Regulars? thought Dent. Aloud, he said, “I’m new in town.”
“Good luck with that,” one of the shadows behind and to Dent’s left said.
The silhouette let out another raspy cough. Maybe it was a laugh.
From his right, a younger-sounding man said, “It’s best you move on or get very comfortable here. People in town can be … erratic.”
Dent shifted his feet slightly. “Erratic? How?”
The same young man chuckled. Dent didn’t realize he had said something funny.
“I used to work at a used car lot,” the young man said, stepping closer. “That is, until the owner started giving away his cars. And I don’t mean giving crazy discounts, either. I mean literally giving them away.”
Dent risked a glance that way. “And?”
“And?” the man repeated in a higher pitch. “No cars, no sales, no job for me.”
Dent asked the logical question, “If that’s the case, where is your old manager?”
“Oh, he’s off in the lodge.” The shadowy figure lifted an arm.
Dent looked to the broken-down building the man pointed to. “I don’t see a lodge.”
“Exactly.”
The silhouette gave another cough. The other two men surrounding Dent stepped closer.
“So why do you stay?” Dent asked the young man, but directed the question to all of them.
The silhouette answered. “Easier than trying to start up new lives somewhere else. People give us all we need. Their way of keeping us from their clean streets. Wouldn’t want to deter tourists like yourself, now would they?”
Dent didn’t understand. He asked, “They keep you supplied? Give you all you need?”
Behind and to his left came a strangled sound, a mix between hiccup and laugh.
“Well, most of what we need,” the silhouette amended.
“And you are … happy with that?”
“Those in the lodge are happy with it.” A round of laughter came at him from four directions.
Dent was beginning to doubt the sanity of these men.
“Who supplies you?” he asked.
“Saint Nicholas does their best.”
“Why the church?”
“Because they are a church.” The man said it in a way as if telling Dent that knives are sharp.
From Dent’s right came, “Maybe it’s from the kindness in their hearts.”
“More like they don’t want our kind coming back,” the silhouetted man said. “Be a big slap in their face to see their unfortunate dirtying their streets. A few have tried going back. Stupid fools they were.”
“What stopped them?”
“Who knows? Some of their bodies show up here again, beaten and broken. Those that are still breathing, well … let’s just say they their remaining time here was mercifully cut short.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Some have been here for years,” the silhouette answered. “Most don’t make it past three. Me? Hell, I’m going on my fourth.” He shifted in his doorway. “As much as Saint Nicholas gives, it’s never enough. It’ll never be enough. Drives some men to, well ….”
The man gestured to where Dent had originally been headed. The sounds of fighting had died. Which, Dent surmised, meant one, or both, of the fighters had as well.
The three men around him stepped even closer. Dent let his hand slip into his pocket, gripped his knife.
“So it’s obvious you aren’t with Saint Nicholas,” the silhouette stated.
“And,” the young man added, “you haven’t brought us anything.”
“That,” said the man from behind and to Dent’s left, “is a problem.”
The man in the doorway stepped out, saying, “If you’re not with Saint Nicholas, not one of their people, then I’d guess that no one knows you’re even here.” There was glinting flash near his side. Dent hadn’t been the only one to think of arming himself with a knife.
“And since you haven’t brought us anything out of the goodness of your heart, we’ll have to go ahead and help you help us. It’s the brotherly thing to do, after all.”
A grunt from behind, a shoe crunching on glass to the right, and an incoherent word from the left. Dent read the cues with years of military training and reacted appropriately. He rushed forward, the target there armed and therefore the first to be handled. The talkative leader managed to fall back a step before Dent was on him.
Dent opened the man’s chest with an upward slash of his knife, spun behind him, then pushed him into the younger man, tangling him up. The other two came in. Dent had figured the two men would also be brandishing knives. What he hadn’t counted on was them using something bigger. A two-by-four slammed into his left arm just before a length of what was likely rebar sent pain shooting out from his right hip.
Gauging the metal rebar as the deadlier weapon, Dent sucked in his breath, and the pain, and lunged to his right. A rush of air whipped past him as the other man swung the two-by-four and missed by mere inches and Dent plowed into the man at his right. His elbow to the man’s trachea, his knife into his side, and before the body dropped, Dent wrenched the rebar from its grasp.
Using the thin metal rod to deflect the incoming piece of wood, Dent was able to push the third man back with a feint of his knife, far enough that the man tripped over the first man’s body. Just as the third man hit the filthy ground, Dent speared him through the thigh with the rebar, ensuring he wouldn’t be quick to rise.
Now that he had a free hand, Dent drew his gun and leveled it where he believed the remaining man would be. But the youngest of the group hadn’t stood his ground after untangling himself from the leader’s body. He’d fled, and now, screaming at the top of his lungs as he did, he called out for help.
And his cries were being answered.
Three people exited the building with the electricity where the leader had initially stood. Four more people came from across the street. Seven visible hostiles. All set on bringing Dent down. His finger teased his gun’s trigger. Dent had come here only for information. He came armed only as a precaution, not as an intention. But these people seemed not to care. All they saw was an outsider, an outsider who had just brought down and killed a couple of their own. They wouldn’t be satisfied until they had their justice.
It was what Dent would have done in this situation if he were in their shoes.
Suddenly, without warning, Dent had a moment of indecision, one that would bother him later that night. The bodies closed in, the closest now twenty feet away, and still he failed to squeeze the trigger. Why? They sought his blood, they wanted revenge. They wouldn’t willingly let him walk away from this.
For some unfathomable reason, Dent shoved the gun back into his waistband. He stepped down on the ankle of the man on the ground, and his pained yell erupted into the night. The man yelled all the louder when Dent yanked the rebar free out of his leg.
Armed with something not as deadly, Dent turned, and saw more shadows coming at him from the way he’d originally come. Footfalls hounded his backside as Dent ran towards the spot the taxi had dropped him, thinking how much more practical it would have been to put a bullet into each and every one of the men coming at him.
But his time with Fifth told him that he couldn’t go around killing everyone he ran afoul of. It would only serve to make things more difficult in the long run, having to explain the numerous murders, running the risk of having the local authorities attempt to arrest him. That was what he convinced himself, that his decision to not kill these men and women was one based on practicality.
He told himself it had nothing to do with the pity he felt for these unfortunate people, or the fact that he truly couldn’t blame them for defending their territory. Even as they swarmed him, armed with knives, broken bottles, and splintered boards.
XIX
“Generosity, not happiness?” Dent asked when Fifth had finished relaying her information.
She shoved a few chi
ps into her mouth and nodded. He was glad she had something to do with her hands that didn’t involve her trying to get a better look at his various cuts and bruises. When he’d made it back to The Wine & Vine, Fifth had been watching a movie, waiting up for him. One look at him and she had rushed over. It had taken a good ten minutes of arguing to convince her he was perfectly fine, that he didn’t need her to ‘take care of him.’
Although the gash in his chest did throb slightly. And deep breaths pained his left side. And his busted lip wouldn’t close completely as he continued to speak.
He asked, “And you think it’s Father Lance?”
She didn’t answer right away. When she finally did, it was with, “I don’t know.”
Was she hiding something? He knew from experience that inquiring would earn him no answers and possibly a roll of her eyes. Whatever it was, it did have to do with Saint Nicholas.
“I don’t like the idea of you going out alone like that,” he told her. Again. “You could have been hurt.”
“Says the man who came home with bruises and cuts.”
“I needed information.”
“I got information.”
“So did I.”
“I didn’t have to kick someone’s butt. Or get a black eye.”
He gave her the point, not wanting to get dragged into a pointless argument once more.
“So what do you think we’re dealing with, Dent?”
“Funds being filtered through the church? Could be something like we saw back at The Ranch. Maybe the church is using eTech to get people to donate money.”
She shook her head. “But the church donates its money to helping out the community. Jason said Father Lance helps pay the bills of the families that adopt children.”
He sat back and thought things through. One thing that was at the forefront of his mind was the homeless people. It tied into what Fifth had learned. Or suspected. Those people, a small community of them, lived off the generous nature of the people in Herristown, though they were only in that situation because at one point they were the ones afflicted with that generous nature. It seemed a twisted cycle that Herristown either ignored or perpetuated.
Or both.
There was still no scenario though that explained why a city that had rebuilt itself to be what it is today would abide by having so many destitute people living next door. If the church successfully ran an orphanage, why couldn’t it do the same and set up a shelter for the adults? What possible purpose did having the homeless people pushed aside serve?
The idea that the people of Herristown gladly gave what they had to keep the destitute population satisfied was not something that Dent could begin to fathom. It was like a community effort on their part.
“Until we know what is going on,” he told Fifth, “I don’t want you going to the church alone anymore.”
“Dent,” she said. That one word was enough to know she disagreed with him.
“Fifth,” he said. That one word was enough to tell her he disagreed with her disagreeing with him.
And when the inevitable staring contest began, Dent came out the winner.
“Fine,” she said.
“Promise.”
She threw up her hands. “I promise. I won’t go to the church alone. I promise.”
Dent ran through their experiences together and came up with a low probability the girl would abide by her promise.
His phone trilled and Fifth used that as an excuse to break away and go to the bathroom.
He muted the television then checked the caller ID on his phone. Wilkens.
That was another factor that he couldn’t place in all this. Otto had specifically sent them to her, but as far as Dent could determine, the woman played no part. The only link — and likely the most important link — the woman had to all this was her adoption of Jason.
He hit answer on his phone.
“Marion.”
“Lynn.”
“Um. Hi.”
“Hi.”
Silence. This would be where he should speak. “Is the truck fixed?”
More silence, and he suspected he had chosen the wrong thing to say.
Then, “No. Sorry. I’m actually calling to invite you and Kasumi to a potluck. Well, it was Jason’s idea really, but I fully seconded it.”
Fifth reappeared, drawn to his conversation like a moth to a flame. She waved her arms like they were on fire and began mouthing words so rapidly they lost all meaning. He stared at her, while to Wilkens he pointed out, “I’m in no position to be able to cook anything.”
Fifth slapped her forehead. Loudly.
“That’s not a problem. The potluck’s on Friday, so if you want you can come over tomorrow and we can make it a joint effort.”
“You want me to come over and cook something for you to bring to the potluck?”
A light laugh. “Marion, you do have a sense of humor, don’t you?”
No, he thought, seeing as he didn’t say anything humorous.
“Just come over tomorrow, we’ll cook something together. Maybe even get the kids to contribute.”
“Hold on.” Dent covered the phone. He related to Fifth, “She wants us to go over to her place tomorrow and—”
“Yes.”
He stared at her for a second before uncovering the phone. “Yes. We’ll be there.”
“Perfect. I can’t wait. Bye, Marion.”
“Bye, Lynn.”
Fifth came over and made him high five her. “I thought you were going to blow it.”
“Blow what?”
“Our date.”
“Our?”
“I mean yours.”
He suspected she was thinking of Jason.
He suspected he didn’t like it.
---
“Do you get a feeling from Jason?”
Kasumi finished drying her hair and used her hand to wipe the fog from the mirror.
“Do you get a feeling from Jason?”
Dent had troubled her with that question twenty minutes ago, after he hung with Miss Wilkens. Instead of answering, she’d decided it was the perfect time to hop in the shower. But the question still rattled around in her head as she tried to come up with a truthful answer. She saw the doubt in her eyes reflected back at her on the steamy surface of the bathroom mirror.
He’d asked, and she’d known what he’d meant, that he was asking if she thought Jason could be like her, but she’d taken the question in a completely different way. So much so that she couldn’t give Dent an answer.
What feeling did she get from Jason? What did she feel towards him?
She liked Jason, of that there was no doubt. Not the way she’d liked her childhood friends, back before her talent had become obvious and her mother had her locked away. It was much more than that. She was attracted to him, like boyfriend-girlfriend attracted.
And she hoped he liked her back.
But the unexplainable attraction, almost from the minute she’d met him, might really be explainable. If he was special like she was, if he could affect people’s emotions, could she honestly call what she felt towards him real? It felt real. Realer than anything she’d felt before. It was far beyond a simple crush.
She of all people should know how unreal emotions can be. How forced they can be. The worst of it was that she thought he might feel the same way towards her. A quick glance her way when he thought she wasn’t looking, an “accidental” brush against her arm, a squeeze of her hand with his. Those little things made her hope he liked her the way she liked him, but it could all be due to her special talent. Her influence. It could be that her own affection towards him was being forced onto him to make him feel the same towards her. A false affection. It was almost too much for her to process.
She didn’t want to doubt her feelings. Didn’t want to doubt his feelings.
She stared into her foggy mirror image.
That’s what made Dent so special. To her, at least. His want to protect her, his drive to k
eep her safe, that was all him. All real. His guardianship wasn’t based on falsities and forced emotions.
With Jason, she could never be sure. And if he was talented like her, if he forced these positive emotions on her, what would that mean? They were sent here to stop him, if it really was him, but why? Whatever it was — generosity, altruism, willingness to help others — what harm was it really doing? Making peoples’ faces hurt from smiling too much?
Saint Nicholas Parish was doing good things, the people living in town and under Jason’s influence were good people. Probably better people because of Jason’s influence. Someone doing good shouldn’t be made to stop. It wouldn’t be right.
She was afraid Dent suspected Jason was the reason Otto sent them here. Dent, if he determined it was Jason, would put an end to his influence. She’d seen the lengths Dent would go to stop eTech or someone with a talent like hers. He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt Jason if it meant keeping up his side of the contract with Otto.
Even if it meant doing something that would eat at him in the future.
Kasumi would have to find a way to save both of them. Save Jason from Dent. Save Dent from himself.
The mirror slowly fogged up again as she stood there, to the point that tiny drops formed rivulets where she had wiped moments ago. This time, she left the mirror as it was, her thoughts on more pressing issues.
XX
Fifth rolled her eyes as the Flight of the Valkyries announced their presence at the Wilkens’ residence.
Dent tried mimicking her, just to see if he could add it to his growing repertoire, but she furrowed her brows at him and mouthed, “Don’t.”
He decided to leave that particular expression to those more capable.
Jason opened the door, and his gaze barely settled on Dent before zeroing in on Fifth.
“Hey,” he said. To Fifth.
“Hey,” she responded.
Neither said anything else. Just staring. Jason’s lips were parted in what might be considered a half-smile and, when he looked down at his shoes, Dent stepped past him and into the house they were invited to — but failed to have been invited in.
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