Chapter Twenty-three
~
So havin’ a bodyguard sulkin’ around the chamber is less glamorous than ya’d think. Cordiz had coordinated a couple locals to escort Hale to the statehouse. The environment here seemed a bit indifferent to yesterday’s excitement. Maybe they’d even made up a little time on the agenda. I looked forward to hearing how thin’s went with Hale.
At breaks, Cordiz kept her distance, but no one in the chamber was unaware of her presence. An eight-foot tall troll standin’ against the wall tends to grab yar eye.
But to be honest, I was hopin’ she’d be less—subtle. I enjoyed speakin’ with her. Not like any troll hen I’d ever met. Outgoin’, vivacious, clearly sharp as the proverbial shark tooth. She even listened to me as though I’m interesting. Phft. I’m seventeen. As wet behind the ears as one could get. She’s, maybe thirty. Mid-twenties at least. Been places. Seen thin’s I’ll never see.
The day dragged on. When the chair requested a motion to adjourn, my heart leapt out my ears. Finally. The day had been so stinkin’ dry. I sat as everyone around me exited the hall. Cordiz said it was more secure to leave together when thin’s had cleared. Ha. I’m capable of retainin’ instruction.
An enormous hand on my shoulder jolted me out of my thoughts. Cordiz asked me if she’d woken me. Funny. I’d learned quickly every word out of her mouth is sarcasm. Sounds a lot like Papa talkin’ about Aunt Nuel, like he doesn’t respect her. I’ll probably never hear what he has against her.
I shared a smile with Cordiz, and allowed her to lead me to the door. Both Nuel and Papa had been abused in the North, durin’ the troubles. Had bullet hole scars to prove it. Shouldn’t that have brought ’em together? But then he speaks to Uncle Ike as though he’s the most despicable fool on the planet.
Yet, Papa treats every person he meets outside the office with a courtesy that shocks me. I’ve heard him on conference calls beratin’ an employee for tiny thin’s. So harshly. I think they laugh in the background. Not at him. Think it’s a privilege to even be acknowledged by him. They look forward to hearin’ where they’ve gone wrong. Know he’ll see the flaws in their work as though he’d studied it under an electron microscope. I guess, to realize someone has shown the interest to look so closely at your plan, schematic, effort, is flatterin’.
“Ya appear troubled,” Cordiz said as we came shoulder to shoulder in the lobby.
I sighed hard. “Boy. I could use a workout on the basketball court.”
“I played for TIT,” she said.
Wow. Wouldn’t have expected that. Wait, was that a challenge?
“Ya look surprised.”
“Well, it is a technical university,” I said.
“Ya bigot.” Her smile shined. “I forget security is so simple anyone can do it.”
I maybe glazed a bit rosy. She told me not to worry about it, that there aren’t many aware of the Advance Institute for the Study of Security.
Yep. Never heard of it. “What college is it under?” I figgered—and did a face plant on the inside. Not like I had never heard about a criminology degree.
Cordiz smirked. Guess she knew I figgered it out.
“The program is kinda a big deal,” she said. “Ya can’t get in without a master’s degree, and a reference from someone who’s somethin’ of a big deal.”
My mind spun. “Uncle Jam?”
She nodded. Yep. My face turned crimson-hot again. I’m so use to thinkin’ of him as Uncle Jam, I forget he’d made a name for himself long before he immigrated to the South. And implemented a constable network throughout the Range. Without a hiccup. The fact Papa loves the troll says a lot. Ignorin’ his part in raisin’ two ignert younglings.
Cordiz peeked at her phone. “We should get it in gear. There’s somethin’ goin’ on up the turnpike.
~
Hale
~
The crowd was made up of maybe forty, less than fifty ogres, all shakin’ signs, shoutin’ at the tops of their lungs, some usin’ those conical amplifyin’ thin’s. Papa always says the louder ya gotta get the less meanin’ yar message has.
Not too violent-lookin’ a crowd, but the two constables standin’ in front of me weren’t gonna try to get by them to get to their car. Bullies. Not the constables. The protesters. Papa doesn’t have a spec of re-spect for bullies. That’s how he says it. Odd it’s come up a few times in my lifetime.
“I’m not scared of ’em,” I said. Maybe for the fourth time.
But they continued to back me up the stairs for the main statehouse entrance. Finally one of ’em told me they were gonna wait until Agent Cordiz arrived.
Great. Then Bele would be in the middle of this with me. That’s kinda stupid. I tapped on the ogre’s shoulder to my right, but he just shoved an arm at me again to keep me headin’ up the stairs. I was waitin’ for this—a rock the size of a hen’s basketball flew through the air. Not very accurate an arm. The thin’ landed several feet to our left. But a few more started comin’. These are bullies with a vicious stripe.
“Shouldn’t ya be callin’ for backup, or somethin’?” I asked.
But they seemed busy dodging bits of metamorphic rock. As it clamored across the stairs, I identified some amphibolite, quartzite, and a bunch of phyllite. This far out on the plain, where could they have gotten it? Trucked in for landscapin’, prolly, or nearby gullies. In polished pieces they can be beautiful if ya don’t look closely, but not good for carvin’ like I do.
We were nearly back to the faux portcullis, the mob followin’ us up the stairs, when my guy to the right leaned to the right and face planted. Ouch. That had to hurt. Evidently a chunk caught him in the forehead. Not a lot of blood. Some pooled under his head. He’d prolly survive.
Where the heck was the statehouse security? Were they in on this? Okay, I was maybe thinkin’ a bit like Papa. He’s not big on puttin’ trust in authority.
I was pretty done with this. I leaned over, dodgin’ some junk, pulled back the fallen guy’s jacket, pulled out his service automatic, checked the slide for a round. Yep. Ready to go. I thumbed the safety off and strode down the stairs. If I could recognize expressions, a few might have been surprised I was headin’ for them now.
Didn’t take long for me to hear comments twenty feet away like, “He’s got a gun.” Yep. And the next moron that launched a chunk of quartzite at me was gonna feel the pinch of lead in their forehead. Uncle Jam didn’t take us to the firin’ range every Wednesday we’ve been in town, since we were ten, for no reason.
I wouldn’t really aim for their head. That can do an ogre some damage. But I’d put a hurt in ’em in that mass of muscle coverin’ his ribs.
About that moment a fool reached back, pretty much like he thought he’d get away with another chunk, but before his arm came forward, I’d already lined the automatic up. Eased the trigger.
My upright constable muttered somethin’ Mama would wash my mouth out for, right after the loud pop of the automatic. Funny how one ear-ringin’ crack can quiet a large gatherin’. In my mind I was shoutin’ if anyone else wanted to try me. The only thin’ I heard was the guy I put lead in, leanin’ over, groanin’.
Papa got shot a buncha times up North. He told me the pain alone almost killed him. Definitely made him want to be dead. He claimed. But I’ll bet Papa is tougher than he looks, for bein’ a smallish ogre.
“Oh, bull,” the guy I shot muttered.
“Ya folks maybe ought to go away,” the constable, the one still standin’, said. Nice he was steppin’ up. Now.
They didn’t all sprint for safety all at once. A couple got the idea, straggled away, and the sentiment finally spread. Figger me standin’ there holdin’ a gun, not overly mortified about usin’ it, turned some motivations.
“Ya broke the law,” my brave constable whispered.
I told him to sue me.
He chuckled. Funny.
After the crowd was all on their way wherever, we gave the sleepy constable a shake. He mumbled somethin’. We got him onto his posterior, and blinkin’ a bit of blood out of his eyes, took in the gun I held at my hip. He patted his chest, and asked if that was his gun. I nodded. The other guy snorted. Then his face reddened. By context, I figger he was embarrassed.
Sleepy-constable held out his hand and I gave him his automatic. “Should I ask why ya have my piece?” he asked.
“No,” unscathed-constable said, a little louder than necessary. Maybe he wanted the whole business over and forgotten. Never to be discussed.
So why weren’t there any news cameras today to capture this excitement? They seemed riveted to watch me sloggin’ out of the constable’s office with an attorney. Somethin’ didn’t seem right.
Sleepy-constable was finally managin’ to get to his feet when I was pretty sure Mama’s car drove up to the big cones separatin’ the sidewalk leadin’ to the parkin’ lots north and south.
That irritatin’ troll hen rushed out, eyes takin’ everythin’ in. She jogged up the long stairs to meet us. I left Unscathed to help Sleepy by himself. I’m not Sleepy’s caregiver. The hen asked me what happened.
“Yar guy shot a protester,” Unscathed blurted. I figgered he wanted that element of the story forgotten. Odd.
Sleepy and Cordiz both said, “What?”
I shrugged and continued down to our car, told Bele, “Hey.”
“Did I hear him right?” she asked.
“I got nothin’ to say,” I told her.
~
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