SHOWDOWN
Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer
Francis lifted the opaque red veil from Sonni's head, then waited uncomfortably as she raised the veil covering his own face.
*Thanks be to the binnaum,* Sonni said, her blue eyes twinkling. She was no longer young, but the lines that were only beginning to etch themselves into her face were clearly derived from frequent smiles and laughter, rather than frowns.
*The wife to the husband, and the husband to the wife,* Francis replied formally, gesturing from Sonni to Hap and back again. Even as he said the familiar words, they sounded wrong. It wasn't that the ceremony hadn't been performed properly. He just felt as if he were somehow a phony.
As if you have no right to be doing this at all, something insisted in his head.
Trying to keep his feelings from showing in his voice, he continued, addressing the couple now standing happily before him, *Be as one, even as Celine and Andarko are one.*
*Thank you all,* Sonni said graciously to the guests who had come to the ceremony.
*Celebrate our union,* her husband cheerfully advised them all. Arms entwined, Sonni and Happy Day left the room together, gazing at each other as lovingly as might a new bride and groom.
As the guests relaxed and began chatting amongst themselves, Francis recalled how hesitant the older couple had been about having him as the binnaum of what would be, in all likelihood, their last child. They had the financial resources to go to the Order in New York, but after much deliberation, had chosen him instead.
Francis refrained from frowning only in deference to the happy occasion and high spirits of those around him. Ever since that run-in he'd had with Thanika Lestrei last month, he hadn't been able to dismiss the nagging echo of the other binnaum's accusations from his mind. He could still hear the scorn in Thanika's words when he had said, *You're not only practicing outside the Order, but you're desecrating our ceremonies by doing it as if you were entitled to practice.*
Maybe Thanika was right. Maybe he was desecrating the holy traditions. Maybe he had no business doing this at all, without the proper sanctions.
He suppressed a shudder. There was only one way someone like him could attempt to gain the approval of the Order, but that way was sufficiently horrible that he didn't even want to think about it. Besides, even if he did try it, they'd never absolve him. There were some things that simply could not be forgiven.
Gypsy Rose Lee put a gentle hand on his shoulder, interrupting his musings. "Francis? Scarlett's opening the sour milk. Would you like me to bring you some?"
Maybe that would dull the disturbing sense of wrongness that had plagued him all night.
"Yes, Gypsy. I'd appreciate that."
Barely a minute had passed before she was back, holding out a glass. "Scarlett insisted on putting in a little chocolate syrup," she said shyly. "I hope you like it that way."
"Thanks. I'm sure that will be fine."
Across the room, someone had turned on the television. Francis wasn't paying much attention to the newscaster's voice as he downed half the milk in one gulp. Then Scarlett announced loudly, "Hey, everyone! Look! We're on the news!"
Conversation quieted as all heads turned toward the screen. The picture showed a mixed group of newcomers and humans, standing by the side of the road and holding signs. Scarlett O'Hara, looking confident as usual, with Gypsy by her side, a nervous smile flickering briefly across the face of the smaller woman as she realized she was on camera. Jane Wagner, standing next to her husband, Richard, who held their little boy proudly on his shoulders.
Then the camera focussed on the newscaster, who said into her microphone, "This morning, just outside the small town of Cartersville, approximately 100 people gathered at the proposed site of a new resort, claiming that the developers had begun clearing and draining the land prior to receiving any permits and prior to the final determination of whether or not a large part of the property is, in fact, wetlands."
The camera panned the crowd, stopping for a moment on a sign that proclaimed, "IT WAS WETLANDS, UNTIL SEAGULL REALTY GOT AHOLD OF IT!" The scene shifted to show a desolate stretch of muddy land covered with felled trees.
"Today's isn't the first protest to be held over this issue," the newswoman went on as the camera moved back to show Pat standing next to her, "but it is certainly the largest to date. The Committee to Sink Schooners Landing, which called this demonstration, was organized by local businesswoman Pat Fisher. Ms. Fisher, would you like to tell us briefly what you hope to accomplish here today?"
As Pat spoke, the camera pulled back to once more show the crowd. Much to Francis' dismay, he saw his own face flash across the screen. Although he always tried to avoid publicity, he couldn't very well not take part in the demonstration when he had been one of the organizers of the entire campaign to publicize what Larry Hatfrey was doing.
He downed the rest of his sour milk and went to the bar to pour another as Pat finished speaking and the newscaster wrapped up the segment.
*Not bad, Overseer.* Dix's voice came from behind him, pitched so low that only Francis could hear. *You made the national news with that little stunt. What do you plan to do for an encore?*
*That's up to the Committee,* Francis replied, carefully hiding the annoyance he felt at the man's taunting tone. Mason Dixon never lost an opportunity to get on his case, and he really wasn't in the mood to be harassed just now.
*Sure. Now tell me you and Pat aren't stirring up all this trouble just to keep that resort from going up next to the Atlantic Inn and driving you out of business.*
The older man's voice was slurred, and the almost-empty glass in his hand held sour cream, rather than milk. It wasn't like Dix to drink the strong stuff.
*Dix, if we were only in this for the money, we could have sold out to Hatfrey long ago,* Francis said reasonably. *He certainly offered us a good enough price.*
Francis turned and walked away before Dix could reply. The last thing he needed was to get in an argument with a drunk. Dix hated him enough when he was sober.
An hour later, Francis was on his way home. He'd had a bit more to drink than was wise, so it took all his concentration to maneuver his old van along the dark roads. It had rained earlier in the evening. With the temperature hovering right around freezing, the road was treacherously slick. When he turned off Highway 50 onto the road leading to the Inn, the van fishtailed slightly.
Warned, Francis slowed down to a crawl as he neared the hairpin curve at Possum Point. A few trees and low bushes stood behind the old metal barrier at the side of the road, and the shimmering surface of the Yaupon River could be clearly seen between them. Under normal conditions, the curve was no problem if you heeded the warning signs and speed bumps, but he and Pat still planned to have it straightened out as soon as the Inn had brought in enough money to pay for such an ambitious project.
Francis continued on down the road, eventually pulling off into the gravel drive that led past the Inn's five cottages. His own cottage stood in the shadows under a stand of loblolly pines. He parked the van and climbed out, wanting nothing so much as a hot shower and a soft bed. It had been a long day, with the demonstration in the morning and the coupling ceremony that evening.
Closed down for the winter, the main building was dark except for the floodlights around it that were left on each night. One of the windows in Pat's apartment showed a light, but he knew she wasn't there. She had gone up to Eddington with a contingent from the Coastal Green Society that had come for the protest. They planned to lobby at the state capitol in the morning.
Francis parked and got out, glad of the warmth provided by his insulated vest. The night air held a sharp nip of frost. He inhaled deeply, hoping it would help clear his head. He was about to open the back door of his van and take out his carefully folded ceremonial robe when a strange voice spoke up from the shadows behind him.
"Hold it right there, slag, or we'll shoot."
With the extent of the danger not yet defined, Francis figured it would be wise to comply. He froze, one hand still on the door handle.
"Put your hands up and turn around slowly."
A half-dozen white-robed figures confronted him, all armed. One of them stepped forward, carrying a pair of handcuffs. "Hands behind your back, slag," he ordered brusquely.
Francis took a good look at the cuffs before obeying, wanting to be sure they were merely routine police issue, not the special kind made for newcomers. Although they appeared strong enough to make it difficult, he was reasonably certain he could get out of them if he had to.
An enemy who thinks you're helpless is often overconfident and careless. He let them fasten the metal bands around his wrists.
"Okay, we got him," the human concluded. "Bring him around back and let's get this show on the road. It's cold out here."
Several pairs of hands grabbed Francis' arms and he found himself being dragged around his cottage, past the other cottages, and over towards the river. That made him distinctly uneasy. He could tell from the height of the water that the tide was in. That meant the river was dangerously contaminated with seawater just now.
As they came out from under the trees, he saw another group of Klansmen gathered on the lawn, standing around a large bonfire. Judging from the number of people, the Klan had had no trouble finding new members to replace the four Francis knew had been lost over the past year and a half.
Funny how hatred could always attract new followers.
Or maybe not so funny at all.
One of the robed figures had to be Larry Hatfrey. Francis let his captors continue to push him forward, figuring he'd end up in Larry's presence eventually. He was not disappointed in this assumption.
The man behind him shoved him down. "On your knees, slag."
When Francis tried to get up, a foot smashed into the sensitive nerve plexus under his right arm. Doubled over with pain, he was lifted roughly by the shoulders and set down once more in a kneeling position.
The Klan leader lifted one arm in an imperious gesture and the large wooden cross planted upright in the grass blazed into flame. It threw an eerie light over the lawn, casting flickering sparkles on the surface of the restless river that flowed at its back.
"Francis Bernardone, if you believe in God, I'd advise you to start praying," the white-robed human said pompously. No question as to his identity now; Francis recognized that voice. "What we've done in the past has been merely a warning. Now we're going to get serious. We are gathered tonight to strike the first blow against the newcomer conspiracy to take over this great nation of ours. It's become apparent that the other slags here in Cartersville look to you for guidance and -- er -- certain other things --" As Larry paused meaningfully, sniggering laughter broke out among his followers. "Therefore, the effort to cleanse our fair country of this wave of pollution will start with you."
Francis had caught his breath by now. "It wouldn't also be because I just happen to own some property you want, would it, Larry?" he said loudly, knowing full well that his remark would earn him another cruel kick.
It did. Larry remained considerately silent until his victim had recovered enough to be once again set upright before him.
"As I was saying, we'll start with you, but others will have their turn, if they don't take the
hint and leave town."
"Killing me won't scare them away," Francis gasped. "It's too late for that."
"Oh, we're not going to make a martyr out of you. Not by a long shot. We're not that stupid."
Then exactly what did they intend?
Larry's voice resumed its sanctimonious tone. "In order to preserve the purity of the human race --"
"All you want to preserve is your own bank account," Francis said distinctly. "Everybody knows all this Klan nonsense is for no better reason than to protect your profits."
"Bernardone, has anyone ever told you your mouth is too big for your own good?" Larry hissed.
"Want me to quiet him down some, boss?" one of the men inquired, fingering the coiled whip in his hand.
Somewhat to Francis' surprise, Larry shook his head.
"All we did was whip him last time, and that was a mistake. He didn't learn his lesson. This time we'll do a more thorough job of it."
Crossing his arms, Larry glared down at Francis, the firelight making his eyes just barely visible through the eyeholes of his mask. "This time we'll dump you in the river a little bit at a time. When we're done, there'll be no body left to find. We'll tell everyone we scared you into running away. That ought to take some of the wind out of your friends' sails. If they think we scared off an Overseer, they'll take the hint and decide to leave
before we can get around to dealing with them."
Francis managed a scornful laugh. "Not very likely," he said loudly. "Newcomers know it didn't take much courage to be an Overseer, any more than it takes courage for a mob of people to savage one individual. All that's required is a lack of moral character."
This didn't go over so well with the Klan, most of whom were smart enough to recognize that they had just been insulted.
"Nonsense!" Larry retorted. "If you go, we can persuade the rest of them to follow."
Francis quickly calculated the odds against him. Four of the ten Klansmen had guns, but if he could reach the shadows at the edge of the woods, they'd have a hard time hunting him down in the darkness. He could make a break for it. Maybe a direct charge at Larry. If he could drive the man backwards into the burning cross, that might cause enough confusion to enable him to escape. It was a chance, if not a very good one. Better than waiting to be thrown in the river.
"Pat Fisher will never believe I ran away," Francis replied, playing for time as he gathered his feet beneath him.
"Well then, we'll just have to plan a little party like this for her too, won't we, boys? That might convince her to see reason."
Francis was about to leap up during the tense laughter that followed that last remark, but another KIansman hurried over to Larry, whispering something to him in an urgent undertone. Larry nodded and then looked up at his followers.
"We're going to have to postpone our little party for a short time, boys. Someone wants to talk to our guest of honor here."
Francis shifted gears abruptly. This could be an opportunity for a less suicidal form of escape. Best to go along and see what happened. He could always make a break for it later on. A few mocking groans and complaints greeted Larry's announcement, but this didn't seem to bother the Klan leader much.
"There's a case of whiskey in the back of my car," he announced, waving his arms for quiet. "I was saving it for later, but you all may as well have some while we're waiting."
The groans changed to cheerful curses.
Two stout Klansmen hoisted Francis to his feet. Escorted by the four with rifles, they marched him back around the dark cottages.
In the shadowed parking lot next to his beat-up old van there sat a silver-gray Cadillac limousine. It wasn't until the back door had been jerked open and he had been shoved inside that he remembered where he had last seen such an automobile, and who had owned it.
Unable to catch himself with his hands cuffed behind his back, Francis sprawled face down on the soft carpet of the car's floor, unable to see more than the feet of the person on the seat. He landed hard and twisted his bad shoulder, but that pain was nothing compared to the terror clawing at his hearts. Even before he could look around, his worst fears were confirmed by the voice that greeted him with evident amusement.
*Did you really think you could run away from me, Treyma?* Piedra Frelani asked. She leaned back against the plush upholstery, her handsome face set in a smile that sent fresh chills down his spine. A stray shaft of moonlight struck sparks from the two diamond bracelets that bracketed the tattoo on her wrist, but all Francis noticed was the neural wand she held, almost casually, in her hand. Close to two feet long and pencil-thin, the translucent wand glowed pink along its entire length, indicating it was presently on a low setting. But Francis knew it could be run up through the spectrum to brilliant purple in less time than it would take for him to wrest it from her hands, even if he weren't cuffed.
He glanced quickly around the interior of the car and found it empty. That figured. It would be entirely in keeping with Piedra's usual arrogance to come after him alone, despite the risk.
Francis pulled himself into a sitting position on the spacious floor of the limousine. It was hard to look dignified with both hands secured behind his back, but he crossed his legs and prepared to try.
With the Klan, there had been a chance. With Piedra Frelani, he was as good as dead. There was nothing to be gained by appealing to her mercy, for she had none. That being the case, it should be no more difficult to die bravely than to die a coward.
*I figured you'd catch up with me eventually,* he said with all the calm he could muster. *It was only a question of when.* With an elaborate shrug that sent a fresh streak of pain through his shoulder, he concluded, *Considering the fate the Klan had in store for me, you picked a pretty good time to appear.*
Piedra actually laughed. Leaning forward, she drew the point of the wand across his cheek. All it did at that setting was cause an unpleasant tingling, but a shudder went up his spine nevertheless. *You know better than that. I can make the worst those terts can do seem like fun and games.*
It was no idle bluff and Francis knew it. Trying to ignore the glowing tip of that too-familiar wand hovering not far from his face, he asked, *How did you find me?*
*You'll never believe it, Treyma, but it was the sheerest coincidence that led me to you. Or should I say, led you to me?*
*What do you mean?*
*Where do you think the money behind Schooners Landing came from?*
No! Oh no! After all he'd done to get away from her, he'd run right into one of Piedra's far-flung investments!
*You're kidding,* he choked out.
A wolfish smile spread across her face. She was evidently enjoying his consternation.
*I never kid. A big chunk of that resort is mine. I figured it to be a sure thing, and didn't even realize you were the one who bought the Atlantic Inn until fairly recently.* She made a disgusted gesture in the direction of the flaming cross with the wand. *When things started going sour, Hatfrey kept telling me he could handle it. I never should have believed him. I should have stepped in myself when that damn fool of a Marine managed to blow herself up instead of the Inn. It wasn't until the protests began that I investigated the situation in more detail. Just imagine my surprise when I saw your name on the reports!*
*Does Hatfrey know who you are?*
*No. To him I'm just a rich slag businesswoman. No one on this poor excuse for a planet knows who I am anymore. Piedra Frelani is dead as far as the government records are concerned. Even their vaunted tissue-typing couldn't identify me now.*
He wasn't surprised. With enough money and influence, any record could be falsified.
*I find it deliciously ironic,* she went on. *These stupid Klan terts go around terrorizing newcomers, never realizing whose interest they're serving by doing it. Don't you think that's funny, Treyma?*
*As one of those being terrorized, no,* he replied dryly.
*Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten. We want your interest in the Atlantic Inn, so you're going to sign this agreement to sell to Seagull Development Company.* The wand flicked briefly toward some papers on the seat beside her.
*I can't sell without my partner's approval.*
Don't worry, that'll be taken care of. We'll get her signature soon enough. At present, all I'm interested in is yours.*
*No.*
*That was not a request,* she said lightly. *You'll sign, Treyma. If not now, then later. But you will sign.* The wand glowed blue and Francis clenched his teeth, anticipating pain.
Piedra laughed at his reaction. *You remember what it was like, I see.* Much to his relief, the wand went back to pink before she used it to lift his chin so he had to look up at her.
*I always did enjoy your company, my long-lost friend. How nice to have you back.*
He drew away, glaring at her. *I'm not your friend. And I'm not back.*
*Oh yes you are. You just don't realize it yet.*
*If you think I will ever work for you again, you're wrong.*
*Come now, Treyma. Aren't you tired of living like a common slave in this two-bit town? Haven't you had enough of it yet?*
The wand did more than tingle where it rested lightly against his throat. It flared red now and it burned uncomfortably. Reminding himself the pain was simulated and didn't reflect any true tissue damage, Francis said, *The only thing I've had enough of is you.*
Ignoring his remark, she went on silkily, *You don't belong with these people. You're one of the Chosen. You belong with your own kind. Surely you don't think we'll be marooned on this backwater planet forever, do you? A shipload of slaves is valuable. A probe came by searching for us a couple of months ago.*
This was news to Francis. Bad news. *What happened? Did anyone contact it?*
A slight frown crossed her face, then she passed it off by a too-careless shrug. The tip of the wand withdrew from his throat.
*We're not sure. An attempt was made, but it may not have been entirely successful. Nevertheless, if even a part of our message got through, that will be enough to draw further investigation. It's only a matter of time.* She smiled. *When they come for us, do you really want to go back to being part of the cargo?*
*If the only possible choice is to be a master or to be a slave, the right thing is to be a slave,* he said softly, hearing Kheersa's voice even as he quoted from the Teachings.
Piedra's steel-gray eyes turned hard and her brow wrinkled into a chilling frown. *You are a fool, Treyma.*
*No, Piedra. You are.*
*If I take you back to Los Angeles with me, I believe I could persuade you to change your mind.*
*I don't think so.*
His flat denial angered her. With a deft flick of her wrist, the neural wand drew a green streak of burning agony across his chest, its field only slightly diminished by the down vest he wore. He refused to scream. There would be plenty of time for that later on.
*I broke you once, Treyma. I can do it again.*
*That was a long time ago and the circumstances were not the same,* Francis said carefully, but he wasn't as certain as he was trying to sound. *Today you'll have to kill me.*
*That can be arranged.*
Francis met her eyes, ignoring the tip of the wand in front of his face. *Then do it. Or I swear by the Infinitely Holy, I'll kill you.*
It wasn't until after the words had left his mouth that he realized just how very much he meant them.
Piedra laughed.
*If you're going to be stubborn, perhaps I'll turn you over to those white-robed terts and let them take you swimming in the river.*
All right, then he'd be dead -- but he wouldn't be serving her. And it would be over quickly, compared to what she could do to him.
But before he could reply, Piedra had second thoughts. *No, I think not. That would be too easy.*
The last traces of amusement had disappeared from her face, and Francis knew she was getting tired of toying with him.
She leaned forward. *What is it with you, Treyma? Why did you leave us? Why the sudden attack of righteousness?*
*You wouldn't understand.* And if I tried to explain, you would pick it apart, rationalize it away, and make it sound like foolish idealism. But I won't give you the chance to do that, not this time.
*What does this little town mean to you?* she persisted. *Or is it the newcomers here? I'm told they seem to like you, at least for the most part. Even some of the terts are your friends nowadays. Do they know about you, really? Do you think they'd still accept you, if they did?*
Not so very long ago, that question would have been enough to make him doubt. But not now, not after Pat had found out so much about his past and yet remained his friend.
*Some of them would. Some of them already have,* he replied staunchly.
She studied him for a moment and he knew the look in those gunmetal eyes. Piedra Frelani knew how to flay her victims' souls along with their bodies. *And if they will accept you, how much does that matter -- when you yourself will not?* She leaned closer still. *I hear you've been putting on a pretty good show, following all the rituals and acting like a real binnaum. Who do you think you're fooling, the others or yourself? Or perhaps you think you can deceive your precious Celine and Andarko?* She snorted scornfully. *Don't make me laugh!*
She held up her wrist, the black tattoo showing clearly between her diamond bracelets. *You wear this mark on your soul, Treyma, not just on your body. If you think any amount of pretty words and ceremonies can erase it, you're sadly mistaken.*
Francis closed his eyes and tried not to wince visibly. This time she spoke the truth, and those few words were enough to shake his soul. Who was he trying to fool, anyway? He was Kleezantsun# and always would be. From that there was no escape. Was he really ready to throw away his life in a vain effort to erase a past that could not possibly be erased? Even if he had the courage to go to the Order and attempt to gain absolution, it would be hopeless. Could he possibly be so naive as to believe they would ever accept the likes of him? He was beating his head against a stone wall -- and all for nothing. There was no forgiveness for him, not from mortals and not from the Infinitely Holy.
If he went back to Piedra, he wouldn't have to think about that anymore. Never again would he have to face the accusing looks in the eyes of every newcomer he saw. No one would look down on him for what he had been. No one would dare. He could have it all again: the wealth, the power. But best of all, an end to the soul-crushing load of guilt. If he could only go back --
*Can you close your eyes when once you have seen the light, Bin Treyma?* said the long-familiar voice in his head. *And if you can, do you think you will ever truly see again?*
*Kheersa, no!* he protested. *Let me go! I can't stand the guilt any longer. I will not hear you. I will not!*
The voice was sad now, no longer simply admonitory. *Then walk back into the darkness, poor child. But do not expect ever to see the light again. *
He bowed his head in shame. Maybe there was indeed no hope for him, but did that give him the right to continue to do evil?
Taking his lack of response as an acknowledgement that she was right, Piedra said smugly, *I knew you'd see the sense in what I had to say.*
When Francis glanced up again, there was fresh conviction in his hearts. *Sense, Piedra? You twist the truth to your own ends just as you have always done. Why should you think that makes sense?*
This time it was her mouth that gaped open in surprise, but she recovered quickly. The wand blazed purple against his temple and his head exploded in a torment of anguish. Black stars flared behind his eyes and he doubled over. His breath jarred out of him in a harsh moan as he tried to cling to rationality. She couldn't continue long at this setting. It paralyzed his breathing and could cause his hearts to fail. It had to stop. It had to stop. It had to stop.
By the time it did, he was sprawled backwards against the door of the limousine, half-conscious.
*That's just a sample of what I can do, Treyma. It gets worse.*
His eyes were still closed, but he felt her draw the tip of the wand, now mercifully dark, down the front of his body towards his groin.
*But then, you know that, don't you?* she continued smoothly. *I can break you, my foolish friend. I can break anyone, given enough time.*
He was all too afraid she spoke the truth. Despite his courage and determination, if she took him back with her --
Then he mustn't allow her to take him back. It was as simple as that. He'd end it here, and kill her, or die in the attempt. But he needed a few minutes to catch his breath and let his nerves recover from the ravages of that vicious wand.
He said nothing, pretending to a greater weakness than he actually felt.
*I've spent enough time on this already, Treyma. We can continue our little chat in Los
Angeles,* Piedra said lightly.
*What about Larry and his friends?* he asked, stalling for time. *They're expecting a bit of excitement tonight.*
*Yes, that's true. Thanks for reminding me. I think I'll tell them to burn down the Inn. That ought to keep them occupied for a while.*
His question had only made things worse, if that were possible. But he had caught his breath now and he wasn't shaking anymore.
*If you think I'm going to just drive out of here with you, you're sadly mistaken,* Francis replied.
*Oh, I know that. I have every intention of drugging you first, don't worry.* She reached into a pocket and brought out a small syringe. *I promise not to use the wand if you'll just --*
The nearby warble of police sirens suddenly split the night, as squad cars raced down the road to the Inn. Piedra's head jerked around, but the neural wand held steady just in front of Francis' face. Much to his dismay, the police cars went right past the limousine, only coming to a halt when they reached the lawn, where the cross still flickered fitfully.
Francis couldn't see what was happening, but from all the shouting and noise, he concluded that the cops were attempting to round up the Klansmen. That wouldn't help him much if Piedra drugged him and then drove away.
*Keep quiet!* she hissed, leaning low in her seat and reaching towards him.
A single gunshot crashed through the commotion outside, followed rapidly by others.
Piedra jumped, momentarily startled.
Francis chose that moment to act. Wrenching his wrists apart with all his strength, he felt the chain between the cuffs snap as he brought his left hand around to smash across Piedra's wrist. The wand flew from her fingers, but Francis didn't bother to go after it. All he wanted was out of the car and away from her. He clawed at the door latch, sprawling out and down onto the gravel of the parking lot as the door sprang open. He was running almost before he had gotten to his feet.
He ducked around the side of the nearest cottage, out of Piedra's line of sight. Wanting only to put distance between himself and the other Overseer, he raced along behind the curving line of cabins in the direction of the woods. He was about to sprint across an open stretch of lawn and lose himself in the forest when he realized that might not be the best idea. Judging by the noise, a number of Klansmen had made for the same destination, with the police hot on their heels.
He halted, hunkered down behind a large hawthorn bush. Blood ran down over his right hand and he realized the cuffs had cut his wrist almost to the bone before letting go. Peering through the leaves, he surveyed the lawn that reached from the cabins down to the river.
The night was vivid with confusion. White-clad Klansmen ran through the shadows like panicked ghosts, while police officers shouted unheeded orders and crashed through the bushes after them. The wooden cross had almost burned itself out, its gaunt skeleton now little more than smoldering charcoal against the dark night sky.
Briefly, he wondered why the police had come in the first place, but he dismissed that as useless speculation. The uproar created by the humans was of little consequence to him. Let them sort that out amongst themselves. Piedra Frelani was his only real problem.
Would she come after him? Unlikely, with all these humans running around. The last thing she'd want would be to get involved with the authorities.
What would she do, then?
No, the first question was what was she doing now?
Cautiously, Francis crept along the side of the small building and peeked around the corner at the parking lot.
The white caddy was still parked in its place. Had Piedra gotten out and made her getaway on foot? Or might she still be in the car, lying low until she could leave unnoticed?
If she were still there, all it would take would be one word to the police and she could be
captured. But what then? She hadn't done anything illegal tonight. With the kind of lawyers she had, she'd be out of jail immediately.
He had to stop her, but what could he do? He could hardly storm the car, unarmed as he
was. Even as Francis crouched watching, a Klansman ran around the corner of one of the other cottages, heading directly for the caddy. He had lost his hood somewhere and held the skirt of his robe clutched up above his waist so he wouldn't trip.
Francis immediately recognized the awkwardly running figure as Larry Hatfrey. Could the man possibly know just who it was that might be inside the car?
He watched in astonishment as Larry beat on the driver's window with his fist. The shouting and hubbub had diminished to the point where Francis could clearly hear Larry's frantic voice.
"Open up, damn you! Get me out of here!"
The window whirred down. "Shut up, you fool!" Piedra hissed. "Get away from me!"
The human grabbed the car door and started to reach inside. "You'll take me out of here, slag bitch, or I'll tell the police about you," he threatened.
Wrong move, Larry. That thought barely had time to register on Francis' mind before Piedra's hand shot out the window and clutched the man's neck. She jerked his head forward against the roof of the car so hard that Francis could hear the snap as Larry's neck broke. His body slumped lifelessly to the gravel, all but decapitated, blood spurting from torn arteries staining the white robe scarlet.
Simultaneously, the limousine engine roared into life. The big silver car backed and turned. It started out of the parking lot, throwing a shower of gravel up behind it.
Francis raced for his van. He had no real hope of catching the powerful caddy, but he couldn't just stand there and watch her drive away. Flinging himself behind the wheel, he sped after her.
The red bar of Piedra's taillights flew down the drive and out onto the paved road. Even with his gas pedal to the floor, Francis couldn't keep up.
His speedometer needle was touching seventy when he remembered the hairpin curve only a mile ahead. If he could stay on her tail, he might panic Piedra enough to keep her from slowing down in time.
Of course, it was entirely possible he himself wouldn't be able to stop in time either, he reflected grimly. The road still glistened with patches of ice from the storm that had passed by earlier.
The first warning sign blazed up in the beam from the caddy's lights, but her brakelights didn't come on. He could picture Piedra behind the wheel, her attention torn between the car behind her and the road before her. She would know it was him in the van.
It was getting too close. Francis pumped his own brakes, gently at first, praying he wouldn't skid too far on the slick pavement.
The caddy bounced over the speed bump. Only then did its brakelights flash into life. In a sort of strange slow motion, Francis saw the other car begin to slide sideways as it tried to take the curve. For a brief moment, it seemed that it might make it, but then the heavy automobile crashed into the barrier. With a shriek of torn metal, the guardrail gave way and the caddy kept right on going.
At the edge of the low riverbank, it flipped over sideways and rolled out into the river, sending up plumes of water.
Francis lost sight of the other car in the darkness, but by then he had his own problems. He downshifted, forcing himself not to step too hard on the brake pedal. The van was slowing as it hit the curve, but not by enough.
Francis fought for control even as he felt the wheels start to slide. The sheared-off edges of the guardrail yawned open before him, with nothing but a few bushes between the road and the river. For a terrible moment, he thought he would follow Piedra into the water. Then the gap was behind him.
But the curve still continued and he knew he wouldn't make it all the way. The van plowed into the guardrail. Francis tried to brace himself against the wheel, realizing too late that he had never fastened his seatbelt. Then he was through the rail and a treetrunk loomed out of the darkness. The car stopped abruptly and Francis flew forward. His head hit the windshield with a blinding crack. Pain lanced through his chest and up his right leg, but the van had stopped and he wasn't in the river.
In the beam of one remaining headlight, Francis could just see the caddy's wheels breaking the surface of the roiling water. Blood ran into his eyes and a sharp pain stabbed into his side as he took a shaky breath. Seconds passed, then minutes. No one struggled out of the caddy, no dazed figure lay on the shore. She had to be out there, under that deadly water.
The smell of raw gasoline assaulted his nostrils. Francis tried to move, but his right leg refused to obey him. Belatedly, he switched off the ignition. The headlight died, but he kept watching the river, even as a blacker darkness hovered around the edges of his vision.
I should get out of here. The van might explode. I've got to move, he told himself frantically. But his body wouldn't respond. His brain felt foggy, somehow disconnected from the rest of the world.
The van door opened. Someone grabbed him and pulled him sideways. That hurt so badly he wanted to protest, but he knew he'd be safer away from the wrecked car.
Strong arms slid under his knees and shoulders, lifting him easily. His eyes seemed to want to droop closed rather than look up at the face of his rescuer, but he willed them to open.
And found he was being held and carried by Mason Dixon. That seemed somehow odd, but his sluggish brain didn't want to analyze the strangeness just then.
Dix laid him down carefully just beyond the far edge of the pavement. *Lie still,* he cautioned. *Richard will be here in a few minutes with the ambulance.*
This made no sense. Why had Dix pulled him out of the van? Dix would have been just as happy to see him dead.
*What are you doing here?* Francis asked, forming his words slowly and with as much care as he might use after drinking too much sour milk.
*I left the coupling ceremony just after you did,* the older man answered, taking the question literally. *I was pretty drunk. I intended to follow you home and then beat the shit out of you.* Dix's eyes flickered around the trees and bushes as if he expected something to leap out at them at any minute. *I parked my car up the road aways and came down on foot to take you by surprise, but I saw that cross burning and you surrounded by Klansmen. I was sorely tempted to just watch them kill you, but when you told Larry off like that, I changed my mind. I called the police on my car phone. By the time I got back, you were nowhere to be seen. I thought they had killed you already until I saw your van take off down the road. Where the hell were you going?*
*After Piedra Frelani.* He had spoken without thinking. The other man remembered him from the Ship, so it was entirely possible that he had run afoul of Piedra also. Would her name mean anything to him?
Obviously, it did. Francis felt the insane urge to laugh at the look of shock that crossed the other newcomer's face. The whole situation seemed dreamlike and unreal.
*What?!* Dix choked out. *Piedra Frelani? Here? Where is she?*
*In the car,* Francis replied, gesturing with his right hand. He stared for a moment at the
broken handcuff, still dangling from his bleeding wrist. Now, how had that gotten there? Oh yes, the Klan.
*What car?* Dix asked, puzzled.
*In the river. Couldn't make the curve.*
*River? She's in the water? At high tide?!*
*Yes.* This time Francis couldn't stop the laughter from escaping his lips, even though it sent searing pain through his chest. If Dix knew Piedra, he certainly wanted her dead, didn't he? Why should he look so appalled? He'd only gotten his wish, after all.
Wait a minute. I'm laughing about a newcomer dying in saltwater. What's the matter with me? I must have hit my head harder than I thought.
His laughter turned to racking coughs and he tasted blood in his mouth.
*Francis, stop it!* Dix ordered, holding his shoulders. *Easy now. Take a slow breath. That's it.*
The pain eased, but it had cleared some of the cobwebs from his mind. *Dix,* he gasped, *don't tell anyone who she is.*
*What are you talking about?*
*Piedra. She's the money behind Schooners Landing. Let the police believe her false ID. I don't want them to realize she's still alive and connect her to me.* He clutched the other man's arm. *Don't tell the police.*
*Are you begging me, Overseer?* Dix asked harshly.
Grabbing a handful of the other man's jacket, Francis attempted to pull himself up as he replied fervently, *Yes! In the name of the Infinitely Holy, let me bury the past!*
*I buried my wife because of you,* Dix said slowly.
*I'd have given my life to save her, if I could have,* Francis replied, fighting to get enough breath to speak.
Dix glanced over at the wrecked van, perilously close to the river. *I almost think I believe you,* he said at last. *You damn near gave your life to drive Piedra into the water, didn't you?*
Francis nodded, a certain amount of calm returning to his ravaged brain. If only he could get a decent breath, he might be able to convince Dix not to betray him.
*It would have been an even trade,* he said weakly.
Dix was quiet for a moment. *What did she want from you?*
*She wanted me to go back to her.*
The distinctive scream of the rescue squad ambulance warbled down the road. Soon there would be medics, police, questions.
*Please, Dix. Don't tell them about Piedra,* Francis pleaded again, his ragged voice giving way to another spasm of choking coughs.
The other man didn't answer as the ambulance screeched to a halt. Then Richard Wagner was leaning over him, shouting for a stretcher.
Francis tried to say something, but Richard ordered him not to talk. The world spun in dizzy circles and everything turned a bit vague as he was lifted onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. An oxygen mask over his nose and mouth took some of the effort out of breathing. He heard Richard say something about broken ribs and a punctured lung, concussion, a possibly broken ankle, but didn't pay much attention. There was something else he should be worrying about, but it had slipped his mind. Something about Piedra --
Suddenly there was a policeman leaning through the ambulance doors, firing questions in his direction. He'd have to try to talk now, despite Richard's orders. He had to --
Dix's voice, close alongside him. What was Dix doing in the ambulance?
"Yes, there was a newcomer in that caddy," he heard the other man say. "Francis claimed she was one of the backers for Schooners Landing."
"Can you tell me her name?" the officer asked. "By the time we got to her, there wasn't much left."
Francis closed his eyes, wishing there were some way to prevent what Dix would say next but knowing it was already too late.
"I don't know her name. Do you know who she was, Francis?"
Trying to keep his astonishment from showing in his face, Francis shook his head.
"Well, whoever she was, she must have panicked when she heard the shooting and tried to get away," Dix said quickly. "You know how sharp this curve is." He shook his head, as if to agree what a tragedy the unknown woman's death was.
As the officer began another question, Richard summarily interrupted him. "I'm sorry, but I've got to get my patient to the hospital. You can ask him about all this later." He pulled the doors closed and told the driver to get going.
"A newcomer was backing Schooners Landing?'" Richard asked disbelievingly. "Will wonders never cease?"
They haven't ceased yet, Francis thought. Dix didn't betray me.
As the ambulance picked up speed, Richard noticed the blood still oozing from Francis' wrist. As he reached over to examine it closer, Francis' other hand automatically started to move to pull his sleeve down over his tattoo.
Unexpectedly, Dix's hand covered his own, preventing him from completing the habitual gesture. With a slight frown of puzzlement, he looked at his long-time adversary.
"Francis," the other newcomer said, meeting his gaze head-on, "you don't have to do that anymore."
That simple statement almost brought tears to Francis' eyes. He nodded in silent gratitude.
Even as he acknowledged Dix's welcome acceptance, he knew there yet remained one more thing he had to do before he himself could face the tattoo. But this night he had confronted Piedra Frelani and come out of it alive. Could he not also confront the Order and hope for success?
Maybe, just maybe, he had a chance. If Dix could forgive him, perhaps it was not impossible that the Order could do so also.
But any decision on that would have to wait until he recovered from this night's activities. Pushing all other considerations from his mind, Francis concentrated on continuing to breathe until they could reach the hospital. That was about all he could cope with just now.
