by Timothy Zahn
But of course, Caroline and her weakness for underdogs would never have let that happen. She would have insisted Melantha stay, and he wouldn't have had the backbone to stand up to her. And nothing about the situation would have changed.
He got off at Grand Central, wondering if he should take a few more trips around Manhattan. But he was too tired to bother. Besides, if they'd been able to follow him through everything else he'd done, it would probably be a waste of time. Catching a northbound train, he headed for Yorkville.
It was another chilly October evening, and again the streets were largely empty as he left his final subway station of the day and trudged the five blocks to the Youngs' apartment. There were still a few people out and about, but most of the neighborhood's residents seemed to be already home from the day's activities. He spotted a couple of shadowy figures in the park across the street as he climbed the steps of the apartment building, but they were too far away to worry about. Pulling out the play program, he stepped into the entryway alcove and punched the number Caroline had given him into the shiny new electronic lock.
It clicked open with a gratifying lack of fuss, and he continued on into the welcome warmth of the hallway and the aroma of a rosemary pork roast from somewhere in the building. Climbing the steps to the third floor, he punched the second number into the keypad on the Youngs' door and went inside.
There was a single dim light burning in the far corner of the living room. Aside from that, the apartment seemed to be completely dark.
And completely deserted.
He went through the place room by room, his heart beating faster with each empty space that confronted him. It had been hours since he'd spoken to Caroline—she and Melantha should have been here long ago.
And indeed they had, he discovered as he reached the last of the three bedrooms. One of his suitcases was sitting against the far wall, with a couple of Caroline's shirts and slacks stacked neatly on one of the two twin beds.
So where had they gone?
He went back down the hallway and pushed open the swinging door that led into the kitchen. A bag's worth of groceries was there, stacked neatly on one of the sideboards beneath a row of shiny copper pans.
He stepped over for a closer look, the acid taste of fear seeping into his mouth. So they weren't out shopping, at least not for food. Shopping for clothing for Melantha? But it seemed unlikely that Caroline would take such a chance, especially with evening upon them. They hadn't gone to a restaurant, either, not with everything they needed for a simple dinner right here.
Had they been abducted? But there weren't any signs of a struggle, and he couldn't imagine Caroline letting anyone take Melantha away without one.
Unless it had happened under the soothing aura of official authority. Roger had already gotten a call from someone purporting to be a cop trying to lure him back to his neighborhood. If that same someone had traced Caroline here, he might have tried the same trick on her.
Would Caroline have given Melantha up to a stranger with a uniform and the right credentials?
Probably.
But if all they wanted was Melantha, why was Caroline gone, too?
He glared at the pile of groceries. Where was there for two footloose women to wander off to after dark? A movie? A doctor? The park?
The park.
He frowned, a stray bit of conversation suddenly popping back into his mind. The mysterious mugger with the mysterious gun, asking what kind of trees they had on their balcony.
The balcony Melantha had disappeared from when the cops arrived. The balcony she'd been standing on when she'd reappeared nineteen hours later.
And then, suddenly, a current of cool air flowed across his feet. Had someone just opened the door?
But the air in the hallway hadn't been nearly this cool.
Someone had opened a window.
In the center of the counter, nestled between the cutting board and the bread box, was a wooden block holding an assortment of knives. Silently, his heart pounding, Roger crossed to it and pulled out the biggest one he could find. He returned to the kitchen door and gently pushed it open.
There were two of them: youngish middle-aged men, squat and wide. The first, his massive shoulders straining against a blue pea coat, was already inside, standing at the far end of the living room. His only slightly smaller companion, wearing gray slacks and a gray jacket with fleece collar, was just finishing the task of pulling himself in through the open window.
The first man spotted Roger at the same time he spotted them. "Where is she?" he demanded in a gravelly voice, stretching his right hand toward Roger as if offering to shake hands.
"Get out," Roger ordered, his voice shaking. "You hear me?"
He stepped forward, lifting his knife in what he hoped was a threatening manner. The men didn't move, but the second now lifted his hand toward Roger in the same handshaking gesture as the first.
As he did so, his sleeve fell back a little, and Roger saw that he was wearing the same style of wide metal wristband that he'd seen earlier on Torvald and his friends.
That clinched it. "I said get out," he repeated. "Tell Torvald he can't have her." He took another step forward, hoping desperately that they wouldn't call his bluff, and wondering what he would do if they did.
"You're right, he can't," the blue-coated man agreed. He twitched his hand—
Roger stopped short as something silvery flashed into view across the man's right palm, thin metalliclooking tendrils that flowed up along his fingers like the burst from a tiny fireworks explosion. Even as he caught his breath, the filaments twisted back again, wrapping against and around each other in a pattern too fast and complex for him to follow. The wrapped tendrils settled into place against the man's palm, flattening and darkening and reforming themselves into a boxy sort of T-shape—
And a second later Roger found himself looking down the barrel of a small gray handgun.
He felt his mouth drop open, staring at the weapon in disbelief. The man's hand had been empty, his sleeve open, no sign of a holster or any other place the gun could have come from. Another flicker of silver caught his eye, and he looked at the second man to see another set of metallic tendrils twist in his hand and settle themselves into a second gun.
And impossible or not, there were now two guns pointed straight at his chest.
"Now, then," the second man said, his voice tinged with scorn. "You want to do this the easy way, or the hard way?"
Roger took a deep breath. It was, by his count, the third time in as many days that someone had pointed a gun his direction.
And deep inside him, something snapped.
"Figure it out," he snarled, lifting his knife and starting forward again. So they were calling his bluff, were they? Fine. It was time to see how far they were willing to go to get to Melantha.
The first man's face settled into hard lines as Roger started toward him. The expression didn't even twitch as he squeezed the trigger.
There was no thunderclap of a bullet going off, or even the softer snap the movies always used when the gun was equipped with a silencer. This weapon merely gave a quiet but sharp rising-pitch tzing, like a tight electric guitar string being plucked while the guitarist slid his finger down the fingerboard. A thin line of white shot out from the muzzle toward him—
And he was rocked backward on his heels as something slammed hard against his chest.
He gasped, staggering back as he grabbed for his breastbone. The impact had felt like someone had lobbed a bowling ball at him. He looked down, cringing at the thought of the blood that he knew must be streaming out of the gaping hole that had surely been blown in his chest.
There wasn't any blood. There wasn't any hole, gaping or otherwise. The brand-new jacket was completely unmarked.
Were they shooting blanks?
He looked back up, frowning. The men were gazing steadily back at him, as if waiting to see what he would do next.
Under the circumstances, Roger dec
ided, there wasn't much he could do. Taking a deep breath against the throbbing ache in his chest, he lifted his knife and again started forward.
Both men fired this time, a matched set of guitar twangs and arrow-straight white lines. This time it was a pair of bowling balls that hammered into his torso, shoving him even more solidly backward.
Before he could even catch his balance they fired again, and this time the twin impacts threw him flat onto his back.
He shook his head to clear it, his entire torso now a throbbing mass of pain. At some point along the way he'd dropped the knife, and he rolled half over on his side to try to snag it. There was another tzing, and the knife skipped up off the floor and bounced away into the corner. Roger turned back to the two men, still gazing unemotionally at him, and started to get to his feet.
And then, through the open window, he heard a scream.
Not an ordinary scream, though. This was something thin and wailing, yet somehow with a weight and strength behind it that rattled his legs straight out from under him and sent him sprawling again onto the carpet.
The two men staggered as well; and suddenly Roger and his knife were apparently forgotten.
Turning back to the open window, they scrambled one at a time through it. Something tugged at Roger's ears as the second one disappeared, not a scream this time but something more felt than heard, like an ultrasonic dog whistle. The apartment floor seemed to tilt beneath him—
And as the half-heard cry trailed off into the night he heard something that froze his blood. It was a woman's voice, twisted with pain, shouting the name Melantha.
Caroline's voice.
Caroline had the taxi let them out two buildings over from the Youngs' apartment, in case someone questioned him about it later, walking the rest of the way after the vehicle disappeared around the corner. Her memory of the lock combinations proved to be correct, and a few minutes later they were in the apartment. Dropping the suitcase in one of the bedrooms, they made a quick run to a nearby grocery store for dinner supplies.
Through it all, Melantha said little, except in reply to direct questions. For her part, Caroline didn't feel much like talking, either.
It was after four by the time they returned. Melantha set her half of the groceries on the kitchen counter, then silently disappeared to somewhere else in the apartment. Caroline unloaded the bags, then began cutting slices from the turkey breast and leg of lamb she'd bought, her stomach growling as she worked. With everything that had happened that day, she and Melantha had missed lunch, and she was ravenous. Piling the slices onto a plate, she set it in the microwave to heat while she arranged the rest of the sandwich makings on the kitchen table with its wraparound bench seat.
When the meat was hot, she added it to the array and went in search of Melantha.
She found the girl sitting by the living room window, gazing out at the park across the street. "I've got sandwiches ready," Caroline announced.
"I'm not hungry," Melantha said, still staring out the window.
"You ought to eat something," Caroline advised. "You're a growing girl, you know."
Melantha reached up and touched her throat. "Not for much longer," she murmured.
"It'll be all right, Melantha," Caroline said, stepping up behind her and resting her hand on the girl's shoulder. "We're not going to let them hurt you."
Melantha made as if to say something, but merely shook her head. "Come on," Caroline said, giving her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "I'm hungry, and I hate to eat alone."
Melantha heaved a sigh, but got to her feet. She gave the park one final look, then followed Caroline through the swinging door into the kitchen.
"I got the lamb especially for you," Caroline commented as she slid behind the table on the bench seat and gestured Melantha to join her. "Do you want some cheese with it?"
Melantha hesitated, but the aroma of the food was apparently too tempting even for her dark mood.
"Okay," she said, taking a seat on the bench across from Caroline and peeling two slices of bread from the end of the loaf.
"I didn't see any goat's cheese there," Caroline commented as she carved off a slice of cheddar.
"Where does your family buy it?"
"There's a place on West 204th," Melantha said, loading her bread with slices of the lamb. "A lot of our people live up there."
"Ah," Caroline said, trying to keep her voice casual. Our people. "Where exactly do you live?"
"Inwood Hill Park," the girl said, adding two slices of cheese to the stack. Her fingers paused. "I mean," she corrected herself carefully, "in Inwood, near Inwood Hill Park."
"Any brothers or sisters?" Caroline asked, taking a bite of her sandwich.
Melantha shook her head. "No."
"What about your parents?" Caroline asked. "What does your father do?"
"He's a Laborer," Melantha said. "My mother's a—" She broke off, giving Caroline a haunted look.
"I shouldn't be talking about this."
"It's all right," Caroline assured her. "Do you mostly get along with your family?"
Melantha's throat tightened again as she closed her eyes, and Caroline could see tears gathering beneath the eyelids. "I love them," she said, almost too quietly for Caroline to hear. "I can't let them die."
"You mean, along with the rest of the Greens and the Grays?"
Melantha's eyes snapped open. "What do you know about that?" she demanded.
"Just what you told me," Caroline said, startled by the reaction. "In Lee's, remember? What happened back there, anyway?"
Melantha hunched her shoulders. "It was Cyril," she said, her voice shaking. "He was calling to me."
"It was more than just calling, though, wasn't it?" Caroline asked. "He was trying to make you come to him."
She frowned. "How do you know?"
"Because he had a go at me, too," Caroline told her. "Though I think he assumed we were still in the apartment."
"He talked to you?" Melantha asked, surprise momentarily displacing the gloom in her face. "I didn't know he could do that."
"Well, someone was talking in my head," Caroline said. "Who is Cyril, anyway?"
Melantha's lip twitched. "He's one of our leaders," she said. "Not a real Leader, just a Persuader. We don't have any real Leaders right now."
"I see," Caroline said, keeping an encouraging expression on her face as she tried to sort all this out.
A Laborer she could understand, even with the capital letter she could somehow hear in the way Melantha said the word. But what kind of job was Persuader? "Why did he call you the Peace Child?"
Melantha lowered her eyes. "They say I can stop the fighting," she said softly. "Cyril and Halfdan say that if I..." She trailed off, a shiver running up through her.
"Is Halfdan another Persuader?"
Melantha shook her head. "He's a Gray. They don't have Persuaders."
"And how do he and Cyril think you can stop the fighting?"
There was no answer. "Melantha, what happened Wednesday night?" Caroline asked gently.
The girl closed her eyes again, her body suddenly heaving with silent sobs. "Did someone try to kill you?" Caroline persisted. "Someone who doesn't want the fighting to stop?"
Melantha shook her head, her silent shaking intensifying. "You don't understand," she managed between gasps. "It's all of them. All the Greens. All the Grays.
"They all want me dead."
They spent the next hour sitting together on the bench seat, Caroline holding Melantha tightly to her side, whispering soothing words as the girl cried with a depth of grief and agony that Caroline had never before seen in someone so young. Even when the tears finally ran out she continued to hold onto Caroline as if clinging to a life preserver, her face buried in her shoulder as she groaned and whimpered half-heard words in a language Caroline couldn't understand.
The eastern sky outside the kitchen window had grown dark by the time she finally fell silent.
Caroline gazed at th
e remains of their meal as they continued to hold onto each other, the barely nibbled sandwiches long since cooled, her own gnawing appetite long since evaporated.
Finally, Melantha pulled away. "I'm sorry," she said, sniffing against the aftermath of the tears.
"You don't need to apologize," Caroline assured her, snagging another napkin from the holder and handing it to her. "Anyway, it's better to get that kind of emotion out of your system."
Melantha blew her nose and added the napkin to the pile of tear-soaked ones that had already accumulated on the table. "Cyril's going to be mad at me."
"Cyril can go jump in the East River," Caroline said flatly. "You still hungry?"
Melantha looked at her sandwich. "Not really."
"Me, neither," Caroline said. "Let's put the food away and go unpack."
Melantha's eyes drifted to the window. "Could we go to the park instead?" she asked.
"I don't know," Caroline said, peering into the gathering dusk. The clusters of mothers and children who'd been in the playground earlier had disappeared, though the tall gate was still open. "If you want air, I could open a window."
"It's not the air," Melantha said, a little hesitantly. "It's the trees."
"What about them?" Caroline asked, frowning.
"I just want to see them," Melantha said. "Please?"
"We shouldn't be outside more than we have to," Caroline said, thinking about Roger's warning to stick to crowds and daylight.
"But it might be the last time—I mean—" she broke off, tears welling in her eyes again, and she fought to blink them back. "No one should be there yet," she said at last. "And I'll be careful."
Caroline peered into her face. No half-closed eyelids, no pupil dilation. "All right, but just for a few minutes," she said, giving in. "And not until we put the meat and cheese in the refrigerator and unpack the suitcase."
There was still some pink sky visible between the buildings to the west as they walked down the steps, but the evening's darkness had already settled firmly over their part of the city. The air was even colder than Caroline had expected, and she zipped up her coat tightly as they reached the street.
Melantha didn't seem to notice the temperature. Barely even pausing to check for traffic, she hurried across and through the gate into the park, her own coat flapping wide open as she ran. Caroline followed more slowly, her eyes probing the growing shadows for anyone who might be lurking around.