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Then, loud and defiant, Jeevan says, “I miss the Graveyard.”
That brings silence from everyone. And now that he has their attention, Jeevan says, even more loudly, “I miss the way Connor did things.” It is brave; it is foolhardy. Bam didn’t know that Jeevan had it in him.
No one responds for a few moments. Then a voice from the back says, “So do I.”
Bam waits to see if anyone one else voices an opinion, but no one does. Still, she can tell from many of their faces that they agree. They’re just afraid to say so.
“Well,” says Bam, “maybe it can be like that again.”
She pushes it no further, because she knows that some of the kids in the truck are the kind that worship Starkey, which means word of this conversation will get back to him. Even now, Garson DeGrutte is eying her bitterly. She takes a deep breath, and lets it out, then tries to offer Jeevan a comforting smile, but there isn’t much comfort in it, because she knows the next war may not be at a harvest camp at all.
17 • Argent
Many miles to the north, Argent Skinner continues to ride shotgun beside Jasper Nelson in a U-Haul van, having added a fifth AWOL to their catch. According to Nelson, five healthy AWOLs can bring twenty, maybe thirty thousand dollars. Although math was never Argent’s forte, he’s already figured that a haul like this once a week could bring one-point-five million in a year and still leave time for vacation.
Their destination is a Canadian border city called Sarnia, which has the dubious distinction of being the most polluted city in Canada, what with the remains of old petroleum companies and the Chemical Valley corporations that still spew mysterious waste into the water and air. Some might consider Divan Umanov to be part of Sarnia’s pollution—but to Argent, the mysterious black-market dealer could be his personal savior.
“So, what do we call him?” Argent asks Nelson when they cross the bridge into Canada. “Does he have a title or anything?”
Nelson sighs, as if to telegraph how put out he is by the question. “I’ve heard people refer to him as a flesh lord, but he doesn’t like that. He’s a businessman. He calls himself an independent supplier of biological upgrades.”
Argent laughs at that, and Nelson returns a frown that cancels out anything jovial. “He takes his profession very seriously. You’d be wise to do the same.”
• • •
Divan is not there when they offload the five AWOLs at the Porsche dealership that serves as a front for his operation.
“He spends, now, much of his time ‘camping,’?” they are told by an employee of undefined eastern European background, whose English skills are marginal at best. Nelson explains that “camping” is code for time spent overseeing his harvest camp. It’s a place that not even Nelson has ever seen.
“He flies in, he flies out,” Nelson tells Argent. “It’s not my business to know where he does his unwinding, as long as I get paid for the AWOLs I bring him.” And although Argent has a curious streak, the last thing he’d ever want would be a tour of a black-market harvest camp.
“You will please be his guests at his private residence until he should return,” they are told, and are given the keys to a dealership Porsche to make the drive. Argent’s the one who grabs the keys from the man’s hands, but gives them to Nelson, knowing the alternative would be getting tranq’d again. Shocking the monkey has apparently paid off.
“Sweet ride, but isn’t he afraid we might steal it?” Argent asks Nelson as they take to the road. Nelson laughs at the suggestion and doesn’t dignify him with an answer.
• • •
The residence turns out to be a simple A-frame cabin on a wooded bluff overlooking Lake Huron, four hours north of Sarnia. The cabin appears unremarkable and indistinguishable from all the other woodsy A-frames in the area. Argent is profoundly disappointed.
“He lives in that thing? We drove all the way here for this?”
The first hint that things are not as they seem is the butler who greets them. Argent finds it odd that a structure this small would require a servant. Then, once they enter the “cabin,” all of Argent’s perceptions and assumptions take a dramatic shift.
The angular A of the cabin is
very literally the tip of the iceberg, because its ever-widening base extends underground for three more stories, creating space within the structure at least ten times its appearance from the outside. Inconspicuous windows are carved into the stone of the bluff, giving the “cabin” a glorious view of the lake, and the décor could match the ritziest of mountain lodges. Everything’s crafted from fine polished wood. The walls are festooned with the mounted heads of a tiger, a rhino, a polar bear, and a dozen other extinct species.
“So Divan hunts?” Argent asks the butler as they descend a grand staircase into the expansive living room.
The man turns up his nose, offended. “Hardly. He collects.”
There are other staff members to round out the crew. A maid who seems to endlessly dust, and a chef about as intimidating as an executioner, but who prepares a dinner for them that tastes better than anything Argent has ever eaten. Never in his life has he experienced this kind of first-class treatment or seen this kind of wealth. He concludes that for Divan, business must be very good.
• • •
They are given the white-glove treatment for four days.
Four days of leisurely living with no sign of the master of the house. Nelson, who has, by and large, been able to avoid contact with Argent except for meals, now becomes increasingly impatient. Maybe even a little bit nervous.
