoarse, post-Ambien. I think my mouth was dry like this last time too. As a side note, if you start noticing little patterns like this, it means you’ve been drugged too many times.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” The high-pitched, friendly voice can only belong to Hillary—same with the small, gloved hands on the steering wheel.

“Is the Super Pusher controlling you?” I ask. “And if so, why is he trying to kill us in such an unconventional way?”

I feel the urge to rub my eyes, but the visor and my limited range of motion leave that desire unfulfilled.

“No one is controlling me,” Hillary says. “We just needed to get to Apalachicola quickly, and I had this idea, you see.”

Palm trees and parked cars zoom past our windows so fast they look like two solid blurry walls of interconnected wood and colorful metal.

“What’s your idea, besides killing us in a glorious car explosion?” I ask, my sarcasm missing the bite that comes with not being scared shitless. Also, I’m probably still under the drug’s influence; at least I think that’s why I feel this intense nausea coming on. “And what’s up with all the cars parked on the side of the highway?”

“I had them all pull to the side so we don’t, as you say, die gloriously. I’m not crazy.”

“You’re not? The speedometer reads one hundred and fifty. Even with all the cars out of the way, that’s way too fast.”

Though I’ve done similar Guiding in the past, the scale of what she’s accomplished—clearing an entire highway for miles and miles—is truly staggering. Now that I’m paying closer attention, I notice that the parked cars are facing us and not away, which means we’re speeding down the wrong lane.

“I have two and a half hours to get us to our target,” Hillary says. “Given the slightly over three hundred miles we have to cover—well, you can do the math. Your beauty sleep put us behind schedule, so I’m trying to make up the time.”

“Why do we need to get to this place so quickly?” I ask.

We swoop through a more deserted area with only a handful of parked cars and no trees. This allows me a view of the other side of the highway, the one moving in the correct direction. I can see a cavalcade of cars, but given our insane speed compared to their law-abiding one, it’s clear we’ll be leaving them far behind.

“It’s so that I can execute my plan,” Hillary says. “And your chatter isn’t helping me focus, you know.”

“Is this a car chase?” I ask despite her very reasonable point about breaking her concentration. Looks as though my curiosity is stronger than my sense of self-preservation, similar to that of some now-deceased cats.

“It’s not a chase, per se,” she says.

“Are those police on the other side? In those Crown Vics?”

“Yep, that’s the law,” Hillary says. “And there’s more where that came from. More cars will be joining them in a few miles. Also, before you ask, George and the rest of your new friends are in that Humvee behind us.”

I turn and see that, indeed, a Humvee just turned the bend behind us.

Then I hear a motor revving, and something passes us on our right, causing a cloud of dust to billow around us.

Given how fast we’re going, I have to assume a ballistic missile just passed us. Upon closer examination, I realize I was only slightly off.

It’s a black motorcycle.

“That’s Kate,” Hillary explains.

She must be right. Though I couldn’t see the face under the black helmet, the BDSM-inspired outfit is telling, as is the sword sheathed on her back.

“What are you doing?” I ask when I see her foot press on the gas and feel the vibrations of the car’s engine working overtime.

“I’m catching up to Kate,” Hillary says. “I want to make sure there’s no bloodshed.”

“Wouldn’t splattering us all over the pavement be considered bloodshed?” I ask. “Can you explain what you’re doing? Wait—only answer if you can do so without killing us.”

“After you and George left, and after I caught up with my folks, I had this idea,” Hillary says, pressing harder on the gas. “Once Mom and Dad started getting on my nerves, I left and went to a local police department.”

“I thought you were going to say you cooked up the most elaborate suicide plan.”

She continues, ignoring my interjection. “I Guided the local sheriff to aid in my plan. He got in touch with his brother, a Florida State trooper, and they sent out an APB to all the states from New York to Florida.

“Oh,” I say, beginning to catch on. “You wanted the cops to catch the minivans? That’s a great idea. Why didn’t I think of it?”

“The effort turned out to be futile, though,” Hillary says. “The cops were out of their depth when it came to your friend Caleb and the monks.”

“Shit,” I say. “I was hoping—”

“If my original plan had worked, we wouldn’t be driving like maniacs right now,” she says. “But a version of it may still work. You said the Temple is near Apalachicola, in a forest. That limits the number of ways the vans can get there. So I had the cops create a bottleneck on the roads they’re bound to pass.”