“Leave her alone!” he screamed and with all of the fury and fear that flowed through him, he drove the jagged end of the bokken into Skins’s back. When the sword had snapped, it left a hardwood stump that was as sharp as a real blade, and Benny threw his weight behind the thrust. The jagged point bit deep into the soft spot above the bounty hunter’s belt, and Benny buried it to the hilt. Blood ran hot and red over his fist, and Skins whirled and clubbed him down. Benny fell, raising his arms to ward off the next blow, but Skins stood there, gasping like a fish out of water, eyes bugged wide in unbelieving surprise.
Nix stamped down hard on Turk’s foot and tore her wrists free of his grip, then shoved him in the chest as hard as she could, hoping to knock him over the rail. Turk was so busy staring at Skins that he was caught off guard, and staggered back all the way to the rail by the ladder, but he did not go over.
Instead, he caught his balance at the last second. Skins dropped heavily to his knees, the impact causing the metal catwalk to ring like a bell. His eyes rolled up, and he fell forward onto his face with a meaty crunch.
“You’re dead.” Turk snarled at Benny. He grabbed his pistol and whipped it from the holster, thumbing back the hammer in a smooth and practiced move. “I’ll friggin’ kill you both for—”
That was all he got out. It was all he would ever say again.
He looked down at his chest, at the bizarre thing that suddenly sprouted from between the ribs on the left side. Benny and Nix stared as well. The whole front of Turk’s shirt exploded with red as three gleaming inches of sharpened steel extruded from the bounty hunter’s chest. He tried to say something, but there was no air left in his lungs, no power left in his voice.
Behind him there was a blur of movement and a grunt of effort. The blade vanished, pulled back into the wound and then out of Turk’s body. Benny watched as the person behind him cocked a leg, placed a foot on the bounty hunter’s body, and shoved him forward, so that he landed face-down, inches from Skins.
The figure stood there in the harsh morning sunlight. Tattered jeans and hand-sewn leather moccasins, a shirt that had once been bright with a wildflower pattern, with a leather pouch slung across her body on a thin strap. Hair the color of newly fallen snow swirled around her tanned face, and she stared at them with cunning hazel eyes. In her tanned hands she held a spear crudely made from a long piece of quarter-inch black pipe wrapped in leather and topped with the blade from a Marine Corps bayonet.
The Lost Girl.
42
“WHO ARE YOU?” NIX ASKED, BUT AT THE SAME TIME BENNY SPOKE her name.
“Lilah!”
The girl stiffened, and the bloody spear swung around in his direction. Her hazel eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
Benny held up his hands. “No, wait … I’m Benny Imura.”
She showed no sign of recognition.
“I’m Tom Imura’s brother.”
The girl said nothing.
“My brother, Tom … He knew George!”
If he had struck her across the face, he could not have changed her expression more quickly. The suspicion vanished to be replaced by shock.
“G—George?”
She spoke the name, as if her throat was dusty from disuse, and Benny realized that in a very real way it probably was. Almost immediately her suspicions returned, and the tip of the spear rose another inch, level with his eye.
“Where?” she demanded. “George.”
Nix glanced at Benny, putting things together very quickly. “Is this her?” she whispered.
“George!” the Lost Girl prompted with a shake of her spear. Her voice was still a husky whisper, and Benny remembered that horrible story that Rob Sacchetto had told him of how Lilah had started screaming when the men in that little cottage had been forced to kill her mother after she’d reanimated as a zombie.
She screamed herself raw, and then she stopped talking. Those screams must have damaged her vocal chords for good, leaving her with a voice like a graveyard whisper.
God.
“I … don’t know where he is,” Benny said quickly. “My brother knew him. He helped George look for you.”