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70.
While jogging down into Mission Valley, Linsey called Jack. She wanted to talk about Robertson, but Louise's story had her floored. "Honey, tell me Louise Trost was kidding."
"Wish I could." He sounded as if he were breathing hard.
"Are you really in the Convention Center?" She was suddenly blown away with worry.
"Yes. It's spooky as hell. No sign of the kids. The chopper is wasted, the radio is out, and you can smell the pilot from 100 feet away; nothing anyone can do for him."
"Can I help?"
"Stay out of here. Whatever you do, don't try to rescue me. This place is like a house of horrors, with all these giant mushrooms still growing, spewing out spores, inflating, deflating, I don't know what else. I see one out there on the street, a tall one with a long stem and a wide, flat cap, that seems to keep bending over and straightening out."
"Where are you now?"
"Circling the San Diego Marriott and Marina. I'll have to go out on the upper deck of the Convention Center and then run like hell to the next section. As long as I stay up high, I'll be okay."
"How will you get out, whether you find the kids or not?"
"If they're—gone—I can fly out by myself. If I find them alive, we'll climb as high as we can. The Manchester Grand Hyatt has one tower at least 40 stories tall, the other about 33 stories tall. It might take the mushrooms a while to get that high." He added: "You sound out of breath yourself."
She said: "I'm on my way to your office. I need to find the phone number for your guy who never showed up—Robertson."
"Oh yeah. What about him?"
"He was in a car wreck. His two Indian friends are dead. Looks to me like someone rammed them on purpose."
She could hear Jack whistle. He said: "Sounds like he was for real. No wonder he didn't show up. He was in an ambulance while Dylan and I were chatting over finger food."
"Where is the phone number? On your desk at the office?"
"Why don't you just call them?"
"Lines are clogged. Nobody answers. I'm on foot and going as fast as I can through streets that are either dead-empty or jammed with foot traffic." As she spoke, his cell phone went out and she yelled in frustration, thrust the phone in a pants leg utility pocket, and picked up the pace. She could see Mission Valley spread before her. She still had a few difficult miles to go.
The roads were terrible—filled with slowly walking tourists and people from downtown and the beach communities. Suddenly, thinking of poor Cleve, she felt overwhelmed. She felt as if she couldn't walk another step. Her feet felt heavier and heavier, and she plopped down on a little grassy berm. Her eyes were full of tears, and she dimly could see hordes of beaten, sullen people shuffling past with their belongings, but they barely had eyes for her, only for the road ahead. She rested her elbows on her knees with her hands dangling between her legs. Putting her forehead on her forearms, she started bawling loudly. Tears flew from her eyes, bounding off her arms and her combat boots and into the dirt. Poor Cleve. How she missed him. So many people lost...and now Jack in that hell hole in the harbor!
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