The Final Trade (24 page)

40

Merrill watches the guards bring the starving man out from the shipping container and lead him to the high wire strung above the row of spikes.

He is emaciated, bones poking at his pale skin so harshly that he reminds Merrill of a house stripped of its siding revealing the structure beneath. The guards shove and prod him forward through a mob of jeering men, most of whom, up until only minutes ago, were calling out epithets at Merrill through the bars of his cage. They had assured him he would die tonight in the arena, die on the ground like a crippled dog being put out of its misery.

Merrill rubs the smooth stump of his right leg, touches the scarring like a blind man reading a story. He tried fitting a twisted length of wood that he’d found outside his cell into the remnants of his prosthetic, but the branch was weathered and dry and snapped as soon as he put any weight on it.

No, there will be no fixing his leg by nightfall. He will face his final opponent from the ground.

Or there is the other option that he won’t let himself think about.

The guards guide the scrawny man to the ladder leading to the makeshift platform, twenty-five feet above the ground where the high wire is attached. The man eyes the eight-inch spikes driven into the soil below the wire and tries to flee back toward the container, but the guards catch him by the thinness of his upper arms and sling him hard into the ladder.

Merrill grimaces at the howls of the crowd. Animals. Nothing more. And the idea rises again like a nightmare.

When they give you the knife tonight, throw it to Chelsea. She’ll be able to slit her wrists before they stop her and you’ll die knowing she won’t suffer like Halie did.

He lets out a shaky breath. Could he do it? Could he give her the means to kill herself? Watch her die? When compared with the alternative that awaits her, he’s sure he can.

The man mounts the ladder and barely has the energy to climb, but one of the guards produces a knife and pokes him in the buttock hard enough to make him bleed. A bright ribbon of blood runs down the man’s leg from beneath the torn shorts he wears and he climbs to the platform. At the top a balance pole waits and he grasps it before edging to the wire.

“That’s it! And if you make it all the way across, you’re free!” one of the guards yells before turning his head to grin at the crowd. They erupt in laughter, and taunts are thrown like javelins as the man puts one foot on the wire.

He steadies himself, bare sole wobbling, before swinging his other foot out.

The balance pole tips and he leans almost inhumanly far to the right before coming back to center.

The men below boo and hiss.

He takes another step, and another.

The spikes below wait like hungry teeth.

Merrill slides to the bars and hoists himself upright, eyes following the man’s progress. Even though he knows there is no freedom at the other end of the wire, hope still rises within him and quiet words of encouragement come from his lips with each successful step.

The man sways, correcting his footing, sweat shining on his wrinkled brow, eyes looking straight ahead.

He is twelve steps from the end.

“Come on,” Merrill whispers.

Eleven.

Ten.

Nine.

When he is less than fifteen feet from the platform, Merrill hears it.

A low whistling coming across the valley, the brown grass and sage stirring. The midday sun peers through the overcast sky for a brief second under the wind’s insistence, its light snagging on the points of the spikes.

Then it recedes again, turning the world to ash beneath the scudding clouds.

The wind shoves the man to the left.

The pole tips, tips, tips, and drops from his hands.

His arms pinwheel.

He finally looks down to the waiting points beneath.

And falls.

Merrill looks away but he can’t block out the wet crunching sound or the deafening roar of approval.

He hops away from the bars and slides down the rear of the cage. The last time he knew this kind of sorrow, this much hopelessness, was when he buried his wife beside her rose garden in their backyard. The despair fills him up and overflows as tears cloud his vision and he weeps into one hand.

After a time the mass of men disperses, the spectacle over for now, and his tears dry in the cold, arid wind that continues to blow. Footsteps bring his head up along with a smell that drowns out the scent of blood.

The woman who attended the beheading stands outside his cage, a steaming bowl in her hands. She is medium height and has the shrunken look of someone whose frame is used to carrying more weight than it holds. Her hair is reddish brown and when his gaze lands on her face he realizes he knows her.

She kneels, tipping the bowl slightly to the side to slide it through the bars. She sets it on the ground and meets his eyes.

“Careful, the bottom’s hot,” she says, and then is gone, moving past the guard that stands before his cage.

Merrill watches her until she disappears around the side of a tall tent then scoots forward, grabbing the bowl from the ground. A plastic spoon is lodged in the steaming stew and he uses it to dig down, sliding it until a small corner of plastic appears on the surface. He quickly pinches the plastic free of the food and puts it in his mouth, cleaning it with his tongue before carefully spitting it into one hand. Glancing at the closest guard, he unseals the tiny bag and draws out a folded piece of paper no larger than his thumbnail.

The writing is miniscule and rough and it takes him the better part of a minute to discern what it says before his head jerks up, eyes frantically searching the grounds.

I’m a friend. Your daughter says to be ready.

“Zoey,” Merrill whispers.

41

Chelsea stands before the man and woman seated in their chairs like royalty and swallows the saliva she wants to spit at them.

They watch her with cold, reptilian eyes and she knows before the man they call Presto speaks that they won’t grant her what she asked.

“No. Absolutely out of the question,” he says, leaning forward in his chair, a glass of wine in his hand. “If I gave you permission to see him before the tournament, how would that look to the rest of the troupe? If you were given a favor from us, why not every guard in our employ? Why not every performer? Where would it stop?”

“Please,” Chelsea says, barely able to form the word for all the hatred that’s coursing through her. “Just a moment. That’s all I’m asking for.”

The wife, she thinks her name is Sasha, tips her head to the side. “So he is your husband?”

She hesitates. “Yes.”

“Where did you come from?”

“I already told you, we were traveling south from Seattle and got separated in the mountains.”

“And he was able to follow you here?”

“Yes.”

Presto rises, gliding over to a small table, behind which stands the unnerving albino dressed in black. The bodyguard refills Presto’s drink, strange eyes flitting to her and away.

“I think you’re lying,” Presto says. “Who else were you traveling with?”

“No one. We were alone and I hadn’t seen him in well over a day.”

“If you tell us the truth, we will allow you to see your husband before the tournament, which starts in . . .” Presto glances at the ceiling. “. . . about an hour.” Chelsea says nothing, trying to swallow the dryness away in her throat while keeping herself from shivering. “Hmm. As old world as it sounds, I’m inclined to believe that most women never gain intelligence past the age of fifteen.” He comes closer to her and she can smell his cologne, stale and without the spice it once carried, along with the wine. “Do you understand your husband is going to die tonight? He is defenseless and outmatched. Wouldn’t you prefer to speak to him one last time before you part forever?”

Chelsea wonders if she could kill him before the albino brought her down. Snatch the wineglass from his hand, snap the base off, jam the stem into his throat. But then she would never see Merrill again, never be able to tell him what she needs to, and that’s something she’s not willing to give up.

Presto sighs, returning to his chair. “There’s no one coming for you. You might think so but there isn’t. We know you weren’t traveling alone. Several of our men found heavy tire tracks this morning while scouring the area where you were located. Do you know where they lead?”

Chelsea tries to swallow again but her mouth is completely parched, heart slamming so hard in her chest she’s sure they can see it.

“They lead away to the main highway running north. They left you. Left you and your husband to your fates and moved on. And if you only would have told me you could have said goodbye.” He smiles, lips peeling back from gray teeth. “But now you’ll have to do it from across the coliseum. Guard! Get her out of here.”

The door opens behind her even as she starts to move forward, unaware that her hands are clenched into fists until she’s being dragged away, heels thudding against the stairs as the room and the couple inside rises out of her line of sight. The anguish that builds inside her is a tsunami, washing away any hope she’d harbored for a rescue.

The others ran. Maybe they’d been flushed out or decided it was too risky to try to free them, but the end result is the same.

She and Merrill are alone.

42

The night drifts down from the hills like dark water seeping into a basin.

The forest fills up with it and the already clouded sky thickens, deepening in bruised folds until the world seems as if it has said goodnight for the last time.

Gerald walks the silver dollar across his knuckles and back, watching the coin flip like magic. He’s getting good. Hopefully by the end of the month all his tricks will be as smooth and the Prestons will grant him his own show in the big tent. Watching the gate and taking cash and canned food from the bumpkins is getting older than old.

He readjusts his top hat, wanting to throw the idiotic thing into the wind and watch it tumble away. But his chances of his own show would fly away with it. Costume, misdirection, and dedication. These are the things Presto says are most important for a magician. If he were to defy the old man now, all the effort and time to learn his secrets would be wasted and he’d be stuck at the gate for yet another season.

One thing is sure
,
he thinks, walking the coin again across his fingers,
when I’m finally a magician I’m getting a way better hat.

He pauses his musing as a figure emerges out of the dark, the large hooded jacket triggering his memory.

“Hey old-timer, you’re almost late. Tournament’s starting in a few minutes.” The old man shuffles up to the counter, dropping a crumpled wad of bills there. Once more it is too much payment but Gerald isn’t one to complain. “Thanks for the tip again. Hey, if you have cash to burn maybe you should’ve put your name in to fight for that woman. She’s a looker, bet she’d ruin your old ass in bed.” He laughs, making the silver dollar dance again. “If you could get it up that . . .”

Gerald’s voice dies as the hood turns toward him and the glint of an eye fixes on his own. There is a deep, burning hatred there, a profound fury within the fleeting look that steals his words away.

Then the man is gone, moving amongst the tents toward the midway, walking taller, straighter than he remembered from the nights before.

Gerald grabs the money from the counter and shoves it in his pocket, gazing into the night that’s full upon the land.

And he shivers, but not from the cold.

43

Zoey steps onto the midway.

It is in full swing, bustling activity everywhere. Men line the booths and tents to either side, and a queue is beginning to form before the coliseum at the far end.

The music floats to her, loud and obnoxious as ever, the competing delicious and revolting smells coat the breeze, and the ground trodden flat by hundreds of feet over the last days is solid below her.

But everything is muted.

Flattened and simplified in her senses.

She starts forward, slowly unzipping Merrill’s jacket before pushing the hood off.

She slides her arms out, and the coat falls to the ground behind her.

She raises her hand and grasps the heavy wool hat, tugging it free from her head as she passes a booth where several men turn and stare.

She drops the hat and feels her hair fall free to the middle of her back.

More men pivot to look as she walks by and she sees jaws begin to slacken, mouths opening in
O
’s of disbelief.

Zoey keeps her attention forward, eyes locked on the fence at the far end of the midway, coming closer with each step she takes.

Shouts rise behind her like a large wave cresting out of an already churning sea, their sound meaningless in the din that is the trade. More men turn from the booths and she begins walking faster.

A guard steps into view from between two tents ahead, searching for the source of the disturbance, and locks eyes with her.

His widen. Hers narrow.

He sprints toward her, arms outstretched, body lowering to prepare the tackle he’s going to employ.

Without breaking stride, Zoey grasps her pistol from the holster at the small of her back and whips it up.

She fires.

The gunshot booms down the midway, fire leaping a foot from the end of her barrel.

The guard’s head snaps back, gray matter flying from his ruined skull. He crumples in a lifeless pile at her feet.

Zoey runs.

The screams of men become a ringing dissonance. She can feel the sound tingling against her skin. Feet thunder behind her and another man steps into her path. She shoots again and he clutches at his stomach as she sprints past.

She chances a look over her shoulder.

The entire midway is alive with movement behind her, the shine of the men’s eyes manic in the overhead lights. Arms pump at sides, feet trample the man she shot as well as another who trips over him.

It is a tide.

Ahead the mass before the coliseum is torn with confusion. Three guards raise their rifles at her but she doesn’t slow and no shots come. She catches a glimpse of them lowering their weapons, absolute disbelief in their features.

Now there are shouts she can define.

It’s a girl! A young one!

She’s running toward the fence!

Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Hold your fire!

Where the fuck did she come from!

Get her! Get her! Gethergethergether!

The fence line looms closer, rising high, much higher than she anticipated it would be. A dull ache spreads like cool water across her lower back and she has a split second to pray it doesn’t get worse before a guard outside the fence steps into view and raises his rifle.

She fires two shots as a blast comes from his barrel.

The bullet’s passage is hot and reverberates in her teeth. She feels a tug in her hair and tries to aim again at the guard but he’s already falling, a blossom of red spreading across his chest.

Then the fence is there and all thought turns to static above the yells behind her and the movement closing in from either side.

Her eyes search the fence.

She takes two more strides, back beginning to pulse with pain, and dives forward, arms covering her head.

The guard stops before Merrill’s cage and eyes his missing leg.

“Have to say, I’ve never seen a one-legged man fight before.”

Merrill pulls himself up the bars and hops forward. “You will tonight.” He glances down the row of cages to where another guard is letting the giant free of his cell. The huge man stretches, flexing muscles that ripple like knotted rope below his skin. He sees Merrill watching and grins toothlessly.

“We’re gonna see something. That’s for sure. You ever heard that saying about a one-legged man in an ass-kicking competition?” the guard says. He inserts a key into the padlock on the outside of the door and is about to open it when a chorus of yells comes from the midway, climbing in volume until it sounds as if every man in the trade is screaming at the top of his lungs.

Merrill leans to the side as the guard turns around, eyeing his compatriot. “The hell is that?”

Zoey. It has to be.

A gunshot booms from the direction of the commotion, and the guard down the row of cells begins to run toward the sounds. Merrill’s guard takes a step as well but is yanked backward as Merrill snags his collar through the bars.

“The fuck are you—”

Merrill slams him against the cage hard enough to rattle the door, then slides his forearm across the man’s throat. The guard squawks and one hand scrambles down to his sidearm, but Merrill grabs it, yanking his arm through the bars, pinning him there.

He flails, trying to break the hold, but Merrill cinches it deeper, the man’s ears going from red to purple.

The fight suddenly goes out of the guard. Merrill feels muscles slacken and he tightens the choke for another second before releasing him. He drops to the ground in a heap, an autonomic wheeze squealing in through his swelling windpipe.

Merrill waits, searching for movement in the vicinity, but all the action is on the opposite side of the tents and buildings before him. As he twists the key in the lock and steps out of the cage, several more shots punctuate the crowd’s cries. He begins looking for something to use as a crutch but the sound of rusted steel shrieking draws his attention to the giant’s cell, where the huge man steps free.

He grins at Merrill and clenches both fists before starting in his direction.

Chelsea sits on the bench in the lower level of the nest and stares out the window at the bustling midway. It’s the largest crowd she’s seen yet. The element of death that’s drawn the men for entertainment still escapes her. Why in a world already so full of suffering would a person crave more?

She tucks the dress tighter around her legs. She’s been cold ever since they forced her into this outfit and all she wants is to be somewhere safe in her own clothes, with a hot cup of Ian’s tea, and Merrill’s arms around her.

Merrill.

Chelsea closes her eyes. She’s not going to think about anything anymore. She’s done with the endless circle of useless thoughts. All the sorrow and tears have been wrung out of her. Now there is only what will come. And she doesn’t want to think of that either.

She places a hand over her stomach and grimaces. She should have said something before they left Riverbend, but now it is too late.

Too late to tell him he’s going to be a father again.

She jerks with the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a moment later the Prestons appear accompanied by the albino. They are dressed up again like they’re attending some type of gala instead of going to watch a man be murdered.

“It’s time, my dear,” Presto says. The guard at the door turns to open it as several shouts come from the midway outside.

“Hold on, sir,” the guard says, putting his hand out. “Something’s happening.”

“What is it?”

“Not sure. Disturbance on the midway. I’ll check.” He slips out the door as the voices increase in volume, getting nearer, more frenzied.

“These small towns. I don’t know why we even stop in them anymore,” Sasha says, adjusting the velvet scarf she wears over her shoulders.

“Now darling, we’re entertainers and they’re in need of entertainment.”

“They’re animals. Listen to them.”

A gun blast comes from outside, and both Prestons duck while the albino moves to the door, his hand going to the knife beneath his coat.

“What the hell is happening out there?” Sasha asks, one foot on the stairs again. Chelsea stands and moves to the window, the sound of screaming so loud now she can’t hear anything else.

Then she spots movement. A blur of dark clothing and darker hair flowing back.

Muzzle flash and a crumpling body.

And she is gone.

Chelsea’s heart sings, hope reigniting inside her. “Zoey,” she breathes.

A guard bursts through the door, nearly tearing it from its hinges as the seething mass of men stream by like a river of flesh.

“A woman!” he yells, eyes wide. “Really young.”

“What? Here?” Presto says, straining to see past the running men. More gunfire erupts outside and both Prestons duck. “Go! Go get her before the rabble does! They’ll tear her apart!”

The guard nods and rushes out again. Chelsea sees him sprint through the last of the crowd and motion to three other guards standing dumbstruck across the midway.

“It seems the surprises aren’t over yet,” Presto says, dusting the front of his suit off.

“No,” Chelsea says, still staring in the direction Zoey went. “I don’t think they are.”