Bitter Waters

by Wen Spencer

  There were two gas stations in Evans City. The first sat across from the bank on Main Street. To get to the gas station with slightly lower prices, he would need to take Main Street across the railroad tracks, past the elementary school, and out of town proper. He decided on the cheaper gas, but as he sat waiting for the red light on Main Street to change, his thoughts went then to his own beliefs. Not long ago, his view had been as simplistic as Cally’s. The addition of Rennie and Magic Boy had done much to grow his view of God. From the Ontongard, he understood now the size of the universe, or at least the local galaxy, and from Magic Boy came a crowd of ancestral and animal spirits. Creation was huge, but they were not alone.

  And so, when the light changed to green, it somehow felt right to detour away from Main Street, and swing up to the graveyard that overlooked Evans City.

  The Evans City Cemetery was old and crowded with familiar names, testament that many of the town’s families had been there for generations. Mom Jo’s parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, great-aunts and -uncles, distant and some not so distant cousins, and so on all lay under worn headstones, lilacs, and yew trees. Parking his motorcycle, Ukiah walked the windswept hilltop, visiting the graves of the people he had actually known. Uncle Ollie. Great-aunt Minnie. Scotty. Grandma Pfiefer.

  Ukiah crouched at Grandma Pfiefer’s grave, hand on the warm stone, the cold wind cutting through him. “Grandma, have you been watching? Have you seen what’s happened? Evil people have taken my little boy, and I can’t find him. Can you help me? God, in heaven, please, please help me. He’s so small and helpless, and I love him with all of my heart.”

  The wind had been blowing straight east, as it was wont to do in Pennsylvania. The wind shifted suddenly hard to the southwest, blasting through the cemetery with a roar of fury. It scoured over the graves, snatching up dead leaves like fragments of prayers, and flung them heavenward.

  Ukiah stood, his hackles rising as a shiver of cold went up his spine. As he watched the leaves rise up, he noticed a great grizzly bear-shaped cumulus cloud lumbering across the sky, heading south.

  It did not occur to him to question it.

  He ran to his bike and went.

  It was a quick whip down to 68 and up the twisting 528. Trees screened the sky from sight on the right as he climbed the reservoir hill, but the bear raced across the reflection on the water, leaving him behind. When he reached the on-ramp to I-79, it was nearly to Cranberry already, and on the exposed hilltop, the wind roared around him.

  He opened the big bike up and flew down the highway, chasing the bear. Late evening, and both the northbound and southbound lanes contained only scattered traffic. On either side of the road, the wind rushed through the trees wrapped in fall colors and blasted the dead leaves off in a bright colored blizzard.

  He caught up to the great shadow racing under the cloud just as the highway divided and wove around a hill, below an exit ramp and above other roads.

  “. . .Daddy?. . .”

  Ukiah felt Kittanning’s presence speed past him, as if brushing across his back with outstretched fingers, and disappear. He braked hard, fighting to keep from flipping nose first, leaving a trail of smoking rubber behind him. “Kitt!”

  The touch had come, east to west, in front, under and behind as he crossed over the Pennsylvania turnpike. The kidnappers had Kittanning in a car, going west on the turnpike, heading out of state. While the highways crossed here, both roads were heavily fenced to keep deer off them. He had already passed the on-ramp for the turnpike connector road, but he’d have to go back to it.

  Ukiah dodged a tractor-trailer, its horn blaring, to U-turn and head back against traffic. With his phone dead and left behind, Ukiah would have to find a phone and stop moving to make the call. And what would he say, his son was in some vehicle, type and color unknown?

  He had to catch up with Kittanning before the kidnappers could leave the turnpike.

  The connector cut from I-79, over State Route 19 and to the turnpike with a tangle of ramps connecting all three together in the name of lessening congestion. He flashed up the I-79 on-ramp, ignoring the blare of protesting horns, and darted across the oncoming traffic to the lanes entering the turnpike. There was a line of cars taking turnpike tickets. The center lane was blocked off with a red light and an orange cone. He ducked through the closed aisle, cut off a blue minivan pulling away from the far ticket machine, and barely made the turn onto the westbound lane. Once onto the level pavement of the turnpike, he nailed the throttle to open.

  The speed limit was sixty-five, but most people traveled at seventy or seventy-five. The speeders cruised around eighty. Ukiah raced past them all, already at a hundred and climbing, darting through them as if they were standing still. Luckily the road curved constantly, so he rushed up and past vehicles before drivers could react.

  Ideally he would follow the kidnappers at a discreet distance until he found a chance to call for help. He had to close the distance between them first; otherwise he’d be running blind. He risked a glance skyward, but the wind had shredded away any sign of the bear, if it hadn’t been all his imagination. He quested with his mind instead, reaching for Kittanning.

  “Kitt? Kittanning?”

  A faint mental wail of hope and fear, growing quickly stronger. “Daddy?”

  As the contact became stronger, Ukiah slowed, trying to judge which of the cars ahead Kittanning was in. A knot of vehicles traveled westbound. The first was a U-Haul rental truck pulling a trailer. The second was a red, extended cab pickup truck with a large dog carrier in the back. A gold minivan fidgeted in the back, and as Ukiah approached, pulled out into the passing lane.

  The minivan? Ukiah reached mentally for Kittanning.

  In the back of the pickup, a small dog leapt to its feet in the dog carrier to stare intently at him. It bounced excitedly as their eyes made contact. “Daddy! Daddy!”

  And Ukiah realized the scent from the dog was that of wolf cub. “Oh, Kittanning, what have you done to yourself?”

  Kittanning cringed at the rebuke. Memories of pain and confusion flashed through their mental link. When Hex created Kittanning, he had locked Ukiah’s mouse in a sealed box, from which there was no escape from the pain except compliance to Hex’s will. As Ukiah was telepathic with the Ontongard, Hex’s mentally conveyed demands had been clear: take human shape. Somehow the cult had Hex’s torture box. Inexplicably they had locked Kittanning into it and turned it on. They failed, however, to give Kittanning any clue to what shape they wanted him. In pain, Kittanning had chosen a form that was more mobile. Unfortunately he’d chosen one less intelligent too; the simple lock on the carrier confounded the puppy.

  Ukiah slowed down and pulled behind the pickup truck as the minivan passed it and then the U-Haul truck.

  There were three men in the pickup’s cab. As Ukiah watched, the front passenger turned and Ukiah recognized him. It was Hash. The large man eyed the dog crate with a worried frown, leaving Ukiah to wonder how well they had the crate secured. Was Hash worried that the crate would fly out of the back? Or had Kittanning’s transformation unnerved him?

  Whatever the cause of Hash’s unease, he turned back facing front, satisfied for now. He said something to the driver, who turned at the comment, giving Ukiah a chance to see his profile. He was the blond Ice, lean and ripcord to Hash’s bulk, but still something in the look he gave Hash, and the fact that he was driving, suggested that he was the alpha male of the two.

  Ukiah would have to follow them, waiting for a chance to call for backup or grab Kittanning. Much as he wanted to get Kittanning to safety, he had to think of the machines; he couldn’t lose track of the cult.

  A sudden bolt of fear went through him as his perfect memory flashed the recall of his gas gauge, the red needle hovering over the red line. He didn’t need to look to know he was riding on fumes. He probably wouldn’t even make the next exit.

  He had to stop them, here and now.

  He’d left his gun hidden
in the Cherokee. He had the bike and his body, neither one he wanted to use. He glanced up the road, beyond the pickup, trying to estimate how close they were to an exit and civilization.

  The Pennsylvania turnpike seemed to have been built with the minimum of waste in mind. Between the left lane and a cement center barrier, there was only a foot clearance. The breakdown lane on the right was only wide enough for a single car, and lined by walls to keep the crumbling hillsides from sliding down and blocking the road. The rental truck up ahead was traveling too fast for its trailer, and it had picked up a dangerous shimmy, suggesting a timely accident.

  Ukiah glanced back. The road behind them was clear of other cars. If he acted now, before he ran out of gas . . .

  But could he live with himself if he killed an innocent driver?

  He swung out to the white dashed divider line and looked ahead to the U-Haul’s side mirror to see the driver’s face. Almost as if she felt his gaze, Hutchinson’s Christa, alias Socket, glanced into her mirror to look back at him.

  “They came with a U-Haul truck,” the guard at Iron Mountain said shortly before he was killed. “Said they wanted stuff from storage.”

  Ukiah growled, and gunned his motorcycle. He shot around the pickup truck, and wove back to the far right until he threaded the yellow line of the berm. If given warning, Socket could probably take him out without danger to her truck. But if he could get her to overreact, pure surprise might do what a game of chicken couldn’t. He judged the wild swing of the trailer and then nailed his throttle to over a hundred. Ten seconds he raced along the trailer, and then the huge truck body that could flatten him without noticing. He needed to get clear fast, before the pickup could warn her.

  Back axle. Passenger door. And then he was at the right bumper. He glanced back to make sure his back wheel was clear of her bumper and cut straight across the front of the truck.

  It was almost perfect.

  With a scream of brakes, Socket jerked the truck to the left, trying to avoid him as he suddenly appeared in front of her. The already fishtailing trailer jumped to the breakdown lane, dragging the back of the truck enough so the whole truck now slid sideways at him. The movement was a graceful slide until the trailer’s edge kissed the retaining wall. Instantly it ricocheted off, twisting on its hitch. With a sound like a gunshot, the tire blew under the stress, and when the bare rim touched pavement, the pavement caught hold of the trailer, yanked it hard from the back of the truck, and set it hurling through stunning somersaults of obliteration. It was like watching a tornado focused on only one object, quickly becoming many objects as the trailer burst open and its contents shattered into pieces, all with their own trajectories.

  The pickup’s brake joined the scream of protest, suddenly silenced by a deep thud of metal against cement. Later, he would remember the plastic dog cage vaulting from the bed of the pickup and smashing open, freeing a wobbly Kittanning.

  Truly almost perfect. Only at that moment, the last fumes of gas spent, his bike died under him. He could feel the heavy front end of the rental truck bearing down on him, and there was nothing he could do. The truck was too wide to avoid. It smashed him to the ground, and he tumbled, a series of bone-breaking body-meets-unyielding-pavement impacts. His collarbone that had healed only the day before snapped along the still fragile knit.

  Then there was silence and stillness. Then the click of toenails on pavement, and Kittanning was there, nosing into him, whimpering in distress.

  “Oh, fuck!” a male voice said, a passenger in the rental truck he hadn’t noticed.

  “You okay, Parity?” Socket asked.

  “Daddy?” Kittanning licked at his fingers, whining in distress.

  The pickup truck’s passenger door opened, and Hash spilled out. The two cultists in the rental truck got out.

  “Run, Kitt! Get away.”

  Kittanning licked anxiously at his face. “Daddy!”

  Ukiah pushed at him, gasping as the move shot pain through him. “Run!”

  Yipping, Kittanning darted away, stubby tail tucked between his legs.

  Hash started after the puppy, but Ukiah lurched to his feet, and blocked the large man, growling.

  “You! You’re the Wolf Boy!” Hash shifted into a fighting stance.

  Ukiah snarled at the man, willing Kittanning to keep running.

  Hash tried to feint left and then go right, ducking around Ukiah after Kittanning. Even wounded Ukiah managed to shift back and punch him. Hash rolled with the blow so that Ukiah barely tagged him, but he still felt his skin break and blood smatter his knuckles. With a roar, Hash tackled him to the ground. They tumbled, and Ukiah gained the top, only to be smashed aside by the pickup’s driver, Ice. Seconds later he was pinned and Socket shoved a revolver tight to his forehead.

  “Hold still!” The revolver seemed huge in her small hands. “Or I’ll splatter your brains all over the pavement.”

  “Just pop him, Socket!” Hash shouted.

  “He’s the Wolf Boy!” Socket cried. “He’s not one of them.”

  “Who gives a flying fuck?”

  The gun barrel pressed hard against Ukiah’s temple, rocking with Socket’s agitation. “Give it up, damn it!”

  Ukiah couldn’t get the leverage he needed to wriggle himself free, the broken shoulder only cracking more under the stress. If he let them kill him, he’d be completely helpless. He forced himself to relax. “Okay. Okay. You win.” Like it was a child’s game.

  “We should just shoot him anyway,” Parity muttered.

  “Ice?” Hash turned to the pickup driver.

  “Bind him, get him into the truck,” Ice said. “We’ll let Core decide what to do with him. Dongle, get the cell phone and the GPS out of the Jimmy and go after the puppy. Someone will be back to fetch you in an hour or so. Stay out of sight of cops, but get the puppy back.”

  The third cultist from the pickup truck scrambled over the guardrail and after Kittanning. Hash forced Ukiah to roll onto his stomach, face to the hot pavement, and then knelt on the center of Ukiah’s back. He quickly bound Ukiah’s arms with a thin strong wire, wrapping it tightly from wrist to nearly forearms in a web of steel. Ukiah’s shoulder became an endless wave of blinding pain. With Ukiah secure, Socket moved off, tucking away her pistol.

  “We’re going back?” Hash hauled Ukiah to his feet and pushed him to the rental truck.

  “Core needs to know what happened.” Ice unlocked the padlock on the gate, and he pushed it up to reveal that it was stacked haphazardly with boxes. “Clean out of the Jimmy,” he ordered the rest. “We’re leaving it here.”

  Hash and Socket moved quickly at the orders, well trained. Parity drifted, as if in a haze.

  “Oh, shit!” Parity picked up something from the road. “One of the founts was on the trailer!” He turned the item in his hand and Ukiah recognized it as an Ae’s shattered induction board.

  “What?” Ice nearly shouted.

  Socket brushed past them to climb into the back of the truck. “All of them were supposed to be on the truck!”

  “Which one was it?” Ice asked.

  “I don’t know.” Parity eyed the shard.

  Socket scrambled over the boxes, peering into the dark corners, swearing. After a moment she came to stand in the doorway. “There’s only one in here.”

  “Which one?” Ice asked.

  “Huey,” Socket said.

  A distant siren wailed at the edge of hearing range.

  “What do we do? What do we do?” Parity asked again and again like a mantra. “What do we do?”

  “Parity, shut up,” Ice said.

  “But what do we do? We’ve lost the puppy. The Jimmy is screwed to hell. We’ve got . . .”

  “Shut up!” Ice roared. “We take him and go! Before the cops come.” Ice pushed Ukiah in among the boxes. “Parity, you ride in the back.”

  “Me?” the boy yelped.

  “There’s only room in the front for three.”

  Parity didn�
�t reply, nor did he move.

  “I’ll ride in back,” Socket said.

  “Fine,” Ice snapped. “Stay out of range of his legs.”

  Ice waited until Socket climbed in beside Ukiah, and then pulled down the gate, saying, “We’re heading back to Eden.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Pennsylvania Turnpike

  Thursday, September 16, 2004

  “That was a damn stupid move,” Socket said as the truck started up, jostling them roughly. With the gate closed, the back of the truck was dark as a cave. “You could have gotten us all killed.”

  When Ukiah remained silent, Socket nudged Ukiah with a foot. “Wolf Boy? Wolf Boy!” She nudged Ukiah harder. “You’ve whacked your head a good one. You probably have a serious concussion. Going to sleep would be bad.”

  Socket was worried about him.

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “Core showed me this newspaper article on Monday, about you saving the little boy in the sewer system,” Socket said. “ ‘Find him for me, Socket.’ So I did. ‘Ukiah Oregon’ pulls up hits on this little town in Oregon and a flood of stories about you finding missing hikers and lost children. It’s wicked cool what you do. I had to filter the search like crazy to get the number of hits down to something manageable.” Had she weeded out all the stories about his death in June? He had made the front page of all the local newspapers, with headlines of “FBI Agent Saved, Rescuer Killed.” Did she know about the Pack? When the Dog Warriors kidnapped him, the story hadn’t made the newspapers, but he had given the police a full report. “In an hour, I had verified your home address in Shadyside with a hack into the DMV.”

  “So you sent a killer there to shoot me and take my baby boy?”

  “Adam wasn’t supposed to hurt you,” she snapped with anger. “He handled the others perfectly, just like Core said he would. He got greedy and that made him frightened and sloppy. Open the door to one vice and the rest will follow.” She trailed off to a whisper. “Core was so upset that Adam disobeyed him in so many ways; he was sure Adam had fallen.”