The Final Trade (11 page)

16

“What do you mean, ‘dying’?” Elliot asks, rising.

“He threw up outside and he’s shaking. Keeps grabbing his chest. We got him downstairs on one of the tables. Didn’t know what else to do.”

Wen glances around the room. Sasha has a disgusted look on her face, whether from the description of Vidri’s ailments or the idea that he’s lying on her polished table downstairs, Wen doesn’t know. Elliot looks stricken, while Hemming takes a step back toward the wall, a sharp glint of steel disappearing into a sheath beneath his arm.

“Get Geral—” Elliot begins, but stops himself. “Damn it. Doesn’t anyone else have any medical training?”

“Not that I know of, sir,” the guard says.

“One of the guys in the container we picked up a month or so ago,” the doorman offers. “I heard two of them talking one night and he said he was a doctor.”

“Which one?” Elliot asks, already moving toward the door.

“The guy with the longer dark hair. The one that was with the youngest we have now.”

“Fetch him,” Elliot says, continuing toward the stairs. Hemming leaves his post by the window and falls into step behind the ringmaster. Wen looks from the doorway to Sasha, who continues to glare at her.

“Get out,” Sasha says, standing.

Wen rises and makes her way down the stairs, legs shaking beneath her.

A doctor.

One of the men in the shipping container is a doctor.

He’ll know Vidri’s been poisoned.

And she is the one in charge of the food.

She steadies herself against the wall, the concussion wreaking havoc on her balance again. There is nothing to do but move forward. Whatever happens now is in motion; she made that choice this morning when she dosed Vidri’s pudding with enough poison to kill a horse.

She steps off the last stair into the lower dwelling of the nest.

A group of men huddle around the center table and she can see scuffed boots sticking off the end. They jitter and twitch as if Vidri’s having a bad dream. Despite herself she moves closer, a morbid sense of curiosity drawing her along with the responsibility to see what she’s done. One of the men moves aside, leaving a clear view of the table.

Vidri lies on his back, neck and head twisted away. His body shakes, tremors running its length. Two men hold down each knee while two more secure his shoulders. One of his arms snaps out and Elliot himself latches onto it, stilling its movement.

“Someone get some water!”

“Something to tie him down!”

“He’s going to swallow his tongue.”

“Heart attack for sure.”

“Stroke.”

Murder
,
Wen thinks, and takes another step forward. The realization that it was her own hand that caused this isn’t tangible. It floats away each time she tries to grasp it.

Vidri turns his head so that he faces the ceiling. His eyes are open, bulging in their sockets. The one she damaged is a bright red marble of pain. Foam gathers at the corners of his mouth, and his lips are drawn back, revealing clenched teeth.

He turns his head again.

Eyes locking onto hers.

Something moves in his gaze. A shifting of recognition, fear, rage.

She stares back. Doesn’t blink.

The arm Elliot holds straightens, shaking, rising up into a straight line. His fist clenches and slowly his index finger extends.

Directly at her.

Another powerful spasm wracks Vidri’s body, his back arching up off the table. His knees flex so hard neither man holding him can keep their grip and his legs flail wildly.

“Grab him, damn you!” Elliot yells.

A gurgling scream warbles up out of Vidri’s throat and for an instant she feels a tug of sympathy. But then it is gone with the memory of star shine and blossoming pain in her skull from the night before. His hand forcing hers to touch him, fondle him.

Vidri vibrates in time with his cry, muscles jumping beneath flesh like struck chords of an instrument. He seizes, going very still, shudders, and seizes again.

Then like a balloon losing air, he deflates back to the table, tendons going slack, jaw limp and mouth open, eyelids fluttering, fluttering, closing, closed.

All is still.

The outside door bangs open and everyone flinches as two guards rush inside, a middle-aged man between them. He is sallow skinned with very dark hair that hangs down to his shoulders in stringy clumps. His features are sunken but she can see that if he were twenty pounds heavier he would be handsome.

Elliot spots him and motions to Vidri’s body. “You! Do something. Now!”

“I told them, I’m not a doctor,” the man says.

“My men heard you say otherwise.”

“They heard wrong. I was a med student and that was twenty years ago.”

“Then you did have medical training.”

“Some, yes.”

“Then get over here and save him,” Elliot hisses, jabbing a finger at the table.

The man from the container moves to Vidri’s side, the guards that brought him following close behind. He puts a hand beneath Vidri’s jaw and holds it there for ten seconds before facing Elliot.

“He’s dead. There’s nothing I can do.”

“CPR! Do something!”

“He’s already getting cool. It’s beyond me. I have nothing to save him with.”

Elliot’s anger fills the room and Wen backs toward the door, but one of the guards stands in her path. It’s then she notices Hemming watching her intently. She glances away, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling.

“Who saw what happened?” Elliot asks.

One guard raises his hand. “I found him behind the big top truck throwing up. He could barely stand, and when I asked him what was wrong he couldn’t speak. So I brought him here, and when he laid down he started shaking. That’s when I came for you.”

Elliot’s breath hisses out between gray teeth. “Did anybody else see anything? Did he mention he felt sick yesterday or the day before?” No one says anything. The ringmaster turns back to the corpse, raising Vidri’s limp arm up from where it hangs off the table, and places it by his side. After a long pause he says, “What is your name?”

“James,” the man says. “James Horner.”

“James, you said you were a med student.”

“Yes. But I never got my license, I was still studying.”

“In your studies, did you perform autopsies?”

Wen blinks, eyes jerking from Elliot to James.

“Yes. It was part of the requirements.”

“I’d like you to perform one on this man.”

James shakes his head. “That was twenty years ago, like I said. I wouldn’t know the first—”

“Let me rephrase that,” Elliot says, iron gaze falling on him. “You
will
perform an autopsy on this man.”

James swallows. “What if I say no?”

“Then you’ll die much sooner than planned.”

James dips his head forward. “If I do, what will you give me?”

“What do you want?”

“Let me and my wife go.”

The room erupts in laughter and Elliot lets it go on and slowly die down before smiling. “Shoot a little lower, son. We both know that’s not going to happen.”

A streak of anger creases James’s face and Wen thinks he’s going to strike Elliot, which will be the last thing he ever does. Instead he licks his lips and says, “Double the women’s rations and I’ll do it.”

“The women already get all the food they want. Their container is padded, insulated. They have a toilet and plenty of clothing. They are safe and protected. They don’t need anything.”

“Then double the men’s rations, we’re starving.”

Elliot’s smile widens. “Done.”

Wen’s heart sinks.

“What will you need?” Elliot says. And as James begins listing off several instruments, his voice flattens, fades, until she can only hear her pulse drumming in her ears.

“Hey, the boss is talking to you.” The guard beside her nudges her shoulder and she comes back to the room, every eye upon her.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“I said, please make James a plate of food while the supplies are gathered,” Elliot says, looking at her strangely, prying into her.

“Of course.”

Elliot watches her for another drawn moment before focusing on the rest of the group. “Notify the camp of Vidri’s death. We won’t be moving today, so everyone can suspend their work. Tell them to remain in their tents in case this is some kind of communicable disease. By the end of today we will know what happened to our captain.”

They file out of the nest in a funeral procession. Wen leads the way toward the mess building with James and two guards steps behind. The thought of putting a dose of ten-eighty in James’s food dances fleetingly through her mind. But that would be the same as an admission to both murders. One death could be overlooked, but two?

She runs through her options as she enters the kitchen, pushing up the overhead serving door to reveal the exterior counter, but there is nothing viable beyond killing the innocent man outside. If she and Robbie were to go ahead with their plan, their chances of escape would drop to almost zero. It is daylight and the entire trade is milling about now, news of Vidri’s death spreading like wildfire. No, she would only be killing herself, Robbie, and Fitz if they tried. She might as well put a gun to their heads and pull the trigger.

James sits on the opposite side of the serving area, head down, hair obscuring his features. The two guards move away from the window to light up hand-rolled cigarettes, voices low and steady in conversation.

“What would you like?” she asks, mind still whirring through possibilities.

“To know why you poisoned him,” James says, bringing his eyes up to meet hers.

17

It’s like she’s fallen off a cliff, spinning out of control toward a rapidly approaching ground.

“What are you talking about?” Wen manages.

“Don’t. I’m not an idiot,” James says. “I saw enough poisonings when I was in med school. You don’t forget things like that. And since you’re the one that serves the food . . .”

Wen holds his gaze for a moment before turning toward the kitchen. She begins taking out the makings of a cold sandwich, her back to the window.

“Regardless of what you say, I have to do the autopsy. But the outcome can be up to you,” James says. She continues to work. “If you do something for me I’ll say he had a cerebral hemorrhage. That has a lot of symptoms similar to poisoning. But if you choose not to, I’ll tell them that you did it. And when they search this place or your tent, or you, they’ll find the poison.”

She returns to the counter with his plate and sets it before him along with a tall glass of water. “I don’t know anything about any poison.”

“Sure you do. I saw the look on your face in the nest, just like now when I called you out on it. You did it. I want to know why.”

Wen glances past James to the guards. They are still smoking, facing away, voices barely audible. “He tried to rape me last night and he got permission from the Prestons to move me in with him this evening.”

“I figured it was something like that. But my question is, if you have a poison that’s untraceable except by autopsy, would you really be keeping it only for Vidri?”

“Are you going to eat that?”

“You’re going to kill the Prestons, aren’t you?”

“I have work to do.”

“It sounds like you’ve already been busy.”

“What do you really want?”

James picks up his sandwich, inhales the scent of the bread. “You’ve been the one giving us the cakes every week. It’s really the only thing we look forward to. Knowing someone cares makes all the difference sometimes. A couple of us ration the cakes out to last until the next ones come, but the others eat theirs right away. They say they’re not going to draw out the inevitable if there’s no more. I want you to know how much we appreciate your kindness.”

“Then tell Elliot that it was a natural death and we’ll be even.”

James takes a bite, chewing slowly, carefully. “In another life I would. But my wife is in the other container. She’s forty-three, the youngest. She’ll be next to . . .” His voice fails him and he sets down the sandwich, taking a long drink of water. “So you see, I can’t do that. I can’t call it square.”

“I know what you’re going to ask but the answer is no.”

“You have to take us with you.”

“I can’t.”

“When are you going to try?”

“James, I’m sorry, but I’ve worked this every way in my head already. Don’t you think I would set you all free if I thought I could? What do you think I see when I lie awake at night?”

“What’s important to you. What you truly hope for outside of this place.”

Distantly she hears the ghostly echo of a baby’s laughter.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I am. I’m sorry I’ll have to tell Elliot exactly what happened to Vidri if you won’t take us with you. Because I will. I’ll tell them if you don’t promise me right now you’ll free us.”

She feels as if she’s being pulled apart inside, her organs stretched and strained until she fears they’ll tear. “You can’t ask that of me. There’s other people involved, I’d be risking their lives as well.”

“I care about one person, the only person I’ve ever loved in the whole world,” James says, his voice a whispered scream, eyes aflame. “She’s been locked in a steel container, abused, threatened, and soon she’ll be auctioned off like livestock. Her name is Amanda. Don’t talk to me about risking lives.”

The guards drop the butts of their cigarettes and smash them out on the ground before glancing toward the kitchen.

“They’re coming back,” Wen says.

“Then you’d better make your decision.”

The guards walk toward the serving window, still talking in low voices.

She looks from them to James who merely stares back.

“Okay. I’ll get you out.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Here.” He shoves his plate across to her, the single bite missing from the sandwich. “Get that to my wife and tell her I love her.”

James stands up and meets the guards, who shove him roughly in the direction of the nest. He glances back at her once before they’re out of sight and then she is alone in the kitchen, fingers gripping the plate so hard her hands ache.

On the edge of dusk Wen sneaks to the side of the women’s container, its hole much higher since it is now on the top of a flatbed truck. She climbs up the two steel steps mounted to the trailer, leaning out to make sure the guards at the rear haven’t noticed her.

When she is almost even with the hole she whispers in a low voice, “Amanda?” A quiet shuffling meets her ears, a murmur of conversation, then a patch of white skin with a blue eye centered in it appears.

“Who are you?” Amanda says.

“No one. You’re husband sent you this.” Wen holds the sandwich wrapped in a plain piece of brown paper up to the hole. After a second it is taken. “And he says he loves you.”

Quiet crying issues from the hole and Wen grimaces, climbing down quickly.

“Tell him I love him. Tell him, please!”

She walks away into the shadows of a large tent, the raucous laughter from inside drowning out the woman’s pleading voice behind her.

When she enters the kitchen, the light is almost gone from the sky and Robbie is leaning on the counter, a glass of alcohol in one hand. He waits until she’s secured the door before setting his drink down to embrace her.

For a long time he holds her and she lets the day drain from her as if it’s a noxious chemical in her bloodstream. When she steps back from him his eyes are shining.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here until now. They had me mending fences all day. Are you okay?” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you did it.”

“That makes two of us.” She takes his glass from the counter and slugs half of it. Her throat screams from the alcohol but then it erupts in nulling warmth in her stomach and she sighs.

“That was so risky.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have? Because right now we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d be in Vidri’s tent and—”

“Of course not. The sonofabitch deserved everything he got.” Robbie studies her. “I heard you were there when it happened. When he . . . you know . . .”

“Yeah. I was.”

“And?”

“It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen and I’m ashamed to say there was a part of me that enjoyed it.”

“I don’t blame you a bit. In fact, you should get a medal.” He mimes opening a box and pinning something to her shirt. “I hereby christen you with the national medal of bastard slaying. It is the highest honor you can receive.”

She smiles tiredly. “Thanks. But we’re not out of the woods yet.”

“See, that’s just it. The guy they brought out of the container to do the autopsy, he totally fucked up. He told them it was a cerebral something or other, I can’t remember. Everyone’s talking about it—how it’s not a surprise Vidri’s brain fried since he was such an asshole.” Robbie stops mid-gesticulation and lowers his hands. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“Ah shit.”

He listens intently, narrow features growing paler by the minute, until she’s finished.

“Ah shit,” he says, with less force, and drains the last of the booze. “It won’t work. There’s always three or four guards hanging out at the container doors and there’s no way to cut through the sides; we’d need about half an hour to do that. Fuck! That asshole.”

“He’s not an asshole. He’s a man who loves his wife and wants to be free. If that’s being an asshole I guess I’m one too.”

Robbie visibly deflates, sinking down to the floor of the kitchen to rest against one of the cabinets. “God. I just told Fitz today that we’d be going really soon. He’s got the truck primed and everything. It’s ruined. It’s all ruined. What the hell are we going to do?”

She turns and rests her hands on the sink, looking out the window into the darkness that smothers the camp’s grounds, her own battered and exhausted reflection staring back at her.

“The only thing we can do. We’re going to leave them behind.”