Three days with the Grahams, and neither they nor Imogen could imagine their lives had ever been different. Imogen – "Dusty" – mostly stayed downstairs in the kitchen, turning potatoes, jerky, eggs, and canned peaches into full, delicious, hearty meals. She ran up and downstairs for Momma, who appreciated the relief.
Henry told her it was great she'd dropped in. They'd need someone to run the shop once Elena gave birth, if only for a few weeks. Henry had to be out most of the day, on supply, maintenance, or security runs. He spent the first morning training her how to use the cash register and a few hidden weapons, and showing her how the shop could be sealed up in the event of a storm. Then he left, and Elena supervised Imogen at the register. It was easy. Only perhaps ten customers came by, but since this was the only decent stop in the region, and the only one with many types of vital travel supplies, most dropped over a hundred dollars each.
None threatened Imogen or Elena. The sense of civilization was strong in this little shop. The customers, rough-necks and obvious scoundrels though they were, seemed to feel it.
Elena was kind when she wasn't bitching. She let Imogen rub her back, and laughed – in a friendly way – at "Dusty's" feminine fingers and girly mannerisms.
"Your boyfriend's gonna be a lucky man when you grow up, Dusty," she teased. Imogen hardly knew how to react.
A week passed, and now it was standard that at night, they all stayed up around the folding poker table while Imogen told stories – myths she'd learned in school that were high entertainment to the bored, uncultured wasteland folks. Henry in particular soaked them up, asking questions, hanging on her words.
She loved them all, and knew they loved her. Him. Whatever. She'd never felt safer or more like she belonged, not even in Castle Santa Clara.
A month into her stay with the Grahams, Imogen, alone in the kitchen, cooking a fry-up and humming, realized all at once that she hadn't thought about Leon, or about any of her past life in California, for at least an entire day. It was fading. Behind her. Behind him, because as time passed, Imogen felt more and more like she truly was Dusty the gawky boy and not a princess in disguise. Her new, lower voice asserted itself automatically; she no longer worried about it, fearing a slip.
She had begun to forget it was a disguise at all. That she had had a former life, a smiling lover who had betrayed her. Life here in the store was honest, pleasant, free in its way.
And change was coming. Elena's baby would be here any day. Elena was worried about the risks of giving birth on the flats, without access to a hospital, but they had Dr. Morgan, after all. And Henry had somehow managed to order a supply of, not only spare sheets, but rubber gloves, an umbilical clamp, and surgical needles and thread, in case of complications.
Somehow Imogen doubted there would be, though. Elena was as tough as they came. Imogen suspected she'd drop the baby standing, pick it up, strap it to her chest, and carry on with the inventory stacking.
Imogen couldn't be looking forward to the new arrival more if the baby were her own niece or nephew, and in her daydream, the California worries slipped away, leaving her to build the small, happy fantasies of painting a crib and helping babysit.
A hand closed over her shoulder; a month ago, she would have screamed, but it had been so long since she'd felt physically threatened, now she only smiled at the strength and warmth of the touch.
"What's up, Henry?" she asked.
"Just whore hunting," answered Travis McGowan's voice. "Bang."
Imogen had the wherewithal to try to attack; she spun with the frying pan, thinking to burn him, but he anticipated her. Her wrist was suddenly clamped in his, and the pan banged to the ground, fanning greasy bits across the floor.
"Should I put this in the fire?" he asked. His body was wrapped around hers like Skintex, and he extended his arm, and her hand, toward the wide blue gas-flame. At the first brush of heat, Imogen's whole body contracted with terror and jerked against Travis, but he was inexorable. A muscle-bound machine.
"I would, bitch," he hissed in her ear. "I would. But your daddy wouldn't want any marks on you, would he? Not on your hands and face, at least. But believe me, bitch, tomorrow you're gonna be burning somewhere."
"HENRY!" Imogen screamed, but the word was cut short; Travis spun her and casually, expertly jammed his fist into her left kidney.
Pain exploded inside her. She dropped to her knees, as helpless as if she'd been unconscious. It was unbearable. He'd killed her, she was sure of it; she could have sworn she actually heard her organs rupture at the impact, and now she was bleeding internally, bile and blood and urine oozing together into a burning, spreading pool that would eat her from inside out.
She didn't even resist as Travis dragged her up the stairs by her elbow. The clatter of her bones against the concrete frightened her, but already she was beyond additional pain. All she wanted was to be unconscious. To die.
Certainly, death would be better than whatever Travis had planned.
The shop spun around her; where was Elena? God, she'd been at the register – he must have hurt her. Killed her. The baby, oh, no, this was all her fault –
The world split and sparked; divided in two; realigned in faintly different colors. Travis had pulled her too quickly, and cracked her forehead on the metal doorway.
Blood was in her eyes.
"Bitch," she heard, as if through a thick wall. "Bitch, you got any idea how long I've been looking for you?"
Travis threw her to the ground, and she stared up at a flat picture of rolling red clouds, broken only by the edge of the gas station veranda. Why wouldn't this end? Why couldn't she pass out?
"How do I look?" Travis asked, and his face, which she hadn't yet gotten a good look at, filled her vision; he was on top of her.
God, he looked awful. Every pore he had was full of flatland grit; his hair, which she had only ever seen styled into fluffy, perky points, hung limp and ragged over bloodshot eyes.
One of his teeth was broken, and in her pain-filled delirium, Imogen could have sworn Leon's tattoo sat on the side of his face. The image swam.
It wasn't Travis at all, anymore. It was Leon. Leon smiling, glowing down at her. "You're beautiful, you know that, babe?"
And for an instant she was back, a nineteen year old in love with a beautiful, sweet, wonderful boy.
The vision cleared, and it was Travis again, snarling down at her, his weight all over her.
She realized she'd said Leon's name, because as Travis tore at her clothes, he hissed, "Surfer boy's not here to save you, bitch."
God. She couldn't take this. Not on top of the pain, not after she'd felt so safe, so happy – after believing she had escaped…
"I swore," Travis panted. He'd gotten to her ace bandage, and was tearing at it clumsily; his fingers dug between her ribs, in the sensitive cartilage, making her scream. "Swore that when I found you, alone out here, I'd show you what you're missing. You told me I wasn't worthy of Leon's uniform. How's it look on me now, you little tramp? Pretty good? You like that, don't you, you little slut?"
He was pressing her hand to his pants, against his erection, and she was too injured to fight.
"I like the disguise," he said. "Always said you were a dyke, and now you've proved it. I bet you'll like the taste of my dick, though. I'm gone grind you into the sand, bitch, and when I'm done, you'll beg me for more, because that's all you are, a set of holes for me to – "
There was a noise like a champagne cork popping, and Travis' weight was off her. She was staring at the rolling clouds again, immobile, and too shell-shocked to care what was happening, so long as he wasn't touching her anymore.
There was a smell like burnt toast. A roar of fury and pain.
"Yup," went Henry's voice, somewhere in the distance, or maybe that was him, standing six feet away, holding his recently-fired spit shiner and looking darn proud of himself. "That's what an acid plug feels like. Sit back and relax, another one's on its way. Oh, no, run if you want to. You ain't gonna outrun me, not with that hole in your ass."
Beautiful words, but Imogen was hardly aware if they were real or imagined. Then she found herself upright, leaning on Elena's sturdy shoulders – Elena had a swelling goose egg over one eye – and the two women made their way slowly back into the shop. The notification bell jingled merrily over their heads, mixing itself bizarrely with the sound of Travis' screams.
Elena may have been nine months pregnant, but she'd never felt more capable of tossing a man into a wood chipper and holding his head till the screaming stopped.
Lord, Dusty was a mess.
She and Henry had long since worked out that their little stowaway was female, but it had never quite clicked. Elena had had a dog once, long ago, that was female but looked male, and her family had called it Grover and said, "Here, boy," to it because it felt right, and so it had with Dusty.
Now, with clothes half-off and the chest-shrinking ace bandaged ripped, the sweet little guy was transformed into a tall, willowy woman, and Dusty's shy face with its pretty, downcast eyes was a mess of black and blue and blood.
Dusty's hands were shaking, and he couldn't stay upright; he walked bent, protecting a spot beneath his ribs, and once Elena had gotten the kid on the cold, clean tile and pulled his… her… hands away, she could see why.
Jesus, Dusty would be lucky to survive this. The bruise was sinister, dark, the size of a softball. It spread visibly as Elena watched.
"Holy Christ, kid," said Elena. "Hang on. No, don't move – I said don't move, and you're gonna listen to me, you hear? Stay."
She clambered down the stairs and returned with a blanket, a fresh T-shirt, and three pillows. She found Dusty sitting up on the floor, looking haggard but more awake.
Dusty accepted the shirt without a word and pulled it on. The shreds of his shirt and ace bandages lay all around him.
"Secret's out, huh," he whispered.
"Kid, shut your face, nobody here cares about your plumbing. And those tits got nothing on mine."
Dusty burst into nervous giggles. He – and he was still a he to Elena, especially now that he had a man's shirt on, covering up the not-unimpressive breasts – let Elena lay him down on the pillows, and curled the blanket tightly around himself.
Elena felt his forehead. The kid was cool to the touch, too cool. He was shivering. She got another blanket, and Dusty clutched at it, teeth clacking violently.
"He's in shock," said Momma, who had finally waddled her way up the stairs. Elena had filled her in while gathering the blankets. "I'll take care of him. Go help your husband. I want that bastard nailed to the Utah cross, you hear me?"
Elena frowned down at Dusty. "I want to shoot him some too, but… is Dusty gonna be okay, Momma?"
Momma had pried the blankets from Dusty's hands and was probing at the spreading bruise. "Not sure, hon, but you can't help. Get on out of here. Don't let nobody see you killing that fucker."
Elena left, taking a couple spare acid plugs for Henry.