Not that there had been much to begin with.
Gutsy turned away from the grinning spectators and looked down at Sombra. He
wagged his tail. He, apparently, thought horse poop was a wonderful thing.
Without meeting anyone else’s eye, Gutsy slunk away with her battered dog in tow.
48
MISFIT HIGH WAS ONE OF the few buildings in New Alamo that was not either a Quonset hut or one of the blocky dwellings built as temporary housing for people like Mama—the so-called “illegal aliens.” The school was a former government multipurpose administration facility, half of which was empty. The building was two stories tall and sprawled in all sorts of unlikely directions, as if the architect and the builder were not on speaking terms. In the burning heat of late August, the school was closed except for a few summer school classes, but they were all held in the morning.
Gutsy circled the building, relying on her eyes and Sombra’s nose to locate any lurking threats. There were none, so she entered through a side door that had a faulty lock. She knew because she’d rigged the lock so she could slip inside with Spider and Alethea after hours. Not to steal or vandalize, but because Misfit High had the best library in town. They would sit in the cool darkness of the basement, lost among acres of books, eating oranges and figs and apricots they’d picked on the way. There were thousands of fruit trees in town. Then, inside, they would spend whole evenings reading in silence, or sometimes reading aloud, while camping lanterns bathed them in blue-white illumination.
The door closed silently behind them—Gutsy kept the hinges oiled for that purpose—and they stood listening. It was one of the few places she could go where there was no sound at all. The walls and windows were thick, and not a bird’s peep or a cricket’s chirp could be heard. No human voices either, which was nice. Except for her two friends, and occasional conversations with the Chess Players, Gutsy preferred silence so she could listen to her own thoughts. Sombra walked a few yards along the hall, sniffing at the floor or lifting his head to sniff the air. His body language told Gutsy that he was calm. Good.
The classrooms used by Mr. Ford and Mr. Urrea were on the second floor, and Gutsy moved like a silent ghost along the halls and up the stairs. The coydog’s nails made small sounds on the marble floors and stone steps. She cut him a look halfway up the stairs and was surprised to see that he was climbing easily. His limp had gradually gone away and he no longer moved as if he was pushing through walls of pain. She had no idea how fast dogs healed, but Sombra seemed to have a core of strength and vitality. Nice.
At the top of the stairs she paused again, listening once more. Gutsy was seldom in a hurry and tried to never move faster than her ability to study and analyze her surroundings. That had kept her safe many times out in the Broken Lands. That natural caution, amped up by acquired knowledge and lots of practice, kept her from running afoul of shamblers, wolf packs, and other dangers. It was why she was alive when some other scavengers were either bones in the weeds or walking corpses.
Now, more than ever, she knew that caution was crucial. The Rat Catchers were cautious too. Smart, organized, and dangerous. She had to be all that and more.
A door stood open down the hall, and lamplight painted a yellow oblong on the floor. Mr. Ford’s classroom. She drew her knife, and at the sight of it Sombra changed his body language, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head as if stalking a wild rabbit. Or getting ready for a fight. Moving with total silence now, they crept closer.
Gutsy stopped at the doorway and knelt to peer around the frame. Mr. Ford sat in his chair behind the desk, and Mr. Urrea, leaning on his cane, stood by the blackboard. They were deep in a quiet conversation. Gutsy listened, straining to hear what they were saying, but she couldn’t quite make it out.
The old men were alone in there, so Gutsy rose, slid her knife back into its sheath, took a breath and exhaled it, then stepped into the room.
The conversation died as first Ford and then Urrea turned toward her.
“Miss Gomez,” said Urrea quietly, “I guess you’d better come in.”
She held her ground. “There’s some stuff I need to know. About my mama. About what happened in town. About something that happened out at the cemetery.”
“Yes,” said Ford. “And I think it’s time we talked about what’s really going on around here.”
Gutsy and the coydog walked across the classroom and stopped in front of the desk. She placed her palms on the edge and leaned forward, glaring at the old men.
“You know what’s going on?” she asked coldly.
They exchanged a look. Urrea gave Ford the tiniest of nods.
“Yes,” said Ford. “But . . .”
“But what?”
“You’re not going to like it,” said Ford.
“Tell me anyway,” she said.
PART TEN
VALLEY STATE PRISON
CHOWCHILLA, CALIFORNIA
ONE WEEK EARLIER
DIRTY WORK