The Final Trade (10 page)

14

It takes several seconds for Wen to process what he means.

“You what?”

“I found the ten-eighty,” Robbie says, and truly sees her for the first time. “Oh my God, what happened to you?” He drops the bag and comes forward, placing a hand on her face where it’s tightening with a bruise.

“They finally gave in to Vidri.”

“What? How could they?”

“He wore them down. It doesn’t matter. He found me tonight while I was waiting for you to get back. Tried to get a head start on tomorrow’s festivities but I got away.”

Robbie touches her ear, which feels like something inanimate glued to the side of her head. “Doesn’t look like you got away clean.”

She tries to smile and turns back to the counter, dropping the knife into its place in the butcher block. “I thought you were him. I was going to . . .” She tries to continue but her throat cinches shut and all the strength goes from her spine. She bends forward and places her forehead on her hands atop the counter. Robbie is there, arm around her, supporting her so she won’t crumble to the floor. Because that’s what she wants to do. She doesn’t want to be a comet anymore. She could fall down, break apart, and become the rubble that she feels like inside, everything held together simply by necessity.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers. “Everything’s going to work out now that we’ve got it.”

Wen fights the instability, the sensation of disintegrating, and gathers herself, slowly straightening. She looks at the bag on the floor and swallows. “You’re sure it’s the right stuff?”

“Positive.” He hurries to the bag and opens it, pulling out multiple canned goods, a faded package of flour, a large bucket marked “vegetable oil,” and finally a small silver canister with a blue cap on its top. “I found it in the back of a barn that was falling down. The container it was in was buried under a pile of old hay that was turning to dust. Most of the label was rusted away, but I could still make out the numbers on the side.” He hands her the small canister. “You said we didn’t need very much, right?”

Wen twists the cap off and holds the bottle beneath the light so she can see its contents.

The white crystals shine up at her, some of them discolored from time and moisture. She shakes the container and the poison shifts inside. It looks exactly like salt.

“You did it, Robbie.”

“We did it. I wouldn’t have known that stuff from table salt.”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” She spins the cap back on and sets the canister down on the counter between them. They both stare at it.

“How much will you put in their food?”

“I’m not exactly sure. It depends on how much they weigh. But I’m guessing it’ll take less than an ounce between the two of them.”

“Shit,” Robbie breathes, wiping his hands on his pants. “I touched some of it. Do you think—”

“No. But wash them just in case.” He hurries to the sink and scrubs his palms for several minutes before returning to the counter.

“How fast do you think it will work?”

“Fast. We’ll only have ten minutes or so before they notice something’s wrong. Maybe twenty until they come looking for us. Will Fitz be ready?”

“He damn well better be. The man’s not the smartest I’ve ever been with, but his heart’s in the right place and he wants to leave as much as you and I do. I’m not going to tell him how it’s going to go down though. I don’t think he wants to know.”

“As long as he’s got the vehicle ready outside the gate, we’ll be fine.”

“When can we . . .” He gestures at the poison and motions to the rest of the kitchen.

Wen sighs. “We have to wait until setup and opening night. Which at the rate we’re going will be within the next week or so. The Oregon border’s not too far off.”

“Another week. Are you sure we can’t—”

“Yes. Like I said, we have to wait until there’s enough distraction. Opening night’s perfect for that.”

Silence grows in the kitchen. Outside the yells and excitement of the returning supply run have died down. The trade is quiet once again. She’s about to hide the ten-eighty away when Robbie clears his throat and glances around the room, looking everywhere but at her. He’s done this so many times she doesn’t even need to ask what he’s thinking.

“I’ll be fine, Robbie.”

“They’re going to make you test their food, just like you do every day.”

“Yes. They will.”

“And you’ll have to eat it.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll get sick.”

“Most likely, yes, I’ll get sick. But it will be a much smaller amount since I only take a bite of their meals.”

“You might die.”

“I’m pretty sure I won’t.”

“But you don’t know.”

“No.”

“But what if—”

“I don’t know!” she yells, and Robbie recoils as if she slapped him. “This is the best I could come up with and it’s all we’ve got.” He looks down at the floor, mouth working soundlessly. Wen puts a hand to her temple, which aches from where Vidri struck her. “Look, I’m sorry. I know it’s not perfect, but I’m willing to go through with it. I have to. We don’t have any other choice.”

Robbie shifts from foot to foot and runs a hand through his hair. “I know. The only reason I said anything is that I don’t know what I’d do without you. I would’ve put a gun to my head years ago and pulled the trigger if it hadn’t been for you and Fitz. What I’m trying to say is I love you and don’t want to lose you.”

She looks at him, emotion tightening her throat again, and crosses the distance between them. Wen embraces him and he squeezes her tightly, the two of them not moving for a long time in the center of the dingy kitchen. Finally she draws away, seeing the tracks his tears have carved on his dirty face. He rolls his eyes.

“Damn you. Smeared my mascara.” They both laugh and he clears his throat. “I should get to my tent. If a guard happens to step in here . . .”

“Yes, go.”

“Do you want me to hang around outside your tent tonight in case Vidri tries something?”

“No. I’ll stay here. There’s an old blanket under the sink to catch leaks. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll feel better here. At least I can brace the door and have weapons if he does come poking around.”

He surveys her for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early.”

“God I miss sleeping in, lounging around my apartment in the mornings. You think we’ll ever get that back? Pieces of our old life?”

She hears a baby’s tinkling laughter somewhere in the wings of her mind that she’s almost completely boarded shut. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

He grimaces and heads for the door, stopping outside in the night coated in milky starlight. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he says, then is gone, disappearing amongst the layered shadows.

His words keep her rooted in place for nearly a minute before she shuts the door, using the handle of a pan to wedge it closed. The blanket from under the sink is damp but she barely notices it as she lies down, all of her adrenaline depleted, strength drained from the fight. She tucks her arm beneath her head, keeping her opposite hand wrapped around the handle of a butcher knife.

Tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping in an entirely different place
,
she thinks.
And there will be no one to help me.
But no one’s really ever helped her before, not counting Robbie. All her life she’s had to fight for the things she’s wanted. And this is no different.

I’ll do the only thing I know how to.

She closes her eyes and begins to drift away from the pain and into the promise of sleep.

I’ll help myself.

15

It is not yet dawn when Wen rises from her makeshift bed, unrested, sore, joints throbbing, with a spinning sense of vertigo so strong she rushes to the sink and vomits.

She wipes her mouth with her arm and rinses the sick down the drain, splashing her face several times with icy water fed by a tank attached to the roof outside. She steadies herself against the counter and breathes.

Concussion. Has to be.

The room pivots around her and she fights the nausea. Her ear is a crooked piece of meat that brings tears to her eyes when she touches it, and when she finds her reflection in the bottom of one of the baking pans, there is a purplish bruise growing out of her hairline and down below her eye. She looks like hell.

“I’m getting too old for this,” she says. But her joke falls flat in the empty kitchen. She moves to the door, pulling the pan’s handle from where she wedged it the night before, infinitely glad it wasn’t needed.

The camp is still quiet, a distant bird’s call the only thing breaking the solitude. Slowly the queasiness passes, and she is able to start working.

She opens cans, tears sealed packets apart, smelling odors from another time, preserved by the miracle of plastic and aluminum. She mixes, fills a huge pot full of water that will be the base for a new soup, one of the easiest things to make while on the road. Her large fridge is on one of the trucks, so her supply of fresh ingredients is limited to what she can keep in the more mobile and compact cooler in the corner of the room.

After working for nearly an hour, she hears the beginnings of movement outside, the trade shaking loose its slumber to continue the never-ending trek down the highway to the next town or settlement filled with men who will pay for what Elliot Preston calls “the last, greatest show on Earth.”

Her hatred for him and his wife is so strong, so potent, she imagines for a moment she can taste it. But it is only the acidic remnants of bile in the back of her throat.

She spits into the sink and is about to begin cleaning a dirty mixing bowl when the door to the kitchen creaks open. She doesn’t need to turn around to see who it is. She can smell him already.

“Good morning,” Vidri says. She dries her hands and turns to face him, forcing away the swaying in her vision.

The captain of the guards is dressed in his usual attire: dusty boots, stained jeans, a ratty work shirt, but his face is what catches her gaze and holds it.

His eye is swollen nearly shut and what of it she can see is red as a desert sunrise. The blackness of his pupil stares out at her and there is a long scratch leading up to his temple that she assumes came from her thumbnail.

“Did quite a number on me last night,” he says, coming closer. She says nothing. “Could’ve blinded me, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Vidri’s eyebrows rise. “Are you?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you that bad. I was still trying to process what you told me.”

He smiles, revealing teeth in serious need of brushing. “Don’t think you can go butter up Ma and Pa with some fancy cooking and a sob story if that’s what you’re trying to do. I already have permission. You’re mine now.”

“I know that. I’m coming to terms with it.”

Vidri studies her. “You’re not going to fight me again?”

“Would it do any good?”

“No.”

“Exactly. I know there’s no changing what’s going to happen. I’m trying to adjust myself, that’s all.”

Vidri’s smile widens and he steps closer, only an arm’s length away. “I can be nice, you know. I can be real gentle. If you’re good to me, I’ll make your life easy.” He reaches out and traces her undamaged cheek with one finger, trailing it down past her chin and onto her chest, where it lazily makes a circle. “Real easy.”

It takes every ounce of will to stand still, to not scream, lash out, and stab him with the knife on the counter behind her. Vidri comes closer, reaching around her back to pull her to him.

She places her hands against his chest as he dips his face down to hers. “You need to wait. At least until tonight. Give me today to get ready. This evening I’ll have all my things moved to your tent and you’ll be able to do what you want. I won’t stop you.”

He doesn’t move, and for a horrible beat she thinks he’s going to kiss her anyway, keep his hands on her, tear her clothes open. But then he steps back, the rank miasma retreating somewhat with him.

“You got yourself a deal. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. I can wait a few hours longer. See you tonight.” He begins to move toward the door but she steps toward the small fridge, opening it quickly.

“I made you something this morning,” she says. “As an apology for hurting your eye. If we’re going to be living together we should start off on the right foot.”

She sets the small paper bowl of chocolate pudding down on the counter and retrieves a plastic spoon, sliding it into the dessert.

Vidri eyes the bowl before glancing up at her. “You made it for me?”

She nods. Heart picking up speed.

“Well, that was pretty thoughtful. You did do a job on my eye, had to drink a full glass of gut rot just to go to sleep.” He spins the bowl around several times before stirring the spoon through its middle. “Looks great.”

“I know it’s your favorite. Just don’t let anyone else see you eating it or I’ll have everyone trying to get some.”

Vidri licks his upper lip and dips an index finger into the chocolate, holding it out to her. “Little taste?”

“No. It’s for you.”

“C’mon. Pretty please? Something to tide me over until tonight?” His finger comes closer to her lips, brushes them.

She opens her mouth and he slides it in.

“Mmmm, see? Now that wasn’t so bad.” He works his finger against her tongue, and she wonders if he can feel her pulse hammering through every inch of her body.

Slowly he draws his finger from between her lips and smiles, picking up the bowl. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Vidri saunters across the kitchen and out the door, giving her another lingering look before closing it behind him.

Wen spins and spits into the sink, trying not to vomit again. Or maybe that would be better? No, just rinse it out. She didn’t swallow; it was just in her mouth. She swishes several mouthfuls of water around until her saliva runs clear and she can’t taste chocolate anymore. Her heart continues its furious pace and she wonders if that’s from the fear or the ten-eighty taking effect.

She breathes deeply, focusing on calming herself. The poison wouldn’t be working that fast, not with the small amount she might’ve absorbed. After drying her mouth with a towel she drinks several glasses of water and stands against the counter. The sound of work outside the kitchen is louder, the soup beginning to waft up from the pot, filling the room with the delicious scent of onions, potatoes, and cooking venison.

Everything normal. An average day on the road. Nothing suspicious.

She holds her hand out, watching it tremble until it finally steadies.

She’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

Five minutes later the Prestons’ omelets are nearly done and she’s feeling somewhat steadier on her feet when the door to the kitchen opens and a young, blond-haired man steps inside looking nervous, hat twisting in his hands.

“Um, Mr. and Mrs. Preston would like to see you as soon as possible.”

Her pulse skyrockets again. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“Don’t know. They just said to tell you to come to the nest.”

He fidgets with his hat for another beat and does a quick nod that is almost a bow before retreating from the doorway.

The room begins its slow rotation around her again.

How? How did they find out so fast? Had the poison killed Vidri quicker than she’d estimated? She’d only used just enough. Did someone see Robbie transferring the container off the truck? Did Fitz say something he shouldn’t have?

She bends down, searching in the lowest cupboard behind a stack of worn hot pads until she finds the lipped ledge at the very back. Her fingers graze the cold steel of the canister. Should she hide it somewhere else? Take it with her? No, they’ll search her at the nest. No choice but to leave it.

She swallows the solid lump of fear forming in her throat and finishes preparing the omelets before striding to the door, all the while calculating if there’s any chance of escape. Outside she surveys the landscape in the early morning light. The bluffs that would provide a hiding place are too far to sprint to; the milling guards would overtake her at once. And besides, there’s no way she could leave Robbie behind.

She moves in the direction of the nest, looming above every other structure in the camp since the coliseum isn’t erected each evening like the Prestons’ home. She stops before the entrance and endures the groping search of the guard there.

“Guess I’ll have to quit doing this after tonight,” he says in her ear. “Property of Captain Vidri.”

She ignores him and enters the building, climbing the stairs before being let into the living area, vertigo hounding her the entire way.

Hemming stands near the windows, his shoulder touching the drapery as if he’s considering concealing himself behind it. His gaze finds her and holds. He shifts in place, interlacing his fingers over and over.

Elliot and Sasha sit in their customary places at the low table. Elliot wears a dark, silk shirt above pressed slacks, looking comfortable and dapper even at this early hour. Sasha on the other hand wears only a red velvet bathrobe tied at the waist. Her feet are bare and rest on a heating pad beneath her chair.

“Good morning, dear,” Elliot says. “My goodness, what happened to your face?”

She sets the tray down and brushes the blooming bruise with her fingertips. “A pan dropped from a cupboard last night and caught me in the side of the head. It’s nothing.”

“Would you like Gerald to have a look at you?”

“Gerald died in his sleep a month ago, Elliot,” Sasha says, not taking her eyes from Wen.

“That’s right. We must attain a new physician at the next town. Hemming, make a note of that.” Elliot gestures to an empty chair across the table. “Have a seat, won’t you?”

She sits down, senses still heightened. Would they invite her in like this if they knew?

As if reading her mind Elliot says, “I suppose you’re wondering why we summoned you here so early.”

“I am curious,” she says, thankful that her voice doesn’t waver.

“We wanted to discuss something, something that I know might not please you.”

“Okay.”

“We and Vidri have come to an accord. We’ve decided to grant his request of your transfer to his quarters.”

She lets the appropriate amount of displeasure seep into her features. “What if I don’t approve?”

Sasha shifts her feet on the pad. “There was a reason Elliot said
we
and Vidri came to a decision. Your viewpoint isn’t wanted or needed.”

“Now Sasha, let’s be civil about this. You see, dear, there is a certain symmetry between Vidri and yourself, whether or not you can see it. You have both been with us for many years, dedicated yourselves to service, and if I have my math correct you are both within a year of one another as far as age.”

“We are,” Wen says after a pause.

“Well then, there you have it. Vidri is one of our most trusted men. Outstanding service, impeccable character, always willing to help and command. You’ll be very happy together, I’m sure.”

Wen scoffs before she can stop herself.

“What was that?” Sasha says, sitting forward slightly. “Did you just snort at our decision?”

“No.”

“I believe you did.”

“I need some time to adjust to this. Can we please wait another week, at least until we’re done with setup?”

“No,” Elliot says, face hardening. “What we said is final and we won’t be questioned. You see? That’s the problem with so many young women. You can’t tell the forest from the trees.” His eyes narrow, losing any warmth they had moments ago. “No matter the warnings, you do what you think is right, or simply what you want, even if it is wrong. Too stupid to know what’s best.” He spits the last sentence as if it is a dart that might pierce her.

She remains silent, dropping her gaze to the floor, away from the insanity that comes off the couple like heat. After a long time, Elliot clears his throat and glances out the window.

“Regardless, it is done. You will live with Captain Vidri from now on or suffer consequences that Sasha and I would rather you not incur.” She waits, eyes averted and penitent until Elliot motions to the tray holding their breakfast.

Wen leans forward to take the customary bites, silently sending thanks out into the universe that her fears concerning the poison were unfounded. She’s swallowing the two bites of egg when footsteps pound up the stairs and the door bursts open.

A wild-eyed guard stands there, flanked by the doorman. “It’s Vidri! Something’s wrong with him. I think he’s dying.”