“I know what you did to Purvis,” the old man said.
Ryan was cautious. “He a friend of yours?”
“No, sir! He was no friend of anyone on this crew, especially the women.”
“So I gathered.”
Brody was growing suspicious of the old man. “You got something to say, old-timer?”
“Only this.” He paused and licked his lips with his tongue. “The women, them over there—”
Ryan looked to where the old man was pointing and saw six women huddled together in a circle. Two of the women waved at him. Ryan waved back.
“They’re grateful for what you done, and they want you to know they’ll be cheering for you today.”
“Thank you,” Ryan said.
“And they wanted me to give you this.” He held out his fist, turned his fingers over to catch the sun, then opened his hand. In his palm, a shiny bit of metal glinted in the morning sunlight.
“Brass knuckles,” Brody said.
“I’ve been keeping them in case Purvis ever wanted to roll me. I wouldn’t have stopped him, but I might have at least broken his nose.” The old man laughed then, a dry, wheezing sort of laugh.
“Weapons like this are allowed?” Ryan asked, taking the brass knuckles from the old man and slipping them over the fingers of his right hand.
Brody nodded. “The others will be trying to bring everything they can in with them, too, from spikes to knife blades.”
“What about the sec men?”
“They’ll be looking the other way.”
Ryan nodded, pressing his brass-ringed fist into the palm of his left hand. It would certainly do some damage, and it was comfortable enough that he could still hold a sword or club in his right hand while the knuckles were on his fingers. “Thank you, to you and the ladies.”
“No, thank you,” the old man said. “Today’s been almost like a holiday without that bastard Purvis around. So even if you get chilled in the arena, you’ve already done us a good deed.”
“You’re welcome,” Ryan said. “I guess.”
CLARISSA BROUGHT Jak and Doc down to the river where the water ran fast in a swirling froth of water and foam.
“There are fish here?” Jak asked.
“Not here.” Clarissa gestured across the river. “There’s a whirlpool on the other side. With the lower water level, the fish get trapped inside it, swirling around and around. We’ve tried to catch them all sorts of ways, with our bare hands and with sharpened sticks, but the fish are too fast.”
They began walking across the river, the water being just low enough for them to be able to make it on foot—if they were careful.
“And we’re supposed to shoot them?” Dean asked.
“Do you see any other food around?” Clarissa responded with her own question.
“No, but I—”
Suddenly Dean’s voice was gone as he slipped on the rocks and fell under the water.
“Dean!” Clarissa shouted.
He was hanging on to a jutting rock with both hands, the flow of water trying to push him downstream. “I can’t pull myself up,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of water in the process.
Jak took off his coat and extended his left hand to Clarissa. “Grab hand!”
She took it.
He then extended his arms and took one sleeve of his jacket in his right hand. He swung the jacket toward Dean so the other sleeve fell near the rock he was clutching.
Dean reached for the jacket, which was fluttering in the flow of water, but when he let go of the rock with one hand, he was nearly swept away by the river. He was forced to grab hold again with two hands.
“Jak, look!” Clarissa screamed.
Jak glanced downstream and saw what looked like rocks moving against the flow. “What is it?”
“A mutie fish,” she shouted. “A big one, muskie or salmon, maybe even a mutie sturgeon.”
The fish was getting closer, its huge mouth open wide to catch everything the river sent its way. It scooped up dead fish and other refuse without ever having to move more than a few dozen feet left or right. If Dean let go, he’d be swept away by the water into the fish’s belly in seconds.