'Corporal Henderson—'
'Ohh—well, I don't care much if he ever comes back anyway. How's his face doing?' Henderson was the man Rourke had put away for shooting Natalia.
Cole glared at Rourke, saying, 'One of these days, Doctor Rourke—after we contact Colonel Teal, after we secure those warheads—it's you and me.'
Rourke nodded. 'It scares me just to think about it,' and he exhaled the gray smoke from his lungs.
Chapter 29
The faces—she watched them as they watched her. She held Michael's right hand in her left, the boy saying nothing, but watching the faces, too.
Sarah shifted the weight of her M-, the rifle carried now cross body on its sling, her right fist balled around the pistol grip. She had not seen so many people in one place—crowded together in one place—since before the Night of The War. It mildly frightened her. She had seen other large groups—but she didn't count them people. The brigands—they were less than animals. The Russians—she refused to think of them any more than she had to. But she thought every once in a while of the Soviet major—the man she had met during the resistance escape in Savannah, whom she had met once again in Tennessee.
He had spared her.
She had watched his eyes, seeing something there she had seen in her husband's eyes. And she wondered what he had seen in her eyes.
She shook her head.
'What's wrong, Momma?' Michael looked up at her—he was nearly to the height of her breasts when he stood erect.
'Nothing—just all these people—' She stopped, Pete Crichfield having stopped, even Bill Mulliner's golden retriever, the dog the children had constantly played with at the farm, having stopped.
Bill Mulliner came up beside her. 'That fella on the porch—David Balfry—he's the commander.'
'The commander?'
'Yeah—college professor before the Night of The War—he's sort of the headman for the resistance in Tennessee here.'
She looked beyond Pete Critchfield's massive shoulders. 'David Balfry,*' she repeated.
He was her own age, she judged. Tall, straight, lean-featured. Close cropped blond hair, a smile lighting his face for an instant.
'Mrs. Rourke!' It was Pete Critchfield, calling to her.
'Yes, Mr. Critchfield.'
'You and your boy come up here and meet David.' Sarah left the ragged column, walking closer to the knot of people, still watching her—watching all of the newcomers, she told herself. There were wounds—bandaged, some not cleanly. There were missing limbs, eyes—terrible burns on the faces and exposed hands of some of the people in the crowd. She pushed past, stopping at the porch steps of the farmhouse.
'Mrs. Rourke—I heard of your work in Savannah with the resistance there. It's an honor to meet you,' and David Balfry extended his hand. The fingers were long, like the fingers of a pianist or violinist were supposed to be but so rarely were.
She felt his hand press around hers.
She looked into his eyes—they were green. They were warm.
'It's—it's a pleasure to meet you, too—Mr. Balfry.'
'It used to be Professor Balfry—now it's just David. Sarah—isn't it?'
'Yes,' she told him. She wondered quickly what else he would ask her.
'May I call you Sarah?'
She nodded, saying nothing.
'I understand your husband was a doctor—'
'Is a doctor,' she told him, shifting her feet in her tennis shoes.
'Yes—but were you ever a nurse—'
'Not really—but I've done a lot of it.'
'Reverend Steel—I think he could use some help with the sick—after you settle in, of course.'
'Of course—I mean—yes. I'll help,' she told him.
Balfry extended his right hand again, this time to Michael's head, tousling his hair. She felt the boy's right hand tensing in her left, saw him step away.
