“What’s the matter?” Peter said. “You gonna cry? Oh, you gonna break down and cry, little Ianny?”
When Ian spoke, his voice sent a chill down Michael’s spine.
“Who did it?”
“Did what?” Michael said.
“The child. Who created the illusion?”
Michael stepped forward, proud of his accomplishment, but uneasy with Ian’s tone of voice and the disgusted way he was stepping on their flag.
“I did,” Michael said.
“You didn’t contain it.”
Michael closed his eyes, letting his head tip forward in shame. Containment was an essential part of crafting an illusion; otherwise, it could attract enemies who weren’t threats before.
“You’re right,” was all Michael could say.
When they found Eli, he was already being arrested by Warren and Elkin and two other men. They had to force the bigger boy onto his stomach to restrain his arms and legs.
“Get the hell offa me,” Eli was shouting, trying to wrestle free.
Warren was grinning. The grin widened as Michael, Peter, and Eli came around the corner.
“You followed us,” Michael said.
Warren was clearly holding back laughter. “Oh, you boys really done it this time. The entire town heard it. Not just us, but everybody.”
Elkin snorted laughter, then kicked Eli in the side. “Stop squirming, fat boy.”
The use of telepathy in any capacity within the town’s boundaries was illegal. The only exceptions were self-defense, or if someone had a permit like the one Arielle had for administering therapy. It was Gulch law. John Meacham had written it himself.
“It was me,” Michael said. “We were playing a game, and I used it. We were just messing around.”
“Bulldangles,” Warren said. “You boys are coming with me. Any resistance”—next to him, a broad-shouldered, mean-looking farmer pulled out a revolver—”and I can shoot you for obstructing arrest.”
Michael cut his eyes at Peter and Ian. They nodded and went along, Eli cursing and muttering as he was led forward in handcuffs.
“A crying kid,” Eli said. “Nice one, Mike.”
“Sorry,” Michael said.
Later, John Meacham drove down in his truck to meet them in front of the town hall.
“Ian, you and your friends really screwed up,” he said, glaring at his son as he searched for the right key on his key ring to open the front door. When he put his hand on the doorknob, he realized it was unlocked. “What the hell?” he said as he pushed the door open.
Louis Blake was waiting for them inside.
“Louis, you better explain to me right now how you got a key to this building,” Meacham said as his men pushed Eli and the other boys inside, pistols out and ready.
“You caught me,” Blake said, putting his hands up. “I’m invoking amendment fourteen—”
“Bullshit you are,” Meacham said.
“It’s my right.”
Blake glanced over at Michael, Peter, Eli, and Ian, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“Under amendment fourteen, I can take full responsibility for what just happened. Release the boys now. Take me instead.”
The strain on Meacham’s face was almost comical. His skin had gone hot pink, and a dozen lines formed around his eyes as he frowned at Blake.
“One of these days, Louis…”
“Let them go.”
The penalty for using telepathy without a permit was sixty days in jail. Blake’s trial would be in three days. Until then, he would be under house arrest.
He didn’t seem to mind.
Chapter 21
“But they can’t do this,” Michael said, pacing back and forth in the living room.
Peter, Eli, Ian, and Arielle all sat on the couches, brooding. Ian seemed to be in a darker mood than the others. The boys hadn’t changed out of their clothes, still smelling like sweat and pavement from their game in the Hollows.
“I mean, what right does he have?” Michael said.
“It’s the law,” Peter said. “We’ve got those here. You didn’t know?”
“Sure I did. Harris Kole had his laws, too,” Michael said, stopping mid-pace to give Peter his most disgusted look. “Anyone caught expressing dissatisfaction with the regime ended up in a labor camp, their families branded as dissenters. All you had to do was say, ‘This sucks,’ and they would make you disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. And people accepted it. Why? Because it was the law.”
Peter stared at his hands and kept quiet.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Eli said, hunched over his knees, rubbing the sore spots on his wrists. The handcuffs had left welts.
“What about the trial?” Michael said. “There’s gotta be someone who can defend him.”
“He confessed, Michael,” Arielle said. “He’ll spend sixty days in jail. It’s happened to him before. As long as they let him have his cigarettes, he won’t even make a fuss.”
Michael’s mind was in overdrive. He kept thinking about something Dominic had said in the town hall the day after the bandit attack.
“What about those women?” He had stopped pacing and was addressing the group now, feeling slightly ridiculous as a result. But they were listening.
“What women?” Ian said. “What are you talking about?”
“The ones who were kidnapped five years ago.”
“Fran Baker, Rocio Martinez, and Sally Woodhouse,” Arielle said.
Michael nodded. “Dominic thinks they might still be alive in a slaver settlement southeast of here.”
Ian stood from his seat, glaring at Michael. “No one knows what happened to them.”
“Yes, we do,” Arielle said, also standing. “They got sent to Praetoria. It’s where all slave women end up in these parts, especially the pretty ones.”
“Because of the whorehouses,” Eli said. Arielle winced at the term.
“We don’t know they’re alive,” Peter said.
“But we can find out,” Michael said. He nodded at Arielle. “That’s your talent, right? You can sense a person’s emotional signature. Dominic can do it, too. It’s how he managed to find me in New Sancta. But you’re an empath. You’re better at it than he is.”
Peter rose off the couch, eyeing Michael like he wanted to strangle him.
“Don’t even think about taking her out of town,” Peter said.
The others were silent, watching him. Peter was never this serious. Michael chose his next words carefully.
“We’re well-trained. We could get close enough to at least see if they’re in there.”
“And why would we do that?” Peter said.
“Because if those women are alive and in Praetoria, then I know how we could bring telepathic training back to Gulch.”
“You lost me,” Peter said.
Arielle watched Michael, realization dawning on her face. “You’re crazy,” she said.
“If there’s one thing I learned living in the People’s Republic,” Michael said, “it’s that people care about their own safety more than anything else. What’s the scariest thing out here in the Eastlands?” he asked the group.
“Slavers,” Arielle said.
“Right. And there’s one thing that can keep this town safe from them. We just have to prove it.”
“And what thing is that?” Peter said, squinting at Michael like he dared him to say what he was thinking.
Michael smiled, despite his growing unease with the idea. It would mean risking everything he cared about, including his own life.
“Us,” he said.
Chapter 22
They spent the next day planning.
The scouting trip had to happen before Blake’s trial, and it couldn’t be in daylight. The fact that Arielle was going with them added a sense of urgency. There were times when Michael wondered if he should just call it off, let Blake sit in jail, and hope they could continue their training some other way.
<
br /> When he told Arielle what he was thinking, she set him straight.
“You started this, Michael, and you’re going to finish it. I’ll go by myself if I have to, then you’ll be forced to come anyway, since I know you wouldn’t let me risk my life alone.”
She had a point.
The night they were set to leave, Michael unveiled his creation for the first time.
Inside Rudy’s garage, he pulled back the dirty sheet he’d used to cover it. Everyone’s mouth opened in awe, except Michael’s. He was smiling.
“A dual-sport S13 Roadweaver,” Peter said, studying the motorcycle. “V-twin engine?”
Michael shook his head. “In-line three cylinder. Liquid-cooled. 12-valve.”
Peter whistled. “I’ll be damned. Thing must weigh over four hundred pounds.”
“Four hundred and fifty,” Michael said. “Give or take. I don’t really have a scale.”
Ian approached the bike, then touched its leather seat in silence, almost like he was touching a holy relic. Eli ran his big hands over its freshly painted and waxed frame.
“Shiny,” he said, dazzled.
Spray-painted black all over, it gleamed under the overhead lights as if it were brand new.
Ian stepped back. “You build it yourself, or Rudy help you?”
“I did most of it,” Michael said with a shrug. “Rudy helped me with the wiring and the brakes.”
Arielle came up to stand beside Michael. “Where did you get the parts?”
“Scavenging, mostly. But Rudy’s been collecting parts off caravans for years. I guess he dreamed of building it someday, but he never got around to it. I promised him sixty hours of unpaid overtime in exchange for the parts.”
Shivering, Arielle crossed her arms over her chest. “So, who’s going to take me?”
Peter and Eli raised their hands to volunteer, Peter with a wide grin on his face. Ian just shook his head.
“Whichever bike you feel most comfortable on,” Michael said.
She gave him a shy smile. “Just be careful, okay?”
They drove under cover of darkness, using telepathy to sense anyone nearby, guns loaded and ready to fire. The weapons had been placed in holsters attached to their motorcycles. The roaring of the engines was a good thing—anyone crazy enough to bring four motorcycles out here in the dark had to be packing serious heat. People probably thought they were raiders.
The journey felt shorter than it was, mostly because the desolate landscape was unlike anything Michael had ever seen. He was fascinated. Their headlights washed over abandoned gas stations, collapsed highways, entire towns with not a single soul inside, and tiny camps in the middle of vast fields that were probably bandits taking shelter for the night. It was terrifying to see it all come to this.
Their destination was a city called Praetoria, two hours southeast of Gulch. The place hadn’t really been a city in a long time. It was in ruins, and all they could see of it in the distance were its pale bones and a broken highway. Lights burned in the city’s center, where the men and women who called themselves Praetorians lived, probably in squalor.
“Roman still running the place?” Eli asked as they walked their bikes into a patch of wiry bushes behind a tattered billboard.
“That’s what they say,” Ian said.
“Who’s Roman?” Arielle said.
Michael half-listened to their conversation. He recalled the way Arielle’s arms had felt around his waist during the ride. At one point, after passing a toppled baby carriage that was little more than a rusted frame, she had tightened her hold on him.
“He’s a slaver,” Peter said. “One of the worst within a four-hundred-mile radius. He named this place Praetoria and started his own gang. If you ask me, it’s only a matter of time before he gets enough manpower and resources to start scouring the mountains for additional stock.”
“That’s why no one asks you,” Ian said.
“I don’t like this conversation,” Arielle said, turning away from them.
Michael placed a hand on the small of her back. “Are you ready?”
A fierce wind blew over them, carrying with it the foul stench of rot and decay. Arielle shivered.
“I’m ready.”
They formed a protective ring around her as she sat on the barren ground, closed her eyes, and extended her telepathic reach into the heart of Praetoria.
After a few minutes of silence in which only the wind could be heard rustling in the bushes around them, Arielle emerged from her trance with a twitch of her head and a sudden, sharp intake of breath.
“They’re in there. All three of them. I could feel them.”
Grim expressions came over the boys. There was no turning back now.
Chapter 23
After lunch at the Cold War Café, those in support of Louis Blake walked as a single group to the town hall to witness his trial. Midas Ford trailed behind most of the way, eyes on the ground as he scratched his beard like a man who had just woken from a mysterious dream. Dominic walked ahead of them, fists swinging at his sides. Reggie and Arielle followed along, deep in their own conversation.
Michael, Eli, Peter, and Ian kept silent the entire trip, and it was clear to Michael everyone was having second thoughts. There was no guaranteeing the people of Gulch would believe them about Fran, Rocio, and Sally still being alive. Providing an explanation of how they knew this would be another matter altogether.
Inside the town hall, the ministers sat on raised benches, blinking over the crowd filing into the room. The air was humid, and Michael could smell fresh sweat from the farmers in attendance. A podium stood at the far end of the room where John Meacham presided over the trial with his usual air of superiority. Louis Blake sat handcuffed in the front row, between Warren and Elkin.
The boys stood against the back wall. At one point, Michael noticed John Meacham look over and frown upon seeing Ian with them. Ian stood his ground, met his father’s gaze, and held it without faltering until finally John Meacham turned away to converse with his ministers.
Charlotte came in holding her son’s hand, accompanied by a small group of women. William grinned at Michael and waved, almost tripping over his clubfoot. Michael waved back, feeling a surge of affection for the boy. Over the past few months, they had grown close, and Michael saw in William a reflection of his own lonely childhood. Also, something about the boy—maybe his child-like innocence—reminded him of Benny.
Arielle took a seat among the crowd. Glancing over her shoulder, she gave Michael a reassuring smile. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, her cheeks flushed from the heat. Michael ached to be near her.
“Quit staring,” Peter told him with a smirk.
Michael clicked his tongue and looked away, then caught sight of Charlotte sauntering toward them. He avoided her gaze.
“She got back late last night,” Charlotte said, stopping before them. “I don’t know where you went or what you did, but I’ve never seen her this anxious. I’m warning you not to do it again.”
“Jealous, Charlotte?” Peter said with an arrogant smile. “Don’t worry, we wouldn’t have a party without inviting you.”
“Arielle’s fine,” Ian said. “This isn’t your problem.”
“Piss off, Ian.” Charlotte folded her arms across her chest.
Ian brought his face close to hers, practically spitting out his next words.
“Go away, Charlotte. This has nothing to do with you.”
Michael clamped a hand around Ian’s arm. “Relax. We shouldn’t make a scene right now.”
Charlotte flashed Ian and Michael a threatening scowl before storming toward the seating area. Michael frowned at something he’d seen in her face.
“Charlotte.”
She turned back to him. Her eyes were a misty blue, the same color as Arielle’s.
“What now?” she said.
As Michael studied her face, she blinked, and the blue changed back to its usual brown. He must have been going out of
his mind.
“Nothing,” he said.
Charlotte shook her head before leaving. Michael watched her settle into a seat next to William.
Peter glanced at him. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said, wilting against the wall.
The verdict came out guilty, and Blake was sentenced to sixty days in the town jail. His permit to train anyone—telepath or not—was revoked. Permanently.
The ministers had deliberated for ten minutes in the back room, giving everyone a chance to get refreshments and use the bathroom. Blake chain-smoked two cigarettes in silence.
When the ministers came out and announced the verdict, half the people in the room clapped and cheered. The others shook their heads and traded solemn looks.
Michael used this opportunity to make his announcement.
“Can everyone listen?” he shouted.
They all faced him, many blinking in confusion like they’d never seen him before. John Meacham scowled, then banged his fist against the podium.
“You have no say in this hall, Michael Cairne. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Michael felt small with everyone’s eyes on him. Peter, Eli, and Ian stepped forward, flanking him. It was easier to speak knowing they were there.
“It’s about Fran,” he started, “and Rocio and Sally. We know where they are, and we can help them.”
With a growl, Meacham banged his fist again. “Warren, Elkin, get them out of here.”
“You will do no such thing,” Midas Ford shouted, standing up among the crowd. “Everyone has a voice in this hall, including Michael. We’ll listen to what he has to say.”
By now, John Meacham’s face was red with rage. Louis Blake had stood up, shooting the boys a disconcerted look. He wasn’t going to like this. Not at all.
“Let him speak,” a man in the audience said.
“Sally’s my cousin,” a woman shouted. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
“We’re listening!”
“Let’s hear him out!”
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