The Oracle Year(94)

“He hasn’t been revealed as the Oracle. Reverend Hosiah Branson just claimed he’s the Oracle. I didn’t hear any proof—but then again, I didn’t have much time to listen before my pregnant wife and I were attacked by an angry mob Branson sent our way.”

“That’s how you see it?” the interviewer asked.

“Not just me,” Hamza said. “I spent the morning speaking with extremely skilled and expensive attorneys, and they all agree. Branson spent months convincing his millions of followers that the Oracle’s the devil. Then, he claimed Will is the Oracle and released his name and address on live TV. Branson knew exactly what would happen. That’s attempted murder. He is a criminal, and I intend to do everything I can to make sure he pays for the injuries to me, my wife, and our unborn child.”

“And Will Dando?” the interviewer asked. “No one has seen him since the attacks outside his apartment.”

“I have no idea,” Hamza said. “But if I were him, I would be far away, under the radar, getting ready to sue the shit out of Hosiah Branson.”

“There we have it,” the interviewer said. “Strong words from Hamza Sheikh, victim of an attack by a mob seeking the Oracle. After the break, we’ll have our legal experts on to discuss the merits of the sort of claims Mr. Sheikh described.”

A commercial began, and Will reached forward to turn off the radio.

“He was setting me free,” he said, looking at Leigh.

“Wait,” she said. “Did you know he was going to be on the radio?”

“No,” he said.

“Then how did you . . .”

“Because I’m the Oracle,” Will answered, lying and telling the truth at the same time.

Leigh took her eyes off the road for a minute, evaluating him.

“You said he set you free,” she said. “Set you free to do what? What does that mean?”

“Right now, it means driving,” Will said.

“Seriously?” she said, her voice tense. “You are aware that all this is . . . a little terrifying?”

“I know,” Will said. “I’m sorry. I’ll explain more when I can. Right now, it’s probably safer if we just keep going.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but this is over. We have to stop.”

Will whipped his head to the left to stare at Leigh.

“What? Why?”

She turned and stared back at him for a moment, then her mouth turned upward into a smile.

“Because we’re almost out of gas,” she said.

“Jesus,” Will said, exhaling.

Leigh laughed.

“I’m sorry, man, I just wanted to fuck with you a little bit. Send a little of that terror back your way.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “I probably deserved it.”

“Wig time,” she answered.

Will looked up to see that they were pulling off the expressway. He popped open the glove compartment, revealing a blond wig, a baseball cap, and a pair of sunglasses—replacements for the disguise he’d lost back at the Waldorf when the coach had found them.

Leigh tsked in disapproval as they pulled into the gas station.

“Over eight bucks a gallon,” she said.

“Yeah,” Will answered, adjusting the baseball cap over the wig. “Hard to believe.”

But it wasn’t. The Site had been pushing up gas prices for months. All part of its devotion to making the entire world a poisoned, awful mess.

Will reached for his wallet and pulled out three twenties, handing them to Leigh, not without a twinge. They had at least a four-day drive ahead of them. ATMs weren’t an option—they were just as trackable as cell phones, and his accounts were all linked to his name or Oracle-related businesses, all of which he had to assume were blown by now. They’d started the drive with about a thousand dollars, but between food and gas and cheap hotels and the daily newspaper budget, it would vanish quickly.

Will heard Leigh pop open the gas tank cover and start to fill the tank. He reached for the notebook again, flipping through it, trying to make sense of all the lists and diagrams and seeing nothing more than a tangled web of patternless colors.

Out of the corner of his eye—something. He looked and saw a man—older, dark skinned—across the gas station’s parking lot, standing next to a beat-up green Celica . . . and staring right at him with a puzzled, intent look on his face. The man pulled his phone out of his pocket, fiddled with it, stared at the screen, then looked back up, his expression sharpening.

There was no question as to what his phone was displaying—a photo of Will Dando on the bandstand, with his bass, smiling a little.

“Oh shit,” Will said.

He opened the passenger-side door and leaned out, catching Leigh’s attention.

“We need to leave, right now,” he said.

“I’ve only got twenty bucks in,” she answered.

“Leave it,” he said. “I think someone recognized me.”

Leigh’s eyes narrowed. She pulled the nozzle out of the tank, slammed the cover closed, and slipped behind the wheel.

“Who was it?”

“Guy in a green Celica. Go slow, don’t make him sure he saw what he saw. Just get back on the highway.”