Chapter Thirteen

 

Mildred Wyeth came awake with a hand over her mouth in the darkness of the hotel room. She reached under her pillow for the Czech ZKR 551 but barely had her fingers curled around its butt before a fist rammed into her stomach.

 

Pain bounced around crazily inside her head, warring with the fatigue that had put her to bed in spite of her anger and worry over J.B.'s absence. She'd expected the Armorer to be gone for a while. Outfitting the group was a primary concern, and J.B.'s fascination with firearms was prodigious.

 

Stubbornly she tried to cling to the target pistol. The fist crashed into her stomach again, making her retch.

 

"Look here, bitch," a man's rough voice whispered in her ear. "You want to live to see morning come, you mebbe want to just do what we want."

 

The hand over Mildred's mouth crept higher, cutting off her breath through her nostrils, as well. Panic shrieked loose inside her. She flailed, curving her fingertips into talons. A set of fingernails found flesh, carved deeply.

 

For a moment she thought she might get free. Then something hard and unforgiving crashed into the side of her head, and she drifted away suddenly in a fog of cottony darkness.

 

 

 

"SHOULD WE WAKE Mildred?"

 

Ryan glanced at the door down the hall. "Let her sleep. Until the others get back, we can't plan on much." He used the key and let them into their hotel room. He stood just to one side of the door and peered in, his hand resting on the SIG-Sauer. None of the shadows inside moved wrong. He let out a tense breath and entered the room, taking the time to check the windows and the bathroom, as well. A careful man, the Trader had always said, always spent time looking things over, even after he'd looked them over a couple times already. "Aunt Maim's story wasn't exactly made to set a mind at ease," Krysty commented. She straightened the mess of bedclothes, smoothing them.

 

"No." Ryan stood at the window and gazed out. He saw a few men moving about, but none of them appeared headed in the direction of the hotel. "What do we do now?" Krysty asked. "Wait," Ryan said. "Jak, Dean, J.B. and Doc are still out there. Give them some time, see if they come back." He took the chair against the wall and rammed it under the doorknob. It stood to reason that the key they'd been given hadn't been the only key Aunt Maim had for the room. Then he sat out of sight beside the window and waited.

 

"You should get some sleep, lover," Krysty suggested.

 

"I will in a couple hours," Ryan said. "Or when J.B. makes it back."

 

"He should have already been back. Are you thinking about going looking for him?"

 

"No. If anything wrong had gone down with J.B., we'd have heard about it by now. You get some sleep. If nothing happens in the next couple hours, I'll wake you, get some sleep myself."

 

"Good night, lover." Krysty rolled over on the bed.

 

Ryan listened to her breathing gradually deepen. He waited with the patience of a great cat stalking its prey. Some of the cards of the hand they'd drawn blind had been turned faceup on the table. But Kirkland hadn't known everything they knew, either. It remained to be seen who got stuck with the joker in the deck.

 

 

 

DOC LEFT COBB'S at just after midnight by his old chron. Albert went with him. Cobb and his cronies hadn't been happy about seeing them leave, but there hadn't been much choice. Doc carried with him a slim volume of Robert Frost's poetry. Cobb had somehow managed to come up with three paperback editions and two hardcovers.

 

Raucous piano music came from farther down the street, and Doc spied yellow lantern light pouring out onto the wooden sidewalk.

 

"Now, there's a happy tune," Doc commented.

 

"Yes," Albert agreed, "but it only disguises a den of inequity."

 

Doc glanced at the dwarf. "A den of inequity, dear Albert?"

 

The little man blushed strong enough to show even in the darkness.

 

"I must say, your command of the language seems to ebb and flow," Doc said. "At times you seem to speak most eloquently, and at others you can be very inelegant."

 

"Self-taught in a lot of matters," the dwarf replied. "I don't get the chance to actually hear a lot of what I read. I'm most comfortable talking the way I was brought up."

 

"There is nothing wrong with it," Doc said. "I meant no offense."

 

"None taken. But I know my shortcomings." Albert grinned. "Been there most of my life."

 

"Cobb, despite all the books he has access to, does not seem as erudite as you."

 

"Thank you."

 

"Oh, dear Albert, that was not intended as a complimentthough you may certainly take it as such but as an observation." Doc tapped the silver lion's head of his cane against his temple. "I am merely exercising my brain." And enjoying the clarity he seemed to possess at the moment.

 

"I don't know that Cobb likes books," Albert said, "as much as he likes to think books are going to give him the edge on everybody else. He thinks he's going to glean all this knowledge and set himself up somewhere as a baron in his own right."

 

"And you?"

 

Albert shrugged. "I just love the stories and the poetry, Doc. Most of them kind of turn out to be the things that bind us all, you know?"

 

"I know very well indeed." A fragment came to Doc's mind, drifting in from somewhere. He nailed it down with effort. "I am reminded of a passage presented by John F. Kennedy regarding both power and poetry."

 

"One of the three you're always swearing by?" Albert asked.

 

The question threw Doc off his stride. He reached back into his mind, but he didn't know. "I am afraid that I could not tell you." He heard the quaver in his voice as the uncertainty inside his mind seemed to beckon to him.

 

Albert reached up and patted him on the arm. "It's okay, Doc. Doesn't matter if this John F. was one of those three or not. What did this Kennedy say?"

 

Remarkably the passage remained in Doc's brain. He felt calmer as he put it to tongue. "It was in an address before a college, unless I misremember, and I do not think that I do. It went something like this."

 

 

 

'When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses, for art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.'

 

 

 

"That's beautiful."

 

"When I read it, I liked it well enough." Doc kept walking, listening to the comfortable thump of his boots across the wooden boardwalk. His attention was drawn to the gaudy house, pricked by the loud strains of the piano. "Mayhap we could just peek in."

 

"Bad place to be, Doc." Albert scowled.

 

 

Ignoring the little man, Doc strode up to the bat-wing doors and peered in. The smoky haze robbed the scene of its color, but he saw enough. The girl on the stage had a live snake and was totally obscene in her actions. "Upon my soul."

 

"Warned you," Albert said.

 

 

"So you did." Doc drew back from the doors and avoided the drunken men sprawled on the boardwalk. "Then let us return to the hotel and perhaps see if there is any grape to be had. I shall endeavor to tell the others about the plague on the morrow. There is nothing to be done about it yet."

 

Albert led the way across the dirt street. Before they gained the other side, a horse-drawn wagon clattered out of an alley. The driver whipped the horses unmercifully, making them go faster. Their hooves pounded into the dry ground as the wheels cut across the ruts. Three other men sat in the flat-board back, hanging on. A fourth person lay prone between the three men.

 

Doc got only a glimpse of her face, but he recognized her immediately as Mildred. A cold fist of fear closed around his heart.

 

"Hey," Albert said, "wasn't that?"

 

"I fear so," Doc said. He pushed himself into motion at once, following the horse-drawn wag through the shadows. "Go warn the others, friend Albert, whilst I endeavor to track these louts." He left the dwarf behind in a handful of strides, barely holding his own with the disappearing wag. He hoped they didn't have far to go.

 

 

 

RYAN SAT QUIETLY near the window, his chin resting against his chest. He kept his eye closed, but he didn't truly sleep.

 

A light tapping sounded at the door.

 

Ryan uncoiled, slipping the SIG-Sauer from leather and walking to the door. The tapping repeated, one of the codes he and the companions had designed to recognize each other in the event they were separated. "Who is it?" he demanded.

 

"Me, Dad," Dean answered. "And Jak. We need to talk."

 

Ryan moved the chair from the door, glancing at the bed. Krysty had roused herself and had her pistol to hand, covering the door. Unfastening the latches, he stepped back and let the two boys into the room.

 

Dean started to talk first, sitting on the floor so he couldn't be seen through the window from the street level. Ryan didn't interrupt, learning about the plague darts and Kirkland's own intentions of killing the two boys and blaming the plague.

 

Before Ryan had the chance to progress with his questioning, another knock came on the door. This one didn't have any of the patterns the companions agreed on.

 

"Who is it?" Ryan asked.

 

"Albert," the dwarf said in a loud whisper.

 

"Where's Doc?"

 

"Doc sent me on." Albert sounded slightly out of breath or nervous.

 

Ryan didn't know which it was. He rolled back the SIG-Sauer's hammer with a thumb, lessening the pull tension on the trigger to something over two pounds. "Why?"

 

"Kirkland's people have got Mildred," the dwarf said.

 

"How do you know?"

 

"Me and Doc saw her ourselves."

 

Ryan gestured at Jak. The albino stood, filling his hands with the leaf-bladed throwing knives. Ryan signaled Jak to take the dwarf.

 

The teenager nodded.

 

Pulling the door open, Ryan leveled the 9 mm blaster between the dwarfs eyes. To his credit, Albert already had his hands up. Nobody stood in the hallway behind the dwarf.

 

"Get in," Ryan ordered, keeping the SIG-Sauer still.

 

Dean took the .38 pistols out of the little man's holsters while Jak pinned him in place with a blade on either side of his throat.

 

"You don't have to worry" Albert began.

 

"Shut up," Ryan commanded. He walked into the hallway with the 9 mm blaster beside his leg. His senses were on triple red, reading every shadow before him. He tried the door to J.B. and Mildred's room and found it open. That discovery created a bad feeling in him that only got worse when he found the blood spots on the white sheets of the bed.

 

He returned to his room. "Fireblast!" he swore.

 

"Mildred?" Krysty asked.

 

"Somebody took her," Ryan answered.

 

"Was she still alive?" Krysty asked Albert.

 

"I couldn't tell," the dwarf said.

 

"Where's Doc?" Ryan repeated.

 

"Went after the wag they were carrying her in."

 

"Who?" Ryan asked.

 

"Only person I can figure," the dwarf answered, "is Kirkland's people."

 

"The sheriff?"

 

"He wasn't one of the men I saw."

 

Ryan went to their gear and picked up the Steyr. He glanced back at Krysty. "I'm going after J.B., let him know what's going on. Everybody just sit tight here until I get back."

 

"Be careful, lover," Krysty cautioned.

 

Ryan nodded. He put the Steyr over his shoulder, barrel pointing down, so he could swing it up into position.

 

"Him?" Jak pointed to the dwarf, not removing his knives.

 

Ryan stared hard into the little man's eyes. "Cut him loose, but watch him. Right now the only people we trust is ourselves." He left the room by way of the window.

 

"Dad," Dean called back, "I can come with you, cover your back."

 

"You'll cover my back better here," Ryan said. "Man doesn't have a place to come back to, he's a dead man running. Could be we'll have to fort up in here. You and Jak have a look aroundwithout alerting any of the staff hereand see if there's anything we can use."

 

Dean nodded, accepting his father's decision.

 

Ryan glanced at Krysty. "Back as soon as I can." Then he made his way along the eaves overhanging the boardwalk below. The clouds remained generous, masking his movements. He moved slowly and carefully enough that there was no sound.

 

At the end of the eaves, he dropped into the alley and headed for the gunsmith's shop.

 

 

 

COLD WATER DOUSED Mildred and brought her back to wakefulness. "Goddamn," she shouted. "Do that again and I'm going to find you some day and choke you to death with your own entrails." She blinked the moisture out of her eyes, trying to clear her blurry vision.

 

"Not quite the sentiments I'd expected to hear from an educated woman."

 

Mildred focused on the voice, making out Kirkland seated in a chair across the small room. Two men, one of them carrying a small metal bucket, gathered to his left.

 

"Go fuck yourself," Mildred said.

 

Kirkland only laughed. "I assure you, I am not quite the refined and eloquent man that you perhaps thought I was earlier in the day."

 

"I never made that mistake," Mildred replied.

 

Mildred shifted on the straight-backed chair she sat in. Leather straps held her in place. Her hands were tied behind her, and her ankles were tied to the chair legs. "Maybe you want to explain this." She let her peripheral vision skate around the room.

 

Simple and plain, with only a few shelves against the walls, it looked like a concrete bunker that Mildred remembered from her days before being cryogenically preserved. The jars on the shelves held canned foods, vegetables and fruits. The concrete walls had been poured rather than mortared of blocks. Two lanterns hung on the walls, creating a pall of smoke that clung to the low, untextured ceiling.

 

"You," Kirkland said, "have had the misfortune of becoming a bargaining chit in the game I intend to play with your leader. You see, there have been stories of a plague that haunts this ville. Yet none of the seven of you seemed to be aware of it. And you came into the ville in the company of Albert, whom I personally know Liberty only keeps around as a token of amusement. Albert must be setting might high store on himself these days if he thinks I believe Liberty would let him come into Hazard alone with strangers."

 

"Or maybe he wasn't crediting you with being too intelligent," Mildred replied.

 

A cold smile twisted Kirkland's face. "At any rate, all of you made mistakes regarding me."

 

"That remains to be seen," Mildred replied. "I guess you figure on using me against Ryan?"

 

Kirkland spread his hands. "That, I would think, would be fundamentally clear at this point."

 

"Maybe so." Mildred smiled coldly back at the man. Inside, she was afraid. She didn't like the idea of being trapped and helpless. However, one might be true, but the other wasn't necessarily so. She already felt some slack in the leather around her left wrist. "But you made a mistake, too."

 

"Would you care to explain?"

 

"Sure. You made a mistake in thinking a man like Ryan would give a rat's ass about me."

 

Kirkland's brows knitted. He leaned forward in his chair. "I find your idioms, madam, most interesting. When I take in the fact that you seem to be somewhat skilled in the field of medicine, you become even more interesting."

 

"Maybe you could cut me loose from this chair," Mildred suggested, "and we can find out just how interesting I can be."

 

"I don't think so." Kirkland stood and walked to one of the lanterns nearest him. "Though that suggestion may further inspire my curiosity at a later date."

 

"I'll be waiting," Mildred promised. Kirkland blew out the lantern's flame, dimming the light in the room. "I assure you," he said, "that you will have no choice in the matter." He took the second lantern from the wall and headed up a set of rickety wooden steps that further led Mildred to believe she was somewhere underground. "I do hope you're not afraid of the dark."

 

Mildred forced herself to keep still as she watched Kirkland and his two men crawl out of the room through a trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Thrown bolts spilled heavy echoes into the room. The acrid stink of smoke made Mildred sneeze.

 

She waited a few beats in the complete darkness, struggling with a fear that threatened to consume her. When she heard no other noises, she began to work on the leather binding her left wrist. The rough material chafed her skin, settling into a fierce burn that forced her to give up. Loose as it was, the leather thong still maintained enough friction to restrain her.

 

Then she thought about the jars of foodstuffs sitting on the shelves. They'd contain juices. Gingerly she leaned forward in the chair, struggling to clear it off the ground. Her ankles ground in pain as her feet rose heel up, her weight resting on the ball of her foot. Cautiously, knowing if she tipped over she'd never have another chance to save herself, she scooted over toward the shelves she remembered being nearest.

 

Her efforts yielded her less than an inch at a time, and the pain involved was great. The increased effort also caused the knot of swelling on her right temple to throb even more painfully, and her bruised stomach muscles rebelled at the demands being made on them.

 

After six attempts, she was forced to rest. The sound of her gulping air was the only sound in the room. She sat, trying to quieten her quivering stomach muscles so they would be ready for the next round of agony.

 

She took solace in the fact that she was six inches closer to her goal. Then she pushed the chair up again and continued to move forward. She wasn't going to just sit there and be used against her friends.