After (38 page)

The men fall into an uneasy silence. Smith is watching Bill like the proverbial hawk. Diego and Evan have taken up positions at opposite corners of the room, casting alert glances over the Guthrie men and at Smith, waiting for any cue to action.

“Where the hell are you going?” Bill puts himself between Rick and the door.

“I'm gonna pack a bag.”

Bill laughs, but it's a mean, humorless laugh. “What the hell for? Karen isn't really going. She'll chicken out at the last second, like always.”

“I don't think so.”

Rick pushes past Bill's shoulder and a moment later he's clomping up the wooden stairs.

“I'm going, too,” Joey says, surging up from his chair, out the door, and up the stairs before Bill says anything.

The others stay, Bill circling the dining table, arms crossed over his barrel chest.

Then he stomps up to Diego, gets right up in his face.

“I knew. I knew I shouldn't have trusted you.”

“Bill.”

He turns from Diego and meets Smith's eyes with a fiery glare.

“We're not your enemies. Our invitation is for everyone here. It's safer for all of us if we come together, work together.”

“Bullshit. You're getting exactly what you want. And you split us up to get it.”

“We're not splitting you up. Karen wants to come with us. It's her choice. And it's your choice, if you decide to stay.”

A clatter of footfalls overhead, and the Guthrie deserters appear, bags in hand.

“All set?” Smith asks, and they nod.

“Karen.” Bill strides past her and calls back, “Come here a minute. I want to talk to you.” She seems rooted to the floor, as if anchored down by her bags. “All our months together, all we've been through, and you can't give me a couple minutes in private?” he growls.

The bags slips from her hands and land on the floor in two soft thuds. She goes to him. He takes her arm, leads her out of the doorway, into the far corner of the lobby.

Diego looks for a nod from Smith, gets it, and moves into the doorway to keep an eye on them.

In a gruff whisper, “Don't do this, Karen. It's nuts. You can't trust these people just because she says you can. You don't know her. What she has to gain or lose. For all you know, they'll get you behind the gates of that base, and you'll find just the kind of slave camp you've been so terrified of all this time. You don't know there's only eighteen men there. Maybe there's a hundred. Maybe that girl's so eager to give her sales pitch

'cause she's hoping a few more women will lighten her load. You think of that?”

“Yes.” Karen's voice is barely more than a breath.

“I've been that bad to you?”

“Yes.” A tear wanders down her cheek. “No. I just, this, I know there's worse. But I have to believe there's better. Otherwise, I should have just killed myself as soon as it all started.”

“Jesus, Karen.” Bill cups Karen's face in his broad hands, brings his face in close to hers. She is quiet, still. Neither of them seem to notice Diego go tense, ready to spring. “Haven't I always been gentle with you? I never hit you, did I? None of us did.

And haven't I kept you safe, all this time?”

“Maybe. Yes. But that doesn't mean you own me. I can go, if I want.”

“Course I don't own you. I never said that.”

“Well. It's how I've felt.”

“No, Karen. That's wrong. We're family. We help each other, the five of us. And we stick together.”

“That isn't how it's felt to me. More like I've been in your debt. Paying you what I owed. And you damn well knew it. You all stick together, if you want to. I'm going.”

She wriggles past him, out of the corner he's half-trapped her in, and snatches her bags up off the floor. The procession files out, Evan on point, Diego and Smith bringing up the rear. Just before she makes it to the door, though, Bill snatches Karen from the line, hurls her back, threatening the rest with the gleaming, serrated blade of a hunting knife.

“I've been keeping Karen safe for a long while, now. I'm not about to let her get duped by the lot of you. Now go on and get out. She's staying here.”

“You'd keep her here against her will?” Smith asks, his voice even. “At knife-point?”

“The knife isn't for her. It's for the first one of you that tries to get past me and take her.”

“But we're not taking her, Bill. She's asked to come. And we won't let you keep her here, a hostage.”

“Good. Come here, then. I haven't had a chance to use this on a man, yet, but I'll tell you, it cuts through deer meat like butter.”

Karen croaks out a little whimpering noise and lunges, trying to break free of Bill's grip on her arm. The second he turns to deal with her, Diego is on him, and Smith throws his body around Karen like cordon. In three blurred moves, Diego has Bill bent over and pinned down on the reception counter, the knife—the gleaming blade darkened red, now—still clutched in his fist.

“Drop the knife,” Diego pants. When Diego loses patience, Bill groans as the soldier wrenches his other arm up behind his back. “Don't make me break it. Drop the knife.”

His fist unclenches, and the weapon clatters down on the counter. Smith snatches it up, eyes the blood-stained blade for a moment, then tucks the knife away in his belt. When he's got Karen out the door and safely encircled by the others he says to Diego in a steady voice, “Let's go.”

Diego lets go and, tense, watchful, backs away from Bill, but Bill doesn't leap up, spin around, swinging for a fresh fight. He just lies there, panting or sobbing, while they leave him.

Outside, Smith catches up to Karen, flanked by the others, all on the way to the truck. “Are you hurt?”

“What?” She's shaking, pale. But not crying, now.

“Did he cut you? Are you hurt?”

“No. No, he didn't cut me.”

Smith drops back. To Diego, “You're wounded.”

“Nothing serious. We can deal with it once we're on the road.”

Blood is dripping from his fingers, spattering the asphalt streets and concrete sidewalks of Guthrie. When they get to the truck, once they've got Karen and the two Guthrie men settled, Evan goes for the driver's seat. Smith touches his shoulder and says quietly, “Let me drive. Diego's hurt.” It's a first, Smith calling Diego anything but

“Vallar” or “Corporal.”

Eva's already noticed the blood, and when Evan climbs into the back, she has the med kit out, and is getting Diego out of his jacket.

“It's just my arm,” Diego hurries to assure him. “I'm all right.”

Evan clasps Diego's face in his hands, searches his eyes, his face for proof that he's really all right. Then, holding his gaze, he helps Eva get him out of his shirt. Below the sleeve of his tee there's a gash, and blood is running down Diego's forearm. Evan touches the blood-slick skin near the wound, examines the cut.

“It's deep,” he tells Diego. “But it doesn't look too serious. We'll get you bandaged up, for now. You'll need stitches when we get back.”

With Eva's help, Evan cleans and dresses the wound. Then, the emergency past, Evan goes soft, pale. Shaking, he cradles Diego's face in his hands again, tips his forehead to his love's. Diego smiles, strokes Evan's hair.

Gentle laughter humming through his words Diego says, “It's all right. I'm fine.”

“You are. I know.” Evan looks like he's fighting not to cry, his eyes red, his jaw tight. “For a second I was scared he'd cut an artery. I was scared...I was scared...” he breathes at his love's ear.

Diego puts his arms around him. “No, Ev,” he soothes. “I'm fine, I'm fine.”

When Evan calms and settles onto the seat beside Diego, he notices three pairs of eyes fixed on them. Staring. Going stiff, he levels a stony stare at the Guthrie refugees.

Karen 's voice is a hoarse whisper. “Thank you.”

Diego smiles his wide, radiant smile. “You're welcome.”

When they get closer to the base, Eva tells Karen and the two Guthrie men, “The base is kind of imposing when you first see it from the outside.” She focuses on Karen, gives her a reassuring smile. “But don't worry, we'll get you settled in a cozy spot.”

Maybe to put the Guthries at ease, to give them the sense of security that comes from knowing what will happen, she calls up to Smith, starts a conversation on how they should proceed when they get back to base. Diego insists he's fine, that Smith and Eva get the newcomers settled right away; Evan can drive Diego back to their quarters and stitch him up there.

“Maybe, if you're not too anxious about getting settled, we can take you to the house, first. You can meet John and Hope and the baby, and then we could all have dinner out on the porch.”

“How old is he? Your baby?” Joey asks.

“Four months.”

“You have a baby?” Karen breathes, her eyes wide with astonishment. Then sadness. “But you're only a baby yourself.”

“No,” Eva says. “Not really.” She is beaming. Then, an unconscious gesture: she runs a hand over a breast. It's the first time she's missed a feeding, thought they've done trial runs with the bottle.

Smith brings them onto the roundabout in front of the lawn that leads up to the house he shares with Eva and the others. Evan hops into the driver's seat and pulls away in cautious haste with Diego reclining in the back he has all to himself, now, as the rest make their way across the lawn toward the old house.

Already, Hope has abandoned her easel and brush and palette, and John has scooped little Gareth up from the blanket spread out on the lawn. They pull together, John putting a reassuring arm around Hope's shoulders, and they come to greet the newcomers. Hope casts her beaming smile over the whole party, then, as she did with Eva months earlier, and as Eva did earlier just that day, throws her arms around Karen, and they hold each other tight in a long hug. When they let go, Hope gives the same treatment to Joey, who stiffly reciprocates and casts a fleeting glance at John, and to Rick, who simply puts his arms around her and sinks into that warm, welcoming hug.

“Well,” Smith says, “you've just met Hope. And this is John, and little Gareth.” To John and Hope, “Our new friends are Karen, Rick, and Joey.”

Rick and Joey greet John, but Karen just stares at the baby in John's arms like she's been hypnotized.

“Would you like to hold him?”

She nods, still gazing at the baby, who is looking around with big gray eyes at all the new faces. When she takes him, she holds him close, nuzzling her cheek over his fine, dark hair, smelling him, pressing her lips to his crown. Hope, who isn't used to being separated from Eva for so long, puts her arms around her and rests her head on her shoulder, and while the little group makes tentative conversation, John and Eva quietly touch hands.

When Gareth starts to squirm and fuss, Eva says, “It's past time for his evening meal. And if I don't nurse soon, I'm going to burst.”

Karen gives Eva a melancholy smile and gives the baby up to his mother.

“Hello, beautiful,” Eva says, her smile wide and warm, her eyes lit up as she gazes into the eyes of her son.

Karen follows the baby with her eyes all the way over to the elm where Eva sinks down, unbuttons her shirt and gives her breast to him. The Guthrie men both keep their eyes averted, and Joey keeps nervously shifting his feet.

“Given it's such a lovely evening, we were thinking a dinner party on the porch would be nice,” Smith says to John.

“Good idea.”

“Diego and Evan should be back in a bit. So we'll be nine. Hope, would you mind setting the table?”

She smiles, but then she takes both of Smith's hands in hers and stares up at him with a questioning gaze.

“What is your desire, my cryptic princess?” Smith teases.

“I'd guess she'd like to set the table for ten,” John says, and Hope's smile widens and her eyebrows go up hopefully.

Smith sighs. “Yes, all right. When Evan and Diego get here, I'll go get him.”

Hope bounces up and down on her toes a couple times, squeezes Smith's hands, then bounds off, into the house.

“She got a boyfriend?” Rick half-jokes, but the look Smith gives him chills his humor.

“More like an adored uncle,” John says with an easy smile.

“Well,” Smith works his mouth back into a smile, “tonight's a special occasion.

How about a glass of wine before dinner?”

He dashes into the house and returns to the party with two bottles and a stack of nine ordinary drinking glasses. A moment later he has a bottle open, and John is passing glasses to the newcomers.

“Eva won't drink. But we should wait for her before doing a real toast. For now, just let me say, welcome.”

The five in the circle raise and chink their glasses and take a sip of the wine, dark red, but black-looking in the fading evening light. Karen, almost hidden in the shadowy corner where the porch and the stairs mounting to it intersect, takes the first sip with the others, but then she clutches her glass in both hands, stiff, watchful, silent as the men drink and chat and laugh.

While grinning and playing the charming host, Smith studies the two Guthrie men, the restive fidgeting of the one with dark hair and blue eyes, the joviality and earnest thirst of the other, ruddy and built like a lumberjack. John's gaze settles less often on Joey and Rick. Every few seconds his eyes go back to Karen, who seems to be sinking deeper and deeper into her dark corner, small, her blond fairness almost ghostly pale, almost translucent in the dimming dusk. At first, she'd been watchful, too, her eyes scanning over the faces of the four men fanned around her, two strangers, two familiar. But now her eyes are wide and fixed and vacant. The glass clutched in the web of stiff fingers and white knuckles has tilted. The dark liquid is lapping at the lip; nearly half has spilled away.

John turns out from the circle, catches Eva's eye, calls her over with a small gesture of his hand. Then, when he catches sight of Hope above them on the porch, he calls her down to them. When Hope comes, he draws her into the circle, in front of him, bends and whispers to her, “stay with Karen for a little while, all right?”

Hope looks over at Karen, reaches out, takes her hand. At the contact, Karen startles, turns a terrified gaze on John. But then she sees Hope, sees that it's Hope touching her, and she gives the girl a fragile smile.