“She won’t leave the hotel. I told you. She will not abandon her property to a gang of filthy outlaws.” He was quoting, probably verbatim, his mother’s argument. But if the words belonged to Petra Dill, I knew he shared the sentiment. He became almost garrulous, for him anyway, in his effort to explain. “The hotel has been passed down in our family for 116 years. As long as she lives, as long as I live, it is ours. We’re not giving it up.”
My mouth opened to protest before I closed it again.
So much pride. Though I wanted to deny any such thing, I knew how he felt. I, too, lived in a place handed from father to son and that would one day belong to Scott and me. I, too, practiced the profession of my father and my grandfather. Damn. Why did I have to feel this affinity, when all I really wanted to do was escape.
I sighed. “I guess I just don’t get it. We’ve taken out half their gang, so quickly and mysteriously they don’t have a clue as to what’s happened. With my own ears, I heard them admit as much. Yet do these guys spook? Nooo. I can’t believe they’re still hanging around.”
“No one is spookier than they are,” Maganda said, her expression glum.
“You got that right.” Incredibly weary, I sank down on a flat stone, one still bearing heat from the hot day. A second later, I popped up again. “Are there any snakes here, Teagun?”
“You hear one?”
I listened. Shook my head. “No.”
“Then I guess there aren’t any.”
From the road, not so far beyond the gully where we stood, what I did hear was the increasing whine of engines and fans as trucks, trailers and cars were raised above the surface. The fire brigade had turned back into to drivers champing to get underway.
Maganda tensed. “I must go. I can’t leave the rig standing any longer.”
“Boothenay will go with you,” Teagun said, as if this were a settled thing.
Not so settled, as I quickly assured him. “Go where?” I demanded, ready to argue.
I had visions of the new Seattle with a new coastline. Frankly, I didn’t want to see it. And I was not about to be separated from the Weatherby.
As though reading my mind, Teagun’s mouth quirked. “Not far. Only to the hotel where you will rent a room.”
My jaw sagged. “Me? Are you crazy? You want me in plain sight when you know very well everyone thinks I’m a mu—”
He cut me off. “I hope I’m not crazy,” he said, taking my arm and turning me toward the road. He picked up a bag he had ready, apparently plucked from out of the blue, and hiked it over his shoulder. “This is Petra’s idea and it sounds a damn good one to me.”
“But what about—?
“I’ll explain,” he said. “As we walk.
Maganda’s glance toward me was commiserating. “I told him I wouldn’t take you unless you fully, and freely, agreed to go.
“Thank you.” I couldn’t begin to tell her how much I appreciated her sanity in this wacked-out world. And figuring she probably wouldn’t have understood my sentiments anyway, I didn’t try
Teagun, to my dismay, showed no signs of letting me get away.
“She wants to go. She doesn’t know it yet is all.”
“Is that right?” I glared up at him for all the good it did me. “Are you going to tell me why I want to put my head in a rat trap or are you going to leave me to guess? Again.”
“Teagun,” Maganda said, worried by this exchange. “I don’t know. At times Ms. Dill has funny ideas. This may be⏤” She trailed off.
She didn’t have the courage of her convictions, I saw. She wanted to do what was right, but she also wanted to please Teagun Dill and his mother. Not much doubt about the way the wind blew with her. Or surprise come to that.
Anyway, Teagun clinched the argument with irrefutable logic. “Boothenay knows the sooner we clear these outlaws out, the sooner she will be on her way home. So, of course, she’ll do everything possible to expedite her trip.” He glanced at me. “Won’t you?”
I glared at him which apparently made no impression on his resolve at all. “I suppose I’ll have to,” I conceded. “Am I allowed to ask what I’m supposed to be doing when I get there?”
“Primary is to get this bag in to Petra,” said Teagun. “Afterward, do whatever she tells you.” There was more he had to tell me, of course, and show me, which took the whole of our walk to Maganda’s rig.
“That doesn’t sound so hard,” I said, thinking it over. “I don’t know why we can’t discuss these things to begin with instead of you forever springing some frightful off-the-wall thing at me. I’d be much more likely to cooperate.”
“I doubt that,” he muttered, dropping my arm, so I walked— limped—more freely.
“Are you sure you want to do this thing?” Maganda asked one more time. Her long legs easily kept pace with Teagun. I was the one slowing things down.
I wanted to tell her, no, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t. What I did say was, “At least I can sleep in a clean bed and take a shower. I guess you can count that as a major blessing.”
CHAPTER 16
Maganda was driving a different craft from the one of two nights ago. The other had been painted silver as I recalled. This one was blue with a darker blue trailer. It had a decal logo on the door saying Espinoza Transport. Maganda herself, whose last name turned out to be Espinoza, drove for the family firm. “But I am only a cousin, Ms., not a sibling,” she said.
It didn’t matter, she told me. She didn’t plan on the itinerant life of a trucker going on forever.
“Will you tell me where you’re from, Ms.? I’ve never heard an accent like yours and I’ve traveled across the whole country. You sound so pretty when you speak.” She glanced at me shyly, the glow of the dashboard lights illuminating her face, her capable hands busy with a quarter-moon shaped steering device.
“I guess you’d better ask Teagun about that. I don’t mean to put you off, Maganda, but I think he wants to keep my origin a secret, because he . . .” Unable to think of a because, I trailed off. I sounded as dumb as a box of rocks
Strangely enough, her eyes glowed and her smile flashed. “I think I know. The other night, when you were there at the hotel, I sensed you, and sensed that you came from far away.” She laughed a little. “I know you’re not a mutant.”
I sucked in air. “Thank you for that! But you sensed me? You must be a very talented woman.” Noncommittal words for such a revealing implication. From what Teagun had said, Maganda had taken a big leap of faith in admitting to a strong precognition. Not only talented, she must also be very brave. Unless, of course, she was an agent for the Feds and this setup was an elaborate trap.
Maganda winked. “Not me. I only tested borderline, and when the Commission took me in, I made myself appear more inept. They had just found Mir Zaminski at that point, and they were so excited, they let most of us weak ones go free. Later, I found a way to expunge any record of my test. They’ve long forgotten me.” She smiled as she confessed.
Intriguing as this Mir Zaminski sounded, I knew we didn’t have time to get into a lengthy discussion regarding his, or her, accomplishments, whatever they might be, or to explore any of the Federal Commission’s activities. And, since it wasn’t my place to either confirm or deny Teagun’s talent, I decided to ignore these last few minutes.
“Tell me about Petra Dill,” I demanded. We had nearly reached the Crossroad. The powerful lights around the hotel courtyard were visible from our location, and I knew we didn’t have much more time. “Teagun makes her sound—I don’t know—bigger than life, I guess. Is she?” I added, “She must be a force to reckon with, that’s for sure. I can’t imagine a person in her position not taking advantage of the opportunity to escape.”
Maganda laughed. “Non. She is not big in stature. About your size, Ms. But there are tales told of her all the way to Minneapolis.”
I interrupted. “Call me Boothenay, please. I’m calling you Maganda.” I added, “I’d guessed her physical size alrea
dy. These are her clothes I’m wearing, you see, and they fit me very well.”
Maganda’s mouth opened, ready to ask about my own clothes I’ll bet, until I stopped her. “What tales?”
“About how she and her son hunted down her husband’s killers and claimed bounty on them. About how she has held this hotel against all comers, and there have been many, for the last ten or fifteen years. About the farm, like a land of milk and honey, she is said to have, hidden right here in the middle of the desert.”
I heard the awe and admiration in Maganda as she told of the Dill family history. Up until then, I hadn’t given much thought to how terribly difficult and gutsy it was for these two, mother and son, to stand alone against a large, well-organized outlaw gang. Although Teagun had told me about his early life, and I’d seen the farm for myself, it still took flat words to bring the story home and clue me to its importance. I found I was looking forward to meeting Petra Dill.
The turn our talk had taken, of heroes and heroines, brought us as far as the courtyard before I was able to do more than feel nervous. The sight of tall, spidery thin Diego standing watch at the gates threw a blanket of fear over me, a thick covering like fog on water. I found it hard to think coherently.
Maganda heard my involuntary indrawn breath. “I wish I could stay and help,” she said, as though she needed to defend her leaving. “Only Teagun won’t let me. He said this operation requires experience and that I’d only be in the way. This is as much as he would let me do.”
Hah, my inward voice spoke. If it requires experience, what the hell am I doing here?
Aloud, I said, forcing a measure of confidence into my tone, “He’s right. I wouldn’t want to repay your kindness by dragging you in on a mess you’re unprepared to deal with. I don’t know if Teagun told you about the girl and her aunt and the outlaws we met up with last night, but believe me, nothing about the meeting was pleasant.”
“Yes, he told me. Some of it. I don’t think he told me everything.” Maganda braked, pulled her rig into one of the parking aisles, and cut the fans, gently lowering us to the ground. “We’re here,” she said unnecessarily.
I remained seated, unable to bring myself to open the door.
“Are you afraid, Boothenay?” Maganda’s dark eyes held commiseration.
I took a deep breath. “Oh, yeah. Count on it.” Yet a gang of only six people couldn’t be as bad as facing an army—or so I tried to convince myself. I opened the door; stepped out onto the pounded-earth courtyard.
“Return trip is day after tomorrow,” Maganda said with a smile meant to be encouraging. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
I REMEMBER ONCE WHEN CALEB, with the wound in his leg turned septic, had still managed to think and walk and fight. If he could do so much, then surely I ought to take a page from his book and be able to do only one of those things. One at a time anyway. And the one I chose for now was to walk.
The door of Maganda’s truck slammed shut behind me. Here I went, on my own, marching straight into the lion’s den. No, make that rattlesnake den. From the other side of the truck I heard Maganda answering Diego’s questions.
“. . . hitched a ride from the old Sprague cutoff,” she was explaining. “Elsewise, I’ve never seen her before. Look, I don’t have time to stand around. We stopped for the fire and now I’m behind schedule. That’s all I know.” She gunned the engine, fans whining, lifting the rig to running height.
I saw a man cut purposefully between trucks jimmying for position in the move out onto the highway. He was headed my way. With a feeling like all my innards had melted right down into my shoes, I recognized Duncan’s squat figure. Apparently I was to be honored with the attentions of Adainette’s second-in-command. What a thrill.
As he reached me, I heard Maganda speak again, still doing her best to save my ass. “Yes,” she said. “The woman was with me all the way. I swear.”
Duncan’s meaty hand seized my arm in a steely grip.
I halted, looking up into his eyes, trying not to flinch. Oh, God, I was thinking. I’m so impossibly pale-skinned compared with these people. What am I to say if anyone questions my stupid story? If they accuse me of being a mutant. And we didn’t discuss anything about my accent. Hadn’t considered I possessed one until Maganda said it sounded pretty. Should I try to copy these people’s accent? Impossible. I’d never get it right.
“Hi, there,” I said, chirpy as a little spring bird. “You’re the welcoming party, I presume?”
“Huh?” he grunted, his eyes widening in surprise as he stared down at me. He probably wondered what kind of critter had fallen into his trap. I wondered myself.
“Welcoming party. You’re expecting me, are you not? Haven’t you come to carry my bag and help me with checking in?” In calculated risk, I passed my heavy purse and the carry-all Teagun had pressed on me over to Duncan. I felt sure he’d be less likely to look inside the bag if he had to tote it than if he watched me struggle, his curiosity piqued.
Brushing past him, I walked with mincing footsteps right up the paved walk and through the open double-doors into the hotel. My tiny steps had less to do with disguise and style than with the ache in my sprained ankle, but I didn’t think anyone could tell. The shuffle worked fairly well to cover my usual stride, too, in case one of the people here had seen me before from a distance.
Think Grand Dame of the theater, I told myself. You’ve acted a part lots of times before. Think Judi Dench as Queen Elizabeth, or Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra. Think Scarlett Johansson as . . . as Scarlet Johansson. Think . . . self-preservation.
The room fell silent as I entered, Duncan so close behind he nearly trod on my heels. The silence may not have been wholly because of my strange appearance, however, but because an alarm wailed a sudden strident warning and everyone ducked.
“Shut that damn thing off,” a woman snapped. “Duncan, you forgot to silence the alarm . . . again.”
Duncan’s mutter sounded as if he were maligning a female dog. He stepped quickly away from the doors, pushing me through in front of him. One of the women behind the oak-paneled desk situated a few steps to our left slapped her hand down hard as though swatting flies, and the siren stopped.
“Strange one here,” Duncan said, gesturing me forward.
With only time for a quick glance to establish position, what I saw surprised me. Built in 2012, the hotel was fashioned after an old-time hunting lodge with rich pine interior walls and soaring ceilings. A mammoth waterfall, one dry of water, decorated the lobby. It was the tower of rocks I’d seen from the outside. Beneath a series of skylights, a great many decorative green plants were scattered about. Though old now, the hotel was still beautiful and well-kept. No wonder everyone wanted to own it, legally or otherwise.
I nodded to Duncan as regally as a queen to a dismissed lackey. I knew how to put the correct emphasis on it, too, having seen, in person, Queen Charlotte make the same gesture. I then proceeded to ignore him. Adainette Plover was the person I had to impress now. I pretended not to see the woman who sat next to the outlaw leader.
“Good evening,” I said, sounding kind of plumy to my own ears and vaguely British. “I am Ms. Boothenay Irons. I believe you are expecting me . . . from the Anachronistic Costuming Society. Is my room prepared? “
Adainette looked hard at me, eyed narrowed, and I could almost see her thinking “mutant.” But without saying it aloud, she turned her flat, dark gaze to a computer screen set into the desktop in front of her. She scrolled through the list with one elegant fingertip. I took advantage of the break to glance quickly at Petra Dill. She, with an amused, and not-at-all intimidated expression, gazed back. One eyelid dipped slightly, a half-completed wink. Around one of her slender wrists, she wore a silver manacle that shivered the air space around it, telltale of an electronic device.
What would happen if she tried to get away, I wondered? Would the device come alive and give her a severe burn? Yet Teagun had said she could have escaped if she’d
wanted, so there must be a way to unlock the manacle. Or at least render it harmless.
“Here.” Adainette’s finger stopped the scroll. She hooked her burgundy hair to one side, pulling the mass forward to conceal the scar on her jaw. “Room eight.” Her mouth tightened and she looked suspiciously at Petra who was innocence personified.
Petra appeared to be tallying a set of numbers and not paying any attention to us.
“How you going to pay?” Adainette’s blunt question, delivered in a harsh, demanding voice, made a mockery of the innkeeper’s hospitality creed of my day.
We had been prepared for this question, via a scheme Teagun and Petra had conceived when Teagun had been here.
Snapping my fingers imperiously at Duncan, I took my purse from him and pulled a thin, circular chip from a side compartment. A green light came on under the coin shaped slot in the computer screen as Adainette inserted the chip, its acceptance signaled by an approving ping. Petra ignored the transaction.
“What you doing here?” Adainette asked. “You’re no driver.”
“I should say not! Locales, my dear woman. I’m here for locales.” With airy insouciance, I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered at her through them. “We’re making a retro digital screener.” She looked blank, as well she might since Teagun and I had made all this up. “A costume historical. My company sent me ahead to choose the ground. The others should be here soon. We’ll probably want to rent the whole hotel for a month.”
The cover story had been Petra’s suggestion, because a film crew of similar type—read retro digital screener—had come through a year ago, trying to find a suitable arena in which to film a drama about the desert. In the end they’d gone elsewhere, but in case Adainette checked, the precedent had been set. It also went a long, acceptable way toward explaining my exotic looks. I could hope the subject of mutancy would not be raised again.
Coincidentally, the story might cover my out-of-time accent as well.
Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3) Page 19
