Heedless of his weariness the girl had hurried on ahead, and he, unable to keep pace had lost her in the darkness. Or had she meant to leave him behind? Cold trees pressed all round, reaching out skeletal branches to snatch at his clothing. Where had she gone? He despaired of finding his way back to the sanctuary of the Village alone. He cursed her for abandoning him to this black hell as the trap he had laid for himself closed in. He should never have trusted her.
Near blind with fear he stumbled forward, wanting nothing more than to be watched over by the protective eyes of his masters. In his reckless hast he fell, clawing and scratching at ground. Wild with panic he tried in vain to gain his feet amid the dark tangle. There was no way out. He gave way to despair. Weeping bitterly he crawled through the underbrush. Thorny fingers tore at him, trying to pull him into the deep shadows beneath the foliage. He did not want to go there. Not into that damp, dark, decay. The the dead waited among the rotten leaves. Men and women. Prisoners. Numbers. Nothing. They mocked him now, jeering at him from their cold graves. In a frenzy he fought to escape.
Laughter caused him to freeze.
Number Six?
"She has gone and left you in a tight spot, hasn't she?"
Frantically he found his feet and searched for his tormentor. But Number Six was hidden from him in the impenetrable darkness.
A derisive laugh floated on the air. "Never trust a woman."
His voice had to be forced out of a throat that seemed paralyzed. "You can't be here."
"Quite right."
Number Six seemed close enough to grab him. He failed about himself and croaked. "Keep away! I'll kill you!"
"I think not." the voice mocked. "Looks as if you're wanted by the Head Master."
He glanced round and saw a pulsating light. He had seen in once before. During his initiation, deep in that cold, stone cavern beneath the Village. He had ascended the circular steps for the meeting he scarce recalled, but he shuddered now as he had then.
Now the light pulsed. Beckoning. Commanding his approach. In the chamber he had feared it. But there had been the comfort of ceremony and the esteem of his new office to give him courage.
But here there was only emptiness and the Eye where it aught not to be. He turned away.
"Are you afraid?"
Number Six. Somehow he'd forgotten so dangerous an enemy. He wheeled round, searching and again found nothing. The man seemed to be mere shadow, taunting him from some ghostly realm.
The disembodied voice goaded him. "Don't you want to know who's behind it all?"
He forced the words out through the paralysis of his vocal cords. "I already know."
"Do you really?"
Unable to bear it any longer he ran, unmindful of the dark path.
He heard the warning, coming as if from inside his own mind.
"Best watch your step, Rover is on the hunt."
Then suddenly it was there. Roaring out of the night, filling the world with its terrible evil. An angel of death sent to punish him for his transgressions. He shrank back, seeking a place to hide, even among the dead. But it was already upon him, its white skin emanating a thousand points of pain. A scream ripped itself from his wooden throat.
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He woke with the sound still echoing in his mind. Had he uttered the scream aloud? As he stared up at the ceiling, he felt as if the safety of his room had been violated by the dream; and something else. Awareness brought the sensation that he was not alone. From the dark corners eyes seemed to watch. To judge. His fumbling fingers found a lamp, but the light failed to dispel them. They had no right to spy on him here, in his private chambers. He was not an inmate. But rather than the righteous indignation he aught to feel, the realization caused him to pull the covers up protectively, like a small child hiding from the monsters.
He mustn't get over excited. After all he had nothing to fear from his betters. Before he had been permitted to go to his bed he had faced the red phone. But this time he had not groveled. He had not begged, bargained or wept. Artfully he had turned their desire against them, pouring into their eager ears the lies they longed to believe. His breach of etiquette was quickly forgotten as he informed them that he had made Number Seven confess. In her mortal fear the girl had assured him that Number Six was well and truly broken. They would soon have what they were after. Their praise had been balm to his shattered mind and he found himself swept up in the fantasy with them. He had triumphed over the Village's most difficult subject.
It wasn't until after he had gone to his restless sleep that he remembered the truth. It was not he who had made a deal with the prisoner, but rather she who had made a deal with him. The realization threatened his tenuous hold on his faculties.
Now as he lay in a cold sweat beneath the blankets her betrayal in the dream disturbed him. Was she, even now, preparing her knives for him? A troubling thought. And then another came unbidden, far more terrifying than the first. Was she one of them?
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It was daylight, but just. The room was as dim as his memory of being brought back to it. It must not have been so many hours ago. They had kept him at the hospital most of the night, visiting upon him as much abuse as they dared under the guise of a medical examination. Number Six lay quiet for a moment, knowing what was to come. Already the head protested at the mere act of opening the eyes. There was a place at the back of it that felt hot and swollen. It throbbed against the pillow. A billy club had done that when it put a brief end to the trouble he had been giving them.
In the interval between full waking consciousness and action he allowed his memories to coalesce. Yesterday's events burned at the forefront. Number Two had gotten the girl away from him and bought himself ample time for whatever evil mischief he had in mind.
But something had gone wrong. Even the confines of the hospital had not shielded him from it. He had heard the alarm and read it in the eyes of his keepers. Through the veil of his private suffering he had caught the whispered rumors. Number Two, in his unchecked ambition, had violated some ancient taboo.
To deny the watchers any pleasure at the misery that had been inflicted upon him he ignored the protest of his body. Bracing himself against the pain he sat up, and without supplication to its demands for caution gained his feet and set about dressing.
To his surprise and suspicion, he found the door, even at this early hour, his willing servant. It swung open to the cool morning. A morning devoid of interfering guards or marauding beach balls. Whatever the girl's fate he was meant to discover it.
The first rays of the sun clothed the high peeks in a cheery pink blush. No dark clouds gathered behind them. Confirmation of a known fact. The girl had not escaped.
The early morning streets were empty; as was the girl's house. He knew it even before the door admitted him with mocking obedience. He stood for a moment in the doorway casting an eye about the simple room. The bed had been slept in. Some things were disturbed in the kitchen. His gaze swept to a camera. At some point Casey, like himself, had been returned to her room. By Number Two's order or that of another? What was the consequence for such an egregious breach of Village decorum? Was the man still in charge of this circus?
The weariness of his battered mind and body inspired a sudden impatience at the tiresome game.
He faced a camera and demanded of his tormentor. "Where is she?"
The quiet that answered him was absolute.
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Number Two slouched in the cavernous chair still swathed in his dressing gown. The bitter coffee, delivered on its silver tray, had failed to penetrate the mental fog of lost sleep. He was only dimly aware that the distress of the man trapped in the camera's eye failed to bring him any satisfaction. Absently he flicked away from Six to find his little ally already about her business. As Number Six had ordered she was running along the beach in the early morning light. Her gait was slow and somewhat awkward, revealing the desiccation of her youthful vigor. But she went doggedly on through the wet sand like an obedient solider. If she kept on she would soon be in danger of breaching the outer perimeter. A suitable test.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see his half eaten breakfast and the Supervisor with Number Six's medical report. He had not even the energy to feign interest in it.
"Should I issue an alert?"
The sound of the Supervisor's voice startled him. The nerves were nearly frayed. He should like to see a doctor about calming them, and perhaps something to help him sleep; but that would be an admission of weakness. They were watching, like hungry jackals, for just such a failing.
"Let her be." he growled and fumbled at the controls. "She'll find her way home in due time."
Irritably he switched cameras. From his lofty position behind the spying eyes he watched Six, man on an uncertain mission. The poor fellow didn't yet know the girl's fate. His lips curled with wicked pleasure. Six suspected her to be dead of course, but what a worse condition he was to find her in. Turned against him. A traitor. Or was she? The doubt still lingered, like the Supervisor, unwilling to leave him in peace. What did the blasted man want? Was he there to spy?
Ignoring the unwanted presents he went back to watching Number Six, just now leaving Number Seven's cottage. Soon, as a results of his careful manipulations, she would persuade that stubborn man to reveal his long held secrets. A feat no other Number Two had come close to accomplishing. He allowed himself to reveal in this victory. To truly believe in it.
But the pleasant reverie was short lived. Something about Number Six's manner unsettled him. The man seemed unconcerned with the fate of his little cohort. He moved with an easy, unhurried gait. Even the customary indignation at his recent mishandling was lacking. He was positively strolling. He might have been back on the streets on London, a free man.
The girl could well be dead for all he knew and yet he was as carefree as a butterfly about its routine, flitting from flower to flower.
As Number Two sat in his great chair he began to feel the loser in this game of theirs. Where Number Six seemed at his liberty, he felt the encroaching walls of a cell.
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He met her coming up from the beach, still dripping sea water, flushed and shaking with fatigue. Her Village costume clung to her thin, damp frame like the skin of a malnourished seal. He was pleased to see she still wore the red scarf, tied in a wet knot about her neck. She was very good at playing the game.
She seemed, in spite of her state, glad to see him alive. He thought for a moment she might, in her joy, hug him. But only a careful smile turned at the corners of her pale lips. And there was something else. A kind of elation. Not, he suspected, due solely to this happy reunion. The stoic quiet she wore like armor was gone. She was filled with the excitement a predator experiences just before the kill. Whatever had transpired between herself and Number Two it had gone decidedly to her favor.
"Nice day for a swim," he said, "though you aught to try it in a swimsuit."
"The Village didn't see fit to provide one."
"An oversight, I'm sure," he said playfully. "I'll see what can be done about it. Have a nice chat with Number Two?"
The question put away her smile. "Productive." Was the simple reply.
They walked together up the slope, she keeping up by sheer will. He might have slowed for her but felt no compulsion. "For all Two's trouble yesterday, I expected you to turn up dead." He said coldly, "did he make another deal with you?"
"I made one with him." She was smiling again, radiant as the risen sun.
Such a girl. Not one to be trusted, perhaps, but certainly admired. At the base of the Watch Tower he stopped. "As your masters have seen fit to let you live another day we might as well get on with your training. Up you go."
She picked at the sleeve of her wet shirt. "I'd prefer a shower and breakfast."
He noted she was shivering but the show much go on.
"There will be time enough for that when the job's done." He allowed his tone take on that of a drill Sargent's. "In the field physical discomfort is a sniper's constant companion."
She took the stairs without further comment. The effort of the climb enough to occupy her energy. At the top he let her catch her breath. The day was already growing warm. Far below early bathers were taking to the beach.
He stepped up on the low, stone railing so the that the world seemed just beneath his feet. A heart stopping visual for those charged with preserving his life.
"What did you and Number Two talk about?" he asked.
Casey was seated on the rail, looking out to sea where gulls swooped and wheeled just above the quiet water. She turned his way and without any sign of alarm at his precarious perch answered lightly. "Life and death."
"A deep subject indeed." His gaze landed on a tall, rotund man, waddling through the sand towards the inviting water. He would do nicely. "And what did you discover?"
"That it's better to live."
He pretended at freshly stirred suspicion. "At what price?"
"A very high one."
"It always is."
From the direction of the Village a car was approaching, cautiously, as if afraid to startle him into rash behavior. He wondered what Number Two proposed to do should he decide to test his wings? He leaned out, teasing the nerves of his persistent spy. Did the man's heart beat a bit faster? The car continued to come on, at a near crawl.
Casey said thoughtfully."It would spoil things for them if you jumped."
"I suppose it would."
"They seem to take a great many chances when it comes to matters of such importance."
He walked a few steps along the narrow wall. "What choice do they have?"
She shrugged. "They could put us all in solitary until they got what they were after."
Such a practical mind. "Indeed." he said.
"Why don't they?"
"I've often wondered."
The car was still inching closer. It wouldn't do to have unwanted guest. He stepped down to the safety of the stone floor and could almost feel a palpable relief from the unseen cameras. Across the beach the car stopped, hovering like a new mother, uncertain if little Johnny meant to behave. He turned his attention back to the gathering crowd of swimmers and found his man again.
"Do you see that fat man in the striped swim trunks?"
She got up stiffly and came over to stand beside him and looked where he indicated.
"He is to be your target."
And just now he was going to give her some useful information which could be extracted or volunteered. "Take up your position."
She did as instructed, bringing the illusionary rifle to life with her skilled performance.
"You don't know who he is, nor do you care. Your Masters have said he is to die and that is enough for you."
Unmindful of his part in their little act, the target plodded on, followed delicately and precisely by the invisible barrel of Casey's rifle.
"In the course of your job," she asked, "how many did you kill?"
He smiled at her probing. "Killing was never part of my job."
He wondered if she believed him or did she suspect Two's characterization of him to be true? He was yet to find out how effective the man's methods truly were.
"And yet you propose to teach me to do just that?"
"Your situation is unlike mine." He said sternly. "I was hired. You are owned."
She tensed at his words but her focus never shifted nor did the hands holding the unseen rifle waver. Her finger rested against the trigger guard at easy ready for the shot. Had she a weapon the poor fellow in her sights would not have stood a chance.
"You were trained to kill." she tossed the words at him like stones. "Your bosses would have expected it of you."
"What they expected was of no concern of mine." he said. "I did what was necessary for the job not what pleased the big boys at headquarters."
The target had made it to the water's edge and stood for a moment looking out to sea where the gulls still danced above the shining surface. Did he think of home? Of escape? Or was he one of the warders, sent among the sheep to spy and entrap?
"Is that why you resigned?"
The question was like electricity shot through his brain. Hadn't he expected her to ask? Whether in earnest or as part of the game? His mental state was perhaps less reliable than he was aware. He should have to watch himself.
He smiled. "No."
"Another reason, then?"
"You've no future as an interrogator." he scolded gently. "Best stick to what you're good at."
"I've never killed." She said softly, "Remember?"
The target was about to enter the water. The moment would be past.
"I have." He said.
She nearly looked at him. Only strict discipline kept her from it. "You said you hadn't."
"In the war."
"What's the difference?" She seemed displeased. "Killing is killing."
"It matters to me."
"You make a big deal out of nothing."
He disregarded the clear challenge.
"People always think it is the conspicuous violations of conscious that erode morality," he said quietly, so that the listeners might not quite hear. "But they are greatly mistaken." He stepped nearer to her. "It is the little concessions. The ones we are least aware of that do us the most harm. Eroding the will, bit by bit, until there is nothing left of it."
Her own voice was a mere murmur. "One concession leads to another."
He was soon to learn if she had made that first concession. He leaned into her, putting his hands on her shoulders as if the adjust her form and look along the barrel as the man just now wadding into the water. With his lips quite close to her ear, he whispered. "In two days time there will be a ship in the harbor. When you see the lights, come down. You will find further instruction hidden in the Stone Boat."