7th Sigma (36 page)

The Lord, apparently, was not.

With only one functioning arm, Kimble couldn't afford to be gentle and Rappaport had no idea about how to fall safely.

Rappaport thrust the blade forward, going for the gut, and Kimble spun out of the way, taking the wrist. He swept it up by his cheek, twisting and then reversed his hips in the other direction.

Kimble kept the knife. Rappaport tumbled down the scree to the edge of the pond where he huddled in on himself, cradling his dislocated elbow and keening.

Kimble cut Pierce's bonds with the knife and looked over where the bugs still swarmed near the rebar. Ronson was down and unmoving.
Guess the Lord wasn't with him, either.

Pierce groaned and Kimble shook his shoulder, trying to revive him. He tried slapping his cheeks lightly, but the big man remained unresponsive.

Kimble eyed the steep slope up to ground level. He doubted if he could make it up, with his one arm out of commission, much less carry Pierce out.
Or Rappaport?

He walked back to the edge and looked down the slope to Rappaport.

Rappaport looked back up at Kimble, struggled to his feet, and backed away, splashing through the shallows. When he'd gone a few yards, he turned and ran, following the shore to the far side where he disappeared into the dark shadow cast by the overhanging rim.

Let Rappaport's God help him.

He wasn't sure he wanted to climb the slope. Rappaport's men were probably still up there. They might even come down, looking for their leader. Kimble considered hiding, but it took all his remaining strength to bind up his bicep with strips of his shirt. If he hadn't had Rappaport's knife, he doubted he could've done it.

He heard movement over the buzzing, from down in the far pit, the one without a pond. Rappaport's men? Maybe someone else dropped down into the Pits by the explosion?

Whoever it was wore a broad straw hat, tattered and torn, and a long coat. Kimble didn't think he was one of Rappaport's men. He didn't have a rifle, at least, and those men had been dressed for the warmth above. Seeing the long coat made Kimble realize how cold he was, a combination of his time in the water and the blood loss. He eyed the coat covetously and a shiver that began in his shoulders traveled up his neck and his teeth chattered until he clenched them together.

And then he realized the man was strolling across the bottom of the pit as casually as one would walk down a boulevard … and the pit was covered in bugs.

Hallucinations? From the blood loss?

The man came on and when he reached the broken slope leading up to the collapsed trail he looked up at Kimble without eyes.

Oh.

Not-dog. Not-steer. Not-mule.
Not-man.

One moment the not-man stood below and the next instant he was standing on the trail looking down at Kimble. Kimble didn't think he'd blacked out, but admitted to himself it was possible.

The not-man took off its coat—not like a human would, but by withdrawing its oily black arms up into the sleeves; then the hands came forward, past the lapels and the shoulders, one, two, and it walked forward out of the coat, which fell to the ground behind. It was wearing pants and a t-shirt. It tilted its head to one side, then ripped the shirt off and wrapped it over its upper left arm. It walked once around Kimble and then dropped to its knees in front of him and cradled its left arm with its right. It hunched in, rounding its shoulders.

Kimble's shivering increased.

The not-man began shaking, too.

“No. You don't have to do that.”

The not-man made a humming sound. It wasn't words, but the tone and rhythm were like Kimble's sentence.

Kimble's teeth chattered. He reached over and took the thing's coat where it lay on the ground. It smelled faintly of dried blood and there were stains on it but, when he pulled it one-handed across his shoulders, it helped.

The not-man tilted its head again and stretched out its hand and picked up the trailing end of the coat. Kimble expected it to pull its coat back, but instead, it shifted sideways, coming up under the coat right next to Kimble.

The not-man was warm. Hot, even. Like pavement in early evening after a hot cloudless day, and it was all Kimble could do not to hug it to him. He wasn't sure that he wanted to be hugged back. He wasn't sure he would survive being hugged back.

He dozed, and when he woke up, his legs were going to sleep but his pants were dry and the shivering had stopped. The not-man stirred when he did. Kimble carefully slid out from under the coat. It took him multiple tries to get to his feet, unwilling, as he was, to steady himself on the not-man's shoulder.

He bent down and grabbed Pierce's collar and dragged him a few feet toward the steep slope. He sat down suddenly, dizzy. He waited for the world to stop spinning, then pulled again, without standing, scooting with his legs and dragging with his good arm.

The not-man reached down and grabbed the collar. Kimble tried to ignore him but promptly fell over when the not-man dragged Pierce three yards in three seconds.

“Okay, then.”

Kimble didn't really pull Pierce, but by keeping a hand on his elbow and struggling to get himself up the slope, the not-man kept pace with him, doing the real work, sometimes moving Kimble as well. It took over a half hour, but finally Kimble and Pierce lay on the edge of the prairie above.

The not-man lay beside them, looking up into the sky as if it, too, was exhausted and couldn't move another inch, but it lifted its head just like Kimble when four aircraft circled high overhead and dozens of parachutes blossomed.

*   *   *

“THE
fireball and the smoke was imaged from orbit. I mean, they were looking, since Colonel Anson passed on your report, but when it went off and all those horses scattered, they scrambled the standby squads from both Texas and Eastern Colorado.”

The not-man had disappeared down into the pit before the first of the Rapid Response Force arrived.

Rappaport was found, semiconscious and raving, at the far end of the pond in the “wet” pit. The Rangers brought him out strapped to a fiberglass rescue stretcher. When they reached the top and he saw Kimble, Rappaport began thrashing back and forth so violently that the medtech sedated him.

They airlifted Pierce and Rappaport out, snatching them off the ground with a cable lofted into the air by hot-air balloon and snagged by aircraft high above. After watching this operation, they offered the same ride to Kimble.

“Do you think I'm
insane
?”

The lieutenant in charge raised his eyebrows and said mildly, “I've done it dozens of times. It's certainly a lot safer than igniting petroleum fumes in an underground tank.”

The medtech stitched him up with a plastic needle under local anesthetic. Before the drugs wore off she put him in a sling, and then strapped the arm, sling and all, to his chest. “Lie down and sleep while you can. When that local wears off it won't be so easy.”

The RRF captured almost half of the PAC. They were all on foot, their mounts spooked by the explosion. The members who had not been separated from their horses had ridden for Pecosito.

“Where they're going to run into Colonel Anson's men,” the lieutenant said. “Funny thing about radio. Speed of light
still
faster than horses.”

Mrs. Perdicaris followed one of the squads back to the stand of cedars where they'd set up temporary camp. The Rangers had been warned by Kimble not to try catching her.

“Weird thing,” one of them said. “When we first saw her, I could swear there were
two
mules.”

Kimble fed her some of the PAC's stored oats. He found his tack and saddlebags stacked with the PAC's equipment, but the medic wouldn't clear him to ride, so he ended up traveling back to the Pecosito Ranger barracks in one of their wagons, part of a cargo that included the burnt and twisted remains of the smuggled gyro rifles.

They wanted to put him in the barracks dispensary, but Kimble talked to the colonel and the colonel radioed the major and the upshot of it was that he was released to
Thây
Hahn and, in his own cart, pulled by Mrs. P, traveled back to the Zen Center, where they put him in a bed in the hospice.

*   *   *

THREE
afternoons later, he woke to find Ruth sitting at his bedside. “You're not dying, are you?” she asked.

“No, Sensei!”

“Everyone else here is.”

“Yes, Sensei. But not me. Not
yet
.” He rubbed his eyes. “Uh, you're really here?”

Ruth nodded. “Why do you ask?”

He gestured at his bedside table, where a plastic bottle of pills sat. “Pain medication. I've, uh, actually talked to you before this.”

“What did I say?”

Kimble blushed. “You shouted at me for getting injured. For not being careful enough. For playing with matches and explosive fumes. And for not feeding the chickens and dusting the
kamiza
.”

There were footsteps in the hall and a familiar voice said, “I heard that!”

Thayet came to the door, gesturing to someone behind her. “In here.”

Major Bentham rounded the doorway. “And did you have a similar conversation with me? About your general stupidity?”

Thayet echoed brightly, “Stupidity!”

Kimble glared at her and she said, “Uh, things to do, people to annoy.” She left.

Kimble sank down in the bed and said to Bentham, “Similar, yes. More, uh, intense, though.”

Major Bentham exchanged looks with Ruth and both seemed to exhale slowly.

Ruth said, “Then I guess just repeating it all would be redundant.”

Major Bentham opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He rubbed his chin. “Really? What about the
satisfaction
? I mean, I've rehearsed it and refined it every damn mile between here and the capital. Just coming up the hallway I added two more scathing phrases.”

Ruth smiled. “Well, I enjoyed your last few variations, and while it was getting more flowery, clever words, I think your first version held more passion.”

Kimble's eyebrows raised. “You traveled together?”

“Jeremy stopped in Perro Frio to brief me. He invited me to travel on with him.”

“Yes.” Bentham nodded agreement. “After last time … well, I just thought it would be better.”

Kimble sat up and Ruth shifted the pillow so he could lean against the headboard. “You just wanted her to vent on
me
instead of you! Lujan said you were scared of her. Heck,
you
said you were scared of her.”

Bentham looked sideways at Ruth and smiled. “Oh, yes. Terrified.”

Kimble watched Ruth to see her reaction and was shocked to see her smile back at Bentham.

How old is Bentham?
He thought back to the times Bentham had dropped by the dojo “just passing through.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
And you call yourself a spy.

Ruth leaned forward. “Are you all right? They told me about your arm, but is your head bothering you?”

“No, no. I'm okay. When did you get in?”

“We got in this morning, just before lunch. Jeremy went off to the barracks and I had a nice talk with
Thây
Hahn.”

“Yes. I just spent an hour with the colonel,” said Bentham.

“Oh, good. Any news?”

“Let's see. Your friend Pierce is conscious. Good thing they lifted him out. They had to go in and surgically reduce a subdermal hematoma.”

“I'm glad he's all right. He's not exactly a friend, though.”

“Friend or not, he's contrite. He's confessed to trying to rob you twice and betraying you to the Public Action Committee. Not to mention embezzlement of a client's funds back in Oregon.”

“I guessed about the embezzlement. In fact, that's probably why he betrayed me to Rappaport. What about the PAC? There were still some missing when I last talked to the colonel.”

“A few, but we got all the officers. The whole thing is a mess. The paramilitary, the PAC—we've got them cold. Murder, arms smuggling, sedition, conspiracy. Figuring out what other members of the Church of the New Prosperity are involved is more problematic. The church is screaming religious persecution, and outside, the conservative press is publishing their talking points.

“Fortunately there are members of the PAC who are singing like birds. Did you know it was Ronson that shot Lujan?”

“Which Ronson? The one the bugs—”

Bentham nodded. “Yes. Stories are also surfacing in the community about racism and strong-arm tactics. Hell, even your friend Deacon Rappaport is talking but the man—” Bentham sighed heavily. “Between hearing voices from God above and seeing demons down in the underground portions of the refinery, he's got a pretty good shot at an insanity plea.” Bentham laughed. “So, how long have you been consorting with demons? The Deacon says it's the only explanation for his downfall. Well, that and a momentary failure of faith.”

Kimble tried to smile, but it must've looked odd because Ruth said, “I knew you were lying!”

“What do you mean?” Kimble said.

“It's your head, isn't it? We've worn you out with all our chatter.” She stood up. “You need to sleep, I can tell.”

Kimble slumped down in the bed and shrugged weakly.

“Come on, Jeremy.” She took his arm in a distinctly proprietary way.

Bentham eyed Kimble with narrowed eyes as he allowed Ruth to pull him toward the door, but he paused just inside the room.

“That lecture, the one where I shout about explosive fumes and getting too close and acting instead of just observing?”

Kimble nodded. “Yes. Invisible like a ghost?
That
lecture?”

“Yeah. Well, consider it given.”

Kimble exhaled.