Santa Olivia (Santa Olivia #1)

Santa Olivia (Santa Olivia #1) Page 53

Voices conferred.

The vehicle started.

They took her to the base, which Loup had expected. No one asked her any questions. She’d thought there would be questions. Instead, there was a cinder-block building with harsh, glaring lights and narrow cells. They shoved her into one, stumbling, and left her there.

It was hot, stifling hot.

There was a metal shelf she supposed was a bed, and an empty bucket she supposed was a toilet. A locked door with a tiny window.

Nothing else.

“Fuck,” Loup muttered. “This sucks.”

Her head ached and stung. Her arms and shoulders ached. She pulled, testing the plastic cuffs’ resistance. Due to the awkwardness of securing them over the gloves, there was a little bit of slack. With an effort, she managed to wriggle her arms past her hips and butt, squirming and contorting, pulling her legs through the loop of her bound wrists.

Arms in front, better.

Much more comfortable.

Loup raised her wrists to her mouth and gnawed through the plastic strip joining the cuffs until it gave. Better still. She undid the laces of one of her boxing gloves with her teeth, a painstaking process. Unlaced the other. Eased her bruised, aching hands free.

Sighed with relief.

That was as good as it got, at least for now. She slid out of her robe and folded it carefully, then sat, waiting in the stifling heat.

No one came.

After what might have been one hour or three, she gave up on waiting. The combination of unrelenting light, heat, and hunger was making her battered head swim, and a deep exhaustion was settling into her muscles. Loup lay down on the metal shelf, pillowed her head on the folded robe, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

She awoke some hours later to the sound of the door clanging open and lurched to her feet without thinking, full speed. Two soldiers burst into her cell, training pistols on her.

“Get down! Hands behind your head!”

She obeyed.

“Okay. Get up slow, keep your hands there.”

She did that, too.

One gestured with his pistol. “Sit. Hands behind your head.” Once she’d complied, he turned to a third man. “Okay, doc. Have a look.”

A man in a white doctor’s coat entered. He examined Loup, prodding and pinching the muscles of her arms and legs with impersonal interest. She endured it, fighting a surge of anger. He shone a flashlight into both her eyes, examined her swollen left ear. Wiped the split in her eyebrow with something that stung, then took out a suture needle and thread and closed the gash with three neat stitches.

“Good enough,” the doctor said to the guards.

“Hey!” Loup called after them as they turned to go. “The other guy, Johnson. Is he okay?”

The doctor turned back, looking surprised and human for the first time. One of the guards shook his head at him. He hesitated, then gave Loup a faint, barely perceptible nod.

And then they left, locking the door behind them.

It was something, anyway. She was glad to know it. And at least they hadn’t cuffed her again. She lay back down on the hard metal, head pillowed on Pilar’s robe, and slept.

After that, people came and went at irregular hours. It was impossible to say what time it was with the lights always glaring. No one spoke to her except to bark orders. After the first couple of times, she found herself listening for them even in the midst of fitful sleep and managed to be ready for them, sitting upright with her hands behind her head before they entered her cell.

There were doctors, different doctors. Poking and prodding, shining lights into her eyes.

They gave her water.

No food.

How long that lasted, she couldn’t say. Two days, maybe three. By the time someone did come to fetch her, she was weak and dizzy. They cuffed her hands before her, led her to a stark room, and shoved her into a chair.

“Hey, now!” A man with a clipboard protested. “No need to be rough. My God, look at her, she’s just a kid.”

“Did you see the fight, sir?”

“No.”

“You should have.”

“Nonetheless.” He frowned and pointed. “Wait by the door.” The soldiers obeyed, standing at attention. He pulled up a stool, perching in front of Loup. He wore glasses that reminded her of Jaime and he had a kind, intelligent face. “Now, how do you pronounce your name, honey? Is it Lou or Loop?”

“Lou.”

“I’m Derek.” He gave her a friendly, open smile. “Guess I missed a hell of a fight, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You look a little peaked. You want something, honey? Maybe a sandwich, a glass of milk?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Clayton, go fetch me a lunch tray.” The soldier went, grumbling. Derek consulted his clipboard. “It says here that your mother’s name was Carmen Garron. Is that right?”

The prospect of food made her polite. “Yes, sir.”

“And your father?”

“Martin.”

“Martin what?”

Loup shook her head. “I don’t know. Tommy said he didn’t have a last name.”

“Tommy.” Derek glanced at his notes. “That was your older brother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What else did he tell you about your father?”

She told him everything she could remember, reckoning there wasn’t any reason not to. The army already knew. He nodded and took notes, encouraging her. In the midst of it, the soldier Clayton came in carrying a tray. It held a plate with a barbecued pork sandwich on a white bun, steaming fragrantly; a pile of fries; and a glass of milk so cold that the glass was sweating. He set it down on a nearby table.

“Smells good, huh?” Derek smiled at her. “I just have one more quick question for you. Tell me about the Santa Olivia conspiracy.”

“The what?” The smell was giving her sharp hunger pangs.

“Santa Olivia.” His smile didn’t falter. “Whose idea was it?”

“Mine.”

“Loup, it’s okay.” He put a reassuring hand on her knee, frowned slightly and withdrew it. “Honey, I don’t blame you. What kid wouldn’t want to be a folk hero? Especially a kid with your abilities. But whoever put you up to it wasn’t doing you any favors. You could be in big trouble for assaulting a serviceman and destroying government property. Just tell me whose idea it was.”

Loup sighed. “Mine.”

“Who helped you?”

There wasn’t going to be any sandwich. “No one.”

He kept asking and asking, never angry, just gentle and persuasive. The sandwich bun turned pink and soggy with juices, the fries grew limp. After a while, Loup grew tired and stopped answering.

“All right.” Derek regarded her with sorrow and disappointment. “I’m sorry, Loup. I can’t help you if you won’t help me.” He beckoned to the soldiers. “You can take her back now. Loup, when you’re ready to talk, just ask for me. I’m trying to be your friend.”

She stared at him without blinking. “Yeah, right.”

The soldiers returned her to her cell. They left the cuffs on her. This time, Loup was too tired to do anything about it.

She lay down and slept.

FIFTY-ONE

The next time they came for her, Loup was too tired to stand.

It was like a dream, a bad dream, and she couldn’t quite wake up. Soldiers yanked at her, prodded her. “C’mon, c’mon! Let’s go!”

“Can’t,” she mumbled.

They swore and took her anyway, cutting her plastic cuffs and slinging her arms over their shoulders, dragging her.

In the stark room, they put her in the chair.

She fell asleep, listing sideways.

“Goddamnit!” Shaking, prodding. All kinds of commotion, barely registering. Men in white coats, lifting her eyelids and shining narrow flashlights into her eyes, shoving thermometers into her mouth, pinching the skin on the back of her hand. Feeling her pulse, listening to her heartbeat and her breathing. Shouting orders, calling for others.

The general’s voice, querulous. “What the hell’s wrong with her?”

“Fuck if I know, sir. Her temp’s awfully low. Respiration and heart rate are abnormal.”

“Abnormal how?”

“Steady, but slow. Very slow.”

“Sir?” Another voice, one she knew, steady and calm. “Has she been deprived of food, sir?”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Johnson?”

“Just trying to help, sir. Has she?”

“Not for long. Only a few days.”

“It’s enough for our kind. She’s going into hibernation.”

“The fuck?”

One of the doctors spoke. “Humans don’t hibernate.”

“Call it what you like.” The calm voice said. “Her metabolism is slowing down. It’s a protective mechanism. We can control it to some extent with biofeedback, but she hasn’t been taught the techniques. You ought to have an expert on staff to advise you. You’re not going to get anywhere by starving her.”

“So?”

“So feed her.”

There was arguing.

Loup drifted out.

The taste of chicken broth awoke her—rich and savory, spooned between her lips. She swallowed without thinking, opened her eyes.

“Good?” Ron Johnson gave her a steady look. His nose was swollen and he had two black eyes, one worse than the other.

“Uh-huh.”

He fed her another spoonful. “Thought you’d rather this than a glucose drip. It’s better for our kind.”

“Yeah.” Loup swallowed. “Thanks.” Her body came alive, seizing on the proteins and fats in the broth. She shuddered, took the bowl from him, and drained it, gulping down broth, noodles, and bits of shredded chicken and sundry vegetables. He refilled it from a steel vat without asking and handed it to her. She drained the second bowl. “Thanks,” she repeated. Johnson nodded.

“So she’s all right?” The general asked.