Rootless - Howard Chris (книги бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗

Sal made a face. “Maybe they just didn’t give a damn about me.”

I went ahead and stood, walked over and grabbed the nail gun off the floor. The fat kid just watched me do it.

“You feel like doing a little tree hunting yourself?” he said, fixing me with a look.

“Tree hunting?” I shoved the nail gun in his chest and pushed him to his knees. “Ain’t a good idea to go waving this thing around ’less you’re gonna use it, son.”

“I ain’t your son,” he whispered, his pale cheeks quivering, his eyes about to cry.

“Take it easy,” I said, pulling the gun off him. “You got enough corn to last all winter. Wait long enough and your dad’ll be back along. Though he might be empty-handed.”

I went to leave, but Sal stopped me. His whiny little voice calling up from the floor. “You’re right,” the kid said. “He’ll never find them. He’s screwed. Completely screwed.”

“Yeah?” I said, turning back to him. “And why’s that?”

“Because he’s looking in the wrong place.”

Frost had left behind a case of corn liquor, and Sal helped himself to a bottle as he sat amid the pots and pans on the counter downstairs. I still had the nail gun in my hand, but the kid was talking plenty without me pointing it at him. And that was good. Swinging that thing around at people leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“She’s got numbers.” Sal belched on the whiskey, acting like some shrunk-down version of his old man. “On the tree. Numbers on every leaf.”

“So?”

“So you ever heard of GPS?”

I shook my head.

“It’s like a map,” Sal said. “Or a compass. Plug in the coordinates you need to find and the GPS tells you where it’s at.”

“And you believe that?”

“They say there’s things up there,” Sal said. “Orbiting out of view. Moving across the night. Satellites, they were called. It’s them that tell the GPS how to get there.”

“And you just punch in those numbers?”

“Leaves pointing up give you the north coordinates. You add them together, then subtract the ones that point south, down toward her you know what.” The kid laughed hard, snorting out his nose like he’d just stopped breathing. “You get the easting coordinate the same way. The sideways leaves.”

“How do you know?”

“Crow’s been looking into this for years, that’s how. He knew the story long before he found the woman.”

“So it’s a story, then. Don’t mean it’s true.”

Sal rolled his eyes at me. “Of course it’s true, tree boy. If GenTech believes it. But Crow never knew about the last tattoo, that’s his problem.”

“The last tattoo?”

“Oh? You didn’t find it on your little midnight adventure?” Sal scrunched his face up, his skin all sweaty and gross. “The last tattoo’s on Zee, you idiot. Small and hidden. She probably doesn’t even know it’s there herself.”

He plopped off the counter and turned his back at me, stabbing a pudgy finger right above his ass crack. “Base of her spine,” Sal said. “Right here. And that leaf points all the way down.”

“How the hell’d you see it?”

Sal turned and winked at me. “Told you she ain’t my sister.”

Should’ve left right then, right?

But the kid kept talking.

“So they’re going to be too far north. Without the correction. But you get us a GPS, and I can get us to the right place.”

“You can’t know all them numbers.”

“Wrong again, tree boy. Wrong again.”

Sal led us back to Frost’s empty study. I stared at the clean desk, the cold TV screen, but Sal dug me in the ribs and pointed at the ceiling.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Sal whispered, and I wasn’t sure if he meant the woman or the tree, but up there, plastered on the ceiling in a jigsaw puzzle of photographs, Frost’s wife was stretched out with her eyes closed and her top pulled off and the tattoo about as alive as it could be.

“So many numbers,” I said, squatting down and craning my neck.

“And I got them all locked right here. Zee’s, too.” Sal tapped his greasy head. “But I say we bring the pictures with us.”

“With us?”

“I told you. Get me a GPS and I can find us the right place.”

“Sure. GPS. Anything else you might need?”

“If Crow found one, we can find one.”

I thought about it. “Only one place worth looking.”

“Vega.”

I stared at the ceiling, studied the tree. “How about you just tell me the number?” I said. “The correction.”

Sal shook his head. “I’ll never tell you.” He glanced at the nail gun. “That’s why you’ve got to take me with you.”

“Take you with me, huh?”

“That’s right.” His voice got scratchy. “You need me. Like I need you. And together we can catch us some trees, Banyan. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He was right. It was all I wanted. That forest could give me my old man back and a whole new life and a future like that’s all the Promised Land you need. I knew I’d do anything to get there.

Anything at all.

The forty is the only road west, and it takes you all the way to Vega. If you’re lucky.

Head across the plains in the hot months and the locusts will strip your bones once you hit the corn. So you wait till winter falls and the corn has been zapped by cold. Locusts don’t hatch again till spring so the forty should be good to go. All you have to worry about is pirates. And poachers.

Plus you got to pray that you don’t get taken. Sure, folk go missing all over. Most places you go there’s someone disappeared without trace. But it’s worse on the plains. Just like the sun burns worse and the dirt blows worse and the hazard winds don’t ever seem to quit.

Bits of the forty are solid, old tarmac sticky beneath the wheels. But mostly the dust slows your tires as it clouds up your windshield. And sometimes you got to drive blind.

Sal had found the camera and the bag full of photos, right where Zee had stashed them below the passenger seat. Now he kept messing with the camera, shooting pictures at the brown sky as we drove west.

“Shouldn’t waste it,” I told him as he held up another blurred image.

“Why?” He turned and snapped a picture of me with my hands on the wheel.

“’Cause it ain’t yours.”

“Whatever. What kinds of trees do you think are growing there, anyway?” The kid had the camera up his shirt now, taking pictures of his belly.

“Who cares? I don’t reckon beggars can be choosers.”

“I read books all about them. Apple trees and banana trees, mangoes and limes. Walnuts and cherries and peaches and plums. Hey.” Sal shoved the camera in my face. “Smile.”

I grabbed the camera from him and shoved it beneath my seat. And it wasn’t long before Sal had grown bored enough that he was curled up and napping, the road bouncing his head against the car window, his mouth all scummy with spit.

The bag was open at Sal’s feet and I leaned over and riffled through the images we’d peeled off Frost’s ceiling. The tattoo coordinates all mapped out on skin. Then I flicked through the pictures Zee had taken. Shots of Crow and Sal were mixed in with ones of me rigging the understory. And I hardly recognized myself in those photos, my face lost in concentration, my hands buried in their work.

I checked the fuel gauge and we were doing pretty good considering how much weight I’d added, what with the juice and the corn and slobber boy. Another day or so and we’d be across the plains and heading into the cornfields, that shimmering zone of thirty-foot plants and crop poachers and field hands and GenTech agents. But the cornfields couldn’t be counted on. Not yet. Because up ahead, through the dirt clouds, I began to spy our first signs of trouble.