Westwood cleared his throat and broke the silence.
“So this was the plan?” he said. “I expected more from you.”
She could see him searching for emotions on her face, but she kept it blank, though it was a struggle. There had to be a way for her to control her hatred. It was her weakness, and she was painfully aware of it. The gun wasn’t pointed at her anymore, but it didn’t matter. She was tied to a chair, and even if she weren’t, Coyote would be no physical match for him. Nor could she use any weapons—not that she was carrying any at the time, as her outfit wouldn’t allow it. She had her weapon stashed in a more convenient place. Besides, Westwood was too powerful a technomancer for her to even try. She hadn’t found his vulnerability yet, and without a weakness, he could not be defeated. Coyote would have to come up with a better plan if she ever wanted to put Westwood six feet under.
He shook his head, tousling his hair with his fingers, which made him look younger than he was.
“Interesting how you used Maria to keep me busy,” he said. “That was pretty clever, I shall have to give you that. You are a very resourceful creature.” A bemused sparkle graced his green eyes. He scratched his chin, and he shot her an almost coy smile. “I have a particular fondness for that girl, as you must have noticed. She’s special to me, and I know her very well. So well, in fact, that I know when she is acting.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have known she was your ally if she hadn’t been so ill at ease. That is when I knew that tonight was the night you would come after Alfonso.”
Coyote raised her eyebrows. He laughed, but it sounded hollow and bitter. “I could tell she was in on your little scheme from the moment I talked to her. She was a little too eager, and very nervous. Her hands were even shaking a bit. Not that anyone else could tell, but see . . . I really look at people.” He stared at her, as if he were trying to emphasize his words.
Coyote held her face straight. She liked playing poker, and she was not about to reveal her cards.
“She told me she wouldn’t help me if I was going to harm you,” Coyote said. Maria might take the rap for this, and that was not what Coyote had intended. “She’s a good girl.”
“She is an untrustworthy whore,” Westwood replied, but oddly enough, there was no malice in his voice, only nonchalance. “They all are.” He waved his hand toward the door, as if the girls were all waiting behind it. “I know they’re untrustworthy, such is the nature of those who sell their bodies for money.”
“Nice to know you think so highly of them.”
“I do . . . and it’s okay. Maria’ll still be my special girl.” There was a wicked glint in his eye. “Unless, of course, you offer to take her place? I’ve always had a soft spot for you.”
Coyote felt appalled, and her poker face made room for a mask of emotions. Her mouth went slightly agape, and she sought the words to answer him. Then she saw his smile and realized he was taunting her, egging her on to show her emotions, forcing her to come out of her shell. It was something he did well. She had fallen for his trick, and she resolved not to do so again. Her face shut out all her doubtful thoughts, and she glared blankly at him.
He snorted and scratched his chin. His left eyebrow raised slightly in mock amusement.
“I didn’t think so,” he laughed. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”
Coyote noted that he was different from when she had last seen him. He seemed more mature. A small beard graced his chin, his moustache was neatly trimmed but had filled out more, and his green eyes had deepened. There were those little things about him that she did not want to notice. But she did.
“You don’t hold women in very high esteem.”
“Oh, but I do. Even prostitutes. I don’t despise a woman for being untrustworthy.” He stroked his short beard. “Any more than I would despise a man for being untrustworthy.”
“That would be hypocritical of you,” Coyote agreed, “with you being so untrustworthy yourself.”
Westwood laughed so genuinely that it took Coyote off guard.
“You don’t speak highly of these women, though. Is it their profession?”
“Why do you think I don’t speak highly of them? I’m only stating what I know. I don’t look down on them for selling their bodies. It’s business, and I admire a good entrepreneur.” He held up his hands and shrugged with a confident casualness. “You mistake my observations for judgment.”
“You’re a smooth talker, Westwood.” Coyote rolled her eyes at him.
“Enough about the ladies of leisure. Let us talk about you.” The corner of his mouth lifted a little in a crooked smile. “I was pulling your chain earlier. I knew what you were up to before you even came to town, Charlotte.” His voice was warm and soft, and the playfulness had disappeared from his eyes. She could feel him working to break down the invisible wall she had built up around her.
“Don’t call me Charlotte.” She cursed herself for showing how annoyed she was, but she couldn’t help it. It didn’t seem right to have Westwood call her by the name her father gave her.
“I’ll call you what I want to call you.” He sprang to his feet, his voice and eyes unexpectedly fierce. Her tone had struck a nerve with him. “Stop trying to be in control, because you’re not.” He waved the gun, showing that it was in fact he who was holding it.
She stuck out her tongue, and regretted it instantly. You’re better than this, she told herself, and you should not let him get to you. You are not that sixteen-year-old girl anymore. You are a grown woman, a bounty hunter.
“Don’t you think I know everything you do?” he asked, crouching down a little to be at eye level with her. “Charlotte, I have spies everywhere, and I have you under constant surveillance.” He seemed to think about his own words and then amended them. “Well, not constant, but enough for me to know where you are at all times. I knew you were coming to Angel Camp before you even arrived.”
She looked at him, but did not show any emotion.
“Granted, I may have lost sight of you when you were here, but I found you again when you dealt with that Outlander’s carriage.”
“You know about that?” Coyote’s curiosity was suddenly piqued, and she forgot that she was trying to play it cool. “What was that?”
Westwood shrugged. “I suspect a freak rip.” He inspected his gun, rubbing the barrel. “My psychics hadn’t predicted it. By the time we were made aware, it was too late. I couldn’t intervene.” His eyes moved from the gun to her face. “Someone stepped in though, didn’t he? There was nothing left of the carriage, or the evidence, by the time my men got to it. Just some very strange stories.”
Coyote squeezed her lips together, a silent communication indicating she wasn’t about to tell what she knew.
“I didn’t think you would tell me.” He shook his head with a sad smile. “It’s a shame, because we could learn a lot from each other’s information.”
“I thought you knew everything you needed to know about me.” Her retort came through clenched teeth and a false smile.
“Alright, I deserved that. I know a lot, Charlotte, but certainly not everything.” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I do know that Pinkerton is looking for my man, Martine,” he added, “so it wasn’t difficult to deduce who you were coming for.” He shrugged. “Although your plan baffled me a little.”
“I am a baffling girl,” Coyote said, and shot him her most ingratiating smile.
His mouth twitched. “That you are.”
“That I am,” she repeated.
He touched her cheek with his thumb. “You have no idea how special you are to me, Charlotte.”
The power he had over her shifted for the briefest of moments. Suddenly, she was in control, and he was almost pleading with her. The shift confused her, and she saw Westwood struggle with his emotions for a moment before he composed himself again. His posture straightened and he conjured up the arrogant smirk she had seen before. Her moment of c
ontrol was gone as quickly as it had come. She wanted to say something to him that would hurt him, but he spoke before she had the chance.
“Not that your outfit isn’t very becoming.” He let his eyes glide over her body, pausing at her breasts and thighs. “But that isn’t the way to seduce a Quavar.” He reached out his hand as if he wanted to touch her, but changed his mind.
“They’re immune to this kind of female beauty,” he said, showing undoubtedly that he was not. He cleared his throat again and looked away.
“I should have brought a baby,” Coyote retorted. Her words hit him like a brick, and she saw him flinch.
He stood up, frustrated, waving the gun around as he spoke.
“You assume to know things about which you know nothing, Charlotte,” he said with a thick, agitated voice. His sun-browned hands ran through his unruly hair, and he looked lost for a moment.
“Let’s talk about things that I don’t know about, shall we?” She cocked her head. “I have a good subject . . . how about the increasing frequency of the rips opening?”
Her words caught his interest and he narrowed his eyes.
“You’ve noticed it too . . . ”
“I’ve heard rumors.” She licked her lips and grimaced. The taste of her lipstick was terrible.
“We’ve been investigating them. So far it doesn’t seem to be something we really need to worry about . . . but it’s been curious to say the least.”
“You’re not behind opening them?” she asked.
“No, not yet at least.” He shrugged, and Coyote believed him; she had never caught Westwood in telling her a lie. “We’re trying to find a way to control the rips, but this isn’t as easily done as we would like. If we can control the rips, we can also send Outlanders back, maybe explore the worlds beyond. It would be very beneficial for me.”
“So you haven’t heard of anything being able to control the rips?” She tried to keep her face innocent, but he saw something in her expression and leaned forward.
“No . . . have you?”
I think he really doesn’t know, she thought.
She shook her head. A knock on the door startled them both, and they turned to look around.
“Mr. Westwood?” It was a female voice.
“Not now, Tanya,” he called.
Coyote raised her eyebrows. “Tanya?” she sneered. “Is she your second course?” There was a pang of jealousy, which she quickly denied. She hated this man. There was no lust for him, she told herself.
Westwood stared at her blankly and said nothing.
“You are a busy man,” she continued, wanting to hurt him, “harboring dangerous Outlanders, entertaining the entire brothel, killing innocent men. Where do you find the time?”
There was disappointment in his eyes. “You remind me of your father when you are like this.”
“Dead?”
“Bitter.”
“Well, I get a bit bitter when people are hiding dangerous Outlanders,” she said. “I guess I’m just funny that way.”
“Alfonso is no more dangerous than a lion. When caged and fed, he poses no threat to humans. Unless you poke him with a stick, of course.”
He leaned over. His face was close, and he exuded a mixture of sweat and cologne. He smelled sweet and almost intoxicating. Her confusion quickly turned to anger. It was inappropriate to lust after the man who was responsible for her father’s death. Every muscle in her body tensed, and her heart pounded so hard it hurt. She pictured his lips brushing hers and felt a wave of blood rush to her cheeks.
Why do I want to kiss him? she thought. Why do I want him to press his body against mine? Coyote felt betrayed by her own emotions and fought against a loss of control. Having him so near made her thoughts unfocused.
“Somewhere, humans would be considered dangerous as well,” he whispered.
“That’s not the same,” Coyote said. For a moment, she was tempted to spit in his face, but she did not want to show this man that he had such an effect on her. She leaned back, her corset digging even deeper into her flesh. Ignoring it, she glared at him.
“Isn’t it? Are you sure it’s not the same?” he asked. “They come here by accident, Charlotte.”
“Stop calling me Charlotte.”
He ignored her. “Most of them don’t know where they are or what to make of this world. They’re confused and frightened. So they live on instinct. And sometimes that instinct is to hunt. They’re as afraid of us as we are of them.”
“Sometimes they hunt us,” Coyote retorted. She did not like the way he was speaking to her, like he was the Good Samaritan himself. “That makes them dangerous. That’s why I stop them.”
“And sometimes these dangerous Outlanders can be taught to be different, to fit in.”
“Oh . . . is that a fact? And you are the one to teach them? Out of the goodness of your heart?” She flashed him a mocking smile, the corners of her mouth twisted slightly too high, her lips pressed tightly together. If her arms had not been tied, she would have folded them across her chest to look as condescending as she sounded.
He grimaced.
“Yes, and no,” he said in all earnest. “I’m no saint. I get plenty out of this arrangement.” His candor surprised her. “I get money, power, and even protection from my Outlanders,” he admitted. “But it is a win-win. I teach them about life on Earth, give them a place to stay, a job. Help them adapt.” He moved back from her and started to pace again. “Don’t you understand? I make them safe to be around.”
“And what if they can’t adapt?” Coyote asked. “What then?”
“Then I kill them.”
A shadow crossed his face as he spoke, and Coyote stared at him in surprise. His words threw her off guard.
“You kill them?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. Westwood nodded, and his eyes squinted in little lines when he looked at her.
“Yes, since I can’t send them back yet, I kill them. I can’t have uncontrolled Outlanders rampaging around.” He scratched his nose. “It is quite different from what your friends the Pinkertons do.” His finger pointed at her to emphasize his words. “They only want to hunt and kill. To get rid of the problem.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Guess what? As long as there are rips, there will be Outlanders. Deal with it. You can’t kill them all.”
“Can’t we?” Coyote asked, but she knew she did not want to kill all the Outlanders. It surprised her that she had something in common with Westwood. Coyote, too, believed that some Outlanders could be helped to adapt to human society. Tokala was a great example. If the IAAI got wind of the Outlander shaman, they would have him destroyed. The thought of losing Tokala made her sad, and she realized Westwood was right on some accounts. But he protects dangerous Outlanders, she told herself. She wasn’t ready to release Westwood from his “bad guy” persona yet.
“You forget I know you better than that, Coyote . . . ” He leaned back and eyed her. “This is the Pinkertons talking, not you. I know you’re not a killer, not unless you have to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everyone knows you only hunt down Outlanders that are potentially dangerous. You don’t bother with the harmless guys. You won’t kill anything that doesn’t deserve to die.” That damn triumphant expression painted his face again.
“Don’t you pretend to know me, Westwood.” Coyote struggled with her bonds, feeling the ropes cut into her flesh, and they loosened a little. If only she could reach her corset . . .
“But I do know you,” Westwood said in a manner that an adult uses when speaking to a very young child. “And you feel the same way I do. We’re a lot alike, you and I.”
“Horseshit,” she spat. “Some of the Outlanders are monsters.” You protect monsters, she thought. You’re nothing like me.
“True,” he said. “Some of them are very bad. But monstrous behavior is not limited to Outlanders alone, remember. There are plenty of human monsters around, and you don’t have a sp
ecial vendetta against them. It’s all because . . . ” He paused for a moment, and Coyote could see he was holding his breath. A thought struck him, and he raised his hand to his lips.
“Did you see it?” the voices whispered again in the back of her mind. “Can you see it?”
“Because of what?” Her voice was shrill. “Because my father taught me to hate Outlanders?” She shot him a defiant glare. “They killed my mother, and you . . . you . . . ” she couldn’t find the words because she was fighting the tears that threatened to spill.
Outside, a drunk man bumped against their door. It startled Coyote, but Westwood kept his eyes fixed on her. She saw what was in his eyes: Your father was a monster too.
“You had my father killed.” The words escaped her lips like caged birds flying free.
“I did.” There was remorse in his voice. “I’m sorry I took your father away from you. I’m so terribly sorry for that. No young girl should lose a parent, let alone two. It was worse that you were there, that you had to witness what I had to do. I . . . ” Westwood’s lips struggled to find the right words to apologize, but he could not find them. Finally, he looked up at her, his face filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry that I would do the same if I had to do it all over.” He shook his head mournfully.
“Why?” Her voice broke, and she felt the tears fill up her eyes and spill over the rims, escaping the confines of her lashes. “Why did you have to kill my papa?” This was the question she wanted to ask for so long. She had fought the waterworks, but it was a losing battle. One tear after another ran down her cheek, salty and wet. She had carried this pain for too many years.
“I wish I didn’t have to, but Will was getting dangerous.” His hand ran across his eyes and rested on his forehead and temple. He pressed his fingers in his flesh.
Downstairs, the piano player started a familiar song, several voices—both male and female—sang along. Coyote begrudged them their merriment. Her throat and chest felt tight with the pain of crying. She hadn’t been prepared for this. Despite her wanting the confrontation for many years, she hadn’t been prepared, and she never would be. The pain was still too fresh, even after seven years.
Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) Page 17