Beauty and the Bounty Hunter (27 page)

“Mikey,” she whispered.

“Became Mikhail.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No one does.” He swallowed, his throat clicking loudly in the silence of the room. “The distance was too great. I’d never hit anything from so far away. I knew better. Especially with the rifle they furnished. A Dimick, so long and heavy. The ammunition had been made by idiots. The sight was—” He shuddered. “It was a miracle I didn’t kill someone before Mikey.”

“Why didn’t you shoot them?” she blurted. “They gave you a gun. Bam, bam, bam. No more guards.”

“A Dimick is a muzzle loader, single shot. Even if they’d handed me a Henry…” Alexi’s fingers flexed at the thought of having sixteen shots in a repeating rifle at his disposal. “I doubt the guards would have provided me with more than one bullet at a time. They were thugs, but they weren’t stupid thugs. Even so, whenever I had a weapon, a half dozen of them kept theirs pointed at…” His voice faded as memories flickered—so strong they seemed real, though he knew better.

“You?”

He came back, though the whispers, the scents and sounds, beckoned. “That would have made things easier. But I was too valuable an amusement, among other things.”

“Other?”

“Never mind.” He waved his hand. His value, the real reason for his presence at Castle Thunder, was for later in the story. “They kept their guns on whoever was unlucky enough to be my pedestal that day. If my aim was true, the victim lived. If not, he died. If I refused—”

“He died.”

Alexi took a breath, let it out slowly. “They thought it would be interesting to see if caring about my pedestal affected my aim. Apparently, it did.”

“You shot Mikey.”

“No. I killed Mikey.”

The brick area behind the prison was designated as the place to impart punishment on convicted deserters—lashings and even executions. In truth, it was used by the guards for anything they didn’t want others to see. Fedya spent quite a bit of time there.

At first he didn’t mind. He’d been trained to shoot; he was good at it. Performing greater and greater feats of marksmanship gave him confidence. In this place where men were treated like animals, confidence was in short supply.

Even when the guards began to move the targets from the tops of barrels to the heads of those deserters they planned to whip, or even kill, Fedya didn’t hesitate. If he
could place a shot just so and end someone’s life, he could as easily place it just so and save them.

Not that he actually saved anyone. If the man was condemned to die, Fedya’s skill did not prevent the inevitable. The dark splotches staining the dirt and the grass of the enclosure gave testament to what happened every day after they returned him to Palmer’s Factory.

“Thought you were a killer.” The words, low and vicious, came from a guard equally so. Beltrane carried a whip on his belt, decorated with blood. Sometimes Fedya could swear he saw flecks of flesh stuck there as well.

“I—” Fedya paused. Wasn’t he supposed to hit the can and not the man? Wasn’t that the purpose of this game?

Beltrane’s face was pale and pockmarked, his hands hard and large. He appeared to be in his twenties, but most of his thin brown hair was already gone. He was short, stocky, and bowlegged. All he had to recommend
him was his skill with a whip and his enjoyment of violence. Which explained his steady employment at Castle Thunder.

“You shot my cousin in the head, you fucking filth.” Beltrane uncoiled the whip.

“I—” Fedya said again, then stopped. It did no good to deny such accusations. He’d tried before, but no one believed him. And who knew? He’d shot so many men, he might have shot someone’s cousin, or brother, or friend. He had no idea.

The whip snapped, and Fedya started. Beltrane laughed
around his disgustingly chewed-upon cigar. “We gotta make this more interesting.”

Fedya was already standing near the farthest reaches of the enclosure. A Confederate deserter who appeared all of fifteen years old stood on the other side. The boy shook so badly, the can atop his head shimmied. Nevertheless, Fedya had already put three perfectly placed holes through the tin.

Beltrane continued to chew, the brush of his black gaze reminding Fedya of a spider scuttling over his face in the night. He even swiped at a tickle on his nose.

“There you are.” Michael Walsh hovered at the entrance to the courtyard.

Though Fedya encountered Ethan rarely—the doctor spent his days and nights treating patients—Mikey came around every so often to see how Fedya was faring.

Seen as the doctor’s helper, Mikey was given free rein in the prison to scrounge what he could for the patients. And as Ethan treated all who resided in Castle Thunder—Confederate, Yankee, traitor, deserter, spy, it didn’t matter—Mikey went everywhere that he wanted. On several occasions, he even took part in their make-believe. But mostly Mikey remained at his brother’s side, doing everything Ethan asked.

Fedya wished he had a brother who loved him like that. Then maybe he wouldn’t feel so alone. Although right now, being alone was all that Fedya wanted.

He had never mentioned what he did in the brick enclosure behind the prison. Nothing Mikey or Ethan could say would stop Fedya’s performances; besides, it was best not to draw Beltrane’s attention if you could help it.

As Mikey glanced at the Confederate kid, his overgrown dark hair fell over his bright gray eyes before he returned his gaze to Fedya. “What are you doin’ out here?”

Mikey wasn’t slow, a surprise to most people who believed someone so large could not move or think with ease.

“It’s not what you—” Fedya began.

“You don’t know any of these folks,” Beltrane murmured in a slick, slimy, serpentine voice. “So you don’t really care if they die.”

Fedya’s skin prickled. The guard stared at Mikey with what was supposed to be a smile but was merely a bar
ing of stained teeth.

“Mikey,” Fedya said. “Go back to the hospital.”

Mikey turned. Beltrane flicked a finger and two guards stepped in front of him.

“He should return to his brother,” Fedya said.

“He will.” Beltrane’s smile widened. “Maybe.”

Fedya stiffened at the insinuation. He always hit what he aimed at. Nothing would change that. Still, he didn’t want Mikey anywhere near this man, this place, this gun.

“Just set another can on that deserter.” Fedya tried not to let his unease show as he took several steps toward the far wall. “I’ll move over here.” He’d made shots from greater distances than this, but he’d done so with better equipment. Still—

The gunshot was so loud, Fedya cried out. Blood bloomed on the Confederate kid’s gray coat, and he collapsed to the ground.

“You don’t need a new can.” Beltrane tucked the pistol back into his belt next to the whip. “What you need is a new pedestal.”

The guards marched Mikey toward the wall.

A
lexi stared at the ceiling, face still and white. Cat touched her fingers to his chin and turned him to her. “You don’t have to go on,” she murmured. “I understand.”

She didn’t want him to continue. From the way his voice, his body, trembled when he spoke, the memories were tearing him apart.

He blinked, then squinted as if he wasn’t sure who she was, before returning his gaze to the ceiling. “I doubt that.”

She tried not to let his words bother her. He was right. How could she understand? Certainly she’d shot people. But they’d deserved it. Michael, Mikey, Mikhail had not.

The pictures he painted—of Castle Thunder, of Fedya, of the Walshes, the guards, his “pedestals”—were so vivid Cat could practically see them. She smelled the unwashed bodies, the dirt, the blood. She heard the cries, the shouts, the shots, even the whip. Of course, Alexi had always been able to make anyone believe anything, and his gift with words was only one of the reasons why.

She laid her hand on his chest, was comforted by the beat of his heart, even though the speed was far too hard and fast. She took a deep breath, let his familiar
rainwater scent wash over, then soothe her. She wanted to do the same for him.

“I’ve done things, Alexi. Things that haunt me.” Like the Freedom sheriff. Clyde. And worse. “There’s nothing you can tell me that will shock me. There’s nothing you can say that will…” She paused, uncertain of how to go on.

Alexi, as always, had no trouble. “That will make you hate me as much as Ethan does?”

“I could never hate you.”

“Let’s find out,” he murmured.

“No!” Fedya shouted, starting toward Mikey.

Beltrane’s whip cracked. Fedya stopped, expecting to feel the sting of the lash across his arm, his chest, his face. Instead, his friend cried out, and a slash appeared on the back of his once-white shirt.

“Don’t move,” Beltrane said, then spat his cigar stub at Fedya’s feet.

“Or what? You’ll whip me?”

The guard laughed, spewing smoke-fouled breath in Fedya’s face. He nearly gagged.

“Of course not.” Beltrane flicked his wrist again. Again
Mikey cried out.

“Stop,” Fedya said.

“No,” Beltrane answered, and the whip cracked.

Fedya’s fingers clenched on the Dimick rifle. “What do you want?”

“The same thing I’ve always wanted,” Beltrane said. “Some goddamn entertainment.”

The guards shoved Mikey against the wall. They set a much smaller can upon his head.

“No,” Fedya begged. “Please, just…No.”

Beltrane flipped his hand as if swatting a bug. The
men—four instead of the usual two, in deference to Mikey’s height and breadth—spun him around. The can flew sideways, bouncing against the brick wall with a tinny clack that made both Mikey and Fedya flinch. The
guards tore off his shirt. Blood ran from the open wounds.

“Either shoot the can,” Beltrane said in a conversational tone that chilled Fedya more than the words themselves, “or I’ll peel every last bit of skin off his back. Your choice.”

As Alexi had heard stories of those Beltrane had flayed alive, he swallowed his gorge and nodded. With him, Mikey stood a chance of leaving this place alive. With Beltrane, he would die.

Slowly.

They turned Mikey around again and positioned him against the wall, perching the tiny can upon his big, tall head. His gray eyes met Fedya’s, and Fedya nearly dropped
the gun.

Mikey trusted him.

When the others had trembled and begged, Fedya had merely become calmer, intent on proving to them his
prowess. But now, staring at Mikey, who stood with his shoulders thrown back, gaze confident, Fedya was the one who trembled.

He accepted the bullet and loaded the gun by rote. Lifting the weapon, he sighted down the barrel. Fedya had done this a hundred times before. Why was now any different?

Because he had someone he cared about, someone who trusted and believed in him, someone whose loss would be an agony in his sight. The gun suddenly felt very heavy.

“Shoot,” Beltrane ordered. “Now. Do it.”

Still Fedya hesitated. Perhaps if he waited long enough,
Ethan would come looking for his brother. Would
the doctor be able to stop this?

The avid sparkle in the guards’ eyes told the truth. Nothing would stop this. If Ethan arrived, he’d probably be the next man balancing a can on his head.

The whip whistled. Blood trickled down Mikey’s chest. He bit his lip, but not before a single moan broke free, and Fedya knew that the only way to stop this was to finish it.

He stared into his friend’s eyes. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. Everything will be all right.”

Then Fedya pulled the trigger.

“I killed him.” Alexi’s voice held no emotion. That frightened Cat more than his pale, chill skin. “Shot him right in the head. Just like all the others.”

“
Durochka,
” she murmured, the word a caress. “You’re mistaken. Mikey is Mikhail.” Although why that was, she had yet to discover. “He’s here. With us. He isn’t dead.”

“Blood,” Alexi continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Like a river across his face. I’d never…” He paused and swallowed. “I would shoot, then disappear. I didn’t know that head wounds produced so much blood.”

Not only that, but as far as she knew, they produced a corpse. So—“What happened to Mikey?”

Alexi’s sole movement was a slight tremble, so faint the only reason Cat knew of it was because her body was pressed the length of his. For an instant she feared he’d gone away in his head to a place long before the war, before the Walshes, before he’d become a sharpshooting boy. Although, from what she’d gathered of his childhood, she wasn’t certain he’d find any refuge there either.

“Alexi?” she murmured, and brushed back his hair.

He lowered his gaze. His pupils were so large they’d swallowed all the blue in his eyes. Or perhaps it was just the night that had swallowed them both. Despite what had happened out there, in here Cat felt as if they were living in a world apart.

At least he knew her, because he whispered, “
Koshka
,” then closed his eyes and answered the question she thought he hadn’t heard. “Ethan saved him. I don’t know how. But when Mikey woke, he didn’t remember he was Mikey. He didn’t remember Ethan.” Alexi let out a long breath. “He only remembered me.”

“That you—?”

“Shot him? No.” His lips tightened. “Though maybe it would have been better if he had.”

“Why?” She couldn’t think that memory would be good for anyone.

“He and Ethan had been inseparable. Now Mikey didn’t know him.”

“Is that why Ethan dislikes you?”

“Hates my guts, you mean?” Cat shrugged and waited for Alexi to answer. “He blames me for Mikey’s death.”