Black and Orange (33 page)

“Shit,” he breathed. The gun slipped through his fingers.

From the basement came a rustling. What was going on? Enrique edged closer, stomach roiling. Another pale shadow against the lower stairs darkened as the figure sloshed into the sick yellow light. One baby screamed relentlessly over a throaty voice, “Hush, hush now. Quiet.”

Sounded like Rebecca. She was such a fusser.

The front door shuttered and the hinges flexed. Enrique’s brain went through options with the frantic, incoherent pace of an auctioneer. I-can-shoot-through-the-front-door. Come-on-lets-go-can-I-hear-two-need-to-hear-two-come-on-two-do-I-hear-yes! I have two-but-then-leave-myself-open-to-the-basement-door- could-go-downstairs-three-hope-to-drop-
babynapper
-four!

Downstairs the shadow lumbered over the brick wall and a gun
snicked
, ready. Enrique thought Samantha-thoughts. He remembered how she washed her face every morning and looked like a squirrel drinking at a stream. It’d been so long ago and he wanted to remember something more meaningful but that was it; that was all... He’d never see her do that again, no matter what happened. But those Hearts, his babies, they had to be safe.
Fuck it all—they still had a whole life to mess up
. It couldn’t end here.

But how will you save them?
he read the Messenger’s query written across the parchment of his cerebellum.
You can’t protect them. Not here. You won’t survive what’s downstairs.

True. The Church of Midnight would kill him. And the Nomads would never know where the Hearts had gone. The gateway would open forever and life here would end, because of Enrique Gonzalez. Because of a stupid man who couldn’t think straight through his fear.

From behind sunlight burst into the living room as the front door flew open, chain busting. Enrique heard footsteps on the basement stairs. He shot out the backdoor. The house thundered with commotion. Shouts moved with the aimless ferocity of unspent adrenalin—Enrique shared this ferocity; it propelled him over the rotting wood fence and made him tolerate the coppice of splinters in his palms.

As soon as he hit his feet the same miraculous surge pushed him down the street like a maniac. Every breath felt like a tragedy stabbing his gut. After three blocks he stopped to catch his breath. Tears hung in his eyes and his ulcers stirred. He knew he had to form some kind of plan, although he had no clue what that would be. The Hearts, the baby
Jordons
, were going to be taken to Chaplain Cloth. To his hideous children. And not only would the babies die, they would be the food to strengthen the pathway between worlds—the sacrifice of their precious flesh would be the undoing of the world.

Reaching into his pants pocket, Enrique took out his cell and dialed the motel. That would do as a start. But by the time they got here—

It kept ringing.

A black Honda civic was just up the street. Some blonde woman slept in the back seat. Enrique never thought the day would come, but he’d have to do his first carjacking. There was no other choice.

Enrique would call again. He hung up and stuck the phone in his pocket.

He approached. An arm came from nowhere and hooked around his throat. The cold barrel of a gun pressed to his head. When he went still, the man said, “The Bearer, I presume. Drop the piece.”

Enrique wanted to fight this but couldn’t think of a way out. His gun clanked on the pavement. “Bearer? What are you talking about?”

The man released him. “Get in the car.”

Enrique slowly moved toward the Civic and the man stopped him. “Driver’s seat.”

Once they were seated in stuffy car, Enrique got a better look of the Church member. He looked to be suffering from some injuries though he was doing well at ignoring them for the moment.

“What do you want from me?” asked Enrique.

“Take me to the Nomads.”

“No.” Enrique shook his head. “No, I won’t.”

The blonde man sighed. He lowered his gun a little. “I don’t want to hurt them shithead—”

“You’re Church of Midnight! I won’t take you anywhere.”

“I don’t want to hurt them,” the man repeated. “My friend in the back needs their help.”

“So what?”

The man’s eyes heated and his voice was deadly steady. “Just listen to me you little fuck.”

Enrique swallowed but there was no saliva in his mouth. “Why would they help you?”

The man nodded as though this was a fair thing to ask. “I’ll make a deal with the Nomads. If they help me, if they help her, I’ll take them to the Hearts. My name’s Paul. I’m a Bishop in the church—I’ll know their location, trust me.”

“Bullshit,” whispered Enrique. “Why would we trust you?”

“Because you don’t have a choice. Not now. We have the Hearts. You’re just lucky that this woman here means more to me than they ever would. I’m giving you people a chance. There is no time for standoffs. We have to do this, and now.”

Yes,
thought Enrique.
He’s right. There is no time. I have to take him.

He turned the ignition.

~ * ~

Melissa looked down at her phone.

New Message -
Cole.

THE HEARTS ARE IN CUSTODY. I’M NOT COMING BACK TO THE ROOM. I NEED TIME. CALL TOMORROW MORNING.

MAYBE I’LL ANSWER.

The Nomads often wondered why I handpicked them, and only them, to protect the Hearts. Was it because they’d mastered their power? Surely there were others out there who had. Out there in the big blue-green world...

Was it fate? Lottery? Did I draw names from a hat? And why didn’t I protect the Hearts instead? Controlling the weather wasn’t the feat of the average man; to them it bespoke God status—and yet, October 31
^st
was always left up to them to handle alone.

I would have loved to tell them it was my choice and that I always selected the best of their kind to protect the Hearts of the Harvest. But the real reason, the truth, was more fatalistic than what they’d have cared to listen to.

~ * ~

Martin considered a different answer. The Messenger was waiting, rolling the dice, hoping this year wouldn’t be the time to step in. The Nomads had to hold out in the meantime. And that honor should have made Martin feel important. It didn’t. Sitting in Arrowhead Regional for all these hours, wearing body odor like a desperate cologne, drinking pungent cups of cafeteria coffee and considering eating everything in the vending machine from AA to ZZ, he realized how vagabond he was;
the only home I want to go back to is an old van that we don’t even own anymore
.

The next days would strike and disappear like lightning. It always did. Victory or failure, before Martin and Teresa knew it, they’d be driving again and the Wrangler would be singing along some highway. Many diners, many gas stations. What kind of carbon footprint had they left from all these years?

The Nomads would follow the two week rule: don’t linger for more than that waiting for the next letter to show. If you followed instructions, the Messenger found you, one way or another. Months could go by with nothing, but there were usually minor objectives during the regular year—last summer, not so minor, they had to incinerate a cache of Church documents in a crypt in Düsseldorf. He and Teresa had no clue what they were, just a bunch of numbers and equations that littered the pages of several large bound books. But it didn’t matter what they were. The Messenger didn’t want that information to exist and so they obliged their master.

There had been about twenty of the Church of Midnight guarding the vault. Well, they’d more likely guarded the gold bullion also present in the crypt. The Nomads had been there for the documents, but a third party had been tipped off about the gold. Bullets were exchanged. A few mantles popped in and out. Martin and Teresa achieved their objective, and leaving the Church to deal with the vault robbers, got the hell out.

And yet they were tailed for weeks afterward. Teresa’s coughing had started to become a real in-your-face kind of problem, Martin’s knee was bothering him, and their pursuers fearlessly assaulted them whenever they closed their eyes to rest.
Finally ran the bastards off a bridge in Amsterdam
, thought Martin, his bitterness renewed. Such was a lesson they’d learned: the church could kill you just as dead any time of year, not just on Halloween.

Martin had been thinking about that lesson quite intently since the rain in Colton had let up.

“You smell cheesy,” said Teresa.

He bolted up in his plastic chair and his spine stung at the movement.

Teresa scooted a few inches up in bed and her deep blue eyes went east to west in a drowsy sweep. The rest had helped. She almost looked as she had five years. Now that she had somewhat grounded herself, she appraised him. He’d never seen her eyes so cold and far off. “How could you do this? To them? To us?”

It was difficult to put an edge on his voice after all the hours he’d been awake. “You had an embolism and blacked out, smashed your head on the nightstand—What did you want me to do? Sit around and hope you regained consciousness on your own?”

Wincing, she touched the rough scab on her temple and inspected the ridges. “I woke up earlier and you weren’t here. I spoke to the doctor. You told them I want some procedure?”

“It’s non-invasive
.
”

“I don’t give a goddamn what they call it. There’s no time for that sort of thing and you damn well know that.”

He grabbed his head and wanted to crush the thoughts out of it. All the hard work and his veins felt empty, his heart’s chambers chafing together, his outlook fuzzy. He just needed a full day’s rest, not much really, when he considered everything he’d accomplished yesterday. Still, he needed every minute of today to get his mental and emotional strength back for Halloween.

“Well let’s not talk about this. Just get us back to the motel. Is it still raining?”

“Not anymore,” he said.

Panic spread over her like palsy. Her mouth hung askew for a second. “When did it stop?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Nobody’s shown yet.” He flinched. “Knock on wood.”

She noticed the chest X-ray he’d set on her chest during his latest studies. Several of his medical books had been stacked on another visitor chair. She squinted at the monochrome image. “That’s it, huh? The tumor.”

“Yeah.”

“You thought I wanted to see this shit?” She tossed the X-ray at him. It spun to the floor and glided across the linoleum. “I can’t believe I’m here. I just, I can’t believe you did this.”

 
He ignored her and stood. The world bowed and he almost tipped over. Lack of sleep, too much work, gifts of the past two days.

“What have you done?” Teresa’s brow rose.

He shook his head. “I’ve been working.”

“I’m too tired for cryptic-Martin.”

“So get dressed and stop scowling. I’ll tell you about it later.” He hoped that would be enough but her scowl deepened. He met it with a grin. “I regret nothing.”

“Of course not, you’re a concrete-head. Have you heard anything from Enrique?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I checked the messages at the room.”

Her words tripped over each other, “How—how long ago?”

“Yesterday morning. We’ll check as soon as we get back.”

“He could have called.”

“He didn’t,” he insisted.

She
slid
her legs off the bed and sucked a short breath. “What did you do when I was out? Sit there and stare?”

“I set up a boom field at an abandoned train yard a few miles from here. There’s a Void there and it’s a great place to hole up. There’s vehicle access through one
barbwired
gate, which I’ve already padlocked. I’m just about through with the plastics. There’s this really sturdy train car too. Planted a shitload around it. With all the weeds and restricted escape routes—once you study the layout, you’ll love this area, really.”

“Thanks for asking my opinion.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’m serious. This place is perfect. Anyhow, when I wasn’t there, I was here with you. I practiced the mantles a little.”

She sighed. “Well that explains your face. You practiced too much; you look like two-week-old road kill.”

Martin smiled. “Handsome two-week-old road kill.” He was exhausted down to his soul. He’d hoped she wouldn’t notice
how
exhausted because he was sure to hear more of it later.

“Wait—did you say you planted almost all of our plastics? I didn’t sleep through the next day, did I? Martin?” she demanded. “How
long
was it?”

“Let’s get you out of here,” he replied.

~ * ~

Platinum sunlight diffused through the cloud ceiling. Teresa thought it a sullen excuse for a morning. Her body felt better and mind worse. She’d really been out for more than a day? Hard memories stopped at the motel when she found the blood on her pillow and then there was this vague realization she’d been admitted to a hospital. She did remember some conversations with doctors throughout, but they were dreamlike. Several ghostly stoic, sterile visages had hovered above; their mouths moved but nothing substantial had issued forth. Martin had been there too, drifting in the fog, telling the medical administration the Messenger’s lies. Their existence: lies.