“Bag her,” he says tersely, already walking away. “And take her to the Reaping Room. And in the name of the prophets, fetch me a clean shirt!”
Someone pulls rough black fabric over my head, I feel a sharp sting at the back of my neck like a bug bite, and everything goes black.
Chapter 22
I wake up, lying on a cold concrete floor. My head’s pounding like a sledgehammer against my temples, and my mouth is as dry as the desert. I blink through blinding light blasting down on me and try to get my bearings. “What is the deal with these people and light?” I mutter, squinting to try to see around me.
“She lives,” comes a familiar surly voice.
“Rissa?” The Goodacre twin is here, flashing me a relieved smile that belies the annoyed tone of her voice. She offers me a hand, pulling me into a sitting position. Gives me a canteen, which I take gratefully. Her usually neat braids are wild and loose around her head, and a huge bruise covers the side of her face. “What happened?”
“I fought back. Until . . .” She holds her hand to the wound on her face. “I suppose it’s a bit of justice.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I run fingers gingerly across my neck. Feel the spot where they injected me with whatever they used to knock me out.
“Still better than whatever they pumped into you to put you to sleep. You’ve been out for hours.” She grins. “You must have scared the shit out of them.”
“Maybe they’re not used to clan powers.”
“Poor five-fingereds,” she says in a very good imitation of Mósí. “Didn’t know what hit them.”
“Speaking of, any sign of Mósí? Or Ben?”
“No. The Cat disappeared before they caught us. She’s out there. Somewhere.”
Well, at least that’s one bit of good news. If Mósí’s free, our chances of getting out of this place go up. Assuming she decides she wants to help us.
“And no Ben?”
She shakes her head.
I sit up straighter, shade my eyes, and take a good look around, wondering where exactly “here” is. Rissa and I are alone, and in a cage of some kind, thick iron bars on four sides of us, a concrete floor sloping toward the middle of the room. There’s a drain in the center. I can see other cages like ours along the wall. They’re all empty, but there are fresh stains on the cement. I can smell the lingering odors of piss and worse things. Empty meat hooks hang from the ceiling at various intervals, swinging idly. Massive steel tables take up most of the space. A room straight out of a fucking horror movie.
I look at Rissa, who gives me a tight terrified smile. I hadn’t noticed before, but her hands are shaking.
“He called this the Reaping Room,” I say, feeling some of that same dawning revulsion. “Is this a . . . ?”
“Body shop. That’s what this is. I’ve heard people talk about them, but I didn’t think they existed. But this sure looks like the real deal.”
“Cannibals?” I ask, the word thick on my tongue.
“No. A body shop harvests your organs, sells them to the highest bidder.”
“Harvest,” I repeat. I remember what the bilagáana man with the blue eyes said about sending me to the Harvest. This must be what he meant.
“I’ve heard they take everything,” Rissa says. “Skin, hair, organs. There’s a booming market for body parts. A man came to the All-American once. Approached Mom about getting into the business. But she turned him down flat. Reported him as a Harvester, and they ran him out of Dinétah.”
“Grace was going to get into the Harvesting business?”
“Never.” Rissa shudders. “Mom would never. But I learned a bit about it after that. Morbid curiosity, I guess.”
“So, what happens after you get Harvested?”
“Does it matter? We’ll be dead.”
She’s got a point.
I push myself to my feet. Pace around the cage, rattling the bars, testing their strength. “Any idea where we are? I mean, besides hell, generally?”
“Pretty sure this is Knifetown. It used to be one of those places Mósí was talking about along Route 66. ‘Come see the largest collection of knives in North America.’ That kind of thing. Now . . .” Her eyes travel over the cages, the surgical tables. “And Knifetown came up more than once when I was doing my research. I got the feeling it was infamous.”
“Great. So we’re prisoners of the most infamous body shop in the Malpais. Is that what you’re telling me?” I run my hands over my face, trying to think. “How far is that from where we were headed? That Mormon settlement?”
“Joseph City? Not far. Less than twenty miles. We were almost there.”
“Figures.”
“They wouldn’t help you in Joseph City,” comes a voice from behind us. We whirl to find the pilot from before, the one in the aviator’s cap with the bleached eyebrows and lashes, walking through a door marked EXIT in red glowing letters. “They’re scared of Bishop out in J City, just like the rest of them. If you’d stopped there, they would have just brought you here, only made a little trade in the in-between.”
“Who are you?” Rissa asks.
“Aaron,” I say, remembering what the man in the white shirt called him. “He took my weapons.”
“Nothing personal,” he says, his lips quirking in a sideways grin. He pulls a wallet-size pack from his pocket. Lays it flat in his palm and unzips it along the side. Inside gleam four sharp-looking needles. He pulls a long vial of liquid from the other side of his kit.
“I’m guessing he’s also the one who drugged me,” I say to Rissa.
“Again,” Aaron says, “not personal.”
“I took it pretty personally, Aaron.”
“Then you’re really not going to like this.” He holds up the vial to the light. “My sincere apologies for what comes next, but Bishop’s got guests tonight and he needs you both asleep until he’s done entertaining.”
“Asleep?” I ask, eyeing that needle warily. “Or dead?”
“What makes one ride the Malpais at night?” he asks conversationally as he sticks a needle into the top of the vial. He pulls the plunger, and we all watch it fill. “Everybody knows this is Bishop’s territory, and what comes through here belongs to Bishop. Too easy to catch something like you. You ladies don’t look that brainless. Are you that brainless?” He looks up at us, like he’s waiting for us to answer.
“Technically it was dusk,” I mutter.
His shoulders shake in what might be laughter. “Well, technically, you’re screwed.”
“Was that you flying that airplane?” Rissa asks.
Now he really does smile, showing a mouthful of silver teeth. “What gave it away? Was it the cap?” He touches a hand to his head.
“So, you’re a pilot?” I ask, trying to keep him talking instead of shooting us up with whatever is in that vial.
“I was a pilot,” he corrects me. “Before the Big Water. Shuttling tourists around the South Rim of the grandest canyon of all in one of those high-winged little Caravans. Nice little craft. I miss flying her.”
“We’re a long way from the Grand Canyon. How’d you end up here?”
He lifts a shoulder, noncommittal. “Lucky, I guess. Same as you.” He grins. “Now, where were we?”
“What would it cost us to get you to fly us out of here?” Rissa asks in a rush.
Aaron stills. Just a moment’s hesitation, but it’s there. “Neither of you ladies have that kind of trade,” he scoffs, his tone dismissive.
“I do,” Rissa says, her voice sweet as honey and just as seductive. “My family is Dinétah wealthy, not this Malpais gangland ghoul shit like your boss. You get us out of here, we’ll bring you across the border. Get you papers, make sure you’re set up real nice. Whatever you want.”
He licks his lips, eyes narrowed on Rissa. “Across the Wall? You’re not Diné,” he says suspiciously. “You got no sway over there on the other side.”
“Have you heard of the Goodacres?”
His eyes light up. He leans back against one of the big stainless-steel tables, crossing his arms. Rolls the needle between his fingers like another man might a coin. “Everyone knows the Goodacres. Cletus Goodacre was famous in the Harvesting business. A goddamn legend!”
I shoot a startled glance at Rissa. Didn’t know if they were real, eh? Never in the business. Mom would never, she said. But her older brother’s a goddamn legend?
She shifts uncomfortably, caught out in a lie. Embarrassing, but we both know our priority is getting out of here. My moral outrage can come later.
“You’re talking to Clarissa Goodacre,” she says, stepping forward, hands on her hips.
He looks doubtful at first, but slowly the knowledge seems to dawn. “The red hair. Should have known. Can’t be too many reds like you left in the world. But I always thought Cletus was part-Navajo,” he says. “Used to joke about being the same clan.”
“You’re Navajo?” I ask, surprised.
“You actually knew him?” Rissa asks.
“ ’Course. We all knew him. Until . . .” He makes a gesture, something to ward off evil. Curious. I’ve never asked Grace what happened to Cletus. How he died. I just assumed it was in the Energy Wars or in some horrible accident like her husband.
“So, are you going to get us out of here?” I ask.
He looks back to me. Hesitates, glances down at the needle still in his hand. “You’ll get me into Dinétah. Set me up, a wealthy man.”
Rissa nods.
“Exactly how much wealth are we talking?”
“Enough to make it worth your while. You knew Cletus, so you know that I’m good to my word.”
He taps the needle against his cheek. “Tempting. But if I get caught, I’ll be the next one in that cage.”
“You won’t get caught because you’ll come with us,” Rissa practically croons. “We make it to that airplane, no one’s catching us.”
I can see the greed practically shining from his eyes, in the way he twirls the needle between his fingers, contemplating. He swallows hard as Rissa swaggers forward, hips swinging in her fitted brown leathers. She leans folded arms against the bars. She’s close enough to reach out and touch him if she wants.
“So, what do you say, Aaron?” she drawls. “Want to be rich?”
Chapter 23
Aaron decides he does indeed want to be rich. He pockets the needle and pulls a ring of keys from his belt, deftly finding the one that opens our cage. Turns the lock and I’m swinging the door open before he’s even finished. I’d never been in a cage before and I can’t say I cared for the experience. Don’t think I’ll do it again.
Aaron lets me pass and then turns back to Rissa. Gives her a little bow as he holds the door open for her. She returns the gesture with a predator’s grin. He reaches out and takes her hand. Kisses her knuckles. “An honor, Ms. Goodacre,” he murmurs.
I have to stop myself from gagging. “Really? Ms. Goodacre?”
“No reason we can’t be civil,” she says, giving me a fuck-off kind of smile.
I want to point out that ten minutes ago Aaron was willing to cut her into pieces and sell her liver to the highest bidder. But I don’t. Instead I say, “Be civil all you want. Let’s just get out of here.”
And that’s when we hear it. Voices coming from the stairwell. Two men at least, maybe more.
“Were you expecting backup?” I ask, tense.
Aaron goes rigid. “No. Everyone’s supposed to be at the auction. No one’s allowed in the Reaping Room when there’s prisoners.”
I scan the room, looking for weapons. Four metal tables, way too heavy to lift. Bare bulbs hanging in intervals from the ceiling. Meat hooks. And along the wall, medicine cabinets. I hadn’t really noticed them before, but now that I have, I’m guessing they are full of surgical equipment. The kind one might use to remove organs.
“Fuck!” Aaron hisses, striding for the door. There’s a small window at eye level. He hunches down to peek through, looking up the stairs. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” He runs a shaky hand across his head. “What are they doing here?” He claps his hands together sharply. “Think, Aaron, think.” He looks up, eyes bright. “Quick, back in the cage.”
“Like hell,” Rissa says for both of us.
“If you’re out, the jig is up.”
“There is no jig.” I walk to the closest cabinet. Slam my elbow against the flimsy lock and it comes open. Sure enough, sharp metal gleams back at me in deadly little rows. I grab what looks like a scalpel, careful not to cut myself. Slip two razors on long handles into the places where my throwing knives usually go.
“What are you doing?” Aaron whisper-shouts at me. “These are my buddies. You’re not going to chop them up.”
“Watch me,” I say, tucking a particularly ugly blade into my sleeve.
“No!” he says, grabbing at my arm. I shake him off, give him a look that’s frightened braver men than him, and he backs down.
“Okay, all right, all right.” He paces the floor. “Rissa!” He hurries to Rissa, who’s resting her butt against one of the steel tables, eyeing the meat hooks above her thoughtfully. “You’re the sane one in the girl group, am I right?”
“I heard that,” I say.
“Can you talk your friend there into getting in the cage? I won’t lock it, and we already have a deal, right? You know I wouldn’t go back on a deal. Not with Cletus’s sister. But let me see what my buddies want. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe they can walk away, eh? Before it gets violent.”
Rissa crosses her arms. The voices are getting louder, laughing and joking as heavy footsteps come down the stairs.
“What do you say, Maggie?” she asks me, leaning forward a bit. “Should we give them a chance?”
“Or,” I say, shutting the cabinet. “We could just kill them.”
Aaron groans.
“I thought you were turning over a new leaf,” Rissa says to me. “Trying not to kill people.”
“I was, but that was yesterday. Today, with the whole captured and drugged thing? I’m feeling pretty aggro.”
Rissa gestures to Aaron like there’s nothing she can do.
“Unless,” I say, cutting off whatever he was going to say next. “Unless you help us find Ben.”
“Sure, sure, whatever you want. Let me—let me open that door and I will help you with your Ben, no problem.”
“Okay.” I look to Rissa. “Okay?”
“You armed?” she asks.
I nod, a feral smile leaking from my lips. “I’ve even picked out a few for you. I know you prefer a gun, but it’s good for a woman to learn to use a blade.”
“That’s nice, Maggie. I appreciate you thinking of me.”
“No reason I can’t be civil, Ms. Goodacre.”
Aaron’s dancing from foot to foot, sweating. If I weren’t convinced we were going to have to fight our way out of this place in the next sixty seconds, I’d laugh. But instead I saunter over to the cage, and Rissa follows. Aaron starts to close the door, but I stop it with my foot. Hold out my hand. He slaps the key ring down in my palm, so I move my foot and let him close the door.
“Now lie down,” he says, eyes darting between us and the door. “So it looks like I drugged you.”
We can hear that Aaron’s friends have arrived, so we don’t argue. Rissa and I hit the concrete. I fling an arm out to cover my face, but I make sure I can see the door. Aaron practically sprints for the stairwell, slapping the bright lights off as he hits the wall. He catches the knob and pulls it open just as two men barrel through.
“My brothers!” he shouts, overly friendly. “What are you doing here?”
Aaron’s friends freeze. The one in front, a big guy with an unkempt beard and a broad sloping belly, stutters out, “A-Aaron. We thought you’d be up at the auction with everyone else.” His eyes dart around the room, clearly looking for something, someone. Us. But the dark has rendered R
issa and I into indistinct lumps. “Bishop sent me down to check on the prisoners.”
The other one laughs nervously. “Oh yeah, same. We were just checking.”
“Funny,” Aaron says in a voice as empty as the Malpais. “He didn’t mention he was sending you two down. In fact, I was supposed to dose them and lock them up for the night. You know the rules.”
His friends exchange a look. The bearded one shrugs, shoulders slumping in defeat. But the other one, fair-haired and lean, isn’t willing to give up so quickly. “So, listen, Aaron,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “We heard they were women. Young ones. Pretty ones. And you know how it is. We don’t get to see a lot of those. We just wanted to take a look.”
“While they’re knocked out cold?” Aaron asks, finger against his chin like he’s confused.
His friend stares a hard moment and then lifts his hands. “You got us!” he says, exasperated. “We’re men, aren’t we?”
“Virile men,” Beard agrees.
The blond shoots his friend an annoyed look before turning back to Aaron. “So maybe we want to do more than look. But what’s the harm? They’re scheduled for Harvesting tomorrow. They won’t care because they’ll be dead.”
Something changes in Aaron’s posture. A subtle thing. I recognize it only because I know a fighting stance when I see it. A relaxing of the shoulders, a shift of his weight as he bends his knees. “Pete,” he says, his voice a degree colder than it was before, “please tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
Pete takes a step back, clearly not expecting his friend’s reaction. “We know the rules, Aaron, but what’s a little rule bending between friends?”
“They’re just women,” his bearded friend says. “And strangers at that. Who cares what we do to them?”
“It’s a sin. Especially because they are strangers. Especially because they are women.”
Pete exhales, loud and exasperated. “Get over yourself, Aaron. If you think about it, we’re doing this trash a favor—”
It happens so fast I almost miss it. One minute Pete’s standing in the threshold of the door, hands braced on the doorjamb. The next he’s got a needle protruding from his eye.
Storm of Locusts Page 13