Natural Evil (Elder Races #4.5)(6)

“That’s generous of you.” She couldn’t resist and let her fingers stroke lightly over the soft skin of the dog’s broad head. It was one of the few places he wasn’t covered in gauze. “Might be best if I checked into a motel.”

He snorted. “How do you figure? I’m offering you the trailer for free. That’s a lot cheaper than a motel room. It has hot and cold running water, propane heat, and it’s hooked up to my electricity. The kitchen is small but usable. It’s a lot quieter than a motel too, except for the wind, and tonight you’re gonna hear that anywhere in Nirvana. And you don’t know if that dog’s gonna give you any trouble. He should be in an animal hospital, except there isn’t one around here. I want to keep him close by for the first night or two, so I can see how he does.”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “All right,” she said. “That makes sense. Yes, thank you.”

“Okay.” He paused. “Think we can move him into the trailer while he’s still out?”

“If I could wrestle him into my car all by myself, I’m sure that together we can move him into the trailer.”

The look he gave her was speculative. Nothing about his mind was worn or softened by age. “I don’t believe for a minute that you tortured that dog. You’re too angry about what happened to him. But John’s right, there’s something off about that story. He was in bad enough shape he couldn’t help you get him in the car.”

She was too many years past innocence to manage a completely innocent smile. But she did bland really well. “I’m stronger than I look.”

An hour later, reality had assumed a different appearance. Claudia folded her sleeping bag to use as a bed for the dog, and then she and Jackson carried him into the trailer. She used a surreptitious touch of her telekinesis, which made shifting his massive body more of an inconvenience than a real strain.

Jackson turned on the trailer’s heat and showed her how to use the controls. She moved her car to the parking space by the trailer and carried in supplies—her Coleman cooler of food and drinks; the case that held her laptop and satellite phone; the locked metal box that held her stored handgun; the suitcase that contained her clothes, a few paperbacks, and the odd gift of an antique Elder Tarot deck.

As the trailer warmed, the outside cooled fast with the setting of the sun. Inside, the living space was all in miniature, the furnishings a good thirty years old. The kitchen was about as big as a postage stamp. It was possible to wash dishes, cook something on the tiny stove, use the microwave and get something out of the refrigerator without taking a single step. Someone had stocked it with a basic supply of cookware and dishes, and at least the fridge was a decent size.

In the living area, Jackson had folded up the dining table and secured it against the wall, so she could use the L-shaped booth as a couch. An old thirteen-inch television was bolted to a small shelf, along with a VHS tape player and a digital converter box. A portable radio rested on the narrow sill in front of the kitchen sink. The bathroom was almost the size of an airplane’s lavatory, except it had the addition of a shower stall. A double-sized mattress rested on a shelf where the trailer was designed to attach to a pickup truck.

She liked the space in the trailer. It was cozy. The shades from the lamps threw a soft, mellow gold over everything. The dog’s prone form took up most of the floor space. She set a bowl of water in a corner, near enough so he could reach it, stepping over him carefully as she moved around. She stowed the things from her cooler in the refrigerator, mostly sandwich materials, yogurt, fruit, and bottles of water and unsweetened tea.

After that she showered, dressed in dark jeans, t-shirt and plain black sweatshirt, and slipped on tennis shoes. She found an old set of sheets and blankets in a cupboard and threw them over the mattress, plugged in her satellite cell phone and laptop, and set the old wooden, painted box holding the Tarot deck, along with her books, on the tiny kitchen countertop beside medicinal supplies for the dog.

Then she set the metal case that held her Glock on the booth/couch and sat down beside it. Storing her gun already cleaned and unloaded was an old habit, but to make sure it was in optimum working order, she field-stripped it, racked the slide, reassembled it and snapped a full magazine of ammunition in place. Her movements were fast, sure and automatic. The gun was a familiar companion, as comforting as Jackson’s cigarette smoke. Tension eased from her neck and shoulders as she worked.

As a young woman just finishing college, she had watched with deep interest when the Pentagon came close to banning women from active combat in 1994. They had cited both physical and psychological concerns, but the outcry against such a decision had been so public, the Pentagon had been forced to abandon their stance.

None of the seven Elder Races demesnes had ever banned females from any part of their military or ruling structures, so it was viewed as reprehensible for human society in the US to even consider barring women from serving combat duty in the army. The public debate had actually piqued her interest in joining the army. Her abilities had solidified her career path in Special Forces. Two years ago she had retired a Major.

She lived the same story so many other soldiers did. She was haunted by the ghosts of those she had served with who had fallen, by the ghosts of the innocents harmed by war, by the ghosts of decisions she had made and not made, and now would have to live with for the rest of her life.

And there was something that slept deep inside of her that only came awake when she held a gun.