“Minnie?” His eyes looked glazed and distant, fixed on the blood dripping off my chin. His tongue darted in and out. “Who’s in Minnie?”
“Let me go,” I demanded, aware that he was fast losing control. So was I. “I’ll scream. People will come.”
Who would come? That was the problem.
He said, “No!” on a note of displeasure at my threat. “Adainette hates the noisy ones. She always gets mad when they scream.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. What was he saying? The threat was implicit. He most definitely did plan on killing me, and it was glaringly obvious I wouldn’t be his prototype victim. He’d done this before. Now I could barely suppress the scream that rose in my throat.
Feeling my muscles tense, his hand on my neck tightened. Perhaps his intent was to stop me from yelling. I thought it was to better relish the expression of my fear and pain. He must have been counting my racing pulse, felt when my whole body broke out in a sweat.
Oh, yes. The cut on my chin hurt. So did the pressure on my neck. Hurting most of all was the knowledge that I could die here, in 2120, a time not my own. Fierce resentment swept through me. If I were to thwart this, I must take action now. Right now, for he’d evidently found a nerve core, one that brought me close to passing out as he squeezed.
There was no point in struggling, I knew. Phenomenally strong for his thin frame, he would only tighten his grip. Instead, I chose to let myself collapse, going limp as string. Taken by surprise, he wasn’t prepared or able to hold on to me.
The knife sliced through air as I went to ground, the cut less than an inch over the top of my head.
“Hija de puta,” he snarled, hurling himself down on top of me.
Tried, at least. I rolled, so he missed flattening me entirely, but he caught the flowing cloak, catching the fabric in one hand and yanking me toward him.
The cloak tightened around my throat as the sturdy fabric failed to rip loose. The hood fell back. I gagged, gasping for air. He pressed down on me, crushing my resistance, though I fought with all my heart. I heard him grunt, as if he were surprised. The knife in his hand, in the act of rising, hesitated.
“Aiee.” He strained to see me more clearly. “What?”
But my threshing revealed the LadySmith at that moment, and enraged by my show of defiance, he brought the knife plunging down.
My head, reflexes working overtime, jerked barely far enough for the blade to kiss past my cheek. My thumb sought the hammer of the 60LS, dragging it back.
With a sound of exasperation, he yanked the blade out of the sand and swept his arm up for another try. He tongue came out, stuck in the corner of his mouth. His body reeked of old blood, his breath was foul in my face. Though his scalp was bare, I smelled the odor of dirty hair.
He reared over me. The knife hurtled downward, but he was already too late. I fired. The LadySmith kicked, the double action brought the chamber around and I fired again.
Blood sprayed, a hot splatter of copper-tinged drops, burning onto my face, my neck, my hands.
That was all. The little pistol became trapped between us as he slumped onto me, the fading echo of its sound still deafening in my ears.
I THINK I must have passed out for a space, one about as long as it took a bird to flap its wings. Oh, it wasn’t the horror of killing a man that upset me, although that’s not to say I enjoyed the feeling. Unfortunately, I’ve been in the position before of having to make such a choice. Whose life do I deem most important? My own, or the life of the stranger who is trying to kill me? So far, I’ve never given in to self- immolation.
No. The fainting fit came because the sense of so much evil was overwhelming. And because I absolutely hate knives.
When the faintness passed, I still didn’t have the strength to move. Actually, I wasn’t absolutely certain Baldy hadn’t succeeded in cutting me, for the sheer quantity of blood soaking through the tough material of Petra Dill’s clothing seemed more than could belong in only one person’s body.
The hot sticky feel made me retch. I pushed weakly at the outlaw’s body, then harder as it became imperative I get free. Without warning, quite like an answer to a prayer, the dead man’s corpse lifted, freeing me from the trap. I breathed, gagged, and desperately rolled myself up onto hand and knees.
“Couldn’t wait for the party to begin, eh?” Teagun asked coolly, over the miserable noise I was making.
Sweat ran down my face when the sickness passed, though I wasn’t hot. I was cold, quivering, and thoroughly pissed. Pissed at whom, specifically, I can’t say. Me? Teagun? The outlaws?. We all were at fault. And most of all, anger brimmed over at the miserable circumstances of time, both mine and Teagun’s, that had brought such a world into being.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at him yet. Instead, I stared down at the ground and tried to will some steel into my spine. Weakness was not an affordable alternative. Not in front of anyone, not even Teagun. Maybe especially in front of Teagun. A modicum of rationality worked through my mind and I started thinking again.
Party, he’d said. For God’s sake! I had to admit Teagun did shine with the occasional caustic remark. The quip brought a bleak smile to my face.
Finally, I did manage to speak, though hoarsely. “I couldn’t resist the invitation.”
“Yeah. I can see why. You’ve been having so much fun.” He looked off toward the hotel, and, jerking his head toward the outlaw’s body, he added, “Let’s go before someone comes looking for him.”
He held out his hand to help me up.
Before anything else, I reset the safety on the pistol. I waved him away, holding out my own slippery, blood-drenched hands as reason. He ignored the gore and took hold of my wrist. As he dragged me to my feet, I had the strangest, most otherworldly sensation, as if I were seeing Caleb Deane transposed over Teagun Dill, though they looked nothing at all alike.
But I was finding that, like Caleb, he had a quirky sense of humor, as well as the invaluable ability to overlook my pitfalls.
“Look,” I said, once upright. I held an object I’d picked from the ground for him to see. “A lock of my hair. He came so close to cutting my throat that he sliced off a chunk of hair when he came around. That knife of his must be honed like a scalpel. If the blade had been a little lower⏤” I let the subject trail away, sickened all over again. The cut along my jaw burned as blood dribbled under my chin and down my neck, leaving a sticky trail.
“You folks hold some real interesting parties,” I added, sucking in a deep lungful of the sage-scented air. “The guest list is impressive.”
Traffic hummed non-stop from the highway only a few dozen feet from where we stood. Distantly, I heard another coyote yip madly. There seemed a singular, waiting quality to the night.
When I looked at him again, he was grinning one-sidedly at me, the dimple working in and out like an exotic dancer’s belly button.
CHAPTER 7
Teagun had no need to waste time in looking for landmarks to find his way to camp. He’d already swung to his right, prepared to march off into the desert when I stopped him.
“What about him?” I asked, gesturing toward the outlaw’s corpse sprawled in obscene death on the desert floor.
Teagun grimaced. “What about him?”
I cast a glance toward the busy highway, where beyond the rock barricade that hid us from sight, haulers, hover cars and the jet-ski size personal craft whizzed past without let-up. A blaze of lights drove away the dark in the hotel parking lot, where people walked purposefully from trucks, to gates, to the Crossroad’s open doors. None ventured outside the gates.
“Won’t his cronies come looking for him?” I wondered why they hadn’t already.
“Not before daylight.” Scorn colored Teagun’s expression. “They’re afraid of the Great Empty.”
I mulled that over for a second. “Hmm,” I said.
“Hmm, what?”
My subconscious, which luckily is on the active side, had kicked out an idea th
at suggested a way in which Teagun and I might even the odds a notch or two in our fight against the outlaws—or so I believed. “I think we should get rid of him,” I said. “Hide the body.
“We should? Why?” He moved impatiently, obviously anxious to be gone from this place. “Let them bury him. Maybe it will serve as a warning.”
I sent him a dubious look. “More likely they’ll only be put on guard. Who knows what they might do to your mother if they find him shot dead. Retaliate somehow, you can be sure. No, I think I might have a better suggestion.”
“Ah,” he said, his eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “A suggestion from the woman who takes off on her own without a word, leaving both her secure zone and her partner unaware and unprotected.”
His voice grew a little louder along toward the end. I was being a little slow on the uptake, I admit, but I hadn’t guessed he was angry with me, until now.
“Stop me if I’m mistaken,” I said, mockery being my forte, “but do I or don’t I remember you left me alone all afternoon while I was asleep. Am I missing something here or are we on a one-way street?”
I could tell he wasn’t familiar with “one-way street,” although the gist was apparent to him. “Besides,” I said, mustering my defenses before he could argue. “You told me the outlaws are afraid of the country. The camp is probably perfectly safe.”
What I didn’t add, and what I’m sure he knew anyway, was that the safety might well be compromised if the outlaws were moved to come looking for us.
“Criminals are not all an outlander has to worry about,” he said, sounding mild though his black eyes blazed. He didn’t like being reminded of careless or foolish behavior any better than I did. “Why do you suppose people go out only after dark? Most people—the wise ones.” Taking a page from my book, he answered his own question. “Because the land will kill the unwary, that’s why. Hardly anyone lives here anymore. They hole up during the day and travel during the night.”
As I should have known, he implied, though didn’t say. And he was right. My experience with heatstroke yesterday morning should have taught me that.
An uncomfortable silence fell before I finally said, feeling like an idiot, “I’m sorry, Teagun. You’re the one who knows the country and the people. I should’ve listened to you.”
He had the beginnings of a complacent smile in place when I quelled it.
“Now, if we’ve got all that out of the way, let’s see if we can get back to business. My suggestion being⏤” I paused.
He sighed and threw out his hands in an I-give-up gesture. “I’m listening.”
“First of all,” I said slowly, “can you predict, when Baldy here fails to return, what Adainette and the others are going to think when they can’t find him? You said the outlaws are afraid of the dark, afraid of the country. So what are they going to do?”
Teagun, shooting me an approving glance, returned to where I stood. “They’re a superstitious lot. They won’t know what to do or to think. I’d expect them to just write him off. But they’re smart, too. He wouldn’t have left of his own accord and they’ll know that.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. So my suggestion is that we leave them guessing. Inject a dose of mystery into his disappearance. Keep them upset and off balance enough and they not only won’t know who or what they’re up against, but they won’t know how to fight us. That’s why I think we ought to bury him. Plant him someplace where he’ll totally vanish.”
Teagun gave himself time to think, absorbing my idea and giving it serious consideration.
“Hmm. All right. I agree.” He eyed me as if puzzled by something. “You surprise me, you know? You’re very cool. I would have expected you to object—be revolted. My mother made me read plenty of history about the last century. The 2000s, especially before the flood, bred soft people. After that, people changed.”
The brilliance of the starlit sky was enough to illuminate the scene. It shone upon the dead man and on the great dark blot his blood made as it wet the dry earth. I reflected that I knew more about the effects of violence on the human body than anyone should have to learn.
Soft? He was talking about me. But I had survived a prison escape in 1811, and a war in 1918. I would by damn survive in 2120, as he would soon learn. The proof of my determination lay dead on the ground in front of him.
I stared at him blankly, feeling a muscle work along the side of my jaw. Each flex was a reminder of the knife cut that followed the same line.
Soft? No⏤and yes.
At last I said, “I am revolted. What the hell? You think I was puking because I like to? Blood and bad guys and killing always have that effect on me. But I’ve seen worse. Done worse, for that matter. I’ve discovered having too fine a set of sensibilities costs lives.
“And guess what? It’s not my intention to allow a band of 22nd century terrorists to run roughshod over me, let alone kill me. And that goes for you, too, Teagun Dill. I’m including you in that terrorist designation. At this point I still believe you’re the better of two evils, but that isn’t saying much. I haven’t forgotten you kidnapped me and brought me here at gun point.”
He sighed and rolled his eyes in a Gallic expression of impatience. When he was through with these histrionics he said, mildly enough, “I didn’t think you had.” With a glance eastward, to where the eminent arrival of the sun was already casting a glow, Teagun bent over the outlaw’s body and started going through his pockets. He regarded my wary look with a rueful shrug.
“In case they do find him,” he said, “I’m giving them a reason to suspect simple robbery. It’s what they’d do. Come over here, Boothenay. You can help.”
I inched nearer him, my feet dragging. “What a thrill.”
“Here.” He thrust several objects toward me. “In case you haven’t found them yet, the burnoose you’re wearing has several inside pockets. You can stow his things there. We’ll look them over later.”
Some of the items I recognized, some I didn’t. A wallet, with no place for money but lots of something I dubbed credit keys. Three knives, plus the one he’d tried to use on me. A puzzling substance Teagun said was the present drug of choice, usually chewed or sniffed, not smoked or injected. A box of high explosive putty according to my mentor. I wondered if Baldy had ever gotten his stuff mixed; chewed the explosive, bombed with the drug. It would explain his lack of hair.
Last of all was a wire, ten feet long, with one end stuck in a soft, rubbery handle. I got a bad feeling from that one.
It was my idea to tie the wire around the dead man’s arms and drag him by the free end. Consequently, I didn’t have to carry his feet when we took him to an undercut embankment a half-mile away and buried him beneath several tons of soil and rock. My heart wasn’t what you’d call broken; no tears were shed. As a final irony, Teagun started the landslide by using the completely silent, explosive putty Baldy had been carrying.
My job consisted of using a sagebrush broom Teagun had cut, to sweep away bloodstains and footprints. All the signs of our struggle. I did my best to see that not one drop of blood remained visible when we were done. We worked together well, Teagun and I. We made a good team, almost like being with Caleb with one major difference. I wasn’t in love with Teagun.
“I’M DYING for a cup of coffee,” I announced a little later.
We’d beaten the rising sun back to camp by about half-a-minute, and Teagun was already busy with the heating ring and tumblers, making us each a hot herbal drink.
“Coffee is for the rich,” he said, not looking up until the tea was ready. “This is better for you.”
“Says who?” I shed the cloak and busied myself in laying out the contents of the outlaw’s pockets. “According to this credit thingy, the guy’s name was Kurt Villanova. Have you ever heard of him?”
He released the heating ring from his own drink and took a judicial sip of the steaming liquid. “If I were rich, I’d drink coffee every day. No,” he added in answer to my qu
estion. “Petra and I are members of Bounty-line, but I can’t remember seeing his scan posted. Probably too small a fish.”
Should I know what he meant about Bounty-line? I wondered. But wait. He’d said he and his mother were the law. Bounty hunters. Aha!
“Can you track him using these credit keys?” I held one up to the light, seeing a tracery of vein-like lines embedded in a clear plastic. At least, it looked like plastic. It might have been petrified gene codes for all I knew.
Teagun shrugged. “He’s dead. What difference does it make?”
“Will they help you collect your bounty?”
I hid a smile as he took the keys.
“These knives,” I said, picking up one with a thick hilt. “Two of them look like regular knives, but this one and the one he used on my face are different. I heard a funny noise when he came at me. What’s that all about?”
He reached over and took the knife from me, somehow activating the blade so it made a faintly audible, high-pitched screech. Picking up the weathered old sage branch I’d used to wipe out our tracks, he put the blade to the three-inch wood and held it there. The blade emitted a crackling blue light, the noise increased, and with a juddering internal convulsion, the branch fell apart.
My jaw quivered. “Good God,” I whispered. “What’ll that thing do to bone?”
“Dismember it,” Teagun said. “Carve it up into little pieces.” He turned the juice off and tossed the knife aside, out of sight.
Did I mention I hate knives?
Besides the drug, in which Teagun had as little interest as I did, that left only the wire we’d used to drag the outlaw for me to wonder about. “What is this thing, really?” I asked, curling the thin wire around the handle.
Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3) Page 8
