No Immunity

the dash of Louisa’s BMW. Snow had begun falling, scarce at first, now thick. Louisa clasped the steering wheel tighter; even so, the car skidded in the sharp curves.
    “How much farther?” Louisa’s voice was raw, any sociability gone.
    “An hour maybe. Do you want me to drive?”
    “No!” It was a moment before she said more calmly, “The place the boys are, is it on this road? Or do we turn off?”
    “We turn. Soon, I think. But I’ve only done this route once, and that was at night. So I’m just going to have to be alert for landmarks.”
    Grudgingly, Louisa nodded, and Kiernan settled against the headrest, watched the road, and considered what she knew. Grady Hummacher had snatched the boys and driven through the night to the Doll’s House. His one phone call from there had not been to inquire about Irene’s health, as she had assumed. His goal had been to hide the boys. For that he called his sole contact, Jeff Tremaine, whom he knew from the Carson Club.
    She nodded to herself. At one time she had speculated it was Jeff who operated the safe house. Of course Jeff knew of his wife’s operation.
    Maybe Grady was worried about the boys; maybe he just didn’t want to be tied down as he auctioned his find in the oil world. If he was savvy, he intended to keep them out of the hands of his competitors and enemies.
    “There, Louisa! Right!”
    “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
    “Take it.” As soon as the car swung right, Kiernan shut her eyes, willing a clear memory of the road. How long till she had left the pavement? Ten minutes, fifteen? “Speed up. We need to make time now.”
    “Because we’ll be off the pavement soon?”
    “Right,” Kiernan admitted.
    “This isn’t a truck, you know, are you sure—”
    “Louisa, what choice do we have?”
    “If you’d tell me where we’re going, maybe I could come up with another way. I’ve been around here before.”
    “No time for that.” Kiernan spotted a road to the right. It was closer to parallel ruts than a map-worthy route.
    She checked the road behind them, eyeing the horizon for a telltale plume of dust, seeing only emptiness and snow.
    If Fox was following them, there would be no telltale dust now, not in the snow.
    “There, turn left.”
    “On that! I’m going to have no transmission left. Can’t we—”
    “Turn, Louisa.”
    The car tilted and bounced as Louisa tried to find a path in the too-wide ruts from much bigger trucks. Kiernan braced her feet and thought of a whale-watching trip she had taken to the Farallon Islands years ago, twenty-six endless miles west of the Golden Gate, hours on an ancient no-stabilizer boat watching a dot in the ocean grow minusculely larger. All to discover that the whales had moved on.
    Now in the light she spotted lesser trails leading off the rutted road. Each she discounted, each time hoping she was right. She hadn’t recalled the road twisting so much. Last night the dark had blacked out the options. Now she could see the seductive choices that protected Connie. Louisa held the wheel tightly; she looked as if she were hanging on as much as steering. Not once had she checked the rearview mirror. Because of course she wasn’t worried about her compatriot Fox.
    She was leading him there. Kiernan knew that and it infuriated her. But what choice was there? She couldn’t lead Louisa away from the boys when Louisa had the drug that might save them. And maybe save herself and Tchernak. Here in the unforgiving desert she could neither escape with the drag nor overpower Louisa and abandon her beside the road to freeze.
    Even with the heater on, the car was cold. Her cotton turtleneck, inadequate before, now felt like paper against her taut skin. Outside, the snow was beginning to stick, throwing the landscape into an eerie black and white. Kiernan leaned her head against the seat. Exhaustion blanketed her. How long had it been since she’d slept? She had been trained on thirty-six-hour shifts in med-school rotations. This stint was still shy of thirty. No excuse for drooping. She straightened up. “Do you have any food, Louisa?” Before Louisa could offer a sarcastic “Help yourself,” she had the glove compartment open and a chocolate bar out. She didn’t want to accept hospitality; she wanted to grab the food as she would from an enemy. She crumpled the wrapper, dropped it to the floor, noted Louisa biting back a complaint, and sat nibbling the chocolate as the windshield