Page 74 of The Vigilante's Lover
It’s late afternoon when I arrive at Lake Mead. I park near the cliffs and view the house with binoculars. The same yellow curtains hang in the front windows. She’s kept up her prized white oleander bush in the yard, surrounded by the unrelenting dirt.
My best shot is to walk up without any tech. Most safe houses aren’t equipped with scanners that pick up heat signatures as identifiers.
I’ll pretend to be a stranded motorist in the audio. Her house is one of only three in this twenty-mile stretch of desert. It’s reasonable enough.
When I walk up the road to her house, though, three Vigilante vehicles are parked under a desert camo tarp strung between the house and her shed. This makes me pause. That’s a lot of witnesses. Liability.
But the woman herself comes out to empty a bucket of recovered dishwater on her oleander. She’s wearing lemon-colored sweatpants and an oversized military jacket. Her hair is in rollers covered by a floral scarf.
I stride across the highway to catch her before she goes back inside.
She peers across the barren yard. “Is that you?” she asks.
“Just a stranded motorist, ma’am. Hoping you’ll point me to the nearest gas station for my punctured tire.” I take the bucket from her and spread the water evenly around the bush.
Marty nods knowingly. “Did you need a small service station or a full-sized outfit?”
“I’d like to talk to someone in charge.”
“How bad is your flat? Might be rough weather coming.” She points up, not at the sky, but at the corner of her roof.
I see the camera. It’s where it always was. But she’s telling me they’re already listening.
“How rough?” I ask.
“People die of exposure in places like this,” she says.
“I really need to talk to someone in charge since they made a rather large mistake when they sold me the tire.” I set her bucket back on the ground.
“I understand what you need. Let’s see what I can find. We don’t have much time, though, before the storm hits.” She turns and leads me to her back porch. “I assume you left your receipt in the car?”
“I did,” I say. I know she’s asking if I have tech on me. The woman is clever, and frankly, I’m relieved she’s helping if things are as bad as she’s suggesting. I don’t know if she’s reacting to the instructions to have me sent to New Attica, or if it’s gotten worse. Grandma Marty was neverone to exaggerate a threat.
“Come sit at my table,” she says. “I’ll find my phone book.”
I hide a smirk. I always loved Marty’s ruses. We go into the back of the house, and I slide into one of the orange vinyl chairs. A boy in his late teens trundles into the kitchen. Marty waves him away. “Come back in five, Ray,” she says. “I’ve got a stranded driver in here.”
The boy snatches an apple from a bowl and heads back out. I frown. Back in my training days, memorizing bulletins was an essential part of your daily duties. If this Ray kid has even looked at them, he’ll know who I am.
“He’s a good kid,” Marty says over her shoulder as she opens a cabinet. “He never causes trouble.”
I assume that means he won’t report me. Probably she’s protecting him from something too.
I glance around the kitchen. It’s just like it always was, bright and sunny and almost completely decked out in 1970s orange. I don’t know how she keeps all her aging avocado-colored appliances running. Probably any Phase Two techs who come through help her with them.
She plunks a giant 1987 set of Las Vegas yellow pages on the center of the table. Immediately, all the electronics in the kitchen go out.
“Well, look at that. Another rolling brownout.” She sits down. “I have to say this fast.”
I nod. Her face is drawn in concern, wrinkles collecting around her tired eyes. “I don’t like this, and I’m not alone, but here it is. Someone tampered with a backup unit down south and you’re being fingered for it after your Houdini in the Missouri silo.”
I control my concern for Sam’s safety. “They don’t know who got in?”
“If they do, they’re not saying. But I don’t think they do. They’re blaming you, regardless.”
“Sutherland already ordered my apprehension for New Attica,” I say.
“It’s worse.” She sighs. “Now it’s a kill order.”
