The Shadow Walker (The Last Colony Book 2)

by William R Hunt

  But another meaning came to Jenny just then as the tent rose above her and Meatloaf hummed merrily to himself. Things with feathers could also fly away—most of them, anyway. The bird was on the windowsill now, well and good, but what was to stop it when it caught sight of a worm wriggling up from the earth far below? Or what about when the wind caressed its wings, teasing it with the thought of flight?

  Then, perhaps, Jenny would go to the window and discover that her one companion, the only messenger of a better and brighter world, had flown its perch. Maybe it would land on another sill where another poor girl might actually let it inside. Yes, that was the thing to do, because once it was inside she could shut the window, trapping it there until it withered away to a hollow puff of bones and feathers, vacant eye-sockets, a faded beak. It was what Jenny should have done. But now she feared to approach the creature or even acknowledge its existence, because that might be enough to scare it away forever.

  “Ta-da!” Meatloaf announced. “If only you could see it, Jenny! When they slip inside here tonight, they will think they have entered the tent of a Gypsy princess!”

  “Tonight?” Jenny repeated, faintly.

  “Oh, yes. As soon as that sun sets, my dear, the show will begin!”

  Jenny tried not to show the despair she felt at this thought, but it was impossible to tell if she had succeeded. She considered herself pretty well used to her blindness by now, but some things disappointed her just the same.

  “And then?” she asked tentatively. “How long will we stay with these people? I don’t like Calhoun.”

  “Nobody likes Calhoun,” Meatloaf assured her. “But he’s useful—for now. When he gives us what we need, we’ll be on our way.”

  “And just what is it we need?”

  He placed both hands on her shoulders and leaned close to her face. His mouth had a rotten odor worse even than Shadow’s breath.

  “A second chance, Jenny, my dear,” he said. “A second chance.”

  Chapter 29

  BEFORE

  Victor showered and shaved, staring at himself a long time in the mirror before dressing in the new clothes Peter had purchased for him, dark jeans and a red dress shirt. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he looked more like his mother than his father. He had her dark hair, her pronounced jawbones, her curving eyebrows. Seeing the similarities reminded him how far he was from home.

  He did not get lost this time on his return to the courtyard. For the first time he moved at his leisure, noticing the details, admiring all the work that must have gone into restoring the castle. He stopped by the painting of the naval battle again and studied the scene through the gull’s eye: The cannons belching tongues of flame; the shower of wood blossoming from a new hole in one of the hulls; two enemies grimacing at one another as they locked sabers; an officer standing tall in the midst of the battle, tricorne cocked askew, his finger pointed at the other ship in a silent signal to board.

  This was the nature of the human race, struggle and heroism and brute violence, the clash of wills and the thunder of gunfire. This was where the valiant and the cowardly showed their true colors. In battle, everyone’s blood ran red.

  “That is my favorite,” a voice said in exact, if slightly accented, English. Charles was standing in the hall.

  “What do you like about it?” Victor asked.

  Charles cupped one hand around his mouth, as if to tell a secret. “The cannons,” he whispered.

  Victor nodded. The cannons were indeed spectacular. He could not help wondering, however, what the battle was about. With no flag to reveal the nationalities of the two sides, the battle felt futile, a loss of life espoused by no greater cause. The eye of the gull reminded him of the omens the ancient Greeks and Romans had believed in. He wondered whether the artist was trying to demonstrate the folly of mankind’s actions as seen by a divine being.

  “I like the officer,” Victor answered.

  Charles frowned at the painting as if he had never given the officer a second thought. “Why is that?” he asked.

  “Because he stands tall in the midst of the fight, unafraid of being hit by bullets or shrapnel.”

  “He is foolish, then,” Charles replied, nodding to himself.

  “Or courageous. Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish the two.”

  “Charles!” a voice called. “Wo bist du?”

  “I have to go!” Charles whispered. He turned and trotted down the hall, nearly bumping into his mother as she emerged from a doorway.

  Victor raised a hand in polite greeting. “Your son has an eye for art,” he called.

  The woman stared back at him, unsmiling, as she pushed Charles through the doorway and then disappeared after him.

  ___

  The two men stripped down to their trousers and squared off in the courtyard, feinting and jabbing at one another. Their fists were wrapped with gauze, but they did not wear punching gloves. Mottled yellow bruises colored their sides.

  “You sure it’s a good idea for them to wrestle on the cobblestones?” Victor asked. “Could be painful.”

  Peter frowned at him. “Isn’t that the point?”

  They had just finished brunch, a modest affair by the standards of the previous night. It was a clear day, brisk and cool, summer leaning into autumn. Victor was eager to talk about what Sophia had said, but Peter’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.

  “Did you know Peter the Great held a dwarf wedding?” Peter asked.

  “What?”

  “He rounded up all the dwarfs in Moscow, sat them at little tables for the amusement of other guests. He liked dwarfs. Sometimes he would surprise his guests by having a dwarf pop out of a pie or come trotting in on a miniature pony.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Peter glanced at him. “What is the point of having power if you can’t amuse yourself?”

  One of the fighters landed a punch, blood spraying out across the cobblestones. A few of Peter’s men cheered. Victor caught Razorback watching him, his face set like a block of stone.

  “I want to talk about Sophia,” Victor said.

  Peter sighed. “It’s always business with you, isn’t it?”

  “It’s crazy, what she said, but what if it’s possible? What if, given enough time and funding, they could have designed such a virus? What then? Who profits from handicapping the planet?”

  The wrestlers were grappling, one of them trying to bash the other’s face into his knee. Peter leaned toward the fight with interest.

  “Are you even listening?” Victor asked.

  Peter sighed. “Why are you still here, Victor? You’ve satisfied yourself that there is no connection with Prievska, yes?”

  “I have, but—”

  “So now you want to, what, find the headquarters of Nichibotsu Enterprises and give the guilty parties to the police? The danger is over, Victor. The virus will never be finished.”

  “So what happens to the scientists?”

  Peter finally turned his attention away from the fight. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Peter, don’t pretend you’re just going to let them walk away. I think I know you better than that.”

  Something changed in Peter’s eyes. They grew cold, reptilian. “You don’t know me at all, Victor.”

  Victor raised his hands in silent surrender. They both returned their attention to the fight, the two men now rolling across the cobblestones, and Victor wondered what Camila was doing right then. Maybe Peter was right and it was time for him to go home. Maybe it was time to stop playing hero.

  “We can’t turn them over to Interpol,” Peter said, surprising Victor.

  “Why not?” Victor asked.

  “My money is tied up in this, or have you forgotten that detail? I can’t risk an investigation.”

  “I’m sure others invested without knowing what would happen.” He considered saying others had been “duped” but decided Peter might take offense.

  “It�
�s not the possibility of charges that concerns me,” Peter answered. “If word got out, my reputation would be ruined. Besides, I would be accused of kidnapping.” He cradled his head in his hands. It was the first time Victor had seen him vulnerable.

  “I should have told the authorities as soon as I realized what was happening,” Peter continued. “I don’t know what I was thinking, getting myself involved like this.”

  Victor thought of saying something to cheer Peter. Then he recalled Sophia in that stone cell, handcuffed to the chair, and decided against it. Peter was right—he had gone too far. It would not be easy to step away now.

  Peter’s eyes were clouded when he lifted his head. “You can still get out of this,” he said. “That car is still available. If you want out, say so now.”

  Victor heard an unspoken ultimatum behind Peter’s words: Say so now, because you may not get another chance.

  “I want to see this through,” Victor said. “There’s still someone out there who tried to create a deadly virus. That person needs to pay.”

  Peter nodded slowly. “You’re right, Victor. Something must be done. The question is, how far are you willing to go?”

  ___

  Peter was trying to tell him about the foundation of the castle. Something about sandstone. Victor nodded, not really listening, hung up on the question Peter had posed and trying not to think about all the dangerous implications he could attach to those words.

  Peter led him to the security room beside Sophia’s cell. One of the screens showed Sophia sitting at her chair, an empty styrofoam cup (Soup?) on the floor beside her. She was dozing, her chin resting on her chest, her hair hanging in her eyes.

  Victor sat in a chair. Peter left the room, and moments later he entered the range of the security camera before disappearing into the darkness at the corner of the room. The angle of the camera did not allow Victor to see what Peter was doing, but he heard the sound of a sheet falling to the ground. Wheels squeaked as something was pushed into the center of the room.

  It was a large mirror framed in black wood. The mirror would have struck Victor as elegant if he had not immediately compared it against the furniture in the castle above him. The frame was fashioned to give the impression of looking through a tall door. There was even a waist-high knob to complete the fiction.

  Peter stopped the mirror a few feet in front of Sophia (just far enough to prevent her from kicking the glass, Victor supposed), then began to brush dust from the hollows of the scrollwork with his fingers. He showed no inclination to speak as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the dust from his hand.

  Sophia’s head jerked upright. As soon as she saw Peter, her breathing quickened to little puffs of air.

  “This,” Peter said, running his hand lovingly along the frame of the mirror, “is the future. Your future, to be precise. Would you like to see your future, Sophia?”

  Before she had time to answer, a man pushed a cart into the interrogation room. The contents of the cart were disguised by a white cloth. The man left the tray beside Peter, then went back the way he had come without a word.

  Peter peeled the cloth back from the corner of the cart. The resolution of the camera was not high enough for Victor to clearly see what was on the tray, but he did catch the gleam of steel beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights. Cutting implements? If Victor saw blood, he decided, he would immediately rush into the room. He understood the need to ask Sophia a few more questions, hoping for a name that would lead them up the chain of those who had tried creating the virus, but he would not allow Peter to physically harm her. He drew a mental line in the sand: no blood. If Peter crossed that line, Victor would use whatever force necessary to stop him.

  Peter picked up a small black object. He pressed a button and Victor heard the familiar hum of an electric razor.

  “What do you want?” Sophia asked in a thin voice. “I already told you everything I know. Where’s my airplane ticket?”

  “You told us everything about the virus, perhaps,” Peter answered softly, almost gently. “But what about the name of your employer?”

  “Nichibotsu. They’re the ones funneling the money.”

  Peter tsked. “The whole purpose of an offshore bank account tied to a dummy corporation is to create distance, so I know you are not dealing with them directly. Who is your handler? Who do you report to?”

  “Nobody,” Sophia answered. Her hands tensed on the arms of the chair. Victor thought she looked afraid, but he was not certain it was Peter she was scared of just then. Maybe she was more concerned about the people she worked for—the people who might come after her if she gave them up. That might explain why she’d talked freely about the virus before, but was now unwilling to give the names of her employers.

  “Nobody, you say?” Peter asked. “Are you so sure? And what if I threatened your life? What if I told you you can either leave this room on your own two feet or be carried out? How much would you know then?”

  Victor sat forward, ready to spring to his feet and sprint into the cell if need be. So far, however, it appeared Peter was only making threats.

  “That doesn’t change your mind?” Peter asked.

  “I told you, I don’t—”

  “Yes, yes. You don’t know anything.” Peter raised the razor to the glow of the fluorescent lights, admiring it. “I suspect it has never been difficult for you to catch a man’s eye, has it?” He gave her a knowing smile. “You’re smart, determined, attractive. A woman like you can have any man she wants, can’t she?”

  He stepped behind her and gazed into the mirror, studying his own face suspended above hers. “They say a woman is attracted to a man’s voice. Do you know what attracts a man to a woman?”

  Her breathing had risen since Peter stepped behind her. Victor studied Peter’s hands, but it appeared he was only holding the razor. No scalpel, no knife.

  No blood.

  “The hair,” Peter answered as he turned the razor on. He grabbed a fistful of her dark hair and ran the razor along her scalp. She fought, swinging her head in an effort to wrench free, but his grip remained firm and the razor kept running. Long strands of hair layered the stones at the feet of the chair.

  “Most of the time, men prefer women with long hair,” Peter said as he continued running the razor along her scalp. “Just as we often do not like when men have long hair. Why? Because it is important to distinguish between the sexes. Men are attracted to long hair because it is feminine. Baldness, on the other hand…” He released her and shut off the razor. With his free hand he brushed away the loose hair on top of Sophia’s head, revealing a bare patch midway up her scalp.

  “Shall we continue?” he asked.

  “You bastard,” she whispered, but even through the uncertain quality of the camera, Victor thought there were tears on her face. He felt a sense of unease at this debasement of another human being…but he reminded himself about the importance of the information she had. Besides, Peter hadn’t physically harmed her yet. This was psychological torture, and it could get far worse than a mere haircut.

  Peter clucked his tongue in disappointment as he stared into the mirror. “I’m afraid the effect is not quite the same. Not many men would be attracted to you now. But cheer up! You could always wear a hat.”

  The razor began again, finishing the work it had started, and this time Sophia did not resist. Her shoulders collapsed and she sobbed, closing her eyes so she did not have to see herself in the mirror, while Peter went patiently about his work, humming all the while.

  Chapter 30

  Peter did not stop with the hair on Sophia’s head. Next he shaved her eyebrows, and when all the hair on her head and face was gone, he set the razor back on the tray.

  “Well,” he exclaimed, dusting his hands, “what do you think of your future now? This can end whenever you choose, my dear. You hold the key to your own cell. All you must do is use it.”

  “Fuck you,” she whispered, her eyes clenche
d shut. They sprang open moments later, however, at a sharp, rasping click. A flame sparked to life, then narrowed, spitting a column of blue into the air above her head. She stared at it through the mirror, her arms beginning to shake.

  “Hair grows back,” Peter said as he adjusted the dial on the torch, narrowing the width of the flame. “But scar tissue remains forever.”

  Victor sprang from his chair and raced from the security room, hoping he would not be too late. As he entered the interrogation room, he saw Sophia swinging her head wildly from side to side. The chair toppled over and she lay on her back as Peter stooped over her, the blowtorch inching toward her face.