Captives (6 page)

"Think I'll stick with the Place. Assuming I'm allowed to stay."

"The Place is open to outsiders," the boy said. "So long as you swear on your life to abide and uphold the Law of the Good Moon."

Thom waited a moment to allow them to wink or crack a smile. When none came, he cleared his throat. "Is there a book I can study?"

The man waved a hand. "No theft. No killing. All trades and debts are to be honored. The arrival of all strangers is to be reported. If you require vengeance, you must bring your story to the Bones, where you may—if approved—fight barehanded until one side submits. Or, in exceptional cases, dies."

"That's it?"

"Good law is sparse," the boy said.

The man smiled, eyes dancing. "Like precious gems."

Thom nodded. "Is there some kind of oath?"

The boy extended his palm. "Hold out your left hand."

He obliged. The boy took his hand and turned it palm-down, then drew one of his knives. Thom sucked in a breath. "Hang on a second."

"I'd tell you this won't hurt," the man said. "But that would be a lie."

"Don't fear." The boy rolled his left hand over, showing a blue, C-shaped scar. "It's worn by all who follow the Good Moon."

"Sounds wonderful," Thom said. "And what if it winds up infected?"

"Then the Moon's Eye has judged you."

"Hang on. Isn't this a little abrupt? How do you know I'm not some traitorous scumbag?"

"You are not proving your worth to join a secret club." Kolton tightened his grip. "This is about pledging to live under the law of the people. And to accept your sentence if you transgress."

Before Thom could say more, the blade's tip flashed. Blood welled from the cut, followed by the death-like feel of steel parting his skin. Thom inhaled with a hiss. Quickly and expertly, the boy finished the cut. He wiped the knife on his shorts and sheathed it and drew a leather baggie from one of his pockets. Thom's blood traced a warm line down his wrist and dribbled to the mangy grass. The boy opened the drawstring and tapped blue powder onto the wound. It stung, then began to tingle. The boy thumbed it across Thom's hand, then released him.

Thom pulled his hand to his chest. "What was that?"

The boy pocketed the baggie. "The dust of the Moon. Now you are linked to it and all who wear it."

"Colonel's secret recipe," the man said. "Don't worry, it's harmless. Helps stanch the bleeding, too."

"How modern." Thom gritted his teeth, but the pain was already beginning to fade.

The boy bowed from the waist. "Welcome to the Place, Stranger-No-More."

His partner smiled. "Why don't you go on without me, Kolton? I'll handle any more questions our new brother may have."

The boy eyed Thom, then turned and jogged away. The man whistled a senseless tune, waiting for the boy's steps to fade. He jerked his chin at Thom's hand. "How's your loyalty badge doing?"

"Gouged," Thom said. "But I'll be fine. Depending on what the bacteria have to say."

"Got antibiotics?"

"If they're still good."

"If not, come see me. No sense dying over the fact Raina thinks ID cards are for pussies."

Thom lifted an eyebrow. "Are you saying the Good Moon makes mistakes?"

The man ducked his chin and showed his palms. "It's known to get surly. Besides, like the good book says, the Moon helps those who help themselves not die of infection."

"Rude question incoming: if you don't believe, then what are you doing here?"

"Oh, I believe in the laws. They're simple. Useful. And the celestial heft behind them gives people something to latch on to." He thumbed his nose, sniffed. "Sadly, some people were alive when the moon wasn't an object of worship, but an astronaut's putting green. And others of us had YouTube. For those people, I act as Dear Leader's Liaison with Reality. Call me Mauser."

"Thom James." They shook hands.

"And what do you bring to our little kingdom, Thom? Besides a willingness to be carved up by strangers?"

He shrugged. "I pass on news. Tell stories. I'm a performer."

"That explains the makeup. Don't worry, I used to see far worse in West Hollywood. Good trade stock, you know." Mauser shifted his eyes to the punctured hay bale. "Well, if your current pastime doesn't prove as lucrative as it sounds, drop by the Seat. Hills north of the Dunemarket. We're always in need of good scouts."

He smiled, waved jauntily, and went on his way. Thom got out his cache of supplies and took a pill. They'd expired years ago, but at least there was the placebo effect. In the morning, his wound was scabby, but it wasn't particularly puffy, pink, or warm. He thought he'd be fine.

Taking a cue from Mauser, he began to spend more of his foraging time in bathrooms hunting for usable cosmetics. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of this before; he used a subtle few to make himself look friendlier, wiser, and a little older, and knew just enough about the art to have some idea what people might be interested in. Within two days, he had enough to swap for a square blue case of one hundred 9mm rounds. He hauled his bounty into the hills. Feeling rich, he took his time emptying two full magazines into the target he'd brought along. The pistol had the obvious advantage of firepower and concealment, but he remained more accurate with the bow.

Then again, there was no reason he couldn't use both.

Two weeks went by with little to show for it but a working knowledge of the area, a steady gig at the inn, and a healed hand. He began to get the itch to move on. See new places, meet new people. He could make the rounds, at least. Drop by Pill's aquarium and such. If he didn't tarry, a trip around the basin wouldn't take more than three or four days. He doubted Earl would begrudge him a brief absence from the inn.

Typically, his conversations were held inside the inn, under the cover of the roof and the night, but he was in the noon glare of the Dunemarket when the woman found him. Her brown ponytail was streaked blond by the sun and she wore a plain t-shirt and no bra. Unusual stuff: this day and age, women tended to downplay such things rather than parade them about. Thom supposed it spoke to the safety of the Place.

She stood across from him, feet planted, hands on hips. "You the man looking for Walt Lawson? What do you want with him?"

"I'm something of a historian," Thom said. "I'd like to hear his story firsthand."

"What will you give me if I tell you where he is?"

"I've got some makeup. Quality stuff."

"You saying I need it?" The woman laughed. "
He
didn't seem to think so."

"I'm saying I've got if. If you don't want it, say so and we'll move on." He stopped to smile, both to disarm the woman's annoyance and to give the second Thom the opportunity to step forward. He arrived at once, his vision as clear as ever. She'd been starfucking, hadn't she? And now she wanted to sell her story to the tabloids. "Got a place to stay? I've got room and board at the inn. Drinks."

She gave it a moment's thought. "I don't usually have to pay for those."

He found himself thinking about leading her away from the public space of the Dunemarket and made himself smile again to prevent the emotion from leaking onto his face. "How would you like to have a story of your own?"

"I got plenty of
those.
Hell, forget Walt. You want a story, look no further."

"That's what I mean. After I speak to him, I'll come back and you can tell me about your life. What you've been through. What it means. Wherever I go, I'll tell it to the world."

She stared at him, eyes slitted, the dry wind tousling her hair. "Southern point of RPV. Big motherfucker right above the golf course. Follow the coast and you can't miss it."

He wrote down her name. She had no address, but they arranged to meet at the inn three days from then. He waved and headed for home, forcing himself not to run.

His bag was ready in the closet. He put his pistol on his hip and his bow over his shoulder. He jogged south down Gaffey, passing old liquor stores, In-N-Outs, and Hawaiian barbecues. Several blocks had burned to the ground, the charred timbers overtaken by grass and weeds. A black cat watched from the shade of a stoop, lashing its tail. He took a right and the run-down single-story Spanish houses were replaced with two-story American-standard homes painted with their off-whites and light browns.

He took a false turn onto a road that petered out into coastal subdivisions. The ocean shimmered, the blue ridge of Catalina hanging to the south. He backtracked and found the main road that looped around the peninsula. He tried not to be lulled by the subdivisions flanking the road. They looked dead, but so did a sleeping snake.

He passed a golf course, fairways gone yellow, but he doubted he was halfway to his destination. The houses gave out for half a mile, replaced by open scrubland. The road showed cracks. Ahead, it lay in jagged heaps, as if it had been picked up and dropped. Thom drew his pistol and detoured around, watching the slopes. On the other side, with no sign of ambush, he holstered the weapon.

More subdivisions, more fields and hills, another golf course, barely clinging to life thanks to the moist ocean spray. He moved off the road for a drink of water and to scan ahead with his binoculars. When he lowered them, his hands were shaky, but he didn't think he was afraid.

The road dipped and curved around the contours of the hills. A woman's scream carried on the wind—not of pain or alarm, but people at play. Ahead and to the left of the road, yet another golf course separated a subdivision from a resort. To the right, a second hotel sported tennis courts and a pool. As he watched, a woman hauled herself up the metal ladder, adjusted her bikini, dripping water across the concrete, and leapt back in with a splash.

A man climbed out, dropped into a lawn chair, and picked up a brown bottle. A different woman followed him and plopped in his lap. He was wiry, dark-haired, with a thin, scruffy beard. Aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes. A prickle ran down Thom's spine.

As the man and the woman tussled, a burly man walked across the patio, fully dressed, and leaned in to speak with the first man. When they finished, the burly man stood, straightened his pale blue windbreaker, and glanced around.

Security, then. Not a major obstacle, concerning Thom wasn't particularly concerned with making it out alive. The only issue lay in getting to him without being disarmed. Then again, even that wasn't a problem, was it? If they required him to leave his pistol at the door, he'd come back later, armed not only with the Glock, but with knowledge of where to get to Walt. And if they didn't? Thom would have his revenge.

On the patio, Walt drank more and slid back into the pool. Some time later, with the wind off the ocean building in strength, he exited the water in the company of three women, wrapped himself in a towel, and ran inside the country club office, which resembled a historic manor, complete with pillars and a broad, roofed porch.

Thom gave them a while to clean up, then angled down the dry ditch he'd been watching from and circled back to the road. He hid his bow and his quiver in the shrubs along the shoulder, walked to the front doors, and knocked.

Steps echoed inside. The door opened, revealing the man in the windbreaker. His eyes moved up and down Thom. As men in his profession tended to be, he was meaty and large. "Yep?"

Thom smiled. "I'm here to see Mr. Lawson."

"Is Mr. Lawson expecting you?"

"If so, he's even more impressive than they say."

The man narrowed his eyes until they all but disappeared. "Mr. Lawson does not see strangers."

"But I'm not a stranger. Tell him that, years ago, I once knew Otto."

The man tilted his head, withdrew, and closed the door. Left on the porch, Thom rubbed his hand through his short black hair. To the west, the sun neared the Pacific, bouncing from it and making the land glow yellow. The door reopened and the security man beckoned Thom inside.

"Spread your arms and legs," he said.

"There's a pistol under my left armpit," Thom said. "And a knife on my right hip."

The man took these and gave him a quick pat down, turning up nothing more. He led Thom through a marble foyer through a corridor and deposited him in a large yet cozy room with a gigantic hearth, a high-pile carpet, and an array of red velvet couches.

"Make yourself at home," the man said. "Drink?"

"Got any whiskey?"

The security guard nodded, ambled off, and returned shortly with a tumbler of clear brown liquid. Thom sipped agreeably and began to wander around the room, pretending to observe the decor. The door closed behind him. He'd miscalculated; Walt wasn't about to show him to his bedroom. He'd have to arrange a second meeting—perhaps he could pretend to come back with a "relic" from Otto's past—or pry the information about where the man slept from one of his concubines. There was an idea: if he played his hand right, he might get invited to stay the night. He'd have hours to get the info from one of the girls or Walt himself, to find his gun or a knife from the kitchen. Sneak into the man's room. And fulfill the last six years of his life.

The windows began to darken. At last, the door clicked open. Thom whirled, but it was just a woman—dressed in a genuine French maid outfit—coming to light candles on the mantel and oak tables. She kept her eyes on her work and left.

By the time the door opened yet again, it was night and the room was cast in flickering shadows. A young bearded man rambled inside, a bathrobe flapping behind him. "I tell you, man, you would not
believe
what the women will do to you when they hear you're the one who saved the world."

"They never showed that part on Superman," Thom said.

"So what's up, my man?" The man swept across the room and plopped into the couch opposite, affording Thom his first clear look at him. "Biscuit said you knew
Otto
?"

Thom's heart did funny things in his chest. He blurted, "You're not Walt."

In the pallor of the room, the two men stared at each other.

5

The wind whipped over the exposed rooftop, lifting goosebumps on Walt's arms; he'd left home on a sunny morning on a bike and the jacket he'd taken was getting its ass kicked by the midnight bayside chill. The gardened roof of the Forged Ones' tower stood seventy feet across from him and close to thirty feet below. Beside his feet, a sturdy model Zero rested on the roof, its gray wings bearing the red circles of the Rising Sun. A thin rope was coiled beside it, one end tied around the base of an antenna.