Written In Red Part 8

"Sir?" Kowalski said as soon as Monty got in the car.

"We've met enough residents of the Courtyard for one day," Monty replied. "Give me a tour of the district."

"Glad to."

"What qualities do you think a Liaison normally has?" he asked when they drove away from the Courtyard.

"Moxie. Savvy," Kowalski replied without hesitation.

"Innocence?"

Kowalski gave Monty a startled look before turning his attention back to the road. "That's not a label I would give to anyone who works for the Others."

"I got the impression Ms. Corbyn lacks the maturity of her physical age. If I hadn't seen her, I would have placed her at half her age."

Kowalski gave him another look. "The Simple Life folk sometimes give that impression because they live without most of the technology that the rest of us use. You think she left the community on Great Island and took the job here?"

He'd never met any of the Simple Life folk, so he couldn't offer an opinion, but he said, "It's worth checking out."

"Thing is, Lieutenant, the Others control everything on that island except the land they leased to the Simple Life community and a couple dozen families who live along the southern sh.o.r.e and make a living fishing, running the ferry, or working in the stores and shops that supply goods and services. A girl from that community would be used to seeing Others and might find it less scary to deal with them than be alone in the big city."

The explanation might be as simple as that, Monty thought. But he still wondered if being in the Courtyard was the reason Meg Corbyn was so nervous, or if she had another reason to be afraid.

Asia swore under her breath. The d.a.m.n Crows were paying too much attention to the Liaison's Office, and if she kept driving past, one of them was going to realize they kept seeing the same car. Seeing the police car in the parking lot earlier had been reason enough to go on by. Her looks were memorable, and she didn't want cops taking any notice of her. But she did want to get a look at the new liaison Simon had hired instead of her. By the time she had done the slide and spin on some of the side streets-where were the freaking plows?-and gotten back to the street entrance, the d.a.m.n cops were pulled up in front of the Liaison's Office!

She thought her luck had changed when she saw them drive away, but the earth native who sold sculptures and other artsy c.r.a.p was going into the office, and there was something about him besides his size that made her uneasy.

Try again tomorrow, she thought.

As she flicked off the blinker, she realized the white van in front of her had done the same thing moments before.

"I guess I'm not the only one who is curious," she muttered to herself. She smiled as she followed the van long enough to memorize the license plate. Then she pulled in to the first cleared parking area and wrote down the numbers. This was something she could tell Bigwig. He kept saying information was a valuable commodity. Knowing that someone was interested in the new Liaison was the kind of information he and the other backers might find profitable.

CHAPTER 4.

The experiment with the coffeemaker was an unqualified disaster, so Meg settled for a bowl of cereal and an apple-and promised herself a ten-minute break to run over to A Little Bite and get a large cup of coffee as soon as the shop opened.

Wearing the blue sweater and jeans again so the black outfit would still be clean, she made a second promise to stop at the clothing store in the Market Square and buy enough clothes to get her through the work days, or as many clothes as she could afford right now. How did the Others do laundry? Simon Wolfgard's clothes hadn't smelled, so the Others must have a way to wash clothes. She just had to find out where and how.

So many things to learn. So many things she knew only as images or snips of action. How was she going to find out what she needed to know without revealing how little she knew?

Those were thoughts for later. Now she had to finish getting ready for work.

Taking three carrots out of the refrigerator, she washed them, patted them dry, and set them on the cutting board. She pushed up the sleeves of her turtleneck and sweater, then pulled the large knife out of the cutting block.

Flesh and steel. Such an intimate dance.

Every cut brings you closer to the cut that kills you, Jean had said. If you keep using the razor once you're free of this place, then you become your own killer.

The knife clattered on the counter. Meg stepped back, staring at the shiny blade as she rubbed her left forearm to relieve the pins-and-needles feeling under her skin. She got that feeling sometimes just before it was time for the next cut. If the cut was delayed, the sensation got so bad it felt like buzzing or, even worse, like something trying to chew its way out of her skin.

Just a small cut, she thought as she pulled the folding razor out of the pocket of her jeans. Just a small cut to see if the carrots will work, if the ponies will like me.

She tried to convince herself that nothing terrible would happen if this gesture of friendship didn't work, and using up flesh for something insignificant was foolish. And how would the Others react to a fresh cut and the scent of blood? She hadn't considered that when she took the job.

But she was pulling a couple of paper towels off the roll and making a pad on the counter next to the sink. She opened the razor, lined up the back edge with the first knuckle of her left index finger, then turned the razor so the honed edge rested against skin. She took a slow breath and pressed the razor against her finger, making a cut deep enough to scar.

Pain flooded her, a remembered agony from the times she'd been punished for lies or defiance. She saw the ponies and . . .

The pain was washed away by an o.r.g.a.s.mic euphoria. This was the ecstasy the girls craved, the ecstasy that only came from the razor kissing skin. This . . .

Meg blinked. Swayed. Stared at the blood on the paper towels.

Something about the ponies.

In order to remember what you see, you have to swallow the words along with the pain, Jean had said. If you speak, what you saw will fade like a dream. You might remember wisps, but not enough to be useful to you.

She must have spoken, must have described what she had seen. But there was no one to hear the words, so the prophecy and whatever she might have learned about the ponies was lost.

She looked at the razor and considered making another cut. Then she looked at the clock. She'd lost too much time already.

Hurrying into the bathroom, Meg washed the cut, then found a partially used box of bandages and tape in the medicine chest above the sink. After tending to the cut, she hurried back to the kitchen, cleaned the razor, and slipped it in her jeans pocket. Then she grabbed the kitchen knife and cut up the carrots. If anyone noticed the bandage or smelled the blood, she could explain it. Accidents happened in kitchens all the time. A cut on her finger wouldn't be unusual, wouldn't give anyone a reason to wonder about her.

She put the carrot chunks in a bowl with a locking lid, tidied up the kitchen, then put on her outer gear and gathered the rest of her things. As she left the building and hurried down the back stairs, she was glad she didn't have to walk far to get to work.

It was still lung-biting cold, but far more peaceful than the previous morning. Or it was more peaceful until she reached the bottom of the stairs and spotted Simon Wolfgard coming out of A Little Bite with one of those big covered mugs she had seen yesterday when she stopped in the Market Square grocery store to buy apples and carrots.

He jerked to a stop when he saw her. Then he sniffed the air.

Hoping her hair still smelled enough to discourage him from coming closer, she said, "Good morning, Mr. Wolfgard."

"Ms. Corbyn."

When he said nothing more, she hurried to the Liaison's Office, aware of him watching her until she unlocked the back door and stepped inside. Hopefully now he would just go on about his own business and let her get on with hers.

She hung up her coat and swapped boots for shoes. After a debate with herself that consumed five minutes, she decided carrots at room temperature were probably better for pony tummies and left the container on the counter. Wishing she had something warm to drink, she checked the cupboards in the small kitchen area. The last person to work as the Liaison had been a slob, and she wasn't putting anything she wanted to eat on those shelves until she cleaned them. Which meant actually learning how to clean.

At least she had music this morning. She had stopped at Music and Movies yesterday and taken five music discs out on loan. She would get a notebook and keep track of the music she liked and didn't like, and the food she liked and didn't like and . . . everything else.

She put the first disc in the player, then set about opening the office. She put a fresh sheet of paper on the clipboard to take notes about the deliveries. Retrieving the keys from the drawer in the sorting room, she breathed a sigh of relief when she fiddled the slide locks open on the go-through and managed to unlock the front door.

The birds were back-three on the wall and one on the wood sculpture. Since she wasn't sure if they were crows or Others, she stuck her head out the door and said, "Good morning."

A startled silence. As she pulled her head back inside, a couple of them cawed. It sounded more mellow than other caws, so she decided to take it as a return greeting.

She barely had time to take the map out of the drawer and drag one of the mailbags over to the table before the first delivery truck pulled in.

Don't need a bell on the door when there were Crows on watch, she thought as she dated the page and made her notes about the truck.

Same wariness as yesterday when the delivery people opened the door. Same relief when they saw her and realized they didn't have to deal with one of the Others. Same helpful information about who they were and what days they usually made deliveries.

She found it interesting that two or three trucks arrived at almost the same time, which made her wonder if the drivers had some agreement among themselves about delivering at a specific time so they wouldn't be in the Courtyard alone-especially since most of them greeted one another by name.

When the first flurry of deliveries was done, she opened the door into the sorting room and pushed one of the handcarts inside. She didn't like treadmills-too many memories of being exercised in the compound-but maybe she should go over to Run & Thump and see what she could do to gain some muscle. Not being able to lift packages or mailbags wasn't going to win her any gold stars from Simon Wolfgard.

She turned on the disc player and started sorting mail, her hips following the beat of the music.

"Courtyard Business a.s.sociation," Meg muttered as she read the name on the envelope. "They have a business a.s.sociation? Where?" She put the envelope on the ask-Jester stack.

There were several envelopes for the Chambers that had a red FINAL NOTICE stamped on them. She had a feeling she would find earlier warnings in the mailbags at the bottom of the pile.

Was there some kind of rule that Others couldn't sort mail, or did they expect that everything would go on as it was until they got someone to do it? Or were they really all so busy doing Other things that they didn't have time to take care of mail and packages?

She was still pondering that when the front door opened. Meg set down the stack of envelopes and went to the counter, closing the Private door partway.

The woman approaching the counter had sleek, shoulder-length blond hair, brown eyes, and a carefully made-up face that Meg decided matched the "beautiful" training images. The woman's parka was unzipped, revealing a curvy body in snug jeans and sweater.

Having no yardstick for the outside world, Meg couldn't decide if a woman dressed like that in the daytime indicated a movie star or a prost.i.tute.

"I'm looking for the new Liaison," the woman said.

"I'm the Liaison," Meg replied.

"Really?" Anger flashed in the woman's eyes at the same time she gave Meg a wide smile. "Why, you're almost a pocket pet."

Anger and a smile were conflicting images, but a conflict she had seen often enough on the faces of the Walking Names, especially when Jean had caused trouble and stirred up some of the other girls.

Unsure of how to respond, Meg took a step back. If she needed help, there was a phone in the sorting room as well as on the counter here, and the Private door had a lock.

The woman studied her, then said, "Oh, honey, you don't have to be scared. I'm annoyed with Simon for hiring someone else after he all but promised me this job, but I'm not upset with you."

"Excuse me?"

The woman waved a hand. "Water under the bridge, as they say." A friendly smile now. "I'm Asia Crane. I'm a student at Lakeside University. Howling Good Reads is sort of my home away from home, so I expect we'll see a lot of each other."

Not likely, since she didn't intend to spend much time at the bookstore-at least, not when Simon Wolfgard was around to glare at her or take offense at her hair. "I'm Meg Corbyn."

Asia clapped her hands. "Crane. Corbyn. Our names are so similar, we could be sisters!"

"Except we don't look anything alike," Meg pointed out. Was Asia's behavior typical of the way people responded to meeting a stranger?

"Oh, poo. Don't go spoiling things with details! And please don't be insulted about the pet remark. It's a phrase I must have picked up from the romance novels I've been reading for fun."

Meg couldn't picture Simon stocking romances. Maybe someone else had a say in ordering books for the store?

"It was nice to meet you, Asia, but I have to get back to work," Meg said.

"Doing what?" Asia leaned on the counter and wrinkled her nose as she looked around. "It doesn't look like there's much to do here to keep from dying of boredom. Maybe I'm glad I didn't get this job after all."

"There's more to do than watch the counter and sign for packages," Meg said defensively.

"Like what?"

She hesitated, but answering the question didn't seem like a terrible thing to do, especially since Simon had all but promised the job to Asia.

But if he promised the job to her, why did he hire me? "I sort the mail for the Courtyard," she said, trying to ignore the p.r.i.c.kling that suddenly filled her right arm.

Asia's eyes widened. "For the whole Courtyard? Not just the stores, but the whole thing? By yourself?"

Meg nodded.

"Oh, honey, if that's the case, I'm not sure that man can pay anyone enough to do that much tedious work."

"It's not tedious, and it's not that much work-or it won't be after I take care of the backlog." The p.r.i.c.kling in her arm got worse, and she began to feel uneasy. She shouldn't have that sensation so soon after a cut. Was it a sign that there was something wrong with her? The Walking Names always told the girls they couldn't survive long outside the compound because they would be overwhelmed by the world. Jean said that was a lie, but it had been a long time since Jean had lived on the outside, so maybe she didn't remember things correctly anymore.

"Well, why don't you bring some of that mail out here so we can get acquainted? I could even give you a hand," Asia said.

Meg shook her head and shuffled her feet back another half step toward the Private door. "It's nice of you to offer, but the mail has to stay in the sorting room, and no one else is allowed in there without Mr. Wolfgard's permission."

"Well, Simon isn't going to mind me helping out." Asia braced her hands on the counter. A little jump and turn had her sitting on top and swinging her legs over.

That was when the Private door opened all the way and Simon lunged out of the sorting room, knocking Meg aside. As he made a grab for Asia, she squealed, swung her legs back over the counter, and scrambled out of reach.

"Simon does mind," he snarled. "And the next time you swing a leg over a counter and try to put it where it doesn't belong, you're going back over the counter minus a leg!"

Asia bolted out the door and ran until she reached the sidewalk. Then she turned and stared at them before hurrying down the street.

Meg pressed herself against the wall, wanting to get farther away but not daring to move. "M-Mr. Wolfgard, I told her she wasn't allowed, but it sounded like-"

"I heard what it sounded like," he snarled. "I don't pay you to yak with other monkeys when there's work to be done. And if you want this job, there's still plenty of work in there."

"I-I know."