He had already watched the sentries pass, wondering why the big yellow delta was still moored, when her faint whistle reached him. He had forgotten the whistle would be their signal; found it almost impossible to whistle back; scurried to the fence heedless of danger as he managed his whistled response, peering hard into the high grass.
"Ted?" Abby's voice, strained of its vitality. "Ted?"
"Abby! I can't see you," he called.
"Just as well. I didn't make it, lover. Listen—"
"Finally you did," he said, between a sob and a laugh.
"Shut up and listen." She coughed, spat, tried again. "It's worse than I thought. Paramilitary types own this place." Cough. "They have radio and satellite uplinks, little rocket launchers, the works. Only problem is, they use us like we were property. Nobody gets in or out on pain of death. They give you ID, and you get shot if you can't produce it. You wouldn't last, Ted."
"Abby, the sentries won't be back for ten minutes. I can have you over the wire right away. Promise; I promise, honey! When I say the word, you make a run for it."
More coughs, and something else. Then a pause.'”Run for it, huh? I can't, I'm — tired, lover." More quickly, still curiously lacklustre in spirit: "I've decided to stay. Just came to tell you thanks, and don't bother. I'd — probably end up turning you in. You don't know me, Ted; I'm really a moral coward."
In something near panic, he virtually shouted: "I'm coming in!"
"If you do I'll — stand up and scream." Cough. "I mean it." Pause. "Thanks for the memory and all that crap, Ted. You come in here and I'm your enemy." Cough, then a despairing laugh: "We have too many men here already." Then something like a clearing of her throat.
Quantrill's mind rebounded from her rejection. When you're tired, he thought, you lose heart. But Abby sounded both tired and determined. "I love you, Abby." It was not what he had intended to say.
"You're a snot-nosed kid," she said. "You've let yourself get tied to a piece of ass, captured like that delta over there. Pity you can't hitch a ride west on it."
"Why couldn't we?"
"It's a hostage. Tied down with glass cable." Cough. "Look, I'm going back, kid. I don't need you and I took a chance getting out here. Do yourself a favor: screw off."
"Abby, don't throw me away," he pleaded. Tears gleamed on his cheeks.
Cough; clearing of her throat, then words tightly strung as on wires: "Fuck off, kid. I won't answer again."
He saw a movement in the grass ten meters from the ditch. He did not see the sentries, but knew they would soon be in sight. She made no further response to his pleas and, galvanized by a masochistic urge to see her once more, he made his way to the tallest of nearby trees.
The sun's afterglow at his back, Quantrill strained to locate his lover and tormentor from his perch high in the tree. Then he saw her crawling toward the ditch. She was in a coverall, face down, dragging her legs. A dark stain had spread from above her waist to her thighs. Twice she paused, racked by coughs that she fought against. Once she spat, and in the bronze afterlight he could see that it was dark with blood. His mouth was open to shout when he realized that the sentries were approaching.
Abby must have heard them too. She lay full-length, hands pressed over her mouth. Quantrill suddenly saw himself as an obvious large bulk which he could not entirely hide behind the tree trunk. He could not climb down unobtrusively, dared not drop, was motionless with anticipation and fear.
The men, hardly beyond their teens, talked as they paced the perimeter, carrying stubby carbines in unmilitary fashion. "… don't give a shit what they say," the taller one was griping; "I bet these goddam coveralls aren't much protection in the open. I bet—"
"Hold it!" The other grasped his arm, swung his carbine up and stared into the grass away from Quantrill.
"Just a dog barking," said the tall one.
"I know a cough when I — there," he exulted. For all her best efforts to muffle it, Abby's spasm came again. The stocky youth swept his arm around to suggest a flanking maneuver. Quantrill heard safeties clicking off. Both men moved away from him, closing in on the prone Abby, and Quantrill could not make himself move.
She played dead. "Told you I hit somebody out here 'while ago," the tall one crowed as they stood over the motionless form. "Turn him over, Al."
The stocky Al toed at Abby's ribcage, then pressed hard and sprang back at her thin scream of pain. “It's a cunt," he shouted.
"Work detail," she moaned; "I was on work detail!" Now she sobbed, trying to roll over, jerking with agony. "Help me—"
"Sheeeit," said Al.
"Why'n't you call when we come up, then," asked the other.
"She's the one got outa the shops today," Al concluded. "They won't like knowin' you only managed to wing 'er." They talked louder as Abby's sobs increased, her pleas only a noise to be overcome.
The tall one nodded, stepped up close and readied his own carbine. "I can fix that; it don't make much noise."
"Naw, you'd leave powder burns. More questions," said Al. "C'mon."
They left Abby, walking backward, and Quantrill developed an instant's scenario in which he would reach her, somehow get her over the fence during the next half-hour, then to a doctor. He gasped when Al, playing out his own fanciful game, snapped the carbine up and fired a burst from ten meters.
Abby Drummond screamed only once; louder than the hissing muffled staccato of gunfire, not loud enough to be heard across the meadow. Her body rolled with the impacts, came to a final rest in the relaxation of death. "That's how you do it," Al snickered, patting his carbine. "Let's get a move on, Wally. We'll report at the end of the shift like it wasn't nothin' to be excited about."
Wally followed Al, looking back at their victim. "You're just plain bad-ass," he said admiringly as they swaggered off.
Chapter Thirty-Three
When Quantrill's shock and fear turned to rage, he was able to control his body enough to climb down from the tree. Now he knew that Abby had paid twice for trying to make the rendezvous, realized her desperate valor in repulsing him; saw the pitiless logic that had compelled her. He did not see his own frozen helpless apartheid as survival, but instead as plain cowardice. He refused to dwell on the moment of her death. That had happened a long time ago; what mattered now was the immediate future. He could drive the Chevy, but where? Local fallout was a long-term worry. His most pressing worry now was one he had nurtured from early childhood.
In the interplay between Quantrill's intellect and his will crowded a hierarchy of motives. His intellect would not have risked death for revenge, or for personal gain, or for the sheer hell of it. Very well then: his will offered the motive most effective on youths of the south and southwest: the stinging goad of the white feather. He had stood by and watched inert while horrors had been inflicted. Only direct action would set things right.
Quantrill had not yet developed the subtlety to seek the roots of corruption; he sought only to prune its branches. At some point between self-accusation and his return from the Chevy he had become a killer. He had no revolver, no experience, truly no white-hot anger. He had more lethal weapons: unshakable resolve and a talent for improvising.
He filled the big water jug from the Chevy's camper stove tank, filled the half-liter squeeze bottle from that, tested its range. He chose a small tree near the fence and, with his collapsible camp saw, cut it more than halfway through. The lights from the delta mooring dispelled the night just enough for him to recognize the two forms that passed once more before he was ready.
He heaved the contents of the jug through the fence, wiped his hands dry on grass, lay down in the shrubbery near enough to touch the fence links. Now his muscle tone was that of a young cat lying in wait. He would remain still until his quarry passed so that the first glimmer of his revenge would not be seen.