“Get back there!” said the nearest deputy.
“I want to talk to the sheriff. Please.”
“That’s okay,” Omar said. “I’ll talk to him.” He strolled up to the white man. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering,” the man said, and then hesitated. He lowered his voice. “Can you put me someplace else? Someplace with—” He lowered his voice even more. “Someplace with more Caucasians?” Omar grinned. And then his amusement faltered, because he realized that the man was a witness to what David had done. Or a potential witness, or at least someone who he couldn’t sift out from the real witnesses.
He would never sort them out, he realized with a chill. He hadn’t thought that out before, not in so many words.
Nausea shivered along Omar’s nerves. He looked at the nervous white man and knew him for doomed. You are doomed, he thought at the man, but his thoughts lacked conviction.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” he said. “There’s no other place to put you.”
“Please, Sheriff!” the man blurted. “I know who you are! I’ve seen you on television. Can’t you—can’t you help me?”
If the man had only asked yesterday, Omar thought, before dinner.
“Sorry,” Omar said. “There’s no better place than this.” Not for you, he added mentally.
“They took my fountain pen!” the man said.
Omar looked at him. “Your what?”
“Someone stole my fountain pen! It was a Diplomat! German! It had a lifetime warranty!” Omar couldn’t entirely suppress his grin. “Would you like to file a report?” he asked. Filing a report would keep the man busy, anyway.
“I’ll loan you my Bic,” he added.
The white man gave Omar a disgusted look. “Never mind,” he said, and stalked away. You are doomed, Omar thought at his retreating back. It was easier thinking that, after he had made the man so ridiculous.
He looked right and left, saw the fence-installers working fast.
Fences are a good thing, he thought.
“Here.” His guide, Martin, handed Nick a blue bandanna. “You’ll be needing this.” Nick took the bandanna from his team leader’s hand. “What for?” he said.
“Tie it around your mouth and nose. We’re going to be digging out bodies.” Nick looked at the bandanna for a moment, then felt his stomach turn over as he remembered Helena. He put it in his shirt pocket till it was needed.
Martin had clerked in an auto parts store before the quake had made him “guide” to the Thessalonians—the Second Thessalonians, actually, since the team had been divided into two. Martin was around thirty and white and very blond, with pink skin flaking from sunburn and what looked like a permanent angry red stripe across his nose. He had a wife back in the camp, and four kids. There was a dirty armband on his left arm, a whistle on a chain around his neck, a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, and in the small of his back a holstered semiautomatic pistol of a businesslike aluminum shade. The pistol, he explained, was for snakes or mad dogs. He and Nick were riding in the back of a pickup truck to the town of Rails Bluff, where they would be scavenging items from the remains of the town. And digging out bodies. Nick wasn’t ready for that.
Whose food is your child eating? Manon’s words rose in his mind. His job was to preserve his family. If he had to do it by watching former porn salesmen humiliated, or by digging dead people out of ruins, then that was what he would do. He would be a good soldier, do his duty, and keep his head down, because he owed it to Arlette.
Rails Bluff was a desert of fallen power lines, dusty piles of brick, cracked concrete, shattered glass, torn trees. The pick-up pulled up before a largish ruin in what had been the downtown section. A fallen marquee, tumbled letters and broken bulbs, showed that the place had been a theater. Piles of bricks, timber, roofing material, and tools showed that people had been working here.
“The people who weren’t staying at the Reverend’s camp were mostly in here when the second big quake hit,” Martin explained. “The Reverend wants to give them a Christian burial. There might be medical supplies and food in there, too.”
Martin dropped the tailgate and Nick lowered himself out of the truck. Glass crunched under his work boots. The First Thessalonians and some other crews rode in, and Martin and the other guides began to organize things. Nick tied the bandanna over his face, put on the gloves he’d been given, and began his work.
The morning’s breakfast—a largish lump of oatmeal, served with a spoonful of raisins—sat like a stone in Nick’s stomach, at least until some of the First Thessalonians uncovered the first body, and then the oatmeal began to turn cartwheels. The body—an elderly white lady, starting to bloat—was pulled from the ruin, wrapped in plastic, then covered with a sheet. Nick turned away from the scene and concentrated on tossing bricks into a wheelbar-row and keeping his breakfast down. Aftershocks rumbled continually through the earth.
Martin was cheerful and encouraging as he led his crew. During the course of the morning two more bodies were recovered, and precious little else beyond a few blankets and some battered kitchen gear. At noon a truck arrived from the camp, with peanutbutter-and-jelly sandwiches on homemade bread, two for each worker, and a wheel of white cheese off which the men carved chunks with their pocket knives.
“Hey,” one of the Second Thessalonians said, peering into his sandwich. “At least we got jelly today.” He looked at Nick. “Sometimes it’s just peanut butter.”
“I don’t think we’ve met, officially,” Nick said. “I’m Nick.”
“Tex.” Tex had deep black skin and broad shoulders, with grizzled hair under a tall-crowned straw cowboy hat. The two men sat on the tailgate of the pickup—facing away from where the three bodies lay on the broken street—and began to eat their sandwiches.
“I been hoping to ask,” Tex said, “if you heard ’bout what was happening on the outside.” On the outside. It sounded like the language a man might use in prison.
“I listened to the news on radio until a few days ago,” Nick said. Be cautious, an inner voice warned.
“We could listen to the news on the truck radio,” Tex said, “but Martin won’t let us.” He chewed his sandwich thoughtfully. “Is it true about the nuclear plant that blew up over in Mississippi?”
“They had some problems,” Nick said, “but it wasn’t Chernobyl. A very small amount of radiation released, nothing of any great concern.”
Tex wrinkled his eyes in thought. “You sure it didn’t blow up, and the government covered it up?” Nick looked at his sandwich. “Earthquake or no earthquake, we still have a free press. There must be a hundred reporters with radiation detectors camped out around that plant. If there were even modest amounts of radiation released, it would have been on the radio twelve hours a day.” Tex scratched his jaw. “We’ve all been sort of wondering, you know, where the reverend gets his news.”
“There’s been no big nuclear accident,” Nick said. “That’s for sure.” Tex nodded. “And the poisoned waters?”
“Well,” Nick said, “the quake threw a lot of bad stuff in the water. Jason—my, uh, friend—Jason and I went through a lot of it on our boat, and some of it has to be pretty nasty. The government is evacuating places that get their drinking water from the river, but if you get your water from wells, you should be all right.”
“So we safe here, from the poison.”
“From the poison,” Nick said, “yeah.” He sipped from his cup of water and cleared the peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth.