Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland (18 page)

Riva came up, someone’s bandanna tied around her wound. “You two take off. I’ll clean the mess up.”

“We’ll help,” D.B. offered.

“Better not. A lot of these women are still loyal to Nestor. Nothing’s changed.”

“But—” D.B. started.

“Thanks, Riva,” Eric said, shoving D.B. ahead of him as he worked through the prison cafeteria.

Outside, D.B. pranced giddily about, her adrenaline pumping through her veins. “You see that stone bop her? This thing really works, it really does. Man!”

Eric strolled back toward his cabin.

“Did you see? Did you see the way she just stood there stunned, like someone had clubbed her from behind? The blood on her face?”

“I saw.”

“Jesus.”

She walked beside him, slowly coming down from the rush. Eric knew the feeling, the sudden explosion of sensations, the tingling of nerves through the entire body, each breath somehow cold and refreshing, charged with energy as if you were breathing in some invigorating gas. It was addictive. That was the feeling that called to men like Fallows and Dodd and Thor and Nestor. Maybe once even to Eric. But it was a dangerous sensation, an arrogant one that convinced you of your own power and superiority. Anything and anyone was worth sacrificing so that you might feel that rush of invulnerability again.

“You gonna help now?” D.B. asked. “We could take on Thor and his gang. Easy.”

There it was. The desire. The need to face combat again for another fix.

“I mean, you kinda owe them now, don’t you?” she continued.

“How do you figure?”

“Well, now Nestor’s going to be even harder to handle. He’ll have more to prove.”

She was right, of course, but that wasn’t Eric’s problem. He was concerned with getting off this island, back to Dodd, back to Tim.

“I’m still thinking about it,” he said.

She gave him a scornful look. “Yeah, Well don’t strain yourself.”

The knock at the door surprised him. He’d been stretched out on the bed reading a novel he’d found under the bed.
Leaving Cheyenne
by Larry McMurtry. The paperback cover had come off and many of the pages were loose or out of order, but Eric patiently found them and restored the book as best he could while he read.

“Want me to get it?” D.B. said. She was leaning against the wall near the window, adjusting her slingshot to get more tension from the elastic.

Eric reached next to him for the Swiss army knife he’d taken from the kid. The blade was open. “Who is it?”

“Lynda Meyer.”

He bounced off the bed and unbolted the door. The knife was in his right hand as he stepped back and said, “Come in.”

Lynda Meyer opened the door, hesitated when she saw him, then stepped into the room. She nodded at D.B., then stared at Eric as if looking for something in his eyes.

“Come on in,” Eric said. “Lots of room.”

“I heard what happened this morning. In the mess hall.”

Eric shrugged. “You find a boat for me yet?”

“What about our proposition?”

“He’s still thinking,” D.B. said. “He does a lot of that.”

Lynda Meyer nodded. She was a big woman, close to six feet, with a thick body that wasn’t so much fat as just her. Big-boned they used to call it. Her hair was cut short in a severe fashion that made her look a few years older than the early forties Eric guessed her to be. Her face was broad, but attractive, more so because of the intelligence and strength in her features. She sat on the edge of the bed with a weary sigh. Obviously she had something on her mind and was having trouble bringing it up. Eric wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it anyway.

“How’s Riva,” D.B. asked.

“Sore. More her temper than her arm. But she’s tough. I stitched her up and she only threatened to hit me twice.”

“You a doctor?” D.B. asked.

“I was a doctor’s assistant when I was working my way through college. Dermatologist. Mostly zits and rashes, but occasionally I got to suture something.”

Eric sat on the floor. “Long way from the City Council meetings.”

“Yes,” she said, “a long, long way. Though I can’t honestly say I miss it that much. Oh, I miss the world the way it used to be, I miss the city, there’s nothing like San Francisco, but those endless meetings with all the political maneuvering and backstabbing.” She flicked her hands. “It’s the past anyway.”

“Is it?” Eric said. “Looks like politics as usual around here.”

“Nestor? Yes, he’s a problem. He’s a born hustler, and he’s damn good at it. Oozes charm. To women anyway. But after a while the smart ones see through him.”

“Like you?”

She smiled. “So he told you about our brief liaison. One week, that was all. Right here in this room. This bed, in fact. The next week he was at work on Maggie. Only she had the good sense to dump him after one night.”

Eric watched her as she spoke. Something was wrong. There was a hesitation in the voice, a certain sense of guilt that seemed out of character. Eric asked her directly, “Why did you come here?”

Lynda Meyer glanced at D.B.

“You want me to go?” D.B. asked, a note of sympathy in her voice Eric hadn’t detected before.

Lynda shook her head. “No. You might as well hear this too. I’ll try to be brief since personal matters make me uncomfortable.” She took a deep breath, calling up some inner reserve of strength for what she had to say. She looked straight into Eric’s eyes and he could imagine how effective those steady brown eyes used to be in City Council meetings, pinning adversaries to their overstuffed chairs. “I am married, Mr. Ravensmith. My husband used to be the manager of a Safeway supermarket, you know, with his photograph hanging near the customer service counter. The guy okaying checks from people who didn’t have two forms of ID. That’s what he was before I became a Council member, when I was just a housewife on Clay Street, walking the dog through the park and cleaning up after him with a shovel. And that’s what he was after I was elected. He was good at his job and though he thought it a bit boring and frustrating at times, he seemed satisfied. Until I was elected. Then nothing was good enough. I was making more money than he. I was on television. And so forth. You know the story.”

Eric nodded. “Jealous.”

“Who could blame him? He’d been so supportive when I’d run, helping me with the campaign and such. But afterward, when the reality settled in, he became morose and withdrawn. We were seeing a family counsellor. Then the quakes hit.”

“Where is he now?”

She pointed toward Asgard. “Over there, with Thor.” She walked toward the window and stared out across the bay. “You have to understand, Mr. Ravensmith. My husband and I were like most couples, not happy, not unhappy. But adjusted. Accommodating. We got along, had friends, paid our bills, went to Hawaii or Mazatlan or Seattle for vacation. Occasionally we had sex. Like most couples our age.” She moved away from the window. “But when all this,” she waved her hands, “insanity happened, Bill changed. It was like some shell cracked and fell off and a new Bill emerged, that part of himself he’d kept hidden all those years, even from himself. The part that wanted out, that saw himself as a Viking or outlaw or pirate. Fucking and robbing and doing whatever he wanted, when he wanted. Sounds nice, huh?”

“Sometimes,” Eric admitted. “Not for long.”

“Well, it sounded fine to Bill. And to a lot of the other husbands who abandoned their wives and families and took up with Thor.”

“A lot didn’t. I’ve seen them up and down the state, scratching food out of the ground, building shelter, trying to raise their children with some sense of decency. The same as you’re doing right here.”

She waved a dismissing hand. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter. What I want from you doesn’t have anything to do with Alcatraz or the people here. It has to do with me. And my son.”

Eric and D.B. exchanged glances.

“When my husband decided to turn outlaw, he took our son Gary with him. Gary’s only seventeen. I want him back. I think you can get him for me.” She stared deep into his eyes. “Like I said, it has nothing to do with this settlement. What they want from you still goes. But I’m willing to pay extra, give you whatever I have or can borrow if you’ll do this for me.” She handed him a tiny photograph. It had been torn from a strip of four that came out of those photo booths in arcades. Lynda and her son had their faces pressed together, both sticking their tongues out at the camera. D.B. looked over Eric’s shoulder at the photo.

Eric handed it back to her. “I can’t promise anything. Not to your settlement, not to you.”

“But you’ll think about it?” she pleaded.

“Maybe he’s where he wants to be. He’s old enough to decide.”

“Yes, he is. But he hasn’t had the opportunity. Maybe he wants to be here.”

Eric studied her for a moment. “What if I took the job and when I got there it came down to bringing back your son or the doctor? What then?”

Lynda Meyer’s eyes were moist, but her voice was firm. “Then I’d expect you to bring back the doctor.”

Eric believed her. “I’ll think about it,” he said, guiding her to the door.

She shook his hand and left.

“Wow,” D.B. said, her own eyes a bit moist. “I thought I was tough, but that’s some lady, huh?”

“Yes,” Eric said. He began packing his backpack, fastening straps.

“All right,” D.B. said excitedly. “This mean you’re done thinking, Doc Rock?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re going to help them, right? Go back to Asgard, bring back her son and the doctor, then get this place set up for a fight? Right?”

Eric tested the straps. When he was satisfied, he leaned the pack next to the door. “Wrong. I’m not kidnapping anybody, and I’m not getting mixed up in their fight, no matter how noble the cause. As soon as it gets dark, I’m stealing a boat and going back to Asgard to hunt down Dodd, if he’s still there, and find out where my son is.”

“I don’t believe you,” D.B. said, hurt and disappointment in her voice.

“Believe me. In a few hours I’ll be gone.”

Tears spilled from her eyes. “You go ahead and run. Not me. I’m staying and helping. Maybe I’m no goddamn warlord, but then it doesn’t look like you’re much of one either.” She swiped at her eyes with her T-shirt. “I’m staying.” She tucked her slingshot in her waistband and stormed out the door.

Eric stood in the doorway watching her run. He glanced up to the sky and calculated when it would be dark enough to steal the boat.

“Over there,” she said, shouldering her shotgun.

Her companion gripped her .22 at arm’s length as if she were afraid it might leap out of her hand and turn on her.

“For God’s sake, Ellen,” the woman with the shotgun said, “don’t be such a baby. Check it out.”

“I don’t see anything,” Ellen said.

“It’s too dark to see anything. You gotta go down into the brush. That’s where I heard the noise.”

“Okay,” Ellen said.

Five feet away from the two armed guards, Eric hid in a clump of brush waiting for them to pass. It was dark enough so that he couldn’t see them clearly, just the outline of their bodies and guns. He breathed shallowly and scrunched himself lower behind the brush.

Ellen climbed carefully down the embankment, losing her footing and sliding down the last few feet. She waved her arms wildly to regain balance and Eric feared she might accidentally squeeze the trigger during all that flailing.