FORTY-NINE

Caitlyn’s guards—or protectors—had agreed to Caitlyn’s request for her to sit outside the shanty in the late afternoon sun. Sky had nearly cleared again, and wind was dying. It signaled the imminent return of heat. Which might make a night in the shanty more comfortable.

It didn’t take her long to realize that the grouping of shanties in this area was deliberate, housing a close-knit family unit with a small common center area.

Nor did it take her long to realize that the few children playing on the dusty ground in the tiny open area inside this circle of shanties were forbidden to leave the common area. These children were Industrials, marked by facial tattoos, showing that their parents had been given permission by the government to have the children.

Influentials had learned from how the Muslims had toppled Europe a generation earlier, not through war but through population growth. Originally, Europeans had welcomed immigration as cheap labor, expecting the predominantly Muslim immigrants to integrate. Instead, Muslims had remained in cloistered communities, raising families, on average, of eight children. Within seventy years, the Muslim population numbers had so dominated the Europeans’ that Muslims were able to easily outvote any opposition, and in effect, the countries had become theirs, including the imposition of sharia laws that reduced rights for women.

Here, in the shantytowns, Influentials weren’t going to let that mistake be repeated. Industrials, the descendants of illegal immigrants who had once flooded America from Mexico and south to take the jobs citizens didn’t want, were limited to two children. Both would be registered and tattooed with a distinctive bar code pattern needed for access through all checkpoints. Any other children would be Illegals, allowed to mingle with Industrials in the shantytowns and soovies but barred from the city core and any official employment, forced to live with all the perils that came with it.

Caitlyn watched one girl in particular, maybe three years old. She didn’t join in the vigorous games, and all the other children seemed solicitous of her well-being.

Caitlyn walked up to one of the men and asked.

He shrugged, but it wasn’t a shrug of indifference.

“She’s sick. Something inside eating at her. We don’t know. She cries a lot at night. When she falls, she cuts easy. Takes weeks for the wound to heal. We’re careful with her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s life,” he said. “You take it as it is.”

“Timothy Raymond Zornenbach?” Melvin said. Then cackled. “Good luck, man. The old dude is sick, like twisted sick. Talks to nobody. Has a dozen different places to live. Makes it so no one ever sees him.”

“He’s got a son,” Holly said. “Legally adopted. Named Timothy Ray. Have you met the kid?”

“The son is news to Melvin,” Melvin said.

Again, Pierce had let Holly take this one. They were in a crowded coffee shop just down the street from the Pavilion. Melvin called it his office, refused to speak unless Jimmy was allowed to stay beside him. The big man was mute, cradling a bandaged hand in his good one. Pierce glanced at the big man’s ears, looking for where Caitlyn had bit him after dropping from the ceiling.

Melvin’s background was similar to men like him in other quadrants. A nonvoter, he had citizenship papers that allowed him residence inside the city walls, and as a person with vocational education, he fell into the invisible gray area between Influentials at the top and the uneducated Industrials and Illegals at the bottom. Unofficially, he knew what he was. An Invisible. Officially, he was registered as a custodial technician, employed, in theory, at various buildings to monitor and fix the heating and cooling systems. Officially, that’s what provided his income.

Unofficially, however, his income depended on how well he controlled the Illegals who found gaps in the system. Like rats, Illegals were impossible to eradicate, in part because Influentials wanted some of what the Illegals could provide—drugs, prostitutes. As a result, unofficially, Enforcers allowed men like Melvin a degree of power based on their abilities to keep the seamier parts concealed from official notice.

“No son,” Holly said in response to Melvin’s comment. Pierce observed that Melvin, unlike Everett, showed intense interest in Holly’s appearance. Almost to the point of lasciviousness. And Pierce noticed that Holly seemed impervious to Melvin’s wandering eyes.

“No son,” Melvin said. “But the dude loves sewer kids. Buys them. Makes them pretty. Gets rid of them after a few years.”

Melvin cackled. “Guess it means he’s had lots of sons.”

“Buys them from you?” Holly said.

Melvin slammed his right hand on the arm of his wheelchair. “Not a chance. Melvin don’t traffic in that. Never.”

“Who’s the old man go to to get the kids?” Holly asked.

“Told you. Direct to the sewer. Spreads the cash, so I hear.”

“How about Melvin finds the old man for us?”

Melvin smiled. “Cash delivery.” And he named a price.

“Not a chance,” Holly said. Smiling. Mimicking Melvin’s cadence of speech. “Holly don’t traffic in that. Never.”

“Then don’t expect help from Melvin,” Melvin said.

“No problem,” Holly said. “Did I forget to mention this?”

She leaned forward and tapped the front handle of Melvin’s wheelchair. “Later, when Melvin gets a chance, Melvin should take a close look here.”

“Why?” Melvin was grinning. He’d copped a look at Holly’s cleavage as she leaned forward. Obviously wanted the grin to let her know it too.

“Melvin will find a hidden camera there.”

His grin ended abruptly.

Holly’s smile was sweet, like little-girl innocence. “Melvin’s going to help us, or Melvin’s going to have to deal with what happens when Melvin’s private life hits the streets.”

Jimmy looked at the floor.

Holly continued smiling. “What does Melvin think about that?”

Pierce hid his admiration. He sure liked her style.