Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [154]
“There’s a lot of folks concerned about you.”
Kip didn’t have any response, so didn’t respond.
The other man asked if he was maybe feeling a little better.
“Yeah,” he answered quietly, though his insides were as raw as the day he first arrived at Rancho Pajarito. Felt like a famished mouse was gnawing its way back and forth through his guts. The rippling pain came and went in surges, which made him think that maybe the mouse had to rest, digest a little before starting again to tunnel around in the red dark. Kip tried not to complain. They supplemented the glucose with some pain reliever that was doing its work, more or less.
“Doctor said it was a good thing they found you when they did.”
This second man was standing, having entered the room a few minutes earlier. Kip sat on the side of the bed. They’d given him pajamas, garb as simple as the room he inhabited. His feet were bandaged and he had to make do with padding around in surgeon’s socks whenever time came to hit the loo.
“The basin’s not what I’d call a great place to take a stroll.”
“Even if it was legal.”
More of the same innocuous jive their colleagues had anted up over the last half dozen hours. For the most part, though he felt silly doing so, he had retorted with his correct name and rank—which had been useful to them—and unmatching serial numbers, which hadn’t made much difference one way or the other. For Kip, this reentry into a military habitat coaxed him back toward the tired mental geography of war. The dirt airstrip, its short runway in the mist. Thirsty yellow oxen driven by mountain farmers scarred by chemicals. A beautiful aircraft cartwheeling as its shellstruck flier pulled a nylon elevator, floating into the tiered black jungle.
But Kip knew it was a fool’s game. He pushed away all thoughts of battle madness and when that flaming personal curtain lifted, he could almost smell his mother’s arenas, cornmeal pancakes and maple syrup, as he looked at the blue floor of this military hospital not in Luang Prabang or Pakse or Saravane or anywhere else, but simply here in the country where he’d been born.
“What you said before about people being concerned,” he said. “Who do you mean?”
“Your lawyer, for one.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Just like you don’t have a family?”
The other man added, “The people up at Dripping Spring are asking after you, too.”
“There’s only one person at Dripping Spring, like I already said.”
“Three.”
“What’re their names?”
“We thought you’d like to tell us.”
“I’m sure he already gave you the information. It’s not like he went there in order to hide.”
“He’s right,” the standing man said. “Mr. Montoya identified himself. So did the others.”
“Well,” said Kip, neutrally.
“Maybe it’d be best to just fill him in on what we have and hope he’ll reciprocate,” proposed the seated man, then, to Kip, “Fair?”
Kip shrugged. Gamesters.
“The young guy’s name is Marcos Montoya and the woman is Ariel Rankin.”
Calm, even serene, Kip asked them why they were lying to him.
“That’s the pure, unadulterated truth. What makes you think we’d bother to lie?”
“Because in your position I might be inclined to do so.”
“We’ll keep that in mind.”
Kip lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. They were giving him the straight dope.
Ariel. She was finally here. Not just here, but with Delfino and Marcos at Dripping Spring. Spoke volumes about the girl—or no, about the woman. That she had accomplished such a feat. He knew. After all, he’d just been scraped off the floor of that same terrain. Imagine, Marcos and Delfino knew her, at least a little.
Ironic he should be in military custody