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pleased with how terrific the three of them were.
But no. Not for this. This was something out of the stories that Uncle Hosea
used to tell, and while in the back of his mind he had always wondered if
there was something in the stories that could reach out and touch him, he
never
She would have to hate him for this, and he couldn't blame her.
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"Maggie, I'm "
Her upper lip curled. "Shut up," she said, loudly, just the quiet side of a
shout. "You just leave me alone."
"Maggie " He reached out for her, and surprisingly, she grabbed hold of the
front of his shirt and yanked him off his feet, holding him close, her breath
warm in his ear.
He could barely hear her whisper. "We're both safer if you don't give a damn
what happens to me, and vice versa.
So I hate you for getting me into this, and after you try to win me back, and
can't, you resent me for it." As she spoke, her arms held him tight.
He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and took her in his arms, putting
his lips next to her ear. "I'm sorry I got "
Her fingers were warm against his mouth. She shook her head, and put her
lips, once again, to his ear. "My Daddy would shake his head and say 'I raised
you better than this' if I started blaming the victim." She held him close for
a moment, then gently pushed him away.
Her voice said, "You bastard, how could you get me in this kind of trouble?
How could you think of putting me in this kind of danger?"
But her eyes said,It'll be okay.
Torrie had spent a futile hour two hours? maybe three? exploring every inch
of their tiny pair of rooms, with no luck at all. There was a duct at the
juncture of wall and ceiling in each room in the other room, it was in the
corner under the large stone thundermug and fresh air flowed in through it,
but the ducts were made of stone, and nothing larger than a rat could make its
way through them, and even then it would have to break through the grating
that covered the duct.
And he wasn't a rat. Torrie decided that the room was probably a meatlocker,
which helped to explain the barred door there would be some way of locking the
door outside, as well, and given that the Sons didn't want their food eaten by
rats, it was necessary to seal it in tight.
He would have discussed his conclusion with the others, but by mutual
consent, talk was kept to a minimum. If Maggie and Mom and Dad were sure they
could be overheard, then they could be overheard, and there was no sense in
trying to weave some sort of plan only to give it away to the wolves.
What he wanted was a high-capacity autoloading rifle with a few dozen full
magazines.
But he didn't have that; he didn't have anything much. The Sons had searched
him, and while they hadn't taken his wallet or his keys, they had taken his
Paratool and everything else in his pockets. Uncle Hosea always carried a
double-edged razor blade carefully wrapped in wax paper in his wallet, just in
case he found he needed to trim something with a really sharp edge, but Torrie
had never acquired the habit.
So what he had was a Coleman lantern and a small flask of kerosene for it.
That spoke of Molotov cocktail, which would do less than a lot of good with a
Son of the Wolf.
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He would have to wait. The right thing to do, the reasonable thing to do,
would be to roll himself up in a blanket or two and try to get some sleep, the
way that Dad was doing, and that Mom at least pretended to do, although Maggie
just sat, slumped on her blankets.
Wood thunked on wood outside. "Stand back from the door," a harsh voice said
in Bersmal.
The door pivoted open, revealing two large, hairy Sons and a short, stocky,
ugly man, dressed in boots and what looked more like a wraparound canvas
sarong and tunic than anything else. His face seemed almost alien under the
neatly trimmed, straight black hair and neatly combed beard too little
forehead, the ridges above the eyes too heavy.
With both hands, the short man carried a platter piled high with slightly
wilted-looking apples and carrots surrounding an uncorked clay bottle that
appeared to contain at least a gallon. He set the platter down on the hard
floor, and then, under the watchful eyes of the Sons guarding it him? walked
silently out of the room without saying anything.
The door shut behind them.
Wincing, Dad forced himself to sit up. "I hadn't thought I'd see one of the
Vestri again," he said.
Mom shook her head. "Vestri?"
"Dwarf," he said, slapping his good hand against the wall next to him. "Sons
don't build, not this well, and while they live underground, they don't tend
to do much digging; I should have guessed they'd have Vestri serfs."
Maggie cocked her head to one side. "It looked like a Neanderthal to me."
Torrie frowned at that.
"Yeah, right," she said, sarcastically, "don't listen to anything I have to
say. I can't know anything; I'm just a girl, right?" She pursed her lips
together for just a moment. "But take away the clothing, and the neat haircut
and beard, and what does it look like to you?"
Torrie was about to say something to the effect of how silly that sounded
when he saw his father nodding. "I made the ... opposite guess years ago, when
I saw a picture in one of Torrie's schoolbooks. Your Neanderthals look awfully
like unschooled Vestri," Dad said. He stretched, painfully. "We had best
divide the food, and then blow out the lantern. The fuel will not last
forever, and they're unlikely to replace it for us." He took a sip from the
clay bottle. "Fresh water," he said.
Torrie had been planning on not sleeping, but there wasn't anything else to
do in the dark, after he had eaten enough to quell hunger pains and drunk
enough to ease his thirst.
What he wanted to do was hold Maggie in the dark, but if the door suddenly
opened, that wouldn't square with the idea of them not getting along.
But what of it? He couldn't make a break, even if the Sons decided that
punishing Maggie for it was pointless they would still have Mom.
Planning was pointless. All he could do was drive himself crazy. The right
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thing to do was what Uncle Hosea always said: when you don't know what else to
do, eat a meal if you're hungry and sleep even if you're not sleepy. He never
knew quite when he slipped from lying silently in the quiet darkness into a
sleep that was even quieter, and every bit as dark.
C H A P T E R N I N E
Town Council
The unofficial town council of Hardwood, North Dakota, was already in session
in its usual meeting place, Doc Sherve's living room, when Betsy Sherve led
Jeff and Arnie Selmo in, Jeff constantly having to restrain himself from
offering to help Arne on his crutches. Arnie had his pride.
Betsy excused herself with a silent smile and a reassuring nod, closing the
door behind her.
"Evening, Jeff." Michael Bjerke raised his head from his coffee and
coffeecake. He glanced pointedly at Arnie, then raised his eyebrows and pursed
his lips.
Jeff shook his head, then shrugged. By all rights, Arnie shouldn't still be
in the hospital in Grand Forks he should be as dead as the Larson boys. But [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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