On Broken Wings (59 page)

Yet as she held him there, she searched herself for the rage that had enabled her to kill seventeen men, and could not find it.

I have to kill him. He deserves to die.

Are you certain, Christine?

What? His pals killed Rolf. He's why I'm here!

You're here out of love, and for vengeance. Isn't that why he's here?

Don't make me laugh, Nag. He's scum, the same as the rest of them.

The Nag did not respond at once.

Choose carefully, Christine. It was not he who killed Rolf. You killed the man who did that yesterday. This man saw you do it. Yet moments ago he walked toward you and past you while you pointed that gun at him. He came here alone to challenge Tiny. Tiny, with his pack around him! Doesn't that kind of courage merit some consideration?

You have had your vengeance. Rolf's murderer is dead. Tiny is dead. Every one of the Butchers is dead. The fear that lived in you like a tumor, sucking away your life, is gone. This man, for all his faults, has not harmed you. Yes, he tried, but he failed. You were too much for him. What reason have you to take his life? Would Louis have done it?

Her face began to burn. Tears of frustration formed in the corners of her eyes.

Damn it to hell, Nag, don't you get tired of always being right?

There was another moment's silence in her skull.

We all have our jobs, Christine.

Rusty's head bobbed loosely on his neck. He seemed to have lost interest in her and everything else around him. She pocketed her gun and slapped him twice, driving color into his cheeks. He revived and focused on her again.

"You must be some hot shit, lady."

She nodded. "Bet your ass, Rusty. But I just got finished killing seventeen guys, and I'm kind of tired. So tell me: do you want to live?" Her voice trembled despite her efforts to keep it steady. "Have you had enough of this vicious horseshit?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Turn around." He did, and she drew her K-Bar once more.

She cut the bloody cleaver emblem free of the rivets that pinned it to his jacket, crumpled it and threw it across the room to land on Tiny's corpse. Rusty turned back to her, eyes curious and strangely innocent.

"You just got grounded, Rusty. No more motorcycle gangs for you. Find yourself a job, get a room somewhere, and clean up your act."

"Yeah. Okay." He straightened, tried to hold himself with dignity. "But where?"

"Well, where are you from?"

"West Virginia. Near Wheeling."

"Then go back there. Home's always good. Hell, I came home."

"Yeah, I see. Hell of a party they threw you."

She snorted. "Don't hang around here, Rusty. There'll be a fresh shitload of trouble here soon. Just go somewhere and get yourself turned around. If I see you wearing colors again, I'll land on you like a ton of bricks. Got me?"

"Yeah." He squared his shoulders. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." She turned and began to walk away from him, away from the barracks, away from the beginning of her life.

====

Chapter
52

As he parked before the Onteora Aviation administration building, Lieutenant Commander Ellis Marquette, United States Navy, checked his inside jacket pocket to insure that the conscription warrants were still safe within. They were.

He went to the personnel offices and asked for the director. She came forth, smiled formally, and asked for his need. He handed over the conscription warrants without speaking. She took them and scanned the front pages. Her eyes lingered on the signature of Benjamin Wickenheiser.

The Wick's never done this to an OA employee before, and here he is plucking two of them at once. I'd better try not to be in the next detail he brings here.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Commander."

"Why not, Ma'am? Everything's in order, as you can see."

Her smile turned malicious. "Because these individuals are no longer employees of Onteora Aviation. Both of them were terminated for cause two days ago, shortly after the AAR demo."

Marquette had cultivated self-control all his life, but it was barely sufficient. The personnel director watched him intently, waiting for any hint of surprise or frustration to savor. He managed not to give her the satisfaction.

"Do you have their home addresses? You're required by law to provide them to me, you know."

She nodded. "Yes, I know. But tell me, Commander: aren't you a little hesitant to draft a couple of losers that OA had to fire? How will you phrase this in your report to your Admiral?"

He stared down at her coldly, but she had him and she knew it.

"I have my orders, Ma'am."

She nodded again. "And much joy may they bring you, Commander."

***

From a quarter to twelve forward, Helen stood at her condominium's street-facing windows, watching the small blue pickup truck she'd bought with Christine's money. She was determined to wait until it had gone.

She didn't have to wait long. At three minutes past noon, a black-garbed figure that could only be Christine approached the truck, pulled the keys out of the tailpipe, got into it and pulled away.

I wish she'd change out of that obscene jumpsuit.

Helen knew it wouldn't matter much what Christine wore. She would always be a magnet for trouble.

Come back to me, Christine. My love will be with you always.

Helen was inexpressibly glad Ione wasn't there to see her weep.

***

It had taken a whole day, but Malcolm Loughlin had finally gotten the remnants of Louis Redmond's home packed away in some semblance of order. He'd had to use all his available storage space and a good deal of his living space to do it. Nevertheless, it was done.

Boomer lay asleep on the slate apron before his kerosene heater, breathing shallowly. A trickle of drool ran from the corner of the giant dog's mouth, and was slowly extending itself across the floor toward the dinette. The animal hospital had strapped the Newfoundland's ribs tightly, and had cautioned Loughlin not to let him run or leap for at least a month. Between the man and the dog, they used up what little unoccupied space remained in the trailer.

Loughlin had found the trailer adequate for a long time. He'd never needed much space before. Things had changed. Now he'd have to choose between having somewhere to sit and having access to his journals.

It was time to start thinking about an improved living situation. Something like the one he'd blown up four days ago.

It was in Loughlin's nature to be solitary. His passion for privacy was too strong to overcome. Yet he had shared a home with Christine D'Alessandro for more than three months, and had been comfortable, even carefree, the whole time. The relentless chafing he'd always endured in the involuntary company of others had never manifested itself with Christine. They were of a kind.

Were they?

Loughlin thought back to Louis's original description of the frightened, maimed girl he'd brought home.

Louis had described scars as thick as worms, that ran the whole length of the young woman's face. He'd waxed lyrical about her courage and determination, but the part of his story Malcolm could never forget was the part about the scars, and how stoically she'd accepted them as the price of her freedom.

Thick as worms, Louis had said. Yet just the previous night, Malcolm had seen Christine with no makeup. The thickest of those scars was hair-thin.

Malcolm knew how long it took for facial scars to dissolve in the body's healing fluids. He'd had plenty of them.

Christine had survived ten years of rape and torture with no lasting effects. She'd never used a contraceptive, but had never conceived. Her scars were fading at an impossible rate.

Hope surging within him, the immortal sent a prayer of thanks in an impossible direction.

"Finally."

====

Epilogue

It was a few minutes past noon, and the brilliance of the sun promised a warmer day than usual for the first of June. Christine had driven many miles already that day. She needed a break. The suspension in the old truck was marginal at best, and the constant jouncing and shaking were doing unpleasant things to her lower back. She didn't have much idea where she was, and could not be sure that a conventional rest stop was close by. She began to look for a hollow alongside the road into which the truck would fit. It wasn't long before she found one.

She could have just sat long enough to regain her energy before moving on. Instead she dismounted and locked the truck, took careful note of the surroundings, and ambled into the woods.

It was an old forest, yet densely grown for that. The underbrush was minimal. The trees were a mix of all that continental New York has to offer, with oaks, pines and firs predominant. There was no noise of wildlife or from other human visitors. Only a slight sighing from the breeze competed with the muffled crunching of her footsteps.

Louis would have loved it here.

The stiffness slowly faded from her back and legs. Six weeks of wandering, which had covered most of the Northeast, had freed her from any sense of urgency. She merely walked, only taking care to remember the direction back to the road. Her years with the Butchers had granted her one gift, at least: she felt no anxiety amid unfamiliar surroundings.

A large, raggedly circular clearing took her by surprise. At the center stood a great oak, an enormous tree more than a hundred feet tall and at least five feet through the trunk. The trees that formed the perimeter of the clearing were pines and firs of unusual height: a fitting honor guard for the creature at the center of the circle.

She went to the great oak and touched it gingerly. It had to be several centuries old, perhaps a thousand years or more. Louis had told her that trees of such caliber were rare, because they grew so slowly. To achieve such dimensions and yet endure against the elements and the pull of the Earth required that their annual increments of height and girth be tiny, such that their growth could only be perceived over a span of decades.

I bet it's not as old as Malcolm.

She chuckled to herself. Too long a baseline cheapened the glories of the world. No man but Malcolm could dim the august majesty of this being. Malcolm himself would agree. Yet she knew what else he would say.

It has no eyes, or ears, or heart or brain. It has endured the years, but it has not witnessed them, let alone affected them. You say it is beautiful, and awe-inspiring, but the beauty is in your appreciation, and the awe is in your heart. It is Man's heart and mind that create beauty and awe. Nothing else in all the world can do it. Nowhere is there anything as great as Man.

A rustling of footsteps came from the edge of the clearing. A young girl stood there, a teenager. She was plain, a little heavy, and carried herself uncertainly: not in manifest fear, but as if she were unsure of the protocols of the situation.

Christine smiled at the girl, and she approached. She put her own hand to the trunk of the great oak and smiled shyly. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Christine nodded. "Very."

"Have you ever been here before?"

"No, why?"

"Just asking." The girl caressed the tree, letting her fingertips trail down the rough bark. "I used to come here a lot. Not lately, though."

"No time anymore?"

The girl snorted a laugh. "Teenagers always have too much time. Don't you remember? You're not
that
old."

No, I don't remember, but you aren't going to hear about that.

"I write a lot. I used to do it here. It didn't work out too well." The girl seated herself against the base of the oak. She gestured to Christine to join her. Christine lowered herself into a basket formed by the tree's roots.

"I used to write about trees and forests," the girl continued. "I figured this would be a good place to do it, right? But it was crap. I kept trying to make the words say what I felt when I was here, and it always turned out to be crap. I threw it all away as soon as I finished it."

"Did you ever figure out why it didn't work?"

The girl shook her head. "I just gave up after a while. I hated to do it, but I had to. I was getting madder and madder at myself every time I tried it."

Christine nodded. "So what do you write about now?"

The girl shrugged. "Oh, stuff. People, things, you know." Her expression of world-weary pessimism fit poorly on her adolescent countenance. "It doesn't matter. It's all poetry, and that never goes anywhere anyway. People hardly even read it anymore."

"What's your name?"

"Lori. What's yours?"

"Pleased to meet you, Lori. My name is Christine." She held out her hand and the girl shook it.