“Dominic. Your shirtless friend.”
“He kind of owed me a favor.”
“Should I ask?”
“Probably best if you don’t.”
They returned to the house, lightened their gear, loaded the remains into saddlebags, and secured them to the horses. Hollis took the mare, Sara the gelding. She was getting the best of the deal, though not by much. Years had passed since she’d even been on a horse, but the feeling was automatic, touching a deep chord of physical memory. Bending forward in the saddle, Sara gave three firm pats to the side of the horse’s neck. “You’re not such a bad old guy, are you? Maybe I’m being too hard on you.”
Hollis looked up. “I’m sorry, were you addressing me?”
“Now, now,” Sara said.
They made their way to the gate and descended the hill. Scattered workers were toiling in the fields beneath a late afternoon sun. Here and there a pennant still hung limply from its pole, marking the location of a hardbox; the watchtowers with their warning horns and sharpshooter platforms jutted from the valley floor, unmanned for years.
At the outer edge of the Orange Zone, the road forked: west toward the river townships, east toward Comfort and the Oil Road. Hollis drew up and took his canteen from his belt. He drank and passed it to Sara. “How’s the old boy doing?”
“A perfect gentleman.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and gestured eastward with the canteen. “Looks like somebody’s in a hurry.”
Hollis saw it too: the boiling dust plume of a vehicle, driving fast toward the city.
“Maybe we could see if he’d trade for the horses,” Hollis said, not seriously.
Sara examined him for a moment, flicking her eyes up and down. “I have to say, you look rather dashing up there. Takes me back a bit.”
Hollis was leaning forward, bracing his weight with both hands on the pommel. “I used to like to watch you ride, you know. If I was on the day shift on the Watch, I’d sometimes wait on the Wall until you came back with the herd.”
“Really? I was not aware.”
“It was a little creepy of me, I admit that.”
She felt suddenly happy. A smile came to her face, the first in days. “Oh, what could you do?”
“I wasn’t the only one. Sometimes you drew quite a crowd.”
“Then lucky you, things working out like they did.” She capped the canteen and handed it back. “Now let’s go see our babies.”
* * *
52
“Hey, good afternoon, everybody.”
Two DS officers manned the stockade’s outer room—one sitting at his desk, a second, much older, standing behind the counter. Greer recognized the second one immediately; years ago, the man had been one of his jailors. Winthrop? No, Winfield. He’d been just a kid then. As their gazes locked, Lucius could see a series of rapid calculations unfolding behind the man’s eyes.
“I’ll be damned,” Winfield said.
His hand dropped to his sidearm, but the movement was startled and clumsy, giving Greer ample time to raise the shotgun from beneath his coat and level it at the man’s chest. With a loud clack, he chambered a shell. “Tut tut.”
Winfield froze. The younger one was still sitting behind his desk, staring wide-eyed. Greer nudged the shotgun toward him. “You, weapon on the floor. You too, Winfield. Let’s be quick now.”
They placed their pistols on the ground. “Who is this guy?” the younger one said.
“Been a while, Sixty-two,” Winfield said, using Greer’s old inmate number. He seemed more amused than angry, as if he’d run into an old friend of dubious reputation who’d lived up to expectations. “Heard you’ve been keeping yourself busy. How’s Dunk?”
“Michael Fisher,” Greer said. “Is he here?”
“Oh, he’s here, all right.”
“Any more DS in the building? We keep the nonsense to a minimum, this doesn’t have to be a problem.”
“Are you serious? I don’t give a shit one way or the other. Ramsey, toss me the keys.”
Winfield opened the door to the cellblock. Greer followed a few paces behind the two men, keeping the shotgun trained on their backs. Michael, lying on his bunk, rose on his elbows as the door to his cell opened.
“This is sudden,” he remarked.
Greer ordered Winfield and the other one into the cell, then looked at Michael. “Shall we?”
“Nice seeing you, Sixty-two,” Winfield called after them. “You haven’t changed a bit, you fucker.”