being the feckless
antisocial ass he has always told us you are?"
Hadrian
breathed in the fragrant tobacco smoke. There was something almost
church-like about the quiet industrious air of the loom chamber. "I
think I'd rather you cooperate because I am the feckless antisocial
ass he warned you of."
Hastings
grinned, then spoke in a near whisper. "At bedtime when the
youngsters climb under their comforters my wife and I tell them of
the way it was when we were young. But we make them promise never to
speak of it at school."
It
was an extraordinary confession, a gesture of trust, a renewal of old
friendship.
Hadrian
offered a grateful nod. "Including your son Micah?"
"When
he was younger, yes."
"Is
that why he was so eager to go on a salvage scout?"
Hastings
round face seemed to grow thinner. "I told him more than half
never make it back. Hell, we don't even know if it's disease or
radiation or wild beasts that take them. But at that age they feel
immortal. He had become a market hunter. He knew the woods, thought
he'd be the one to blaze new trails, like those early pioneers in the
lessons. Every day his mother keeps hoping for a message from one of
the other hunters. I keep reminding her that his was a long scout,
beyond the usual hunting lands."
"Did
he tell you where?"
"Southwest
somewhere," he said. "Then Buchanan wanted him to follow
the old canal there toward the old factory towns along what was the
Hudson River. Christ knows I told him those towns got hit hard,"
Hastings muttered, "that they still could be hot with radiation.
He could hike a month in a hot zone and never know until he dropped.
I wanted him to learn this business since he was the eldest but he
said I had other sons for that."
Hadrian
hesitated over the distant way the father spoke of Micah. "Before
he left, was he in some kind of trouble?"
"Trouble?"
Hadrian
shrugged. "With the law. With the gangs. With paying debts.
There are a lot of reasons someone might want to leave for a few
weeks or months."
Hastings
gazed at him as he worked the pipe stem in his mouth. "Of course
not," he said, then hesitated. "Not that I know of,"
he amended with an edge of worry in his voice. "He was making
new friends, frequenting taverns along the waterfront. He'd moved
into rooms with a friend from the fishery. We hardly ever saw him."
The
low murmurs of the looms filled the silence that followed. Hastings
turned to face the window. "There's folks who say that Buchanan
thought Jonah Beck was getting too powerful," he said abruptly.
Hadrian
grew very still. This was dangerous ground. "I was just
wondering about the fire."
"There
was a fireman who saw Jonah hanging," Hastings said. "He
got drunk, starting saying the fire didn't start elsewhere in the
building, but right there in the workshop. And not where Jonah could
have started it by kicking a lantern. People are saying we can't
trust the newspaper anymore." He fixed Hadrian with a somber
gaze. "If you're so interested in the fire, then why ask about a
scout patrol five months ago?"
Hadrian
didn't reply. The starting place wasn't the scouting mission, it was
the link between Jonah, Buchanan, and the scout.
Hastings
waved his pipe toward the courtyard below, where a thin, careworn
woman was watching two small children play in the puddles. "Don't
burden her with all these questions, Boone. She's troubled enough not
hearing from Micah."
Then
the woman looked up, telling the children to wave to their father,
and suddenly Hadrian had the answer he had come for.
The
old mill appeared
empty as Hadrian approached. There were no boys with lethal bows nor
any acrobat on the waterwheel. He stepped cautiously inside, studying
the old works, running his hand along the tops of beams, testing for
a loose floor board that might conceal a hiding place. He froze as
overhead the ceiling creaked. Footsteps rose, then faded, moving
toward the ladder at the far end of the building. He waited,
listening. When no one appeared
antisocial ass he has always told us you are?"
Hadrian
breathed in the fragrant tobacco smoke. There was something almost
church-like about the quiet industrious air of the loom chamber. "I
think I'd rather you cooperate because I am the feckless antisocial
ass he warned you of."
Hastings
grinned, then spoke in a near whisper. "At bedtime when the
youngsters climb under their comforters my wife and I tell them of
the way it was when we were young. But we make them promise never to
speak of it at school."
It
was an extraordinary confession, a gesture of trust, a renewal of old
friendship.
Hadrian
offered a grateful nod. "Including your son Micah?"
"When
he was younger, yes."
"Is
that why he was so eager to go on a salvage scout?"
Hastings
round face seemed to grow thinner. "I told him more than half
never make it back. Hell, we don't even know if it's disease or
radiation or wild beasts that take them. But at that age they feel
immortal. He had become a market hunter. He knew the woods, thought
he'd be the one to blaze new trails, like those early pioneers in the
lessons. Every day his mother keeps hoping for a message from one of
the other hunters. I keep reminding her that his was a long scout,
beyond the usual hunting lands."
"Did
he tell you where?"
"Southwest
somewhere," he said. "Then Buchanan wanted him to follow
the old canal there toward the old factory towns along what was the
Hudson River. Christ knows I told him those towns got hit hard,"
Hastings muttered, "that they still could be hot with radiation.
He could hike a month in a hot zone and never know until he dropped.
I wanted him to learn this business since he was the eldest but he
said I had other sons for that."
Hadrian
hesitated over the distant way the father spoke of Micah. "Before
he left, was he in some kind of trouble?"
"Trouble?"
Hadrian
shrugged. "With the law. With the gangs. With paying debts.
There are a lot of reasons someone might want to leave for a few
weeks or months."
Hastings
gazed at him as he worked the pipe stem in his mouth. "Of course
not," he said, then hesitated. "Not that I know of,"
he amended with an edge of worry in his voice. "He was making
new friends, frequenting taverns along the waterfront. He'd moved
into rooms with a friend from the fishery. We hardly ever saw him."
The
low murmurs of the looms filled the silence that followed. Hastings
turned to face the window. "There's folks who say that Buchanan
thought Jonah Beck was getting too powerful," he said abruptly.
Hadrian
grew very still. This was dangerous ground. "I was just
wondering about the fire."
"There
was a fireman who saw Jonah hanging," Hastings said. "He
got drunk, starting saying the fire didn't start elsewhere in the
building, but right there in the workshop. And not where Jonah could
have started it by kicking a lantern. People are saying we can't
trust the newspaper anymore." He fixed Hadrian with a somber
gaze. "If you're so interested in the fire, then why ask about a
scout patrol five months ago?"
Hadrian
didn't reply. The starting place wasn't the scouting mission, it was
the link between Jonah, Buchanan, and the scout.
Hastings
waved his pipe toward the courtyard below, where a thin, careworn
woman was watching two small children play in the puddles. "Don't
burden her with all these questions, Boone. She's troubled enough not
hearing from Micah."
Then
the woman looked up, telling the children to wave to their father,
and suddenly Hadrian had the answer he had come for.
The
old mill appeared
empty as Hadrian approached. There were no boys with lethal bows nor
any acrobat on the waterwheel. He stepped cautiously inside, studying
the old works, running his hand along the tops of beams, testing for
a loose floor board that might conceal a hiding place. He froze as
overhead the ceiling creaked. Footsteps rose, then faded, moving
toward the ladder at the far end of the building. He waited,
listening. When no one appeared
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