that’s the way I see it, that’s what I tell Charlie. I lock the door to his office and I start screaming at him. I can feel this vein in my forehead standing out, I’m giving it everything I’ve got, everything in the Edward Schaffer bag ’o tricks, calling him names, questioning his manhood, and he just sits there staring at me, shaking his head. Finally, when I have to stop for breath, he says to me in this calm, tired voice, ‘Ed, the only way that call’s getting made is if you do it yourself.’
“He didn’t mean it, of course, he never believed I’d do it. And, Cass, I’ve thought about it a thousand times and I didn’t ever think I’d do it either. I was giving him one last chance-that’s what I really believe-and I just wanted him to
“So I pick up his phone and all the time I’m thinking he’ll stop me, and then I’m dialing and we’re staring at each other, neither one of us blinking, and the guy comes on the line and I say, ‘Benson here,’ and he says, ‘Yes, sir,’ and still I’m waiting, I give it an extra-long pause and the guy on the other line is like, ‘Sir, sir, are you there?’ and Charlie, he does something that- He gets out of his chair and he goes to the window and he turns his back on me. He turns his fucking
Smoke was perspiring as he came to the end of the story. “After that I went home. It was the last time I ever saw Charlie, actually. After-later-I tried to find him. But you know what happened to the base and…well, I didn’t try all that hard. After a week or so it didn’t matter anyway. And by the time I realized what I’d done…”
Cass listened, horrified, as Smoke’s voice trailed away.
This was it. The thing Smoke had done for which he could never forgive himself, the sin that he would spend his whole life atoning for, putting ahead of everything and everyone else-including Cass.
And she knew how he saw it: Smoke believed he had single-handedly unleashed the Beaters. If he hadn’t made the call…if the mixed seed had never been loaded into the planes alongside the otherwise fine kaysev seed…if the first blueleaf had never sprouted…
“But you can’t believe it’s all your fault.” The words burst from her before she had a chance to think. “There were a thousand parts to play in what happened. The people who developed it, who were supposed to test it, Charlie’s commander…”
But she realized that Smoke wasn’t really listening. He was looking off into space, reviewing the story that would never leave him.
She wanted to make him see, to shake him, scream at him, until he finally gave up his steadfast determination to suffer. But Smoke wouldn’t even listen.
Anger bubbled below the surface of Cass’s sorrow. It was a terrible waste, throwing his life away like this, over something he could not change, a mistake he never intended.
But what was worse-he’d thrown away more than his life. He’d discarded their love the day he left the Box, abandoned it as though it was worthless. It was no wonder, Cass realized, that she’d felt so hurt. Because even though his error had terrible consequences, even though it had changed him irrevocably, it still was not enough. Not enough to trade her for. Not enough to have made her feel so small, so hurt-to have driven her into the arms of another man.
But no. That was wrong. She would not blame Smoke for that. When she went to Dor, she went willingly, and when she loved him, she loved him fiercely.
Cass held Smoke’s hand for a while longer, considering and eventually abandoning her anger, forgiving a man who did not seek her forgiveness. Finally it was time to leave the darkening little room. By then Cass finally understood why Smoke had to leave her back in the Box, why he would always have to leave her for one justice quest after another. He could never fully give himself to her, because he’d already given himself over to the job of punishing himself, forever, one agonizing day at a time.
Chapter 45
TWO MORNINGS LATER, she was the last to linger at the foot of the trail, watching the small party ride up the incline through the binoculars she’d borrowed from Bart. Bart had stayed back to tend to one of the horses who had picked up something in his hoof and been favoring it all day; he was worried that a trip to the settlement and back would be too much for the horse. Besides, three men were more than enough to do the reconnaissance.
There were only two possible outcomes. The first was that the settlement party had reached Salt Point, and were now in some state of construction. The first wave would probably not be thrilled to see them, but the new council had put a lot of effort into how to present their case, and even Cass had to admit that it was a compelling one, focusing more on the skills and resources they brought, and less on the challenges they presented. Though no one voiced the thought out loud, they’d lost their weakest members; they would not have to beg passage for their elderly or injured.
The other possibility nagged at her no matter how she tried to force it from her mind-that no one waited for them at Salt Point, that there was nothing there besides beautiful scenery and spring snows, a plot of land perfect for a well-supplied, well-rested party with the luxury of a plan and the means to implement it. But the Edenites had come with only what they could carry, enough food for another week. They had children and old people; they were demoralized by loss and lacking clear leadership. Cass was certain that, if nothing waited for them but bare land, they would lose more people before the summer came.
Still, the little advance team seemed to lift everyone’s spirits as they took off at a brisk pace up the mountain. Dor and Smoke had become competent riders. Bart had been training them for the past week, after they determined that Smoke and Dor and Nadir would ride ahead. Smoke had lingering stiffness in his hip and leg, and getting in the saddle presented a challenge, but by the third day he had mastered the move. Dor tended to impatience with the animals, but once he started riding Rocket, who had been Mayhew’s mount, it went more easily; Rocket was as stubborn and headstrong as Dor himself.
Nadir was the key to the group’s cohesiveness. Smoke and Dor spoke mostly to-and through-him; Cass didn’t miss the way the men avoided each other. If one walked by, the other would step out of the way, or pretend to be engaged in some small task. The few words they exchanged were brief and barbed.
It made Cass melancholy to remember their old friendship in the Box. True, Dor had been Smoke’s employer, but they’d worked as partners from the start. They talked for hours, trained together most mornings, fought and worked side by side. Now, after so much had passed, she finally knew the secret Smoke had confided in Dor, and forgiven him for choosing to share it with him instead of her. Dor had never told anyone about the thing Smoke had done, and she understood that the secret would stay with the three of them and someday die with them.
At first she’d thought that the secret should be enough to bind them all, its terrible weight a burden they could only bear together. But now she understood that loving her had driven the two men apart. They were both proud men, both passionate, loath to compromise. Now that she’d separated herself from them both, she saw the way they drove themselves harder than ever. Smoke’s regimen of healing left him spent and exhausted each night, but he didn’t rest until he’d done a full share of work. Dor often seemed to be everywhere at once, consulting with the new council, helping anyone who asked, and throwing himself into the manual labor of breaking camp, splitting wood, hauling water, anything to burn off his endless supply of glowering humorless energy.
Paradoxically he seemed more and more at home, the farther they traveled from civilization. This was an inhospitable part of the country, far from any mountain pass or even an improved road. Dor was undaunted by the lack of commerce, power lines, any evidence of community. They’d been following the map the Easterners had laid out and found this final camp exactly where it had been marked, eight miles down mountain from Salt Point on what had been an old stagecoach road many years ago and in recent decades had served only the most intrepid sportsmen: cross-country skiers, backpackers and fishermen.
On the map the camp was not named, but a note scrawled in the margin read, “5 cabins, well water, no elec.” There was no sign of a well anywhere and only three cabins remained standing, one reinforced sometime in the last decade with repairs to the board siding and a new handrail, the other two in sorry shape. Elsewhere the remains of other cabins were stacked haphazardly. On the positive side, there was no evidence of Beaters anywhere in the camp. Cass, who had been on the lookout for the whole journey, had not seen a single blue leaf in at least a week.
