American Craftsmen (19 page)

I drove out at twenty-five miles per hour, not wanting to attract attention. Straight ahead, flashing lights sped down the road toward the estate. I turned left, away from my ruined home. I slowed the car to a jog. Hopeless. One hundred yards ahead, two government SUVs partially blocked the street, leaving one narrow lane of escape. Standing outside their cars and separated by screens of musclemen were Eddy and Endicott. They were shouting at each other again.

“Why are you here? What do you know?” yelled Endicott.

“Find some other road and hit it!” replied Eddy.

Eddy and the Peeps must have had a hunch I’d come this way, if I survived.

I thought of running, until two police cars peeled into a stop at the corner behind us, completely blocking the way back. No way but forward.

Any second, Eddy, Endicott, or their goons would look over, and their argument would end in a gun-pointing consensus. Perhaps I could distract them long enough for Scherie to get away. That still seemed more important than my own survival. My voice had a cold calm that almost frightened me. “Get ready to run.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Again, she had the advantage, because there was no time to argue. “Please be ready to hand the gun to me.”

I accelerated back to normal speed. Twenty-five yards away, but Eddy and Endicott only had eyes for each other. They didn’t look up.

“Say when,” said Scherie.

“Steady,” I said. I had my own hunch.

I steered the car into the path between them and their SUVs. Eddy and Endicott grew closer like a slow-motion continuous shot in a faraway movie.

Endicott looked the worse for wear, his army haircut like a powdered wig from the plaster, his suit decorated with long thin gashes and splinters. He’d found a gun, but also retained his sword.

The passing car did not interrupt their argument. Their shouting seemed muffled, like invisible insulation wrapped the car.

My hunch was right. We passed through.

“What’s going on?” asked Scherie. “What did you do back there?”

“That wasn’t me,” I said. Scherie’s implication pricked me, but I’d address that later.
You Ukrainian bastard.
Roman had given me a craft stealth car. Still, a good thing my pursuers had been arguing. Roman’s craft probably wouldn’t last another hour, but that would be enough.

*   *   *

I drove. The sirens stayed near the ruins of the estate, fading into the background. Scherie sat silent. Her wide eyes and clenched hands betrayed her growing fear. I felt suddenly sad. “I think I owe you a thank you. You saved my life.”

Scherie didn’t say anything, and I dropped the effort. Conventional communication wasn’t my strong suit.

I drove on to I-95. The craft camouflage was perhaps too strong; other cars swerved at the last minute if they approached too fast. But at least the stealth allowed me to stick to the main roads. I’d ditch them for back ways when Roman’s craft wore off.

The highway ahead moved like a fun-house roller coaster; I was exhausted. And in the rearview mirror, Sergeant Zanol lounged with a sleepy grin, head lolling back and dripping from a temple wound. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said.

“I need to stop,” I said. “You need to take the wheel.”

“I don’t think so,” said Scherie.

“Hey, I’m gonna collapse here,” I said. “I need—”

In one graceful movement, Scherie reached under the seat and pulled out the Colt. She pointed it at my head. “First, you fix me.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “Please point that someplace else.” The gun was one of my father’s insurance policies. There was no craft safety in it.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“It’s been a long day,” I said, “and I’ve got no fucking clue.”

“Goddamn you!” The gun shook with her anger. “I saw enough, heard enough, to know what you are,
jadugar
. I saw that ghoul. I heard you trying to compel it. Fix me, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

“We’ll crash,” I said.

She said, “Better that than to lose my soul.”

“You think I’ve taken your soul?” I asked.

“What else would you call this?”

I moved my hand toward her, to touch her.

“Keep your hands on the fucking wheel,” she snarled, “and tell me exactly what you’ve done to me. And if you lie once, I’ll shoot you. Remember—you’re a shitty liar.”

“That’s not true!” I said.

She spoke with slow emphasis. “I
know
you lied.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but I’m not shitty. I’m an excellent liar. You shouldn’t have been able to tell.”

“I’m not stupid,” she said.

“That’s … not what I meant. I’ve only used persuasion on you to try to get you to leave quietly, and I clearly didn’t use enough. I haven’t used strong craft on you for anything else. Here, I’ll prove it.
Give me the gun.
”

Shaking with furious resistance, Scherie handed me the gun. “You … bastard.”

I felt dizzy. I didn’t have the energy for these wizarding lessons. “That’s what strong craft feels like. It’s not all that subtle. Is that what you’ve been feeling?”

Her eyes narrowed with doubt. “You could have completely taken over my will.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “But that
would
make you stupid, a real space case. Everyone would notice, including whatever remained of your consciousness. You wouldn’t be arranging rescue operations and ambushes.”

Scherie shook her head. “You could be telling me anything, and I’d believe it.”

“My family doesn’t do that. We don’t make slaves.” That left out the Left Hand and their more nuanced possessions, but I didn’t consider them family.

Scherie didn’t look convinced.

Give her to us.

I sighed, and the car drifted out of the lane. “Shit!” I swerved back between the lines. “OK, I’m too tired to argue.” I turned the handle of the gun toward Scherie and handed it back to her. “Just what did you think I was compelling you to do anyway?”

Oncoming headlights illuminated the tears on Scherie’s cheeks. “Oh crap,” I said. “Stupid question.”

Scherie lowered the gun to wipe her eyes. We needed to change the subject. “Are you OK to drive now?”

“Yeah, sure, why not,” said Scherie, hopelessly.

I looked in the rearview mirror, but Zee was gone.

*   *   *

We pulled over to the shoulder, way over to avoid being hit by the cars that wouldn’t notice us until too late. Scherie got out and helped me over the shift into the passenger seat before walking around the car. Injured as I was, I didn’t dare stop for long. “Drive with traffic, like nobody can see you,” I said. “Go to the Merritt Parkway. Wake me then.”

With clinical coldness, I gave myself a physical. I was beat up bad, as bad as ever. Some possible minor fractures, two cracked ribs. Losing blood. Even masked, this would call out to any pursuers. I tried some biofeedback and craft to staunch the blood loss, but I had too little concentration and energy to fully stop it. I drifted in and out of fugue land. The hallucinations of a craftsman were a Jungian minefield: frothing red grails of courage, wide-armed girls in gingham dresses baring their stigmata to the crossroads on open dusty plains. I felt a dangerous distance from my own body that made me want to laugh at my condition. A real mess.

I dropped out of my sanguinary vision; we were on the Merritt Parkway. The craft camo was still strong and hazardous, and we would go unnoticed for a while longer. Ahead was one of the parkway’s little stone gas stations, as if for little colonial autos. My weakness spoke in text message bursts. “Stop here. Get me cleaned.”

“Cleaned with what?” asked Scherie.

Good question. I hadn’t thought to ask Roman for a medical kit. “We’ll see.”

She parked the car away from the pumps. “Pop the trunk,” I said.
Cha-chunk.
“Check it. Please.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Scherie.

“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?” I said.

Scherie opened the door and went back to the trunk. I saw Scherie’s torso in the rearview; she stood motionless at the trunk for a long minute. Then she grabbed an old-fashioned doctor’s bag and slammed the trunk shut. “I’m not opening that thing again. Something might blow up. There’s an arsenal back there.” Roman had packed well. That meant precog or plans within plans.

I took care of myself where I could, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging the cuts I could reach. Scherie helped with the cuts on my back. “Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked.

“Goddamn it, yes,” I said. “Just as intense as for anyone.”

“There’s drugs in the bag,” she said.

“No,” I insisted. “Gotta stay clear.”

“Can’t you just hocus-pocus yourself better?” she asked.

“I’m tapped out,” I rasped. “Not one of my talents anyway.”

After my patch job, we sat in silence for the length of a pop song, the dark trees standing like sentries around a gas station fort. “Where do we go now?” asked Scherie.

A lot was buried in that question. I assumed that whatever Scherie might have felt for me romantically was left back there in the rubble of the House, but that didn’t change how I felt about her and her safety. Lighting out to the territories still seemed the best plan. I didn’t know whether my enemy survived, in part because I still didn’t know who my enemy was. But worst case, there would be a gap before the evil could triangulate on me again. Endicott’s people would be stunned at the confusion of ruins; the Peepshow would have to be careful or Endicott would track their trackers. I had time to find craft ground on which to recharge my power. Before everyone knew I was alive, before they organized their searches, we could be long gone, different identities and across the border. Perhaps no one would even follow.

If Red survived, I would come back to fight another day. Scherie would be alive and free. All my instincts agreed that this was the right move.

“There’s a traitor in the craft,” I said. “And other American craftspeople will be hunting us. So I’ll get you to Mexico.”

“Mexico?” said Scherie. “You need a hospital.”

“First you want to kill me, now I need a hospital?”

No, what I needed was a healer, for quick and full recovery. But the right healer was a long ways off. I wouldn’t go to the Appalachian; hostiles would trail me to her Sanctuary and, whatever our compact said, she’d be as likely to kill me as help. I had to hold myself together, get farther away from Providence, and find craft ground. I didn’t have enough skill for more than that (if even that). “Drive us toward Pennsylvania,” I said. “I’ll tell you where to go when we get to the state line.”

“Tell me now,” said Scherie.

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Let me rest.”

As I drifted out of consciousness, I heard Dad’s cynical voice echoing in my skull. “I told you she would cause you trouble.”

“Seems like she’s saved my life,” I murmured.

“I take the long view,” said Dad.

*   *   *

Defeating discipline and exhaustion, pain woke me up. But a sense of deep relief competed with the pain. Against all odds and my own intention, I was still alive.

I closed my eyes again, and breathed yogically, and nudged at Roman’s diminishing craft to keep us hidden from any farseeing trackers. But something further disturbed my alpha rhythms. I spoke low to Scherie, acting relaxed, trying not to clench my teeth. “So, like I was saying: you saved me back there. I owe you my life.” I was truly grateful, though she had prevented me from confirming the demise of the Red Death. “But we should still split up.” I imagined every eye on us at every gas station. “Together, we’re too noticeable.”

Scherie shook her head without moving her gaze from the road. “Bad play, Morton. You ever watch Bond films? You send me away, I’ll get killed and be the sacrificial lamb.”

“You live according to Bond films?” I asked.

“Only when it feels like I’m in one,” said Scherie. “You’ve got a better suggestion?”

Again, I was too tired to argue. “You must have, um, some questions.”

“In a Bond film, it would be better not to know,” said Scherie.

“No,” I said. “The sacrificial lamb doesn’t know. The Bond girl knows everything.” Damn, stupid thing to say. “As far as the government is concerned, you know too much already.”

“OK,” she said. “You can persuade people of your bullshit. You tried to do that with me.”

“Right.”

“And you can make people do something they don’t want,” she said, “like give you the gun.”

“Sometimes.” The Endicotts were always better at that.

“So,” she said, “what else can you do?”

“I can amplify my fighting skill,” I said, “and cause a little extra damage.”

“So you’re a good soldier,” she said. “But it has to be more than that, or they wouldn’t care so much.”

“I can see the bad things people have done.”

“You can read minds?” she asked, nervous again.

“Not really,” I said. “It’s more like reading someone’s metaphysical rap sheet. I see they’ve done something bad, but have to guess who they did it to.”

“Huh. But that’s not why they want you,” she said.

“Right,” I said. “It’s the weather. I can change it.”

“The weather? Like global warming? My God.”

“No, not climate,” I said. “Just local, and just for a short time. Even that can take everything I have. But that limited control still matters a lot to the military.”

“You can hide cars too,” she noted.

“That wasn’t me,” I said. “I’m nowhere near that good at hiding.”

“So, is that it?” she asked.

“Basically.” They wanted me for my potential to make more Mortons, but that was too awkward a topic after this long day. “Others can do other things, but for me, that’s all.”

“You can’t raise people from the dead?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?” she asked. “The weather is so huge—one life is tiny.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” I said. “Weather is about probability, and adjusting the chaos. But magic, my magic, never breaks the absolute biological limits. Bends, yes, but not breaks. I think there must be this much of a connection between craft and evolution. Nature and craft both profit from high turnover, and invulnerable immortals get in the way of that.”