Page 3 of Fortress
“Okay. Call me if you need anything, or if Jake does.” Tobias was turning back to Jake like a magnet inexorably to north when Roger reached out slowly and touched him on the arm. Tobias froze, seeming not even to breathe. “I mean it, Tobias. If youneed anything, you let me know, got it? And call me Roger, like everyone else does. I just feel old when you call me Mr. Harper.”
Tobias nodded. “Yes, s—Roger. Got it. I will.”
Roger walked heavily up the stairs, his bones aching, dawn long gone and morning far enough along that the birds had given up singing in the daily business of worm hunting.
Tobias was okay. It had taken Roger a hell of a long time to believe first that the boy meant no harm toward either Jake or himself, and second that he wasn’t about to unintentionally combust the kitchen appliances. But he figured he’d sleep just fine now without worrying about what might happen in the living room.
That afternoon, after catching a few hours of shut-eye, Roger came downstairs quietly. The boys were asleep, Jake curled half on his stomach on the sofa, Tobias huddled on his sleeping bag, one hand propped up against the couch. Jake had stretched down his hand to clasp Tobias’s. The sight sent an odd ache through Roger’s chest.
He didn’t want to disturb them, but there was no way to the kitchen without passing through the living room, not unless he wanted to slip through the lower-level window and circle around the house. Roger kept his footsteps even and unhurried (he could be as quiet as the rest of them, but the real trick to not startling sleeping hunters and ending up with a face full of buckshot was walking unconcerned), but his eyes stayed on their linked hands. Such a simple thing, and not something that he would have imagined those boys comfortable doing in his house last time they were here.
He was just about to turn away to start making himself some breakfast when something caught his eye. An irregularity, somekind of pattern or design on Tobias’s inner forearm. On any other kid, Roger would’ve figured it for a basic tattoo, but in his line of work, you didn’t screw around with ritualistic body markings. There was too much power in symbols and runes for people in the business to mark themselves up in ways that could call evil to themselves instead of driving it away. And for Tobias to have been allowed some kind of marking like that in camp...
Come to think of it, he’d never seen Tobias in short sleeves. And even though it had beenhotlast time they’d visited, the kid had not once taken off his shirt or rolled up his sleeves.
Though Roger knew as damn well as anybody what happened to the curious who investigated bumps in the night, he bent over to examine the mark.
Nothing particularly significant about it. Just a smiley face, a little larger than a silver dollar, made by an irregular series of dotted scar tissue against his pale skin. Burn scars.
Roger jerked back, bile rising in his throat. He swallowed convulsively. There was no reason he should be surprised—he’d been in the fucking room, seen firsthand what they were doing to him in that camp.
But recalling an indistinct, half-repressed memory and seeing the evidence before him were two completely different socks in the gut.
Roger forced himself to breathe, forced himself to stay quiet and back away to the kitchen. Waking up the boys wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t wipe those scars off of Tobias’s forearm or take away the nightmares that no doubt plagued him most nights.
So like the old coward he was, he went to the kitchen, broke a couple of eggs harder than he had to, and sliced enough potatoes for all of them (because Jake would wake up hungry, and he could understand now Jake’s urge to feed the kid all the time; those bones under his skin were far too prominent evenafter months of eating what Roger could only assume had been hamburgers and fries).
As he was frying the potatoes, Tobias lifted his head from the nest of pillows and blankets, his curly hair poking out in all directions. “Mister—Roger? C-can I help with anything?”
“You can help me eat some of this,” Roger said.
Tobias glanced at Jake and then back up. “I’m not—”
“You can bring the plate down by Jake if you want.” Roger shrugged, feeling like he was working with a startled dog (dammit, no, this was akid, even one who’d been beaten like a dog), trying to keep all his movements easy and nonthreatening. “I don’t mind you sitting by the couch. But you should keep up your strength.”
Tobias nodded as though he’d heard that before, came in to pick up his plate and fork with a quiet thank-you, and took his seat again in the living room. Roger ate in the kitchen, put away what he’d made for Jake, and then went to his desk to do a little paperwork. Not that he kept many records,but he still had to do his taxes like anyone else, and it was better to keep up with the paperwork than get knifed by it in April.
Jake woke groggily a couple hours later, half thrashing on the couch before he groaned.
Tobias was up on his knees right away, touching Jake’s shoulder, reaching for his hand. “Jake, you’re okay, you’re safe. I got you to R-Roger’s.”
Jake groped out, clasped the hand Tobias offered him. “Toby? You okay?”
The smile on Tobias’s face was small and sweet, and vulnerable enough that Roger had to turn back toward the kitchen. “I’m fine, Jake.”
“You sure?I coulda sworn that sonuvabitch got you.”
“Not bad,” Tobias said softly. “I took care of it.”
“Took care of it, Toby, you gotta—”
“Jake, it’s fine.” Tobias reached over and pushed his sleeve up. Roger wasn’t close enough to see, but he assumed Tobias was showing off the stitching. “Really, it’s not that bad.”
Jake traced the stitches with one finger and then, closing his eyes, clumsily patted Tobias’s shoulder. “Good boy.”
Jake couldn’t have seen it, sounding seconds away from falling back asleep, but Roger saw Tobias’s flinch and the way he had to blink several times before taking in a breath and blowing it out.
Roger swallowed before turning to the kitchen to throw some sandwiches together for himself and Tobias. These boys were in one hell of a better place from the last time he saw them, and Jake was still more out of it than in, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t up to a chat about his word choice when he could keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. Not to mention a talk about how they’d been working a hunt practically in Roger’s backyard, for a monster they couldn’t even ID, and never had the brains to call him for backup.
