I cover the frozen ground in long, purposeful strides, careful to reveal my face so our guards know we are not being attacked. Lauren, Felix, and Frank travel behind me, the four of us leaving for the DoubleTree the moment we could. I just thank God Felix and Frank’s mission was a success. The truth might sting, might complicate things, but it is always better to be known. The doors open as we approach.
“Everything alright?” Jerry asks. He may not know the details of what we did this morning, but he knows we would not leave without purpose.
“Everything’s fine, cousin,” I say. “How fair things here?”
“All quiet,” he says. Quiet is good. Quiet means neither Barr nor Owen has made any moves in our absence.
“That’s good,” I say. “Let’s hope that continues.”
We leave him and the remaining guards behind, ascending the stairwell to the main level and taking the hallway at a jog. We enter the lobby, my eyes sweeping the room for Richard. They land on him from across the room and I make a beeline for him, ignoring the questions that arise from those around me. They want to know where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing. They will know soon enough.
“He’s in the banquet room,” Richard says as we reach him. “I have Vince and Leon keeping an eye on him.” His eyes flick to Felix and Frank. “Everything was successful then?”
Frank nods. “We got the bastard.”
Richard’s eyes turn steely. “Then what are we waiting for?”
With most of the eyes already on us, it doesn’t take much pronouncement to get their attention. With only a few words, the room marches at our backs as we move toward the ballroom. At its center is Owen, a brooding frown on his face as he surveys the river trail below. The commotion alerts him to our presence. He turns, and he cannot hide his look of shock. Clearly, our appearance comes as a surprise to him. He’s quick to recover, sliding on a smile as we approach and opening his arms as if we were returning heroes.
“Morgan, how good it is to see your face!” he says. “I was beginning to grow worried.”
“Oh, I’m sure you were,” I say, making no effort to hide the coldness of my words. He notices too. There’s a hushed moment between us, one where our eyes meet and we both see the truth. I see him for what he is. He sees the truth that I’ve uncovered. He reaches for his pistol a split second before me, a split second that would make all the difference if we were alone. But we’re not alone. And fortunately for me, Felix is quicker than either of us could ever hope to be.
“Go ahead,” Felix growls, the barrel of his Glock resting against Owen’s head. “I dare you.”
Owen’s grip remains tight on his gun, but he’s not foolish enough to draw it. His people, on the other hand, are not so reserved. Guns are drawn on both sides, dividing the room in two: those who stand behind Owen, and those who stand behind me. Curses and questions fly so fast I couldn’t keep track of them if I tried. Not that it matters. In the end, it all boils down to the same thing: What the hell is going on? That’s the question I answer.
I unholster my own gun and point it at the ceiling, the ensuing blast enough to silence the crowd.
“Yesterday I received information regarding the mole who’s been reporting to Barr,” I say. The sentence brings about a greater hush than the gunshot. “I didn’t want to believe it at first, refused to accept it. But I had to know the truth. That’s where I’ve been all this time: getting the truth. And the truth is that we have been betrayed by the man who stands before me.”
The uproar that follows is as deafening as the gunshot. There are curses aimed at Owen, many accepting my word without question. But there are many more who come to his defense, calling me a liar. Owen himself does as much.
“You lie!” he says. “What proof do you have that I am the mole?”
“Last night, Lauren and I visited Owen,” I say. “We claimed to have knowledge of people who might aid us in tracking down Barr. There were no such people, of course. We merely needed him to think there was. So I drew a map of their location, and told him we would set out to meet them in the morning.”
I nod to Felix who quickly pats Owen down. Some protest the action only to quiet a moment later as Felix finds the folded paper inside his breast pocket. He holds it up for all to see.
“It was a test: one to see where his loyalties truly lie. A test he failed.”
I reach into my own breast pocket and hold aloft the evidence of Owen’s betrayal. Photographs. The photos show the warehouse we once stayed in. No longer abandoned, Animals now swarm the place, their vehicles blocking the long driveway. In the last photo stands the man himself. Barr’s scowl is undeniable, his eyes cold and filled with hate.
A shocked silence fills the room. That silence is short-lived, curses and anger rising as the photos make their rounds. Waiting for the photographs to develop tested the limits of my patience, but seeing the effect they now have, I know it was well worth it. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. And we have several.
The curses quickly turn into a roar of outrage. Suddenly, it’s not Felix trying to keep the Animals from getting at me, but keeping them from ripping Owen apart. Even his closest supporters turn on him, his betrayal hitting them harder than the others. He was more than just a leader, he was their friend—one who schemed behind their backs with the man they hate. I feel for them. Their anger is just, but I cannot let it gain momentum.
“Everyone, please. Calm yourselves!” My words do not silence them. If anything their roar grows louder. I raise my voice to match it. “I know you want blood, but he can still serve a purpose!”
“His only purpose is to die!” a woman shouts. “Die the same way my husband died, following his lead.” I recognize her face now, remember her falling apart after learning of the scout team’s fate.
“Be that as it may, we can’t let vengeance ruin this opportunity,” l press on before others come to her aide. “He still holds Barr’s ear!” I shout. “He offers us something we’ve never had before: a spy of our own! We’d be fools to throw away such an advantage.”
“Damn advantage!” one of the men says. “I would sooner have him follow my son in death.”
“He speaks the truth!” another man yells. “He betrayed us once. Given the chance, he’ll do so again. Better to deal with him now.”
“Agreed!” shouts another voice, a woman this time. “Even if he agreed to help, we could never trust him.” She glares at Owen and spits at his feet. “I say we lynch the bastard.”
There is an overwhelming roar of support at the idea, the Animals at the front barely able to be kept at bay. Owen, for his part, stays silent. He bears the insults in silent detachment. I look at him closer. It’s more than that, I realize. Something’s gone out inside him. And judging by the distance in his gaze, wherever he is, it’s far from here.
“Please! Give me a chance,” I say, shouting to be heard over the crowd. “I know your anger. I feel it myself. But we can’t let this blind us! We must see the bigger picture at hand.” I snatch a photo away from one of the Animals and point at Barr. “This is our enemy! Everything stems back to him. Owen is our one link to him. We have to use it. We have to at least try. If keeping him alive gives us even the possibility of taking down Barr, then what choice do we have?”
Anger still fills the air, their blood boiling with the opportunity to take revenge for what Owen’s done. But doing so would rob us of an even bigger opportunity. Barr had one person he cared for: his brother. With Boss dead, he’d spend the lives of any who follow him if it might restore him to power or bring about my death. Owen’s life would mean little to him. I know it. They know it. And it is this knowledge alone that makes them see reason. My words do not simmer their anger, their rage. Nor does it simmer my own. I feel it clawing deep inside me, urging to reach out and take my frustration out on this duplicitous man before me. And it seems I’m not alone in my urge.
“Let us question him then,” one of the men says, brandishing a knife. The co
ld metal winks with reflected sunlight, promising colder intentions. Again the roar of approval, people reaching for blades, clubs, chains; anything that might inflict pain.
“Nothing would be learned in such a way,” Franks says.
The man to first raise his blade sneers. “That’s funny coming from you,” he says. “I seem to recall you practically living in that damn room downstairs. Tell me, how many people did you break in your day?”
My poor friend. No matter what he does, there is someone there to remind him of his past.
“You’re right,” he says. “There are things I’ve done that would make your skin crawl. And each time I did so, it robbed me of a piece of my soul. It’s a burden I would not wish on any of you.”
The man continues to glare at Frank as if waiting for more to join him in his condemnation. None do. Perhaps they can hear the sincerity in Frank's voice as I do.
“They’re right,” shouts a voice at the back of the room. The crowd parts as he comes forward. He’s older than most assembled, his hair and beard more salt than pepper. The name is lost on me, but I recognize him. I’ve seen him on several occasions, speaking animatedly to his fellows on matters I couldn’t hear. He may not be held as a hero in their eyes as Owen was, but I recognize a voice of the people when I see one.
“Anything a man says under such conditions cannot be trusted,” he continues. “Those of you who spent time down below ask yourselves this: is there anything you wouldn’t have said to make the pain stop?” Nobody answers. They don’t need to. He nods as if proving his point. “There has to be a better option than trying to beat the truth out of him.”
“What would you have us do then?” asks the widow from earlier. “Bake him cookies and ask nicely?” A round of mocking laughter follows. The man looks my way, directing the question back to me.
“I would have you give us time to figure this out instead of letting your anger ruin this one chance we’ve been given,” I say. “With him in our custody, there is no longer a threat within these walls. Now give us time to find a way to eliminate the threats outside them.”
“Well said,” the salt and pepper haired man says. “I agree.” He looks at his fellow Animals. A few nod in respect, but mostly he receives glares in return. Still, I notice the slight shift in the crowd, their anger not quite as hot as it once was. Slowly, the tide turns, not in overwhelming support, but in grudging acceptance. I’ll take it.
“Thank you,” I say, shaking the man’s hand. “Forgive me, but I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr....”
“Just call me Victor,” he says. “And no need to thank me. I wouldn’t have spoken up had I not believed you were right in what you said.”
“Appreciated all the same,” I say.
He leans in closer. “So, between us, do you have a plan for him?”
I glance back at Owen who is being led by Felix and Frank through the parting crowd. “Not yet,” I admit. “Perhaps you can help me with that.”
Owen is locked up on the top floor, secured to a metal chair with rope and plastic cuffs. Two guards remain inside the room with him, another four in the hallway beyond. We’re not taking any chances where he’s concerned. I sit at the head of a long table, listening to the bickering of those who have gathered to decide what to do.
“We have to convince him to help us,” Frank says.
“Give me a knife and I’ll convince him just fine,” Byron says. He moves for the knife on his hip and buries it into the wood. “On second thought, I can use my own.”
“We’ve been over this,” Frank says. “Torture won’t get us anything. Only information we can’t verify. For all we know he could lead us into a trap. I can’t imagine Barr hasn’t thought of this scenario. He’ll have a failsafe designed for it. Mark my words.”
“Anything he says can’t be verified,” Byron argues. “What’s the difference? At least this way we can get answers faster.”
“And you’re ready to torture it out of him are you?” Frank asks. “If you knew what that word truly means, you wouldn’t be so eager for it.”
“The only thing I’m eager for is justice,” Byron says. “After what that bastard did to my people, I’m not afraid of doing what it takes to see that happen.”
“He’s not Barr,” Frank says.
“No,” he admits. “But he can lead us to him.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Frank asks.
Byron shrugs. “One less Animal to worry about.”
There’s no sympathy in his voice. No forgiveness. I can’t say I blame him. How many of his people have died since Barr raided their ranch? I don’t have a clue. But Byron does. He knows their faces, their smiles, their laughs. And now they are gone. Death has visited too many people I love since this started. But that number pales in comparison to all he’s lost. Hate is only to be expected. Still, I need him to see past that.
“We’re not torturing him,” I say.
Byron’s glare moves from Frank to me. “I don’t remember electing you king,” he says. “So why do you speak as if you have the authority of one?”
“I’m no king,” I say, making my contempt for the word well known. “But I am thinking rationally. The same cannot be said of you.”
“Fuck rational,” Byron says. “Rationality went out the window the moment I saw what that psycho did to Tony!” His voice breaks at the mention of his friend. They never said much of the state they found him in but I know Barr. Tony would not have broken easy. If it’s even half as bad as I imagine, it’s for the best that I never saw him.
Am I wrong? Should I let Byron question him? Let him do to Owen what Barr did to Tony? It was effective in the end. But even if it worked, would the cost be worth it? I’ve seen how haunted Frank is from the things he’s done. How can I condemn Byron to the same fate? Not only that, you have to consider that Owen is not Tony. Tony’s allegiance was known. There was no question of his love or loyalty to his people. But I don’t believe the same can be said of Owen. Frank said there were two types of Animals: those who were coerced, and those who relish the cruelty. I think back on my conversations with Owen, and I still don’t see it. He never gave me the notion that he was of the same mold as Barr.
I feel a twisting in my gut, a feeling I can’t shake away. There’s more to this. I don’t know how I know, but I’m certain of it. If we torture him, we may lose our only opportunity to find the truth.
I look around the room, to those seated at the table and those standing in the corners. Family and ranchers. Woodspeople and Animals. All of us gathered to try and figure out what it takes to end this. As it has been so often, I find their eyes drawn to me. I stopped asking myself a long time ago why my voice should carry more weight than others. Accepted the role that has been asked of me. They don’t see my flaws as I do. They see the things I’ve done. When I found my family in Rockridge they were broken, cowering in the shadow of the Animas Animals. Look how far we have come from that day. I’m not narcissistic enough to claim sole credit for getting us here, but no amount of humility can deny that I had a heavy hand in it. That’s what it feels like now. Like they are all waiting to see which way I tip my hand.
“I feel your pain,” I say. “All of us here have lost someone to Barr and his followers. And yes, I want vengeance for those we lost, but I would not have it at the cost of those still living. There’s a better path forward. I know there is.”
Byron scoffs, but his opinion is not shared by many. Most of the room seems to be aligned with me. Even Lylette. Byron’s eyes narrow on her now.
“Even after what his people did?” he asks. “You would show mercy?”
“I want the truth,” she says. “However it’s found is of little concern to me.”
“And how do you suggest we find the truth, then?” Byron asks the room at large. “Or have you not noticed, the bastard has gone mute on us?”
I have noticed, yet another thing that has given me pause. I’ve seen the fear men hold with the coming of their dea
th. I’ve seen them rage. Seen them cry. Seen them abandon hope as they realize just how mortal they are. And while there was an air of hopelessness about him as we locked him away upstairs, it was different from the encounters I’ve had before. It felt different, almost as if he were mourning someone other than himself.
My eyes slide to Victor, my mind turning over what we discussed. The gears in my head start spinning, rearranging the pieces of the puzzle. I turn back to Byron.
“I’m going to talk to him,” I say.
“Talk?” Byron asks incredulously. “That’s your plan?”
“For now.”
Fifteen minutes later, I sit across from Owen, his guard detail moved into the hallway with the others. It’s just the two of us. Owen’s only acknowledgment that I’m here was a sparse glance as I entered. He ignores me completely now, his gaze fixed on the patch of sky visible through the window.
The sky beyond is a deep blue, the sun yet to sink behind the surrounding mountains. It’s the sort of sky laden with the promise of better days to come. Soon enough the snows and ice will thaw under such a sky, the white and gray of winter replaced with the hues of spring: a rainbow of colors splashed through a sea of green. Soon after the soil will be ready to till, the seeds Elroy gifted to us once again ready to be put to use. It’s all so close. The future I’ve longed for is so vivid in my mind I feel I might hold it in my hand if I but reached out.
I look back at my stalwart companion across from me. It starts here. I have to find a way past whatever has Owen in Barr’s grasp. I have to end this. It’s the only way that vision might ever be more than just a dream.
“I see you haven’t brought Frank with you,” Owen says, startling me with his sudden words. “Does that mean you don’t mean to torture me?” His eyes meet mine like two burnt-out stars, any warmth and grandeur they might have once held replaced by two dark orbs.
Echoes of a Dying World (Book 3): A Dream of Tomorrow Page 26