“You know what I mean.” But Carter smiled in spite of his mood. Johnny could do that.
“If you mean water is power, you’re a tad slow figuring that one out.” Johnny levered himself to his feet. “You know, you’re not much fun, Lieutenant Colonel Voltaire. I came here to celebrate your promotion and transfer, and you’re not doing a very good job of celebrating. You’ve got a hangover is all. Get a shower and let’s get some breakfast. That’s an order.” Johnny grabbed Carter’s robe from the end of the bed, threw it at him. “As a member of the Water Policy Committee, I’m your boss, remember? Hell, I’m a god. Hop to it.”
“Yes, sir.” Carter gave him a mock salute and headed for the bath room.
Johnny was almost right — about his being a god. This had been a fancy hotel once, and now the officers had their own showers. Carter shivered as he stepped under the feeble spray of tepid water. Too early for the solar panels to have warmed up the tanks. Yeah, Water Policy decided who got the water, and how much. But it was up to the Corps to get it there, keep it running, and defend it. In the old days, the Corps had been a bunch of engineers. They had built levees and designed dams and were mostly civilian employees. Carter wondered if any of them had ever gone armed. Maybe after the hurricanes flattened New Orleans back at the start of the century. Not otherwise. He banged the soap into its tray and turned the spray back on to rinse off the lather.
It had taken presidential emergency powers to condemn private water rights in the first place, and that had nearly triggered a revolution right there. Afterward, no one could agree on who should administer the water, so . . . they had redefined the Corps. Water Policy might not be a bunch of gods, but they answered only to God, and the Corps answered only to Water Policy. Which made Johnny a member of the most powerful body politic in the US. No, that was no surprise at all — not if you knew Johnny. A few people made the mistake of not taking him seriously, writing him off as nothing more than a rich man’s spoiled son. That was a serious mistake. When Johnny wanted something, he didn’t kid around. It was no accident that he was the youngest member of Water Policy. When they were kids, Johnny had said he was going to be president. When he got older, he’d realized that Water Policy had more power. Ever since the Middle East fiasco, the presidency hadn’t been worth much.
He’d done it. Water Policy. As young as he was.
Shaking his head, Carter hit the dryer and raised his arms to let the stream of warm air evaporate the moisture from his skin. Beneath his feet, the last of the water gurgled into the recycle filter for tomorrow’s shower. You tried not to think about that too much. “So you make the decisions and everyone gets pissed at us.” He raised his voice as he pulled on his uniform. “Want to explain that to me?”
“You turn off the taps, not us.” Johnny stuck his head through the doorway and grinned. “We keep our hands clean. What’s the beef? Somebody tell you life was fair or something?”
“I’m just griping.” Carter sighed, haunted by that damn dream. The Corps could call in whatever force was deemed necessary to maintain and protect waterflow; regular Army, Marines, the Air Force if they wanted it. “We could probably nuke Washington,” Carter said. “If we really needed to.”
“Only if we told you to do it.”
Johnny sounded like he thought he was kidding. Carter sealed the front of his coverall. “We’ve walked all over the Constitution and the Bill of Rights,” he said bitterly. “You know, it bothers me sometimes. It bothers me a lot, but the numbers work, Johnny. We make them work.” If he had said this to the mob on the lakeshore, would any of them have listened? He shook his head, still damp with recycled, reused water. “Hell, all I want is to get the job done and to keep my people from getting hurt while we do it.”
“Which you will, of course, do with flying colors.” Johnny grinned. “You’re just the type of officer the Army loves, Carter.”
A hint of needling in Johnny’s tone? Carter looked up, but Johnny was smiling, his expression casual. “I don’t know about that,” Carter said slowly. “But I’ll do my best. This transfer was a surprise. It’s not the normal rotation.” He shrugged. “I’ve heard that the Columbia Riverbed has its own share of troubles.”
“Hey, it’s not bad out there.” Johnny slapped him lightly on the back. “That’s my district, remember? The locals around The Dalles are mostly soaker-hose farmers. You get tough with them and they’ll fall into line.” He winked. “Of course, I’ll have to keep a close eye on you.”
“It’s a long way from San Francisco.”
“Hey, we’re supposed to be mobile. Besides, I can do what I damn well please.” Johnny squinted into the mirror, running a hand over his carefully cut, sandy hair. “How can anyone with your black hair burn and peel like you do?”
“Wrong genes, I guess.” Carter shrugged. “All the melanin ended up in the hair and not the skin. Let’s go get breakfast.” He ushered Johnny out into the hall.
The original carpeting had been left in place when the building had been renovated into a Corps base. Its rich magenta pile was worn in the middle, faded to a dull red. Along the edges, however, the rich color glowed, clashing with the drab pastel yellow that had been used on the walls. Some Army shrink had probably decided pale yellow was an uplifting color. Carter thumbed the elevator button. It was working this morning. The elevator was a privilege of rank — when it worked. Even with the solar arrays, you didn’t waste power. The car dropped fast enough to leave Carter’s stomach somewhere behind.
He had drunk a little too much beer last night. It had been awhile since he and Johnny had hung out together. Oh, they’d talked on the phone or exchanged emails. But they hadn’t really spent any time together, not for a lot of years now. Then, all of a sudden, Johnny had showed up — stranded by some canceled meeting and the iffy airline schedules — and they’d had a long weekend to catch up.
It hadn’t been the same.
Which wasn’t too unexpected, considering that they’d been pursuing their own lives for the past several years. But somehow . . . it had been unexpected. And uncomfortable. Something had changed between them and Carter wasn’t sure what it was, or when it had happened. So he had drunk more beer than he should have. He felt bad about that change. “You were pissed at me,” he said as they stepped out into the old hotel lobby. “When I wouldn’t quit the Corps and come work for you and Water Policy. How come?”
“Do you really need to ask?” Johnny paused in the middle of the lobby, ignoring a trio of privates who saluted Carter and hurried past. “I was a compromise appointee and I know it. I was Trevor Seldon’s bright young son, the hotshot rising-star economist, picked to satisfy the young Republicans with money. I’m not too popular with the Committee, even now. If I fuck up, I’m screwed. I wanted you to watch my back.”
“I didn’t exactly back you up when we were kids,” Carter said, a bit surprised by Johnny’s intensity. “You mostly dragged me along kicking and screaming. I was always scared shitless we’d get busted.”
“Hey, maybe that’s why I needed you,” Johnny said lightly. “You kept be from getting in too deep, you and your conscience.”
Only it had been Carter who had gotten in too deep, and it had been Johnny’s money and his dad who had saved Carter’s ass. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I just don’t think I’d be much help working for you. I’m not the political type.”
“Hell, let’s drop it. It’s water under the bridge.” Johnny shrugged and gave him a crooked smile. “I’m where I want to be and you’re happy with your Corps.”
Yeah, maybe. Carter looked up as a captain with an MP insignia walked toward them across the lobby. Security. Carter returned his salute irritably. “What’s up, Captain?”
“Were you planning on going outside, sir?” The captain nodded at the gasketed, revolving door that led into the main compound.
“No. We’re on our way to breakfast.”
“Fine, sir.” The man nodded. “Just stay inside, please, unt
il we give the all-clear. We got a possible sniper up in the old tower across the drive.”
Not another one. “I thought the city was going to let us drop that thing,” Carter growled.
“There’s some sort of hang-up on the demolition permit.” The captain’s thick blond brows drew into a single line above his scowl.
“What’s up?” Johnny was looking from the captain to Carter.
“Snipers.” Carter jerked his head. “You get a clear shot into the compound from that old office building across Lakeshore. We’ve been trying to get permission to tear it down, but the city’s dragging their feet. I think the mayor’s son-in-law owns it. Anyone hurt?” He turned back to the captain.
“Negative, sir.” He shook his head. “No shots, just a report of movement. We’ve got a sweep team over there now.”
It hadn’t ended, the rage that had erupted into the riot. It had simply gone underground, smoldering like a fire beneath the surface. No mob along Lakeshore anymore. Now they were dealing with snipers and homemade bombs. You checked with the sentries before you walked out into the compound, and you didn’t stand too close to your window after dark. Every piece of equipment on the lakebed required an armed guard at night. He would be glad to get out of here.
A small commotion erupted behind them. Carter turned. Medics were pushing a gurney fast down the hallway that led from the underground parking. A uniformed figure lay on it, and IV bag swinging from the pole. Carter hurried over, recognizing the major who trailed the medics. It was Renkin, his replacement.
“Someone planted a bomb.” The major’s lips were pale and a smear of blood marked his cheek. “They got in past the guard last night. It was wired to the number-two dozer.”
Lieutenant Garr lay on the gurney, his face white beneath his dark tan, the front of his uniform dark with blood. “What about Rogers?” Carter asked softly. She drove number two. His jaw tightened at Renkin’s headshake. “Didn’t you check out the equipment?” He watched Renkin flinch. “Didn’t you have them look?”
“The equipment is under guard.” Renkin’s face darkened. “Sir.” He glared past Carter. “That guard is posted twenty-four hours a day. He’s up for court-martial, as far as I’m concerned.” Renkin slapped salty lakebed dust from his coverall. “He must have been asleep. He let that bastard walk right past him.”
Renkin was too worried about maintaining his unit efficiency record. Carter stared at the man. Extra equipment checks took time.
“It wasn’t my fault. Sir.” Renkin was breathing hard. “You wouldn’t have done any better. You think that promotion means something, don’t you? You’re a little display for the media, because the media thought we came down to heavy on those animals. So the Corps promotes a few extra people — just to show that we’re pleased with ourselves, that we didn’t do anything we’re ashamed of. And you get tapped, Lieutenant Colonel Voltaire. But I’m no floor show. I’m still out there in the dust, so don’t give me shit, you got it?” He stomped on after the gurney.
“Whoa.” Johnny came up behind Carter. “What’s eating him?”
“He got two people killed.” Carter looked down the hall, but the gurney had disappeared into the med unit. Garr had looked bad.
Wheels creaked and another gurney followed the first. The team pushing it wasn’t hurrying. Carter looked away from the sheeted form, throat tightening. Rogers. He smelled burned flesh and his stomach twisted. She talked to that damn dozer as if it were alive, and she could make it dance. She never mired it, no matter what kind of shit she got sent into.
If he had been out there this morning, she would be alive. He flinched as Johnny’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Knock it off, Carter. That jerk was in charge, not you.”
“He was right, you know. About the promotion.” Carter watched the second stretcher follow the first down the hall. “It was a media message.”
“Christ.” Johnny snorted explosively. “That still doesn’t make it your fault. Cut yourself some slack, Carter. You aren’t responsible for the entire world. I hate to break the news to you.”
“Excuse me, sir.” The MP was back. “It’s all clear. You can go out any time.”
“Good.” Johnny nodded. “You got the guy?”
“We got him.” The captain saluted Carter, pivoted, and marched back to his post at the lobby desk.
We got him. He was dead, whoever he had been. No questions about that. Carter turned away as the gurney bearing Roger’s body disappeared down the hall that led to the morgue. He had heard the grim tone of satisfaction in the captain’s voice and he felt it, too. Revenge. Who cared whether the guy in the tower had a rifle or if he just some dried out drifter with the poor sense to camp out there?
An eye for an eye.
It was in all of them, that cold, deep rage. You saw it in every pair of eyes around you. The world was drying up and they were all scared of dying, all hating the planet that was killing them.
You couldn’t make the planet bleed.
“I’ve got to go check on Garr,” he said to Johnny. “You go ahead and get breakfast. I’ll catch up with you.”
“Want me to come along?”
“No. Thanks.” Carter shrugged off Johnny’s hand. “I’m going to be the CO at The Dalles.” He stared down the empty hallway. “I’m not going to let this happen there.”
“You won’t.” Johnny’s eyes glittered. “I have faith in you. You’ll do exactly what you need to do.”
For a moment, Carter hesitated, a little taken aback by Johnny’s intensity. But that was Johnny’s turf. Maybe, finally, he was starting to care about the people he was in charge of. That would be a good thing. Carter hurried down the hall to find out how badly Garr was hurt.
CHAPTER TWO
The ride was a bad one. Nita Montoya sat stiff and straight in the seat of the decrepit Winnebago as it groaned around another bend in the road. Twilight was falling, and the air reeked of cheap perfume. A bottle must be leaking somewhere in the jumble of black-market items that filled the rear of the RV. Beside her, clutching the wheel, the man reeked of lust. Rachel squirmed in Nita’s lap, fussing, her face screwed up, fists waving.
“Easy, love.” She bounced her daughter gently on one knee, watching the dark, bearded driver from the corner of her eye. Andy, he had said his name was. He was a trader, doing the little town markets, selling black-market clothes, electronics, pharmacy-labeled medicines and cosmetics. He had offered her a ride this afternoon and she had accepted, because she was tired, and she had a long way to go yet. He had felt all right, then.
“You sure you want to chase after this old man of yours?” His grin turned into a grimace as the old RV tried once more to lumber off the narrow, broken road. “Anyone who’d walk away from a sweet thing like you ain’t worth it. I make a pretty good living, doin’ the markets. These dryland hicks can’t trade for squat. You wouldn’t believe what I can twist ’em out of.”
Asshole. “I think I’ll get out pretty soon.” Nita hugged the fussing Rachel to her chest. “She’s going to cry like this for a long time.”
“No problem.” His smile revealed his yellowed, uneven teeth. “I don’t mind kids.”
He was lying. A darkness had been building inside him for the last hour — a gathering storm charged with sex and threaded with the red lightning of violence.
She felt it. Since she could remember, Nita had felt all of it; Mama’s pain, Ignacio’s anger at the dusty world, and Alberto’s terrible resignation. Joy, lust, fear, anger. The world around her shrieked with the noise of humanity. It had driven her into herself as a child, the more frightening because the adults in her life hadn’t understood. It wasn’t until much later that she had learned why, that she was a freak. Unique, a mutation, David had said, trying to be kind. That’s how the species evolves.
Unique was another word for alone.
The Winnebago was slowing. The dark storm inside this man was about to break. Nita sucked in a quick breath, stifled by th
e stuffy air, struggling with the urge to fling the door open, leap out with her daughter and run.
She could die without her pack and her water jugs. They would both die. Rachel was screaming now, back arched, feet kicking. “Easy, love, Rachel, it’s all right.” Feeble words — they didn’t touch the fierce brilliance of her daughter’s distress. But they covered the motion as she tucked her struggling daughter into the sling she wore across her chest and slid her hand into her pocket. The switchblade clicked open. This close to him, she felt the hot ache of his erection, couldn’t help but feel it. The RV was edging off the road. Nita swallowed and leaned toward him, her throat dry with this storm. “We’re getting out now.”
He started to laugh, then flinched as the blade pricked through his shirt. The RV swerved and the muscles in his arms bulged, corded tight with fury. Rachel shrieked. Teeth clenched, Nita tried to keep her hand from shaking. I will kill him, she told herself. If he moves. This decision made, her hand steadied. He made a small sound in his throat as she edged the blade deeper, his rage collapsing into fear.
“Stop now and turn off the engine. Keep your hands on the wheel.”
He did, and sat very still as she reached behind herself to open the door. He was all fear now. Perhaps he believed she would stick the knife into him, kill him anyway. As he would have done? Disgust clenched her belly. She groped behind the seat, awkward with the weight of Rachel in the sling and swung her pack one-handed out the door. It thudded onto the dusty asphalt, the tied-on water jugs bouncing. Carefully she backed out of the door. “If you come after me, I will kill you,” she said.
“You bitch.” His lips trembled. “I’ll get you. You little tramp.”
She slammed the door and stepped back, clutching Rachel to her. He might have a gun in the RV and who would know if he shot her, left her here? He could run her down with the RV. Only fields lined the roads, lines of sugar beets hugging the buried soaker hoses, nowhere to hide. Stupid! His emotions had filled her head and made her stupid. Nita shoved the now-useless knife into her pocket, slung her pack onto her shoulder and ran, cutting across the fields, toward a small clump of struggling trees in the distance. Behind her, she heard the Winnebago’s engine growl and then catch. Rachel hiccupped and cried as Nita pounded through the dust between the rows.
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