THE BOTTOM LINE
Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer
It was only the ill temper of Pat's cantankerous cat that kept the Atlantic Inn from being put out of business shortly after it opened.
The weather was unseasonably hot and humid on that day in late May, so Francis stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Cutting three acres of grass with a hand mower wouldn't be so bad, except for the bugs and the humidity. Most of the property around the Inn had been allowed to grow wild, but the area directly surrounding the main building had to be kept looking neat for the sake of the guests.
As he glanced around at the large section of lawn yet to be done, he reflected that it would be nice to have one of the new solar-powered riding mowers, but at this stage of the game, their operating budget couldn't be stretched to cover such a luxury. Maybe later in the season, when things picked up.
If things picked up. Very few reservations had come in for the summer as yet and Francis spent a lot of time worrying. Virtually every penny he had was tied up in this property. What if they couldn't pay the bills? What if they couldn't even pay the mortgage? What if --
*Enough,* he muttered in Tenctonese. It would work out. It had to.
Swatting yet another curious mosquito, Francis took hold of the mower handle and returned to his task. The insects wouldn't bite newcomers, but the whining drone of their wings as they swarmed around to investigate was almost as annoying as the itchy bite they produced on humans.
It was almost a month before the schools would close for the summer and the tourists would descend on Cartersville and, hopefully, also on the Inn in large numbers. The wind blew out of the northwest this morning, bringing with it the faint sickly-sweet smell of the pulpmills located many miles inland. Francis reminded himself to look up every so often and appreciate the bright beauty of the wildflowers and trees bordering the lawn. This bit of land was his -- Well, his and Pat's, he amended punctiliously -- but he still hadn't gotten over the wonder of actually owning a piece
of the earth.
By the time he had finished, his right shoulder ached badly where he had been shot several years ago. The shoulder seemed to be getting worse lately. Maybe it was just that he had done a lot of physical labor over the past few months, trying to get the Inn ready to open.
He shrugged. Whatever the reason, he was more than happy to put the mower away in the toolshed and turn to the more pleasant task of washing windows. Gathering up bucket, rags, and squeegee, Francis headed for the main building.
The new handyman, a black human named Willy Roquist, glanced up as he walked by the front of the Inn. Francis nodded his head in greeting, but Willy ducked back down below the edge of the empty swimming pool, industriously wielding his paintbrush. He seemed to be doing a good job. With luck, the paint would be dry and the pool would be filled with water before Memory Day.
No, that was the wrong word. What had Pat called it? Oh yes, Memorial Day, the big holiday weekend coming up in just a week and a half. They had exactly seven rooms on reservation, out of a total of forty. That wasn't good.
He circled around behind the Inn, casting his usual jaundiced glance at the Yaupon River flowing sluggishly along not more than fifty feet away. Depending on the tide, it might or might not be dangerously salty. One of the Inn's very few guests sat on a lawnchair over near the river reading a book. Although humans certainly didn't find ultraviolet light beneficial, they insisted on soaking it up regardless. Strange behaviour.
Doing his best to ignore the river at his back, Francis cleaned the sliding glass doors of the rec room, then pushed his way through the azalea bushes that clustered thickly around the building to get at the first floor windows of the north wing. They hadn't opened this wing yet, but it would have to be ready soon. He had finished all but the window on the far end when a terrible screech split the air and claws raked his ankle.
*Celine! I stepped on the cat again!* he exclaimed softly.
Pushing aside the branches, Francis discovered Tinker wrapped around his lower leg, industriously attempting to bite through his heavy denim jeans. Of Pat's two cats, Slinky and Tinker, this was the one who had taken an instant dislike to him, despite his best efforts to befriend the beast. This was also the one he inevitably
stepped on, tripped over, or found curled up next to the back wheel of his van whenever he had to go somewhere.
"All right, Tinker," Francis murmured soothingly, squatting down to pat the cat and trying to pry the sharp claws out of his pants. "Good Tinker. Nice Tinker. Let go of me now. I didn't mean to step on you. Come on --"
Then he caught sight of a cardboard shoebox lying not far from his foot against the foundation of the building. That was strange. It hadn't been there earlier, when he'd come by with the lawnmower. With half his attention still on soothing Tinker, he leaned over to examine the box more closely.
When he caught the faint odor of akondiit coming from the box, Francis decided he had no further time to waste on the cat. Grabbing Tinker by the scruff of the neck, he jerked him roughly away from his leg and tossed the animal out onto the lawn.
The last time he'd smelled akondiit was during his brief assignment on a mining colony. As a binnaum, he'd never been expected to actually work with such a powerful explosive, but as an Overseer, he had been trained in the safety procedures involved in its use. The amount contained in a box this size could blow out the entire side wall of this wing of the Inn.
He stared at the innocent-looking shoebox, hardly daring to breathe. Leaning closer, he sniffed again, hoping against hope that he was wrong.
It was certainly akondiit. And there was no reason for it to be here except one: it was a bomb, planted to blow up the Inn. That being the case, there must be some sort of timing device attached. it would be set to go off fairly soon, to lessen the chance of discovery. But how soon?
Francis fought down the impulse to run like hell and tried to calmly consider his options. The sensible thing to do would be to get everyone away from here and call the police. But was there time for that? What if the bomb went off before the police arrived?
Or what if the police got suspicious and asked him a lot of awkward questions? He dared not bring himself to the attention of the legal authorities. For all he knew, he was still wanted in California for Kheersa's murder.
But did he dare risk lives by not calling help?
Were there actually any other lives at risk, besides his own? There were no guests in this wing right now and, to the best of his knowledge, no one was close enough to be in any real danger. But if the bomb went off, damage to the Inn would be devastating.
Perhaps if he picked up the box and carried it into the woods? Would the motion be likely to set it off? No, someone had carried it here and put it in place. He even thought he knew who that someone was, and he didn't think that person had been the one to actually arm the bomb, so it most probably wasn't set to go off if it were moved.
All these considerations had run through Francis' mind in a matter of seconds. He was still crouched face to face with the malevolent shoebox. Very gently, he picked it up and rose to his feet. Backing through the azalea bushes, he walked across the lawn as gingerly as if he were walking on slick ice, keeping the unoccupied wing of the building between himself and the area where there could possibly be other people. He might have a lot of time, or only a couple of seconds, but he dared not think about that now.
For a seemingly-endless fifteen minutes, Francis worked his way along the path Pat had had cleared downriver towards the saltmarsh. No one would be down this way today and the further he got from the Inn, the less damage the bomb would do if it should explode.
It's not going to explode, he told himself grimly. You know enough about this stuff to disarm it, if you have to.
He went gingerly along one of the raised boardwalks above a swampy section of ground, knowing the water beneath him might well be salty if the tide were in. At the end of the walkway, he judged that he was far enough from the Inn. Placing the box gingerly on the ground, Francis squatted in front of it and debated what to do next.
He should call the police.
But maybe he was being paranoid and this wasn't a bomb after all. Just because it smelled like an explosive didn't mean it couldn't be something else.
Well, then, if he called the Police and it turned out not to be a bomb, everyone would have a good laugh. And there would still be negative publicity, and the rumor would get out that for some reason the owners of the Atlantic Inn expected to be bombed. Tourists would be afraid to stay here, in that case.
He had to know, but he didn't dare just lift the lid of the shoebox. It could be booby-trapped, set to go off if it were opened.
Taking a screwdriver out of his back pocket, Francis held the box steady with one hand and carefully worked the tip through the cardboard near the center of the lid. When he had bored a small hole, the smell of akondiit grew stronger, but nothing else happened. Gaining confidence, he enlarged the hole and then began peeling the cardboard back with his fingertips so he could see what was inside.
It was akondiit, it was wired to a timer, the numbers on the timer were counting down to zero, and there was no time left to run.
Almost without conscious thought, Francis grabbed the wire that looked as if it led from the timing device to the detonator and wrenched it free.
When he realized he was still alive, he almost fainted from relief. That could've-- That almost -- That might have-- his mind gibbered, even as he stared at the numbers showing on the face of the timer.
But it didn't, he told himself sternly. Now take a deep breath and get ahold of yourself. It's all over.
He straightened up and took a few steps backwards. From where he stood at the edge of the saltmarsh, he could see down the river a fair distance above the low marsh grass and isolated bushes. The harsh growl of a distant chainsaw disturbed the usual sounds of the forest. It stopped abruptly, replaced by a creaking, tearing noise that intensified into the crash of a tree falling.
A part of Francis' mind wondered why trees were being cut down. He hadn't taken Murray's warning seriously when the lawyer had told him Larry Hatfrey had plans to build an elaborate timesharing resort on his property next to the Atlantic Inn. After all, much of that property was wetlands and couldn't be legally developed.
The chainsaw began its destructive song again, accompanied by the sound of another heavy-duty engine that might have been a bulldozer or a backhoe.
Francis glanced down at the bomb, then across the marsh to the woods downriver. Something strange was going on. There was a large section of land entirely bare of trees. He was certain it hadn't been that way a couple of days ago. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to Murray's words. Perhaps the human had known what he was talking about after all, when he had said Larry wanted the Inn out of business, so he could buy up the property cheap and use it as part of his resort.
Well, if that's what Larry thought, he had, as the humans put it, another think coming. With a last glance in the direction of the screaming chainsaw, Francis turned and trotted quickly back to the Inn, leaving the bomb where it was for the time being.
When he returned half an hour later, he had both his old polaroid camera and his business partner with him. Pat examined the disemboweled device nervously as Francis photographed it from several different angles, then waited for the photos to develop.
"All right, boss," she said at last, "I can't argue with you about its being a bomb, but I still say you should have called the police. You might have been killed."
"But I wasn't and no damage has been done," he replied absently, watching the colors in the last photo darken. "Ah, here's a good one. Shows all the details."
Pat shook her head and then wiped the sweat from her forehead. "Mind telling me what you plan to do with the pictures?"
He held out the final photo. "I'm going to mail this one to Larry Hatfrey."'
"Jesus H. Christ, boss! What good do you think that's going to do? We ought to call the police --"
"Pat, whose side are the local police likely to be on, ours or the Klan's?" When she didn't reply, he went on. "Besides, there'll be nothing to connect this to Larry. At best, they might find Willy Roquist's fingerprints on the outside of the box, but you can bet whoever actually assembled this thing was more careful."
Pat considered that a moment in silence. "You really think Willy planted it?"
"Who else?"
It had been only two weeks ago that Willy had come by the Inn in answer to their newspaper ad for a handyman. He had been the only applicant, but that hadn't been why Francis had hired him. From his voice, skin color, and stature, Francis had been almost certain Willy had been the black man involved in the Klan's original attack on the Wagners and later an abortive attack on the Inn. When he caught sight of Willy's dilapidated pickup truck, that had been the clincher. The last two numbers on the license plate matched the two he had been able to make out when he had spied on the Klansmen preparing to throw grenades at the Inn last winter, just before he had scared them away.
"Didn't I tell you we should never have hired him?" Pat reminded him gently.
"Even assuming this was Willy's doing, I still say we're better off with him here where we can keep an eye on him. Perhaps he'll make a slip and give away something we can use against his leaders," Francis said reasonably.
"Somehow I doubt it. I'd rather you'd fire him."
"No. I still think we can get some advantage out of this." He smiled. "As you humans say, 'There's a madness to my method'."
Pat laughed sourly. "You got that right, boss. Okay, you've got the pictures. Now what are we going to do with this stuff? We can't just leave it here."
"Oh, the akondiit is quite harmless now that it's been disconnected from the timer."
"Maybe so, but I can't quite see storing it in the basement with the leftover paint, can you?"
"You've got a point there. Okay, I'll take the detonating device apart, then leave the akondiit itself on the doorstep of the police station."
"Are you crazy?! What if they see you?"
"Don't worry. I'll make sure they don't."
They didn't.
From then on, Francis patrolled the Inn regularly, looking for other suspicious packages. Two weeks passed and nothing more happened. Memorial Day Weekend left them with almost half their rooms empty. Not an unqualified success, but not a total failure either. Reservations for the summer were still slow in coming. Pat insisted it was no problem, but Francis worried. Most of their guests would have to be humans, but would humans come to a place where a newcomer was part owner?
He rounded the side of the building, turning sharply to leave plenty of space between him and the river. It smelled vile out here tonight. The tide must be in. As he walked, seemingly intent on nothing more than a casual stroll, Francis wondered if it had been a mistake to get involved in buying the Inn in the first place. He should have held on to his money and kept moving. He could lose everything on this gamble. What was he doing here, anyway? Most of the Tenctonese who lived in Cartersville weren't exactly thrilled by his presence.
He glanced uneasily down at his wrist, where the jagged tattoo was hidden by the long-sleeved shirt he wore despite the muggy heat of the night. Well, could he blame them? He'd been a fool to think they might accept him as part of the community. With the exception of Jane and Richard Wagner, no one had asked him to catalyze a child for them, and he'd been here for a year now.
A year? Had it been that long? Yes, it had been June when he'd arrived, and here it was June again. He shook his head. Staying in one place too long. If word ever got back to Piedra Frelani that he was here --
But it wouldn't. Not from an obscure little beach resort town on the opposite side of the continent from California. There was nothing here that would draw Piedra's attention, nothing here that any of the Overseers would want. He was safe.
Safe. Ha! Then why am I out patrolling my own property for more bombs?
Absently massaging his aching shoulder, he reminded himself he'd far rather face the wrath of the Ku Klux Klan than run afoul of Piedra and her associates once again.
As he circled around the front of the building, he thought he could make out someone sitting on a lounge chair next to the pool. It was well past midnight, so the pool should have been closed and the gate locked long ago. Probably just a guest, but he'd better check.
A gravel road circled in front of the Inn, holding the pool area in its loop. Francis walked carefully, but a bit of gravel crunched under his foot, loud against the background chorus of frogs and insects.
A shadowy figure rose from the chair, swiveling to face him and demanding in a harsh whisper, "Who's there? Speak up or I'll -- aw, shit, boss. Is that you?"
Francis had recognized Pat's voice on the first word, but he stood still until he knew she had seen him clearly. The black woman kept a gun behind the Front Desk and he wasn't sure she might not be carrying it now. No sense getting himself shot by mistake.
"It's me," he replied, only then moving over to the gate and approaching her. He sat down in one of the chairs. "What's the matter? Can't you sleep?"
"Not too well, no. Every time I hear a noise --" She let the thought trail off.
"I know what you mean. But I've been all over the place and didn't see anyone. Or anything."
"Um," was all she said to that. "Have you heard there are two more newcomers in town? A doctor and his sister."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. Don't know how they expect to make a living. Very few humans would go to a Tenctonese doctor, and I'm not sure there's enough of you folks here to keep him in business." She shrugged. "Anyway, they're here. Willy's been hired to be their gardener. The sister called me today to check on his references."
"What did you tell her?"
She shrugged again. "What could I tell her? I have no proof of anything. I just said he seemed to be a good worker, as far as I knew."
Francis couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he just sat in silence, looking up at the stars in the clear sky above them. He still had trouble adjusting to the fact that the stars remained steadfastly in their places when viewed from the surface of a world. It had been different on the ship.
"You know, boss," Pat said. "I took a group of guests on the saltmarsh trail this afternoon and I could hear a lot of noise further down the river. I went back later on by myself and I could see people with chainsaws cutting down the trees and bushes around the edge of the marsh just beyond where our property ends. I think Larry's getting serious about that resort he wants to build."
"So?"
"So I wonder if he's planning to fill in the marsh. And if so, how he got permission to do it. That's wetlands, and it's supposed to be protected."
"Maybe we just ought to check this out," Francis said thoughtfully.
"Maybe we just ought to do that, yes."
"Pat, something screwy is going on here," he announced on the following afternoon, leaning on the cedar top of the Front Desk. She pushed back her chair and regarded
him with an upraised eyebrow.
"This morning I checked at the Town Hall to find out just how much of that property next to ours is owned by Seagull Realty. Remember I told you about Murray's warning and how Larry was still trying to buy one last section?"
Pat nodded.
"Well, the sale on that last piece went through two months ago."
"Figures, with the kind of money he's got at his disposal."
"Yeah. While I was there, I also asked whether there had been any permits filed to build on that land."
"And --?" Pat prompted.
"Nothing yet. So next I called the Coastal Green Society up in Eddington to find out more about wetlands. It seems that there are several things that make something wetlands. There must be a high enough water table to cause the ground to be saturated or inundated by surface water or groundwater most of the time, and there must be the sort of vegetation that is adapted to these wet soil conditions. Without that, it's not covered by the conservation laws."
"So? No, wait a minute, I see what you're driving at."
Francis frowned. "I'm not driving. I'm standing right here."
"Figure of speech, boss." She waved it away with a negligent gesture. "You mean you think Larry is cutting down trees and stuff, and digging ditches to drain the water from a good-sized portion of his land, so that by the time he applies for a permit, it won't qualify as wetlands anymore. Right?"
"Right. I asked the Greens if that would work. They said it has before, if things are kept quiet and the permits are pushed through without the local community finding out and protesting."
"Yeah. And I'll bet a few heavy-duty bribes in the right places help things along, too."
Now that his suspicions had been put into words, Francis began having second thoughts. "This whole thing is getting very expensive. You really think Larry has that kind of money?"
"He doesn't have to, as long as his backers do."
"Backers? Oh, you mean people who invest in his resort?"
"Yeah. A lot of these big developments are financed by people you never see, and they aren't always decent, honest business folks, either." She got to her feet and stretched. "Mind the Desk for a minute, will you? I'm going into the rec room to get a cup of coffee."
Since he'd been on earth, Francis had had some experience with the sort of people whose dealings were never seen. The Overseers hadn't wasted any time organizing their own underworld operations, fitting in with their human counterparts without much trouble. A lot of their illegal money went into seemingly legitimate business ventures.
What if there were Overseers backing Larry? No, that was so unlikely as to be ridiculous. Of all the money-making schemes available in this country, a resort in an obscure little Southern town would never come to their attention. Besides, Larry was Klan. He'd never deal with Tenctonese, Overseers or not.
Francis didn't have time to follow this train of thought very far before the phone on the desk rang. He picked it up and said automatically, "Atlantic Inn. May I help you?"
"Sure can, slag," a muffled voice answered. "Lay off asking too many questions and mailing unsolicited photos, or you and the rest of your friends are going to be very sorry."
The phone went dead.
It was only a couple of days later that Francis pulled his van into a parking spot on the street in front of Dr. Lee's combined home and office, cutting the engine and turning off the windshield wipers. He sat in the car, watching the rain from an afternoon thundershower splatter on the pavement. Lightning cut an electric arc across the sky, followed by a sharp crack of thunder.
He waited, enjoying the storm and knowing it was unlikely to last much longer. In a few minutes, the rain would stop and he'd be able to go inside to see if Jane and Sandy were ready to leave. Jane's old car had decided not to start again, so he had combined a trip to town to run some errands with driving her in for Sandy's check-up. He'd stopped at the thrift shop as Pat had suggested, finding a good pair of workpants for himself plus two outfits he hoped would fit the baby.
Glancing idly at Dr. Lee's stately old home, he concluded the doctor must be rather prosperous. No other newcomers lived in this section of town, with its large houses and yards fronting on the country club grounds. Just across the street, a few determined golfers huddled in the meagre shelter of a stand of dripping loblolly pines.
Francis hadn't yet met Robert E. Lee, but Richard spoke highly of the young Tenctonese doctor. In fact, as a physician's assistant, Richard had hopes of going into practice with Dr. Lee, but he hadn't mentioned it to the doctor yet. Dr. Lee and his older sister, Gypsy, lived alone in the big house, with the sister running the office and acting as his nurse. Francis had almost made up his mind to make an appointment with the doctor in the hopes that he might have some suggestions on how to deal with the almost constant ache in his shoulder, when another crack of thunder split the air, actually shaking the van.
He was outside and running toward the house before he realized what he had reacted to. That hadn't been thunder at all; it had been an explosion.
While he was still running, a section of the wall of the house buckled and caved in. Francis plunged through the door Jane had used, a side door that surely led to the doctor's office. Dust and smoke swirled around him in the short hallway, permeated by the acrid reek of akondiit. More walls might be about to crumble, so he had to move fast. But which way to go?
Above the ominous crackle of flames somewhere in the building, he could just make out a baby's wail. Francis followed the sound through the smoky haze, shouldering open a door jammed half off its hinges.
Tumbled furniture and pieces of smashed sheetrock lay strewn about the small room, but the explosion had not been centered here, since the outside wall still stood.
"Jane!" Francis called frantically. "Where are you?!"
The only response was Sandy's wail, which abruptly turned into a cough.
Francis dug through the debris, guided by the sound. Seeing a leg protruding from beneath the edge of an overturned sofa, he hoisted the heavy piece of furniture up a few feet into the air.
A middle-aged Tenctonese woman lay curled around the baby, protecting Sandy with her own body. The baby clutched a silver rattle in one small fist, waving it angrily and continuing to scream. Although the woman's right leg was cut and bleeding badly, she groaned and struggled to get up as soon as she felt the weight lifted away, refusing to release Sandy as Francis helped her to her feet.
*Find the others,* she gasped. *I can carry this baby to safety.*
*The mother?* Francis asked urgently.
*She was standing -- there. By my desk.* Then the woman's eyes widened and she glanced in the direction of the next room, where smoke seeped around the edges of the door. *Celine! My brother was in the examining room with a patient! I've got to --*
This must be Gypsy, the sister. Francis put out a hand, stopping her. *I'll go after them if I can. You get out of here.*
*My brother -- *
*Go!*
She bit her lip and nodded, limping toward the door to the hall even as Francis began heaving aside the pile of debris in the spot where Jane might have been standing. Gypsy had barely left when something fell with a muted crash in the next room. The air grew hotter and smoke poured thickly around the door. He wouldn't be able to remain in the house for long. If Dr. Lee was in the next room, he was almost certainly dead by now, along with his patient.
By the time Francis found Jane's limp body, flames had eaten their way through the door and into the room. Scooping her up in his arms, he leapt cautiously over the jagged spikes of broken glass that had once been a picture window, landing hard on the wet grass outside and running away from the house.
The cool rain felt good on the scorched skin of his head and face.
Gypsy stumbled toward him, clutching the squalling infant to her chest. As soon as he had laid Jane down on the ground, Gypsy thrust Sandy into his arms.
*My brother,* she rasped, voice rough with smoke and dust. *Got to go after him.*
Francis looked at the house. The window he had just jumped through now belched smoke and flame. The entire side wall would collapse at any moment.
He grabbed her arm. *No. It's no use. I'm sorry.*
She stared uncomprehendingly, then tried to shake off his hand.
*Got to -- * She began coughing, struggling harder as her voice failed. When she caught sight of the tattoo on the wrist holding her arm, the fear on her
face turned to terror. *You're --*
*Yes,* he replied calmly. *But that doesn't matter now. You mustn't go back into the house. It's about to collapse.* She just stared, her face deathly pale. *Ms. Lee, please. I'm not going to hurt you. I would have gone after your brother if I could, but now I need to look after Jane. If I let you go, will you --*
The side wall of the house bulged out and crumbled, drowning his words. Still holding Gypsy, he looked down at Jane, relieved to see that she was now coughing and beginning to stir, despite the blood that seeped steadily from a gash on the side of her head. A siren cut through the noise of the flames, drawing quickly closer. Someone must have called the fire department.
*No, no, no, no,* Gypsy repeated steadily, staring at the burning house. Raindrops streamed down her face in place of the tears she was still too shocked to shed.
Francis paced the short length of the waiting room at the county hospital, anxiously awaiting Richard's arrival. Although Sandy seemed all right, Jane had been coughing and choking when she'd disappeared on a stretcher into the emergency room. The human doctors might not know how to treat newcomers. They might not have any newcomer blood, if either Gypsy or Jane had bled enough to require a transfusion. Someone might make a terrible mistake and --
Where the hell was Richard? Had he gotten here yet? Perhaps he was with his patients even now, and no one had bothered to tell Francis.
Pat! Celine, he had forgotten to call Pat and tell her what had happened! She had expected him back at the Inn at least an hour ago. By now, she'd be very worried.
Francis was searching his pockets for a coin to feed into the payphone when Richard came through the door. He dropped the receiver and started asking questions, but Richard beat him to it.
*Don't worry, they're all right. Jane inhaled too much smoke and dust, but she's breathing easier now. The cut on her head was deep but not serious. No concussion. Sandy's doing fine. Ms. Lee was extremely upset, but we've treated the gash on her leg and given her a sedative. She's asleep now.*
Relieved about his friends, Francis had yet another concern. *What about Dr. Lee?*
Richard shook his head.
*And the patient who was with him?*
*We don't have enough of a body to immediately identify who it is, but I'm sure we'll find out soon.*
*I'm going to phone Pat and let her know what happened.*
Richard nodded, then said reluctantly, *I suppose I should thank you. Gypsy said you saved her, and my family.*
Francis didn't answer. He just picked up the telephone and began dialing.
*The police want to talk to you,* Richard added.
Francis stopped halfway through the number. *What about?* The last thing he wanted was to get involved with the police.
Richard touched him lightly on the shoulder. *Hey, take it easy. They only want your statement of what happened, that's all. You don't have to look as if the Overseers are coming after you.* He stopped short, realizing what he had said. *Damn. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.*
*Forget it,* Francis replied tersely, trying to hide the shock he had felt by once again picking up the phone.
When he had gotten through to Pat and briefed her on what had happened, she insisted that he come right back to the Inn. Once he was there to watch things, she'd go to the hospital and stay with Jane and the baby as long as was necessary.
Francis agreed readily. His clothes were singed and filthy, and his shoulder ached badly from digging through the debris at the Lees' house and carrying Jane to
safety. A shower and a good night's rest would be more than welcome.
A key turning in the lock on the outside door woke Francis from an uneasy sleep. He was lying on the couch in Pat's apartment, where he'd be better able to keep an eye on the Inn while she was at the hospital. By the time Pat got around the Front Desk and opened the door, he had chased Slinky off his chest and was sitting up.
"How are they doing?" he asked, already worried by the look on her face.
"Jane's breathing easily and Sandy's fine. They'll be released later today. Gypsy's leg looks pretty nasty, but Richard says it's not serious."
Pat still stood by the door and her expression hadn't changed.
"But --?" he prompted.
"In addition to Dr. Lee, Verna Dixon is dead. She was the patient in the examining room when the bomb went off. Dix showed up at the hospital, after he got back from work and discovered she never came home from her appointment."
Francis leaned his head into one hand, covering his eyes. Verna and Mason Dixon had remembered him from the Ship, much to his shame. Dix, as the man preferred to be called, had shown him nothing but hatred, but Verna had been willing to talk to him. In time, she might have become a friend, or at least no longer an enemy.
But now she was dead, and it was partly his own fault. The bomb that had killed her had been the same kind as the one that had been meant to destroy the Inn. If he had done more about that first bomb, perhaps the second one might never have been used. Regardless of who had actually constructed and planted it, he knew very well who was behind all this. He shouldn't have wasted time playing games with Larry Hatfrey. He should have stopped him sooner, but he had wanted to keep it legal.
Well, this was what came of playing by the humans' rules when the humans themselves had no such compunctions.
With a brief curse, Francis got up from the couch and strode out the door. He opened a drawer behind the Front Desk, taking Pat's gun and putting it in his pocket. As he hurried out of the building, he passed the morning desk clerk on her way in.
"Hello, Mr. Bernardone," she greeted him cheerily as she went in the door. "You're up early."
He gave her a blank stare. By then, Pat had caught up with him and taken hold of his arm.
"Where are you going with my gun?" she demanded softly.
"To take care of some business. Something I should have done sooner. I'm going to put a stop to this, and I'm going to do it now, before more of my people are killed."
"Oh, I see. And how do you think you can stop it? Shoot Larry Hatfrey?"
"He's responsible for that bomb. I'm sure of it. Just as he was responsible for the one that almost got the Inn."
"Are you sure? Sure enough to kill someone?"
"Damnit, Pat! I've got to do something! I can't just sit here and watch my friends murdered."
"I didn't know you considered Verna your friend."
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, I do. I'm angry and frustrated too. But going after Larry isn't going to help."
What did she know about what would help? It wasn't her people being killed. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the black woman.
"You may have to put up with this sort of shit, but I don't. I can do something about it. Someone's going to pay for this, and pay dearly." He jerked the gun out of his pocket. "Here, take this thing. I don't need your puny little weapon. I can take Larry apart with my bare hands, if I want to. Or do much worse than that. No one does this to me, no one! And especially not some miserable tert bastard."
His words were coming quicker now, and his voice had risen along with his anger. Francis stopped for the space of a breath, telling himself he sounded like a hysterical human. When he continued, he spoke much softer, but the overall effect was more terrifying than his previous anger.
"I'm going to make them sorry they ever started this. When they see what's left of Larry Hatfrey, the rest of those white-sheeted cowards will crawl off into their holes and leave us alone. I don't have to stand for this. I'm not some wretched cowering slave. I'm --"
"—an Overseer?" she interrupted coldly.
Francis closed his mouth abruptly. No, that wasn't fair. She shouldn't have said that. He had the right to take revenge. Furious, he raised one hand, ready to knock Pat to the ground.
She just stood there staring at him. She had to know how much stronger he was, and she should have been afraid. The gun he had shoved into her hand was aimed only at the ground, not at him, despite his threatening posture.
Confronted by her calm defiance, Francis wilted. He lowered his fist. "Celine! What am I doing?"
"It's all right, boss. I know how it is. Old habits die hard." She tried an amused smile. "Maybe you should do like they do in Alcoholics Anonymous. You've heard of them, haven't you?"
He nodded shortly, wondering what she was getting at.
"Take it a day at a time," Pat went on. "Each day you don't torture someone, you're ahead."
"That's not funny," he said through clenched teeth. But the absurdity of what she had said was just humorous enough to begin to erode his rage a little.
"I know it," she replied, her smile fading into seriousness. "Francis, I want to show you something. Will you come with me?"
"Where? What is it?" he demanded, still on edge.
"Just trust me. You do trust me, don't you?"
Trust somebody? A human? Surely she couldn't know what she was asking. And yet, hadn't she proven herself a friend many times over? He ought to at least find out what she wanted. There was plenty of time. He could take Larry Hatfrey apart later. The man wasn't going anywhere.
He nodded, hoping she hadn't noticed the moment of hesitation.
"That's settled then. Get in my car."
Neither of them said a word as they drove away from the Inn and toward Cartersville. Pat took the turnoff that led across the high bridge to Turkle Island, but still she remained silent. She crossed the bridge, then headed down the road to the east end of the island, pulling into the parking lot at the public beach access.
Francis had never been here before. The air was foul with the smell of the ocean, but he had gotten used to that over the past year. it was only more concentrated than usual, that was all.
Pat got out of the car. "Come on," she said.
"This is where we're going? Pat --"
But she was already walking away. He got out and trotted reluctantly after her, following her up a path in the side of a small hill made of sand. The morning was gray and overcast, with a cool damp breeze blowing off the ocean.
As they crested the top of the hill, the panorama stretching before him took his breath away.
White-topped waves trooped in through Yaupon Inlet in serried ranks, the thunder of their deadly march making an ominous drumming against the shore. Off to the right, a rock jetty ran along the seaward end of the island, holding back the eroding sand. The black rocks protruded a short way out into the surf, where an occasional large wave threw itself against them with sufficient force to send up a glistening curtain of spray.
A few humans wandered along the beach dispiritedly. It wasn't a good day for sun-lovers, although a couple of people were out on the jetty fishing.
Francis stiffened, his hearts pounding faster at the awesome vista. Pat came over and slid her hand inside his elbow, as if to take his arm. "Come on," she said softly, pulling him toward the front face of the dune.
"Down there?! You must be crazy!"
"Don't worry, boss. I have no intention of taking you swimming. I just want to show you something ."
Francis swallowed the protest that rose to his lips. After all, she did know about newcomers and seawater. She couldn't be planning anything dangerous.
Very cautiously, he allowed her to lead him down the dune and over towards the foot of the rock jetty. She stopped at what she probably regarded as a safe distance from the churning water and flying spray, but it was a bit too close for Francis' peace of mind. The ocean was unpredictable, with its varying tides and wildly surging motion. He had visions of a huge wave rising over the jetty and crashing down on top of them.
"All right," he said shortly. "What is it you want to show me? Make it quick."
Pat stared tranquilly out at the water. "Look at it, boss. Just watch it for a minute."
"Damnit, I've been watching it! What do you expect me to see?"
Unperturbed, she continued to stare out to sea. A flock of brown pelicans flew by, skimming low over the waves in a ragged line.
"Relax. Tide's going out. It won't come any closer than it already is."
"How do you know?" he asked, curious despite his revulsion.
Pat pointed to the beach. "See that stretch of dark wet sand just above the waves? That's where water used to be, not long ago. If the tide were coming in, that sand would be dry and light-colored."
"Oh."
"Watch the waves break on the jetty, boss. They aren't as unpredictable and chaotic as they seem. Every so often, a few big ones come in, then smaller ones,
then bigger ones. And they only come up just so far. After a while, you'll see the extreme range of where the spray hits."
He studied the waves for a time. Now that Pat had brought it to his attention, he did begin to see a pattern in what he had assumed to be chaos. It wasn't quite as unpredictable as it had seemed.
"How much closer could we get without being splashed?" she asked casually. "Could we safely stand on that high rock over there, for instance?"
Francis considered. "No. But that flat one over towards the left would be okay."
"Let's do it."
"Pat –"
"Don't you trust your own judgement?" she asked sharply. "Is it safe, or isn't it?"
The rock surface was perfectly dry and well beyond the reach of the spray. All that held him back was his fear.
"It's safe," he admitted.
"Then come on."
Francis gritted his teeth and walked closer to the ocean. When Pat stepped up on the flat rock, he almost turned back. Then he joined her on top of the granite boulder, hardly daring to breathe.
Waves broke against the jetty, with an occasional one coming a bit closer than he could have wished, but still never so much as a drop of water reached them on their vantage point. The breeze wasn't strong enough to ruffle Pat's tight-curled hair, but it blew her collar up against her neck as she looked across the inlet.
After a time, she spoke, her voice barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the waves. "Now, does it still seem as awful?"
"No," he admitted grudgingly.
"Do you see what it is I wanted to show you?"
He frowned. What was she talking about? There was nothing here to see.
Nothing but the dreaded ocean, with himself standing at its edge, closer than he'd ever thought he'd be, but still safe and relatively calm.
He swallowed his pride and granted her the point, saying only, "That if you face your fear and learn to understand it, it loses much of its power over you?"
"You got it, boss. Now let's take it a little further. What do you fear? Other than the ocean, of course."
He didn't even have to think about that one. The thing he feared most was Piedra Frelani and her friends. But he couldn't say that. What came next? "The Klan."
Pat shook her head. "Too easy and too obvious. Try again. What do you fear?"
Not the Klan. But the bombs, the broken and burned bodies; surely, that was reasonable cause for being afraid. But was there something else, something he feared even more than pain and death? And even more than Piedra?
He remembered the searing rage that had filled his hearts, the exhilaration that had gripped him when he had thought of tearing Larry apart barehanded.
He bowed his head with shame. Pat was right.
"I fear being forced to become what I once was," he admitted, voice barely audible over the sound of the waves.
"And who is the only person in the world who could make you do that?"
Once more, her question took him by surprise. This time, he sorted through the obvious answers before replying. Who could force him? Larry, by orchestrating the attacks on himself and his friends? Piedra Frelani, by finding him and forcing him back into her service? No, that wasn't it. Human or newcomer, all they could do was hurt or kill him. They could never make him be anything.
Ah, that sounded good! But was it so? Hadn't Piedra made him into an Overseer? If she hadn't broken his spirit with her insidious tortures, then shown him the uses of power and offered that power to him --
He shook his head slightly. She may have done all that, but in the end, it was he who had chosen to take her offer, wasn't it?
Francis closed his eyes briefly and shivered. Then he looked at Pat and answered her question. "Me."
They stared at the waves for a few more minutes. Finally, Francis crossed his arms and turned to her.
"All right, you made your point. I'm not going after Larry. But if we have to play by the rules and they don't, we're never going to win. Maybe we've been wrong all along. Is it worth people dying, just so a few newcomers can live here? Is anything worth that, Pat?"
"It took my people 200 years to even get close to equality, boss. And women are still working at it, not to mention gays."
Her lips quirked upward in a suppressed smile and she punched him lightly on the arm. "But look how far we've come. Why, today there's a black man in the Klan, if I can believe what you say about Willy! And I just read in the paper that the Marine Corps is about to train the first group of women fighter pilots, over at the base in Willemton. If that's not progress --"
"This isn't funny," he objected. "Two Tenctonese are dead."
"I realize that, Francis. I didn't know Verna all that well, but she was my friend too."
She linked her arm through his and started leading him away from the water, all levity gone from her expression. "If there's one thing, I've learned in my life, it's that prejudice is not going to go away because you stop one person or one group of people. It's going to take longer than that. Expect to live with this all your life, but keep at it, and keep it out of your head. Let it be their problem, not yours, or you're lost before you begin." She glanced over at him as they plodded across the dune to the parking lot. "End of speech. Ready to go back to the Inn and put in a day's work?"
"Yeah. But there's something we've got to do first."
Pat raised an eyebrow in inquiry as she unlocked the car.
"We're going to have a little talk with Willy Roquist. And here's how we're going to do it."
Francis explained as they drove home.
"SueAnn," Pat greeted her front desk clerk, "you got any idea where our maintenance man is?"
"Yes, ma'am. Willy's supposed to be fixing the leak in the bathtub in -- um, let me see now –" she consulted the room rack -- "number 205."
"Thanks. C'mon, boss. Let's go take a look."
They climbed the stairs and headed along the corridor. Most of the rooms on this side were empty today, it being a Wednesday. A few of the even-numbered rooms across the hall were occupied, since those rooms looked out at the river, but the odd-numbered ones sold last, despite their lower price.
"Ready?" Francis asked softly.
When Pat nodded, he shoved the door open and strode across the room into the bathroom. Willy was squatting in the tub, surrounded by various pieces of the water faucet. Grabbing the startled maintenance man by the front of his shirt, Francis hauled him to his feet and pinned him up against the tile wall behind the tub.
"Where'd you get the bomb you planted at Dr. Lee's?" Francis demanded harshly.
"I dunno what you're talkin' about, man," Willy gasped. "You're crazy."
"Not half as crazy as you are if you think you can get away with this." Francis twisted the fabric of the shirt, squeezing his fists against the black man's neck. "You think I don't know you're in the Klan? I recognized you right away by your voice, you tert bastard. You're the one who whipped me, in fact."
Willy's eyes went even wider. "No, man. Not me. I wouldn't do that. No, sir,"
Francis tightened his grip and lifted his victim clear of the floor. Willy began to choke. He grabbed Francis' wrists and tried to get loose, but his considerable human strength was no match for the newcomer's.
Pat rushed into the bathroom, adding her strength to Willy's as she tried to pry Francis' fingers loose.
"Stop it, boss! Stop it! You'll kill him!" she protested urgently.
Francis smiled dangerously and let the man down. "No. I won't kill him. Not yet, anyway."
Willy coughed a few times and cursed softly. Even though the black human was several inches taller than he was, Francis managed to look down his nose at him and fix him with a cold glare. "If you didn't plant those bombs, who did? You had every opportunity, since you're my handyman and the Lee's gardener."
"If you thought I was one of them Klansmen, why'd you hire me in the first place?" Willy objected.
"To keep an eye on you, of course. Now stop trying to mislead me and start telling me where you got the explosives to make the bombs. That's Tenctonese stuff. It's not readily available to humans."
"Sure it is. The military's got it," Willy replied.
"Oh? Keep talking." Francis twisted his shirt collar again as a reminder.
"He can't talk, boss, if you keep choking him like that," Pat pointed out. On cue, Francis eased off.
Willy swallowed. "Now, look. Let's be reasonable. You got no call to blame me for --"
Willy stopped short when Francis brought his knee up into his groin. Pat shook her head and clicked her tongue in disapproval as the black man stifled a scream and tried unsuccessfully to double over.
Well, what do you know? Francis thought. It really does work on humans, doesn't it?
When Willy was able to talk again, his voice shook.
"Lady, call him off, willya? It wasn't my fault. I didn't want to --I mean, I didn't have no choice. I gotta do what they tell me."
"What did they tell you, Willy?" Pat asked. "Talk to me, and maybe I can convince him to let you go. If not --" She shrugged and rolled her eyes expressively --"Well, what's one more dead nigger, in this neck of the woods?"
Her words didn't have quite the effect she'd hoped for. "What would you know about dead niggers, Ms. Fisher?" he snarled. "You, with your college education and white folks' ways? Why, you don't even talk like one of us no more. But don't be foolin' yourself, girl. In their eyes, you're still a nigger. That ain't changed none."
Francis knew Pat well enough to be sure that insult had hit home, but he hoped she'd be able to ignore it and go on with this little game they were playing.
"What I am has little to do with anything, Willy. It's what you are that counts now, and you're a murderer."
"No! I didn't mean to kill those folks! They told me the house would be empty by the time the bomb went off. All we were doing was trying to scare off those uppity slags, to keep more of them from movin' in around here and takin' our jobs. I didn't mean to --"
"Who told you the house would be empty, Willy?" Francis asked, his voice projecting quiet menace.
"The -- the leader. And Jo. She said no one was gonna get hurt. All I had to do --" His voice faded out when he saw the look on Francis' face. "Don't kill me, man. I had to do it."
"Why?" Pat interjected. "What would have happened if you hadn't?"
Willy just looked sullen, so Francis figured it was his move again. "You are trying my patience, tert bastard --" he began.
Pat interrupted quickly. "Willy, I think you'd better start talking to us."
The black man's eyes darted from Pat to Francis and back again. Surprisingly, he gave a low chuckle. "You're playin' good cop/bad cop, ain'tcha? I seen them do that on TV."
Francis still held Willy's collar with both hands. Willy's eyes flickered quickly to the edge of the black tattoo that showed from under Francis' shirtsleeve, then up to meet the newcomer's eyes. "If someone like you really meant to hurt me, I'd be dead by now," he stated carefully. "Ain't that true?"
Francis dropped his hold on the other man and stepped back, nodding his head and concurring, "Very dead. Yes."
With a rather nervous laugh, Willy slumped down to sit on the edge of the bathtub. "You really had me goin' there for a while."
"Willy, need I remind you that you're far from in the clear?" Pat said silkily. "You just admitted that you planted those bombs, and I'd still like to know why. What would Larry Hatfrey have done if you'd refused?"
At the mention of Larry's name, Willy groaned and closed his eyes. "You know about -- him?"
"Oh, we've known about him for a long time, haven't we, Pat?" Francis said, leaning back against the washbasin in what he hoped was a relaxed stance. "Don't tell me you humans think that hiding behind a mask makes you invisible? Sooner or later, someone sees through the disguise."
"Why, Willy?" Pat persisted. "Why would you do such a thing? You don't seem like a bad man --"
His expression changed abruptly. "You don't know nothin' about me, girl," he said viciously. "You really want to know what happened?" Pat nodded. "All right, then keep that educated mouth of yours shut for a coupla minutes and I'll tell you."
Pat scowled at the insult but didn't say anything.
"I grew up in the city, where there ain't no way for a black man to make real money except sellin' drugs or sellin' women. When I got out of jail last time, I decided I'd had enough of that. I moved here, married a good woman, had a kid." He stopped for a minute, rubbing a hand over his face. "Can't hardly read or write, so I couldn't get me a decent job, but my wife cleans rooms at the new Sheraton out on Turkle Island and I did a little gardening here and there, washed dishes in restaurants in the summertime, that sort of thing. We weren't doin' very good, but we weren't on welfare neither. I finally got a job on a road maintenance crew but then I got fired."
He looked at Francis, his lips tightening. "They hired one of you guys instead, because you're stronger. Then --" he hesitated, taking a deep breath -- "Larry Hatfrey come to me, talkin' 'bout a job with Seagull Development. It was good money, man. I had to take it."
"So what happened?" Pat prompted.
"I started out doing regular work for him. You know, fixing up old buildings, that sort of thing. Best job I'd ever had. Then he came to me one night, little over a year ago. Started talkin' about all the slags movin' in, takin' our jobs. That kinda thing. When he brought up the Klan, that made me real worried-like, but he said it was different now, we were all humans and we had to stand together against the slags.
"At first I didn't want no part of it, but he told me I wouldn't have a job if I didn't join. Well, all right, I figured to join, but not really do anything, know what I mean?"
Francis nodded encouragingly. "Go on."
"It felt weird. Those white robes and all. The first time we burned a cross on someone's lawn, I almost set myself on fire, I was that scared. But after the time when you showed up, I'd had enough." He looked at Francis, pleading for understanding. "If you'd screamed or something when I was whippin' you, I don't think I could have gone on. Shit, man, I been in fistfights and stuff like that when I hadda, but I don't even spank my own kid!" Willy shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face again.
"Anyway, after that I tried to tell Larry I wanted out, but he wouldn't allow it. Said he knew about my time in jail, and if I tried to quit, he'd see that everyone else knew about it too, then no one would hire me." He looked up at them, his voice rough. "I had to do it. I needed the money. My kid gotta eat."
Pat was scowling. "There are other ways to earn a living."
"Sure. Tell me you would have hired me, knowin' I was a ex-con."
Pat tried to say something, then closed her eyes and shook her head. Willy nodded, satisfied that he'd scored his point.
"It was Larry's idea for me to go to work for you, and later on for the Lees. He's been payin' me my regular salary in addition to what I get from you," Willy went on. "I been tellin' him how it's goin' here, how busy you been, that kinda thing."
"Tell me about the bomb," Francis said softly. He put his hand on the human's shoulder in what he hoped would be interpreted as a gesture of sympathy. But even as he did so, he realized it was more than just an act. Willy was clearly upset over what he had done.
"I didn't know what it was, the first time. They just said to leave that box near the end of the empty wing, that's all. Got me a big bonus for that too. But I didn't know it was a bomb. I saw you carry it into the woods, but it never went off or nothin' --"
"What did you think it was, a birthday present?"
"I didn't think, man! I couldn't afford to think!" His voice cracked. He cleared his
throat and stared at a point somewhere beyond Francis' shoulder. "I only figured it out after -- after I left the one at Dr. Lee's. Then I remembered --"
Francis wasn't sure why, but he believed the black man's story. He himself had had a taste of being relatively poor ever since he'd tied all his money up in the Inn. He had some idea what it was like to be in a financial vise, and he didn't even have a wife or children to worry about. It did something to your self-esteem. Something nasty. And, although he knew he himself was hardly as bad off as Willy might have been, he remembered some of the things he had done for money in the past and was ashamed.
But he had to put that aside for now. The main thing was to get information while Willy was still in the mood to give it out.
"Who's this Jo you mentioned earlier?"
"You don't want to mess with her!"
It was a woman, then. From the ambiguous name, he hadn't been sure. "Who is she?"
"She's a Marine, from the air station up near Willemton. Good with weapons, grenades, stuff like that."
Ah, yes. That would be the woman Murray had spoken of. No doubt the same one who had thrown the knife at him at the Klan rally they had disrupted.
"Her last name?"
Willy looked away. "Dunno," he mumbled.
"Oh, you know, all right. Tell us who she is," Pat said. "Unless, of course, you'd rather explain all this to the police?"
Willy's shoulders shook in a huge sigh. "Aw, shit," he breathed in defeat. "Her name's Sanzari. She's a captain, I think. At least, I heard someone call her that once."
"Tell us more about this Captain Sanzari," Francis said.
"I can't." He held up a hand to forestall any objections. "I don't know much about her, other than that she's in that new program the Marines have got. You know, the one where they're trainin' women to be fighter pilots?"
"What's so new about teaching women to fly airplanes?" Francis asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Not airplanes, boss. Fighter planes. Women Marines haven't been allowed in that sort of combat position before."
"Why would anyone want to be?"
Pat sighed softly. "I'll explain it some other time. Just take it from me, it's something she wants badly, if she's a gung-ho Marine-type."
Stifling his automatic question about how a gung-ho Marine differed from an ordinary one, Francis made a mental note to ask about it later.
Willy had listened to their interchange in silence, but his thoughts seemed to have been elsewhere. "What are you gonna do to me now that you know about the bombs? You gonna turn me over to the cops?"
His attention pulled back to the present, Francis replied, "I'm not going to do anything to you. I want you to keep right on working at the Inn, same as before."
"Boss, do you think that's wise?" Pat interjected.
"I think Willy's not going to plant anymore bombs. And I think he's not going to tell Larry about our little talk. Am I right?"
The black man nodded enthusiastically.
"Good. Then we'll just let things go on as they were for a while longer, except instead of Willy being a spy for the Klan, he'll be a spy for us. Have we got a deal?"
Willy looked suspicious. "Why you doin' this, man? Why you want to trust me, after I whipped you and done these other awful things?"
Francis fixed him with a level gaze. "I've done far worse than that, and yet there are people who have trusted me."
Only the flicker of the man's black eyes down to Francis' wrist gave away the fact that he understood what the newcomer was talking about.
"Come on, Pat. Let's get out of here and let our maintenance man get on with his repair job."
As they walked down the hall, Pat said, "He's going to go right to Larry, boss."
"I don't think so."
"You don't know humans the way I do."
"You don't know guilt the way I do."
"Boss --"
He held up one hand to forestall her objection. "I know we're taking a chance. But what could I do? If we fire Willy, Larry will know we're on to him and he'll find some other way to keep track of us. I'm not entirely sure we can trust Willy either, but it's usually better to have an enemy you know, instead of one you don't."
"Hold on a minute," Pat said, grabbing his shirtsleeve and pulling him down to sit on the stairs next to her. "I just had a thought. Do you reckon perhaps bombing the Lees' house was meant to be a distraction? Knowing Larry Hatfrey's interest in building his resort, isn't his main target likely to be the Inn, rather than a doctor's house? Oh sure, anything that puts down an uppity slag -- and Dr. Lee and his sister were certainly uppity, buying that fancy house and all -- is definitely on his agenda. But don't you think his real interest is where his money is? And that's us."
"I came to that conclusion too. I think we can expect more trouble in the near future," he said grimly.
"So what are we going to do now?"
"We're going find out about this Jo Sanzari. If we can take her out of action, that ought to put a crimp in Larry's plans. He'll need someone else to do his dirty work. Or he'll have to do it himself."
"People like that can always find someone else to do their dirty work, boss."
"Maybe so. But let's see what we can find out about Captain Sanzari, since we can't pin anything directly on Larry yet."
But any further action in that direction had to wait for a couple of days. Verna Dixon and Robert Lee had to be mourned and laid to rest first.
Verna's funeral was every bit as gut-wrenching as Francis had feared it would be. Leaning heavily on Richard's shoulder, Dix could hardly stop crying long enough to join in the funeral chant at the cemetery. Jane was there, her head wrapped in a turban of bandages, her face pale and drawn. Even Gypsy appeared, sitting in a wheelchair with her injured leg propped up on the footrest. Scarlett had literally taken charge of the smaller woman, insisting that Gypsy move into her house with her until her injuries healed and other arrangements could be made.
As the dirt fell on Verna's coffin and the mourners turned away to leave, Dix's red-rimmed eyes caught on Francis. The big man glared. *You,* he said. *This is all your fault. Verna wanted to move away, until your fancy speech at the coupling ceremony changed her mind.*
*Hush,* Richard interrupted, trying to draw his friend away. *It wasn't his fault. We all made our own choices.*
*No! It's his fault. He made her want to stay.*
Breaking away from Richard's grasp, Dix strode over to stand in front of Francis. A human news reporter, not understanding the words but evidently noting the hostile intent, turned and headed their way, camera in hand.
*Dix, I could not have made you and Verna stay even if I had intended to,* Francis pointed out calmly. *Making you do anything is not in my power.*
Dix refused to be mollified. *On the Ship, you made us do whatever you wanted. On the Ship --*
Francis cut him off quickly. *We are no longer on the Ship. Your choices are your own now, as are the consequences of those choices.*
*Don't preach at me, Overseer!*
*It is not my intention to preach,* Francis said, keeping his voice quiet and reasonable. *I am merely pointing out the facts.*
Nervously, he tugged his right sleeve down to be sure it covered his tattoo.
Dix grabbed his arm and said viciously, *Don't bother trying to hide it, pal. We all know who and what you are.* He smiled as he twisted Francis' wrist in an uncomfortable direction. *The facts are that my wife is dead, and it's your fault.*
Francis didn't try to pull free. Yes, Dix. In a way, it is my fault. But not in the way you imagine. If I had done something to stop Larry, perhaps --
He dismissed that thought. Private misgivings wouldn't help things now.
The human reporter watched them intently, but so far hadn't taken any pictures. For both Dix's sake and his own, Francis had to stop this soon. But he wasn't sure how.
Jane stepped forward, placing a hand on Dix's arm.
*Please don't,* she said softly. *Such actions at a time like this show no honor to the dead.*
The big man released his grip, flinging Francis' hand away as if it were contaminated. But he still stood there glaring, despite Jane's effort to draw him away.
*There is something more worthy of consideration than who's to blame,* Jane went on. *Verna was to have taught Sandy of our traditions. Perhaps you have someone you would like to recommend to take her place?*
Jane's attempt at distraction might have worked, if Dix hadn't been staring directly at Francis. *You,* he said through clenched teeth. *You do it, if you dare.*
*I would be honored, Dix,* Francis replied mildly. *But by our own tradition, a binnaum may not be a teacher of one of the Pillars. Perhaps there is someone else?*
*You're not a binnaum. You're an abomination,* Dix grated through clenched teeth. Francis had to force himself not to flinch.
*But you're right,* the big man conceded at last. His angry gaze raked the little group of newcomers. He pointed vindictively at Gypsy. *She survived, while my wife died. Let her take Verna's place.*
Gypsy's eyes went wide, then she looked down at her lap, saying softly, *I -- I haven't made up my mind if I'm going to stay here in Cartersville or not. I don't know --*
*Well now,* Dix interrupted sarcastically, *you move down here with your brother and buy a big fancy house, which draws the attention of the humans. Then as soon as things go wrong, you're ready to run. Figures.*
Scarlett stepped around the wheelchair in front of Gypsy, hands on hips. *Now, see here, Mason Dixon, if you think you're going to badger this poor woman at a time like this, you've got another think coming.*
As the big woman stopped to take a breath, Gypsy interrupted in her quiet voice, *No, Scarlett. I -- I believe I have made up my mind after all. I'm going to stay. And I will be a teacher to this child.* Then she stopped, glancing hesitantly at Jane and Richard as her confidence evaporated. *That is, if -- if you'll have me.*
Husband and wife looked at each other for a long moment. Then Jane nodded slightly.
*We would be honored and pleased,* Richard replied.
With a broad smile, Jane went over and hugged Gypsy. Deciding to take advantage of this photogenic moment, the human photographer snapped a few shots of the two survivors of the bomb blast comforting each other.
*So be it then,* Francis announced smoothly. *Gypsy Rose Lee shall teach our traditions to the child, Sandovyn.*
*So let it be,* came the response from the assembled newcomers.
*Fools!* Dix spat as he turned on his heel and strode away.
As a direct result of Verna's death, three newcomers moved away and one middle-aged couple decided to have a child. Francis was both pleased and surprised when they asked him to be the catalyst.
John and Rosa Milton were fairly well off, by Cartersville standards. They invited most of the Tenctonese community to the ceremonies, where sour milk flowed like water and the tables almost collapsed from the sheer weight of the delicacies loaded upon them.
The morning after the coupling, Francis dragged himself out of bed, feeling much the worse for wear. He dressed quickly and went out to sit in a lounge chair in front of his cottage, waiting for his brain to get back into gear. The early summer heat wasn't too bad, but the humidity was high today and there was no breeze. He was just contemplating the possibility of making himself some iced coffee when Pat came out the front door of the Inn with a glass in her hand and headed his way.
"Morning, boss," she greeted him cheerfully as she set down the glass on the flat arm of his chair. "Figured you might want some of this."
He hardly needed the distinctive smell to know she had brought exactly what he had been thinking about. Although caffeine didn't do much to cure the aftereffects of overindulgence in sour milk, he had to admit that it did taste good.
"You know," she remarked, "it's awful hot today. You'd be much more comfortable in a t-shirt instead of those long-sleeved shirts you insist on wearing." She stopped a moment, studying his profile. "You don't have to hide the tattoo, boss."
"When one of my own people tells me that, I may believe it," he said sourly.
Pat shrugged. Undaunted, she pulled up a metal lawnchair and sat down. "So how'd the coupling go?"
"Fine. Just fine. Why?"
"Oh, just wondered. I know you were pretty nervous last time, with Jane --"
He waved a hand in dismissal. "Well, what with someone tossing a grenade into the room and all, can you blame me?"
"You were nervous before the grenade."
"True," he admitted. "But I think I'm getting used to it now." He grinned smugly. "Guess I'd better, considering that the Redfords prepositioned me last night also."
"That's 'propositioned', boss." She shook her head. "You're getting more action than I am these days."
"Pat --"
She held up a hand. "Yeah, I know. Don't say it. Serves me right for falling for a married woman, doesn't it?" She shrugged. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll get over Jane -- someday."
Seeing the pain on her face, Francis didn't pursue the subject.
Pat recovered her composure quickly. "Speaking of Jane, she called me about an hour ago to tell me about the ceremony." Being neither Tenctonese nor a friend of the Miltons, Pat hadn't been invited this time. "She said you seemed a little upset when you left, after Mr. Milton talked to you. Anything wrong?"
Damn! Jane would have to notice that.
"Oh, it was nothing important. They wanted to give me some money as a gift, that's all. Of course, I refused."
"Well, perhaps since they figured they hadn't had to go all the way to the nearest branch of the Order in New York, it was worth it to --"
"That's not the point!" he interrupted her angrily. "Binnaums aren't supposed to get paid. That's -- well, that's a human perversion."
Oh, is it now? whispered an ironic voice in his mind. Francis squirmed.
Pat looked interested. "You mean you folks never had anything like prostitution? Must be nice."
"Uh -- well." Francis cleared his throat and started over. "Not on Tencton, no. Or at least so I was taught. On earth, though, some of us discovered -- uh -- ways of making money by selling – I mean --"
Unable to meet her eyes any longer, he looked away, mumbling, "Oh, damn."
"Boss, is something wrong? I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I was only curious."
He shook his head, fighting down the sick feeling in his stomach. Did he dare to tell her? The humans always claimed it helped to confide in someone, if something was bothering you. He wasn't so sure. And yet, Pat was his friend. She wouldn't turn against him if he told her about his past. He could never say this to a newcomer, but perhaps a human might understand?
"For a while, after we landed on earth, I was -- " What word can I use? "— affiliated -- with someone -- " Piedra Frelani "-- who sold my services to people --" Mostly Overseers "-- who didn't want to bother with the ethics and ceremonies of the Order. I made money --" A lot of money "-- that way."
"Oh. Okay. I see."
"No, I don't think you do. it isn't quite the same as for humans. A binnaum is -- special. Sacred."
"All people are special, boss."
"Yes, of course. But I'm supposed to be --" He shrugged, at a loss for the proper way to make it clear to her. "By surrounding the act of procreation with ceremony, we give it a meaning beyond the merely biological. I realized that at the Wagners' coupling ceremony, when I did it the way it was supposed to be done for the first time in my life. A binnaum is a symbol, not just an individual. I have dragged a sacred trust through filth. Dix was right to name me an abomination," he finished bitterly.
A large silver-gray car drove down the road toward the Inn, the smooth purr of its motor interrupting the quiet of the morning. Pat glanced at it once, then returned her attention to Francis, reaching across the distance that separated them to lay a hand on his arm. "Boss, you must have had some reason. You needed money --" she suggested.
"Not that much money!! And not that badly! And not that kind of money. The people I was affiliated with were Overseers, Pat. The money came from lots of illegal things: the drug trade, prostitution of Tenctonese women, gambling on things that make your culture's dogfights look like fun, and probably worse things that I don't even know about." Clenching his fists against the sides of his head, he crouched forward until his elbows touched his knees. "I was a whore," he whispered. "A whore in the pay of some pretty disgusting people."
"Did you have a reason?"
"Greed."
"Only that, boss?"
"Fear," he admitted. "Fear of what they'd do if I tried to get out."
"But you did get out?"
He nodded, still hunched over on himself.
But don't ask about how and why I got out. I couldn't bear to tell you. I can't tell anyone about that.
Mercifully, the buzzer on the portable phone at Pat's belt went off before she could say anything more. There was someone at the Front Desk who wanted her. She got up and took a few steps towards the Inn, then turned suddenly to face him.
"Boss, you're not the only one who's sold himself for money. I did it once. I know how it feels."
Considerably astonished, Francis took a deep breath and lowered his hands until he could take hold of the arms of the chair. He raised his head, watching Pat walk away across the lawn and asking himself if he did indeed feel better for having confided some of the reason for his guilt to her.
Yes, there was a certain amount of lightness in one of the dark corners of his mind. She hadn't turned on him or accused him of being a monster. She had even seemed to understand, a little. Or maybe more than a little, considering her parting comment.
Now if he could only tell her the rest of it. About the ship, and Piedra, and how nice it could be to have the sort of power he'd had. Why, even here on earth, he'd never lacked for money and the power money could buy, as long as he hadn't been too particular about what he did to earn that money. Now that he was trying to do the right thing, it was all he could do to keep the bills paid.
Something must be badly out of balance in the human economy if vice was rewarded while virtue went hungry.
He shook his head. No use blaming the humans. Any way you looked at it, power was power, and power constantly tried to maintain and expand itself. But he'd never be able to tell Pat about the Ship, or about how he'd finally been persuaded to run away from Piedra. She wouldn't understand. No one would.
Getting up from the chair, he prepared to locate Willy and see about getting the lawn mowed. It was about time some of those bushes were pruned also. Maybe a bit of physical work would help steady his nerves.
He hadn't gotten much further than the tool shed when Willy suddenly appeared, an agitated expression on his face.
"The boss lady wants you at the desk," he said nervously. "She says it's important." Glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the main building, Willy added, "Larry Hatfrey's here. Says he wants to talk to you both."
Hatfrey? At the Front Desk? What could he want?
"I'll be workin' in the garden by the door, boss," Willy said tentatively. "In case there's any trouble. You know."
But Francis was already out of the toolshed and on his way to the Inn. The fancy gray Cadillac parked out front had a seagull painted on the door, with the name
of the real estate agency in elaborate calligraphy beneath it.
Francis scowled at the car as he went through the door. He was still frowning when he followed the voices to the rec room and found Larry Hatfrey, impeccably and expensively dressed as always, sitting in one of the chairs. Held deftly between two manicured fingers, a cigarette emitted a spiraling coil of smoke, fouling the room's atmosphere.
The human rose to his feet, smiling. Much to his own annoyance, Francis could detect nothing phony or insincere in the other man's cheerful expression. He knew full well this was the local Klan leader, but there was no hard evidence that could be used against the man, even if Francis had dared to try to get the law to prosecute him.
"Ah, Mr. Bernardone," Larry said, extending the hand without the cigarette. "I was just complimenting your partner on the appearance of the Inn. Hard to believe it was a broken down ruin only a year ago."
Francis shook hands reluctantly. "To what do we owe this visit?" he asked, trying to sound at least marginally polite.
"Why, I've come to do you a favor. I know of someone who'd like to buy this place. I have a client who has authorized me to offer you nearly double what you paid for it." His smile spread even wider, if that was possible. "I'm sure you'll agree that's a very generous offer. A nice profit for both you and Ms. Fisher."
Double their money? Francis hadn't expected that much.
"That certainly is a tempting offer, Mr. Hatfrey," he replied slowly. "Tell me, why is this client of yours so interested in our humble motel?"
Larry's grin lost a little of its shine and he shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sure I don't know. After all, a real estate agent's business is to sell property, not inquire into his client's plans."
"Uh-huh," Francis said sourly. "Isn't your real motive to get our property to use as part of your resort?"
The human looked distinctly uncomfortable now. "I'm afraid I really don't know what you're talking about. I don't own a resort."
The memory of what had been left of Verna's mangled body as it lay in its coffin flashed through Francis' mind. And Jane's bandaged head, Gypsy's leg --
The murderous rage he had barely been able to suppress after the bombing began to rise to the surface. He took a step toward Larry. "You and your friends
couldn't scare us off, so you're going to try to buy us off. Right?"
Larry drew back from the menace in the newcomers voice. "I take it you decline my offer, then?"
"You're damn right we decline! I wouldn't sell out to you, you miserable son-of-a --"
Pat's hand on his arm held him back, as she said softly in Tenctonese, *Remember the ocean?*
Francis turned away, trying to rein in his rage. Larry used the moment to address himself to Pat.
"I don't believe your – partner -- consulted you before refusing my offer, Ms. Fisher. Perhaps you feel differently about it?" he asked, voice silken.
"Sorry, but our refusal stands." She smiled her dazzling smile. "Money can't buy everything, Mr. Hatfrey."
"That has not been my experience, Ms. Fisher. Everything in this world has a price." His voice had grown harder.
The cynical remark grated across Francis' hearts. He longed to be able to make a self-righteous denial, but couldn't.
"Perhaps you have a price, sir," Pat went on smoothly. "We don't. The Atlantic Inn is not for sale."
Larry drew himself up to his full height and snorted. "Very well. I tried to do it the nice way, but you wouldn't listen. The day will come when you'll wish you had taken me up on this offer."
"If we're making predictions," Francis said carefully, "I'll make one of my own. The day will come when you'll wish you had never seen a burning cross, much less planted one on our lawn."
"Fools!" Larry said bitterly, as he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
Yellow fire bloomed in the darkness. As it fell to earth, a series of white flashes exploded haphazardly among the fading sparks. Sharp cracks of sound reverberated along the river.
Reclining on a lawn chair, Francis watched the rapt expressions on the faces of the humans as the latest burst of Fourth of July fireworks slipped down the sky. The fireworks were being set off from the bridge at Cartersville, courtesy of Seagull Realty. Although the bridge was several miles downriver, the view was excellent.
As a series of red and blue streamers burst outward into a sparkling ball, Francis reflected with satisfaction on the irony of Larry's money providing entertainment for his guests.
The portable phone clipped to his belt beeped out its electronic tone. Absently, he pressed the button and lifted the receiver to his ear.
"Mr. Bernardone?"
"Yes?"
"This is Willy. Jo will be coming to pay you a visit later on tonight, and she'll be bringin' her own kind of fireworks. She'll come through the woods, where the road on Larry's property loops around by the saltmarsh."
"Willy? How do you --" But Francis found himself talking only to a dial tone.
*#Andarko,* he whispered softly as he turned off the phone. Repeated explosions from the fireworks continued to echo through the early evening, but they conjured up a vision far different from the colorful blossoms of light he was watching in the sky. Francis stared at their reflection on the river and considered what to do about this latest development.
Could he trust Willy? Maybe the warning was only a lie, an attempt by the Klan to make him call the police for what would turn out to be an embarrassing false alarm.
An expensive false alarm. With the Inn booked to capacity for the holiday weekend, such a thing would be bad publicity. They couldn't afford to have their guests scared away.
But what if it was for real?
Patcame over and lowered herself into a lawnchair beside him, a glass of lemonade in her hand. "How'd you like the grand finale? Pretty spectacular, wasn't it?"
When he didn't reply, she shrugged and continued, "What was the phone call about? Anything important?"
"No. Just a question about availability next weekend."
"Oh. Well, I hope they call back. We need the business."
When he didn't answer, Pat went back to mingling with the guests.
Francis didn't spend much time wondering what to do. The fireworks had ended, so most of the guests were trickling back to their rooms. A few remained in lounge chairs, sipping drinks or conversing quietly. Pat sat with one of their rare newcomer guests, probably taking the opportunity to practice her Tenctonese.
He strolled casually over to the rec room and ducked inside. Leaning over the Desk, he took Pat's revolver from its drawer, checked that it was loaded and the safety was on, and slipped it into his pocket. This done, he went back out to the lawn and caught Pat's eye. Excusing herself, the black woman headed his way, trading pleasantries with an elderly couple as she passed.
"What's up, boss?" she asked once she was close enough that no one else could hear.
"Oh, nothing much. Just wanted to let you know that I'll be out patrolling the grounds again tonight."
She arched one eyebrow. "You expecting trouble?"
"Not really, but it is a holiday and with all the excitement in town -- well, you know. Anything can happen when people start drinking and partying. I just want to be sure our guests aren't disturbed."
"You sure that's all? You look kind of spooked."
He shrugged and tried to look less spooked. "All that noise from the explosions kind of set my nerves on edge."
"Explosions? You mean the fireworks going off? Surely that's not enough to bother anyone."
"It is if you've got Tenctonese ears," he replied, grimacing dramatically.
Pat chuckled. "Yeah, I see your point. Okay, I'll expect you to be roaming around. Watch out for any stray firecrackers, boss."
I wish it were only firecrackers I'm worried about, Francis thought as he strode toward the shadowed woods.
Three hours later, he was still walking along the southern border of their property, concentrating on the area where Willy had claimed Jo would come from. It was a simple matter to watch the road on Larry's property from under the shelter of the trees on his side of the boundary, as most of the trees had been cut down on Larry's side. The light from a half moon illuminated the landscape, but dark shadows pooled beneath the trees. Francis could see well in the shadows, but a human wouldn't be able to do so. He only hoped Willy had been right about Jo's plans. If she were even now approaching the Inn from the opposite direction, he'd have a true disaster on his hands.
For the thousandth time he wondered if he could trust Willy's tip. Maybe the man had been lying. Maybe Larry suspected his loyalty and he'd been fed the wrong info deliberately. Maybe it would have been a good idea to call the police.
And maybe that was the distant hum of a car engine off on Route 50.
Swiveling his head, Francis listened intently as the noise changed timbre and direction, turning off the highway and coming towards him. Before long, a sleek
sports car appeared on the road, slowing to a stop at a point almost directly opposite Francis' hiding place.
The door opened, momentarily creating a bright splash of light. A slender figure clad in black got out and then leaned back into the car, emerging with a package. That had to be Jo.
She closed the car door. In the renewed darkness, Francis watched her pick her way across the swampy field towards the trees to her left. He circled quietly around in that direction, keeping track of her with eyes and ears. She crossed the property line, heading unerringly for one of the Inn's walking trails. Francis let her reach the trail, then stationed himself in the bushes alongside a sharp bend, just before the trail turned out into open ground and up onto the low boardwalk that took hikers over and across a three-acre stretch of soggy swamp.
Jo came into sight, moving with surprising lack of noise for a human in the dark. Francis let her come up even with him before he spoke.
"I think it's about time we had a little talk, Captain Sanzari."
She swivelled to face him, dropping into a crouch.
"I wouldn't try anything if I were you. I have a gun," he warned, stepping out onto the trail.
She froze. Seeing who he was, she began to curse luridly.
"That wasn't quite the sort of talk I had in mind," Francis cut in. "I hoped you might tell me something about that package you're carrying, and who put you up to all this."
Her face changed, going from anger to wariness. "No one had to put me up to it, slag. It's my own idea. Someone's got to get rid of you bastards before you contaminate our country with your alien ideas --" She raked him with a contemptuous glance -- "Not to mention your alien bodies."
"Standard Purist cant, Ms. Sanzari. Surely a person as intelligent as yourself can see beyond that."
Her lip curled. "All I can see is slag scum undermining our culture. No one asked you to move down south. You should have stayed in California, with all the rest of the liberal, unpatriotic assholes. We don't want you here."
"Sanzari," Francis said thoughtfully. "Isn't that an Italian name? I don't seem to recall reading about any Italians on the Mayflower. Didn't most of them come to America much later on?"
"I know what you're saying, spongehead. But at least we're humans, not some other sort of creature. Even the niggers have more right to this planet than you
do."
Well, that attempt at appealing to her reason didn't work so well. Time to try another tack. He'd been able to get Murray out of the Klan by showing it was still anti-Semitic. What might work on this human woman? Perhaps if he could find out more about her, that would give him a clue.
"Captain Sanzari, you are a Marine, are you not?"
"Yeah, slag. What's it to you?"
"Oh, I just wondered. I understand there's now a program at the base in Willemton to train the first women fighter pilots, but I don't supposed you're part of
that," he said innocently. "It must take an exceptional woman to qualify."
She threw her head back and glared at him proudly, her package still clutched to her side. "You bet I'm in it. I've been teaching new recruits to fly for years. Now it's gonna be my turn to get some of the glory."
"It must have been hard, for a woman."
She shrugged. "I've had my problems. You just gotta be better than anyone else, that's all. And things got better for women in the military after the Gulf War back in 91. We showed we could do it. Despite some civilian complaining and some resistance from the old guard, women are getting into combat positions now. It won't be long before everything will be open to us."
An image popped into Francis' mind, a Marine Corps recruiting poster he had seen once. Three people stood at stiff attention, in elaborate dress uniforms: a white male, a black male, and a white woman. The caption read, "The Few, the Proud." Jo would have looked right at home on that poster.
Then it struck him. This was what the humans called the Warrior Archetype. She was one of those proud few who risked their lives to defend truth and right and freedom, not one of the easy-living civilians who sat back and took things for granted. She was one of the strong ones who stood on the front lines in the battle against evil. She was capable, confident, not afraid to act for her cause.
He reflected uncomfortably that many of the Overseers saw themselves in much the same way. For a while, he had felt that way himself.
He looked at Jo, standing straight and proud, sure of her own cause, lethal package of akondiit held casually and without fear.
Yes, this was the Warrior all right. But while the Warrior is capable of sacrificing much and doing much good, it is also the archetype most capable of desecration, because of its vast potential for destruction. It could be bad enough serving a just cause, but in the service of evil --
Francis reminded himself he'd best tread very lightly indeed with this one.
"I suppose that little giftbox under your arm was meant for the Inn?" he asked.
Jo smiled. "Close, but no cigar, slag. This one was meant for you personally. Too many humans around to risk blowing the main building right now." She sneered slightly. "Although for my money, any human who'd patronize a slag business deserves what they get."
"Oh? Then you'd prefer to attack the Inn, but someone else told you not to?"
"Won't work, pal," she replied. "I told you, I'm in this on my own. There is no 'someone else'."
Forget about tricking her into incriminating Larry. That obviously wasn't going to work.
"Did you get the akondiit from the military?" Francis asked, stalling for time until he could think of his next move. If worse came to worst, he'd simply turn her in to the police, but he'd rather settle this some other way. "I didn't think humans dared use the stuff."
"Some humans do. But I'm not saying where I got it. I'm not about to tell you anything at all, slag, so let's get on with this. What are you going to do with me? I warn you, I have no intention of letting you turn me in. I'll die first."
She sounded as if she meant it, too.
"You won't have that choice, Captain. If you try to run away, I don't have to shoot you to stop you. I can easily run you down and overpower you. We slags are strong, remember?"
"I've got other ways, spongehead. And I won't hesitate to take you with me if I go."
She had to mean the bomb. Perhaps the timer was already running? No, that would have been too risky. She was delivering this one herself, so she wouldn't connect it until she was sure it was in place and then she'd no doubt set it to go off quickly.
But he knew akondiit and he knew it was touchy stuff. It would take only a few seconds to set it off immediately, if she wanted to.
Francis debated taking the bomb away from her, but decided to risk letting her keep it for now. Overconfident, she might let something slip. He was sure he could get it away from her quickly, if he had to.
She didn't fear death, then. He couldn't get to her that way. But what did she fear? What was worse than death, to a Warrior? The answer to that was simple.
"Captain, if you force me to turn you over to the police, I certainly shall. How would the headlines look, do you imagine? One of the chosen few women in the training program, a common murderer? What would your commanding officer think about that sort of publicity? How would your fellow officers regard you then?"
For the first time, uncertainty showed in her expression. "I told you, slag, I won't let it come to that."
"Ah, but are you sure you can make that stick?"
"What do you want from me? Why haven't you turned me in already, or just killed me?"
"I was hoping for a confession, Jo. I was hoping to learn more about the Klan from you. I even thought I might be able to convince you to drop out of the Klan, and make a solemn vow never to harm newcomers again. Then perhaps the police need never know what happened here tonight."
"What makes you think my promise would stop me?"
"You're a person with a sense of honor. I believe you would not break such a vow, once it was made."
He knew he could be way out on a limb here, but the one thing a true Warrior valued was honor. It was just possible he might get to her this way.
For a moment, it seemed as if she might agree. Then she straightened her shoulders and glared at him defiantly. "No deal, slag. Not with the likes of you."
Francis tightened his grip on the revolver in his hand, sensing she might be about to make a break for it. Suddenly, from the bushes at the side of the path a bright light flashed on, dazzling his eyes.
"I reckon this has gone about far enough. Drop the gun, slag."
The light temporarily blinded Francis' night-adapted eyes, but he recognized Willy's voice. He'd been betrayed after all. He held on to the gun, considering the possibility of getting the traitor before Willy could kill him.
"I said to drop it, slag," Willy repeated, voice hard. "I got me a heavy-duty hunting rifle aimed right at you, and I sho' nuff know how to use it."
Francis flung the revolver far into the tangled foliage in the opposite direction from Willy's voice, hoping to keep Jo from finding it.
Willy stepped out from the bushes, rifle trained unwaveringly on Francis. The flashlight must have been propped in a tree, as the light didn't move. Jo took a step towards the shadows where Francis had tossed his gun, but Willy stopped her by saying, "Don't bother. You got more important things to do tonight than search for that little toy."
She grinned and patted the box under her arm. "Damn right I do. You sure showed up at the right time, Willy-boy. Guess the Lord's looking out for me tonight."
"The Lord ain't got nothin' to do with it. I set it up by warning the slag that you was comin'. Figured if I got the drop on him this way, we could make real sure he was in bed when you blew his cabin to hell."
"That wasn't necessary. I'd have got him."
"Don't hurt none to be sure." He jerked his chin in Francis' direction. "This here's one tricky mother. He mighta been out watchin' anyway. Now we know exactly where he's at, don't we?"
"Yeah, guess we do at that," Jo conceded.
"Ole Larry will be mighty pleased with us over this, won't he?"
"Hey, go easy on the names!" Jo cautioned.
"What difference do it make? The slag here ain't gonna live to tell nobody about Hatfrey anyway."
"Well, yeah, you got a point. Kinda funny, isn't it, slag? You buying this property from our Exalted Cyclopes, after the way we whipped you and all? And you being too dumb to even realize it. You guys are supposed to be pretty smart, but I guess good solid American brains got you beat twice over."
"It would appear to be the case," Francis replied, letting his shoulders sag in defeat. An enemy who underestimates you can make an excellent ally.
"All right, let's get on with it," Willy ordered. "Head on down along the trail, slag."
Francis obeyed without comment. The trees opened out on marshland, the trail starting onto the series of wooden walkways that spanned the creeks and swampy ground.
"What do you have in mind?" he asked, attempting to sound unconcerned while he weighed several possible courses of action.
Jo chuckled. "I reckon we'll follow the original plan, but we'll have to make sure you're gagged and tied up nice and comfy in your bed when I set off my bomb. That way, you'll have a bit of time to consider what's going to happen and say your prayers. Assuming, of course, that you people have any kind of prayers to say."
"We do." Francis stopped abruptly on the walkway, just this side of the first small creek. "However, I believe I'll say my prayers right here, if you don't mind. I have no intention of making it easy for you by transporting myself back to my cottage. Since I'm dead in any case, you're going to have to kill me right here."
Jo strode over to stand face to face with him. "That can be easily arranged, slag. No one will be able to tell from the leftover pieces that you were shot before you were blown up."
Francis refused to budge, gambling on his ability to get the rifle away from Willy before the black man could steel himself to shoot. If it had been Jo with the gun, he'd never have risked it.
"Okay, pal. If that's the way you want it." Keeping her eyes on Francis, she ordered Willy harshly, "Blow him away. We're far enough from the Inn that no one'll notice."
WhenWilly didn't fire immediately, Jo continued scornfully, "Give me the gun if you can't do it, Willy-boy. I got no problem with killing slags."
Francis was about to make a move when he saw the rifle barrel slide sideways and come to rest pointing at Jo. "You got one problem with killin' this slag, girl," the black man said. "I ain't gonna let you do it."
Jo swivelled to face Willy, halting abruptly when she saw the gun trained on her chest. "Willy, what in God's name do you think you're --"
"I know real well what I'm doin', Jo. I got a taperecorder in my pocket and I recorded everything we just said. I plan to turn it over to the police, along with you and that bomb."
"You'll -- you'll be convicted also," Jo said. "Remember that bomb you planted at the doctor's house."
Willy's voice turned even harder. "You made a murderer out of me. I'll go to prison, but I'll damn well take your ass with me. You know that pretty picture Francis painted for you a while ago, about bein' disgraced in the eyes of your fellow officers? Well, you ain't even seen disgrace yet. I'll make sure they know all about what you been doin' in the Klan. The police might want to look the other way, but do you think the Marine Corps will?"
Jo laughed. "Willy-boy, you just made up my mind for me. I think you talk big, but won't follow through when the chips are down. Well, the chips are down now. Either you kill me here where I stand, or I'm heading for the Inn. I can have this bomb ready to go in seconds. And this time I'm not messin' with just the slag's cottage. I'm taking out the main building, even if I die doing it." She stared down the rifle barrel directly into Willy's eyes. "So go for it, nigger. Kill me now, or stand aside."
Hoping Willy wouldn't open fire, Francis lunged toward the woman. She side-stepped with considerable speed, grabbing his shoulder and propelling him over one outstretched leg and out over the edge of the walkway. He landed on the marshy ground, his full weight coming down on his bad shoulder. Where the mud splashed his face, it burned sharply. Panic-stricken, he floundered through the mud and clambered back up onto the boardwalk.
When he could think straight again, he saw that Jo had crossed the creek on the walk and then leapt down into the swamp, where she could run a direct line to the other side without following the meandering boardwalk. Francis couldn't follow her through that, and he doubted he had the speed to cover the much longer way on the walk in time. There was only one choice left.
Willy still stood holding the rifle, aiming it after Jo's running figure. Francis headed toward him, intending to take the weapon and shoot Jo, since he doubted the black man would have the nerve to do it. He hoped to bring her down alive, but wasn't sure his marksmanship was that good. No matter, he'd have to chance it. if she reached the Inn with that bomb --
Before Francis could grab the gun, Willy fired. Far out in the marsh, Jo went down, either hit or hiding.
"I got her, man," Willy said, his breath coming in short gasps. "I don't know if I killed her, but I got her."
Francis put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Okay, Willy. Stay calm now and wait here a minute. Keep your eye on the place she went down. I'll get my revolver, then we'll both go over and try to find her."
Willy nodded his understanding. Francis sprinted back along the walk, quickly
finding the gun where he had tossed it into the bushes. He had just about gotten back to Willy when all hell broke loose.
The roar of an explosion destroyed the quiet of the night. Francis dove forward and shoved Willy down a split second before the shock wave hit them, trying to cover the more vulnerable human with his own body. Muddy water, tree branches, bits of bushes and other assorted debris rained down on them. With his arms protecting his head, most of the diluted saltwater didn't penetrate Francis' clothing, although he could feel a stinging burn in several places along his back.
When things had stopped falling and the echoes of the blast died away down the river, the two dazed men staggered to their feet.
"Come on," Francis said. "We'd better see if we can find Jo. She could have set that thing off and then run."
They started down the boardwalk at an unsteady trot, ears ringing and eyes still dazzled.
Willy shook his head. "I shot her, man. She ain't goin' too far, if she went anywhere," he said.
Fortunately, they were able to reach the area of the blast without wading through the swamp itself. Walking gingerly on the soggy ground, Francis surveyed the ruined trees and bushes. A few patches of grass were smoldering, but with the
dampness of the marsh, they were unlikely to catch fire.
Bits of Jo's body were scattered around the area, the biggest being what must have been her torso but now resembled something from a butcher shop.
"Guess this makes me a murderer again, don't it?" Willy said dully, glancing from the mangled corpse to the rifle dangling from his hand.
"Willy, I don't think anyone will be going to prison for shooting Captain Sanzari. I doubt very much that the police will find enough of her intact to reveal a bullet wound."
"But you know what went on --"
Francis took hold of the human's shoulders, turning him away from the body. "I know a lot of things that I've never told to the police, Willy. This will just be one more of those things. Understand?"
The black man nodded numbly. Then he turned his anguished eyes on the newcomer. "I'm gettin' out of the Klan, boss. I don't care if it means losing the money I been gettin' from Hatfrey." He smiled grimly and wiped some mud from his face. "You know what they always say about the bottom line? Well, sometimes it just don't begin with a dollar sign."
Francis considered that. He couldn't have phrased it better himself. "You've still got a job at the Inn."
"You mean that? After all I done?"
Francis nodded. "Go on now. Disappear. Pat's probably already called the police, so I better head back and play dumb."
Willy still hesitated, glancing toward Jo's remains. "We're not gonna get away with this."
"Yes, we are. If I run into anyone on the way back, I'll just say I heard the explosion and went to investigate. This is all I found. Someone must have come to destroy the Inn and accidentally set off their own bomb. After what happened to Dr. Lee, the police won't be surprised. Now get out of here while you've still got a chance."
"We could tell the cops the truth, that we were tryin' to stop her from killin' other people --"
"A slag and a nigger in a court of law, with a white woman dead?" Francis pointed out.
Willy had to listen. Francis didn't want the sort of publicity he'd get in that kind of situation. He couldn't afford anything that might bring him to the attention of the law, or worse, of those he feared even more than the law.
"Yeah, I get your point," Willy finally agreed. "Okay, I'm outta here."
As the black man faded off into the woods, Francis started running towards the Inn. Already he could hear sirens in the distance. Putting on an extra burst of speed, he covered the ground at a rate only possible for a newcomer.
He had almost reached the edge of the lawn when he encountered the police headed in the opposite direction. Feigning exhaustion and a prudent amount of fear, he gasped out something barely coherent about a body and a lot of destruction, pointing back the way he had come. Francis leaned against a treetrunk, making a great show of trying to catch his breath and looking as if he were about to collapse.
With a hasty admonishment to Francis to get to the Inn and wait for them there, the officer in charge led his small force down along the trail at a run. As soon as they were out of sight, Francis' health improved immensely. Cutting sideways through the woods, he came out of the trees near the south wing of the building.
Guests flooded the lawn, milling around and talking excitedly to each other. He could make out Pat's voice not far away, attempting to calm a frightened family. Staying in the shadows, Francis was able to take advantage of the confusion and get around to the back of the Inn unseen. Using his passkey, he let himself into the back door of the rec room, crossing the darkened room quietly and peering into the lighted room beyond.
As he had hoped, with all the excitement outside, the office area was deserted. He circled around behind the Front Desk, quickly sliding Pat's handgun out of his pocket and back into its usual hiding place. Then he hurried through the rec room and out the back door, letting it lock behind him.
Hesitating only long enough to breathe a sigh of relief, he retraced his steps back to the woods, then staggered out onto the lawn not far from where he had originally encountered the police.
"Francis!" Pat shouted the moment he reached the area illuminated by the floodlights in front of the building. "Thank God! Where have you been?"
"I'll tell you -- in a minute," he gasped, remembering he was supposed to be exhausted and out of breath. "Got to -- sit down."
After that, it was easy enough to convince everyone that he had heard the explosion and run out into the forest to investigate, then hurried back to summon help when he realized someone had been killed. The police didn't seem at all suspicious, asking him only the routine questions that would normally be asked of someone in his situation.
Francis dreaded the publicity that was bound to follow all this, but it was far better than the publicity that would have come if Jo's bombing attempt had killed or injured any of the guests. When a reporter showed up and asked him if he wasn't worried about future attempts, he tried to pass it off casually.
"If all our would-be bombers are as inept as this one, what's there to worry about?" he said with an attempt at sincerity that he hoped would fool the reporter.
When the police had left and things had calmed down, he and Pat were able to persuade the guests to return to their rooms. One family insisted on checking out, but everyone else stayed.
Pat sank gratefully down into her chair behind the Front Desk, rubbing her forehead with one hand and shaking her head. "That was close," she finally said, voice soft.
You don't know the half of it, Francis thought, but all he trusted himself to say was, "Yes."
Leaning over, she slid open a drawer behind the desk, then slid it closed again.
Uh-oh!
With a speculative look in her eye, Pat said, "That's strange. I tried to get my gun earlier, while I was dialing the police, but it wasn't there."
"Perhaps you looked in the wrong drawer," he suggested. "If you were as scared by that explosion as I was, it wouldn't be surprising."
She took a deep breath, letting it out noisily in what might have been a snort. "Nothing happened out there in the woods other than what you told the police?"
Hating the necessity of lying to his friend, Francis still couldn't risk telling her the truth. The less people who know a secret, the less likely that secret is to ever see to light. That was as true for humans as it was for Tenctonese.
He tried to look innocent, hoping she would abandon this line of inquiry. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, I thought perhaps that bomb didn't just accidentally go off, if you know what I mean."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Pat laughed, laying a hand on his arm. "You really should practice looking innocent, boss. You don't do it very well."
Francis fixed her with a blank stare, hoping she would drop the subject before he got himself in any deeper.
*All right,* Pat said in Tenctonese. *If you're determined to be as close-mouthed as a giant Aldebaran ham, I'll stop questioning you.*
*Uh -- I think you mean Aldebaran clam, Pat.*
Giving up at last, she just smiled and replied, *Whatever.*
