A squeaking floorboard made him sit up in the chair. Light footsteps on the porch. His hand slipped to his pistol but it was only Zip, looking worried out the door. Reece rubbed his eyes and said, “Come see, cher. You sleep well?”
Zip considered the question carefully. Her skin and clothes looked grubbier in the low light of dawn, from tiny mud-caked tennis shoes up to hair hanging in disarray over her shoulders, but there was class and intelligence in those eyes, same as he’d heard in her voice. She said, “I had a funny dream.”
“Make you laugh?” Reece suggested.
Her expression suggested no. “There were poor people, far away. Goats crying.”
“Ah. Just a dream, huh? No goats here. The others up?”
Zip must’ve passed Stomatt on the sofa to get here, but she ignored the question. “They died. The goats knew, but they weren’t ready. Igota.” She lowered her voice, experimenting with her dream memories. “A village in the rainforest.”
Morbid, but her dreams could’ve been plenty worse after what she’d been through. Now she’d rested, her voice was even clearer – might actually be British. A bright foreign kid dreaming of exotic places. Reece said, “You been to a rainforest before?”
She shook her head, then her attention lingered on his pistol. Reece took it out and her worry shifted to wonder. The sun peeked between the clouds to catch its mirrored shine.
“I told you this was art,” Reece said, and spun the gun round his finger. He turned it back and forth at speed. “Platinum and gold plated, etchings designed by Blanc Tweedman himself. Le Belle Riposte is the finest sidearm in the States, count on it.”
Zip’s nose wrinkled. “How did you get it?”
“I wouldn’t settle for anything less, that’s how.” Reece stood. He stretched and fought down a yawn, scanning the horizon. Open corn fields, dotted with trees. To the right, beyond the parked trucks and farm machinery, was the wooden barn where they’d stowed the farmer’s body. Need to bury him before they go. And then there was the daughter . . . Reece smiled at the kid. “We’re artists, Zip. Try to be in all we do, but we especially like making music. Me on the horn, Caleb’s on the bass, Sto on the drums. You bring us anything that can make music, we’ll give it life.” He held up the gun again. “This another instrument I try to play my best.”
Zip looked sceptical. “You can’t play a horn.”
“Trumpet,” he explained. “And you better believe I play. No one expects it, bunch of white boys outta trailers with some kinda swamp jazz. But we live our best lives. They played us on the radio, you know? Whispers Phan, he called us revolutionary. You like jazz?”
Her scepticism shifted to positively pitying, as though his entire life philosophy, laid out before her, was misguided. Reece laughed. “Right. You don’t play music where you from?”
Zip considered it carefully. “We have a piano. But I don’t know if it works. Daddy doesn’t like me to touch it.”
“That’s sour,” Reece said. “He play himself?”
“No,” Zip said, then focused on the gun. “He has a sword hand.”
“That so?” Reece said. “And what’s he need a sword hand for?”
“Killing monsters.” She turned thoughtfully, towards the barn, like she knew the body was there. Serious enough to make Reece pause.
“What kind of monsters?” he said. “Big old bears? Criminals, maybe – the police? In England? You don’t have guns so he has to use a sword?”
“A sword hand,” Zip said, but he’d made her smile, like he was teasing. “Because guns aren’t enough. And because he has to always be ready. The monsters used to be people – he gets them before they can get us.”
Well hell. It sounded like she was being literal, and her father genuinely had a blade instead of a hand or something. Which didn’t gel; a kid this well-spoken coming from some mutilated sword-fighter? Must’ve been some tale he told her, or she told herself, to make sense of something else. Reece asked, “Was that what he was doing on the Mississippi? Hunting monsters?”
She nodded. “Just one. Grithin. Slippery scum.” She accented it like quoting a rough-talking thug. So yeah, she might be cut from different cloth to Dad. “He was looking for Grithin for years. And he was worried. That’s why I followed. I wanted to help. I didn’t mean to . . .” She trailed off.
Reece cocked his head to one side. “This Grithin dangerous?”
“Yes,” Zip whispered. “But my dad’s not scared of anyone. Only, I . . . I got a bad feeling. I told Daddy not to go and he told me off. Because I was listening to my feelings. I’m never supposed to listen to those feelings.” She picked up speed, as Reece floundered on that messed-up detail. “I followed him – I even got on a plane – so busy and noisy and long, but I came here – not here – the river – and it was bad, but not because of Grithin – a real monster, one Daddy never stopped – two monsters – coming for me –”
“Hey, hey.” Reece crouched. “Those men are gone, hear me? You don’t got to worry about it, not now you’re with us. We’ll get you home, sure enough. Meantime, we’re headed to the safest place in all Louisiana. Ever heard of Stilt Town?”
Zip shook her head.
“Caleb in there – you like Caleb? He’s nice, isn’t he? – his uncle owns this place, Stilt Town. Grew up in Cutjaw himself but left to start a church, and that church became a whole town, but not like any town you’ve seen. Because Alban Gray – that’s Caleb’s uncle – he still got some Cutjaw in him. Never lived in brick houses with concrete streets and that. He made houses all lifted up in the air. A church, a school, floating so you can run underneath. High enough that no flood can take them. And they got animals – you like animals? Pigs, cows, chickens.”
“Rabbits?”
“Yeah, they got rabbits. You like rabbits?”
She jumped forward and wrapped her arms tight around Reece’s neck. He went rigid with surprise before relaxing. He patted her head and she whispered, “Thank you, Reece.” Then she pushed back. “Can we go there now?”
“Soon. Once we’re all up and figured out what to –”
“We should go now,” she said, seriously. “Before they find us.”
“Who?” Reece frowned. She didn’t get to answer, as a yell shook the farmhouse and Zip jumped with surprise. “What in damn hell is going on here?”
Reece stood, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Sto! Get your ass out here!”
“Reece!” Stomatt shouted. He sounded like a bull charging through the house. “Where the fuck are we? You motherfu –” Stomatt skidded to a halt on seeing Zip. Her eyes screwed shut in fear. The big guy’s face went from angry confusion to delight. “Did we take hostages?”
“It’s okay, cher, he’s one of us,” Reece assured. “For what it’s worth.”
Stomatt was bigger than most, thick around the middle, and not a handsome man. His top lip and nose curled slightly up and his mouth was always open, like he was forever mildly perturbed. He looked especially unhinged this morning with the bandage loose round his neck and his tatty, unbuttoned boiler suit all covered in blood. He looked up from Zip. “We make Louisiana, Reece? Don’t look like Stilt Town.”