The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [176]
Snatches of conversation reached our ears:
“—really don't think she's at all (something).” Damian's voice.
“—won't be long.”
“(something something) morning to see a doctor.”
“Yolanda asked (something).”
Then they either cleared an obstruction or turned towards us, because Damian's voice came loud and clear, and high like Holmes' when he is angry or on edge. “You know, Hayden, I've never played the pompous husband rôle and told Yolanda that she couldn't participate in your church, but this really has taken the cake. It's two weeks now—I've a one-man show I should be working on, Estelle has a cold, and here we are out in the middle of a piss-freezing night because Yolanda has a bee in her bonnet. I think she must have gone mad, truly I—”
As his voice came clearer, I realised that he sounded more than a little drunk. By contrast, when Brothers—Hayden—interrupted, his voice, which I had last heard at the walled house, was calm, soothing, and reasonable.
“I know, Damian, I know. Your wife is a passionate woman, and when she gets her mind set on a thing, nothing will turn her.”
“But wha' does she imagine, having me follow around in her wake for two weeks and then … follow around after her and then get up on a rock in the middle of the night… up on a rock to pray … oops.”
His last sound was accompanied by a jerk of the approaching lamp-light; around the stones I saw that Brothers was now supporting him, and I breathed in Holmes' ear, “That's drugs, not drink.”
I felt him nod.
The two men came to a halt at the edge of the stone, their shoes at arm's reach from where we crouched. Light danced and receded as Brothers put the lamp on top of the stone, then took a step back.
“Get up on top, Damian,” he said.
“It's bloody cold. Juss say your prayers and less go.”
If Brothers had maintained his reasonable attitude, he might well have cajoled Damian into obedience, but the effort of control was too much, and his voice went tight and hard. “Get up, Damian,” he ordered the younger man and took another step back. “Now.”
“What the bloody hell—?” Damian staggered a couple of steps before he caught himself, leaving Brothers on a direct line between us and him. It was too dangerous to risk our guns; the night was too silent to permit our movement.
“Sorry old man,” Brothers said. “I don't wish to use this on you, but it's important, really it is. I just need you to get up on the rock, now.”
Damian faced him for several seconds, swaying, then answered. “Oh, very well,” he grumbled, sounding eerily like his father.
He wove his way to the stone: It took him three tries to get his body onto it. His boots swung free for a moment, then his legs followed him up. For the first time we now had a clear view of Brothers, while we remained hidden in shadow. However, neither Holmes nor I doubted that the gun in his hand rested steady on Damian.
Holmes' hand was on my arm, gripping hard, warning me against premature movement. We had both stopped breathing as we waited for Brothers to put away the gun and take out his Tool, the sacrificial knife that had “moved” his hand too many times.
“That's good, Damian. Yolanda would be happy.”
His response was a wordless mutter, trailing off to nothing.
“Can you stretch out on your back?” Brothers asked, drawing again on the voice of reason. “Damian? Stretch out, please. Damian!”
We heard the sound of clothing against stone, but no words.
Still, Brothers was cautious. When he approached, he kept the gun on Damian until he was standing at the edge of the stone. Holmes' hand stayed steady on me, although he too had to be doubting himself, asking if Brothers wouldn't choose the sure way over the ritual purity of the knife. We hunched like wound springs, eyes fastened on the coat-tails that would move when Brothers put away his gun and reached for his knife-One forgot that Damian Adler was a soldier.