He filled me in, and I listened as he talked.
I said, “I’ll be there at dawn. Do nothing. Do not contact me again unless their conditions change.”
“You’re gonna help us?”
I nodded. His eyes closed in distinct relief, and his lashes looked damp.
“Yes. One condition. Tell me who Logan Jagger is to you?”
His eyes flickered, and his eyebrows tried to meet over his nose. “Who?”
“He rides with the OMW. Survived the Battle of Mobile.”
Anse’s brows unknitted. “Big tough guy on a Hogg? Yeah. Came through in a summer heat wave, looking for distant kin based on a rumor he’d heard somewhere about his name. He’s a Hatfield on his mama’s side. Surprised the hell outta that ’Bama boy.”
That fit with what Jolene and Gomez had uncovered. It also fit the timeline of when Jagger first came to the junkyard. An economical side trip. Asshole was always killing multiple birds with one shot.
A black woman appeared on screen behind Anse, holding a small piece of metal and plastic, and when Anse took it, he said, “Thank you, darlin’.” To the screen he added, “My wife.”
She offered a tight smile at the screen and said, “You have a med-bay?”
I nodded, cautious.
“We got a boy with a shattered arm. Took a round and fell off a ladder during the attack. Compound fracture. Pieces of bone all over. Won’t set right. Now he’s septic. Any chance he can get into one? We can pay.”
“Martha,” Anse said, warning in his tone.
Her full lips firmed as she stared into the camera. “Anse’s a kind man. Takes in any kid with a story. This one’s stepdad beat him. I done all I can to keep him alive short of cutting off his arm, and I’m not a doctor.”
“His dad still alive?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “With matching injuries. Anse paraded him through town to show people what happens to those who hurt kids. Him and his militia have shut down the sex trade and child slavery in Logan. He’s a good man,” she repeated.
“I’ll bring antibiotics. If you can get him here after we get your daughter back, he can go into the med-bay. We’ll talk about payment later.”
She opened her mouth to say something and stopped. Looked at her husband and cast her eyes down, her mouth tight. She gave me a hard nod and disappeared off screen.
“Your boy, the one in my med-bay, don’t look like your wife.” Polite way of saying he wasn’t a mixed-race kid. Most folk these days weren’t so polite.
“He’s my brother’s kid. Benjamin and Shanna died in the war. I took him in. Adopted him. Sometimes he calls me daddy. Sometimes Uncle Anse. Most times he don’t call me nothing. Quiet. Things he saw done to them, his mama and daddy, before they died. You take care of him. Please. He’s broke inside.”
“We will. See you soon.” I sat back in the chair. “Jolene. Cut the connection.”
The screen went dark.
Jolene said, “I got a good scan of the premises. He’s got all kinda parts a me within thirty meters of him. I tagged ’em all, and I want ’em back.”
“The military boys on the unmarked bikes want them too.”
“Not the military, Sugah. Military IDs themselves, wearing uniforms and insignia.”
I didn’t argue with her. Jolene was a military AI, coded to see no evil when it came to her programmers.
“The dark riders did this,” she said. “I’m bettin’ dishonorably discharged military trying to set up something. I saw the pics of the tattoos. I think you should talk to the Sisters of the Cross.”
Ink and body art people knew each other. The Sisters might know who did the tats and lead me to someone. “Okay. Do we have a way to contact them?”
“Of course, Shining Sugah. I scanned all their electronics when they came in. I got everything.” She sounded smug.
