by Thomas Locke
Caleb suggested they use the hours to scout the university area. They asked directions from two young men carrying books and deep in passionate conversation. Caleb envied them their ability to stay blind to the day’s risks and the world’s burdens. He wished he could have known such a time himself, when knowledge was as vital as food, and the world held a heady mix of opportunity and challenge. Rather than life-or-death decisions and the very real risk that he placed friends in lethal peril with his every move.
They did their best to stroll casually through town. Caleb played the newcomer with time and money on his hands, here to do a little business, speak with his attorney, see the sights. He was young for someone with that kind of wealth, but Atlanta was the largest commercial hub south of Charlotte. There were bound to be at least a few wealthy families who sent their sons in to take care of business and enjoy everything the big city had to offer.
Caleb found Atlanta both hotter and more humid than Catawba. He did not think it was merely his own sense of oppressive urgency. Springtime in the Catawba enclave was spiced with cool dawn breezes and the frigid bite of diving into deep granite springs, with waterfalls clinging to wet rocks and the shouts of boyhood laughter ringing off the high stone walls. Caleb did not much care for this city or its close-wrapped humid heat.
No hint of wind touched the banners marking the university’s guard towers. The wall surrounding the campus was a living hedge taller than the roof to Caleb’s home and, according to a student they met, was almost twenty feet thick. She told them, “The Atlanta authorities claim it’s to keep the students safe from all the recent immigrants. But we know better. Long before the human tide shifted this way, the barrier was up and the university gates were well guarded.”
The student’s name was Enya, and she and Hester were already fast friends. They had met while waiting for a table to open at a student tavern. The gates were fronted by a broad plaza lined with any number of shops catering to the students and their masters.
Enya was tall and dark-haired, and heavyset in the manner of a woman of vast appetites. Her emotions shone bright as her flashing dark eyes. “I am a student of American culture, which makes me a threat in the eyes of the local leaders. Not that I care a whit.”
A young waiter called Enya’s name and waved them to a table by the tavern’s front wall, which meant the canopy offered them shade. Several customers ahead of them in line protested volubly, but Enya pretended not to hear as she led them through the crowded din.
Once they were settled, Caleb asked, “Why a threat?”
“Because so much of what today’s leaders want us to accept as historical fact is nothing more than convenient lies.” She had a quick word with the hovering waiter, who clearly wanted more from Enya than her meal order. When he departed, she went on, “After the Great Crash, a number of political groups tried to maintain unity within our nation. I know because I have seen the historical documents. They fought against the regional power grabs, and they lost. Now we live in a series of medieval fiefdoms, little better than serfs, while these so-called mayors and their cohorts squabble over wealth and power and land.”
Caleb found the history lesson mildly interesting, but he could not see how it brought them any closer to their objective. He was still wondering how to broach the subject when Hester said, “We need to contact a professor. In utter secrecy.”
Enya waited while bowls of stew and rough-fired mugs of some local brew were set down before them. “Who is this professor?”
Caleb supplied, “Frederick Constance.”
“I do not know that name. His field?”
“Engineering. He is a wizard with electronics.”
“Then he will be highly prized. What is the message?”
“Can you get us inside the campus?”
“Impossible,” Enya declared. “This time last year, perhaps. Enough money could have bought you a fake university ID. But the surge of immigrants changed all that. Passes are now electronically checked.”
Hester said, “Surely visitors can enter.”
“With proper notice, of course. Which means either a professor or a student must make a formal application. In advance.”
“Time is crucial,” Hester said. “Every day counts.”
“Every hour,” Caleb added.
“Then you must trust me. Or not.” Enya said no more while they finished their meals.
Heart in his throat, Caleb said, “The professor’s daughter is missing.”
Enya blanched, but conscious of surrounding eyes, she recovered as best she could. She whispered, “The militia?”
“We do not know. But I think yes.”
“Why?”
“To explain would be to put you in great danger,” Caleb replied.
“That sounds well enough. And your message?”
He searched the others’ gazes and saw only trust. “My name is Caleb. I am here. And I can help.”
“The professor will no doubt want to know why he should believe you,” Enya said. “One small individual.”
“Not so small,” Zeke replied. “And not just one.”
“One, three, big, little, you still face the strongest militia south of Washington.” Enya searched their faces. “Truly, this is not just words?”
“We are staying at the Ritz,” Caleb said. He saw the meaning register in Enya’s gaze. “We are more than mere students, and by sharing this we place our lives in your hands.”
33
While Kevin’s team finished their meal, Pablo resumed his role as sergeant of his company. He was everywhere at once, quietly supervising those who loaded the truck while keeping Tula, Hank, and Forrest all on careful sentry. Hank was a slender waif in his early twenties, with a teen’s body and an ancient’s gaze. He crouched in the barn’s afternoon shadows and tossed rocks while staring at the northern woods.
The farmer and his wife took up station by their kitchen door and watched them through the screen. But they made no protest, not even when Carla and Doris returned the hamper and dirty plates, nor when Kevin deposited a pile of silver coins on the stoop and said they were taking the cooking pot and wooden ladle.
They drove away in midafternoon. The truck was silent, the sentries watchful. They headed back east as though they intended to rejoin the Augusta–Jacksonville highway. It was the logical course, for this was the nearest route that might keep them clear of Atlanta’s border patrol. But five miles later, Kevin turned onto a rutted asphalt track that pointed straight south. The road was in such bad shape their progress remained little more than a crawl. He was burning fuel at a prodigious rate, but their vehicle had left Charlotte with a full tank, more than enough to make it to Atlanta and back.
They followed the asphalt trail for almost two hours. Six times their sentries raised the alert when Atlanta’s militia rode nearby. But none of the hunters turned down this particular trail. Eventually Pablo ordered the sentries to refocus. They were frightening the little ones, he told the trio. The only militia that concerned them now were those who came close enough to take aim. After that, the sentries remained silent.
Finally, as the sun touched the western treetops, they found what Kevin had been hunting. Their trail ended at a T-junction, joining with a better road that ran west to east. If they took the right-hand turn they would be aimed straight for Atlanta. Kevin reversed back a quarter mile, then told the crew they could climb down and unlimber, just stay quiet. He and Pablo crept back and positioned themselves where they could observe the intersection and remain unseen.
The clouds slowly gathered and blanketed the sunset. Half an hour later, five farm carts rolled slowly by, heading away from Atlanta. Adults sat on the front benches while children sat atop burlap sacks or rode the backs of weary horses. A trio of bonnet-clad girls sat in the rearmost wagon, clapping hands and singing as they rode. Kevin saw guns in all the wagons, but none of the riders appeared to be on high alert. He assumed these families had taken wagonloads of produce into Atlanta and
were now returning home with store-bought supplies. Which was why he had stationed himself here, to be certain the western road connected to a working checkpoint.
When the last wagon vanished in the eastern shadows, he rose and said, “Let’s make camp.”
Pablo found a clearing surrounded by a growth of new elms, with a small but clear-running stream. Once the truck was stationed for the night, Pablo went back and covered their wheel tracks off the trail. They debated, then decided they could not risk a fire.
The rain did not come that night, which was good, for they had no camping equipment. The balmy weather meant most of the team could spread out over the clearing and get a good night’s rest. Kevin sat with Forrest for the pre-dawn watch. They were stationed in the truck’s cab. Kevin could see nothing of the night beyond the first line of trees. Nor did he need to. He was there to ensure Forrest remained awake and attentive.
“Is it okay if we talk?” Kevin asked. “I don’t want to interrupt you or anything.”
“Do you stop listening when we talk?”
“Not if I’m alert.”
“There you go.”
Through his open window, Kevin heard the distant rumble of thunder. Somewhere beyond the thick blanket of clouds, dawn was breaking. The surrounding trees were indistinct drawings painted in shades of slate and brown. “So what’s your story?”
“I was a waste-disposal engineer. Basically I loved and hated my life in equal measure. It was as safe as it was boring.”
“You lived in Charlotte?”
“All my life.”
“When did you discover this sensitivity of yours?”
“I was twelve.” Forrest settled more deeply into his seat. “You’ve known other adepts?”
“Two friends. One is a hunter. The other . . . To tell the truth, I’m not sure exactly what Caleb is.”
“He may not know either.” Forrest waved at the slumbering forms in the clearing. “Some of our crew, they didn’t have any idea they were gifted until all this started.”
“Gifted,” Kevin repeated, thinking of all the trouble and turmoil their abilities had caused.
“A few still don’t know anything beyond the fact that they have shown the two attributes,” Forrest said. “That’s what the dark suits call the measurements they can identify with their helmets. Attributes.” He was quiet a moment, then added, “They’re the ones who still wake up screaming.”
Kevin decided he didn’t need to know what Hollis and the suits did to try to make those young adepts identify their abilities.
Forrest went on, “At first, all I knew was I could hear things others couldn’t. My mother insisted I was making things up. When she finally accepted it was real, she was terrified. As long as she was alive, she wanted nothing more than for my gift to vanish.” His tone was matter-of-fact, which to Kevin’s mind only heightened Forrest’s compacted sorrow. “My dad, he was great. He made up games and we practiced together in the garden shed. He pretended we’d set up a detective agency together. Another day we were backyard spies. Of course, he made it clear the gift had to stay our secret. But he made things bearable by giving me an outlet. One that was fun. One that made my father my best and only real friend.”
Kevin searched the gradually strengthening day and wondered what it would be like to have such an ability and never speak of it. He thought of Caleb and Zeke and felt their lifelong burden more intensely than ever before.
The light was strong enough now for Kevin to see the man’s sad smile. “I suppose that’s how I stayed content with my life. I liked the orderliness of my job. I did something that went unnoticed but was crucial just the same. And from that safety, I kept searching the hidden and the unseen. But it cost me—I suppose it had to. I was married once, but it didn’t take. I never told her about my ability. Now I think it was probably a mistake. Yet something held me back.” Forrest sighed. “A year to the day after our wedding, she said she’d had enough of living with an enigma.”
Through the cab’s open rear window, Kevin heard the camp begin to stir. At the same time, the first raindrops tapped upon the truck’s roof. He had a hundred more questions, a thousand. But all he said was, “We better start getting ready.”
34
This used to be known as a doré bar.” Hamlin Turner drew the gold closer to his eyes. “Means gold that’s been refined at the mine head. Purity is never more than ninety percent. I’d put this at around eighty-five, which isn’t bad for a backwoods operation. Not bad at all. I assume that’s who you represent, yes? There used to be gold mines all through the Appalachians. You must have found a vein that wasn’t played out.”
Caleb did not respond. Nor was he certain the attorney expected him to say anything. The inner office was grand yet rumpled, just like the attorney seated behind the huge desk. The carpet stretched across the broad-plank floor was very old and very beautiful and looked hand-sewn. But the central section had lost its color, and the borders were badly frayed. The desk was as scuffed and hard used as the floor. The ceiling was high and held three chandeliers of hand-blown glass. The wall opposite the trio of huge windows was lined floor to ceiling with shelves holding more books than the Catawba library. But the volumes lay in a careless, haphazard manner. More books were scattered over the office’s three tables, along with a multitude of files. There was dust everywhere.
Hamlin Turner reflected his office’s messy state. He was a big man, easily twice Caleb’s weight, tall and big-boned enough to handle his bulk with relative ease. He rose from his leather chair and walked to a small kitchenette set in an alcove behind his desk. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Manners. I’ve always found them useful. When I can remember to use them.” Hamlin inspected a mug, his fingers too big to fit inside the handle. He used a dishrag to wipe the interior. “Esther—that’s the battle-ax guarding my outer office—she hates how I won’t let her clean in here. But if she did, I wouldn’t be able to find a thing. How do you take it?”
“I haven’t had coffee often enough to know.”
“Milk and sugar, that’s the ticket. Makes a decent meal when time’s too tight to eat.” Hamlin poured them both a mug, dosed them liberally, then reached across the desk. His chair creaked noisily when he reseated himself. “Where were we?”
“I have no idea.” Caleb took a cautious sip. The coffee was warming and rich. He felt himself being invited to relax in unaccustomed ways. Instead, he sensed the band of tension wrapped around his chest more clearly than ever. He had been so busy, the times so intense, he had been able to ignore the burden he carried. But now, as he sat in the safety of this powerful man’s office, the worries and the unanswered questions assaulted him.
“Accepting you as a client is inviting a whole passel of trouble.” Hamlin’s smile held a nasty edge. “So happens I like trouble. Keeps a body on their toes. Been far too smooth sailing around here lately. Bud, you got yourself a lawyer.”
“Wonderful.”
“Now that we’ve got that out of the way, what do you aim on achieving with all this gold? You understand what I’m asking, yes?”
Caleb had been pondering that very question. “This much money means power. Which I don’t want.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want.” Hamlin leaned back and planted a massive boot on the desk. “The Atlanta leaders will all be thinking that way.”
“They scare me.”
“They should. First thing they’ll want to know is, who am I representing, and is this person a threat or an ally. Which is why representing you could place me in very real danger.” If the attorney was concerned about that prospect, he did not show it. “How much gold are we talking about?”
Caleb motioned to the three cases lined up behind the desk. “There are a hundred and thirty-nine bars we brought with us. And we hope to deliver that much every three or four months.”
“Like I said, trouble.” But Hamlin’s grin grew broader. “Mind telling me where you’re fr
om?”
Caleb hesitated, then decided the attorney needed to know that much. “Catawba enclave.”
“Which means you’ve decided to avoid Charlotte. Smart man. And now you want me to set you up with a safe and secret haven. Consider it done. What else?”
“That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Think it over and let’s meet up here tomorrow. I have to be in court all morning. Noon work for you?”
“Yes.” Caleb started to rise, then added, “There is one thing.”
“Thought there might be.”
“It’s personal, though.”
“Son, you’re in the process of dumping a truckload of gold in my lap. Personal is not the issue.”
But Caleb persisted. “The gold, that’s the property of the enclave’s elders. I’m just their courier and spokesman.”
“And an honest one at that. They’re lucky to have you. Which permits you a personal request in my book.” The grin became more wolfish still. “And I’m the only voice that matters just now.”
Caleb found himself liking the hard-edged lawyer. “I’m trying to locate a missing friend. Well, more than a friend.”
“She’s here in Atlanta?”
“She and her father came down five months ago. Her name is Madeline Constance. Goes by Maddie. Her father taught engineering at the Catawba community college, then accepted a professorship at Atlanta University.”
Hamlin picked up a pen but did not make any notes. “You’ve asked him?”
“I’m . . . trying.”
“Caleb, why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you’re dancing around.”
“Maddie . . . is a special. Her father doesn’t know.”
“This just keeps getting better.” Hamlin set down his pen. “You’re asking me to poke a hornet’s nest.”
“You won’t help me?”
“I didn’t say that. But it has to be done quiet, you understand. Quiet takes time.”