Captives (18 page)

"Yup," the old man said.

"Then you're fucked either way, aren't you?" the impatient man said.

A pair of arms thrust above him to rest on the rail. The man's skin was deeply tanned, the hairs of his forearms silvery white. "The ones you scare are the sheep at the front of the herd. The fish at the head of the school. Run them off, and others will follow. Especially if you've hurt enough people to scare 'em, but not so many their fear turns to fury."

"Quite a lecture, professor."

"You're the one who asked, you little SOB."

He and the third man laughed. After a moment, the younger man did too. The end of a hand-rolled cigarette spun over the rails and into the water.

"Tell me they don't expect that plan to work on the Lunatics," the young man said.

"'Course not. We're still working up to that." The gruff-voiced man was quiet a moment. "And we just dodged a bullet."

"He was
alone
. Perfect opportunity to reduce their numbers by one."

"Or to point that crazy girl's sword this way." A small twist of empty paper fluttered over the edge and twirled out to sea. "Can't say I'm too busted up about it, though. It's earned
you
the privilege of watching the point for the next week!"

"What? A
week
?"

"What's wrong? Got a date?"

"Not anymore," the kid muttered.

The third man laughed. "Tell me who and I'll be sure to let her know about the bad news."

"I bet that's all you'll do." Steps rasped across the surface. Above, a face swung into view, suntanned and young, dark hair fluttering around his ears. He rested his elbows on the rail and spat, the glob arcing down, the wind curving it back toward the base of the pilings. "I can't wait until this is over."

He withdrew. The three men walked down the pier. The old man was saying something, but their backs were turned; between the wind and the surf, Thom couldn't make out the words. Besides, he had other worries. Once they were on the beach, if they glanced back at the pier, they'd be able to see him hanging from its end. He'd already used a lot of strength holding fast to the struts and wasn't certain he could climb back up. He could jump into the water—it was less than fifteen feet below him, and if he dangled from the bar he was standing on, he could cut that to ten—but the motion of his fall and the splash of his entry could draw their eyes. Not to mention the danger of being scraped to death against the solid layer of mussels cemented to the sides of the pilings.

The only way out was up.

He wedged his shoe into the crotch of a strut and the piling, trying not to think about what would happen to his ankle if he slipped, and pushed up, grabbing the strut and putting his second foot beside the first. He crouched precariously, like a drunken owl, his pack threatening to tug him off balance. He stood. If he stretched, he could touch the top of the platform, but this wouldn't provide much of a grip. He inched up the angled strut, forcing himself not to look down. When he stood, he touched the cold, damp metal of the railing's lower bar. Heart lurching, he stood on tiptoe and grabbed it.

From there, it was an excruciating but straightforward task of heaving himself up to where he could get a foot on the ledge. By the time he swung his legs over the top rail and dropped to the pier, he glimpsed the men emerging from its base, heading south down the sprawling, vacant beach. Thom got out his binoculars and crouched beside the building. As they moved down the sand, he began to regret not dropping into the water. He couldn't let them out of sight and it would have been far less conspicuous to swim in to shore from the other side of the pier than to walk down its length.

Once they were a quarter mile away, he moved from the safety of the building, sticking to the railing, ducking behind each lamp post to make sure they were still moving forward. He entered the parking lot at the base of the pier, grateful for the rusting cars and the palm trees with fallen brown fronds piled around their trunks. As he moved to the paved strand lining the first row of houses, the three men stopped. They talked a moment, then shook hands. Two of them turned around and headed back north.

Thom backed up, slipping around the corner of a concrete modern house whose picture windows had been destroyed years ago. He jogged two blocks uphill to the boulevard running through the former downtown, an upscale stretch of hair salons, Mediterranean restaurants, and beachwear shops. Most of the stores had survived remarkably well: they had nothing anyone in this age needed.

He loped forward a few blocks, then slowed to a silent walk, ears perked for speech. Three minutes later, footsteps echoed from the strand. He moved to the corner of a lot and got down behind the fence sheltering its yard. Downhill, the old man walked past, accompanied by the owner of the third voice. As promised, they'd left the young man alone. Now it was just a matter of catching up to him—and taking Kolton's revenge.

Thom waited for the two men to open up some distance, then stood and headed down the street at a fast walk. Unable to see any of them, he diverted to the strand, glanced north to make sure the other men's backs were turned, then confirmed the third man was continuing alone to the south. To get out of sight, he ran uphill and paralleled the strand from above. This meant he couldn't see the others, either, and after another three blocks, he returned to beach-level to ensure the young man hadn't deviated from his course. The third time Thom pulled this maneuver, he could no longer see the other two men; they'd disappeared into the north.

He crossed the hazy border between Manhattan and Hermosa, making frequent jaunts down to the strand to ensure his quarry was still there. They passed the Hermosa pier, nothing more than a concrete platform extended five hundred feet into the water. The Redondo marina loomed ahead.

The next time Thom went down to the path, the man was gone from sight.

Hot sweat jumped up from his back. If he lost the man now, he might never see him again. He glanced at the tideline, thinking the man might have gone for a dip. No clothes on the sand. No dark blot of a head in the water. He'd been keeping pace with the stranger. Unless the man had taken off running, he shouldn't have reached the pier complex for another minute or two.

That left inland. Thom listened another long moment, then headed back up the hill at a low run. On the street, he stopped again, straining his ears, hearing nothing besides the fucking palms and the god damn ocean. Thom moved on at a fast walk, gut twisting so hard he though it would pop.

Three blocks later, the young man walked from behind the corner building not twenty feet away. Thom stopped, shoes scuffing. The man saw him and went stock still.

"Hi," Thom said.

The man had his back to the wind. He swept his dark hair from his face. "The fuck is this?"

"This? Two people bumping into each other. It happens."

"By accident? These days? Not likely, friend."

Thom shrugged. "More than you'd think. I travel a lot. Run into people wherever I go. Then again, I like meeting new people."

Half the man's mouth turned up in a skeptical smirk. "You a bandit, little man? Think you're gonna get the drop on me with that bow?"

"I'm not here to start a fight." He rifled his mind for the right lie and found the perfect substitute: a partial truth. "I'm searching for someone. The man who brought down the ship. Walt Lawson."

A funny look shot across the man's face. He went for the rifle on his shoulder. Thom popped his right shoulder up, sending the strung bow sliding down his arm. He drew an arrow with his other hand. The man fumbled his gun, overeager. Thom fired.

It was a sloppy shot. Rushed. But they were only a few paces from each other and the man had no cover. The arrow slashed into his thigh. As soon as Thom had released it, he'd sprinted forward, throwing aside his bow and drawing his blade. The young man cried out, blood spurting on the dry, sparkling sidewalk. Instinctively, he reached for the shaft projecting from his leg, staggering, lifting the rifle one-handed. Thom was already on him. He swung the blade into the barrel. The rifle jerked to the side, pulled from the man's hand by its own weight. Thom straightened his elbow, pointing the sword at the man's chest, and crouched to pick up the gun.

Once he had it in hand, he backed off and aimed it at the wounded man. "Look at that. You've been
shot
."

"Get back! Get away from me!"

"Wish I could. But I'm afraid we're going to be traveling companions for a while." Keeping the gun trained on the man, he backed up and picked up his bow. "Got any other guns on you? Any knives? Drop them now. Nice and slow. If I find any when I search you, I'll sheathe them in your kidneys."

The man blinked heavily, squinting against the noon glare. Still holding the arrow with his left hand, he drew a serrated hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and dropped it to the sidewalk with a clang. He knelt and removed a small blade from each ankle, then got a Swiss army knife from his pocket.

"No more guns?" Thom said. The man shook his head, beginning to go pale from pain. Thom smiled tightly. "You left home with only one gun?"

"You're the one with a bow, bitch."

"And you're the one with an arrow through his leg."

Thom shouldered his weapons and closed on the man, keeping the tip of his sword raised. He moved behind him and gave him a quick frisk. Finding nothing else with a barrel or a blade, he gathered up the man's knives and tossed them behind the browning shrubs lining the sidewalk. He had strong doubts the man's friends would be back—they'd said he was on his own for the next week—but there was no reason to leave them an obvious trail.

"Who are you?" the man said.

"The guy who gets to ask
you
the questions. You and your friends, who do you represent?"

"You're one of them, aren't you? The Lunatics."

"If that's true, you ought to know you better start talking."

The man smiled hard, shaking his head. "Nope. You don't know shit, do you? And you never will. Not until after it's over."

"Okay," Thom said. "Get walking."

"Huh?"

"You know the way." He nodded south toward the green lumps of Palos Verdes, hazed by a thin bank of clouds blowing across their flanks.

The man drew his head to the side. "I got a fucking
arrow
in my thigh."

"Want me to pair it with a bullet in the knee?"

The man's mouth twitched. Gritting his teeth, he pivoted and took a step forward. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. He took another step. A third. Soon, he had found a steady, hitching pace, the arrow twitching each time he set down his left foot, but causing little apparent discomfort.

Probably just the shock. Thom wanted to make full use of it before it wore off. Even if they took the main roads, they had a good ten miles to San Pedro. He didn't trust his own ability to pry information from the man, but then again, he didn't have to. All he had to do was deliver the prisoner to Mauser and Raina.

For a brief while, he was able to imagine it would be that simple. The man hobbled along, keeping his leg straight, dragging his foot over the asphalt. They reached the marina, took the road up to PCH. It was uphill. A mistake. Within five minutes, sweat drenched the man's head, back, and armpits. He had paled again. Blood sopped the leg of his jeans, staining the white laces of his shoe.

"I need a break," the man said. "If I go on—"

His leg wobbled, the knee buckling. He sat down, fast and awkward, belting out a short scream as the arrow's protruding head bumped the hard street. He folded on himself like a leaf of rotten lettuce and stayed there, sides shaking. Thom waited.

Eventually, the man calmed. He lifted his face, grimy cheeks streaked with tears. "Threaten me. Shoot me. Call me a sissy bitch. But I ain't walking another step."

"I don't blame you," Thom said. "I shot you. In the leg. It's a miracle you made it this far."

The young man wiped his face with the collar of his shirt. "Why couldn't you have shot me with a gun like a real person?"

"The easy part's already done—the head's passed out the other side. All you have to do is push the rest of it through."

"You can't be serious."

"Might want to remove the fletching first."

The man stared at his bleeding leg. "I can't even see what I'm doing."

Thom got a small folding knife from his pocket and lobbed it over. "Cut off the leg of your jeans. Then take a deep breath and push." He smiled. "Just like giving birth."

"You're a real asshole."

The man arranged himself on the ground, leg propped up, and began cutting away the leg of his jeans, exposing a pale thigh smeared with vivid red blood. He pulled the detached pant leg down around his ankle, then trimmed away the feathers at the arrow's end. He muttered under his breath and pulled.

He screamed. Thom glanced down the street, gun resting on his knees. Once the man's breathing had calmed, he tried again. The arrow clattered to the street. He flopped on his back, panting, bleeding, and sweating.

In Thom's pack, he carried a small, unlabeled bottle of hydrogen peroxide. A folded pack of rags of various thickness, too. He tossed these on the ground next to the wounded man.

"Once you can see straight, you might want to use these."

It was another minute before the man could bring himself to sit up. Midway through bandaging himself, he passed out for a few seconds, lolling forward before jerking upright. Once he was finished, Thom took back his knife, peroxide, and the unused rags.

"Good news and bad," Thom said. "The bad news is you have to walk. The good news is, you only have to make it to the front of the Albertsons."

He pointed across the parking lot of a long, upscale strip mall. The Albertsons sat at its corner. Through a process of hopping, skipping, and swearing, the man was able to accompany him to the broken front doors. Thom told him to wait outside. Inside was a colossal mess of broken glass, spilled food, and several skeletons. Thom grabbed a shopping cart and rolled it outside.