The Final Trade Read Online Free PDF Page B

drinks, holding back the question so he won’t think that’s the only reason she’s happy to see him. But when she sets the steaming mug of dark liquid before him, he’s already shaking his head, reading her mind.
    “Didn’t find any.”
    Her heart sinks. “Really? None? You were gone for two days. I thought . . .”
    “Some d-Con, but you said not to get that.”
    “No. It won’t work.”
    He sips his coffee and grimaces. “Boiled ass.”
    “You know what that tastes like?”
    He flips her the middle finger casually while taking another drink, their banter like a comfortable blanket. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find any,” he says, his tone more sober. “We only passed by one farm that I was able to convince Darner to stop at, and then it took Fitz and me the better part of twenty minutes to separate ourselves from the rest of the party.”
    “Do you think Fitz suspects anything?”
    “He knows we’re going to leave here soon.”
    “And he’s ready?”
    “He’s terrified,” Robbie says, shooting her a look. “Just like I am.”
    “It will work.”
    “You always say that, but you’ve never told me why it has to be ten-eighty. Why that specific type?”
    Wen sighs, looking down at her hands. She waits for them to shake but they don’t. “My father grew up on a sheep ranch in southern Idaho. When he was a boy he had a dog named Dusty. He told me he named him that because when he was just a puppy he would run so fast down their dirt road that he’d nearly disappear in the cloud of dust that flew up behind him. Coyotes and wolves were a problem back then and there was no way for the farmers to keep watch over all of the flock, especially on a ranch the size that he lived on, so my grandfather took to poisoning the carcasses of rabbits he shot. He’d leave them around the perimeter of the fences and most of the time there’d be a dead coyote or wolf lying not far away the day after.” Wen stands and moves to the sink, dumping the last half of her coffee down the drain. She doesn’t turn around, only stares at the wall. “My father said he was always really mindful of where Dusty roamed. Wherever he went, the dog followed and vice versa. But one day Dusty caught wind of something and didn’t turn back when my dad called him.”
    “Ah shit,” Robbie says.
    “He found him chewing the last of a rabbit down on the far side of their property. It didn’t take long. Right away Dusty started snapping and biting at the air. Then he ran in circles as fast as he could, but the worst thing, my dad told me, was the sound he kept making. It was a cross between a howl and a moan, and Dusty made it until he collapsed and quit breathing an hour later.”
    Wen turns and looks at Robbie whose face is even more bloodless than before. “He told me he’d never forget the numbers on the side of the jugs he helped his father empty into a hole later that day. Ten-eighty. He said he saw those numbers in his dreams for nearly a year after Dusty died.”
    “Damn, you really know how to welcome someone home. Why the fuck would your dad tell you that?”
    Wen shrugs. “He was a drinker. Not sure he even remembered telling me afterward. When he’d get really liquored up he’d try to imitate how Dusty sounded before he died.” Robbie shifts on his seat, fidgets with his cup. When he doesn’t look up at her she moves closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you having second thoughts?”
    “No. Not really. See, you . . . you could run and they’d just scoop you up and bring you back. Maybe put you in one of the containers for a night. But me? I know what would happen if everyone found out about me and Fitz.” He makes a chopping gesture toward the back of his neck. “Can’t have any queers running around in this brave new world.” He laughs humorlessly. “I was a contributor to an e-zine for two years before everything went to shit. Those were the happiest times of my life. And now look at me,