Chapter 15: The Hunted
The glow of the city faded behind them as Chris and Tristan merged onto the 10 East. The hills around LA, usually so familiar, now felt like terrain to escape rather than admire. Tristan gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, eyes flicking from lane to lane in the rearview mirror, scanning for the car Chris was certain would be tailing them.
“He’s here,” Chris muttered. “He’s close.”
“You sure?”
“No,” Chris said, leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide. “But I can feel it.”
The freeway hissed under them, a dark ribbon of asphalt cutting through the silence. Overhead, the moon hung fat and low—indifferent.
They’d barely had time to prepare. Chris grabbed only what mattered: his sketchbook, a thumb drive, the robe folded carefully into a linen tote. The Sunnylands archives had confirmed too much. The letters from Walter to Quincy Jones weren’t eccentric ramblings. They were blueprints. Intentions. A myth disguised as architecture.
Sam wouldn’t let that go.
And George—George didn’t follow orders.
He followed outcomes.
“I need to know who’s following us,” Tristan said.
“It’s ok,” Chris replied. “You’re not in any trouble.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t go public with this?”
Chris shook his head. “Not yet. If we leak anything before we finish the transmission, it’ll get buried. We need to finish what Atman started.”
They sped eastward into the night. L.A. gave way to desert scrub, palm trees bending under wind gusts, old neon motel signs flickering like ghost lights in the periphery.
Tristan’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He handed it to Chris.
A single message:
“We need to speak. Chris is unsafe.”
Chris swallowed. “It’s Maya’s number. But that doesn’t sound like her.”
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then deleted it.
Then he rolled down the window and threw the phone like a frisbee into the darkness.
—————
They pulled off the freeway near Cabazon—stopping just long enough to refuel at a deserted station surrounded by darkness. The wind screamed past the pumps, pushing sand into drifts against the curb.
“I’ll grab water,” Tristan said.
Chris waited outside, leaning against the car, scanning the empty highway.
Then he saw it.
Two sets of headlights.
No engine noise.
Just rolling slowly, menacingly.
Chris froze.
Tristan stepped outside, saw the look on Chris’s face, and didn’t need to ask. He dropped the water and sprinted toward the car.
“Get in!”
Tires screeched as they peeled out of the lot.
The black SUVs gave chase.
—————
“We can’t outrun them,” Tristan said, his voice calm but clipped. “Not in this car.”
Chris looked at the map. “Take Highway 111. Then cut through Cathedral City—off the main road.”
Tristan obeyed, weaving through the darkness. Their headlights lit up stucco homes and empty streets, half-finished subdivisions and date palm groves, whispering reminders that the desert was once full of forgotten futures.
The chase wasn’t high-speed.
It was calculated.
The way predators play with prey.
“They’re herding us,” Chris said, breath short.
“Then we don’t go where they want,” Tristan replied.
He swerved hard onto a service road, bouncing them violently over gravel.
Chris clutched the door. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Fight or flight. This is called flight.”
He gunned the car across an open field toward a line of power pylons. One of the SUVs skidded into the dirt behind them, tires kicking up clouds of dust.
“Hold on!”
Tristan yanked the emergency brake and spun the car into a full 180, sending the vehicle sliding sideways, blocking the SUV’s path. The black truck skidded to a halt.
Silence.
Then the doors opened.
George stepped out.
No gun.
No rush.
He walked toward them.
Chris’s heart hammered.
Tristan popped the glovebox and pulled out a flare.
“Wait,” Chris said, reaching for the door. “I’ll talk to him.”
“You’re insane.”
Chris opened the door and stepped out.
George stopped ten feet away. Face unreadable. Boots crunching the desert dirt.
“Your boss wants answers,” he said.
“So do I,” Chris replied. “But I think mine might matter more.”
George didn’t move.
“You’re not here to kill me,” Chris said. “If you were, I’d already be dead.”
“No,” George agreed. “I’m here to bring you back.”
Chris walked closer.
“We’re not your enemy, George. We’re the next chapter.”
George tilted his head. “You sound like him now.”
“I’m not trying to be him,” Chris said. “I’m trying to become myself. He just showed me how.”
George stared at him.
Then looked past him—at the car, the dust, the flare in Tristan’s hand.
Finally, he asked, “What’s in the bag?”
Chris unzipped it.
Pulled out the robe.
Held it high, so George could see the pattern stitched along the collar.
“You believe in energy,” Chris said. “You meditate. You feel the hum. So do I. This is real.”
George’s eyes narrowed.
Chris continued, voice steady now. “I’m not running away. I’m walking toward something. We’re not escaping—we’re returning. You can stop us. But you’ll never know what was waiting.”
Silence stretched.
Then George reached into his jacket.
Chris tensed.
George pulled out… a pen.
But he didn’t write anything.
He held it horizontally in both hands, thumbs pressing on either end. A tiny red light blinked on the clip—then off.
George clicked it once more, slid the pen back into his pocket, and only then spoke again:
“You have until sunrise.”
Chris exhaled, not quite realizing what had just happened.
George turned back toward the SUV without another word.
Inside Sam’s Hawaii control room, there would be static now. No visual. No audio.
—————
Back in the car, Tristan stared in disbelief. “He let us go?”
Chris nodded. “He gave us a head start.”
They drove in silence.
Eventually, Tristan asked, “What did you say to him?”
Chris smiled faintly.
“I told him the truth.”
—————
They arrived at the staff quarters at Sunnylands just after midnight. It was another mid-century structure, worn but charming, tucked below the golf course with a view of the city to the north. The air was still, thick with static.
Tristan parked behind a thicket of shrubs.
Inside, they didn’t speak much.
Chris placed the robe gently on the bed.
He opened his sketchbook. Laid out everything they had. Diagrams. Floor plans. Notations. The waveform from Walter’s robe.
The pieces were aligning.
Not as facts.
As frequencies.
Chris stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Not the Inwood mirror—just a cheap aluminum rectangle—but it still reflected something deeper than surface.
“I know what I am now,” he whispered.
“I’m the tuning fork.”