Martial Lawless (Calm Act Book 3)

by Ginger Booth

  The more important sequence for our special report was in Station Square.

  -o-

  “Ah-g!” I cried, half-gargled, as Brandy mock-dashed my head into the pig-iron furnace beyond the fountain.

  “Stop that!” she scolded me. “Dee, we’re not re-enacting this, just explaining it. No corny crap.”

  “Just trying to lighten things up,” I said meekly. “It’s going to look goofy no matter what we do, Brandy.”

  “No. I think it will look very professional,” Melinda insisted, our second-string camera woman, deeply earnest and sincere. I wondered when I’d grown old enough for a college graduate to look like a kid.

  And every time I looked at her, I felt guilty all over again about our missing Blake Sondheim. Blake was a good guy. It wasn’t entirely my fault he went out after Green Tree. Brandy sent him. Hell, Paul Dukakis sent him, and whoever posted that video of Dane’s death on the Internet, claiming it happened in Green Tree. But I added the suggestion that Blake look into a possible mass grave site while he was there. And I still thought I should have stopped him from going to Green Tree on a day when Emmett ordered us back in the hotel by 3:00.

  Brandy rolled her eyes. With my best attempt at sincerity, I said, “I’m sure you’re doing a great job, Melinda. I just feel a bit silly.”

  “A man died here,” Melinda informed me. “Murdered, violently and viciously.”

  Yeah, kid, I caught that part.

  “That’s the story we’re conveying, yes, Melinda,” Brandy snapped at her. “From the top again. Without the giggles, Baker.” She pulled me back a couple feet to our starting position. “The murder weapon was this pig-iron furnace,” she told the camera. “In a scuffle, Dane Beaufort’s head was dashed into this steel protuberance.” I managed to keep a straight face this time.

  “But the wound wasn’t immediately fatal,” Brandy continued. “Major Beaufort broke away.” She let go of me. I dashed to the fence. She caught me by the shoulders again. “There was another scuffle here, but he broke free again, fleeing toward the docks on the river.”

  Melinda hopped the fence, and took up position to film at the far edge of the tracks. On her signal, I vaulted the fence and ran to the dying place alone. Then I lay down in the gravel and Brandy took a knee beside me, posed with a fist drawn back as though to pummel my face. “Only a few feet from safety, his attackers beat him here, and left him unconscious, bleeding on the rail bed. The brain injury continued to swell, and killed him within a few hours.”

  I sat up and dusted myself off, and spoke to the camera. “There are still a lot of unknowns here. We still don’t know who killed Major Dane Beaufort. Only that this is how he died.”

  “And cut,” Brandy said. She gave me a hand up to standing. “Take it from the top again? Or review the video and see if it’s good enough?”

  I considered our earnest young camera woman. “Melinda? Why don’t you go back to the van and have Martin review the footage? Let Martin decide.” I beamed at her encouragingly, and she trotted off to Brandy’s producer. “It’s probably fine, Brandy. You do live coverage all the time.”

  Brandy considered and pointed. “We could add a sequence trotting onto the dock, showing how close he was to escape and safety. Adds drama.”

  “Nah,” I decided. “We’d just end up cutting it for length. Or Emmett or IBIS would cut it, because we don’t know that for sure. Let’s just stick to the facts. Oh! I wanted to show you the ThingSpace!”

  I dragged her into the dancing corridor, and demonstrated. “Isn’t this awesome?” I cried. “Best public Internet and power in all Pittsburgh. Only nobody noticed.”

  “Internet?” Brandy asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “Those voice recognition databases are huge. And I haven’t asked for a song yet it couldn’t play for me. It’s getting all that off the cloud, not stored locally. Pick a song!”

  Three songs later we were laughing like loons, leaning on each other and taking a breather.

  “Dee Baker,” a man’s voice said behind me.

  I whirled toward him in surprise. A vaguely attractive man stood there, hands casually in his pockets, about Emmett’s age. His brown hair was cut military short, but his clothes were unusually fresh and clean civilian, a heavy burgundy fatigue sweater over olive cargo pants, bloused into work boots. His expression was blandly pleasant, yielding no clues.

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” I said. I was sure I’d never seen him before in my life, but spoke the polite response on automatic. I wasn’t worried. We had four of Drum’s guards from Meadville with us, around here somewhere. He probably walked right past them.

  He took a few steps to my left and pushed the big button to activate the ThingSpace again. “Alexa, play American Pie, by Don McLean,” he told the machines. “Louder. Louder.”

  Bye, bye Miss American Pie

  Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry

  And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye

  Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die

  This’ll be the day that I die

  He turned back to me and confided, over the now loud song, “I love the old tech, don’t you? You don’t know me, Dee Baker. But I’m an old friend of Emmett’s. From Leavenworth. We took ILE and SAMS training together. I’m Major Canton Bertovich, retired. Call me Canber.” The ghost of a smile played in his eyes. “Did Emmett ever mention me?”

  I stared at him for a moment. The Calm Act went into effect right after Emmett left Leavenworth. His classmates weren’t permitted to retire. Tibbs added ‘Canber’ to the meshnet traffic filters at Niedermeyer’s suggestion. Emmett had seemed alarmed.

  “HELP!” I screamed and turned to run for it. Someone in 101st Airborne uniform already had a thick gag over Brandy’s mouth and was laying her out on the ground. I tore past, trying to make for the river. Running for the street might have made more sense, but I was reacting, not thinking. Dane Beaufort had run for the river. So did I.

  I yanked out of my pursuer’s grasp twice and tripped forward, my hands and knees scraping on the concrete plaza. With two runners behind me, they corralled me along the building, not letting me break out into the open. But the storefronts would end as soon as I reached the walkway at the pseudo train platform, where the blast furnace sat. Only 60 feet, then 40, then 20.

  But Canber got a firm hold on me next to the fountain, and flipped me onto the ground. His partner got a gag over my face. I fought the cloth, thinking it was chloroform or something. But that was simply to muffle me. To incapacitate me, they used a taser.

  Damn, that hurts, being electrocuted. Dazed and twitching, unable to speak or control my limbs, I could only watch and listen for a minute or so. The soldier took away the cloth gag and forced me to swallow a pill. Then he stuck duct tape across my mouth, and flipped me over to tape my wrists together thoroughly. He patted me down quickly and removed everything from my pockets, strewing the contents across the sidewalk, except for my phone. That he handed to Canber. My shoes he chucked at the abandoned storefront. Then he cut my hands with a knife, and turned me onto my side, so he could stamp my bloody paw prints around the sidewalk.

  Not exactly subtle. They were painting Dee was attacked here in big bloody letters, intentionally. Why?

  In front of me, Canber tapped out a message on my phone. He held it up to show me, a happy light in his eye, mouth partly open in delight. A message to Emmett, from me, a single word:

  Canber

  Canber artistically used my own bloody finger to send the message, then dropped the phone from waist-height by one of my shoes. Dee was attacked here, by Canber, Emmett take note. No, not subtle at all. Why the hell was Canber baiting Emmett? A second soldier walked by, half-supporting and half-dragging Brandy. Sadly, I recognized him as one of my guards from Meadville. The IBIS agents hadn’t found them all. My electroshock grogginess was turning into drugged wooziness.

  “Did you rufie her first?” Canber asked the second soldier
. “Good. Carry them from here. Let’s go.”

  Canber set off across the platform fence and the train tracks, toward the docks. The first soldier carried me after him. I was fighting desperately to remain conscious, and losing the fight. ‘Rufie’ her indeed. They’d fed us date-rape drugs.

  Dane didn’t flee across the railroad tracks, I thought muzzily. They dragged him this way. I wonder if Paul Dukakis spotted them, and cried out. Then they dropped Dane and ran for it.

  But why would they…? Oh. The ThingSpace. Maybe they came here to use the Internet and power. And Dane just ran into them by accident. But Dane would have recognized Canber. Canber would have been a Resco. There’s no good excuse for Canber to be here. No good at all. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have noticed leaps all over the logic here, but at the time, I simply realized this as the truth of what happened to Dane Beaufort.

  They dumped me into the wet bottom of a Boston whaler, alongside a bunch of guns and electronics, bait and tackle, and Brandy. She was already out cold, her hair bloody.

  There were no whalers out of Boston, I reminded myself, as though this were a momentous clue, my mind going. We learned these things in childhood along the Sound. Boston whaler was a brand name for a simple fiberglass open-hull boat with an outboard engine, around 15 feet long, one of the cheapest motorboats available. I learned to water-ski off the back of a friend’s Boston whaler. Do teenagers water-ski on the Monongahela? I bet the water’s cold. Does it get warm in the summer like the Sound?

  They didn’t need to start the engine right away. They just kicked off from the dock and let the current take the boat out of view. They threw a tarp over us and the gear. The tarp smelled only of gasoline and mildew. Nobody went fishing. It’s all people bait. No fish bait.

  I’m glad I moved back in with Emmett first. That would hurt him, if I died while he thought I was mad at him. I’m not that mad at him. He just worries about God too much. God, take good care of Emmett for me. He’s a good man. He tries so hard to save the world, but that’s Your job. Screw You.

  American Pie is a long song, over 8 minutes. It was still playing when I blacked out, still telling God how to do His job so Emmett wouldn’t have to do it for Him.

  Chapter 23

  Interesting fact: Before the Calm Act, West Virginia was the second-poorest state in the U.S., surpassing only Mississippi. Churches in the rugged Appalachians tended toward local idiosyncratic sects, isolated from the large national congresses. Coal mining and natural gas were major industries.

  My eyes drifted open leadenly. I was in a bus seat, head bouncing against the window. Somebody lay heavily against my shoulder. Morgantown, West Virginia, 30 miles, proclaimed a sign flowing past. Next time my eyes opened, I stubbornly held out for a sign to tell me what road I was on. It was an interstate, empty of traffic except for the caravan my bus traveled with. A methane-powered bus, not gas or electric – I could smell that much.

  The road wended its way through endless steep hills, the landscape seemingly uninhabited, primordial hardwood forest starting to turn its autumn colors. I lost the fight and closed my eyes twice before spotting the longed-for sign: I-79 South.

  Not that I had any clear idea where I-79 South was, or Morgantown, West Virginia. I vaguely recalled that West Virginia wrapped around the southwest of Pennsylvania. Whether Morgantown was south or west or southwest of Pittsburgh, was unclear. Probably more south than west, or else the interstate would have an even number. Interstates out here didn’t hug the coastline the way they did in New England, and say ‘North’ when they actually traveled east. OK, so I was heading south to Morgantown, some city I’d never heard of, yet big enough to be worth mentioning on an interstate sign. Maybe.

  This act of passive defiance accomplished, I dared to turn my head to see what warm body was lying against me. Oh, good – Brandy. Someone had bandaged her head, too, though blood still matted her gorgeous red hair.

  I was right not to look before. A woman across the aisle noticed, and stared at me. She was gaunt, with matted brown hair, dirt on her face and bare feet and ragged dress. Her crazed eyes bugged out, bloodshot white showing around the irises. She dug into a grubby skirt pocket and brought out another of the rufie capsules in her filthy fingers. She ripped off the duct tape over my mouth – Ow! – taking several layers of skin off with it. She forced me to swallow the pill. It was almost a relief when she pinched my nose off, because it cut off her reek. I was glad she didn’t put the duct tape back on. My wrists were still duct-taped, but at least in front of me now, instead of behind me.

  As my head nodded back to bouncing against the window, I noticed my own clothes had been replaced with a brown rag dress, as well. Not that it was originally brown. I suspect it started out blue. But if cotton cloth is stained badly enough, long enough, it turns brown. The idea of Bug-Eyes stripping me and dressing me again was as revolting as her putting her filthy fingers in my mouth.

  Charity, I decided firmly. I shall call her Charity, not Bug-Eyes. Charity was rocking in her seat, last I looked. She was muttering, possibly to a demon, but maybe God. Charity deserves my charity. She must live a very uncomfortable life. If the demons whisper all the time, how scary for her. And her feet must get cold. Yes, if I lived Charity’s life, maybe I would act as she acts. There but for the grace of God go I.

  And the rufie fairies carried me away again.

  -o-

  “I’m so sorry, Dee,” Blake sobbed, rocking back and forth over me. He hardly looked like Blake anymore, though. Blake was such a tidy young man, with neat hair, usually in a pastel preppy sweater over an Oxford shirt and business-casual chinos and loafers. Now one black eye was swollen nearly shut, a fat split lip curling his mouth into an unintentional sneer. His workman’s brownish collar was blue once. “I tried not to say anything,” he moaned.

  “I forgive you, Blake,” I murmured groggily. “Forgive me, Blake. I’m so glad you’re alive.” That was the main thing. But I was puzzled. “What are you sorry for?”

  “About you,” he said. “They wanted to know how to hurt Emmett, how to lure him out. I told him about you.” He broke down in tears.

  I struggled up to a seated position and hugged him to my shoulder, and encouraged him to cry it all out. I needed him to start talking sense, but it probably wasn’t urgent. I wasn’t tracking too well yet myself. And hugging someone familiar was nice.

  I contemplated our surroundings. Brandy was a couple feet away, huddled with her head on her knees. Her wardrobe was as degraded as ours, feet muddy with a broken toenail. We were in a basic one-car attached garage. Rainy day gray light streamed in through high garage door windows.

  A typical American garage provides all manner of tools and potential weapons in its piles of stored junk. But this one had been stripped to down to empty shelves. There were still the shelf brackets. Hefty springs running along the garage door track. No life light on the door opener, so probably no power. A bucket in the corner, apparently our excuse for bathroom facilities. Smelly blankets.

  Oh, well. Weapons weren’t exactly my medium, anyway. Emmett refused to teach me how to fire a gun, on the grounds that I had better options. Tech whispering, for instance, with a lesser talent for mind games and manipulating people. Two minutes with a cell phone and an Internet connection could solve all my problems. I’d just have to play mind games until I got my chance.

  “Are you alright, Brandy?” I asked softly.

  “You slept forever,” she complained faintly. She turned her head to face me, but didn’t raise it from her knees. Her body language screamed utter defeat.

  “I woke on a bus headed down I-79 toward Morgantown, West Virginia, with you passed out on my shoulder,” I informed her. “Then they dosed me another rufie. Do you know any more?”

  “Blake and I are hostages for your good behavior,” she said. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she didn’t sob. Her voice just sounded dead.

  “Good information,” I encouraged her. “So what am I?�
��

  “Bait, to make Emmett crazy,” she supplied. “According to Blake. Keep your voice down, or they’ll beat us again.”

  Extracting information from my team was slowed by their emotional needs. But I persevered, alternately asking questions and bleeding off their fear and hurt. I was an old hand at this, from dealing with the Apple Zone survivors, especially our once prickly housekeeper Gladys. The basic formula was, ‘OK, that sucks, but we deal with it. You are strong, capable, and appreciated. Next problem?’

  I started with Brandy, and let Blake cling to me until he calmed down. She must have awoken not long after Charity drugged me again on the bus. She couldn’t see out the window as well as I did, but we’d turned left off the interstate at some mid-sized town onto an empty country road. Based on eavesdropping, she estimated we’d spent an hour on that road, before turning right onto even less of a road.

  Soon after that, we’d arrived in a patchy little Appalachian town of the no-street-light-required variety. The town center was a T-intersection with a gas station and tiny decrepit church, plus a few visible trailer homes and impoverished little houses. The caravan disbanded there and spread into the woods. Our garage was maybe a 10 minute walk from downtown, such as it was. The attached house was the most upscale she’d seen, maybe a 3-bedroom ranch. It was getting dark by the time we arrived here, so maybe net 5 hours since we’d been abducted, unless we were missing a day. After that, I’d slept through until morning.

  “So who told you about this hostage and bait concept?” I asked.

  Brandy turned her head away. I put a hand out to stroke her back, and crooned, “You’re alright, Brandy. We’re together. We’ll get out of this.”

  “They raped her,” Blake volunteered. “Last night.” His tears had subsided by then, but he’d stayed quiet on my shoulder for comfort.