left their prisoners to wallow in filth. Burns had said that she had ways to make him cooperate.
He closed his eyes and pictured Burns – her tight, curvy body, those tattoos running like a half made promise downward toward what was hidden beneath her clothes. If he could maybe work out what she wanted to hear, maybe avoid another beating, yet somehow find a way to keep the interrogations coming, then maybe, just maybe, he might actually enjoy being in here.
Blood Dog gave a strangled grunt, rolled over again, and settled into a more rhythmic snoring. Maybe ‘enjoy’ wouldn’t ever be a part of this picture.
Noah took the two steps over to the iron bars that formed the door of his cell. If he pressed himself up against them and shifted his face so that the bars weren’t in his eye line, then he could almost believe he was in the hall, that there was space and air and a high ceiling with a sky beyond. A breeze brushed his skin, the part of it not pressed up against the cold metal, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Up close like this he could hear Iver more clearly, rambling away to himself only a half dozen feet and two steel doors to the right. A few of them seemed to be pleas for rescue, a repeated refrain rising like a guitar riff through the wilder sounds of an old rock song. Over and over the same phrase bubbled through the bass beat of murmured curses and the screeching solos of his ranting screams:
“They’ve got to come for me.”
“They’ve got to come for me.”
“They’ve got to come for me.”
And then Noah heard it, the one word guaranteed to get his attention tonight, to hook him in and draw him closer to anybody’s thoughts on any subject.
“Dionite.”
Iver was talking quietly now. Noah tried to lean forwards, to move his ear closer for a better listen, but once you were pressed up against the bars of a cell there really was no further to go. He would need a different approach.
“Hey!” he hissed, trying for the delicate balance between loud enough for Iver to hear him and quiet enough to leave Blood Dog sleeping. “Hey, Iver!”
“Hey what hey who hey you hey Jude.” Iver appeared at the bars of his cell. Noah caught a glimpse of pale dreadlocks against paler skin, of intricate tattoos and shapeless rags like so many of the prisoners were draped in. Bright eyes twitched back and forth, catching the light coming in through the windows in the ceiling, as wild and bewildered as Iver’s words.
“Hey man,” Noah whispered. “Over here.”
Iver looked over towards him, his gaze filled with hope.
“Did they send you?” he asked. “Have you come to rescue me?”
“Who’s they Iver?” Noah asked. “Is it the Dionites? Are you a Dionite?”
If he could find out more about these people maybe he could give Burns what she wanted, or at least persuade her of his uselessness as a source. After the pounding he’d taken earlier, he felt very motivated to make that happen.
Iver’s brow furrowed in suspicion.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do I know you? I don’t think I know you, and I know lots of things. Wild things and wonderful things, body things and brain things. Do you know how to stitch up a hole in a broken heart? I did that once. Oh yes, I did. I was sure and steady, Coltrane smooth, Miles inspired, and I strung that poor muscle back together and it beat like the music like do-wop-de-do and he lived. Or maybe he didn’t.
“Did you live? Or are you another ghost, another Moon ghost come to haunt our purgatory?”
“I’m not a ghost, Iver. Just a wanderer looking to get himself settled in some.”
“Are you Walt Whitman? You have Walt Whitman hair and a Walt Whitman beard, but darker, like shadows. A negative of Walt Whitman. A scan on the wall. An x-ray that’s never penetrated, not got through flesh to bone, not broken the innards open like they want to break me open. But they won’t. None of you will. You’ll see! You’ll all see! They’re coming for
He closed his eyes and pictured Burns – her tight, curvy body, those tattoos running like a half made promise downward toward what was hidden beneath her clothes. If he could maybe work out what she wanted to hear, maybe avoid another beating, yet somehow find a way to keep the interrogations coming, then maybe, just maybe, he might actually enjoy being in here.
Blood Dog gave a strangled grunt, rolled over again, and settled into a more rhythmic snoring. Maybe ‘enjoy’ wouldn’t ever be a part of this picture.
Noah took the two steps over to the iron bars that formed the door of his cell. If he pressed himself up against them and shifted his face so that the bars weren’t in his eye line, then he could almost believe he was in the hall, that there was space and air and a high ceiling with a sky beyond. A breeze brushed his skin, the part of it not pressed up against the cold metal, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Up close like this he could hear Iver more clearly, rambling away to himself only a half dozen feet and two steel doors to the right. A few of them seemed to be pleas for rescue, a repeated refrain rising like a guitar riff through the wilder sounds of an old rock song. Over and over the same phrase bubbled through the bass beat of murmured curses and the screeching solos of his ranting screams:
“They’ve got to come for me.”
“They’ve got to come for me.”
“They’ve got to come for me.”
And then Noah heard it, the one word guaranteed to get his attention tonight, to hook him in and draw him closer to anybody’s thoughts on any subject.
“Dionite.”
Iver was talking quietly now. Noah tried to lean forwards, to move his ear closer for a better listen, but once you were pressed up against the bars of a cell there really was no further to go. He would need a different approach.
“Hey!” he hissed, trying for the delicate balance between loud enough for Iver to hear him and quiet enough to leave Blood Dog sleeping. “Hey, Iver!”
“Hey what hey who hey you hey Jude.” Iver appeared at the bars of his cell. Noah caught a glimpse of pale dreadlocks against paler skin, of intricate tattoos and shapeless rags like so many of the prisoners were draped in. Bright eyes twitched back and forth, catching the light coming in through the windows in the ceiling, as wild and bewildered as Iver’s words.
“Hey man,” Noah whispered. “Over here.”
Iver looked over towards him, his gaze filled with hope.
“Did they send you?” he asked. “Have you come to rescue me?”
“Who’s they Iver?” Noah asked. “Is it the Dionites? Are you a Dionite?”
If he could find out more about these people maybe he could give Burns what she wanted, or at least persuade her of his uselessness as a source. After the pounding he’d taken earlier, he felt very motivated to make that happen.
Iver’s brow furrowed in suspicion.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do I know you? I don’t think I know you, and I know lots of things. Wild things and wonderful things, body things and brain things. Do you know how to stitch up a hole in a broken heart? I did that once. Oh yes, I did. I was sure and steady, Coltrane smooth, Miles inspired, and I strung that poor muscle back together and it beat like the music like do-wop-de-do and he lived. Or maybe he didn’t.
“Did you live? Or are you another ghost, another Moon ghost come to haunt our purgatory?”
“I’m not a ghost, Iver. Just a wanderer looking to get himself settled in some.”
“Are you Walt Whitman? You have Walt Whitman hair and a Walt Whitman beard, but darker, like shadows. A negative of Walt Whitman. A scan on the wall. An x-ray that’s never penetrated, not got through flesh to bone, not broken the innards open like they want to break me open. But they won’t. None of you will. You’ll see! You’ll all see! They’re coming for
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