When he is far enough out in the middle of nowhere—so far out that he doesn’t know for sure where he is—he parks, takes out a shovel, digs a grave that is both deep and wide, and lays Michael within. After he has covered up the body, he sits by the grave site and tries to think things through.
Had it really been necessary to kill Michael? He asks himself this question over and over. He agonizes over the possibility that there might have been another way, a way he should have found, a way that would have kept the one person he cared about alive. But it happened so fast, and at the time he had been so sure. If he didn’t kill Michael, Michael was going to kill him.
Michael had gone native; he had gone over the wall and into the wilderness, and he wasn’t coming out. His mind had snapped for reasons that Logan could only guess at, and nothing he did on that night—and perhaps for many nights before then—had been rational.
Logan would have done anything to save Michael. Anything. But he failed to act quickly enough, and so Michael is gone. He cries, thinking of it.
It seems unfair, wrong. Michael did so much for others, for all those men, women, and children consigned to a living hell in the camps, to lives of slavery and worse.
Only Michael tried to do anything to help them, to give them a chance at life.
Someone should have done something for him in return.
No, not someone, he corrects quickly. Himself. He should have done something for Michael. But he didn’t. Didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to do it. And now it is too late.
When dawn breaks in a thin leaden line across a sky so overcast it feels as if it is pressing down against the earth like the hand of judgment, he is forced to confront his future. With Michael dead and his followers dead or scattered, Logan has nowhere to go. He doesn’t even know what to do, for that matter. Carry on Michael’s work? Attacking the slave camps seems endless and ultimately not enough to make a difference. One man is not enough to attack the slave camps in any case. One man is not enough to do anything in this world.
So he wanders for weeks, driving aimlessly, until finally the Lady appears to tell him what it is that he is needed to do.
*
THE MEMORY CAME and went like the passing of a cloud’s shadow across the earth, and Logan Tom found himself staring once more at the wall of rock that blocked the pass. A gust of wind blew sharp and chill against his face, and the deep silence of the mountains pressed close in the wake of the memory’s passing.
He stood where he was for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then turned away.
Memories could take you outside yourself, but they couldn’t keep you there for long. He walked back to the Lightning, climbed inside, and started the engine.
In minutes, he was winding his way back down the mountainside. His mouth tightened against his thoughts. One thing he had learned that Michael had not.
No matter how bad things looked, there was always another way.
He descended out of the pass, traveling east back down through the foothills toward the flats. He drove as swiftly as the condition of the highway would allow, watching the daylight begin to fail with nighttime’s approach. He would have to decide soon whether to turn north or south to find a way through the mountains. He knew there were several major passes that led over, but not which ones were still accessible.
When he reached what appeared to be a major crossroads, he stopped and threw the finger bones once more. The bones writhed and wriggled on the square of black cloth and formed themselves into fingers that by compass reckoning pointed northwest. He put the bones away and turned the Lightning north. This road was smaller, its surface badly eroded by time and weather. He had to travel more slowly as a consequence, and the light soon faded to a thick, hazy gray, leaving behind a world of shadows and furtive movements.
He had almost decided that he had gone as far as it was possible to go without unnecessary risk when the road ahead turned into a morass of dark obstacles that forced him to slow to a crawl. Old vehicles, pieces of fencing and farm equipment littered a road surface already pocked and cracked. There was room to get around, but only barely.
Then there was no room at all, as dozens of dark, furtive figures materialized out of the dark to surround him.
Chapter NINETEEN