Orphan Maker Read online

  Table of Contents

  Other Bella Books by D Jordan Redhawk

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Glossary

  Copyright © 2013 by D Jordan Redhawk

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

  First published 2013

  Editor: Katherine V. Forrest

  Cover Designer: Linda Callaghan

  ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-319-6

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Other Bella Books by D Jordan Redhawk

  Sanguire Series:

  The Strange Path

  Beloved Lady Mistress

  Inner Sanctuary

  Dedication

  To Anna Trinity Redhawk—Happy Twenty-Fifth Anniversary, Gorgeous! I love you!

  And to Nancy Sommars—Thanks for the teddy bear pancakes!

  Acknowledgment

  This book takes me back to my early high school days. My family moved into the Idaho Rocky Mountains when I was fourteen, and I spent eighth and ninth grade in a class of fifty-five kids. We lived in a tiny village between two mountains. At our house, there was a horse pasture to our right and a creek to our left that led to the coolest private sandbars. A couple of times a month (weather depending,) we’d take a Jeep ride up into those mountains… I adored walking the dirt roads, smelling pine trees, picking up pinecones and rocks, picking wild huckleberries. (During winter, having a ten foot snow slide from your house to the street wasn’t bad, either!) I haven’t been back since then, so I’m sure it’s changed dramatically. I have to thank Nancy Sommars for the experience, however short as it may have been. If you ever find yourself driving through the mountains between Boise and Lewiston, Idaho, stop and take a look at Donnelly and McCall, would you? Let me know how they’re doing! Lindsay Crossing was born there.

  Additional thanks go to Medora MacDougall for her comments during the early stages of this book. Also to Shawn Cady, Anita Pawlowski and Anna Redhawk for the final readings. You guys are always there for me. I love you!

  To the people at Bella Books—you guys are…well…awesome! I know the word is trite these days, but nothing else describes it! Thanks to Bella for taking a chance with this manuscript, to Jessica for her timely assistance with all sorts of oddball questions, to Katherine V. Forrest for her editing chops and supreme patience, and Linda Callaghan for great cover art!

  About the Author

  D Jordan Redhawk lives in Portland, Oregon where she works in the hospitality industry. (But don’t make the mistake of thinking she’s hospitable.) Her household consists of her wife of twenty-five years, two aging black cats that provide no luck whatsoever, and a white buffalo Beanie Buddy named Roam.

  For more information, please visit her website: http://djordanredhawk.com

  Chapter One

  Gwen Grant leaned against the door to Riddick’s sickroom. The rotting meat smell of his wound made her nose wrinkle. If it had been anyone else in that bed, she would have offered a bullet in the brainpan by now. But it was Riddick, an asshole so monstrous that God had broken the mold when He’d finished birthing the bastard. No one wanted to waste a bullet on him.

  “How much longer?”

  She looked at Weasel, the leader of the State Street Gatos. His appearance was very like his namesake with eyes small and close-set. He peered at her down a pointy upturned nose. He hadn’t gotten much taller in the four years she’d known him, but poor nutrition and genetics had gifted her with a smaller stature so he seemed to tower over her. “No idea. I’d have thought him dead days ago.”

  He draped his arm around her waist as she pushed off the doorframe to lean into him. “Has he said anything else about that place?”

  “Nope.” She stared into the room. “Tex says his fever’s really bad. How do we know he’s not hallucinating?”

  “We don’t. But if he’s not, we should be able to find it on a map, right?” Weasel glanced over his shoulder to ensure they were alone. “We can’t stay here. We’ll be dead before winter.”

  She pursed her lips, knowing he spoke truth. The kids had gone through a lot the last couple of years. As resources dwindled, the canned goods no longer supporting the population, famine began its march across the city. Once simple territorial disputes, gang fighting became one of claiming what little food remained. Their last attempt at getting food had resulted in a shoot-out that killed multiple soldiers and wounded Riddick. They had sixty-three mouths to feed, and nothing left but rats and a fifty-pound bag of dog kibble. Starvation had put a handful into sickbeds, too weak to do more than keep breathing. Even the soldiers were on rations. It was just a matter of time before the last survivors of the Methuselah Plague joined their parents in death.

  Weasel gave her a hug and released her, stepping into Riddick’s room. She followed. He pulled up a rickety lawn chair and sat down while she took the dry cloth from Riddick’s forehead to dampen with river water. The shock of the water woke the wounded man from his fever dream, and Gwen hastily pulled back. In his delirium, Riddick had already bloodied the lip of another caretaker.

  “Riddick.”

  Panting, Riddick searched for Weasel, his body restless with the pain festering in his thigh. The filthy bandage had long since become nothing but a mass of black and green blood as the infection raged. A number of flies had made their home in the mess, and red streaks ran up and down his bared leg.

  Weasel leaned closer. “Riddick! Tell me about Lindsay Crossing.”

  Riddick croaked, “Fuckin’ sheep.” He started coughing.

  Disgusted, Gwen dipped another rag into the water, wringing it out over Riddick’s lips. He eagerly sucked the liquid into his mouth.

  “Yeah, I know. Fuckin’ sheep. You said that already, dawg. Tell me where Lindsay Crossing is.”

  Riddick’s head thrashed. “North.” He stretched, the movement in his leg causing him to cry out. Weeping, he snarled at Weasel. “It’s fucking north, damn it! Up in the mountains. Leave me the fuck alone.”

  The sight of Riddick bawling like a baby unsettled Gwen. She’d only ever seen him angry or sullen, surrounded by his little posse of friends. His bud
dies had all died in the same gunfight that had wounded him, leaving him alone in a gang of people who didn’t give a shit whether he lived or died.

  Weasel considered the wounded man. “You think they’ll take us in if we show up there?”

  “Fuckin’ sheep. Think they’re so much better than we are,” Riddick muttered as his memories took over his fevered dreams. He shifted and whimpered, “Damn her.” His voice faded into incomprehensible murmurs as he lost himself to the past.

  With a snort, Weasel stood and left the room. Gwen trailed behind him. “Rogelio, get me that atlas from my crib.”

  As the soldier did as ordered, Gwen ran her fingers along Weasel’s back, stopping to lightly grasp his shoulder. “At least we know a direction this time. I’m surprised he gave it up.”

  “Me too.” Weasel stood at the catwalk overlooking the dirty warehouse his crew called home.

  Beneath them, the State Street Gatos lounged on stained mattresses and chairs salvaged from nearby residences and businesses. None of the survivors were older than nineteen. They lounged in the filth, once fine-looking leather and silk clothing ripped and scuffed, sweat-stained and filthy. Hollow-eyed, many of them tried to hide the cadaverous lines of their faces with makeup. It had become the rage to emulate American Indian war paint, and the garish colors helped disguise their emaciated features. All told, Weasel had twelve children under the age of five still breathing. Half of these toddlers had no parents, orphaned in the second and third wave of illness that had swept through Weasel’s crew. Others had lost older siblings to the fighting and starvation that had run rampant among the survivors of the Methuselah Plague.

  Rogelio trotted back, handing Weasel a worn atlas.

  “Graciás.” Opening it, Weasel narrowed his eyes to read the words, laboriously searching for and finding the page he needed. “Here’s hopin’ it’s in this fucking state and not up in Canada somewhere.”

  ***

  “Are you sure about this, Weasel?”

  “For the hundredth time, I’m sure!” Weasel looked away from the binoculars long enough to glare at her. “Christ, Gwen, if you didn’t believe that cracker, why the hell did you come with me?”

  Gwen shrugged thin shoulders. Sequins sparkled from the Superstar logo emblazoned on the breast pocket of her denim jacket, the full effect lost with half the sequins absent, leaving faded blue marks in their place. “Beats starving to death in the city.”

  Weasel grimaced, relaxing his defensive stance. “We ain’t gonna starve to death, okay? Those people are still up here. They’ll take us in.”

  She startled him with a rusty laugh. “I wouldn’t take us in.”

  “Yeah? Well, I guess it’s a good thing you ain’t already up here, ain’t it?” Weasel returned to scanning the narrow valley with his binoculars.

  She glanced behind her at Weasel’s crew, those that were strong enough to follow him on this bizarre trek. An even twenty had been left behind, too sick or dispirited to join their exodus to the proverbial holy land. Forty-three survivors from a city of thousands splayed out in various states of repose on the side of a two-lane highway. The pavement was pitted from five years of bad weather and the occasional falling rock from the above mountainside. To the east was a dusty shoulder dropping off into a ravine. On the west was the wall of a cliff that had been created when the road had been carved into the mountainside. Those who’d had the foresight to bring possessions, scant as they were, carried them in anything from designer packs to salvaged wheelbarrows. Several had taken the opportunity to remove stylish if tattered shoes, revealing blisters and swollen joints from days of forced marching on the harsh road. Only a few had had the sense to scavenge better shoes along the way. Even those limped along from the rigors of breaking in new leather and canvas. It had been years ago since she’d heard it, but Gwen thought she remembered an appropriate phrase: a trail of tears. This time it was a trail of shoes marking the passage of this destitute lot in search of survival.

  The worst off were the little ones. They stared listlessly at their elders with sunken eyes, long past the ability to complain or weep at the gnawing hunger in their bellies. If they didn’t arrive at their destination soon, this trail would be decorated with bodies as well as shoes. The food scrounged from roadside stops and small mountain towns had given out a day ago. Everyone now traveled by rote movement rather than hope. No one had realized how far away from the city they would have to walk to reach the fabled village of Lindsay Crossing, the place Riddick had babbled about on his deathbed. It wasn’t like they could use cars and vans —most major highways were nothing but automotive graveyards after the panicked exodus from high populace areas. Had the hardship been evident from the beginning, Gwen knew the kids would have remained in the squalor of their crib until they’d wasted away to nothing.

  “I think this is it.” Weasel brought her attention back to him. He handed her the binoculars. “Look down there. Does that look like a house?”

  She peered in the direction he indicated. “It looks like a church steeple. So? We’ve been through a lot of small towns since we left home. There hasn’t been more than a handful of kids in half of ’em.” She didn’t mention that some had been in worse straits than the Gatos.

  “Yeah, but look to the left of that. It’s a house.”

  She followed his direction and froze. A wisp of smoke trickled from the brickwork, and she sucked in her breath. Stepping past Weasel, she scanned the valley with intent. “Shit, Weas, there’s lots of chimneys smoking down there.” Hope flared in her heart, a stab painful enough to cause her to tremble. She ruthlessly forced herself to stillness; she couldn’t afford to lose control in front of Weasel, couldn’t show weakness now when she hadn’t done so since Beau. Instead, she turned to stare at him. “You might be right.”

  He nodded, his dark complexion paling at her confirmation. His hands shook so badly that he almost dropped the binoculars when she returned them. When he turned away, Gwen wondered if he was going to break into tears. He seemed close to losing it. She scoffed at herself. Weasel had held his crew together with an iron fist. He hadn’t even broken down when his little sister was caught by the Clinton Street Crips and raped to death two years ago. No way was he losing it now.

  This pilgrimage in search of a dead man’s home was a last-ditch attempt at survival. If Riddick had been wrong about his people, if they weren’t as generous as he’d claimed, Weasel and the rest of them would die before winter. Gwen stared into the valley. What if they won’t take us in?

  Weasel turned back to his crew. “I think we’re here,” he said in a raised voice. “I know everybody’s tired, but I want to get this over with. The sooner we get down there, the sooner we’ll know whether to keep hoofing or not.”

  It was a measure of their exhaustion that none complained at the shortened rest period. They slowly donned their shoes and sandals, dragged themselves to their bloody feet, and prepared to move. A few shouldered packs, others picked up the weakest of the children. A baby whimpered, but even that took too much energy, and it soon fell silent. When everyone was ready, Weasel led his people down into the valley, Gwen at his side.

  ***

  The blacktop had seen better days, but then what hadn’t? Gwen bypassed a large pothole, ignoring someone’s curse behind her as they stepped into it. At least the road wasn’t as bad as the one across that ravine three days back when they feared the bridge wouldn’t hold long enough for everyone to cross. Time, ill weather and lack of repair had caused part of one entire traffic lane to fall into the gorge below, and the side rails had been suspect at best.

  It was now close to noon, and the sun beat down upon them. Some of the boys had removed their shirts, tucking them into the waistband of their jeans. Their skin gleamed with sweat in a variety of hues. The needs of survival had precluded racism. Weasel’s crew had been entirely Hispanic when the plague had swept through the world. Now an even mix of blacks, whites and Asians offset the sun-browned skin and Spanish a
ccents. Gwen laughed to herself. Who knew that plague and famine would be the great equalizer?

  As they descended into the valley, Gwen lost sight of the town. Rock canyon walls grew taller to her left, and white water rushed below in the river to her right. It became claustrophobic in places. The road here was in no better repair, boulders and rockslides having succumbed to gravity to bury their path. Most of the kids skirted the obstacles, only a few exhibiting strength enough to climb over them. They walked forever, though it was cooler here in the shade near the water. Closed in, surrounded by forest and rock, Gwen licked her lips, eyes darting from side to side. Narrow as an alleyway between two tall buildings, always dangerous places in the city, this would be the perfect place for an ambush. She wasn’t the only one feeling static. Those boys and girls with weapons eyed their surroundings with equal nervousness, fingering the safety catches. Tension swelled the further they walked. The young ones noticed the prickly readiness for hostility, their eyes wide as they tried to see what had their elders on edge.

  As they rounded a bend in the road, the oppressive mood lifted as the way ahead opened up. From here Gwen saw the town again, much nearer than she had expected. She swallowed against a lump in her throat. I am not going to cry. A farmhouse sat a few hundred yards further on, and Weasel waved his people forward. She heard a few relieved sniffles from the kids around her and ignored them. There was still the hurdle of talking these people into allowing a bunch of “ain’t-nobodies” into their lives. For all these townies knew, Weasel’s crew was nothing but a bunch of scrubs come to mooch off their hard work.

  The farmhouse looked deserted, the grass in the yard long since gone wild with encroaching native plant life. A rusty swing set crouched in the weeds, chains tinkling gently from the slight breeze. Intrigued, some of the more active children approached the playset, reaching out to tentatively touch the flaking paint.