Authors: Francis Porretto
- How many that You offer this accept it?
I have never offered it before. You are the first. You might well be the last. Quickly, now: do you want it?
Louis sensed the confluence of enormous energies. Power was rising to the call of the Presence, unthinkable power, gathered behind Its will, ready to Its hand. It was power enough to make worlds, or unmake them, and it was centered on Louis.
Father Schliemann had told him that Man was free, but he had doubted. Now he had proof.
- Yes.
A cocoon of power embraced him, whirled about him, and lifted him free of his mortal body.
Come to me.
***
Lori said nothing to her parents about the events of the day. That night, she sat down to write in her own bedroom, something she hadn't done in years. She abandoned her usual free verse lush with symbolism and sylvan metaphor, and produced a long, spare poem in traditional rhyme and meter. She wrote of an angel of surpassing beauty and power, who had been sentenced to wear flesh until he had unlearned his arrogance toward his brethren. The angel's last act on earth, for which he was readmitted to heaven, was to deflect a deeply flawed man from surrendering to weakness, helping him find just enough strength in himself to refrain from an unpardonable crime. She titled it "Penance." When she had completed it, she read it over thrice, hardly able to believe that it was her own work, and cried.
She would never write about trees or the forest again.
==
Part Three:
Hunters
Chapter
32
Rusty McGill ambled counterclockwise along the perimeter of the old mill that was the Viking warren, trailing the knuckles of his right hand against the rough brick wall. He'd been doing that a lot lately. Though it was midafternoon, and there were more than thirty bikers present, his was the only perceptible movement in the building. None of the others seemed to care.
Rusty was bored. Doing nothing while living off your savings is boring.
Tiny had brought the Butchers to Buffalo in June, supposedly to rest and plan, just after the incident that cost them Rollo and Duffy. October was waning fast. However much planning he'd done, the chieftain had announced no plans. The pack had done nothing but lie around, drink itself senseless, and quarrel with its hosts, for more than four months.
Jake Bonham was beginning to show some irritation at sharing his bunker with the large group of idlers, even though their leader was his oldest friend. The huge stash they'd accumulated in the Vallares Arms operation cushioned things, but other factors were at work. The Vikings remained active. Bonham had invited Tiny to participate in several of their capers, only to be turned down each time. Rusty had twice caught the Viking boss muttering between his teeth about it.
Something had to happen soon. Rusty's own hard-on for the head Butcher made him hope for it as much as fear it. He thought about hauling his own stakes about fifty times a day.
Why don't I?
No answer was returned. None ever was.
What the hell am I waiting for?
There was no answer to that one, either. Since Rollo's death, he'd had no ambitions of any kind.
He'd been circling the compound for about an hour, speaking to no one, when Hans approached him wearing a half-grin. "Think you might sit down a while, Rusty?"
Guess I must be ticking someone off.
He shrugged. "Why? Nothing else to do. Aw, hell, why not? Sit and talk to me a minute, Hans?"
"Sure." The two of them seated themselves against the base of the wall.
"How long is this gonna last, man?"
Hans grimaced. "Beats the shit out of me."
You don't like it either, eh, big guy?
"The Boss have any plans at all?"
"Can't talk about it, Russ. You know the rules." The big blond looked straight ahead.
"Yeah, what you don't know, you can't spill. But with no action, we're all gonna be basket cases in another month or two. Half of us are getting squirrelly already."
"I know, Russ, I know. I'm working on it, believe me."
"The Boss has got to know what he's risking."
Hans turned toward him, a new acuity in his expression. "What do you mean by that?"
Rusty realized belatedly that he'd crossed a line. Hans was friendlier toward him than any of the other veterans of the pack, but he was first and foremost Tiny's right-hand man.
"Nothing. It's just that you can't keep a bunch like this on its ass for this long. Guys will start to drift. Or they'll start making their own plans."
Hans's eyes were hard. "You feel that coming on yourself?"
Rusty began to demur, then stopped himself.
The Butcher lieutenant grunted. "Reach into your pocket and count your readies, Rusty. How much do you have on you?"
Rusty didn't need to count. "About twenty."
"Think there's anyone here carrying more? I ain't."
And you're the Paymaster.
"You and the Boss got it all figured out, eh?"
Hans hoisted himself erect. He dusted the seat of his jeans, folded his arms and stood looking down at Rusty. "Most of it, Butcher, most of it. Tiny knows how to keep a troop together. He's been doing it for fifteen years. I just do what he says. Whatever he says, whenever he says it. And that ain't gonna change."
Rusty felt a tickle of unease as Hans gave birth to a thin smile.
"Want me to pass your observations along to him, Butcher?"
Rusty waved and tried to sound unconcerned. "Naw."
Hans smirked and walked away. Rusty watched his receding back and thought furiously.
That doesn't mean they ain't gonna get passed along. And I don't think Tiny's gonna like 'em.
***
It was evening that day when it all went down.
Rusty had kept to himself after the conversation with Hans. He hadn't seen Hans afterward. Once or twice he noticed a couple of the others glancing in his direction. He tried not to notice too obviously, but he couldn't deny to himself that he'd started to worry.
He was sitting alone on one of the loom tables, munching cold pizza left over from the previous evening, when a sharp blow across the back of his head pitched him forward to the concrete floor. He hadn't heard anyone approaching him.
Training from his time in Fort Benning took over. He rolled, spun, and rose into fighting stance to confront his attacker. Tiny and Hans were staring at him. The Butcher chieftain stood in a simian half-crouch, fury written across his face.
"So this is the guy with the
plans
. You sure you're smart enough to make plans, asshole?"
Had it come at any time during the previous four months, Rusty might have tried to placate the big biker. He was beyond that, now. "Somebody here better be, 'cause you sure ain't."
Tiny had plainly been expecting the newest Butcher to back and fill rather than face his wrath. Rusty's words straightened him up like a noose.
"You sure do seem to want that mouth of yours glued shut, boy. Maybe it's no use to you anymore, now that Rollo's gone. I can fix it for you real quick, if you don't get down on your knees right now and kiss my feet while you beg my forgiveness." He laughed. "I know that's not what you want to kiss, but you'll just have to make do."
Rusty screamed and shot at Tiny like a cannon shell, catching him in the midsection and driving him backwards over a loom table. Tiny's fists thudded against Rusty's ribs. His hands had just found the Butcher chieftain's throat when a dozen other Butchers pulled the two of them apart. He tried to shake them off and hurl himself again at the man who had caused his lover's death and now had the brass to laugh about it. It was no use.
Hans was one of the group restraining Tiny. He peered into his leader's face, waiting for the return of self-control. When Tiny had gotten enough of a grip, Hans nodded to the others, and their hands fell away as one.
Tiny's eyes stabbed at Rusty once more, and returned to Hans. "Form the square."
The hands holding Rusty fell away as well.
***
I can take him. I just have to keep my head.
It had been Rusty's choice, and he had elected to fight barehanded. Tiny had removed his leather jacket and chaps. After an instant's consideration, Rusty shed his leathers as well.
Tiny was an even more imposing figure without his leathers. He was taller than Rusty, perhaps fifty pounds heavier, and in excellent physical condition. Fifteen years of the road life had not fastened a beer gut upon him. He watched Rusty assess him, flexed his biceps and grinned.
Rusty kept his face neutral and refrained from posturing. He could understand why anyone who had to face Tiny would want to have a weapon in hand.
He'll be trying to kill me. They won't let him do it if I go down or get knocked out, so he has to go for it all at once. That limits his range.
He's big and tough, but he's at least ten years older than I am, and he's probably had no training. Maybe he's never fought anyone who's had training. I've got to try to wind him, evade his blows, confuse him with stuff he's never seen. Counterpunching only. Once he's tired, I can take him, I know it.
He's used to fighting with weapons. What will he try to do without them?
Rusty's eyes swept the human square that surrounded them. It was about twenty feet on a side, an even mix of Butchers and Vikings. They would enforce the two rules of a biker duel: no blows at an unconscious opponent, and no leaving the square until only one man was standing.
His pulse pounded in his head. He was pumped higher than he'd ever been. He knew what he wanted to do, but he also knew that his life hinged on his not surrendering to impulse. If anything would get him through this, it would be his head, not his raging heart.
Hans stood at the center of the square, waiting for the two of them to face him. Rusty nodded at him first. Tiny's acknowledgement was a fraction of a second later. The Butcher lieutenant raised his right hand over his head, brought it down in a theatrical sweep, and stepped back to become part of the perimeter. A roar went up as the combatants approached one another.
Rusty crouched, arms spread and hands held before him, and rocked gently from side to side as he waited for Tiny to commit to a punch or a kick. When the Butcher chieftain grabbed for his hair, Rusty almost missed the signals.
Tiny's left hand swept for Rusty's hair as Tiny's right knee arced forward for Rusty's midsection. Rusty turned a quarter left and kicked for Tiny's locked left knee. The need to evade at two levels upset the counterstroke; Rusty's foot struck off-target at the bottom of Tiny's thigh, sending him staggering back with a howl, but not crippling him. Rusty dropped back into his crouch and waited.
Patience. Patience will win this game.
The head Butcher's next attempt was less subtle. Tiny charged in a pell-mell attack, hands extended to take Rusty by the throat. Timing it carefully, Rusty slid forward, turned right, and hooked for Tiny's right leg with his left. The biker lord twisted and went down with a yell, landing flat on his back. Rusty hesitated and lost his chance. Tiny scrambled to his feet with surprising speed.
Yet Rusty's confidence was growing. Nine-tenths of the audience had expected him to be dead on the floor by now. Tiny's reputation wasn't made of smoke. Rollo had told him several grisly stories about how the Boss had treated other dissidents. He was having a harder time today. The sense of being in command of the battle descended upon Rusty, and he grinned.
Tiny caught the grin and returned it with interest. "Having a good time, asshole?"
Rusty couldn't repress a response. "Passable. You?"
"Oh, it'll get better."
The Butcher chieftain surged forward and whipped a vertical kick at Rusty's head. Rusty threw himself backward in a panic. Tiny's booted foot only grazed the tip of Rusty's chin, but it snapped his head back and sent a jolt of agony down his neck. The impact dropped a gauze curtain over his sight. He still had his life, but the glancing blow had stunned him and his quick backward surge had left him unbalanced. Tiny lunged forward, eager to capitalize on his sudden initiative.
With his balance compromised and his momentum backward, Rusty's options were reduced to one. He threw himself to the floor, pivoted on his ass and scythed his legs at Tiny's ankles with what power he could muster. More from surprise than from the force of the blow, Tiny staggered and went down. The watching bikers roared again.
Throwing caution aside, Rusty heaved himself onto Tiny as the Butcher boss turned over. He poured four arcing blows into Tiny's face before Tiny managed to return fire. The chieftain's fist shot straight up to crash against Rusty's nose, and the younger man's blood fountained forth. He rocked backward as his hands flew to his face to stanch the flow. The veil over his sight thickened and turned crimson.