Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall (4 page)

"You'll have to be. Art is here campaigning openly for the election—"

"Already? We're talking next spring—"

"Shush," she said, brushing his lips with hers. "And listen. He's lining up as much support as he can get. Oppose him too vehemently and you'll fall right into the judge's hands. He'll draft you to run against Bartholomew."

Thomas suppressed a shudder. "I've already told him I wasn't interested."

"That doesn't matter. You'd do it if the Seven Counties told you they needed you—and Teal is counting on that."

"Then I'm just delaying the inevitable."

She smiled as she began to slip on fresh undergarments and a dress she had left hanging in the corner. "Maybe. Maybe not. You're a good man, but we both know you're not qualified to be the DWP."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Do this hook, will you?" She bent her head to one side and lifted her curtain of damp hair away from the nape of her neck.

Now that she was fully clothed and he half, the exposure he faced seemed suddenly erotic. He leaned forward and kissed her softly, trailing his open mouth along her fragrant skin up the curve of her neck.

"Again, Thomas?" she murmured, "I take that back. You're not a good man—you're a great one." She slipped about in his arms, pulled up the skirts of her dress and kicked aside her panties. She tugged the toweling off his hips.

"If drafted, I will not run," Thomas protested. "If elected, I will not serve."

"Oh, shut up," Lady answered. "You're not being drafted. You're being seduced."

Chapter 2

Lady had brought his saddlebags to the bathhouse, so he dressed in clean shirt and trousers, dispersing his various weaponry about his body as he was used to doing. She tactfully did not watch him, as indisposed as he was to begin their argument over again. She wore weapons as well.

The smell of the open pit barbecue drifted through the evening air as paper lanterns bobbed and swung about on bamboo poles to the side and rear of the judge's house. Thomas' stomach told him it had been a long time since early morning rations on the trail. Yet, hungry as he was, he would have preferred to be back in the open, alone with Lady beside a campfire. The sound of many voices, laughing and arguing, flowed over them.

His stride hesitated on the stone-circle pathway and Lady tugged at his elbow.

"Don't go gun-shy on me, Thomas," she said softly.

It was difficult for him to pinpoint his emotions. Reluctance filled him, that he knew. But why? He liked a celebration as well as the next man—he liked a recess from the rigors of everyday life. He could pay for it with banter and innuendo as well as the next man. But not tonight. His soul felt selfish tonight.

"On nights like this, it's hard to believe Charlie's gone," Lady said. Her hand tightened on his arm. "Or that these meetings aren't being held on the peninsula, with Veronica orchestrating them. It's like the whole center of the counties has shifted ... is wandering, looking for a new home."

Her words tightened the ball in his chest. She felt something, too. With Lady close at his side, they stepped into the wash of light and sound and smell.

A short, stumpy man with his back to them was gesticulating to emphasize his words. Hairy warts pushed aside and interrupted the strands of his hair so he was not difficult to recognize from the back, nor was his strident voice. "Rice, I ask you," he boomed. "In water-starved country such as ours, we're raising
rice.
Think of the water consumption—the waste!"

"Now, Art," a woman next to him said. She was dusky skinned, older, elegantly coiffed, Governor Irlene. "The basin we irrigate from is for flood control. We have no one living in that area—the water would be wasted if we didn't use it for irrigation."

"But rice," Bartholomew said testily.

"It's an important grain," the governor stood her ground. "And you're right, the water usage may be to excess and we may grow other crops there in the future. But it's worth a try."

A bent, leather lean man added, "Better than letting the nesters bleed it off.''

Thomas recognized one of the ranchers from the trial. He did not wait to hear Bartholomew's response to that but flanked the group and headed for Teal. "He owes me a beer," he told Lady.

She unwrapped her hand from his arm. "I'll catch up with you later. I see one of my patients." She drifted from his side, a graceful cloud of blue among the purples of the night. She bowed her head to pass under an arbor of wisteria and away from his immediate vision.

"Sir Thomas! There you are," Teal called. He sat in a wooden patio chair, his long thin legs crossed, a brown long-necked bottle in his left hand as he beckoned with his right. He'd not changed his suit, but his shirt was open at the neck. His wife sat next to him, a younger woman, ash-silver hair arranged in naturally curly ringlets. Her face was vibrant, blue eyes fixed on Thomas. She didn't miss much and said something briefly to Teal before she got up, vacating the chair for Thomas. She followed Lady under the arbor and out of sight before he could greet her.

Teal fished a beer out of a bucket of cold water and handed it to him. Thomas pulled the top off as he sat down. The beer went down cool, setting off taste buds as it went. "That side of beef is about ready. You've got good timing."

"And you've got excellent taste in back washers." Thomas took another long pull. There was a very slight nick in the lip of the bottle. He worried his tongue around it. The bottles were used over and over again, each one a scarred warrior of a long life. He sat back in the wooden chair. The patio and sloping backyard was thick with people. "A side of beef, eh? Boyd send it down?"

At the mention of the Santa Barbara cattleman, Teal motioned downslope. "He's here, somewhere."

Even in the summer evening, Boyd would be wearing a jacket, cut both to hide and accommodate his tail. Thomas glanced about, but the cattleman did not immediately come to view. "He's running more beef down here now than he is in Santa Barbara. Trying to talk him into relocating?"

"Could be. He's got a son left to take over the ranch."

Blade's mouth tightened. He'd executed the elder boy. Neither Boyd nor his bald wife Delia had either castigated or forgiven him for doing it. That was years ago, he barely remembered the younger boy. Santa Barbara was not officially one of the Seven Counties although they had sent a candidate in for Protector training. It struck him that he didn't want to be here, he wanted to be there, home, working with the candidates. At one time, there had been seven Protectors for the Seven Counties. Now, five struggled to fill the posts. If their old enemy Denethan had wanted to attack, there could not be a better time.

But the reptilian mutant from the Mojave was now their uneasy ally. Perhaps Protectors were an endangered species.

Thomas drained the last of the foamy beer from the bottle. Maybe that's what made him edgy. He didn't like being obsolete. He set the empty headfirst in the cooling bucket.

"Well, Thomas! You've been doin' some thirsty work!"

Blade looked up. Two-handed Delgado grinned down at him, range dust still embedded in his shirt and dusting the chaps over his jeans. He reached forward and they grappled briefly, each testing the weary strength left in his acquaintance's grip. Delgado was, of necessity, right-handed, his left wrist showing the seamy scar where a second, weaker left hand had been sheared off when he was a teen. He'd lost a hand and gained a nickname. The primary left hand would never have the strength of a normal hand, but Delgado more than made up for it. He flashed strong yellow-ivory teeth at Thomas now.

"Left your garrote in your packs, eh?"

Thomas dropped the handshake. "No, actually, I've always got one on me." They'd drawn a crowd during their boisterous welcome and now Blade heard a woman gasp. There was a rustle of skirts as she turned abruptly away.

Into the abrupt silence, Teal said, "Pull up a stump and sit down."

TVvo-handed never stopped smiling. "No, thanks. Got saddle sores as it is. Thought I might borrow Thomas for a minute."

"Borrow away, as long as you return him." Teal narrowed his gaze at Thomas. "We've things to discuss."

Two-handed drew him away from the bustling crowd on the patio, and into the deep purple shadows at the far side of the manor house. "Ah, Thomas. In trouble with the judge, eh?"

"Never you mind. You're the one that's going to be in front of him one of these days, for throwing too wide a loop."

The cowboy shrugged. "Those days are over, my friend. I'm running the herd for Boyd Kelley now."

"Are you?" Sheer pleasure surged through Thomas. "That's great. The judge was telling me he might move his operations down here."

"Looks good to me. We're getting spillover rights from the Prado Dam and Corona County is hotter n'hell but fair grazing, for all that." Delgado pulled a battered and tarnished flask from his shirt waist. "Want some hard stuff?"

There were men it was dangerous to refuse an invitation from. The mutant chieftain Denethan was like that.
So,
too, Delgado. Thomas reached for the flask. The beer was already buzzing warmly in his gut, but it wouldn't hurt to send a chaser down after it. The hooch went down hot and fiery, like swallowing an explosion. Thomas gasped for a second, his gills fluttering for breath. His eyes watered. He handed the flask back.

"Good stuff," he rasped.

"No, it ain't," Delgado said, and grinned. "But it's better than nothing." He took a long pull before capping the flask and returning it to the inside of his shirt. He looked away. "I'm not one to be tellin' you your business, Thomas, but I'm not one for forgetting either. It was you got me off that rustling charge-"

"Not me, Two-hand. You didn't do it."

"Not that time. Th' good Lord didn't mind me getting my reward, I'll tell you, but you wouldn't allow it. So I'll say this and say it quick. There's something that's rank about the nester you offed today."

Your eyes, your truth.
Thomas' skin crawled as the man's epitaph echoed in his memory. "What do you know?"

"Nothing more I can say. Just a word to the wise." Delgado slapped his shoulder. He turned and, disappeared toward the fringe of trees marking the riverbed, and was gone.

No one had kicked when he'd executed Boyd's boy, a kid that had been essentially good until he'd gone wrong. But first Lady and now Two-hand were reprimanding him for carrying out a legal sentence on the nester. Not to mention his own nagging instincts.

But what was a Protector without Intuition?

"Dying is easy," Thomas muttered. "It's living that's hard."

He snatched at a mosquito as it hummed toward him, big as a black bumble bee, and slapped it away. Then he returned to Judge Teal's domain, where he presided over the patio as if it, too, were a courtroom.

Whoops and shouts interrupted his return. Some idiot had roped a wolfrat and those who'd already had too much to drink were making bets over who could ride it to a standstill as though it were a bucking horse. Thomas watched sourly as the rodent stood with glowering eyes and dared anyone to get close enough to try, twisted hemp harness biting into its shaggy flanks. Its scaled tail whipped about, tripping up the booted ankles of anyone edging near. It was pegged down, but circling.

Teal had been laughing. He looked at Thomas. "What do you think, m'boy?"

Wolfrats were In-City scavengers. They ruled the toxic wastelands and concrete canyons of In-City. They were shrewd, feral killers. "I think," Blade said, watching the creature, "that you'd better find out where this one was caught and wipe the whole nest out, before your pretty little park gets marked out as territory for those bastards. They'll go through your deer like a hot knife through butter."

The judge looked contemplative for a moment. "I think you're probably right." He signaled one of his staff. "Sit down and let's finish what we were discussing before Patty rings the dinner gong."

Thomas drew close to the judge, but he did not sit. His nerves were too taut for that, his insides too warm. "The ribs had better be pretty damn good if you're trying to talk me into running for DWP."

"You've never minced words, Thomas."

"No."

"Me neither." Teal looked across the brick patio. Art Bartholomew still had a crowd, though they came and went, new listeners eager to replace old ones, his strident voice barely audible across the space. "You don't have much choice. We're talking about a change of county seat as well . . . that's one of Art's main platforms. It's been proposed we shut down Charlie's house and the school."

That jolted Thomas. "Shut down—"

"Just long enough to move them into Quaker County. Art is presuming he'll win, of course."

"We have other staff there. He's talking about pulling everybody out?"

"The orphanage, the schools, the cartography section, everybody.''

"Who's going to man the pumping station?"

"Whoever wants to. The water down here is more important. Art's talking about centralizing the county seat, making water operations more accessible. He says the reservoirs need closer supervision."

The heat in Thomas' stomach seemed to be nearing his throat. "He wants to close off the nesters, he means. Judge, granted the pumping station isn't crucial for agriculture, but it's our only working model to reconstruct the other systems by and the Palos Verdes community is a vital one. We've the textiles which are dependent on (he wind generators, and there's the fishing community—"