"Yes?" asked the baron, his voice as gentle as a maiden's whisper. Mephisto found himself sweating a little more than before.
"They were taking a pig."
"A ritual?"
"Yes."
The exoskeleton creaked and groaned as Baron Tourment pulled himself upright, towering over the sec boss as he strode around the motel room, seeing himself reflected again and again as he passed the mirror over the oyster-pink washbasin.
"Had I given my permission?"
Mephisto had known the question was coming and had anticipated it from the moment one of the patrol teams in the swampwags had reported back to him.
"I had one in five blasted, Baron."
"Only one in five?"
"They are useful to us, so close to the part of West Lowellton where the boy runs."
The great leonine head nodded slowly, and Mephisto knew that he'd guessed right: he would live for another day.
"Truly spoken. One in five? Good."
"The outlanders took out one man."
"Who?"
"Be la Tour. The one with the beard forked as if lightning had struck it."
"Was he not the one who shot the black in the buggy a day back?"
"Yes."
"Revenge?"
Mephisto nodded. "I believe so. We can ask when we take them."
"And they will tell you, my dear Mephisto?"
"They will tell me," he replied, ignoring the irony in Baron Tourment's voice.
"Where are they now?"
That was the one question that the elegant sec boss had been dreading. His patrols had returned within the hour from their search, and he knew that the baron would have heard the rumbling engines as they ground into the ville. "One woman was missing from Moudongue."
The striding stopped, and the baron's eyes turned toward him. "Who?"
"Marie Laveaux."
"Who?"
Mephisto hissed through his teeth. "Marie. Jeanine was her younger sister, the one that you ordered to be..."
"I know. Watch your careless tongue, Mephisto. There are many who would welcome your fall. It was Marie? The large woman? I remember her." There was something that could have been a smile.
"She was..." Caution sealed his lips and made him reconsider his description of the Laveaux woman as a giantess. It would not sit well with the baron, whose head scraped the ceiling of the bridal suite at the Best Western Snowy Egret Motel.
"Was a fine strong woman. She took me and wept for more. Not like some of these fucking little tight-cunted bitches who scream and bleed, shrieking that I'm tearing them apart. No, she... she is dead, you said, Mephisto? The toll rises for these strangers."
"She was shot three times at close range. Sec-patrol leader said the slugs were strange."
Tourment sat down, the bed sinking under his weight. On the wall behind him was a painting that seemed to show a murky orange sunset and a pale blue sky streaked with fiery chem clouds.
"Strange? Stra-a-a-a-ange?.." He drew out the syllable until it almost snapped.
"Caseless small bore. High impact. Never seen anything like them."
"This was near where the snow wolf lives?"
"Yeah."
"Are they to be allied 'gainst us, Mephisto? Is this the root of the tree? The kernel of the fruit? Will the two blades be forged as one?" He lay back, and his voice became thin and singsong. "Shall the sky and earth wed? Will water marry fire? Will the wolf cleave to the panther?"
He was silent for a long moment, then sat up and pointed at his sec boss.
"Go get that fucking ice-suit dirty. Track 'em and take 'em. That's all. No more words, or I'll reach into your flicking chest and part the ribs and tear out your lungs."
Mephisto carefully closed the door of the suite and stood in the narrow corridor, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to control himself. He nearly wiped his hands on his pants again. Licking his dry lips, he ran his fingers through his tight, pomaded curls.
"Mephisto, my brave and cunning friend," he whispered to himself. "Best find these strangers and bring 'em here."
He thought he heard the baron stepping toward the door inside the room, and he scampered away, set on his lethal mission.
Chapter Twelve
It was the middle of the morning.
They had walked only fifty paces into the development when they saw a large board, fixed to a triangle of steel scaffolding. It was covered in clear plastic and riveted to a wooden backing, the whole thing smeared and stained by the weather. J.B. went up to it and wiped his sleeve over the plastic, calling to the others, showing unusual excitement for such a taciturn man.
For once it would be absurdly easy for them to orient themselves.
"Come here! It's a map of where we are. A map from before the long winter!" He fumbled in one of his capacious pockets for one of his favorite long, thin cheroots, then let his hand drop as he remembered that he'd smoked the last one too many mornings and too many thousands of miles behind him.
The others gathered around, reading the notice. Doc read it aloud for Lori, rolling the prose style.
"Live Oak Crescent is a master-planned community of topclass condominiums and townhomes, set on the edges of the picturesque Atchafalaya Swamp. Affordability is our watchword. These homes are richly appointed, light, and surprisingly spacious. Each has a separate video and audio room, along with a relaxanasium in stripped afromosia teak veneer. Hot tubs are optional extras that you'll all want to add to your dream home."
"What a load of stinking shit," muttered Finnegan. "They look like little fucking boxes, right next to some more fucking little concrete boxes and some more right over there."
Doc continued on. "The community center at O'Brien and Stewart features Miami Beach styling with swimnasium, tennisarium, sun deck and crafted gabled shingled roofs. Live Oak Crescent is simply the state of the top art in living convenience. Realistically priced, beginning at $250,000."
"Is that a lot of jack, Doc?" asked J.B.
"Seems so to me," replied the old man. "Upon my soul, but this must have been going on just before the ultimate madness wiped away our world. Toward the end of the year 2000. Yes, Mr. Dix, I should have said a quarter of a million greenbacks was a lot of jack, even then."
Ryan was trying to make sense of three or four lines at the bottom of the notice, set in tiny print. He read the lines over to himself.
"Qualified buyers, based on 3.2% deposit... monthly P&I payments for years one thru fifteen of...low 1.8% loan fee. The APR is 17.35. Ask our salespersons for details of zoning, fees and state and federal association costings and taxes. Where applicable."
It might as well have been written in Russian for all the sense it made to him.
"You can see where we are and where the place stretches out. There's the center of the ville," said J.B., pointing to where the roads seemed to converge on something called the Senator Fitzgerald Hackensacker Memorial Shopping Mall.
Most of the main landmarks in West Lowellton were on the map: the Counselor Zak Robbins Playpark, near the narrow river that wound through the ville; the Charles C. Garrett Olympic Pool and Tennisarium; the Neal R. Langholm Golf Course, straddling the river. The main shopping area was shaded with a faded purple overlay, and the location of several motels was shown, including the Snowy Egret on the far side of town, near where West Lowellton oozed out from the edges of Lafayette. A Holiday Inn was only a half mile or so from the dramatic crimson arrow with the message: YOU ARE HERE.
"First time in years I've known where I am," commented Ryan Cawdor.
The houses around them were mainly single-story, stained green with mosses and lichen. Most of their windows and doors were still intact, though several of the roofs had collapsed where damp had seeped in and rotted the supporting timbers.
"Where do we go?" Lori asked.
"I figure that one of them motels could be our prime target," replied Doc. "From the excellent state of these buildings, it's reasonable to believe they might be more than adequate for shelter."