Riders of the Pale Horse (12 page)

“That hollow was made so trucks or carts coming from opposite directions can pass each other.”

Wade imagined having to back up along that incline. “I'm glad we haven't had to do that.”

“That's not what I meant,” Robards answered, searching behind them. “Nobody's used that passage in quite a while, by the looks of those tracks.”

“So?”

Robards swung back around. “So maybe nothing. Let's go see.”

An hour passed before the road broadened and began a sharp descent. As the sun touched the distant western peaks, they rounded a corner and saw what once had been a large pastoral community. Now it was nothing but a blackened shell.

Crumbling rock-walled houses were surrounded by sooty shadows of corrals and hay barns. Nothing moved except large mountain crows riding the high currents. The place was utterly still. Lifeless. Robards halted beyond the village outskirts and slid from the truck. “You drive.”

Wordlessly Wade took his place behind the wheel. Robards swung into the passenger seat, hoisted his weapon, rasped
the cocking arm, and set the barrel on the window ledge. “Take it slow.”

The closer they drew, the grimmer the picture became. What had been wood was burned to cinders. What had been made of stone was blown to bits. The place reeked of ashes and decay.

They found the clinic by its flagpole. It had stood just north of the village center, just as Wade's directions described. A blackened pole rose before the burned-out hulk of what once had been a long, low structure surrounded by an open veranda. Wade stopped the truck, walked down the ash-strewn path, and climbed the trio of blackened stone steps. There was no movement, no sound save the wind and the cawing crows.

“What happened here?” Wade murmured.

“Somebody got unlucky,” Robards replied, climbing the stairs behind him. “Might happen to us if we stick around too long.”

Wade turned to scout the silent valley. “You think they could come back?”

“This is a killing ground.” Robards kept his eyes trained on the village. “Never want to stay in one longer than absolutely necessary. Somebody comes looking for revenge, or for a lost friend, or loot, they might decide to add us to the list.”

“All right, I'—” Wade stopped, his attention caught by the wind flickering a page tagged to the side wall. He walked over and tore the sheet from the nail.

“What does it say?” Rogue demanded.

“It's in French and the writing is terrible.” Wade squinted over the smudged script. “Something about, they came in the night. All the staff managed to escape, but one was wounded. They heard Russian and saw uniforms, then there's something about the patients that I can't make out.

They've decided it would be safer to head for Tbilisi.” Wade looked up. “That's the capital of Georgia. It marks the southern end of the Trans-Caucasus Highway.”

“You get back to the truck,” Robards instructed. “I'll take a quick look around this joint.”

Five minutes later Robards returned, his face streaked with ash. “All right, time to head on back.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing you need to see. You drive.”

They left the silent village behind and began the lonely trek back to Carcash. Wade asked, “They were dead, weren't they?”

“Who?”

“The patients. Whoever else you found back there in the clinic.”

“Best not to dwell on what you can't help,” Robards replied.

“I guess you've seen a lot of stuff like this,” Wade said thoughtfully. “I see a little of it in my work. But I don't think I could ever get so casual about death. I think it's important to, well, respect a person's passage.”

“You're here until you're not. Respect don't change it any.” Robards' tone was clipped.

Wade was quiet for a minute, struggling with a question he hesitated to voice. “Is that the way you feel about faith?”

“You mean religion?” Big shoulders bounced once. “If it helps you get through the day, fine. Otherwise it ain't nothin' but excess baggage.”

“So you don't believe in anything?”

“You know, I've met guys like you everywhere I've been. They get close enough to smell death, they start thinking about what comes next, which leads you to all that God stuff. Let me tell you something, Sport. It's a great big world out here. A lot of questions just don't have answers. One place I've been, they keep an empty chair at the table for the dead, leave it there for a year. Another place, folks make up this hefty wooden tablet, cover it with words, keep fruit and fresh flowers in front of it, and bow down to it every time they pass. After a month or so they take it out and burn it, then the spirit's been released to wherever it is spirits are supposed
to go. Far as I can see, all that stuff's meant to help the ones left around here, not the spirits.”

“So you do think people have spirits, souls?”

“Maybe they do and maybe they don't, but what I think's not gonna change a thing, now, is it?” Robards jutted an angry finger at the next curve. “You just keep your mind on the road up ahead, Sport. Whoever it was that didn't make it out of there is weeks beyond the point of no return. Talking about it with me ain't gonna change things a bit.”

Wade drove for a time in silence, then asked, “So what do we do now?”

“That's for you to decide,” Robards replied. “But you gotta know that my nickel ends when we get back to the compound.”

Wade eased them around a cliff side, determinedly not looking out into the void. “You'd just leave me there alone with two trucks?”

“This is the age of capitalism, in case you haven't noticed. You're just lucky you got yourself somebody who stays bought.”

“An honest mercenary.”

“There are more of us around than you'd imagine.”

“I don't have enough money left to pay you more than what we already agreed on.”

“That stuff we're carting around is worth its weight in gold to the right buyer. You give me a script for payment, with a note saying I can take medicines instead of money if that old geezer back in Grozny decides to make trouble.” Robards pulled the clip from his gun, flipped out the round in the chamber, and dry-fired the trigger. “So what's it gonna be?”

“I've got to think.”

“You do that, Sport,” Robards said, and set the gun down behind the seat. “Just keep in mind, the meter's running.”

When Mikhail saw them coming, he hefted his gun high
and shouted something that was lost beneath the engine's rumble.

Rogue climbed down, walked to the other truck, maneuvered it around until it was straight, then motioned Wade to back in beside him. As soon as Wade cut the engine, the old man climbed up on his running board. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he said formally.

Surprise filtered through Wade's confusion and fatigue. “Of me?”

“There are members of my clan who live here. One has a sickness, another a cut which has not healed clean.” The old man's gaze was strong, direct. “I and my clan would be in your debt.”

The stars were welcome strangers when Wade returned from treating Mikhail's kin. He unrolled his bedding behind the truck and lay enclosed by its captured warmth, too tired to sleep. He searched the silver river overhead, wishing he could leave behind his uncertainty and live with the assurance that ruled Robards' days.

Perhaps the man was wrong, but at least he lived by what he felt to be right. There was no wondering where Robards stood on anything or where anyone stood with him, and this assurance gave him a solid strength.

Wade allowed his eyes to finally close as he wondered how it would be to feel such strength about anything. He then began to pray for the patients who had made it out of the clinic—and for the families of those who had not. He recalled Rogue's words, and wondered if he was only using prayer as a way of handling the presence of death, until sleep crept up and swept him away.

Wade did not awaken until the sun rose over the truck and lanced directly into his face. He squinted against the sudden brilliance, rolled over, and found Robards leaning
against the compound wall and cradling a steaming mug with both hands.

“It's almost noon,” Robards announced. “Ready for some coffee?”

Wade rolled from his bedding, struggled to his feet, rubbed his face. His three-day growth felt rough as sandpaper. “Noon?”

Robards handed him a mug. “You were doing a right fair imitation of the truck engine.”

Wade sipped the scalding brew, rolled the ache from his shoulders. “I was pretty tired.”

“There's a bathhouse down the street. Not the cleanest place on earth, but there's plenty of hot water.”

Wade scratched at his matted hair. “I could use a shower.”

“Better hop to it, then. There was a reception committee here an hour or so ago, but I wouldn't let them wake you. One of them spoke enough English for me to work out the basics. It appears that word has gotten around about your deft touch as a healer.” Robards squinted and looked out over the encampment. “Looks like there are a few others who could use a helping hand.”

“I'm no doctor,” Wade protested, fully awake now.

“You're the closest thing they've got,” Robards answered, “and a darn sight better than nothing.”

Wade bent over the cooker, poured himself a second cup. “We still haven't talked about what comes next.”

“There's time enough for that after you see to your new friends. You go get cleaned up. They'll be back before long.”

The bath stalls were rudimentary in the extreme. Generations of insects nested in every corner, and the floors were blanketed with slippery green slime. Still, the water was hot and plentiful. Wade stood and let the water drum down on him and savored the simple pleasure of washing.

The Carcash compound covered the better part of twenty acres and contained almost a thousand trucks. As Wade walked the central avenue, he passed vehicles of every make
and vintage. Many had their cowlings opened while grease-stained arms and heads busied themselves with repairs. Guards strung with bandoliers and well-oiled guns lounged with deceptive ease.

The dusty concourse was packed with hawkers. Shepherds tugged at bleating sheep, stopping to haggle with the timeless patience of Asian traders. When a bargain was finally struck, the sheep was lifted and its throat cut with a single motion of a razor-sharp knife. This was done before the buyers to assure the meat was fresh and the blood properly drained according to Muslim tradition. The smells and sounds of death caused a momentary panic among the sheep and chickens not yet sold. Their bleats and shrill cries joined with the laughter and shouts of the buyers, the engine noise, the drunken revelry, the heat, the dust.

As Wade walked the busy passage, he noticed that more attention than normal was being cast his way. Bands of drivers paused in their talk, opened their assemblies to permit his passage, murmured greetings. Wade returned the quiet words and wondered at this courtesy offered to one so evidently a stranger.

Robards waved to him from the midst of a group clustered before their two trucks. “Far as I can make out,” he said when Wade walked over, “this is a delegation of drivers. Maybe you'd better take over.”

Wade offered them a greeting and saw relief appear on their faces. A gray-bearded man with the unbroken whiteness of one blinded eye said, “It is indeed the blessing of Allah that we find a healer among us who speaks our tongue.”

“I am not a doctor,” Wade warned.

“Doctors are bloodsuckers,” spat a younger man.

“It is said you have the touch of a healer and the voice of a trusted friend,” the elder continued. “There are those among us who suffer much.”

Wade glanced at Robards, who responded with a grin and the words, “You best get busy making friends and influencing
people. We'll leave Mikhail here with the trucks, and I'll tag along long enough to make sure everything's straight.”