The Final Trade (17 page)

25

“That’s unbelievable.”

Tia hands the binoculars to Zoey, who lifts them to her eyes. They lie side by side on a low rise a half mile from the mass of structures that’s slowly growing out of nothing on the outskirts of Southland. Zoey gazes through the magnification, panning across the expanse of the trade.

Tia’s right. It is unbelievable.

They arrived at the small town late that afternoon, circling in far from the north after having caught sight earlier in the day of the string of vehicles on the horizon that never seemed to end. They had parked the ASV behind a small bluff stitched with pine trees that concealed its sand color well and hiked close enough to the trade to get their first real look at it.

Zoey watches dozens of workers erecting a chain-link fence that begins to completely encircle the camp. A two-story building rises above a mass of tents and support poles. Beside it is a circular enclosure that’s taking shape in the form of tiered scaffolding. Spaced out evenly around the trade’s border, armed guards pace, eyes searching constantly outward, seeking anything out of place. Already there is a line of men milling about at a rough entrance that faces the town, a long booth beside it. Everywhere there is movement, an excitement to the men’s steps, exuberance in their expressions.

Zoey yearns for Ian’s rifle to be in her hands. The men wouldn’t have a clue where the shot came from. She shakes her head. The thought equally frightens and thrills her.

Murderer.

Merrill crawls up the bank, snapping her back to reality. He stops beside her and she hands the binoculars to him.

“Do you see the two shipping containers being unloaded from the back of those trucks?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says after a pause. “The ones with the three guards around each of them?”

“Yeah. I think that’s where they’re keeping the women.”

Merrill looks through the binoculars for a long time before lowering them. “It’s massive.”

“How many do you think?” Tia asks.

“Rough guess? Maybe a hundred guards, hundred workers, who knows how many performers or whatever the hell they are.” He glances sideways at Zoey, who continues to watch the perimeter fence rise in sporadic glints of steel in the evening sun. She feels his eyes on her like a physical weight but doesn’t return his gaze.

They’ve all been watching her over the last few days since leaving Travis and Anniel’s burning home, but none of them have said a word about it, not even Ian, who has only looked at her with a soft pity that’s only infuriated her more. She’s barely spoken to anyone, the sound of Isaac’s wailing suddenly cut off in a rattle of gunfire loud in her ears, even during the complete silence of night. She recalls how the little boy snuggled against her, all the while trying to force away the memory and failing.

She swallows and looks toward the foothills below the looming mountain that is still dotted with bright flares of colorful leaves. The trust Isaac had exuded, the faith the entire family had displayed, is a toxic thing. More dangerous than anything else, she decides. There is no room for it in the world that exists now. Maybe years ago it was something good, precious even, but that time is long gone.

“Seeing the trade now, it’s hard to imagine people coming here to ski down the mountain,” Merrill says, motioning at Scrimshaw’s peak. “Probably was a nice town once.”

“I skied here before,” Tia says. They both glance at her. “What? A lesbian can’t ski?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Merrill says.

“Um-hmm. Anyways, you’re right, it was a nice town. Used to be a beautiful bed-and-breakfast over on the south side. Can’t believe I rode one of the chairs on that lift. Seems like a lifetime ago.”

Zoey gazes at the decrepit benches dangling from the cable attached to the steel towers running up the side of the mountain like an artery. Again she’s able to glimpse the life of the world that once was beneath the scarring that’s here now. How would it have been to travel here simply to enjoy nature and the landscape instead of looking at it as a tactical vantage point? Instead of jumping at every sound not made by their group, she might have welcomed a stranger with a smile and a wave.

She lets herself envision it for another moment before putting the fantasy away in the corner of her mind.

Zoey shimmies backward, careful to not rise until she’s completely hidden by the swell of the hill. Tia and Merrill follow, their footsteps crackling in dry leaves that have coasted from the nearest trees on the wind. They make their way into the deeper cover of the pines, winding past low-hanging branches and around trunks, all the while the darkness grows like mold. In the dusk they spot the shape of the bluff, the ASV coming into view a few seconds later. The rest of the group stands beside it, all of them armed and wary. When they are within speaking distance, Eli nods in the direction of the trade.

“So? Is it doable?”

“I don’t know,” Merrill answers, leaning his rifle up against one of the ASV’s tires. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Everyone’s working in succession, like a bunch of ants. The whole thing will be up and running in another hour or two.”

“Did you see any women?” Chelsea asks.

“No, but they’re there,” Zoey says. “There’s two big steel containers that are being closely guarded. I can’t think of anything else they’d be that worried about.”

“She’s probably right,” Merrill says.

“So what’s the plan?” Chelsea asks.

No one says a word, the breeze whispering overhead through the thick branches of needles.

“We have to get a closer look,” Zoey says finally. “There’s no other way to plan anything.”

“And by ‘we’ I’m sure you mean those of us of the male persuasion,” Eli says. “Cuz girl, you can’t be going any closer than you just did.”

“I have to. This was my idea, my decision.”

“Zoey . . .” Ian says.

“No. You don’t understand, do you? It’s my responsibility to see this through. I didn’t ask you to come, but now that you’re here I definitely can’t ask you to take all the risk. I won’t.” She stares around at them, the vehemence in her voice making most of them look to the ground or over her shoulder. “I don’t want anyone else to die because of me.”

“What happened the other night wasn’t your fault,” Tia says. “Travis made a stupid decision.”

“But if we hadn’t been there . . .”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.” She feels the prickling heat of tears forming behind her eyes.

“This is something none of us have ever encountered before. We don’t—” Merrill says.

“I’m going. There’s nothing—”

“No!” Merrill bellows. His eyes are ablaze in the near dark. “No, you’re not going. It’s stupid and reckless.” He blinks before fixing her with his gaze once again, voice much lower. “I already lost Meeka. I won’t lose you too.”

With that he turns and stalks to the ASV. Eli gives her a last look before following. Ian begins to approach her but she backs away into the embrace of the pines below the bluff. She stops a dozen yards in where the darkness is nearly complete and looks back, barely able to make out the shape of the group near the vehicle.

She wants to scream, to destroy something with her bare hands. The impotency of her rage only infuriates her more. How could Merrill say something like that? Control her and keep her from what she has to do? But each time she replays his words they dig deeper into her, boring until they are at her center.

I already lost Meeka. I won’t lose you too.

She leans back against the trunk of a pine and slides to the ground, hugging herself against the cool air, listening to the low voices until they’re silent. A spark of fire ignites beside the ASV, so small it barely illuminates Ian’s face. She watches him tend to the flames, artfully building the blaze until it is the perfect size.

She rises and moves toward the light, stopping only when the illumination touches the ground at her feet. Tia and Chelsea stand a short distance from the ASV looking out into the forest, their shapes darker shades in the night.

“He loves you, Zoey. That’s the only reason he made you stay,” Ian says, not looking up from the fire.

“I know.”

“Sometimes the smartest decision is the last one you want to make.” When she doesn’t reply, he says, “We will find a way to rescue the women within the trade. I promise you. As soon as Merrill and Eli return we’ll know more about what we’re dealing with.” He finally glances up at her. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Well, some of the best cooks are those who don’t covet food.” He gives her a smile. “In other words, you can still help me make dinner. Inside the vehicle in the back are a few cans of beans and the last of the bread. Could you get them?”

Zoey hesitates but then walks away from the fire to the ASV, pulling open its heavy door. She finds the food tucked beside Merrill’s duffel bag, some of his clothes spilling from between the long zipper. She begins shoving them back inside when she spots a wad of money, rolled tightly and held by an elastic band, lying next to one of his hooded jackets. She picks up the faded paper, feeling its texture, and glances at the heavy coat before looking over her shoulder.

Ian is still beside the small fire, his hands out, warming over the flames.

She peels off several of the bills and snatches the jacket before stepping out of the ASV, pausing only a second before heading into the forest, away from the light.

26

The tray is warm in Wen’s hands, the chill air biting her face as she walks past several dozen men eating the stew she prepared that afternoon.

Some of them mutter obscene things as she passes, others say what they’re thinking through looks that make her feel like stripping down and scrubbing her skin raw beneath scalding water. Even after all these years, it doesn’t get any easier.

But everything is slightly muted as she moves; the ground strange and unsteady under her feet, sounds of the trade’s final setup muffled and indistinct, the bright lights dulled and soft around their edges. There’s only one thing that is clear and real.

What she holds before her.

She weaves between two of the large tents, the nest coming into view ahead. Heart thundering in her chest, she approaches the guards at the door. Hands pat her down, linger on her chest, buttocks, then she’s through, moving up the stairway, legs trembling so badly she has to stop for a beat and take several deep breaths before continuing. When she comes into view of the door, the second-floor guard opens it unto the brightly lit interior.

She staggers drunkenly, only then aware of the floating sensation that’s enveloped her head. Wen catches herself, the covered plates on the tray sliding dangerously toward the edge.

“Are you all right, dear?” Elliot asks. He lounges on a settee, dressed in a suit of silver thread, a matching vest and tie, and a dark shirt beneath everything. He squints at her as she regains her balance, nausea slopping in her stomach.

“I’m fine. Stumbled a little there.”

A glass clinks across the room and Sasha turns her frigid stare first at the tray, then out the window at the lights that blaze above the trade. She sips the amber liquid in the glass she holds and saunters toward the closest chair; the gown she wears is the same color as her husband’s jacket and slacks. Hemming loiters in the farthest corner of the room, face blank, bleached skin sickly beneath the artificial light.

“I’m sure it’s the excitement,” Elliot says. “Nothing like opening night, is there?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“We were afraid it would be too late to open the midway tonight, but the crew seems to be nearly ready. By chance, did you see how many are waiting outside the gates?”

Wen moves to the table centered in the room, setting the tray down as if it holds a house of cards. “No. I haven’t been out that way yet.”

“No matter. We always draw a great crowd here. It’s nothing like Seattle, but it keeps the money and supplies flowing, isn’t that right, darling?”

Sasha nods into her drink. “Of course.”

“I still get the jitters. Isn’t that odd after all these years?” Elliot rubs his palms together and grins, teeth glinting wetly. “You would think it would wear off, but it never does. That’s a sure sign you’ve picked the right career for yourself. It never gets old and it doesn’t seem like work.”

Wen’s legs shake from a mixture of fury and dread. She shifts slightly, trying to calm the muscles holding her upright that feel as if they’re hooked to high voltage.

Elliot smiles for another moment before sniffing the air. “Ah, what have you brought us tonight? It smells delicious.”

Wen reaches out, drawing the covers off two of the three plates. “I made fresh pasta with cheese sauce over the last bits of beef.” Her eyes shoot from Elliot’s delighted face to Sasha, who hasn’t looked at the food.

“That’s marvelous! It smells heavenly, doesn’t it, dear?”

“Why did you go to all the trouble?” Sasha asks. Her voice is layers of ice. She gazes at Wen and it feels as if she’s staring straight through her, seeing the secret that sits on the table. Knowing.

“I . . . I thought you would appreciate a change. I haven’t made pasta in months and I know it’s one of your favorites.”

Sasha studies her and she swallows the acidic taste of fear on her tongue. It’s all come down to this moment.

Years and years kept inside the walls and fences.

Being groped, leered at, told when and where she must be.

Nearly losing her mind when she was first brought here. The cold steel of the container around her for what seemed like eternity until they learned she could cook.

All of it compounding in her mind starting from the moment the men from the trade had come. How they ripped away what she held so tightly to her chest; the scream of her soul tearing as they dragged her in the opposite direction.

And then it was these two people standing above her, both of them towering like gods with their cold features and dead eyes.

It all has led them to this moment.

“I’m not hungry,” Sasha says, flicking her fingers as if to shoo an insect away.

Wen nearly staggers again, the room losing its solidity. “What?”

Sasha glares at her. “I said, I’m not hungry. Besides, your pasta was never that palatable.”

She feels her lips go numb, chin quivering. “I apologize. I didn’t know.”

“You do now.”

She nods, eyes flitting to Hemming who watches the exchange with vague interest. “Okay. Well perhaps you’ll prefer the other dish I brought.” Wen grasps the last lid and lifts it, releasing a warm, tart aroma that floods her mouth with saliva despite everything.

The apple pie is golden brown, steam drifting lazily from the slits in its top.

Elliot stares, transfixed. “Is that . . . apple?”

“Yes. There were only a few left so I thought I’d put them to the best use.” She glances at Sasha, who is also looking at the steaming pie, something like a candle flame wavering behind her eyes.

“Do you remember?” Elliot says quietly.

“Yes.” Sasha breathes the word.

“Sometimes our whole house would smell like this. And Sondra would have flour on her cheek or in her hair from you both baking all afternoon. And we’d have the first piece together,” Elliot says, voice going hoarse.

“Stop,” Sasha says. She sets her drink down as if it weighs too much for her to hold.

Elliot’s mouth works and he grimaces before glancing up at Wen where she stands, still holding the lid. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like me to cut it?”

“No. No, I’ll do it.” His hand shakes as he picks up the silverware and begins slicing the pie into slivers. Wen watches the blade slide in and out of the crust, syrupy apple sticking to it in places. Without asking if she wants any, he places a piece of the warm pie on a plate and hands it to Sasha, who accepts it without comment. Elliot lifts another large slice onto his own plate before pausing. With a quick motion he cuts a third piece, setting it on a drink saucer, its tip sticking over the edge, a single drop of sweet filling hanging there like amber.

He holds it out to Wen, eyes still swimming with emotion. “Please. Sit and eat with us.”