The Final Trade

by Joe Hart

  He doesn’t move, and for a horrible beat she thinks he’s going to kiss her anyway, keep his hands on her, tear her clothes open. But then he steps back, the rank miasma retreating somewhat with him.

  “You got yourself a deal. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. I can wait a few hours longer. See you tonight.” He begins to move toward the door but she steps toward the small fridge, opening it quickly.

  “I made you something this morning,” she says. “As an apology for hurting your eye. If we’re going to be living together we should start off on the right foot.”

  She sets the small paper bowl of chocolate pudding down on the counter and retrieves a plastic spoon, sliding it into the dessert.

  Vidri eyes the bowl before glancing up at her. “You made it for me?”

  She nods. Heart picking up speed.

  “Well, that was pretty thoughtful. You did do a job on my eye, had to drink a full glass of gut rot just to go to sleep.” He spins the bowl around several times before stirring the spoon through its middle. “Looks great.”

  “I know it’s your favorite. Just don’t let anyone else see you eating it or I’ll have everyone trying to get some.”

  Vidri licks his upper lip and dips an index finger into the chocolate, holding it out to her. “Little taste?”

  “No. It’s for you.”

  “C’mon. Pretty please? Something to tide me over until tonight?” His finger comes closer to her lips, brushes them.

  She opens her mouth and he slides it in.

  “Mmmm, see? Now that wasn’t so bad.” He works his finger against her tongue, and she wonders if he can feel her pulse hammering through every inch of her body.

  Slowly he draws his finger from between her lips and smiles, picking up the bowl. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  Vidri saunters across the kitchen and out the door, giving her another lingering look before closing it behind him.

  Wen spins and spits into the sink, trying not to vomit again. Or maybe that would be better? No, just rinse it out. She didn’t swallow; it was just in her mouth. She swishes several mouthfuls of water around until her saliva runs clear and she can’t taste chocolate anymore. Her heart continues its furious pace and she wonders if that’s from the fear or the ten-eighty taking effect.

  She breathes deeply, focusing on calming herself. The poison wouldn’t be working that fast, not with the small amount she might’ve absorbed. After drying her mouth with a towel she drinks several glasses of water and stands against the counter. The sound of work outside the kitchen is louder, the soup beginning to waft up from the pot, filling the room with the delicious scent of onions, potatoes, and cooking venison.

  Everything normal. An average day on the road. Nothing suspicious.

  She holds her hand out, watching it tremble until it finally steadies.

  She’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

  Five minutes later the Prestons’ omelets are nearly done and she’s feeling somewhat steadier on her feet when the door to the kitchen opens and a young, blond-haired man steps inside looking nervous, hat twisting in his hands.

  “Um, Mr. and Mrs. Preston would like to see you as soon as possible.”

  Her pulse skyrockets again. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t know. They just said to tell you to come to the nest.”

  He fidgets with his hat for another beat and does a quick nod that is almost a bow before retreating from the doorway.

  The room begins its slow rotation around her again.

  How? How did they find out so fast? Had the poison killed Vidri quicker than she’d estimated? She’d only used just enough. Did someone see Robbie transferring the container off the truck? Did Fitz say something he shouldn’t have?

  She bends down, searching in the lowest cupboard behind a stack of worn hot pads until she finds the lipped ledge at the very back. Her fingers graze the cold steel of the canister. Should she hide it somewhere else? Take it with her? No, they’ll search her at the nest. No choice but to leave it.

  She swallows the solid lump of fear forming in her throat and finishes preparing the omelets before striding to the door, all the while calculating if there’s any chance of escape. Outside she surveys the landscape in the early morning light. The bluffs that would provide a hiding place are too far to sprint to; the milling guards would overtake her at once. And besides, there’s no way she could leave Robbie behind.

  She moves in the direction of the nest, looming above every other structure in the camp since the coliseum isn’t erected each evening like the Prestons’ home. She stops before the entrance and endures the groping search of the guard there.

  “Guess I’ll have to quit doing this after tonight,” he says in her ear. “Property of Captain Vidri.”

  She ignores him and enters the building, climbing the stairs before being let into the living area, vertigo hounding her the entire way.

  Hemming stands near the windows, his shoulder touching the drapery as if he’s considering concealing himself behind it. His gaze finds her and holds. He shifts in place, interlacing his fingers over and over.

  Elliot and Sasha sit in their customary places at the low table. Elliot wears a dark, silk shirt above pressed slacks, looking comfortable and dapper even at this early hour. Sasha on the other hand wears only a red velvet bathrobe tied at the waist. Her feet are bare and rest on a heating pad beneath her chair.

  “Good morning, dear,” Elliot says. “My goodness, what happened to your face?”

  She sets the tray down and brushes the blooming bruise with her fingertips. “A pan dropped from a cupboard last night and caught me in the side of the head. It’s nothing.”

  “Would you like Gerald to have a look at you?”

  “Gerald died in his sleep a month ago, Elliot,” Sasha says, not taking her eyes from Wen.

  “That’s right. We must attain a new physician at the next town. Hemming, make a note of that.” Elliot gestures to an empty chair across the table. “Have a seat, won’t you?”

  She sits down, senses still heightened. Would they invite her in like this if they knew?

  As if reading her mind Elliot says, “I suppose you’re wondering why we summoned you here so early.”

  “I am curious,” she says, thankful that her voice doesn’t waver.

  “We wanted to discuss something, something that I know might not please you.”

  “Okay.”

  “We and Vidri have come to an accord. We’ve decided to grant his request of your transfer to his quarters.”

  She lets the appropriate amount of displeasure seep into her features. “What if I don’t approve?”

  Sasha shifts her feet on the pad. “There was a reason Elliot said we and Vidri came to a decision. Your viewpoint isn’t wanted or needed.”

  “Now Sasha, let’s be civil about this. You see, dear, there is a certain symmetry between Vidri and yourself, whether or not you can see it. You have both been with us for many years, dedicated yourselves to service, and if I have my math correct you are both within a year of one another as far as age.”

  “We are,” Wen says after a pause.

  “Well then, there you have it. Vidri is one of our most trusted men. Outstanding service, impeccable character, always willing to help and command. You’ll be very happy together, I’m sure.”

  Wen scoffs before she can stop herself.

  “What was that?” Sasha says, sitting forward slightly. “Did you just snort at our decision?”

  “No.”

  “I believe you did.”

  “I need some time to adjust to this. Can we please wait another week, at least until we’re done with setup?”

  “No,” Elliot says, face hardening. “What we said is final and we won’t be questioned. You see? That’s the problem with so many young women. You can’t tell the forest from the trees.” His eyes narrow, losing any warmth they had moments ago. “No matter the warnings, you do what you think is r
ight, or simply what you want, even if it is wrong. Too stupid to know what’s best.” He spits the last sentence as if it is a dart that might pierce her.

  She remains silent, dropping her gaze to the floor, away from the insanity that comes off the couple like heat. After a long time, Elliot clears his throat and glances out the window.

  “Regardless, it is done. You will live with Captain Vidri from now on or suffer consequences that Sasha and I would rather you not incur.” She waits, eyes averted and penitent until Elliot motions to the tray holding their breakfast.

  Wen leans forward to take the customary bites, silently sending thanks out into the universe that her fears concerning the poison were unfounded. She’s swallowing the two bites of egg when footsteps pound up the stairs and the door bursts open.

  A wild-eyed guard stands there, flanked by the doorman. “It’s Vidri! Something’s wrong with him. I think he’s dying.”

  16

  “What do you mean, ‘dying’?” Elliot asks, rising.

  “He threw up outside and he’s shaking. Keeps grabbing his chest. We got him downstairs on one of the tables. Didn’t know what else to do.”

  Wen glances around the room. Sasha has a disgusted look on her face, whether from the description of Vidri’s ailments or the idea that he’s lying on her polished table downstairs, Wen doesn’t know. Elliot looks stricken, while Hemming takes a step back toward the wall, a sharp glint of steel disappearing into a sheath beneath his arm.

  “Get Geral—” Elliot begins, but stops himself. “Damn it. Doesn’t anyone else have any medical training?”

  “Not that I know of, sir,” the guard says.

  “One of the guys in the container we picked up a month or so ago,” the doorman offers. “I heard two of them talking one night and he said he was a doctor.”

  “Which one?” Elliot asks, already moving toward the door.

  “The guy with the longer dark hair. The one that was with the youngest we have now.”

  “Fetch him,” Elliot says, continuing toward the stairs. Hemming leaves his post by the window and falls into step behind the ringmaster. Wen looks from the doorway to Sasha, who continues to glare at her.

  “Get out,” Sasha says, standing.

  Wen rises and makes her way down the stairs, legs shaking beneath her.

  A doctor.

  One of the men in the shipping container is a doctor.

  He’ll know Vidri’s been poisoned.

  And she is the one in charge of the food.

  She steadies herself against the wall, the concussion wreaking havoc on her balance again. There is nothing to do but move forward. Whatever happens now is in motion; she made that choice this morning when she dosed Vidri’s pudding with enough poison to kill a horse.

  She steps off the last stair into the lower dwelling of the nest.

  A group of men huddle around the center table and she can see scuffed boots sticking off the end. They jitter and twitch as if Vidri’s having a bad dream. Despite herself she moves closer, a morbid sense of curiosity drawing her along with the responsibility to see what she’s done. One of the men moves aside, leaving a clear view of the table.

  Vidri lies on his back, neck and head twisted away. His body shakes, tremors running its length. Two men hold down each knee while two more secure his shoulders. One of his arms snaps out and Elliot himself latches onto it, stilling its movement.

  “Someone get some water!”

  “Something to tie him down!”

  “He’s going to swallow his tongue.”

  “Heart attack for sure.”

  “Stroke.”

  Murder, Wen thinks, and takes another step forward. The realization that it was her own hand that caused this isn’t tangible. It floats away each time she tries to grasp it.

  Vidri turns his head so that he faces the ceiling. His eyes are open, bulging in their sockets. The one she damaged is a bright red marble of pain. Foam gathers at the corners of his mouth, and his lips are drawn back, revealing clenched teeth.

  He turns his head again.

  Eyes locking onto hers.

  Something moves in his gaze. A shifting of recognition, fear, rage.

  She stares back. Doesn’t blink.

  The arm Elliot holds straightens, shaking, rising up into a straight line. His fist clenches and slowly his index finger extends.

  Directly at her.

  Another powerful spasm wracks Vidri’s body, his back arching up off the table. His knees flex so hard neither man holding him can keep their grip and his legs flail wildly.

  “Grab him, damn you!” Elliot yells.

  A gurgling scream warbles up out of Vidri’s throat and for an instant she feels a tug of sympathy. But then it is gone with the memory of star shine and blossoming pain in her skull from the night before. His hand forcing hers to touch him, fondle him.

  Vidri vibrates in time with his cry, muscles jumping beneath flesh like struck chords of an instrument. He seizes, going very still, shudders, and seizes again.

  Then like a balloon losing air, he deflates back to the table, tendons going slack, jaw limp and mouth open, eyelids fluttering, fluttering, closing, closed.

  All is still.

  The outside door bangs open and everyone flinches as two guards rush inside, a middle-aged man between them. He is sallow skinned with very dark hair that hangs down to his shoulders in stringy clumps. His features are sunken but she can see that if he were twenty pounds heavier he would be handsome.

  Elliot spots him and motions to Vidri’s body. “You! Do something. Now!”

  “I told them, I’m not a doctor,” the man says.

  “My men heard you say otherwise.”

  “They heard wrong. I was a med student and that was twenty years ago.”

  “Then you did have medical training.”

  “Some, yes.”

  “Then get over here and save him,” Elliot hisses, jabbing a finger at the table.

  The man from the container moves to Vidri’s side, the guards that brought him following close behind. He puts a hand beneath Vidri’s jaw and holds it there for ten seconds before facing Elliot.

  “He’s dead. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “CPR! Do something!”

  “He’s already getting cool. It’s beyond me. I have nothing to save him with.”

  Elliot’s anger fills the room and Wen backs toward the door, but one of the guards stands in her path. It’s then she notices Hemming watching her intently. She glances away, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling.

  “Who saw what happened?” Elliot asks.

  One guard raises his hand. “I found him behind the big top truck throwing up. He could barely stand, and when I asked him what was wrong he couldn’t speak. So I brought him here, and when he laid down he started shaking. That’s when I came for you.”

  Elliot’s breath hisses out between gray teeth. “Did anybody else see anything? Did he mention he felt sick yesterday or the day before?” No one says anything. The ringmaster turns back to the corpse, raising Vidri’s limp arm up from where it hangs off the table, and places it by his side. After a long pause he says, “What is your name?”

  “James,” the man says. “James Horner.”

  “James, you said you were a med student.”

  “Yes. But I never got my license, I was still studying.”

  “In your studies, did you perform autopsies?”

  Wen blinks, eyes jerking from Elliot to James.

  “Yes. It was part of the requirements.”

  “I’d like you to perform one on this man.”

  James shakes his head. “That was twenty years ago, like I said. I wouldn’t know the first—”

  “Let me rephrase that,” Elliot says, iron gaze falling on him. “You will perform an autopsy on this man.”

  James swallows. “What if I say no?”

  “Then you’ll die much sooner than planned.”

  James dips his head fo
rward. “If I do, what will you give me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Let me and my wife go.”

  The room erupts in laughter and Elliot lets it go on and slowly die down before smiling. “Shoot a little lower, son. We both know that’s not going to happen.”

  A streak of anger creases James’s face and Wen thinks he’s going to strike Elliot, which will be the last thing he ever does. Instead he licks his lips and says, “Double the women’s rations and I’ll do it.”

  “The women already get all the food they want. Their container is padded, insulated. They have a toilet and plenty of clothing. They are safe and protected. They don’t need anything.”

  “Then double the men’s rations, we’re starving.”

  Elliot’s smile widens. “Done.”

  Wen’s heart sinks.

  “What will you need?” Elliot says. And as James begins listing off several instruments, his voice flattens, fades, until she can only hear her pulse drumming in her ears.

  “Hey, the boss is talking to you.” The guard beside her nudges her shoulder and she comes back to the room, every eye upon her.

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I said, please make James a plate of food while the supplies are gathered,” Elliot says, looking at her strangely, prying into her.

  “Of course.”

  Elliot watches her for another drawn moment before focusing on the rest of the group. “Notify the camp of Vidri’s death. We won’t be moving today, so everyone can suspend their work. Tell them to remain in their tents in case this is some kind of communicable disease. By the end of today we will know what happened to our captain.”

  They file out of the nest in a funeral procession. Wen leads the way toward the mess building with James and two guards steps behind. The thought of putting a dose of ten-eighty in James’s food dances fleetingly through her mind. But that would be the same as an admission to both murders. One death could be overlooked, but two?

  She runs through her options as she enters the kitchen, pushing up the overhead serving door to reveal the exterior counter, but there is nothing viable beyond killing the innocent man outside. If she and Robbie were to go ahead with their plan, their chances of escape would drop to almost zero. It is daylight and the entire trade is milling about now, news of Vidri’s death spreading like wildfire. No, she would only be killing herself, Robbie, and Fitz if they tried. She might as well put a gun to their heads and pull the trigger.