by Thomas Locke
Kevin watched her climb up and fit herself in the overtight space. He had a hundred more questions he wanted to ask, a thousand new fears that would ignite his dark hours. But he stayed silent and helped the tavern owner set the floorboards back in place. They tossed empty burlap bags over the scarred surface, retied the canvas backing, and closed the rear gate.
Areas of uptown had been refitted as massive greenhouses to feed the hungry township. The militia troops manning the inner-city checkpoints would scarcely glance at a produce truck making the pre-dawn run.
Kevin stood watching as the truck rumbled off. Then he locked the storeroom’s outer door and returned to the secret entry point by the far wall.
He dropped into the gully, carefully resealed the floor panel, and started crawling. He tried not to think about Carla and her strange words. For people like that, there was probably no hope of survival. Even if they did survive, Kevin had no way of knowing where they might land, or how to contact them if he wanted to. Which he most definitely did not.
2
The sunset was a brilliant Carolina symphony when Caleb stepped from the house. He nodded a greeting to the seven armed clansmen who circled the garden fence. The men were hardshells, a term from the distant past when their forebears populated the western hills, following codes as hard as local granite. The narrow-faced hillsmen were why the enclave had recently voted against permitting so-called abominations to live among them. Sooner or later Caleb’s closely guarded secret was going to come out. When it did, he would become just another notch on someone’s rifle.
Caleb resembled many of the enclave’s young men, tall and strong. He knew some considered him striking, with his tangle of blond hair and the cleft in his chin and his ice-grey eyes. As he approached the two loaded wagons, the smells enveloped him. The stoppered jugs were nestled in fresh straw that held a meadowy fragrance. The rear of each wagon was crammed with victuals and bedrolls and camping gear and Caleb’s personal effects. The jugs’ contents spiced the air. The first wagon held applejack, the second mostly plum brandy. To Caleb’s mind both fruits had been distorted by the distillation, but the fragrance was pleasant enough. There were also a dozen or so jugs of corn whiskey, and Caleb found that smell revolting.
Those jugs and their contents were nothing but a mask.
Eleven months earlier, Dorsey’s clan had discovered a vein of gold in their mine. Lucky for the enclave and all their futures, Dorsey led the hill clan that was most trusted, most stable, most capable of understanding the risks that the gold carried. Dorsey’s tight-lipped family could also best hold the secret intact. Not just now. For all the years to come.
The region where the Catawba enclave was located, in the Appalachian foothills straddling the North and South Carolina border, had been home to America’s earliest gold mines. Back before the Revolutionary War, back before all the violent events that had made and remade their world, the Catawba mines had supplied the gold that was minted into America’s first money.
Not a dozen people in the entire state were aware of this, of course. But Marsh, Caleb’s father, thrived on such information. He would have taught history at the local community college had he not been so gifted as a trader. Even so, Marsh never lost his passion for learning. Especially about the nation that was now little more than a name and a collection of old myths.
The few people involved all knew the stakes the gold represented. If word ever got out, Charlotte Township would invade, envelop, and put to death their way of life.
Three weeks earlier, Caleb had gone down inside the mine. He and Marsh were the only outsiders granted that privilege. The mine had originally been dug for copper, and the same smelting operation was now used for purifying the gold. The vein itself was a narrow string, scarcely thicker than Caleb’s thumb. But the purity was astonishing.
When Caleb had returned to the realm of sky and fresh air, he had seen the feverish glint reflected in the miners’ faces. Caleb then understood what his father repeated every time the gold was discussed.
No one could ever know.
The door opened behind him, and his father appeared with two hillsmen. Marsh called over, “How are things, Son?”
“Everything’s fine, Pa. The wagons are ready.”
Marsh turned to the two bearded men. “Gentlemen, our business is concluded.”
Both hillsmen wore the same odd getup—dark jackets and trousers, scuffed high-top boots, and collarless shirts. The younger of the two was Harshaw, leader of the enclave’s largest clan. Dorsey’s and Harshaw’s families had been feuding for generations. A single look at Harshaw’s burning gaze was enough to confirm that this man could never know about the wagon’s secret treasure.
“I still say we’re giving you too much,” Harshaw said.
Dorsey replied, “The bargain’s been set in place for months now. And it’s been agreed on unanimously by the Catawba elders.”
“I didn’t agree to nothing.” Harshaw jutted his chin, which thrust his beard out like a point. Caleb had been watching the man do it for hours and wondered if Harshaw’s intention was to make himself as ugly as possible. “The trader Marsh aims on cheating us out of our share.”
“That’s not possible,” Marsh said, his voice mild. Caleb’s father was the calmest man he had ever known. Nothing seemed to bother him. Not even serving as trader for the enclave’s most contentious hill clans. “The enclave’s elders set the commission. I told them whatever they decided would be acceptable.”
“Ten percent to the trader, twenty to the enclave,” Dorsey said. “The clans discussed it, the elders agreed.”
“I still say you’re letting the trader rob us of what’s rightfully ours.”
Dorsey’s hand kneaded the grip of his revolver. Caleb could hear the wood squeak softly. “We done covered all this. You can’t take it to Charlotte Township yourself. They banished you.”
“We’ll get another trader. Somebody who ain’t claiming more than his share.”
“Who else can we trust? There’s nigh on thirty silver bars’ worth of shine in them wagons. Marsh is the best trader in all Catawba, especially when it comes to getting a good price down Charlotte way.”
“We can sell it ourselves round here.”
“Anywhere around here we’d be bartering for goods.” Dorsey’s voice carried a soft burr, a dangerous note of growing impatience. “But Marsh is after bringing us back silver. What does it take to get through that thick skull of yours?”
Harshaw’s voice grew hoarse with rage. “You calling me out, Dorsey?”
The entire yard went tense. Caleb could taste the unignited cordite.
Dorsey merely snorted. “Always taking offense and looking for a reason to fight. Which is why you and your clan won’t never be traders. The elders made the deal, the clans voted. Marsh’s son will take our shine to market.”
Harshaw directed his rage at Caleb. “The boy’s too young to be handling our wares.”
“Didn’t you hear nothing we just talked over? Marsh’s wife is ill. He can’t leave her side. The boy’s been trading with his pa since he was old enough to walk. Caleb will get us the best deal going, and he will pay us fair and square. Marsh and his boy have built themselves a good name. Unlike some people round these parts. We can trust them, the deal is the right one, and you know it.”
Caleb turned away. The argument faded into the distance as he found himself drawn away by the signal. That was his name for what was happening. He had no idea if there was a better way to describe the experience. He had never spoken of these events with anyone. Not even his father was aware of Caleb’s bond with Maddie, though both his parents knew about his other abilities. Five months ago Maddie and her father left for Atlanta, and ever since she had sent him these signals. This was Maddie’s gift, not his, and he could not establish a connection unless she first helped him make it happen. Her signal was like a mental knock on the door. All Caleb had to do was open and . . .
But for nine days now, Maddie’s signal h
ad only drawn him into silence. She signaled—just a quick contact, almost like she needed to make sure he was there and listening for her—then she withdrew. No explanation, no word, nothing. Caleb had never really missed her until now. Before, he trusted her to be true to their promise. She would go to Atlanta and settle her father and then meet Caleb in Overpass. It was the biggest reason Caleb was so eager to depart, so that he could prepare a home for them both. Only now he wasn’t sure of anything except that he missed her terribly.
He stepped away from the quarreling men and reached out. His gift was different. But still he tried.
Nothing.
It was when he turned back, his secret sense still on high alert, that he realized what was about to happen.
“Pa!”
His shrill tone was enough to jerk all the men about, both the three on the porch and those by the wagons. Caleb pointed a trembling finger at Harshaw. “He aims on murdering you!”
Marsh took a step away, watching his son and Harshaw both. He reached to his belt, then realized his sidearm was still hanging by the front door. “That true, sir?”
“What nonsense is this boy of yours spouting now?”
“I’ve seen it, Pa! He aims on calling you out, then claiming it was you who turned to violence!”
“I knew there was something wrong with that boy!” It was now Harshaw’s finger that trembled as he stabbed the air between them. “He’s one of them abominations, and a liar to boot!”
“That’s enough.” Dorsey stepped between them, his gun in his hand. The metallic click as he cocked the weapon was loud as the gunfire to come. “Keep your hands away from your sidearm, Harshaw. Boys!”
The young men stationed by the wagons cocked their weapons. “We got you covered, Pa!”
“You git on, now,” Dorsey ordered, his voice soft. “We’re done here.”
Harshaw spun on his heel, stomped past Caleb, and strode to where a cousin held the reins to his horse. He jerked the horse around and yelled, “This ain’t over!”
Dorsey stood on the porch next to Caleb’s father as the two men rode away. “I’ll have a word with Harshaw’s clansmen. See if we can’t put a strong set of reins on that’un.”
Marsh offered Dorsey his hand. “Surely appreciate your backing me up there.”
“My boys will stay on watch here tonight. I’ll be back before daybreak to see you off safe and sound.” He nodded to Caleb as he headed out.
Marsh waved Dorsey away, then said, “Son, go say goodbye to your mother.”
Caleb jerked away. “What?”
“Harshaw’s not a man to let something like this pass.” Marsh enfolded him in a fierce embrace. “If you’ve already left, hopefully we can avoid bloodshed. You best get on down the road. Don’t worry about packing. I’ll meet you this side of the boundary creek just after daybreak. Hurry now. I don’t need your gift to know Harshaw is probably looking for others to back his play.”
3
Kevin stood by the mayor’s reception room window, watching four gardeners tend the lawn. Two women knelt and worked on a flower bed while the men held odd-shaped scissors with long wooden handles. They trimmed the border where the grass met the little gully framing the flower beds. The men walked a step, snipped the grass, walked another step, snip. Kevin had never seen anything so perfect in his entire life. Like something from before the Great Crash, he decided, a slow-motion dance to the past. One of the women looked up and met his gaze. She was pretty in a bruised sort of fashion. Then she spotted the badge on his chest and returned her attention to the flowers.
Kevin was a sheriff’s deputy, serving the community of Overpass. Officially his region and the much larger Charlotte Township were the closest of allies. For a generation and more, that had been true. But no longer. Charlotte was now ruled by a despot hiding behind the old title of mayor. Silas Fleming was a man with ambitions that reached far beyond his city’s current border fences. As a result, the bonds between Charlotte and Overpass were gradually being whittled away.
The doors leading to Fleming’s inner sanctum were flanked by two armed militia. The mayor of Atlanta Township had recently offered a reward of ten thousand silver bars to the person who brought him Fleming’s head. Six days back, Kevin had apprehended three bounty hunters with forged Charlotte documents and a copy of the wanted poster. On the ride to the mayor’s office that morning, the sheriff had assured Kevin they’d been summoned so the mayor could reward him. Kevin hoped with every shred of his being that his boss was right. Every time he thought of the alternative, his chest froze up solid. If the mayor and his militia knew about Kevin helping refugees, he was a dead man.
He spared a silent plea that his mother had received his coded message. As soon as the summons arrived, Kevin had sent a note reminding Abigail not to forget that today was Monday—when, in fact, it was Tuesday. The message meant one thing. Leave everything behind. Don’t hesitate. Get to safety. Wait for word.
Kevin realized the sheriff had spoken to him. “Sir?”
Gus Ferguson sat on the leather sofa by the far wall, under a painting of some long-forgotten war. The sheriff was a twenty-year veteran, scarred and grizzled as an old tomcat. “The captain asked you a question.”
“Sorry, sir. I was . . .”
Captain Hollis was a man feared throughout the township, and for good reason. Among the sheriff’s deputies, the Charlotte militia was known as the mayor’s pack dogs. “How tall are you, boy?”
“Deputy,” Gus corrected.
“I’m six five, sir.”
Captain Hollis wore the all-black militia uniform, tailored to fit his lean form, and his ironed creases looked like blades. His brown hair was parted along the middle of his skull and plastered down tight as a helmet. He had grey eyes, blank and cold as a lizard’s. “You’re the one they call Kitten.”
All the deputies were given nicknames they referred to as brands. Being branded was part of belonging to the force. But the militia captain turned it into a slur. Even so, there was nothing to be gained from riling the officer. Kevin kept his voice as bland as his features. “That’s me, sir.”
“Strange tag for a man built like you. What, you ran from a fight?”
“Ritter teaches hand-to-hand combat to our recruits.” Gus kept his voice as mild as Kevin’s, only an octave lower. “He’s called that because he always lands on his feet.”
The captain’s response was cut off by the double doors opening. A guardsman stepped out and announced, “The mayor will see you now.”
“Come on in, gentlemen. Make yourselves comfortable.” Mayor Silas Fleming remained seated behind his desk, booming a cheery welcome that did not touch his eyes. “I see you’ve met Hollis, my go-to guy on matters like this.”
The desk was built upon a dais raised a foot off the carpeted floor. Only when Kevin was seated did the mayor rise from his chair. Kevin did his best to hide his surprise at how small the man was.
Fleming leaned against the corner of his desk and smoothed wispy hair over his temples. His cuff links sparkled like gold daggers. “How old are you, Kevin?”
Kevin hesitated, then decided the mayor already knew the truth. “I’m twenty-five, sir.”
“You lied about your age to enter your father’s old force. Allegiance is a fine thing, isn’t it, Hollis.”
The guards captain lounged in the room’s corner, where the shadows melted with his dark uniform. He did not speak.
“Where’s your father now, Kevin?”
“Dead, sir. He was killed in the line of duty.”
Gus said, “His father was my partner at the time, and my closest friend.”
“Now that is a shame. A boy needs his father to keep him on the straight and narrow. He surely does.”
Kevin replied, “Sheriff Ferguson has been the best mentor a man could ask for, sir.”
“I’m sure he tried, Deputy. I’m sure he tried.” The mayor glanced at something on his desk. As he shifted a page around so he could read the
script, Kevin noticed the mayor’s fingernails were polished.
Fleming went on, “I understand you recently apprehended three armed men dispatched by our enemies to the south. Men intent upon doing me harm. That is highly commendable work, Kevin. Or should I call you Kitten?”
“Whatever you prefer is fine with me, sir.”
“See, it’s this can-do attitude that made me certain you were the man I needed. You can’t imagine how hard it is to find good people these days. It’s why I value Hollis like I do. He is the best, absolutely the best there is, at his job. I hope I’ll soon be able to say the same about you.”
“I hope so too, sir.”
“Splendid. Which brings us to the matter at hand. Here I was, planning to reward you for your fine work, when this other item lands on my desk.” He used two fingers to lift the paper. “Terrible, this. You know what I have here, Deputy?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s a death sentence, for not one but two people. Just terrible.” He squinted at the page as though studying it for the first time. “I see here we are due to execute a Professor Abigail Ritter and her son. Two upstanding citizens, upright in every way but one.”
Time locked up as tight as his chest. Kevin could count the dust motes in the air. He watched the mayor drop the paper to his desk. The light spilled around his minuscule frame. Impossible a man this small could hold such might. The power of life and death. Over him. And his mother.
The sheriff exclaimed, “Deputy Ritter is one of the finest—”
“Gus, we’ve got the evidence, and we’ve got the witnesses. The boy and his mother will dangle from two of the township’s lampposts at sunrise.”
The sheriff protested, “Mayor Fleming, I’ve served Overpass Township . . .”
The mayor locked gazes until he was certain Kevin’s boss was good and silenced. “That’s all I’m going to hear from you, Gus. Are we clear?” He turned back to Kevin. “I’m sorry, Deputy. I truly am. But you’re guilty, and you’re going down.”