Coyote Horizon (22 page)

“Lewis, Henry.” Not receiving an immediate answer, the foreman raised his head. “Henry Lewis! Speak up if you’re here!”

Distracted as he was, Hawk almost forgot to respond. “Here,” he said, quickly raising his hand. The foreman frowned at him, then went back to calling out names. Hawk continued to look around. A curlicue of smoke rose from a cluster of large canvas tents: obviously the workers’ camp. Yet, although he spotted a portable electrical generator, nowhere did he see any satellite dishes, nor any vehicles besides a dozer and a couple of small traks used to carry material from one side of the building site to another. It was as if a deliberate attempt were being made to isolate the place as much as possible.

The foreman finished reading the list. “All right,” he said as he lowered the pad, “now that everyone is present and accounted for, we can get down to business. I’m Jerry, the project supervisor, and this is Bill”—a brief nod toward the man beside him—“and he’s the payroll manager. We’re pretty much on a first-name basis here, so all you have to do is ask for us at the office shack. If you have any questions or problems, that’s where we’ll be.”

A few nods, but for the most part, the group remained quiet. “I’d like to welcome you to this place, but since it doesn’t have a name yet, I don’t know what to call it either.” That earned a couple of laughs, which Jerry accepted with a faint smile. “In fact, I can’t even tell you where you are, other than what you already know . . . somewhere in Medsylvania, just north of the channel. As you were told when you signed up, one of the conditions of your employment is that you do not know its exact location. That’s why all satphones, pads, or other sat-enabled devices were confiscated before you left New Boston . . . and if you’re still holding out, it’s a good idea to fork ’em over now, because if we find them on you, your employment will be immediately terminated, along with forfeiture of all payment owed to you. Have I made myself clear?”

He waited to see if anyone said or did anything. After a moment, one of the workmen sheepishly stepped forward to surrender the satphone he’d taken from his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” Jerry said. “You’ll get this back when you leave.” He handed the phone to Bill, who used a pen to mark it with the workman’s name. “Which brings us to the next item of business. You’re here until the project is finished, or at least until you’ve completed your particular job and we don’t have any reason to keep you around any longer. We have very good first-aid facilities, so if you’re injured, we’ll be able to take care of you on-site, but anything severe enough to warrant you being airlifted to a hospital will mean that you’ll be terminated as well.” A few grumbles, and Jerry raised a hand. “Sorry, but that’s the way it is . . . although if you are severely injured, you can rest assured that your bills will be paid and you’ll receive full compensation. But as our people explained to you before you signed the contract, there will be no days off and no vacations while you’re here. We work nine days a week, twelve hours a day, until this place is finished. Period.”

Again, Jerry paused. When no one said anything, he went on. “You’ll be paid every week, and payday is Raphael morning. If you’d like to have your paychecks automatically deposited at the Bank of Coyote, you can see Bill about it. Otherwise, you’ll each be issued a voucher, tagged to your thumbprint, that you’ll be able to redeem for cash once you leave. If you really want, you can take it in colonials, although I wouldn’t recommend it . . . there aren’t any places where you’ll be able to hide ’em where someone else couldn’t find ’em. Besides, there’s nothing here you need to buy.”

Hawk made a mental note to talk to the payroll manager sometime later and make sure that Melissa did the same. Since neither of them had bank accounts, they’d need to take their pay in cash and do the best they could to keep it from being discovered. Jerry went on. “Food, clothing, hard hats, tools, whatever . . . they’ll all be supplied to you. Except for the stuff you’re not supposed to have, of course, and that brings us to the next order of business.”

The project supervisor became more serious. “This is a clean site. That means no liquor and no dope. Booze, weed, sting . . . if we catch you with any of that, you’re outta here on the next gyro, and forget about getting paid. Don’t even think about trying to get cute with us. A couple of weeks ago, we found a bearshine still out in the woods. We caught the guys who built it, and . . . well, four of you have your jobs because they no longer have theirs. So don’t push your luck.”

A few murmurs at this, and Hawk wondered how many of the workmen had marijuana or whiskey flasks stashed away in their bags. If they were smart, they’d get rid of them as soon as possible.

“Finally, one more thing . . . and this may be the most important rule of all, because it has to do with what we’re building here.” Jerry cocked a thumb at the unfinished structure behind him. “This is going to be a monastery, to be used by a group of monks who don’t want to have anything to do with the rest of the world. They call themselves the Order of the Eye, and that’s as much as I can tell you about them other than that they’re the reason for all the secrecy. Once the place is finished and these guys move in, they don’t want visitors. A certain anonymous benefactor has generously agreed to foot the bill for the construction costs. Since he’s also the nice man who’s meeting the payroll, all you need to know about him is that his name is Mr. Mind Your Own Business . . . and that goes for the monks, too.”

Jerry turned to point toward the southern end of the clearing; for the first time, Hawk noticed a small collection of cabins built near the forest’s edge about a half mile away. On the other side of a chicken-wire fence with a small gate at its center, a field of tall grass separated the settlement from the construction site.

“That’s where the Order is staying while we’re building their new home,” the supervisor continued. “You may see them from time to time . . . they wear brown robes, sometimes with their hoods pulled up . . . but that doesn’t mean they want to talk to you, or even have anything to do with you. So a major stipulation is that you ignore them as much as possible. If they happen to drop by, just leave ’em alone. Don’t try to visit them, either”—a wry grin—“because, believe me, you don’t want to. That field is practically crawling with ball plants, and I shouldn’t have to warn you about those.”

Some of the workmen shook their heads. No one in their right mind wanted to be swarmed by pseudowasps. “Okay, that pretty much covers everything. If you have any questions about payroll, come over and see Bill. Otherwise, you can pick a tent wherever there’s a vacant bunk . . . Ladies, your quarters are in the two to the far left. Once you’re settled in, check the duty roster to find out which team you’re on. It’s posted on the bulletin board outside the office shack. Your first shift begins right after lunch. And that’s it.”

The workers picked up their bags and began to leave the airstrip, a few heading over to the payroll manager. Hawk shouldered his bag and began to saunter toward the camp. Melissa fell in beside him, but neither of them spoke until they were sure that no one was close enough to overhear them; even then, they were careful to keep their voices low.

“Looks like we won’t be sharing a bed after all,” Hawk murmured. He gave Melissa a sly smile. “Think you can handle that?”

“Oh, well . . . it was fun while it lasted.” She and Hawk had started sleeping together a few weeks earlier, not long after they’d reached New Florida. At first, it had been out of necessity—since they’d been posing as a newly arrived immigrant couple, it was part of their pretense to occupy the same room at the boardinghouse where they’d stayed—but soon their relationship had become more intimate, and Hawk had discovered that there was something to be said for having a former prostitute as a lover. “Maybe I can sneak over, when no one is . . .”

“Better not risk it.” Hawk shook his head. “We’re not married anymore, remember? And I don’t want to do anything that might put us at risk.”

“Yeah, okay.” Melissa pouted, but she knew Hawk was right. When they had heard about the job, one of the things they’d learned was that the project was specifically looking for unmarried individuals. That was when they’d changed their names again, for what they both hoped would be the last time. “But at least I can slide you an extra biscuit when you come in for breakfast.”

That gave Hawk another reason to smile. She’d been hired as a cook, while his job was as a carpenter. Before he could reply, though, Melissa moved a little closer. “Are you sure we’ve got the right place?” she whispered, gazing past him at the distant cabins. “I mean . . . do you think . . . ?”

“He’s over there?” Hawk didn’t say anything for a moment. “If he isn’t, then I don’t know what else to do.” He shrugged. “At least we won’t be bothered. I grew up in a camp like this. It’s not likely that we’ll see any proctors way out here.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I know what you said.” They were getting close to the camp, with more people around to hear them. To buy themselves a little more time, Hawk dropped his bag, then knelt to lace up his work boots. “If he and his people are who we’ve heard they are, then it makes sense that they’d want to pretend to be monks. Maybe they
are
monks. In any case, though, they’d probably want to keep to themselves. That’s what I’m thinking.”

Melissa didn’t respond. When he glanced up at her again, he saw she was still gazing at the settlement, a pensive look on her face. “Going to be hard for us to talk to them,” Hawk went on, “but it’s not like we’re in any hurry. As I said, this place probably doesn’t get visited by proctors. So let’s just . . . y’know, be patient. Do our jobs, keep our heads low, and wait to see what comes up.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.” Melissa rubbed her arms against the morning cool. “But you . . . no talking about
Sa’Tong
with anyone, all right? That business back in Liberty . . .”

“That was a mistake. Won’t do it again.” The
Sa’Tong-tas
was at the bottom of his bag, a small box concealed within a rolled-up shirt. After the debacle with the Reverend Rice, Hawk had vowed not to discuss what he’d learned until he found someone who wasn’t committed to any established religion.

Which was why they were here.

Hauling the bag over his shoulder, he stood up again. “C’mon . . . let’s make ourselves at home. And in the meantime, keep an eye out for someone called Walking Star.”

 

 

 

It was a long time before they finally met Joseph Walking Star Cassidy. Even so, they didn’t find him; instead, it was he who found them.

Hawk was assigned to the team tasked with building the monastery’s interior walls. Erected on a concrete foundation, the structure was comprised of three floors, with a small cupola rising from a circular roof that was still unfinished. Hawk worked with nine other men and women to install the partitions that would separate one room from another, beginning with the ground floor.

He’d learned carpentry during the years he’d spent in Black Mountains timber camps, He wasn’t master-class, but he knew enough to be able to follow directions given by the team leader, who in turn consulted blueprints drawn up by an architect hired by their mysterious employer. The rest of his crew were experienced as well, and he got along with everyone. As Jerry had said, the people working on the project were pretty much on a first-name basis; although they knew that this was only a temporary job, they’d also been informed that, if they did their work well, a generous bonus awaited each and every one of them if the monastery was completed by Verchiel, the first month of summer.

So Hawk spent his days fitting wall boards against support beams, hammering them into place with three-and-a-half-inch nails he carried in a tool belt around his waist. He shared a tent with nine other men, and although they had little privacy—just a couple of hempcloth curtains that they could pull around their bunks when they slept—they spent the evening playing gin rummy or five-card stud while sitting around the potbelly stove that supplied heat to their quarters. They woke with the sun and knocked off work when it went down again. There were few arguments, and fights were practically nonexistent; the absence of liquor was something everyone complained about, but the fact of the matter was that sobriety contributed greatly to camp morale.

Hawk saw little of Melissa. Her job as assistant chef kept her in the mess tent’s kitchen nearly around the clock; as a result, he’d usually see her only at mealtimes. Although her tent was only fifty yards away, it was generally understood by all the men that the women’s quarters were off-limits. There were on-the-job flirtations, of course, along with a couple of serious affairs—one member of Hawk’s team was known to sneak off to the woods every now and then after dark—but he and Melissa agreed to refrain from that. As lonely as they were for each other, it was crucial that they kept a low profile. No one in camp must learn that Henry Lewis and Juliet Arnold had a previous relationship under different names.

After a while, though, they worked out a system through which they could have secret meetings. Melissa worked the chow line during breakfast. If she wanted to see him that evening after dinner, she’d ladle an extra helping of grits on his plate as he passed by. Likewise, if Hawk wanted to see her, he’d drop a spoon on the counter in front of her station. A quick glance, a furtive nod, and the meeting was set, with the lumberyard near the construction site as the rendezvous point.

But even though Melissa was in a good position to hear and see much of what was going on in the camp, never once was Cassidy’s name mentioned in her presence. And although Hawk occasionally caught a brief glimpse of the so-called monks—every now and then, one or two of them would come across the field to check on the progress of their monastery—none matched the description he’d been given of their leader: a tall man, of American Indian descent, with long black hair tied back in a braid. Of course, since the Order usually wore dark brown robes with their hoods pulled up around their heads, it was very difficult to tell one from another; any of them could have been Cassidy, and Hawk wouldn’t have known it.