“I’m sorry.” I sit up, too.
“Long time ago.” I know that I don’t know what to say so I stay quiet. “Very smart she was. Smarter than me, I think. Still in high school.” Gallie looks at me. “But she crossed paths with the wrong people one night.”
“That’s awful,” I say, knowing how inadequate it sounds. She nods.
“Anyway, I’m not sure what comes next, but let’s not risk going back to Leatown for a while.”
I shift gears with her. “Might Prasad send a rescue team?”
“We didn’t plan that, but yes, he might.”
We sit for a while longer and I watch the moving shadows cast by the pale moonlight, listening to the sound of the rustling leaves. Then we dust ourselves down and head in silence toward the barn.
TWENTY-NINE
For a week I live the barn lifestyle with my friends. Funny that I now think of them as friends. It’s far from how I thought of them on the site. But now we’re huddling together in a frightening place, sharing the same incomprehensible risks and with an equal chance of surviving them. No schemes are hatched, no plans plotted, yet I’m asked constantly for assurances that we’ll be rescued. I have no assurances to give, but I give them anyway. Jenn has become a de facto leader and is who they go to to resolve disputes, test ideas or proffer theories. She’s cool under pressure and never loses her temper. This is why I would have never sat in the big chair. Yet, I figure out that she was obviously not part of the inner sanctum that knows about TMA’s other mission. It seems to me that she’s exactly the sort they should want on the inside, but TMA works in mysterious ways. Gallie has become Jenn’s lieutenant. She has a way with words that Jenn does not and knows how to lay out the case for a decision that Jenn has jumped to intuitively.
And of course there’s much coition going on. Whether those relationships had arrived with them, or whether it had just suddenly seemed like a good idea, who knows? The only rule was, use the back of the loft and keep it quiet. I once saw Mack McEwan try to make a move on Gallie. I don’t know what she had said to him but his lumbering six foot four inch frame retreated with the bearing of a man castrated.
Hygiene is a mixed bag. Our host had thrown us a bag of toothbrushes, nicely wrapped twenty-first century-style and soap bars that looked like they had been collected from a chain of Marriotts. It’s the little flourishes that count, I suppose. It’s all too strange for a dream.
It’s on the seventh night by my count that the bedraggled, armed goons march into the barn looking for someone. “You,” the head goon barks, pointing at me. I do the looking behind me thing. “Yer must be quite the special one. The master has invited yer to dinner. And ‘ee wants you to bring yer lady.” Lady? Sounds like the ‘master’ has been tutoring him in manners. “We’ll be back in an hour to take yer.” He is as close to being courteous as he can bear, is the impression I get. Notwithstanding his polite invitation, his expression says you might be in favor now, but I can wait. Then you’ll see. They slouch out and many conversations erupt simultaneously.
“I don’t know, I don’t know” I answer to questions from all directions. Gallie grabs my hand and leads me out of the barn. “Maybe we can get to the bottom of this,” I say.
“Maybe, but that’s not the way our luck’s been going,” Gallie replies and nods toward the big house. “I’ve no idea what’s in there, but just keep your eyes open. Okay?”
“I will ... for what?”
“Anything. Danger. Something that might help us. Or kill us. Be nice if our accelerators are hanging on a coat rack. Just stay vigilant.”
“Kill us?”
THIRTY
We’re marched to the mansion portico. A young woman with black hair pulled into a tight bun and a black dress with white apron opens the door. Her eyes stay low but we’re bidden to enter. Two of the guards enter with us, the others positioning themselves on the portico steps. The maid says nothing and we assume we’re to follow her which takes us up a grand staircase, illuminated from above by a large, crystal candle-lit chandelier. Gallie and I exchange a glance. There are enough mirrors to derogate the Chateau de Versailles, and where there are gaps between the gold-gilded mirrors and rococo sconces, there are paintings of lords leaning on swords and sheep grazing in meadows. From the outside, an eighteenth century mansion looks like a twenty-first century mansion, but when you’re inside, there’s no mistaking that you’re not in Kansas any more. There’s a dizzyingly wonderful smell of food and I hear a stomach rumble, maybe mine, maybe Gallie’s.
We get to the landing. “The master thought you might wish to perform your ablutions before dinner,” the maid says. She opens a door and invites Gallie to enter. Pleasant scents waft out, and peering inside I see a bathroom befitting the Versailles theme. Gallie enters without hesitation. So much for vigilance. One of the guards takes up the position of sentry and then I’m shown into the next room down. I enter Nirvana. There’s a bath full of warm water, soap, scissors, folded towels, twenty-first century razors and an inventory of toiletries that’d shame Bed Bath & Beyond. Laid out is a fresh white linen shirt, breeches, waistcoat, jacket and, with disregard for the calendar, Fruit of the Loom underwear. This will take a while.
I emerge fresh and defouled and my guard pats me down. Then, despite menacing looks from the other sentry, I walk down and knock on Gallie’s door. “You okay?” She calls out
