Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) (32 page)

The
two men sat quiet for a minute, listening to the distant sound of the river and
the moans of the few wounded that the CDF men had rounded up.

“No
Creedy,” Nakamura said, looking sour. Sam exited the bullet-pocked brick
building and walked to where they waited.

“No
Creedy,” Grey said. “He must have split off last night.”

“We
need to go after him,” Sam said, pushing her hair back from her brow and
looking from Grey to Nakamura.

“Why?”
Grey asked. “I have no men,” Nakamura said simultaneously. Grey looked at the
Captain.

“I
know he might have something of value, Sam, but I have less than two squads
healthy, and we have to get back to Larson and make sure our wounded there are
safe until reinforcements arrive. I can’t spare men for what could be a wild
goose chase now.”

Sam
considered Nakamura for a moment, her eyes narrowed, and then gave a single
sharp nod before turning to Grey.

“Can
you track?”

“You’d
have to convince me why I should want to.”

“Okay.
I will,” Sam said, sitting down.

Sam
had left to find new clothes and Nakamura was organizing a body detail when
Georgia and Clay came back off the bridge.

Georgia
retrieved her rifle, folded it away into its case, and hefted the black oblong.
Leaning against its weight, she walked to the brick building where Grey watched
the CDF men as they set up camp.

Grey
leaned against a tree as she approached, looking from Georgia’s face to the
black case and back again.

“I’m
leaving, Grey,” Georgia said. She stood the case on its end and leaned it
toward him. “I want you to keep this. I won’t need it.”

Grey
put a hand on the case to stop it from falling, and Georgia let it go.

“I’ll
get you the rest of the ammo for it. It’s in my saddlebags,” she said.

“You’re
done,” Grey said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’m
done.” She turned to Clay, who cocked his head. “You remember what you asked
me?”

“Yes,”
he said.

“How
about you come home with me, instead?”

Clay
took his hat off, leaned down and kissed her, his free hand cupping her scarred
cheek.

“I’d
like that.”

It
took most of the next day for Grey and Nakamura to discuss the situation and
tie up loose ends. Sam had found a uniform and black armor vest that fit her.
Grey had scavenged through the CDF’s supplies with the Captain’s approval,
choosing a few items and rations for an extended trip.

Mal
was in and out of consciousness but the young medic assured Grey he should
recover. After a series of slightly delusional demands from the patient, Grey
spoke with Nakamura and retrieved as much as a horse could carry from the two
trailers, depositing the pile of silverware, engraved pistols, statuettes,
furs, canisters of spices, watches and stranger things next to the pallet Mal
occupied.

He
did the same for Clay and Georgia, and saw them off that evening. Clay accepted
the hide bags with a nod of thanks and turned away, settling them behind his
saddle.

Georgia
gave Grey a kiss on the cheek.

“Well,
your invasion is stopped,” she said. “How do you feel?”

Grey’s
forehead wrinkled and it took him a minute to answer. Clay turned, curious.

“I
feel okay,” he said at last, looking at them both. “I’m glad we managed to do
what we did. Not happy, but glad, if that makes sense.”

Georgia
nodded. “You’re not done, though, are you?”

Grey
shook his head. “No, I am done. My business, anyway. But I’m going to help
Samantha find Creedy if I can. If he took something from that library, it’s
probably better that she has it.”

“Why
you?” Georgia asked.

“Nakamura’s
shit out of luck,” Grey said. “The rest of his troops are either blown up or
injured and the only tracker he has is yours truly. Sam figures the two of us
can move fast enough to stay on their trail and get the cases back.” Grey
shrugged. “He can’t get reinforcements for a week or two, so it’s me or
nothing. And he asked real polite.”

“You
decided that having the US Army wandering around is a good thing?” Clay asked,
squinting.

“There’s
always someone wandering around. They’re no worse than most, it looks like.
Besides, I’m Canadian. I’ll start worrying when the RCMP shows up.”

Georgia
mounted and Clay followed suit. Their horses stamped, ears raking forward,
anxious to be gone.

“You’re
not trying to fix things, are you?” Georgia asked.

“No,”
Grey said. “Check in on Ronald and Doc for me, please?”

“Any
word for Josie?” Georgia asked.

“I’ll
talk to her when I get back.” Grey shook his head. “No. Tell her I miss her and
I’ll come back when I can.”

Georgia
stared at him and raised an eyebrow. Grey exhaled and looked down at his hands.

“Tell
her I love her and I’ll be home soon.”

“That’s
better,” Georgia said. “Bring flowers.”

Clay
ticked the brim of his hat with a finger.

“We
did what we had to, and did it pretty well. That’s something.”

Grey
watched them ride away. Nakamura joined him.

“There
must be a rule,” the Captain said as the pair crested the horizon and waved
before turning and riding out of sight.

“What
rule?”

“The
guy with the cowboy hat always gets the girl.”

*          
*          *

The
bodega was hot as an oven even though the sun had ducked behind the western
mountains. July was a punishing month in Chico, and much of the little town’s
business occurred at night. The bar in question never seemed terribly busy, and
sat the better part of a mile from the knot of buildings that formed the city
proper; structures of adobe and brick built where the original town had burnt
down decades before. It was a business frequented by people who wanted privacy,
and the locals knew better than to visit uninvited.

That
evening the bar was empty but for a wizened old man wiping out jelly jars with
a rag and a table occupied by two men, one extraordinarily large, and a woman
in dusty black.

 A
waterwheel in the tepid creek behind the bar turned an ancient ceiling fan with
soot-black blades, and the draft made the oil lamps on the bar and tables
flicker. The fan chirped like a bird as the wooden shaft rubbed against its oak
bushing with each revolution. The air smelled of cigars and spilled wine.

“Esteban’s
late,” Creedy said. He stared at the glass of wine sitting before him and
twisted it a quarter turn.

“He’ll
be here. He said around sunset,” Hollis said. 

Creedy
nodded. “Do you expect any trouble from him?” Esteban was a jovial, fat man and
Creedy mistrusted his smile and his bright yellow and red serape and his
intentionally comic sombrero.

“No,”
Hollis said. “He’s eccentric, but he deals square. That - and his habit of
castrating anyone who crosses him - keeps him in business.”

Creedy
grunted. “So shooting him and taking the heroin is a bad idea?”

“Very.”

“Then
we won’t.”

Gregor
stood up and rolled his head, making his neck crackle.

“I’m
going to get a beer, does anyone else want one?” he rumbled.

“I’ll
take one,” a fourth voice said. Gregor turned to face the door, where a man in
a striped serape and sombrero stood. He held an old blue suitcase in his left
hand.

Hollis
stood and drew a flat nickel automatic with an inhuman speed. Even as the man
in the serape raised his right hand, the folds of the cape falling away to
reveal a long-barreled revolver, she fired. The man staggered back a step,
finished leveling the revolver, and shot her in the chest, sending her backward
over her chair in a spray of blood. Gregor had drawn a knife from his belt, and
as the man staggered he threw it at him. His aim was perfect, but the man’s
drunken stumble took his throat out of the line of the knife’s flight, and it
sank into his left arm. The suitcase dropped to the ground and the man cursed.
Gregor crossed to the door in three lunging strides, another knife in his fist.

The
stumbling man threw the ridiculous hat into the face of his attacker as he took
another step backward, off the bodega’s porch and into the dusty forecourt,
nearly falling. The big man gripped his opponent’s right wrist and twisted
savagely as the pair exited the building. The gun thudded to the packed clay. 

“Private
party,” Gregor said pleasantly, waggling the knife.

“We
have an invitation,” a familiar voice said to his left, from the shadows under
the ratty arbor that ran around the bar.

Gregor
never heard the shot.

Creedy
glanced around the room, at the tiny windows, the single door, the narrow
stairs leading to more tiny rooms with equally tiny windows in the upper floor.
The barman had dropped behind his bar with practiced speed, he noted. He freed
the pistol he carried and laid it on the table before him, then picked up his
wine and took a sip. The man in the serape came back inside, the knife still in
his arm. He held his revolver at his side.

Bearded
and obviously Anglo without the hat, the man was about Esteban’s size and
build. Creedy wondered what had tipped off Hollis, not that he could ask her
anymore.

“Shall
we talk, or would you rather shoot me now?” he asked. He had no illusions of
beating anyone who could take out Hollis and Gregor both.

“Sam,
get his gun, and the one the woman dropped,” the man said. Creedy started.

Sam
entered the bar, cradling a shotgun and wearing a green and gray uniform topped
with a black vest. Her eyes glittered like glass in the lamplight.

“Sam?”
Creedy said, his eyes widening fractionally. The bearded man raised his
revolver and held it on Creedy as Sam stepped forward and retrieved the two
weapons. Creedy started to laugh. He laughed until his eyes watered and he had
to stop to wipe them.

The
man holstered his weapon while Sam covered Creedy, her face pale as milk. It
was stippled with blood. Gregor’s, Creedy assumed. The man in the serape tugged
the knife from his arm with a grunt and tossed it aside. He examined the wound.

“I’d
think the bullet was a more pressing issue,” Creedy said.

“Not
so you’d notice,” the man said, stripping off the woolen tunic to reveal a
black vest identical to the one Sam wore. He fingered the shiny lump of a slug
that sat half-buried in the armor over his heart. “Saw that in a movie a long
time ago.”

He
tore a strip from the serape and roughly bandaged his arm, then sat in the
chair opposite Creedy. Sam stood to one side, the shotgun level and steady.

“You
don’t recognize me, then?” the man asked. “It’s been a long time.”

Creedy
stared. “You’re not with the CDF?” The man shook his head.

“It’s
the beard. I used to keep it trimmed short.”

Sipping
wine, Creedy studied the aged face, seeing nothing special at first. Something
about the eyes though; something there reminded him of hunger and cold woods,
and then he knew. He smiled, revealing a humorless crescent of teeth and his
eyes darkened as his pupils dilated.

“Grey.”

“Long
time, Kingsnake.”

“It
was
you
, this summer. It was you,” Creedy whispered, still blackly grinning.
“You weren’t satisfied with killing us fifteen years ago, you had to come back
and try to finish it.”

Grey
shook his head. “Part of me started out that way, but it wasn’t you I needed to
kill. You were going to move into the Okanagan, though, and I have friends
there. I run a trapline, have a house. It’s home. That’s why I’m here, now.”

“Do
they know what you do to your friends, Grey? Did you ever share the story about
the day you killed half of them for some dirt farmers you’d never even met?”
Creedy shook his head. “You’re best avoided as a friend.”

Grey
shrugged, wincing at his wound.

“I’ve
never forgotten, if that’s any comfort.”

“It’s
not,” Creedy said. He turned to stare at Sam. “You’re friend here led us across
most of the northwest for a decade, robbing and killing as we saw fit, until
one day he decided to have an attack of conscience.” He looked back at Grey,
taking a sip from his wine glass as he did so. “He didn’t just leave, oh no. He
decided that if he was done being bad, so were we, and he managed to kill
twelve of his friends before we managed to lose him.”

“I
ran out of shells,” Grey said.

“I
suppose it made you feel better to be the good guy that day? To put on the
mantle of the hero?” Creedy sneered. “Sir Launcelot on his charger.”