The Reapers had the usual senses, of course. No one knew how good they were, though Valentine had some idea they lay somewhere between the handler and his dog. He'd taken in an infant Reaper after escaping Ohio, and his "son" was growing up near Saint Louis under the guidance of a woman who'd saved his life on Hispaniola.
The Reaper paused, rotated its head like a security camera, stared briefly at the garbage pit. Valentine, quiescent as a mushroom, saw a family of raccoons, a hefty mother leading her offspring, approach the ramp to the pit.
The Reaper cranked its head back to the forward position and scooted off after the dog and handler.
Valentine ceased relaxing. At last he could have his talk.
It was a homey little trailer, dark save for some light behind the bedroom blinds. The lock proved no more trouble than the polite gesture its manufacturer intended. One bedroom, a kitchen, and a cramped office in what he imagined was meant to be a spare bedroom at the other end. It smelled of pasta and vinegar salad dressing. The detritus on the counter showed everything but the bread and wine came out of a can, including the artichokes. There was a small bar buffet next to a comfortable chair with some ice melting in a cocktail shaker. Valentine picked up a yellow plastic ball and sniffed the lemon juice inside. That took the stench of garbage out of his nostrils.
Animal noises, the galumphing sounds and keening cries of lovemaking, pulsed out of the bedroom. Whatever was going on in there was vigorous enough to make the living room's main light fixture vibrate and one of the cheap kitchen cabinets swing open.
Valentine marked a little bouquet of plastic flowers.
These will have to do until the real ones appear in the spring, read the card.
He removed his new boots and waited in the dark, leafing through a digest of Kurian Zone newspapers by the floodlight coming in through the blinds. No sense spoiling everyone's fun.
A few strangled cries, a gasp, then a few murmurs. A dark-haired, pleasantly plump woman appeared nude in the hallway before shutting the bathroom door on Valentine.
He heard a shower curtain shut.
Her lingering sweat smelled like sex and verbena with a little bay rum.
Valentine picked up a plastic squeeze bottle of lemon juice on the bar and slipped into the bathroom. Moving fast-faster than an alert boxer could react, impossibly fast for a woman with soap in her eyes-he opened the shower curtain and grabbed the girl by her mouth and waist. She froze in shock.
"It's okay," he said, forcing the plastic lemon into her mouth. "It's okay."
"There's only a twenty-gallon tank for the hot water, Carrie," a male voice called from the bedroom as Valentine reached for the belt to a terrycloth robe.
Valentine bound her wrists with a strip of plastic, temporary restraints carried by every Kurian security man. She'd be able to chew through them once she worked the robe belt out from around her head and the plastic lemon out of her mouth.
"Don't signal for help while I'm here," Valentine whispered. "I'm not hurting anyone. I'm here to have a little chat with the construction supervisor."
He waved his brass ring under her eye. "I have powerful friends," he whispered above the shower. "Be quiet, now."
He left her tied to the toilet plumbing.
"What the hell," Champers gasped, sitting bolt upright as Valentine strode in, pointing his .22.
Champers seemed to Valentine more like an accountant than a construction hand. He had wizened eyes, a pale, angular body. He reached for some thick glasses.
"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Supervisor. I'm less your enemy than your bosses. Do you have any idea what your file says about you?"
"Carrie," Champers called.
"She's fine," Valentine said. "I didn't want her screaming out the window for help during our interview. It might help if you told her it's okay."
"That remains to be proved. So, what did I do this time?" Champers said.
Valentine sat down on an aluminum steamer trunk that smelled like mothballs. "I've no idea."
"Then why the midnight call? You make me think my time's up."
"That's not my department. I'm passing along some information I happened across. You've got below-acceptable evaluations in political activity and community service."
Champers swung his legs out of the bed, felt for slippers.
"Want some coffee?" he asked. Valentine stiffened as Champers's hand moved toward the bedside table, but he reached only for a pack of cigarettes and some matches.