“They didn’t fall off, did they?” Dixon asked, and we spent a few minutes searching the garage, but didn’t find anything.
The attendant had no idea what had happened to the missing tires, saying he had just come on duty. He made a call, however, and managed to find the man who had been on duty overnight, and eventually wormed out astory that there had indeed been someone seen around the car during the night, but as the garage man had scared him off, and there was no visible sign of damage, he hadn’t bothered to report it.
“It’s the Esses,” I told Dixon as we returned to the car and gave it a quick once-over to make sure that there was no sabotage. A half hour later than we had planned, we prepared to depart. “I just know it was them. They probably tried to take all our tires knowing full well that the Flyer goes through them like candy but got scared off before they could take more than four.”
“I’ll text Roger,” Dixon offered. “I doubt if it will do any good, but perhaps he can order more tires to meet us somewhere in Russia. You can take the first stint of driving, and then we will alternate, all right?”
I gathered my own goggles (I only had white ones, since they matched my veiling), my hat, and my veil, and got into the Thomas Flyer. “Suits me.”
He consulted his watch and made a note on the official logbook. Technically, we didn’t need to record our arrival and departure times now that we were in the free-for-all section of the race, but Dixon thought it would be a nice inclusion in our journals.
We left Astana and headed northwest to Petropavlovsk, a town almost four hundred miles away. We passed a lot of land that reminded me of the Midwest—vast steppes of wheat and other grains, grand stretches of farmland, and even grander forests of what looked to be white birch trees. The road was pretty good, although we had hit a couple of patches where repairs were being made. During one of those patches, the stoppage was long enough that Tabby and Sam caught up to us.
“You were behind us?” Dixon asked when Tabby came forward from their car. We were all stopped, watching some big dump trucks maneuver loads of gravel androad-surfacing materials. “Dare I hope that means the Essex car is back there?”
“Lord, those goggles! You look like a cross between a comic book character and a steampunk adventurer. You may, in fact, dare hope. We all decided that since there are just two of you now, we’d each take a car and follow you. The Essex car should be rolling up soon with Roger and camera crew in tow. In fact, I believe that’s them.” Tabby pointed to the rear of the line of about sixty cars. I stood up on the seat and shaded my hand to see. Sure enough, the Essex car was in view at the end.
“Crapballs,” I said, sitting down behind the wheel again. “But at least we know they aren’t ahead of us.”
“True,” Dixon said, and proceeded to chat with Tabby about what the roads ahead in Siberia would be like. We’d had a warning that some of the roads were in a less-thanadmirable state, but didn’t know if that was just gossip by the Kazaks or a true indicator of potential trouble.
The road delay ended up costing us almost an hour, but with the Essex car so far back in the queue, we figured we had at least a ten-minute jump on them.
“Get ready for some fast driving,” I called back to Tabby when the cars ahead of us started coming to life, indicating the holdup was about ended. “Because I’m going to floor it!”
“Will do,” she shouted, and gave us a thumbs-up.
I adjusted my goggles, tied my hat on with a jaunty bow made up of the veil, and grinned at Dixon. “Ready for some high adventure?”
“So long as it doesn’t involve car crashes, food poisoning, drunk drivers, or any of the other events that have befallen the race, yes.” Dixon settled back in the seat. “Drive on, Macduff.”
It was a long day, but we eventually made it to Petropavlovsk. Tabby and Sam were with us the whole wayand filmed during a breakdown that we didn’t diagnose. We ended up sitting on the edge of a vast wheat field, eating the sandwiches that Tabby had fetched and enjoying a little time sitting in the sun and chatting.
Until the end of the picnic, when the Essex team drove past with their camera car following. Roger pulled over to see what was the matter with the Thomas Flyer.
“She conked out and wouldn’t start,” Dixon told Graham, who rode with Roger. Dixon gestured at the car’s engine, which we’d exposed by folding back the hood. “We thought it might be the radiator, so we’ve let it cool for about twenty minutes.”
“That was damned nice of the Esses to stop and see how we were doing,” I said loudly, stomping over to the car. “We could have been in serious trouble for all they knew, but nooo, off they go without so much as a glance back at us.”
“I was right behind them,” Roger told me calmly. “They must have known that Graham and I would see to any trouble you’ve had.”
I sniffed with righteous indignation. “They could have at least stopped. Maybe had a sandwich.”
“You wouldn’t, by any chance, have wished for their company just so they wouldn’t get ahead of you?” Roger asked with a blithe awareness that irritated me like a nettle on my flesh.
“Look, we all know they’re cheating like mad by getting rid of everyone else, so I don’t see anything wrong with wanting to keep them near us. Keep your friends close and enemies closer, and all that business.”
Roger sighed. “I have no proof that the Essex team has done anything untoward except for the unfortunate accident involving Rupert and Samuel, and that was most definitely an accident. However!” He held up a hand to forestall my objection. “In the interests of safety andgeneral concern for the well-being of everyone in the race, and since we haven’t ascertained how Melody’s water—assuming it was her water—was tainted, I have decided to pay closer attention to the Essex team, and will be spending the bulk of my time with them, rather than cycling between you and them.”
“Thank god for that. It’s like we’re in an Agatha Christie movie,” I said, waving an arm in a dramatic arc. A passing car honked, and several people stuck themselves out the windows to wave at us. I waved back. “One by one we’re picked off, until the only one to remain is the murderer.”
With a little roll of his eyes, Roger said, “No one has been killed, Paulie.”
“Not yet! Who knows what would have happened to poor Melody if her folks hadn’t gotten her to the doctor when they did? Just you wait. I bet the Evil Esses will try their respective hands at a little lethal elimination next.”
“Bah,” Roger said, and for good measure added, “Humbug.”
“Is the car low on water?” Dixon asked Graham, who had been poking around in the Flyer’s innards.
