“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Before your time, Ryan.” Suddenly Strasser was almost chatty. He had the air of
one who was prepared to chew the fat for a while. Ryan wasn’t sure he liked
that. The guy was pleased about something. “Kaler had a stake in Mocsin. He
wasn’t as big as Jordan, but he had power, contacts with the East. In the early
days. But he had this thing about the Darks. He thought there was something up
there.” Strasser lifted his arms in a shrug. “Maybe there is. A lot of people
seem to believe so. Maybe one of these fine days I should take a look around.
Kaler didn’t find it, whatever it was. Crawled back with nothing and got his
head blown off for his pains. Jordan Teague made out that Kaler had the Plague
and just blew him out. That’s when Jordan took over completely. It’s long been
in my mind to…”
But what was in Cort Strasser’s mind was lost as the sound of booted feet once
more rang out, metal studs thudding on concrete out of view below. Strasser had
half turned as the noise started up. Now he swung around again on Ryan,
fingering the black silk stock at his scrawny throat.
He said, “It has already occurred to me, Ryan, that it will take time to squeeze
you dry, and I’m aware that your close colleague Dix doesn’t gab much. Therefore
I thought of turning my attention to your three companions, the ladies
especially.” His voice had become syrupy. “And then I thought, no, you’re all
the same. Closemouthed. Stupidly loyal. Stupidly stubborn. The women might well
take less time to crack, but even so I’m not in the mood to linger. And then I
set to wondering how, uh…” He frowned slightly, tapping the tabletop with his
fingers. “Well, let me see—how detached you were, Ryan, how, uh…indifferent you
could be to the sufferings of an entirely neutral party. The thought fascinated
me, Ryan. After all—” his tone was now pensive, even mildly quizzical, as though
he were pondering some minor domestic problem that still needed handling with a
certain amount of care “—we live in violent and selfish times. Every man for
himself and the hell with the rest. That surely is the philosophy of anyone
faced with an unpleasant and painful situation. Even so, it did occur to me to
wonder if the age of, uh… of—what’s the word I’m seeking?” He snapped his
fingers a couple of times, frowning down at the tabletop, then glanced up at
Ryan, his eyebrows raised. “Gallantry? Yeah, that’ll do.
Gallantry. Excellent word. Nicely old-fashioned. Yes, I did wonder if the age of
gallantry was not entirely buried beneath the ashes of the Nuke. It seemed a
good opportunity to try a small experiment.”
He glanced to his right, toward the doorway that led to the vaults. When he
looked back at Ryan, his expression and tone of voice were almost apologetic.
“It won’t take long. Ten minutes at the most, I should imagine, once we’re under
way. And of course I may be making a stupid mistake, a wild error of judgment. I
may well be wasting your time and mine. We shall see.”
The two guards appeared, hustling a third person up to the top of the stairs and
out into the room, each holding an arm.
The shock of recognition was for Ryan far greater than the panic burn that had
flared through him when Strasser had glibly talked of taking his good eye out.
But the jolt he felt inside him only made itself manifest by a slight quiver of
his eyes, plus the freezing into stunned immobility of his features for maybe a
half-second.
But it was enough for Strasser. Unholy delight glowed in his eyes. His thin lips
split into a reptilian grin.
“You know her, Ryan! A friend of yours!” His voice was thick with gleeful
malevolence. “Well, that does make it easier.”
It was the flame-haired girl, Krysty Wroth.
RYAN THOUGHT, How did he know? How did the bastard know! And then he thought,
know what, for Christ’s sake? Looked at objectively, she’s nothing to me. Less