Law thought he had looked familiar. The face stood out much more prominently now that there were two of them.
They could very well be the last faces Law would ever see.
“I can’t take credit for something I didn’t do,” Law said coolly, gazing into the direction the wind was blowing. It was really gaining some momentum. Leaves, litter. A bottle was even rolling. It crashed and shattered when it fell from the curb.
“But one of yours pulled the stunt. He must have thought you were worth saving. He’s crafty and loyal. I could use a man like that.”
Law chuckled . . . thinly. “Gospel works for Gospel. He’s not for sale either.”
“Yes, I understand that. However, the word on the street is that you are the only one he listens to. Surely, we could all come to some arrangement. Get some business accomplished for a change.” Barrett reached beneath his coat and pulled out a card and a pen. He scribbled something on the back of it. “Don’t you think we could help each other out?” Between his index and middle finger, he was flipping the business card back and forth. “Wednesday. The time and address are on the back. Be there,” was all he said. It was a demand, not a request. “Bring Gospel. And the sniveling English professor can come too . . . if you’d like. I know you two are close.”
Jud Barrett knew a lot more than he should. And it seemed he had been keeping tabs on them for a while.
“I’m almost certain the professor’s sniveling days are over,” Law expressed. What he said was probably true to some extent. If this were a game of cards, though, it was most likely to his advantage if he acted like Herald was another ace.
Barrett shrugged one blasé shoulder—a call to Law’s bluff.
Then he stuffed the business card in Law’s shirt pocket. He patted it down with a wink, to suggest he keep it safe. And then his hand withdrew and his eyes narrowed. “What’s in there?”
The film!
Six dangerous eyes were practically boring holes into his fair complexion. All the while, he was filtering through his drunkenness for the right lie. “Reading glasses,” he replied, adding in a cheeky grin.
Barrett—thank the Redeemer—wasn’t overly curious. After an indifferent nod, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a gold pocket watch. “Time is money. Must be on our way.”
He shook Law’s hand and then led his entourage through their V-formation, with Law at the tip. “Roslyn.” He paused to acknowledge Doxy with a nod. She was looking off in another direction. It was clear she was aware of him, though, and holding her breath until he left. And then Barrett turned to Parody. “And you are?” he asked, pulling his head back as if he got a whiff of something foul.
She narrowed her dark eyes at him fiercely. He deserved a swift kick to the head, which she could have undoubtedly delivered even with her injury, but she didn’t make a move and didn’t answer him either.
He simply slapped her on the cheek, firmly enough to be an insult, but not quite enough to do any damage. “Not important,” he muttered, his smile . . . unnerving, even from Law’s perspective.
He gave her cheek another hard pat and began his saunter into the waning darkness.
Dawn was almost upon them. And like Barrett, they were creatures of the night now. It’d be best to burrow deep for a while.
They began their cautious stride in the opposite direction. And between the three of them, they kept glancing back, making sure they weren’t being followed.
“Law?” Doxy asked when they turned a corner. His pseudonym was drawn out, starting low and ending loud.
“What?” he replied, playing dumb.
Doxy knew Barrett better than he did. A lot better. But did he need a warning?
Probably not.
“You aren’t actually considering it, are you?”
Did they have a choice?
“Do you want a rebellion?” She shrugged and shook her head at the same time, combatively indecisive. Parody crossed her arms, not likely to budge on the issue either. “You two, me. . .” he began ticking off names on his fingers. “Herald, Gospel, Blasphemy, Virtue . . . assuming they all come back alive. That’s seven of us left. Well, guess what? We won’t win a single battle without a few strong allies. So, before you harp, could you at least give me a chance to sleep on it? Remember that? Sleep?”
Her sigh was explosive. Then she stopped to nudge him with most of her strength. He was about to complain when she lifted her shirt to her ribcage. “See this right here?”
She pointed out a jagged horseshoe-shaped scar just above her belly button. It was pink, as if it had been healed for a while, and about the size of a coin. Nothing that would have been too obvious unless he was looking for it. But still, even in the poor lighting, it had a presence. “Do I even want to know?”
She dropped her top. They continued walking and picked up the pace.
“No, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I was seventeen. New to the streets. And Barrett was the reason I didn’t starve. For a while, I was special, and earned a decent price. Because I wasn’t Fallow . . . yet. But there came a day I didn’t earn my keep. That meant I was his for the night, to do with what he pleased. And he was a sadistic drunk. He tied me up and said my belly button was too small. So, with a screwdriver, he started grinding out a bigger one. I’ll give you one guess. . .” She squinted one eye and nodded caustically. “Any idea what he intended to put in there?”
She was right. He didn’t want to know.
“And he was in a good mood. He found that fucking hilarious! And good thing he couldn’t get it up or . . . I wouldn’t be here,” she said, tapering off to a solemn finish.
Law’s head was now pounding like a hammer against an anvil. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then his hands went up . . . in surrender. “All right. I get it. We’re better off without him.”
“Ya think?”
That was Parody chiming in. And thanks to Doxy’s demonstration, he was, indeed, thinking a little clearer now.
There was only one thing Jud Barrett could possibly want from them. More power.
And they’d be fools to give it to him. It would come back to gut them, one way or another.
(1) Jud “The Slaughterhouse” Barrett was first mentioned in /2/ Law. Herald and Law were talking about change and what it would take to accomplish it. Law wasn’t being particularly serious, but he suggested they could “learn” a thing or two from Barrett. And Herald adamantly disagreed. “He’s a bull with the conscience of a snake and the brain capacity of a sack of potatoes!”
***
Millhouse Road wasn’t as hard to find as it could have been. Doxy guided them to the area without any further interruption. They only had to reroute themselves once, not for any error but because a factory nearby was opening their doors for a Saturday shift.
Supervisors were in place. The Fallow were lining up and heading in with a few armed Authorities standing by.
Gospel lived a few buildings down.
“I’m sure there’s a back way in,” Doxy whispered to him as she peeked around the corner.
Meanwhile, Parody was waving from behind. They retraced a few steps and squeezed between buildings. It was a pinch, for him, at least. Doxy and Parody side-stepped and glided right through at jogging speed, but they were about as obese as twigs without leaves.
Even with a broken arm, Parody shimmied side to side, up the walls and entered a broken third-story window without a hitch. Doxy wasn’t quite as graceful, but she didn’t have much of a problem either.
Law stood there on the ground looking up, dizzy at just the sight. It wasn’t the first time he had regretted all that liquor. And it most likely wouldn’t be the last. With a sigh, he was just about to give it a go when Parody’s head popped out. “Since we don’t have all day.”
A rope unraveled on its way down to him. “Thanks,” he muttered.
Maneuvering over the broken glass of the window pane, he found himself unsteady on a scaffold along the wal
l of a huge, empty, half burnt-out factory.
Lovely accommodations. He had to admit, though, that there was something uniquely Gospel about it all. The grittiness, the austerity, the unconventionality, the isolation.
Climb the scaffold to the fifth floor.
There were only so many that went up that high. More or less in the right place, they just had more climbing to do.
At their supposed destination, there was nowhere to go but down, except for a crawl space that led to another section of the building. The new area had lower ceilings and floors, though not particularly stable-looking ones. It was a minefield of dusty tarps, splintered wood, and rusty metal.
My space is hidden underneath the blue tarp. Not the black . . . or gray. . .
In the early morning light, the blue one wasn’t a challenge to spot. Lifting it, there was indeed a hatch. Pitch black beneath it, they had to dig out the lantern again.
Climbing in, they were greeted with a very persistent, meow.
The black cat approached the light. “Oh, hi, buddy.” Law squatted down to offer a knuckle to the cat. He never had a pet before—his father wasn’t a fan of any needy creature he had to feed—and he wasn’t sure what to expect. He was pleasantly surprised that the cat stopped meowing and started purring and rubbing its head in Law’s hand. “You’re probably hungry,” he commented, glancing around.
Meanwhile, Doxy and Parody were familiarizing themselves with the small, windowless space. The faucet . . . worked. The bed? A thin cot mattress on the floor, big enough for one average-sized person. Two Fallow, maybe, if they got creative. One pillow, one blanket.
That should be interesting. . .
The canisters, tucked into a gap between bricks, then caught his attention. He was starving!
He came across the cat food first. Gospel had some contraption rigged up over two bowls that probably deposited food and water on a regular basis, but it was empty. He refilled it, it dispensed a portion of each, and that stopped the cat’s complaining.
Gospel had a tame house cat. He was certainly full of surprises.
The other canisters had . . . nuts and dried berries . . . and that was pretty much it. “What is he, a squirrel?” he asked his Fallow companions.
It was no longer any wonder why Gospel was so lean and agile.
Too hungry to be picky, he shoved a handful of the tasteless gorp into his mouth. And then he turned around, not at all expecting to see Doxy . . . topless.
The tattoos. The scars. She had more than just that one. The pink erect nipples. Her breasts were small, but proportion-wise, they were generous for her waif-like body.
Parody was sitting next to her on the mattress. Though still fully clothed, she leaned toward Doxy. Her eyes were closed. She set her hand on Doxy’s chest, her palm placed between her breasts, and gave her a kiss on the temple that was delicate but not in any way chaste.
While he was chewing—he would have been speechless, regardless—Doxy gave him a knowing glance. He was intrigued but also extremely uncomfortable, and she found that very amusing.
And then they were kissing, mouth to mouth. Their hands were getting involved, grazing over tight clothes, bare skin, acting as if he wasn’t stuck in the same room with them, a space that was about the size of a walk-in closet.
Since he didn’t exactly receive an invitation, he figured Parody’s line from earlier would apply here: Make yourself scarce for a little while.
Climbing out of the hatch, sunlight was now peeking through the dust and grime caked on the windows.
He located an old couch cushion, the stuffing half picked out. The rats probably had a lovely warm home. He wasn’t quite as fortunate. It was drafty in the abandoned space and seeing nothing that resembled a blanket, a painter’s tarp would have to do. It was canvas and not plastic.
Good enough. . .
He dragged both toward a corner out of the direct sunlight.
And then he crashed. At least his body did. Or most of it. His mind . . . and erection took a while to settle.
Seeing Doxy half naked was a first for him. Yes, he had fooled around with her before. Once. A blowjob to be precise. An almost fully clothed one, however, and he was the only one exposed. It was chilly that evening in the lighthouse and everyone was settling in for the night, but they were in a stairwell, still at risk of being discovered. And he didn’t want that.
The act—or mistake—was more of a bet than anything else. She challenged. He accepted. The mouth studs made him uneasy. Clenching up, going in, he soon let out a sigh of resignation. He was wrong. She was right. She certainly knew how to use those studs effectively.
She felt fucking amazing.
It ended well and in record time. She was that good. Years of practice . . . for money . . . would do that for a working girl and whatever man she was with. And yes, as unfair as it was—he wasn’t exactly moral in that regard—it bothered him. So the two of them as a thing were in no way meant to be. Not in his head, anyway. And when she tried to kiss him a few days later, she wasn’t shy about it. There were people around. Virtue glanced over. And he wasn’t into it. Not at all. And his response was cold, even by his standards. The anger was uncalled for, but it was there, like a reflex. It was just an unspoken, unacted upon blip in composure, but she picked up on it and that’s when things became icy between them.
He should have just apologized. Or had some shred of decency in the first place.
That was the last coherent thought he had before everything took a darkly surreal turn. He escaped the noose. But not in his mind. He had to relive that moment over and over and over again, each time more twisted and grotesque, morbid and even more terrifying than the time prior.
Until the nightmare was punctuated by light footsteps.
“You still awake?”
A whisper.
He gasped, taking in his unpleasant but not dangerous surroundings. At the sight of a familiar face, he suppressed the panic attack.
“I am now.” He rolled onto his back. Doxy took a seat on the floor beside him. She was facing him, her knees up. She had a long-sleeve button up shirt on, probably one of Gospel’s. Her lanky legs were bare. They made her freshly shaven head . . . um . . . less noticeable? When it grew in a little, it had a nice reddish-brown color. A shame they took it from her . . . again.
He tried to picture her at her best. If she had a pure and opulent upbringing. At a Braintree function, they would have been all over her. At the ripe old age of twenty-six, she’d probably have six children already. And by nature, she’d have had the moxie to shoot high. Somebody important. Better than what Adam Braintree would have become.
A shift of one leg down revealed that she had underwear on. So she wasn’t being presumptuous—he didn’t think—and neither was he. “Are you two finished? So soon?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged one shoulder and the shirt slipped off a little. And that’s when he noticed . . . underneath the thin, see-through white fabric, she was still bare up on top. “She’s out. Like a light. Sleeps like the dead. And. . .” She placed her hand on his chest and her fingertips slipped between the buttons of his shirt. “I thought you might be feeling left out.”
What an all-over-the-place day. It had just started, and yet it just kept getting more and more out there.
It would have been so easy to give in to her. Take whatever she had to offer. And deal with the repercussions later . . . like last time. He was still slightly buzzed as well, and that made a bad idea seem like a slightly less bad idea? But. . .
As tactfully as one could do such a thing, he removed her hand and said a flat, “No.”
“Come on,” she persisted, her weight about to shift over his. “No strings attached.”
With both hands, he stopped her before she could start. “There are always strings attached,” he said to her, face to face, eye to eye. “And do you know what? I’d rather have your respect.”
Once her muscles went slack and she was next to him, not on him,
he let go of her arms.
“You have my respect.”
“Now you’re just lying.”
Law rolled away from her, placed his head on the cushion, and stared at the wall.
“Not the sulking again.”
He could hear the eye roll in her voice.
“I’m not sulking. I’m just tired,” he said through a sigh.
“Now who’s lying?”
He left a silence there that she didn’t know what to do with. Talk? Pursue? Walk away?
“It’s Virtue, isn’t it?” she groused suddenly. “You love her too.”
“What?” He pushed to his elbows. The glare he laid on her, for once, made her eyes falter. “Where did that come from? Virtue is. . .” Perfect. Too perfect. Not meant for their world. She deserved so much better than the lot she received. “She’s practically a child!”
“Never stopped your kin. Do you love her or not? The question is simple enough.”
“In no way is that simple.”
“You have a way with words. Enlighten me, then,” she challenged, one knee up, her arm propped up on it, her hand signaling the-floor’s-all-yours, counselor. Her other long leg was extended on the ground.
She certainly knew how to tongue-tie a man who was allegedly in love with someone else.
“I . . . don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Am I even capable of love? Should I bother to find out? Look where love got Virtue. Or my mother. Or. . .” He shook his head. Any number of other examples. “If Virtue looked at me the way she looked at him, it might be different. But. . .”
“Well. . .” Doxy began, her tone surprisingly practical and constructive. “If there’s time to stop it before it gets out of hand. . .”
The Fallow Page 21