Deadeye (14 page)

“I understand,” Lee said. “And Deputy Omo?”

“He's free to leave as well,” Snyder replied.

“Good. Please pass the word. I don't want to take a bunch of crap going the other way.”

Snyder shook her head sadly. “I don't know where you're headed, ma'am, or why, but there's very little chance that you'll come back. Have a nice evening.”

Once they were back in the truck, the barrier was lifted, and Omo could put the four-by-four in gear. From there, it was a short drive over a bridge and into the red zone.

Given what they'd been through a few minutes earlier Lee was expecting another hassle. She was wrong. A sun-faded sign read,
WELCOME TO THE REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
, and a man in a tan uniform was sitting out front of the nondescript building on the right. He waved as the truck passed by. “That's it?” Lee demanded. “The government doesn't keep track of visitors?”

“Why bother?” Omo said. “The chances are that you're the only norm who crossed the border today. The only one who did so legally, anyway. Plenty of drug smugglers, human traffickers, and other assorted riffraff go back and forth out in the boonies. As for my people . . . There's no need for a passport. We
look
like what we are.”

Lee thought about that as they passed through the town of Ehrenberg. It, too, had been militarized, and both sides of the highway were lined with installations. She saw tanks parked in revetments, rows of prefab buildings, and lots of activity. So even though the mutants were pretty laid-back where the border crossing was concerned, they were ready for trouble if it came their way.

Lee knew there were some politicians, people like Maria Soto, who favored a peaceful coexistence. But other mutants, and Sheriff Arpo might be one of them, had a deep and abiding hatred for Pacifica. Both because it belonged to norms and because they wanted what the long, narrow country had to offer. That included unfettered access to the sea, a high-tech industrial base, and oil.

But past efforts to take what they wanted had failed, including the disastrous War of 2052, when the Republic of Texas sent its air force to bomb San Diego and were attacked in return, evidence of which could be seen as the police officers passed through the desert east of Ehrenberg. That was where the Republic of Texas's Second Armored Division had been assembled waiting to push cross the Big River. But the division had been decimated by Pacifica's air force, some of the planes flying down from locations as far away as Seattle.

Now, many years later, the sand-drifted remains of the Second Armored Division's vehicles still littered the desert. And the Republicans had to focus on the southern border, where the Aztecs were threatening to invade.

Lee's thoughts were interrupted as Omo took an off-ramp that led to what had once been a weigh-in station. She could see a line of vehicles up ahead, yet there was no apparent reason to stop. She glanced at Omo. “What's up?”

“It's a convoy,” Omo replied. “We'll pay a fee. Then, once they have twenty vehicles, mercenaries will escort us into Phoenix.”

“And if we go it alone?”

Omo shrugged. “There's a pretty good chance that we'll make it. But bandits prey on lone vehicles—so why take the risk?”

“That makes sense, I guess,” Lee said. “But why doesn't the government crack down on the bandits?”

“People out this way don't like to pay taxes,” Omo answered. “And they don't approve of government in general. ‘We trusted the government to protect us back in '38, and look how that turned out.' That's what they say. So those who need extra protection pay for it.”

“And those who can't afford to do so?”

“They're SOL,” Omo said as he brought the truck to a halt behind a heavily laden truck. “I suggest that you wear a mask.”

Lee knew he was correct. From that point forward, she would need to protect herself from
B. nosilla
. “How about you?” she asked. “Are you going to remove your mask?”

Omo was silent for a moment. He stared straight ahead. “No.”

“Why not?”

Omo's voice was tight. “I want to protect you. And . . .”

“And what?”

“And I don't want you to see.”

There was a lump in Lee's throat, but she managed to swallow it. “It's that bad?”

“Yes,” Omo said flatly. “It's that bad.”

“I don't care.”

“You would,” Omo said bleakly. “You wouldn't
want
to care, but you would.”

The conversation was interrupted as a man wearing what looked like homemade body armor rapped on the driver's side window. Omo rolled it down. The mercenary's lower jaw was so misshapen that it was difficult for him to speak. “Cost one eagle. Pay now.”

Omo gave the man a gold coin. Then there was nothing to do but wait for two additional vehicles to show up. Once they did, a pair of especiales came roaring out of the desert to take up positions at both ends of the convoy. They were armed with .50 caliber machine guns and protected by sheets of dented steel. “What's to prevent the mercenaries from being bandits one day and escorts the next?” Lee inquired.

Lee couldn't see Omo's expression but sensed that he might be smiling. “Nothing,” he answered wryly. “Nothing at all.”

*   *   *

The convoy left shortly. It was getting dark by then—and Lee fell asleep not long thereafter. As Omo glanced Lee's way, he saw that her mask was slightly askew, thereby revealing the curve of her cheek. Her face was as beautiful as his was ugly. And like most men, he wanted her.

But Omo knew his desire was something more than a sexual attraction. There was a magnetism about her. An attraction rooted in her moral clarity, her wry sense of humor, and her unblinking bravery. He had watched the bank-gunfight video multiple times. And each time Omo did so, he paused the video in order to stare at the final scene. The one in which Lee was cradling Conti in her arms and crying.

Had she been in love with him? There was no way to be sure. Omo knew one thing, however. Had he been a norm, he would have done anything to win Lee's love and respect. But that could never be. All he could do was to protect her from evil—and that would be no small job where they were going. The engine hummed, a pale moon rose, and a pair of red eyes led him home.

*   *   *

Lee awoke with a start as the truck lurched through a deep pothole. And when Omo glanced her way, his mask had a greenish hue thanks to the light from the dashboard. “Sorry about that,” he said. “But the streets in the Maryvale Village area don't get much maintenance.”

“Maryvale?” I thought we were going to Phoenix.”

“Maryvale is west of Phoenix,” Omo explained. “It was a run-down area
before
the plague, and it's even worse now.”

Lee looked out the window. At least half the streetlights were out, and canyons of darkness lay between the widely separated homes, most of which were surrounded by high walls. Some appeared to be quite sturdy, but most of the protective barriers were made out of junked cars, rusting refrigerators, and piles of rubble. Anything that would keep intruders out or slow them down. “Okay,” Lee said. “We're in Maryvale. But
why
?”

“Because you have to stay somewhere,” Omo said simply. “And there aren't any hotels that cater to norms. So you're going to stay with my family. You'll be safer that way.”

Lee felt mixed emotions about that. She was glad that Omo cared—but concerned as well. “Did you talk to your family about this?”

“Yes,” Omo answered. “My father passed away a few years ago, but Mama is very excited. There are four houses in our compuesto, and one of them is a small casita. Mama began cleaning it yesterday.”

The four-by-four turned a corner, lurched through a drainage ditch, and came to a stop in front of a metal gate. It was set into a wall made out of concrete blocks. Lee figured that the amount of work that had gone into the wall was a good measure of how important it was.

Omo spoke into his phone, and the metal gate swung open. That was when Lee saw two men, both of whom were armed with assault weapons. “About twenty-five members of my family live here,” Omo explained. “At least two of them are on guard at all times.”

Omo drove into what might have been a front yard many years before but had long since been converted into a parking lot. Lee saw a dusty sedan, a bulldozer on a flatbed truck, and an unidentified vehicle that was sitting on blocks.

Lee opened the door and stepped out into the spill of light that fell from above. That was when a woman with thick black hair and a limp came out to greet her. It appeared that one of her legs was shorter than the other as evidenced by the built-up shoe on her left foot. “Welcome!” the woman said. “Please call me Momma. Everybody does. Come . . . Meet the family. Then Ras will take you to the casita.”

Lee was led up a path and into a large, ranch-style house. The interior was decorated southwest style and felt very homey. Lee was introduced to more than a dozen people, including Omo's brother Jorge, an uncle named Gary, and a cousin named Tina. All of them were polite but curious. And that was understandable since most had never been face-to-face with a norm before.

The question-and-answer session might have gone on for an hour or more if Omo hadn't intervened. “Okay, everybody . . . Cassandra will be here for a while, so there will be plenty of chances to get acquainted. But we've had a long day, and she's tired. So say good-bye.”

There was a chorus of good-byes, and Lee was grateful for the chance to escape. But before she left, Lee went over to thank Mrs. Omo for her hospitality. The older woman smiled. “You are very welcome, my dear. Ras speaks very highly of you. He says you're one of the good ones.”

Lee knew what that meant. “Good ones,” as in good norms, of which there were very few. Or that was the way Momma and her family saw it. And the way
most
mutants saw it for that matter. Lee smiled but knew Mrs. Omo couldn't see it. So she took Momma's hand and gave it a squeeze. “Your son is a good one, too . . . Thanks. And good night.”

*   *   *

Momma felt a profound sense of sadness as her son held the door open for Lee. Momma could tell that Ras was smitten and understood why. The chica normal was very beautiful, and if even half of what she'd been told was true, very brave as well.

But Lee would hurt Ras as surely as the sun would rise in the morning. Not because she wanted to—but because she couldn't help herself. But could she stop it? No, not in a thousand years. Ras was like a moth drawn to a flame. She sighed. It was time for bed.

*   *   *

They went to the truck, where they retrieved Lee's bags. If Omo was surprised by how heavy the case full of food was he gave no sign of it. A path led between two houses to a tiny building that sat all by itself. The front door was unlocked and opened onto a space that was part kitchen and part living room. After dropping the bags by the door, Omo gave Lee a quick tour. There was a room just large enough for a bed and dresser and a spotless bath beyond that.

“It's lovely,” Lee said. “Please tell your mother how much I appreciate being allowed to stay here. Which house do you live in?”

“I don't live here,” Omo replied. “I have a place closer to work. By the way, we're supposed to meet with Sheriff Arpo at eight thirty in the morning.”

Lee took the mask off and wondered how Omo could wear one all day. The answer was obvious. To leave his face exposed would be painful in other ways. “Why does everyone have to start work so early?” she inquired plaintively.

Omo laughed. “To torture you. Be ready at seven thirty. I'll bang on the door.” Then he was gone.

Lee spent the next half hour unpacking. After checking the door to make sure it was locked, Lee removed her clothes and stepped into the shower. The Smith & Wesson went with her. It was made of stainless steel, which made it the perfect weapon for such a situation. There was a small window in the shower, so she placed the pistol on the sill.

The water was only lukewarm, but the air was warm, so Lee didn't mind. She emerged from the shower ten minutes later, made use of the pink towel Momma had left for her, and padded into the bedroom. The ceramic tiles felt cool under her bare feet.

After donning a tee shirt and panties, Lee checked her phone. She was delighted to discover that she had a signal. Not from a local tower but by one of Pacifica's communications satellites. There was an e-mail from McGinty. “Please confirm when you arrive.”

Lee sent a brief reply, checked the door one last time, and drank some water from the pitcher in the fridge. And that was safe because
B. nosilla
was an airborne disease. In fact, had it not been for the need to wear a mask while in the presence of mutants, Lee could have eaten their food. That's what she'd been told anyway.

Then, with the Smith & Wesson for company, Lee went to bed. The sheets were crisp and a single blanket was sufficient to keep her warm. As Lee lay there, she heard the pop, pop, pop of gunfire from somewhere not too far away. That was followed by a resonant boom about thirty seconds later. The explosion was off in the distance—but served to remind Lee of the surrounding dangers. What was it? A bomb? There was no telling. Silence returned, and sleep pulled her down.

Lee awoke to the bang, bang, bang of a gunfight. No, someone was pounding on the door. Conti! No, Conti was dead. Lee grabbed her phone, saw that it was 7:31, and swore. According to the indicator, no alarm had been set. She rolled out of bed and made her way to the front door. “Who is it?”

The response was muffled. “Omo.” A glance through the peephole verified the claim.

“I'll unlock the door. Give me twenty seconds and come on in.”

Lee turned the bolt and made a quick retreat to the bedroom. After hurrying through the usual routine Lee put on a tee shirt, jeans, and a cropped bolero jacket. It was made of cotton and barely long enough to hide her weapons. Then it was time to pull on a pair of low-cut cowboy boots and grab her purse. “I like the outfit,” Omo said. “It's very western. All you need is a hat. I know you like breakfast burritos—so I brought you one.” He pointed to the kitchen counter.