Krysty felt as though she had been on the receiving end of an unexpected chron-jump. According to Dean’s informational booklet, Old San Juan dated back to the year 1521, and the architecture that remained intact along the streets and alleyways supported the claim. A mix of Spanish colonial mansions mingled with colorful plazas and shops.
“Blue,” Krysty said, speaking aloud.
“What?”
“First time since I was a little girl back in Harmony I can remember the sky being the right color. My Uncle Tyas, he said the world above us was supposed to be blue, and he always made a point of showing me the right hue in picture books or bits of old vids. I’ve seen the sky colored blue before, but it was always dark, like a storm was brewing. More often than not in Deathlands, sky was orange, red, pink. You got used to it, but I always wanted to see that color of blue Tyas told me about. Nice to see he was right, as usual.”
” ‘Natives say that the sky in Puerto Rico is bluer than any other place on earth, and the white clouds are whiter,'” Dean chimed in, reading a predark line of advertising copy.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Ryan said easily, stooping to pick a smallish bright red flower that had grown up in a bare patch of dirt near the curb.
“You should give it to the lady, senor,” a voice said. “It matches the crimson of her hair.”
They looked up to see a heavyset man in a straw hat looking down at them from a second-story window.
“Yeah, I was going to do that,” Ryan said warily, handing the flower to Krysty.
“Thank you.” Krysty was slightly annoyed at having her private time with Ryan and Dean interrupted by the native’s appearance. She’d been charmed by rogues before, and knew the drill. Still, her mutie ability to read a person was giving her an all-clear signal regarding the man looking down, as opposed to the conflicting impressions that radiated like flaming tendrils from the always smiling Silas Jamaisvous.
“That flower is the Maltese cross, named because the petals of its flowers have the shape of the cross. You can see them if you look closely,” the man noted.
“Hot pipe! He’s right, Dad! Check it out!” Dean said excitedly, pointing at the flower.
“Thanks for the tip,” Ryan said, turning to go. But the man wasn’t to be put off so easily.
“My name is Soto,” he called out. “Might I ask who you are?”
Ryan turned back and made quick introductions. “Ryan Cawdor. Krysty Wroth. My boy, Dean. We’re staying at El Mono.”
Soto made a show of appearing impressed, whistling softly before speaking. “That explains much. We don’t see newcomers around here very often…at least, not human newcomers.”
Ryan and Krysty both wondered what the man meant by such an odd statement, but didn’t inquire further.
“We get around a lot. We tend not to stay in one locale for very long.”
Soto nodded sagely. “Ah. That explains your weapons.”
Ryan had already dropped a hand to rest lightly on the butt of the SIG-Sauer. “Man has to be armed and ready to defend himself.”
Soto nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, I agree. It’s just in Old San Juan, we rarely have need of such means of self-defense, at least, we had no need until recently.”
The one-eyed man frowned. “That’s twice you’ve dropped some kind of hint. If something’s on your mind, say it.”
Soto waved a hand, batting at the air in a submis- sive motion. “Please, don’t get upset. I have no wish to cause trouble for you or your family. Why don’t I come down where we can speak more privately?”
“You alone?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, we’ll wait.”
Soto leaned out through the window and pointed with his left hand to the side of the building. “If you open the gate and go around the side, you’ll see a garden. I’ll be coming down the back stairs.”
The garden along the wall was overflowing with flowering plants and ornamental bushes-hibiscus, gardenia, bougainvillea, jasmine, oleander, golden trumpet, cup of gold, and the queen-of-the-night, so called because its pale fragrant blossoms open only after dark. Flaming red poinsettias sixteen feet tall were growing wild at the edge where the ground met the concrete of the partition.