Who Hunts the Hunter (9 page)

Amy nods and forces a smile, saying."Let’s hope so.”

13

There should be nothing but comfort here in this room, Bandit tells himself. The slow, steady whisper of Shell’s breathing, her warmth, the soft pressure of her body, leaning lightly against his chest. The atmosphere of privacy. The shadowy dark. And on the astral, the pulsing rhythms of life, the subtle colorations, the quiet intensity of a living being now deeply asleep.

He could cast a spell on himself, lure himself to sleep, if he knew such a spell, if he really wanted to sleep. But he does not. He decided to spend the afternoon in contemplation. Shell decided to keep him company, then decided to take a nap. The kids are all out. It should be easy to think, but it isn’t.

Carefully, he mouths the words to a small spell, a sort of trick. He has used it on shadowruns many times. It has many uses. Now he uses it to erect a kind of shield around Shell, so she will not feel him moving, hear him rising from the couch, or stepping carefully across the room. He does not wish to disturb her. She has problems enough of her own and would be troubled if she got the idea that something was troubling him.

Shell is an amazing person, like few he has met. Learning about her, getting to know her, perhaps to understand her a little, has done more to help him attune himself with people, hence with all of nature, than anything he has tried since leaving Newark. She does things for people without ever asking anything in return. The kids are not really even her own children. They’re orphans, abandoned to the streets, of no importance to anyone but Shell. She calls them her family, her little tribe. There were only six when Bandit first met her. Now there are eight. Shell picks them up where she sees them, when she thinks she can help them. She is teaching some of the older ones the hard lessons of the sprawl, how to survive, how to get what they need, but she insists on feeding and clothing them herself, or with what she and Bandit snatch. She takes nothing of what the kids get on their own. She wants nothing from anyone, nothing ... except maybe love.

That is another thing that troubles him. His feelings for Shell are hard to define. He’s not sure if his feelings for her are what she would call love. He hasn’t spent much time considering love. Before leaving Newark, before meeting Shell, he didn’t think about it at all. He never imagined it might really matter.

Raccoon is a loner, but must he always be alone? Could there not also be room for another in his life?

It is difficult to know what path is right.

Quietly, Bandit closes the door leading into the stairwell. Beneath the stairs, the stairs to the outside door, is a small cranny about the size of a large closet. Shell’s kids play here sometimes. It is a good place for hiding and for having secret talks. The back wall of the space appears solid, but it is no more solid than a cloud. Behind the cloud is another wall with a solid metal door and many locks. Bandit silently says the words to lower the wards defending the door, then tends to the locks. To his surprise, he suddenly finds himself facing a spirit, a spirit of Nature, of Man.

In form, the spirit looks kind of like a dwarf, with rough-hewn features and a heavy beard, but it wears clothing that seems ancient and fine, adorned with ruffles and lace. In a voice as deep as the earth, the spirit says, “You are welcome in my hearth.”

Bandit replies, “I thank you.”

The spirit bows, then says, “It has been many years since the sounds of frolicking children have carried through my vestibules and halls. I am old. The years have taken the color from my brick and the vigor from my mortar. Soon, the time will come when only memories will inhabit my domain, and that will be very sad. For what am I if I give no refuge? I would have no purpose. I would have no more ties to the plane of my own substance.” The spirit pauses, and smiles."I am grateful to hear the joyful noise of children again. They are welcome here. She who brings them is welcome most of all.”

“I thank you.”

The spirit bows and fades from view. Bandit takes one step further and enters his lodge. And then he is alone.

Alone in his alone place, his place of long magic.

The space is not large, just tall enough for him to stand, just large enough for him to do magic, and to store what must be stored in a safe and secret place. The lodge, like the apartment, is contained within a portion of the sub-basement no longer used by anyone but him, Shell, and the kids. Before making any changes, before making this private den, he took the unusual step of consulting with the spirit of this place. The spirit had welcomed him, invited him to make his den, to do his magic here. It had seemed gladdened to provide a sort of refuge. It has since manifested many times to speak with him, to tell him of the ways of spirits like himself, and of the ways of Man.

But it is not Man or men that trouble him tonight. It is the wallet Shell snatched yesterday, the ID card in that wallet, the image of the woman on that card. The woman’s image resembles someone he once knew. He wonders if that is coincidence, or if it is not, and what he should do about it.

For a time, he sits cross-legged, facing the small trunk that serves as his ritual altar. The candle glowing there gives him light to see the many artifacts of his lodge, the containers of colored sand and minerals, boxes of crystals, pelts, bones, drums, rattles. What the candle’s light does not show him is the answer he desires.

He lifts his flute, fingers the carefully engraved wood, watches the sheen of light from the candle coursing over the flute’s waxy finish. When he lifts the flute to his lips, he does not play any particular arrangement of notes, no set melody. He lets the music flow from within. He lets his spirit make the song.

Before long, the light of the candles wavers. Bandit realizes he is no longer alone.

The figure at the rear of his lodge looks like an old man. Bandit calls him Old Man. That is the name that seems right. He once thought that Old Man looked kind of Asian, but he was wrong. Old Man looks Amerind. His thin gray hair flows down past his shoulders. He wears clothes of natural leather, tan and dark brown, and necklaces and beads like native peoples wore long before the Awakening. Bandit once thought that Old Man might be Raccoon wearing a human mask, or some sort of spirit guide. In this, too, he was wrong.

“I guess you want something,” Old Man says."You called.”

Bandit nods. He considers turning to face Old Man, but decides against it. He faces the front of his lodge, the focal point of his magic. That is as it should be. That is the way of the shaman."I’m troubled.”

“I figured that. What about it?”

Bandit draws a breath, and says, “The shaman’s path can be hard to know. I began by learning magic and ignoring people. I tried to do what cannot be done. The shaman must be one with nature. People are part of nature and cannot be ignored. I tried to know nature, but not all of it, and so my magic was flawed, and I could go no further.”

“I know all that,” Old Man says."What’s your point?"

"Now I’m trying to learn about people. I’ve opened myself to people, I guess. I’m learning again. Discovering new things.”

“And?” Old Man sounded impatient.

“My thoughts trouble me.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“These thoughts are new. I think Shell gave them to me. She makes me wonder. About people. It’s not enough to learn only about people you meet in the streets. That’s just the beginning. People are individuals. They have different personalities and moods, and ...”

“Yes.”

“They have different relationships.”

“Nobody would argue that.”

“Some people are mothers and fathers. Some are just friends. Some are good friends and nearly as important as sisters or brothers.”

A long silence passes, then Old Man says, “I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I’m just an old man. I don’t have any answers. If I did, I probably forgot them. And what good would they be to you? You’re a shaman. You know some things about the world. You have to decide. You have to find your own answers.”

“I know that.”

“One time, I heard a man say to another: what’s it all about? The other man went on and on trying to explain, but he never did get his point across. He didn’t understand the question. He couldn’t. The man who asked the question was the only one who really knew what the question meant. How could anybody else explain when they didn’t understand the question?”

“You don’t understand what I’m talking about?”

“Do you?”

“I think I do.”

“Then let’s hear you explain it.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“That’s no answer. You know better. You’re a shaman. You’ve been through the ordeals. You didn’t attain the power of an initiate without being able to face the pain. You won’t get anywhere if you can’t face the pain. You know that. Pain is part of the world and you have to face it at its worst. That’s why attuning yourself to people is so important. The pain of mother earth is great, but what’s that compared to the pain of people, and the pain inside yourself? What greater pain is there than the pain you’re feeling right now?”

“You’re right.”

Old Man is right, Bandit tells himself again. The pain he’s feeling now is worse than anything. It’s fear and guilt and a sorrow so intense, so pure and so focused he can’t keep the tears out of his eyes. Can’t hardly breathe without choking."I ignored so many people ... spent so much time with only magic ... I almost killed myself ... I see that now ... I cut away part of myself ... I guess ... I guess ... I have to get it back ...”

“What was your first clue?”

“It was Shell ... something she said. She called me ... she said . . . She said I’m a private person ... I never thought of it that way ... I’m a shaman . . . follow Raccoon ... That’s all ...”

“You’re a person, too.”

Bandit nods."I need to become whole again. A whole person.”

“I guess you know what you have to do.”

Bandit nods, wipes at his eyes. The image of that woman on the card Shell snatched makes it a certainty.

“I guess you’re ready now.”

Bandit nods.

Ready for anything.

14

The road is a wavering phantom streaming toward her, white lines blurring, gleaming in the brilliant headlights of the truck. She is somewhere south of Bangor with Portland coming up fast. The truck engine whines, telltales pegging max. The hunt for her cub leads her now to Boston. That is where she will find the only living person who knew she would be at the cabin along the Road to Nowhere.

That person has betrayed her. Whether the betrayal was deliberate or the result of some foolish error is irrelevant. The betrayal has cost her and she will see the debt repaid.

Doing that should tell her more about the bounty hunter O’Keefe and the other elves who stole her cub, such as where they might be found.

In Boston? That would be too easy.

Abruptly, a siren wails. Tikki looks to the rear scanner to see strobe lights flashing behind her. Some form of patrol vehicle, a cruiser perhaps, is just thirty meters away and closing in fast. The speed of closure makes Tikki wish she had a vehicle quicker than this pickup truck.

She tugs at the wheel, yanking the trunk into the right-hand lane, but the cruiser abruptly slows, rather than passing by, and veers into the lane close in on her backside.

The siren whoops and screams.

A voice booms, "
PULL
IT
OVER
!"

And now she must make a decision. Possibly, these police want her to stop for something as trivial as speeding. They may know nothing more than that, but they will swiftly realize the truck is stolen, even if they’re just hick backwoods cops or corporate zonies. She could ignore them, go on driving, but more two-legs would come and they would force a confrontation. She could abandon the truck and run, but that would cost her time, and every passing instant is a rising fury threatening to supplant rational thinking with instinct’s most savage urgings. She can no more afford the inevitable costs of instinct than the loss of more time. She really has only one option.

She puts on the right-tum blinker, slows the truck, and steers onto the shoulder. The cruiser follows closely. When she stops, the cruiser halts about five meters behind her truck. She counts to three, watching the flashing strobes, and then, with the tranny in reverse, rams the accelerator to the floor.

The truck engine roars. Tires shriek and whine and tear at the earth. Acceleration is rapid, but fleeting. The rear of the truck impacts the front of the cruiser. Plasteel crashes and the impact hurls Tikki against the back of her seat. The shock of that costs her half a second, but then she’s like a road train slamming out through the driver’s door, turning, charging the cruiser, lunging into the air and across the cruiser’s rumpled front hood.

As she lunges, her body swells and stretches. Clothing bursts and tears. Black-striped fur the color of blood rushes over her skin. Jaws swell immense. Hands become massive paws sprouting claws and smashing the cruiser’s windshield into fragments.

The cops are shouting in alarm and stinking of terror, but by then she’s inside the car—twisting, turning, tearing belts off uniforms and commlinks from the dash.