Through A Glass, Darkly (The Assassins of Youth MC #1)(21)
Bronson sat up, alert. “How old is she?” he asked softly.
“Fifteen.” I was afraid I’d start blubbering again, like I had when telling Gideon, so I gulped the rest of my soda pop.
“Holy shit,” muttered Bronson. “You know, that sort of shit shouldn’t be allowed to happen. Not if you don’t want it to.”
“Oh, some people want it, don’t get me wrong. Some people think they’re doing God’s will, and so on. Mr. Carradine, my daughter wants a life on the outside, and she should have it. Just because her mother was stupid enough to be dragged off to an insulated compound like Cornucopia doesn’t mean she should be stuck there the rest of her life. She should not pay for my mistakes.”
Bronson jerked his head. “That kid sitting over there? He’s even going to computer school, adult ed. He was dumped by the side of the road years ago.”
“Yes!” I pointed at the agent. “That’s the sort of thing that goes on. I can’t be the savior of everyone, but I sure as hell can save my own daughter! My sister wife Kimball feels the same way I do. She has three children, still very young, but she lives in constant fear her oldest boy will be driven out and dumped somewhere too.”
Gideon and Jonah left the bar then. Gideon only cast me the shortest of glances. I couldn’t read his expression. It amazed me how much this pained me, watching the door hit him on his way out. It must’ve tied into my own feelings of abandonment, when Field had left me so suddenly when a loader had rolled downhill and smashed him like a bug. The piece of heavy equipment, so witnesses told me, had zigged and zagged as if it had a mind of its own, heading straight for Field. Everyone else had time to get out of the way—not him. His chest was caved in like a two-dimensional piece of cardboard.
Bronson must’ve seen me looking so forlorn, as he asked, “And what about that Gideon Fortunati? He’s doing more than just running the Altar of Sacrifice Mine.”
“Oh, he’s just selling Allred guns.”
I wasn’t thinking. I swear I wasn’t thinking. Not about the guns, anyway. I was too busy watching the swagger of Gideon’s sweet, sweet ass as he vanished, probably forever.
“What?” Bronson’s voice went even lower. “You say guns?”
“No! I didn’t mean guns! I meant tons, tons of gold and silver he’s taken out of the mine.”
But Bronson wasn’t buying my feeble save. He rubbed his hands together like he was set to chow down on a big dinner. His eyes even glowed with a voracious gleam that I didn’t like one bit. “And what kind of guns, may I ask? How many?”
I’d already said too much. “I want to tell you something, Mr. Carradine.” Bronson listened now, his ears perked like a rabbit’s. Of course he thought I was going to tell him more about Gideon. “St. Augustine was always troubled by a conviction that the desire in his spirit was a desire for a past forgotten joy.”
Bronson frowned. “Who’s St. Augustine? Which past joy?”
“The joy he knew before he was born into this world, when he was in the cradle of a heavenly bliss. Now this is our current longing, a longing to return to that blissful memory. This is why anyone seeks God, or spiritualism—they are trying to return to that euphoric, beatific state where our souls were at one with the wisdom of the ages.”
Bronson tried to chuckle. “Jeez. I sure wish I’d ever been at one with the wisdom of the ages. Maybe I’d be richer now. I’d certainly be smarter. I’d have a house in Costa Rica, probably. Now, about these guns—”
“Well, I certainly can’t recall any happy moments in my life, unless you count when I was married before, and I can barely remember that anymore. Mr. Carradine, I want to return to that sense of happiness, and I know I never can while living in Cornucopia. What do you suggest? How do I run away?”
“Well, I haven’t figured it out that far yet. The wheels of justice move very slowly on our end, being the feds and all. If you turn state’s witness we can set you up with a safe house. In the meantime, don’t tell a soul about our conversation today.”
“Oh, of course not.” Was I suicidal? That was the only way I could see telling anyone. And I didn’t want a safe house. I didn’t want to be cut off from everyone I’d ever known, loved, or sat next to, unable to even text my own sisters in Provo.
“We’ll come up with a sort of a sting op, but we’ll warn you beforehand, of course. Get you out of there in time, but quietly, so it doesn’t look suspicious.”
“And how long will that take?”
Bronson waved a loose hand. “Oh, these things take months, years, even. We’ve got to get all of our ducks in a row. Marrying a few teenaged girls off to horny old men usually doesn’t light any fires under anyone. We tend to leave that stuff alone, if you know what I mean. It’s so ingrained in polygs, how are we supposed to stop it, with a few arrests? No, it’d be more like the gun thing that would nail him. Do you have any delivery dates, or can you get that information for me?”
“Mr. Carradine!” I tossed my balled-up napkin onto the table and stood so suddenly I nearly knocked my chair over. “I don’t have time like that to waste! My daughter is going to be married off within the month!”
Bronson didn’t even stand. That’s how I knew he wasn’t my friend. He didn’t care enough to stand, to try and calm me down. To give me reassurance of any kind. He held his hands out in a helpless gesture. “But that’s how things work, my dear. Believe me. I’ve been doing this for twenty years. Not to sound like I work for a callous organization, but guns get people’s attention far more quickly than sexual issues do.”