The Falling Away Read online

  The other Canadian was thin, almost anorexic. Oily hair pooled over his shoulders from beneath a knitted cap as he shuffled in place. What’d the Canadians call those stocking caps?

  Tuques, Joni’s voice answered helpfully.

  Dylan didn’t like this at all. These guys seemed too edgy, even if they were the type to partake of the cargo they were carrying (and he had no doubt they’d done a little skimming from their backpack).

  Oh, so now you don’t like it.

  Never wanted in this deep, Joni. You know that.

  Webb said something else, turned and flashed a grin at Dylan. Dylan decided he should move closer so he could catch whatever Webb was saying.

  Both the Canadians looked at Dylan as he stepped forward, evidently taking this movement as a signal he had something to say. Instead he kept his head down, hunching his shoulders and keeping his hands in his parka pockets, avoiding eye contact. His finger found the trigger guard on the revolver.

  Just in case.

  2

  Quinn pushed away her cup of coffee, convinced it had been brewed roughly around the time she was born twenty-seven years ago. She glanced at the scowling face of Greg, who was sitting by himself at a booth in the corner, and waited. Greg wasn’t talking to anyone else, which was good. If he were, that might mean Quinn would have to do something drastic, figure out a way to shoot him in a crowd.

  But Greg was eating his breakfast alone, lost in his own world. Probably still getting his bearings after leaving the safety of the HIVE.

  HIVE was well known to just about everyone in Montana. It was something like a cross between an Amish community and an old hippie commune. The letters stood for Hope Is Via Earth, but most people just called HIVE members drones.

  Drones like Greg here, finishing his breakfast, his eyes dark and cloudy for reasons he probably didn’t even understand. Understanding wasn’t the job of the drones; the drones existed to spread their disease, while Li, the leader of HIVE, built his power and influence.

  Li, an enigmatic, bald figure, had started the community in the early nineties; together with a band of a few dozen followers he purchased several hundred acres of central Montana farmland and established the New-Agey commune. He had attracted a growing base of followers since then, adding mobile homes in a crude phalanx while the HIVE population expanded, and eventually building permanent accommodations to create his self-sustaining community in the proverbial Middle of Nowhere.

  As it grew, HIVE branched into different sections of agriculture: dairy, eggs, wheat. Soon stores across Montana and adjoining states began stocking their wares; people drawn to the whole Earth-is-our-loving-mother spiel bought their organic products.

  In the early twenty-first century, Li had obviously seen ahead of the curve and tapped into the growing green movement by signing a contract with an energy company to build dozens of giant wind turbines on HIVE property. That was what identified HIVE to the rest of Montana: more than a hundred giant turbines stood as silent sentinels over the mysterious compound.

  Many people in Montana had a vague uneasiness about the community. HIVE members had a good story to tell, and various media ate it up; after all, HIVE members always wore impossibly wide smiles, always talked about sustainable living and saving the earth. Great sound bites. But most Montanans who came into contact with HIVE members would tell you the smiles and the chatter felt too . . . rehearsed. Maybe too robotic. Which was another reason why the “drone” moniker fit so well.

  These drones, the ones who ventured from the HIVE into the surrounding communities, were the only members most people saw. What Quinn thought of as the light drones.

  The dark drones were another matter. Most people never saw them. No, that wasn’t right; most people who saw dark drones never realized they had any connection with HIVE at all, because dark drones didn’t have bright smiles and canned stories about loving the earth. They said nothing about their connection to HIVE.

  Dark drones weren’t sent out to recruit; they were sent out to infect.

  Released from the HIVE, dark drones such as Greg invariably found their way either here to Great Falls or south to Billings and then on to points unknown. If they weren’t stopped before they boarded a plane or a bus, well, there really was no way you’d catch them except by chance. It was a big country, a big world, and they could hide underground almost anywhere. Infecting people all around them. Spreading the disease.

  But for right now, at least, Greg seemed more interested in his burned toast than in casual conversation with anyone around him. Which meant he wasn’t actively trying to infect anyone. Yet.

  Quinn found herself thinking of Dylan Runs Ahead, wishing she’d been able to follow him instead. Her overall goal was keeping him out of the HIVE, of course, and she knew HIVE would be quite interested in welcoming him into their fold.

  He was, after all, a chosen.

  But Dylan was hundreds of miles away from the HIVE right now, far away from their influence, so her priority had been Greg. Dark drones, when released from the HIVE, always took priority; if they made it to their destinations they could go underground, infect hundreds, even thousands. Dylan, though important, was just one person.

  Quinn sighed, traced the faint outline of her new staple with a light finger, then pressed it, reassured by the pain.

  She was an embedder. Self-embedding disorder was the precise diagnostic term, describing the compulsion to embed objects—usually metal items such as needles, staples, and nails—into various parts of the body. Quinn had read all about it on the Internet; it even had its own Wikipedia entry. SED, the entry said, was a form of self-mutilation (otherwise known as self-injury or SI), related to cutting and trichotillomania, the odd name for the compulsion to pull out your own hair.

  Self-mutilation. Well, who didn’t mutilate themselves in some form or another?

  Her mother had done it, when Quinn was a young girl. After her father left without explanation, her mother had self-mutilated by sinking into the depths of her depression and dementia. They’d spent two years together on the streets of Portland, a wandering, aimless existence; then, after her mother had mysteriously disappeared, Quinn spent another two years on her own. Before Paul. Before the Falling Away.

  She understood that her need for cutting, and her subsequent need for embedding, were tied to issues with her mother. And her father, she supposed. But mostly her mother. She had seen the pressure building inside her mother, and wanted so much to be able to relieve that pressure. After her mother’s disappearance, when she felt her own pressure building inside her, she’d discovered the perfect way to release it.

  She didn’t resent the embedding, didn’t wallow in self-hatred for her self-injury. She understood it was a necessary part of what she did, really; those who didn’t have a release valve for the poison they pulled out of others felt the pressure build inside until it forced them to explode. So in an odd way, the compulsion was what had led Quinn to become part of the Falling Away.

  God worked in mysterious ways, indeed.

  Stop.

  This was no time to think about the embedding; right now, she needed to concentrate on Greg, concentrate on removing him before he could escape and infect others. Quinn uttered a silent prayer, asking for strength, asking for focus, and felt better.

  An informant had called the previous afternoon, told Quinn someone from the HIVE was scheduled to check in at the O’Haire Motor Inn. Quinn had driven over from Judith Gap, had watched through field glasses as Greg checked in late that evening before slipping into the attached Sip-N-Dip Lounge.

  In hindsight, Quinn should have followed him back to his room, done the job while he was sleeping. It would have been easier. But HIVE usually sent two or three dark drones out together, and Quinn had been sure others would meet Greg at the bar. That’s part of why neutralizing dark drones always took precedence over other activities.

  When the bar shut down, Greg had finished his beer and retreated to his room. Alone. S
o Quinn had waited, hoping other dark drones would meet him this morning.

  None had, and Quinn was now sure Greg was a loner. Which meant he could have been neutralized hours before.

  Quinn felt the pressure building inside, pressed the staple again, felt the pressure subside. Be still. Be quiet. Be patient.

  Greg left money on the table, slid out of the booth, and headed for the glass door. Quinn slid off the stool at the counter and followed.

  He had likely been dropped off the day before with a plane ticket or a bus ticket, so he’d either be walking to the Greyhound depot just a few blocks away or calling for a cab to the airport.

  When he began walking down the alley toward Central Avenue, Quinn knew he was destined for the bus depot. Good. That would be easier.

  She followed, increasing her pace to catch up with him, knowing it would be best to catch him before he reached the end of this alley. This was a nice, secluded spot, especially in the morning. No traffic or activity, as there would be on Central. Or at the bus station.

  “Greg?” Quinn’s fingers closed over her pistol as Greg turned, the question forming in his eyes before it crossed his lips.

  “Who are you?” Greg snarled, pain and hatred in his eyes.

  In answer, Quinn flashed the pistol and pulled the trigger, continuing to approach as Greg slumped to the ground. She put away the gun, dropped to a knee beside Greg’s body, watched as his eyes rolled to white a few times and closed.

  Then Quinn put her hands on Greg’s body and began to pray.

  3

  Dylan watched as Webb thrust the rucksack toward the two Canadians, looking like some kid on the playground in his puffy blue jacket and matching bag. “Fifty large,” he said. At least Dylan could hear him, now that he’d stepped forward. “Just like Krunk promised.”

  Krunk was their contact back home in Billings, the guy who had sent them here to the Canadian border for a drug swap. Dylan didn’t know Krunk’s real name. Didn’t really want to know Krunk’s name. For that matter, he often wished he didn’t know his own name; more than once he’d fantasized about forgetting everything known as the life of Dylan Runs Ahead.

  But when you were addicted to painkillers, you were deprived of life’s luxuries, and one of those luxuries was the ability to forget. True, when you drifted into that warm, comforting haze, you left behind the pain, left behind any real, rational thought. But you never truly forgot; popping the drugs just let you hit the Pause button for a time. And so, even though painkillers introduced you to guys like Webb (a Good Thing), it also introduced you to guys like Krunk (not a Good Thing), and after so many days and months of hitting that Pause button repeatedly, you found yourself in the middle of the gritty Montana prairie, swapping bags with greasy-haired Canadians, wondering when exactly this whole ride had started and why you hadn’t gotten off it before.

  The anorexic Canadian pulled Dylan from his thoughts as he stepped forward and took the bag from Webb before retreating again. As if he were standing on the very border itself and uncomfortable with the thought of crossing into the United States for long.

  After an awkward pause, Webb was the first to speak again. Of course. “The way it works is, now you take off your backpack and give it to us.” He was speaking to the thinner one, the anorexic one, who had the kind of backpack you might see a school kid carrying looped over his shoulder. It only added to Dylan’s sense that they were standing on a playground, the four of them, about to fight over a kicked ball or a lost bag of marbles.

  Anorexic Guy exchanged another glance with Biker Beard, then unshouldered his pack slowly and set it on the ground. While he did this, the taller one, the bearded one, produced something Dylan was afraid he might see.

  A pistol.

  Not a revolver, but a semiautomatic, nickel-plated. Condensation formed on its surface as he pointed the gun at Webb.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Webb said as his arms went into the air, instantly entering negotiation mode. “Let’s just take it easy here.”

  “That’s what we’re doing,” Biker Beard said, glancing at Dylan as he spoke. “We’re taking it. And it’s easy.”

  “Krunk—”

  “Is your problem,” Biker Beard said. “You just turn around right now, get into that truck, and drive away, Krunk’s the only problem you’re gonna have. Otherwise, your biggest problem might be how to stop yourself from bleeding to death out here.”

  On cue, a fresh gust kicked up more dirty snow. Very spaghetti western, but Dylan didn’t like playing the part of the gunslinger. Didn’t have the stomach for it, after Iraq. Or the leg.

  The anorexic heaved Webb’s rucksack over a shoulder, then stooped to pick up his own backpack on the ground in front of him.

  Dylan picked that moment to act, pointing the .357 and firing at Biker Beard without pulling the revolver from his pocket. A crack lapped at the air, carried away instantly by the wind. White down exploded from Dylan’s jacket, and Biker Beard staggered.

  As he stepped backward, Dylan saw the muzzle of Biker Beard’s pistol emit a bright flash, followed by a hollow thunk; he tripped the hammer on his revolver again, punching another round into Bearded Guy and knocking him to his knees. Quickly he spun and aimed at Anorexic Guy, who was trying to dig into his backpack for something, and squeezed the trigger again. Anorexic Guy fell and went still.

  Biker Beard was still on his knees, running his hands over his chest as he crouched in the snow, an unformed question on his lips, a look on his face that said the preceding events hadn’t happened as he’d planned.

  Dylan knew how that went.

  “You hit?” Dylan called to Webb, watching as Biker Beard finally slumped to his side in the snow.

  “I . . . yeah. I think so.”

  Dylan glanced at Webb, who was cradling his right arm. A bright bloom of blood appeared at the shoulder, turning a spot of Webb’s blue coat a wet purple.

  “Okay. Just kick that guy’s gun away—don’t pick it up, but kick it away.”

  Webb did as instructed, holding his injured arm against his chest, then looked at Dylan again, waiting for new instructions. Evidently Webb wasn’t much into talking after being shot.

  “Go back to the truck,” Dylan instructed.

  “What about the money?”

  Surprise, surprise, Joni’s voice said. Guy gets shot, he’s still worried about the money.

  But the question was still there: what about the money? There really wasn’t a right answer; he knew this scenario was going to be bad news for him and Webb—even if Webb didn’t bleed to death—whatever he did. He could leave the money, walk away, and pretend this never happened. Trouble was, border patrol or drug runners or Indians from the Fort Belknap Reservation would likely stumble on the money and drugs . . . and none of them would just leave it sitting there. Krunk wouldn’t likely buy the story if he said they left everything, because Krunk would always be convinced that Dylan himself had hinked the deal. What was that old line?

  There’s no honor among thieves, Joni’s voice said.

  Or among drug mules, he answered.

  No, the better option was to take the cash and drugs.

  “You just get in the truck,” he finally said. “I’ll take care of it.” He took two steps forward, struggling as his left leg threatened to give, and pushed Anorexic Guy’s motionless body off the backpack.

  Told you this was a stupid idea.

  “Well, Joni,” he said aloud, “I’m a magnet for stupid ideas.”

  4

  After the IED in Iraq, after the months of rehab and pain, after dozens of therapy sessions talking about PTSD and feelings of helplessness, Dylan discovered the old saying was true: you can’t go home again.

  They cut him loose from the VA hospital in Sheridan, even booked him a flight home to Billings. He’d expected a car ride, maybe even a bus ticket, since he was only a few hours away from Billings, so the flight was something of a surprise. Just one of the many benefits of having your leg mangled in Iraq.


  He hadn’t spoken to his parents, hadn’t spoken to anyone on the Crow rez, really, since . . . since Joni. Hadn’t even spoken to the therapist about Joni, even though she’d asked him several times. Joni was off-limits to the outside world; the only place he could discuss her was inside his own mind. That was the one place, at least, he could still control. The outside world was filled with too many people wanting to help and diagnose and absolve you of your regret and guilt.

  But he needed to carry his regret and guilt; no one else could carry it for him.

  The VA hospital had wanted to inform his family of his discharges: his honorable discharge from the army as a wounded vet, and then, months later, his unceremonious discharge from VA care at the hospital. But he wouldn’t allow it. How could he? Your family and your heritage were vital components of your very essence as an Apsáalooke; by forsaking Joni, he’d forsaken a part of who he was. How could he expect his parents, his friends, his fellow members of the proud Greasy Grass Clan, to accept his failures when he himself could not?

  The army had given him a sense of belonging he’d lost on the rez. It had even connected him, in some ways, with his heritage. As part of the army, he’d become a proud Apsáalooke warrior, one of many dating back generations among the Crow people. On the rez, people still told the stories of Apsáalooke conquests, of Apsáalooke traditions and creation stories and honors. Most people on the Crow rez could even speak the Crow language, keeping the ancient and honored ways alive. Dylan had heard these stories so many times they’d become an ingrained part of who he was.

  At the same time, explosive ordnance disposal had been the perfect spot in the army for him. Finding and neutralizing IEDs, ammo stockpiles, and suspicious packages demanded precision and detail, traits that were also an ingrained part of who he was. His mind thrived on patterns, something he had been comfortable discussing with his therapist. She told him his mild compulsions—counting, grouping objects, even splitting anything in his field of vision into equal sections and shapes—were healthy ways of dealing with stress and disorder. Provided they didn’t take over his every waking thought.