“You two.” She swung the end of her gun between Andy and Randall. “To the bedroom, slow. Sit in a chair when you get there. Put your hands behind you.”
The two men, paced by Violet, Edie, Wes, and Ken, with Marta bringing up the rear, walked slowly to the bedroom. Randall pointed to a chair and made an exaggerated shrugging gesture, lifting his eyebrows as if to say: This one? He still had that amused light in his eyes, as if he knew something Violet and the others didn’t; he’d pressed a secret call button, stashed a secret weapon. Marta was almost certain this wasn’t possible, but it made her even more uneasy.
“Just sit,” Violet said. “I wish you’d have been the one with the gun on Marta. I wouldn’t have felt a bit bad about taking that shot.”
“It’s not too late,” Randall said.
“That’s a fact.” Violet drew a bundle of zip ties from her pocket. “Andy, take the other chair.”
“Can I speak?” he asked.
“You can say whatever you want,” Violet said. “Marta, tie their wrists. Pull them really tight. Don’t worry about hurting them. Really dig in there.”
Randall’s arms were thick and pale and fringed with coarse black hair. He made fists as she pushed his hands into position, the tendons on his forearms popping. She wasn’t even sure the tie would span his wrists.
“I have a proposal,” Andy said.
Violet poked her gun into Randall’s shoulder. “Relax your goddamn arms.”
Marta got the tie around and managed to thread the end through the loop on the fourth try. She pulled two rungs, three, four. Straining, she managed to get the loop past a fifth rung. Violet came over and yanked to test.
“Good job,” she said.
“Do you want to hear it?” Andy asked.
“What?” she hissed, finally looking at him.
“You want to get across the Wall? You’re going to need me.”
“We don’t need shit from you.”
“Wrong,” Andy said.
“Do you want me to go ahead with the tie?” Marta asked Violet.
“Yes,” Violet said.
“And that’s cool, that’s fine,” Andy said, thrusting his arms out helpfully behind him. “Tie me up. Leave me tied up. Just take me along.” Marta bound his wrists, remembering his hands on her own wrists back at camp, the way he’d yanked the tie, the way he’d looked at her: as if she were contemptible, worse than contemptible. It felt good to do this. She muscled an extra rung through the loop.
“Look,” Violet said, “just stop. If you don’t try anything, you’ll be able to go with my—with June back to Ruby City. I shot Joe because I had to. I’m not looking to shoot you. I don’t have a problem with you.”
“I don’t want to go back to Ruby City,” Andy said. “I want to go home to my kids.”
“Too bad,” Violet said. “We don’t have room in the car for you.”
“You’re going to all get yourself shot like the others,” Andy said.
“I think we should listen to him.” Edie had lowered the revolver halfway.
“Big guy!” Violet called toward the living room. “Bring June in here.”
“Maybe we should hear him out,” Wes said.
June stumbled into the room, Berto following closely behind her. She went to the third chair without Violet’s asking and put her arms behind her. Marta tied her. The skin on June’s arms was translucent, banded with raised bluish veins. One of her fingernails was missing, long gone, and the others were neatly trimmed.
“Let me tell you all about Andy,” Violet said. “Andy who wants to see his kids so bad. Andy’s been sneaking over to Ruby City for ten years. June had him recruited out of a mental institution. Andy’s had a thousand chances to change his mind about helping us. Andy could have sold us out before you ever got on that bus to the Salt Line.”
“It’s all true,” Andy said. “And worse. Worse than that. I betrayed my best friend and got her killed. I did that, too. You’re still going to need my help.”
“Roz was right about you,” June said. She sounded tired and resigned. “She never liked you. She said it wasn’t even a matter of trust. She said you’re weak. She said you’re just looking for a crusade and it doesn’t matter what it is.”
“I guess you should have listened to her,” Andy said. “What did she say about Violet?”
June looked at Violet with unmistakable love. “She said Violet was a gift. She was right about that, too.”
Violet, Marta noticed, was making a concerted effort not to meet June’s eyes. “So you just changed your mind about everything,” she said to Andy.
“I thought I could do it. I thought I could leave them. But I can’t.”
“But you did,” Violet said. “You’re here. You were doing what June asked of you. That’s why you’re sitting in that chair with your arms tied.”
“Yeah, I’m a cowardly asshole. I’m an opportunist. I still want to go home.”
Edie said, “I believe him.”
“Me too,” said Ken Tanaka.
“Do we vote?” Wes asked.
“Do we vote? Jesus Christ,” Violet said. “This isn’t a goddamn club.”
“I say we take him,” Edie said. “We can put him in the trunk.”
“Sure! Put me in the trunk,” Andy said.
“Let’s take him,” Ken said. “We can always dump him later if we have to.”
Wes actually raised his hand. “Yeah, I say we take him.”
“I say we shoot him,” Berto said. “Or are the rest of you forgetting who drove off with our people? My wife? This piece of shit. I say we shoot him, then we shoot the other two, and then we figure out how to get back ourselves.”
“No one is shooting June,” Violet repeated. “That isn’t negotiable.”
“Marta,” Wes said. “What do you think?”
She stared at Andy, trying to have an opinion. Fatigue had settled upon her now that the flood of adrenaline in her system had begun its retreat. Maybe Andy was lying about knowing a way to get them home. Actually, he hadn’t even made that promise, had he? He’d just said that they needed him.
Maybe they did. Only time would tell.
“I say we take him,” she said. “If he’s willing to go in the trunk.”
“I have experience traveling in tight places,” Andy said. “As June knows.” He seemed almost cheerful. “Let’s do it.”
The OLE travelers looked at Violet, who sighed. “Fine. Get him out to the car. I’ll finish up in here.”
—
Even with Andy in the trunk of the car—a mongrel four-door sedan with a front passenger door that had to be tied shut and overlarge patchwork tires—things were going to be tight. Berto, by far the biggest of the group, agreed to drive. By unspoken consensus they saved the front passenger seat for Violet; Marta wasn’t sure if this was an act of gratitude or deference rising out of some residual fear of her.
Their boots hadn’t been restored to them. They stood on the gravel driveway gingerly in their sock feet (Edie’s feet, clad in Marta’s spare pair, were comically white), heads cocked for activity from within the house. Berto stood behind the car with his gun resting on the roof, pointed toward the front door. Though, if Randall were to somehow best Violet and escape, she imagined he would steal out the back. That, or aim Violet’s gun between the boarded-up windows and pick them off as they ran.
“I can’t believe we’re not shooting them,” Berto said again.