by Joe Hart
Merrill watches her until she disappears around the side of a tall tent then scoots forward, grabbing the bowl from the ground. A plastic spoon is lodged in the steaming stew and he uses it to dig down, sliding it until a small corner of plastic appears on the surface. He quickly pinches the plastic free of the food and puts it in his mouth, cleaning it with his tongue before carefully spitting it into one hand. Glancing at the closest guard, he unseals the tiny bag and draws out a folded piece of paper no larger than his thumbnail.
The writing is miniscule and rough and it takes him the better part of a minute to discern what it says before his head jerks up, eyes frantically searching the grounds.
I’m a friend. Your daughter says to be ready.
“Zoey,” Merrill whispers.
41
Chelsea stands before the man and woman seated in their chairs like royalty and swallows the saliva she wants to spit at them.
They watch her with cold, reptilian eyes and she knows before the man they call Presto speaks that they won’t grant her what she asked.
“No. Absolutely out of the question,” he says, leaning forward in his chair, a glass of wine in his hand. “If I gave you permission to see him before the tournament, how would that look to the rest of the troupe? If you were given a favor from us, why not every guard in our employ? Why not every performer? Where would it stop?”
“Please,” Chelsea says, barely able to form the word for all the hatred that’s coursing through her. “Just a moment. That’s all I’m asking for.”
The wife, she thinks her name is Sasha, tips her head to the side. “So he is your husband?”
She hesitates. “Yes.”
“Where did you come from?”
“I already told you, we were traveling south from Seattle and got separated in the mountains.”
“And he was able to follow you here?”
“Yes.”
Presto rises, gliding over to a small table, behind which stands the unnerving albino dressed in black. The bodyguard refills Presto’s drink, strange eyes flitting to her and away.
“I think you’re lying,” Presto says. “Who else were you traveling with?”
“No one. We were alone and I hadn’t seen him in well over a day.”
“If you tell us the truth, we will allow you to see your husband before the tournament, which starts in . . .” Presto glances at the ceiling. “. . . about an hour.” Chelsea says nothing, trying to swallow the dryness away in her throat while keeping herself from shivering. “Hmm. As old world as it sounds, I’m inclined to believe that most women never gain intelligence past the age of fifteen.” He comes closer to her and she can smell his cologne, stale and without the spice it once carried, along with the wine. “Do you understand your husband is going to die tonight? He is defenseless and outmatched. Wouldn’t you prefer to speak to him one last time before you part forever?”
Chelsea wonders if she could kill him before the albino brought her down. Snatch the wineglass from his hand, snap the base off, jam the stem into his throat. But then she would never see Merrill again, never be able to tell him what she needs to, and that’s something she’s not willing to give up.
Presto sighs, returning to his chair. “There’s no one coming for you. You might think so but there isn’t. We know you weren’t traveling alone. Several of our men found heavy tire tracks this morning while scouring the area where you were located. Do you know where they lead?”
Chelsea tries to swallow again but her mouth is completely parched, heart slamming so hard in her chest she’s sure they can see it.
“They lead away to the main highway running north. They left you. Left you and your husband to your fates and moved on. And if you only would have told me you could have said goodbye.” He smiles, lips peeling back from gray teeth. “But now you’ll have to do it from across the coliseum. Guard! Get her out of here.”
The door opens behind her even as she starts to move forward, unaware that her hands are clenched into fists until she’s being dragged away, heels thudding against the stairs as the room and the couple inside rises out of her line of sight. The anguish that builds inside her is a tsunami, washing away any hope she’d harbored for a rescue.
The others ran. Maybe they’d been flushed out or decided it was too risky to try to free them, but the end result is the same.
She and Merrill are alone.
42
The night drifts down from the hills like dark water seeping into a basin.
The forest fills up with it and the already clouded sky thickens, deepening in bruised folds until the world seems as if it has said goodnight for the last time.
Gerald walks the silver dollar across his knuckles and back, watching the coin flip like magic. He’s getting good. Hopefully by the end of the month all his tricks will be as smooth and the Prestons will grant him his own show in the big tent. Watching the gate and taking cash and canned food from the bumpkins is getting older than old.
He readjusts his top hat, wanting to throw the idiotic thing into the wind and watch it tumble away. But his chances of his own show would fly away with it. Costume, misdirection, and dedication. These are the things Presto says are most important for a magician. If he were to defy the old man now, all the effort and time to learn his secrets would be wasted and he’d be stuck at the gate for yet another season.
One thing is sure, he thinks, walking the coin again across his fingers, when I’m finally a magician I’m getting a way better hat.
He pauses his musing as a figure emerges out of the dark, the large hooded jacket triggering his memory.
“Hey old-timer, you’re almost late. Tournament’s starting in a few minutes.” The old man shuffles up to the counter, dropping a crumpled wad of bills there. Once more it is too much payment but Gerald isn’t one to complain. “Thanks for the tip again. Hey, if you have cash to burn maybe you should’ve put your name in to fight for that woman. She’s a looker, bet she’d ruin your old ass in bed.” He laughs, making the silver dollar dance again. “If you could get it up that . . .”
Gerald’s voice dies as the hood turns toward him and the glint of an eye fixes on his own. There is a deep, burning hatred there, a profound fury within the fleeting look that steals his words away.
Then the man is gone, moving amongst the tents toward the midway, walking taller, straighter than he remembered from the nights before.
Gerald grabs the money from the counter and shoves it in his pocket, gazing into the night that’s full upon the land.
And he shivers, but not from the cold.
43
Zoey steps onto the midway.
It is in full swing, bustling activity everywhere. Men line the booths and tents to either side, and a queue is beginning to form before the coliseum at the far end.
The music floats to her, loud and obnoxious as ever, the competing delicious and revolting smells coat the breeze, and the ground trodden flat by hundreds of feet over the last days is solid below her.
But everything is muted.
Flattened and simplified in her senses.
She starts forward, slowly unzipping Merrill’s jacket before pushing the hood off.
She slides her arms out, and the coat falls to the ground behind her.
She raises her hand and grasps the heavy wool hat, tugging it free from her head as she passes a booth where several men turn and stare.
She drops the hat and feels her hair fall free to the middle of her back.
More men pivot to look as she walks by and she sees jaws begin to slacken, mouths opening in O’s of disbelief.
Zoey keeps her attention forward, eyes locked on the fence at the far end of the midway, coming closer with each step she takes.
Shouts rise behind her like a large wave cresting out of an already churning sea, their sound meaningless in the din that is the trade. More men turn from the booths and she begins walking faster.
A guard steps into view from between two tents ahead,
searching for the source of the disturbance, and locks eyes with her.
His widen. Hers narrow.
He sprints toward her, arms outstretched, body lowering to prepare the tackle he’s going to employ.
Without breaking stride, Zoey grasps her pistol from the holster at the small of her back and whips it up.
She fires.
The gunshot booms down the midway, fire leaping a foot from the end of her barrel.
The guard’s head snaps back, gray matter flying from his ruined skull. He crumples in a lifeless pile at her feet.
Zoey runs.
The screams of men become a ringing dissonance. She can feel the sound tingling against her skin. Feet thunder behind her and another man steps into her path. She shoots again and he clutches at his stomach as she sprints past.
She chances a look over her shoulder.
The entire midway is alive with movement behind her, the shine of the men’s eyes manic in the overhead lights. Arms pump at sides, feet trample the man she shot as well as another who trips over him.
It is a tide.
Ahead the mass before the coliseum is torn with confusion. Three guards raise their rifles at her but she doesn’t slow and no shots come. She catches a glimpse of them lowering their weapons, absolute disbelief in their features.
Now there are shouts she can define.
It’s a girl! A young one!
She’s running toward the fence!
Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Hold your fire!
Where the fuck did she come from!
Get her! Get her! Gethergethergether!
The fence line looms closer, rising high, much higher than she anticipated it would be. A dull ache spreads like cool water across her lower back and she has a split second to pray it doesn’t get worse before a guard outside the fence steps into view and raises his rifle.
She fires two shots as a blast comes from his barrel.
The bullet’s passage is hot and reverberates in her teeth. She feels a tug in her hair and tries to aim again at the guard but he’s already falling, a blossom of red spreading across his chest.
Then the fence is there and all thought turns to static above the yells behind her and the movement closing in from either side.
Her eyes search the fence.
She takes two more strides, back beginning to pulse with pain, and dives forward, arms covering her head.
The guard stops before Merrill’s cage and eyes his missing leg.
“Have to say, I’ve never seen a one-legged man fight before.”
Merrill pulls himself up the bars and hops forward. “You will tonight.” He glances down the row of cages to where another guard is letting the giant free of his cell. The huge man stretches, flexing muscles that ripple like knotted rope below his skin. He sees Merrill watching and grins toothlessly.
“We’re gonna see something. That’s for sure. You ever heard that saying about a one-legged man in an ass-kicking competition?” the guard says. He inserts a key into the padlock on the outside of the door and is about to open it when a chorus of yells comes from the midway, climbing in volume until it sounds as if every man in the trade is screaming at the top of his lungs.
Merrill leans to the side as the guard turns around, eyeing his compatriot. “The hell is that?”
Zoey. It has to be.
A gunshot booms from the direction of the commotion, and the guard down the row of cells begins to run toward the sounds. Merrill’s guard takes a step as well but is yanked backward as Merrill snags his collar through the bars.
“The fuck are you—”
Merrill slams him against the cage hard enough to rattle the door, then slides his forearm across the man’s throat. The guard squawks and one hand scrambles down to his sidearm, but Merrill grabs it, yanking his arm through the bars, pinning him there.
He flails, trying to break the hold, but Merrill cinches it deeper, the man’s ears going from red to purple.
The fight suddenly goes out of the guard. Merrill feels muscles slacken and he tightens the choke for another second before releasing him. He drops to the ground in a heap, an autonomic wheeze squealing in through his swelling windpipe.
Merrill waits, searching for movement in the vicinity, but all the action is on the opposite side of the tents and buildings before him. As he twists the key in the lock and steps out of the cage, several more shots punctuate the crowd’s cries. He begins looking for something to use as a crutch but the sound of rusted steel shrieking draws his attention to the giant’s cell, where the huge man steps free.
He grins at Merrill and clenches both fists before starting in his direction.
Chelsea sits on the bench in the lower level of the nest and stares out the window at the bustling midway. It’s the largest crowd she’s seen yet. The element of death that’s drawn the men for entertainment still escapes her. Why in a world already so full of suffering would a person crave more?
She tucks the dress tighter around her legs. She’s been cold ever since they forced her into this outfit and all she wants is to be somewhere safe in her own clothes, with a hot cup of Ian’s tea, and Merrill’s arms around her.
Merrill.
Chelsea closes her eyes. She’s not going to think about anything anymore. She’s done with the endless circle of useless thoughts. All the sorrow and tears have been wrung out of her. Now there is only what will come. And she doesn’t want to think of that either.
She places a hand over her stomach and grimaces. She should have said something before they left Riverbend, but now it is too late.
Too late to tell him he’s going to be a father again.
She jerks with the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a moment later the Prestons appear accompanied by the albino. They are dressed up again like they’re attending some type of gala instead of going to watch a man be murdered.
“It’s time, my dear,” Presto says. The guard at the door turns to open it as several shouts come from the midway outside.
“Hold on, sir,” the guard says, putting his hand out. “Something’s happening.”
“What is it?”
“Not sure. Disturbance on the midway. I’ll check.” He slips out the door as the voices increase in volume, getting nearer, more frenzied.
“These small towns. I don’t know why we even stop in them anymore,” Sasha says, adjusting the velvet scarf she wears over her shoulders.
“Now darling, we’re entertainers and they’re in need of entertainment.”
“They’re animals. Listen to them.”
A gun blast comes from outside, and both Prestons duck while the albino moves to the door, his hand going to the knife beneath his coat.
“What the hell is happening out there?” Sasha asks, one foot on the stairs again. Chelsea stands and moves to the window, the sound of screaming so loud now she can’t hear anything else.
Then she spots movement. A blur of dark clothing and darker hair flowing back.
Muzzle flash and a crumpling body.
And she is gone.
Chelsea’s heart sings, hope reigniting inside her. “Zoey,” she breathes.
A guard bursts through the door, nearly tearing it from its hinges as the seething mass of men stream by like a river of flesh.
“A woman!” he yells, eyes wide. “Really young.”
“What? Here?” Presto says, straining to see past the running men. More gunfire erupts outside and both Prestons duck. “Go! Go get her before the rabble does! They’ll tear her apart!”
The guard nods and rushes out again. Chelsea sees him sprint through the last of the crowd and motion to three other guards standing dumbstruck across the midway.
“It seems the surprises aren’t over yet,” Presto says, dusting the front of his suit off.
“No,” Chelsea says, still staring in the direction Zoey went. “I don’t think they are.”
44
Zoey’s arms and head strike the fence and she flies through the place wh
ere Eli had casually cut it hours ago with a wire snipper between the guard’s rounds.
She hits the ground hard, grit biting into her shoulder and hip as she rolls to her feet. A chunk of her hair hangs from the jagged flap of fence and her scalp burns on the right side. The herd of men try to stop as they reach the fence but the momentum is too much and the ones at the front who saw how she got through fall beneath the stampede as the entire mass hits the fence.
Steel screeches and gives.
The fence bows and topples toward her.
Zoey runs.
The overhead lights only reach several dozen yards past the trade’s confines before darkness takes over. She leaps a shadowed boulder and nearly stumbles on a dry piece of sage that gives under her feet. Ahead, the solemn shadow of the mountain rises into the night, its peak blending with the roiling clouds above.
Less than half a mile.
Twenty-six hundred feet.
She pours on speed, leaning into the slight breeze that comes down from the main ski run, the smell reminding her of Ian’s home in the Cascades. The wind whistles in her ears, partially drowning out the guttural calls chasing her. With one hand she reaches back, feeling in her belt for the object, but finds only empty air.
Her heart sinks. No. No, it has to be there. It won’t work without it. She must’ve dropped it when she dove through the fence. Her fingers scrabble at her back and they touch hard plastic, ready to slip free. It only shifted beneath her holster. The relief is enormous. She shoves the object down, locking it under her belt once more. Immediately she checks the heavy nylon strap around her wrist. It is secure, the two chunks of hooked steel attached to it pointing toward her elbow. A glance backward sends a jolt through her nerves.
At least two hundred men, maybe more, run full speed thirty paces behind her.
And behind them are headlights.
Many sets of them.
They’re all coming.
Zoey fires two shots back, both going wide but they have the effect she wants. The lead man stumbles and falls hard, tripping up a half dozen others.