Captives (19 page)

"All aboard."

For a moment, the man looked like he might cry. Then he steeled himself and lifted his good leg over the side. As he straddled the thin metal bar, he yelped. The cart began to tip. Thom steadied it. The man got his balance and pulled his other leg in, gingerly rearranged himself to sit facing forward.

"What's your name?" Thom said.

"No way. You know my name and then you can put one of your voodoo curses on me."

"You might die before we make it. If you do, I'd like to be able to get word to your people."

"That I got taken prisoner by an elf with a bow?" The man wiped curls of damp hair from his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut against a spike of pain. "Doug. Doug Bonner."

"I'm Thom."

"And I don't give a shit. I'm not your friend. You're not gonna turn me with bush-league psychology."

Thom shouldered his rifle, got behind the cart, and pushed. Its rattle was shockingly loud. Nothing to be done about it, though. He rolled down the sunny street, swerving around the occasional car abandoned in the road, passing between diners and PR firms and tax preparers. After a few blocks, a cluster of churches flanked the road on both sides. "ALL-DAY MASS," its final billboard offered. "PRAYER FOR THE DEPARTED." Across the street, a second church sat on the corner, its barn-like structure paneled incongruously with modern glass. It declared, simply, "SIN IN THE END OF DAYS."

The road slanted gently downhill for close to two miles, then began a long upward stretch. Thom sweated, leaning against the handlebar. One step after another. It had been a long day, but he'd been cultivating his patience for years. He could endure a few more hours. At the crest of the hill, he stopped to catch his breath. Ahead, the road began a long, tree-lined descent. Easy passage all the way to Western.

"I heard you talking to the others," he said. "You're deluded if you think you can take San Pedro."

"Who's gonna stop us? Queen Raina, the sixteen-year-old tyrant?" Doug chuckled, though he couldn't force much humor into it. "I'm shaking in my boots."

"She led the rebellion against the Catalinans. Killed Karslaw herself."

"She's a child. Kids got no patience. You peck around the edges long enough, and she'll overcommit. Walk right into it."

"Could be."

"
Will
be. And once things turn sideways on her, she'll go on tilt. By the time she's done fucking things up, her babysitter will jump at the chance for a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

Doug turned his head to glare over his shoulder at Thom. "Man, screw you. I ain't that easy."

"Neither's Raina," Thom said. "You'll learn that soon enough."

He got rolling again. Downhill wasn't much easier than up; he had to lean against the cart's yearning to pull away and go flying off to a gruesome end. He made it past the Ralph's, the high school. After that, the road was level and wide. Car dealerships, Japanese grocers, banks, the CVS drug stores that acted as de facto mile markers along PCH. He wasn't able to maintain a pace faster than a slow walk and the sun soon swung behind the high hills to his right. It was a few degrees warmer than it had been along the beach cities, lacking the cool coastal wind, and he stopped for three water breaks. By the time they reached the foot of the mile-long hill at the intersection of Western, twilight painted the clouds pink and orange.

"Where are we headed?" Doug said. "Dunemarket? Middle of San Pedro?"

"That's right."

"Wow. What's your big plan to keep me from running off while you're asleep?"

"Why would I have to worry about that?"

Doug glanced over his shoulder. "Dunemarket's what, five miles from here? Half of it uphill."

"That means I only have to make it five more miles," Thom smiled. "Then you're all Raina's."

The other man gazed up at the red clouds. "Does she really sleep with her sword?"

"Sure. They're registered at Masamune's."

"Don't mess with me. Is she like what they say or not?"

"What do they say?"

"Crazy shit." Doug continued to avoid Thom's eyes in favor of the clouds. "That she won't eat cooked meat. That her parents died in the plague and she took over a pack of dogs instead. That she wears her enemies' skin and takes their ghosts as slaves."

"I haven't known her that long," Thom said. "But I can tell you this. A few weeks ago, I was put on trial for murder. Don't get scared, it was self-defense. The trial was held in a place called the Bones. Because that was all the place was." He paused for a dramatic beat. "If I'd been found guilty, that's where my bones would be, too. From then on, whenever another criminal was brought to the grounds, Raina would lift up my jawbone and listen to my judgment of the accused."

"That's fucked up." He licked his lips. "What if I told you I knew where to find your friend?"

"My friend?"

"Lawson. Dude who blew up the ship."

"Walt Lawson?" Fire shot up Thom's spine. "How do you know him?"

"I don't," Doug smirked. "But I do know his girlfriend."

"Where does he live?"

"Nuh-uh. No way. Not until we've got a deal."

"How do you know his girlfriend? Did she come around town bragging she'd just fucked him?"

"Huh?" He glanced back, brow beetled. "Some of my friends, they… acquire people. To ransom them. Shit like that. The other day, they bring in this girl. She's got a pretty good idea what's coming next, so she lets slip she knows Lawson. Think she thought it would scare us."

Thom straightened. "How do you know she's telling the truth?"

"One of us checked with our supplier. Thought there might be some mileage in it. But it turns out the asshole's broke as a kid's piggy bank."

"The supplier knows him? Where are they?"

"I don't know that," Doug said. "That's very need-to-know and I'm just a gopher."

"I have to talk to her."

"Can't be done. I can't get to her. Even if I could, if I brought
you
near her, they'd kill us both."

Thom held out his palms. "Then what exactly are you offering me? The promise that he's out there somewhere?"

"Oh, a lot more than that, buddy." He grinned. "You see, I know where they picked up the girl."

"Let me guess. You'll tell me if I let you go."

"Sounds like a fair trade to me. All depends on how bad you want to find your friend."

Thom allowed himself to grin ruefully. "Spill."

"They said it was right by Whaler's Cove. South of Carmel, Monterey, that neck of the woods."

He delved into detail. By the sound of his description, he hadn't been there himself—not since the plague, anyway—but he knew the area well enough to let Thom know Walt and the girl had a speckling of neighbors there.

"But no centralized settlement?" Thom said.

"Nope. Roll in, make your move, nothing to get in your way."

"And this is recent intel."

"Fresh enough that it's still steaming. Well? How's that for a lead, buddy?" He turned to meet Thom's eye. As soon as he exposed his temple, Thom fired an arrow straight through it.

He rolled the cart off the road and parked the body behind a laundromat. He made a circuit of the neighborhood to check for witnesses and to give himself a minute to think. Kolton was dead and Thom had avenged him. Whatever conflict was brewing between the Place and the people Doug represented was none of his business. All that mattered was finding justice for the brother he'd never see again.

Trouble was he didn't have everything he needed. A bike, for instance. Wouldn't hurt to have more food and water, too. Resolved, he started up the long hill that stood between him and San Pedro.

Leaving the shopping cart behind felt like discovering he'd been driving around with the parking brake on. He made great time, arriving in the Seat within an hour and a half. Early enough that people were still milling around the fountain. He avoided them, maneuvering to his shack. There, he gathered his things. On his way out the door, he paused, then went back to his table to compose a note summarizing what he'd heard in the field. He concluded it by stating he intended to head right back out and try to learn more about this covert campaign against the Place.

Outside, he topped a hill. A silhouette passed through the night near Mauser's earthen home. Thom waited for the figure to clear out, then slipped the note under the sheriff's door.

With that done, he ran through the back roads to the house he'd set up following his arrival in the Place. He got out his bike, loaded it up, and rode into the night.

* * *

Sunlight dribbled through the needles of the pines, beaming warmth into the cool coastal morning. He stood back from the door, hands empty by his sides, smiling but trying not to look too much like a traveling salesman.

The door opened four inches, exposing a woman who did nothing to conceal the suspicion on her face or the pistol in her hand. She wore a verdant sari with yellow trim.

Her voice was lightly accented. "Why are you at my door?"

"I'm here about an old friend of my brother's," Thom said. "His name's Walt. Walt Lawson. Do you know him?"

13

"Oh, like you even know how to use that." He reached for the gun.

Heat seared past his face. He froze, waiting to be dead. To feel his face melting from his skull. Instead of seared skin, he smelled burnt paint. Behind him, the wall was smoking.

"Stand up," Liss said. "Slow as you please. Hands on your head. Turn around."

"Are you about to shoot me?" Walt said.

"Shut your mouth."

"I can't do that," Walt said. "If I do, then you'll shoot me and then I'll be dead. So I'm going to talk until you understand why shooting me's a bad idea."

"You woke me up," she said. "Shot off my
toe
. If you didn't want to get killed tonight, you're off to an awful start."

"In hindsight. At the time, it felt like a pretty good series of moves." He clasped the back of his head, elbows up. "Figured out who I am yet?"

"Like I said. Carrie's fellow."

"Where's the van taking her?"

"How did you get into the pen?"

He shook his head. "I asked you first."

She waved the barrel of the pistol in a tight circle. "I'm the one with the gun and you're the one with the stupid grin. You want to make it out of this room? Start giving me reasons."

"Let's just say your ductwork could use a vaginoplasty."

She scowled. "The bike on the highway above the gate. That was yours?"

"Yeah," he muttered. "You probably owe your scouts a raise."

"We didn't get where we are by being sloppy. How did you find us?"

"I asked around. Turns out that stealing people from their families is a great way to make fearless, life-long enemies."

Her eyes glowed in the moonlight. "Still haven't heard why I shouldn't kill you."

"Carrie didn't brag about me? I'm so disappointed."

"Enough." She walked sideways toward her closet. "One more word, one wrong gesture, a
smell
I don't like, and I cut you down on your feet."

She opened the closet door, keeping her eyes on him as she fished out a jacket, sweatpants, fur-lined slippers. She proved surprisingly adept at getting all these things on her person while keeping a bead on him. Dressed, she beckoned with the gun. Walt followed her out. The night was as cold as he'd left it, but the smell of dust and fresh water felt sharper than before. Enhanced sensitivity to sensory input: the silver lining of putting yourself in adrenaline-pumping danger.

She marched him to the road, then down a rutted trail leading to the buildings he'd passed on the way in. As they neared, a floodlight snapped on. A man with a rifle stepped forward, neck craned forward.

He saw Liss and straightened. "Sir? Is everything all right?"

"Why am I doing your job for you, Rindge?" she said. "I need this one locked up. Solitary. Stay outside his door until you're relieved."

"If he's in solitary, why do I need to stay there?"

"Since when did I owe you an explanation, Rindge?"

He ducked his head, then eyed Walt. "As you command."

"And call in the Doc," Liss said. "He cut off my toe."

"Your..? Are you okay, sir?"

In response, she collapsed. Rindge called for backup, keeping his weapon trained on Walt. It would have been a great time to do something stupid, but regrettably, Liss had crumpled on herself, the laser clutched to her stomach. Walt didn't have much option other than to let a pair of troopers frogmarch him inside a concrete structure, down a dry-smelling hallway, and into a windowless, cinderblock room. They searched him from head to toes, emptying his pockets. They took his coat, his belt, and his shoes.

The door sealed him in darkness. He chose to interpret that as a positive sign. Much harder to keep him locked up than to shoot him in the back of the head. Before the light had been shut out, he'd spied a mattress and a bucket.

He edged to one wall, then made a circuit of the room, ensuring there were no gaps or windows the guards had miraculously forgotten about. Finding nothing, he moved to the mattress and sat down. It exhaled the smell of sickness and old sweat. It was bare, but there was a blanket. The thick, scratchy fleece kind he'd always hated. When he stretched out, his socked feet hung off the edge of the bed.

None of that kept him from sleeping for what felt like a month; he'd been running on fumes for days. Eventually, a heavy knock stirred him. It repeated while he was still rubbing the crust from his eyes.

"Hang on," he said. "I've got an appointment with the bucket."

That earned him a minute of silence. Once he was finished, he shuffled to the door. A mail slot clicked open, then flapped closed. The door swung out. An imposing man waited for him, bare-armed, slate-faced. He tossed a pair of shoes at Walt's feet. Walt sat and laced them up. The man took him outside. Liss stood two hundred yards from the buildings, alone in the middle of a vacant field. The man deposited Walt there, waiting until Liss nodded to him. He turned back toward the buildings. A few men with rifles watched them from a small patio.