Captives (9 page)

The homes fronting the surf were nearly identical. Tile roofs, wild yards, dingy patios, pools filled with sludge. He ran to the back door of the nearest. Finding it locked, he dashed across the yard to the next. Its sliding door was already open. He slipped inside and stood in the darkness, dripping on the slate floor, immediately glad to be out of the wind. He'd dropped his poker during the run and he crept across the leaf-strewn back room to the kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife from its block. He wrenched off his sodden shoes, dropped them next to the staircase, then thought better and picked them up.

He'd left wet footprints across the tile. The patio, too, but there was nothing to be done about that, and the winds would take care of them soon. He closed the sliding door, backed up to the carpet, and stripped naked, shivering violently, keeping both eyes on the door. Freed of his dripping clothes, he ran to the kitchen for hand towels and swabbed the water from the tile.

Tracks erased, he snatched up his clothes and ran upstairs. The landing overlooked the vast lower space. Away from the windows, it was incredibly dark, and he slowed, shaking, heart beating madly. He entered the first bedroom he found, locked the door with a snick, and threw aside his clothes. He set the butcher knife on the lamp table beside the door and sprinted to the bed.

The house had hung onto some of the day's heat and was a good ten degrees warmer than the windy, mid-fifties night. Even so, his muscles were spasming and his skin was damp. The room had an attached bath. The towels were stiff, but he rubbed himself dry, went back for the knife, then bundled himself under the sheets and dusty down comforter.

The wind rustled the palms in the yard. Otherwise, the house was dead quiet. After a few minutes, he ceased shivering. He thought he should feel something more about the killing but found himself numb to it. The man was a parasite, feeding on Lawson's fame—which was itself corrupt—to impersonate the man and exchange that social currency for respect from men and sex from women. On top of that, he'd been prepared to kill Thom (or, more accurately, to get Biscuit to do it for him) in order to keep his secret safe. No one with a conscience worth half a damn would blame Thom for what he'd done or be sad to hear such a man was gone.

He wasn't able to believe it himself, though. Not until his second voice spoke up and reminded him of all the things he'd seen. Compared to the natural state of things, one killing in self-defense was a sneeze to the gale.

He slept longer than he intended. When he got up, the east was beginning to turn blue. He dressed as quickly as he could. The former owner's clothes were too big for him, but he was used to that. Far worse, he'd lost his pack in the swim and he was ravenous and thirsty. He needed to move.

He took nothing but the butcher knife. Outside, the wind whipped over his jacket. He stuck to the coast for the first quarter of a mile before reconnecting to the road. Within a mile, he found a bike abandoned in the weeds. Its chain broke as he entered San Pedro.

* * *

The very next day, as he wandered around the Dunemarket making inquiries about the cost of pistols to replace the one he'd lost, a flash of color caught his eye at the top of the road. A man in a pale blue windbreaker strode down the street, pedestrians swerving around his bulk. Thom turned and hurried down the road between the two hills.

His first instinct was to hide in the inn, but that was among the first places Biscuit would check. He moved across the street and climbed to the second floor of an abandoned insurance brokerage. Twenty minutes later, Biscuit meandered out of the Dunemarket, crossed the parking lot, and entered the tavern.

The big man stayed for fifteen minutes, then headed back into the brown hills enclosing the market. Thom waited a long time before heading to the tavern. Inside, Earl caught his eye and pulled him into the back office.

"Man was looking for you," Earl said. "Said there was trouble over in RPV."

"Bet they're still not used to that."

Earl snorted. "He was pumping the customers. I told him you came by sometimes."

"Right move," Thom said. "If you told him you didn't know me, he would have gotten the truth sooner or later. That would put you in the crosshairs, too."

"Which I'm guessing aren't the metaphorical kind. What happened over there?"

Thom gave him a long look. "Would knowing help you in some way?"

"Would help me help
you
." Earl waited, then sighed and folded his arms. "I got two options for you to consider. One, get the heck out of Dodge. Or two, appeal to a higher power."

He fought not to raise a brow. "You want me to pray?"

"Right, pray to the God of the Panhandler and see if he answers you this time." Earl sat behind his desk with a thump. "Go see Mauser. He don't look like much, but he gets things done."

"And if he wants me to leave?"

"Then it's best you come to him before he has to come to you."

Thom stuck his hands in his pockets. "How is it that bartenders are always so wise?"

"A lifetime of hearing about the mistakes of drunks."

Thom exited through the rear. He hadn't been to the Seat before but knew it was located just above the Dunemarket. He walked up the road, eyes out for the blue windbreaker, then turned up a path into the palms and shrubs dotting the hillside. Near its top, thick bamboo poles projected from the dirt, placed haphazardly. Animal bones and dried flowers were scattered around their bases. Others were joined by crosses or small ceramic statues of the Virgin Mary. Grave markers.

He followed the trail past a couple more hills. A shallow valley opened below him, freckled with shacks, most of which appeared to be built into the earth. Small green plots grew in patches of shade. The center of the valley was uninhabited, a communal space of palm trees, benches, and a spring-fed fountain. Three people were there now drawing water from it. As Thom approached, a fourth figure peeled from the trees to intercept him: Kolton, the boy who'd cut the now-healed moon on the back of Thom's hand.

The boy relaxed his posture, recognizing him. "Have you come to pay tribute? Or simply to visit the heart of your new home?"

"I need to speak to Mauser," Thom said. "Unless he's busy tributing himself."

"What does this regard?"

"A matter of security. I am in dire need of his aid."

Kolton nodded deeply. "Wait here."

He jogged up the dusty path, disappearing behind the trees. A minute later, he returned and led Thom up to a north-facing shack dug into the side of a hill. "He awaits you inside."

Thom smiled and bobbed his head, resisting the temptation to call him a faithful squire. The entry to the shack was gritty concrete and much cooler than the mid-afternoon sun. It smelled like raw earth and green onions.

As soon as Thom was inside, Mauser stuck his head out from down the tunnel. "Should we lock the doors? Kolton made it sound like the end of the world's on your heels."

"For me, maybe," Thom said. "But seeing as that's the only world I've got a stake in, there might not be a difference."

"Step into my office and tell Uncle Mauser all about it."

His office was a round, earth-walled room with skylights and vents that made it feel much less like the cave it was. It was ringed with leather sofas. Thom sat, the material squeaking beneath him. The story he told was mostly true: that he'd gone to see this man thinking he could learn more about his brother, now deceased. That he had foolishly declared the man an impostor. That a struggle had ensued, resulting in the man's death. And that his people were in town looking for revenge.

"On me," Thom added. "Just in case that wasn't clear."

"And you came to me because why?" Mauser said. "You thought I'd protect you?"

"I thought you deserved to know. And hoped you could tell me whether I've violated the Law of the Good Moon."

"I don't suppose there were any witnesses."

Thom shook his head. "Like I said, we were alone. But if it comes to trial, don't be surprised if Biscuit claims he was there in the room."

"Trial," Mauser smirked. He squinted up at the skylights. "First off, there's a jurisdictional issue to clear up. Second, there's the issue of whether this is a personal vendetta or tribal warfare. In any event, the answers aren't obvious to me, which means I have the chance to pass the buck. And pass it I shall."

"To?"

"Raina, of course. The only one who outranks me, the esteemed Sheriff of the Place." He raised one finger. "I must warn you about the sloth-like speed of the gears of justice. Raina won't have time for this until tomorrow."

Unable to tell if the man was joking, Thom merely nodded. "Acceptable."

"In the meantime, I decree it best if you remain in custody."

"Protective? Or under arrest?"

"That's the question, isn't it? We'll see what the Bones have to say." He slitted his eyes, smiling slyly. "Unless you'd rather take this opportunity to flee and be gone forevermore."

That was beginning to sound more appealing. Yet exile would mean being cut off from the most promising font of information he'd found in all his travels. The Dunemarket had already brought him the truth of Raymond's fate. He could criss-cross the country for fifty years and never find Walt. If he stayed here, and kept his finger on the strands of the web, he'd have hundreds of people making the search for him.

"I trust the Moon's wisdom in this matter," Thom said. "After all, it's been around the block a time or two."

Mauser allowed him to hang around the park and fountain under the watchful eye of Kolton. When dusk came, the boy took Thom to a corrugated metal shack at the edge of the Seat.

"Don't fear," the boy said. "I'll let you out before the sun can punish you."

The interior had a cot, a table, and a small bookshelf with a severe lean, but it was too dark to read. Doubts filled the spaces in his mind. To force them out, he remembered when he and Raymond had been younger, before the plague, and how different and simple the world had been.

As promised, Kolton released him minutes after sunrise. The air smelled like dew and a calm change in the weather. He was allowed to relieve himself and was given water and a breakfast of cornbread, hardboiled eggs, and an orange. The day passed in listless trickles. Late that morning, Kolton was called away and Thom was watched by a teen girl who carried a curved sword and a flat expression. Night neared and she returned Thom to the shack.

He stood in the doorway, blocking its closure. "Has there been a decision?"

"That you will stay here another night." The young woman swung the door shut. Thom danced out of its way. A padlock clicked shut.

In the morning, he was released not by Kolton or his taciturn replacement, but by Mauser, smiling and airy. He had swapped out his jeans and t-shirt in favor of crimson pants and a red leather jacket.

"Mock at your peril," he said, catching the look on Thom's face. "You look upon the formal uniform of the sheriff."

Thom lowered his head. "I would never dream of making fun of one of Vader's Imperial Guards."

Mauser tapped his fingers to his thigh, the motion twitchy and impatient, like the tail of a cat watching a bird through a screen. "Come with me, smart guy."

He led the way up a dusty trail. The sun was hardly above the hills and the morning light was thick and yellow. The chill of the last few days had vanished, swept aside by a comfortable warmth. The trail deposited them on the road and Mauser followed it through a rundown neighborhood of Spanish bungalows with pink walls and flat roofs. Three blocks later, they came to a boulevard. Across it, the stores were charred, windows broken, walls caved in. Past them, there was nothing but piles of ashy rubble and sprigs of grass pushing through the blanket of ash.

The road swung up a small hill and terminated in a cul-de-sac. Every piece of rubble had been cleared except two features: a knee-high stone wall that had been extended on three sides to enclose a plot of land, and two crescents of charred brick near its center. A driveway approached the plot's front. At the end of the drive, a half dozen people dressed in red and black stood in a loose cluster. A tall blond woman glanced at Thom and fixed him with penetrating blue eyes. Within moments, the others turned to stare as well.

"Word to the wise," Mauser murmured. "Go with the flow."

Thom headed toward the blond woman, lowering his eyes as he drew near. "My lady."

The woman frowned, glancing at one of the men, who laughed. A short, dark-haired girl slipped between two of the men and put herself in Thom's path. "You are Thom James?"

Mauser smiled. "May I present your latest victim, Raina."

Thom blinked. The girl in front of him was only sixteen, if that, inches shorter than everyone around her. But the muscles of her arms were as hard and smooth as river rocks and she carried herself with the coiled presence of a jungle cat. A short sword and a long knife hung from her hips.

She looked Thom up and down, eyes black, unreadable. "He looks weak."

"So does glass," Thom said. "But if you break it, it cuts back."

This seemed to please the girl. Still speaking to Mauser, she said, "He bears the mark?"

Mauser elbowed Thom in the ribs and shifted his eyes to Thom's left hand. Thom raised it, the C-shaped scar facing up, stained blue by the powder Kolton had sprinkled across the wound.

"Then you wear the Moon's protection," Raina said. "And its judgment." She gestured to the shorter crescent of brick. "Be seated."

Thom nodded and walked into the black field. Ash puffed from his shoes. White objects littered the charcoal, ranging in size from pebbles and twigs to clubs as long as a man's thighbone. With a jolt, Thom understood that was exactly what it was. The field was thick with them. The skulls of rodents and fish and dogs and people peeped from the burnt wood.

The brickwork was a little over a foot high. Thom sat at its center, enclosed by its horn-like points. Raina took a seat ten feet across from him at the other crescent, which was elevated to a more natural seating position. Mauser moved behind her right shoulder. The other men and women dispersed to each side, standing in the ash.