Gundown (30 page)

Nick laughed.

Hank staggered to his feet and poured everything he had into a burst of speed. He twisted his shoulders away from Nick, slid his left foot forward and planted it. With a growling roar, he uncoiled and fired the rock as hard as he could.

The rock slammed into Nick’s diaphragm. Nick doubled over, his breathing paralyzed.

Hank lunged forward and kicked him in the face, straightening his body and knocking him onto his back.

Hank stamped on Nick’s wrist, wrenched the club from his hand, and raised it to deliver a killing blow.

But Nick was out. Hank slipped a toe under Nick’s side and edged him toward the long slide down.

He stopped. He didn’t feel right about this. Although Nick was a brutal thug, it would be murder. But he needed to be eliminated.

Hank figured he just needed to rest. Nick wasn’t going to give him any trouble for a while. He sat near Nick’s head, ready to club him if need be. If Nick attacked, then Hank could give him a fatal shove and it would be self-defense.

Concentrating on catching his breath and ignoring his pain, he looked out at the desert. The quiet was so complete that it seemed like a vast, empty sound. He saw no sign of human existence.

There was life out there, but what? Lizards, snakes, spiders, scorpions, and sagebrush, maybe a mangy coyote or two and whatever they hunted.

His life had become a desert filled with vermin.

He had no friends. No family, his parents gone. Hank had been going through the motions: eating, sleeping, working. A hollow man. Only his work as a lawman had kept him going, and he didn’t have even that anymore.

Scenes from the Alliance video came into his mind. People at play and work. Families. Images of laughter and affection took him to Noah Stone’s playful grin. Hank missed Noah’s intensity and the warmth of the friendship he offered.

Then there was Jewel, working her hardest to survive in a nasty world, but still deep-down decent. A bright future was hers to have—as long as the Alliance kept doing their thing. But Hank was sure Mitch wouldn’t stop just because Hank was out of action. If he took Noah out, without Stone’s leadership Hank doubted the Alliance could stand up to the heavy enemies it was making. Too late, he wished he’d warned Noah Stone that they were coming after him.

But now Hank had a new life. He could survive in the Keep, maybe take Doc down and become King of the Scum. Or he could try to escape. In his professional opinion, escape was not possible. Even if he could escape, what for? Was life out there any different from in here?

Okay, they kept pushing the therapy thing. Noah had told him to do it, and Hank thought maybe he could trust him. But Noah had never had it done to him.

Benson Spencer had gone through it, and was supposed to be—no, was—Hank’s advocate. He seemed okay.

A breeze tugged at Hank’s hair; it stirred in his mind an image of a puff of wind wafting a strand of brown hair across a little girl’s face. He saw her bright smile and happy brown eyes
—
Reflex jerked his mind away before pain could strike, but there was an ache underneath. He dug into his pocket and took out Amy’s necklace. It was hard to look at.

He lifted his gaze to the emptiness of the desert.

He did feel one thing.

Alone.

So. Completely. Alone.

Something gave way in his mind. Up welled a longing for peace, and friendship, and love. He’d had those things before. Maybe he could again. Through the therapy.

Okay. He stood.

Fear rose with him.
But they’ll mess with your mind,
it said.
You won’t be you
.

Being him wasn’t all that terrific.

Yeah, but it’s still you.

But staying in the Keep would be worse than death. To survive, he’d have to become more of an animal than they were.

Maybe,
the fearful side of him said,
it’ll be easier to escape from the Repair Shop.

True. It wasn’t hundreds of feet up in the air and surrounded by huge fences. Hank could find tools to get rid of the tracking band on his wrist and then break out. He’d deal with the quality of his life on his own, a whole man.

Sounded good. He looked down at Nick, still stone cold out, a shove away from being another threat gone forever.

He gripped Nick’s hands and lifted.

A half hour later, Hank’s bloody fingertips slipped on a cable; he forced them to dig in and hold. Sweat dripped from his face, and his back ached. His searching toe found good old ground instead of another cable. He let go and toppled backward. He lay there for long minutes as the pain of his effort eased from his body.

At last, strength and will returning, he untied the strip of shirt that had kept Nick’s arms around his neck.

Hank stood. Nick lay on his back, unconscious. Whatever. He had a chance, and Hank had no more to give. Anyway, Hank would soon be down in the Repair Shop, working on escape.

He went to Doc’s building and, figuring that the red-bearded dictator wouldn’t be happy about Hank leaving before he was beaten to a bloody mess, joined the line leading to the supply area to blend in. As he passed Doc’s little cloth castle, Dalrymple emerged from the smaller square—must be the whorehouse. Walking with short, wincing steps, his gaze on the ground, he joined the line a few places behind Hank.

The door to the elevator down was forty feet from the supplies pickup point. No one paid any attention to the door. Why should they? Newcomers weren’t inserted unless a helicopter announced their arrival, and it wasn’t an escape route.

At the shower area a hundred feet away, someone was bathing, concealed by blankets held by two pudgy men and a couple of bonemen—Doc’s men. Hank kept his face turned away from the showers, bowed his back, and slumped his shoulders to imitate the body language of the inmates around him.

He shuffled forward and received his MRE.

The shower shut off, and one of Doc’s attendants handed a towel in.

Hank slouched toward the sensor panel that opened the door to the elevator room.

Doc emerged from the shower, wrapped in his towel, and stood surveying his subjects, a satisfied smile on his face.

Dalrymple, his high-pitched voice carrying, yelled, “Soldado? That you?”

Hank continued to walk toward the door.

Dalrymple said, “Soldado? Hey, wait a minute.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank saw Doc’s attention turn his way. The sensor panel was a dozen feet ahead. Hank dropped his MRE and sprinted for it.

Doc shouted, “Stop that man!” His men ran toward Hank, clubs raised.

Hank held his wristband up to the sensor panel. Nothing happened.

Of course, the computer below needed time to process. Maybe Arnie had to push a button to open the door. Maybe he was asleep. Faster!

Hobbling as though it was painful to run, Dalrymple hurried toward Hank. “Hey, take me too.”

The nearest of Doc’s men threw his club. It cracked the Plexiglas panel. Damn, don’t break the thing.

Dalrymple lumbered into a clumsy run. “Wait!”

The heavy steel door lifted, the wedge-shaped cutting edge on the bottom rising above Hank’s head. He had fifteen seconds. He stood in front of the doorway, faced the charging men, and silently counted time. One-thousand-one.

The first of Doc’s men dived at Hank.

Hank sidestepped, added a shove to the man’s momentum, and slammed his head into the concrete wall. The boneman sprawled on his back, out. One down.

One-thousand-three.

Hank backed through the doorway.

One-thousand-four. Dalrymple was almost there when a man tackled him.

One-thousand-six.

Dalrymple stretched a hand toward Hank, his face pure pain. “They raped me.”

One-thousand-nine.

The man’s anguish reached Hank. He kicked Dalrymple’s attacker in the face, and the boneman rolled away, screaming, hands to his nose.

Hank grabbed Dalrymple’s hand and hauled.

One-thousand-eleven.

As Dalrymple’s arm came through the door, a second man landed on his legs and stopped his slide toward the door. Hank couldn’t step out; he’d be trapped in the Keep for another twenty-four hours.

One-thousand-fifteen.

The door sliced down.

Hank held Dalrymple’s left hand and most of his arm.

The steel door muted Dalrymple’s scream, but not enough.

Arnie’s voice whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

Shuddering with horror, Hank dropped the arm and faced the camera. After a deep breath, he said, “You going to let me in?”

“You want to do the therapy?”

“Yes.”

The inner door rumbled open and he stepped through.

When Hank came out of the elevator, Arnie awaited him outside the double-walled containment cell, Mannie the guard beside him. Both trained stoppers on him.

Arnie said, “Didn’t take you long.”

“I’ve got better things to do with my life.” Hank headed for the door.

Arnie held up a hand to stop him. “This might surprise you, but some guys get the idea they can escape from the Repair Shop because it doesn’t look so tough.”

Hank grinned. “Imagine that.”

Arnie grinned right back at him. “So I’ve got the verifier all warmed up. Just take a seat.”

Hank concealed his disquiet. “I’ve already done that.”

“Ah, but you see, you don’t get past these bars unless I’m convinced you’re sincere about therapy. Saves a lot of trouble. You don’t pass, you just go back.”

Hank sat, thoughts speeding, looking for an out. There wasn’t one. He’d have to beat the machine.

“Please put the headset on.”

He sat and put it on.

Arnie and Mannie stared at the monitor on Arnie’s desk as Arnie asked, “Hank Soldado, did you decide to undergo therapy?”

All he could do was try. “Yes.”

Arnie made a sound like a game show buzzer. “Wrong answer. Back you go.”

Hank said, “Wait.”

“It won’t do any good.”

“Just give me a minute. This is my life here!”

Arnie shrugged. “Sure. I’m gettin’ paid for it.”

Hank thought of the desert, a symbol of his life. Of waking up with tears on his face. Of the hole where his heart used to be. That was the life he had. It wasn’t good enough anymore. But how could he surrender his mind?

Benson Spencer’s words came to him. “There came a time when I had to trust.”

He fished Amy’s necklace from his pocket. A memory surfaced. Amy blew on a dandelion and giggled at the stream of white fluff. Hank took a deep breath. “Ask me again.”

Shaking his head, Arnie said, “Hank Soldado, do you want to undergo therapy?”

He kept his mind’s eye on Amy as he said, “Yes.”

Arnie looked up from the monitor in surprise. “Is it your intent to escape?”

Hank conjured up Jewel Washington’s fierce expression when she fought him with nothing more than tiny nap beads. “No.”

Arnie smiled. “I’ll be damned. Never seen that.” Relief eased Hank’s mind and body. Arnie unlocked the cell door. “Come on out. I’ll escort you to the Repair Shop personally.”

When Hank stepped from the cell, Arnie stuck out a hand. “Welcome back.”

As Hank took the hand, emotion surged in his throat and made it hard to say “Thanks.” He felt as though he had conquered a mortal enemy.

Where Is the Justice?

Jewel smiled at the murmur of Chloe’s singing coming from the backyard. She stood at the kitchen stove, frying up a batch of chicken for Friday evening supper, enjoying the domestic sizzle of hot oil, trying to relax. She’d been edgy since Murphy had tried to get her. No one knew if he had left the area, though he had checked out of his motel. Now there was somebody who belonged in the Keep.

But not Hank Soldado. She just couldn’t shake her anger at what she saw as criminally unjust.

Franklin’s deep voice joined Chloe’s, and Jewel could make out the words of the song, sung with a simple singsong melody: “I’ve got T-H-R-E-A-D, I’ve got good deeds in my head . . .”

Jewel scowled. Couldn’t the damned Alliance propaganda leave her alone in her home? She turned the flame down under the chicken and went to the back door.

Franklin was pushing Chloe in a tire swing he’d hung for her from a branch of an oak tree. They sang, “T-H-R-E-A-D, green and yellow and blue and red . . .”

Jewel called out, “Could you guys stop singing that?”

They stopped and looked at her. Franklin said, “It’s just a little song about—”

“I know what it’s about, and I don’t want to hear it.”

Franklin opened his mouth, paused, then said to Chloe, “You ready for a spinner?”

Chloe giggled. “Wind me up!”

Jewel watched while Franklin turned the tire ’round and ’round, twisting the rope tighter and tighter until he let go and Chloe spun, yelling, “Wheeeeeeee . . .”

Jewel stepped back into the kitchen to get the chicken cooking again. Franklin came in, took a beer from the refrigerator, and twisted off the cap. “What’s the matter?”

“I just don’t like them brainwashing my child.”

“Hey, it was me who made up that song.”

She adjusted the flame under the skillet. “Well, I don’t like you doing it, either.”