Vile Blood (13 page)

Junior joined her, only a little shorter than she, maybe ten years old. No shadowy father lurking at the edges. Just him and his mama. They walked up a sand road toward a clapboard house that rose square from the wheat, its windows kicking back the hard sunlight. A windmill turned lazily in the wind and Junior heard the creak of its blades.

They arrived at the door, church music playing on the radio inside. Mama pulled a face, and he had to stop himself from giggling as she lifted a hand and tapped out a little tune with the shiny brass knocker shaped like a Victorian lady in a bustle.

The door opened and man in a
starched
white shirt, buttoned to the collar, braces stretched over his swelling gut, said, “Yes, ma’am?”

“I am
so
sorry to disturb your Sunday lunch, but our car seems to have given up on us, and I wonder if I could trouble you for the use of your telephone?” Mama favored the man with a
dazzling
smile and pink spots the size of dimes touched his freshly shaven cheeks.

‘Of course, ma’am. Of course. Why don’t you and your boy come on in?”

The man led them into the dining room where a woman with a fuzz of graying hair, lacquered into obedience, looked up, as did the bookend twin kiddies, a boy and a girl.

“And who might this be?” the woman asked.

Mama’s reply was to remove the silver revolver from her purse and shoot the man in the neck. He
went
down in a geyser of blood. She shot the woman in the stomach, her screams lost in the waving sea of wheat that stretched on and on forever.

Then he and
Mama had spent a lazy afternoon in the bathroom with the twins, applying barbed wire and razor blades and finally gasoline to their naked bodies, while their eyes—the lids deftly removed by his mother’s steady hand—had stared at them from beyond horror.

Junior was brought back to the present by a scream as shrill as a siren. For a moment he almost turned his head in the direction of the noise, but he remained composed as bedlam engulfed the commissary.

Lunatics howling, cowering under tables, running at the walls. Somebody knocked him to the floor, and he lay on the tiles, watching feet and legs swirl around him, clueless as to what had triggered this rampage of
the madmen.

Alfonso
lifted
him and dumped him into the wheelchair, pushing a pathway through the seething mass of crazies, white uniformed orderlies wading in with fists and feet, throwing the mad people to the ground and subduing them with wrist and ankle restraints.

A hard, metallic voice bounced off the walls: “Lockdown. Lockdown. All inmates to their quarters.”

Alfonso rushed him down the corridor to his cell and
dumped
him on the bed,
locking
the door after him. Junior lay listening to the screams of the damned, his chance of freedom slipping away.

And the only way he could calm himself was to slip back into the memory stream, reliving those wonderful years with Mama, a blur of bodies and bloody rites. Of pentagrams scrawled in blood on the walls of motel rooms and trailers and farm houses. Of highways leading to endless towns stocked with the gullible to feed his and Mama’s appetites.

27

 “Just what in the name of sweet Jesus is she anyway?” Drum asked, firing up a cheroot from the car lighter.

“Who?” Martindale said, staring out the side window, pretending he was as dumb as one of the rocks littering the bleached landscape.

“Your little sister, Chief Deputy, the one who made chili out of them old boys in the Dodge.”

Martindale shrugged and said nothing. This didn’t surprise Drum, or bother him. He’d only asked the question to rile the man, in the way of a kid poking a stick at a caged raccoon.

The giant puffed on his cheroot and whistled a few bars of “Hey, Good Lookin”, tapping the wheel of the black Lincoln Town Car, the vehicle coming to him from a
borderland
coyote by way of payment for Drum allowing a steady and lucrative stream of people-trafficking through his county.

Drum liked the car. It had class. And when he studied his reflection in the rearview mirror, he was forced to allow that he looked pretty goddamned high-toned, too. He was wearing an ink-blue silk suit, the fabric giving off a sheen that brought to mind an oil slick on night water, over a pearl gray shirt with hand-engraved sterling silver collar tips. His favorite bolo tie—a pewter horseshoe inlaid with rhinestones—sat snug at his throat. His size eighteen goat leather boots, polished to the color of blood, rested on the pedals, the seat pushed all the way back, touching his silver belly Stetson with the black band crusted with gold stars that lay in the rear waiting for his freshly pruned head.

Drum was in sharp contrast to the man at his side, dressed in blue jeans and check shirt, his feet in some kind of running shoes with chunky rubber soles. He looked like what he was. Nothing.

“There weren’t no drifters, were there, the night your ma and pa were killed? That little girl done it all by herself. Not that your daddy didn’t deserve it, he was the sorriest son-of-a-bitch I ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

Martindale remained mute, but Drum saw the knotting of the muscles in the man’s jaw. He whistled a few more bars of the old song, watching the road lying flat and straight as a black line painted on the sand.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Martindale said.

“Ask, boy, ask. Hell, I may even answer.”

“You okay with this fool mission we’re on?”

“Hell, I’m happier’n a tornado in a trailer park.”

“You can cut the
Bonanza
routine, Drum. I’m not some child whore.”

Drum felt his hands tighten on the wheel, his blue sky mood getting a little gloomy.

“It’s Tincup’s idea, isn’t it?” Martindale said.

“I consulted with him.”

Martindale shook his head. “This man we’re going to see, you reckon he’s going to welcome us with open arms after his crew got slaughtered?”

“I spoke with him on the phone. He understands we come with a business proposal.”

“You’re driving our asses into a mess of trouble.”

“I don’t agree.”

“If Tincup was so sure of his plan why isn’t he here with us?”

“This ain’t no job for him.”

“Than maybe he’s smarter than I gave him credit for.”

They crested a rise and the skyscrapers of the distant city rose up saw-toothed from the desert. Drum worked his shoulders loose in his jacket, and despite the arctic A/C he felt a bead of sweat detach itself from the hairs of his armpit and
toboggan
down his side.

“You just stay calm, Deputy, and follow my lead.”

“Oh, I’ll be behind you, Sheriff.
 
Y
ou’re one hell of a lot bigger target than me.”

28

Skye wandered aimlessly down the main street of the town, filled with self-loathing, her body still heavy with the flesh of last nights’ feeding frenzy. She found herself staring into the window of a bridal store, not seeing the sun-yellowed wedding dresses, looking at her reflection as if it could tell her something.

When Skye heard her name being called she turned to see Richie from the gas station, pulled up beside her in his old truck.

“You goin’ down to the diner?” he asked.

Skye shook her head, about to walk on when she saw the sun flare off the crucifix he had dangling from his rearview mirror, and before she could argue herself out of it she leaned into the open passenger window.

 “Where can I get one of those?” Gesturing toward the little silver and wood cross with the body of Christ nailed to it.

“What you want a crucifix for?” He stared at her before shyness dragged his gaze down to his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

 She shrugged. “Dunno. They’re kinda cool.”

“I’d give it to you,” he said, pointing at the crucifix, “but it was my grandma’s.”

“Richie, relax. I’ll buy one.”

 “Only place sells them is the church. Hop in, I’ll drop you off.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I can walk.”

“C’mon, I got a coupla minutes before my shift starts.”

She climbed up beside him and he shoved the truck into gear.

 “Call for a cab when you done, walking down near the border ain’t a good idea, not after what happened last night.”

“What happened?” she asked, doing her best to keep her expression neutral.

“You didn’t hear?”  She shook her head. “Another one of them monster attacks, over on the other side. Some guy torn apart and eaten. Got the folks down there real agitated.”

Skye said nothing and lay her head against the side window, watching the streets
blur
by.

Richie turned off the main road and bumped through a litter of mean houses and single-wides that squatted hard up against the border fence. They’d once been home to the migrant community, most of them deserted now that the
town
was dying. He stopped outside a
small
church.

When Skye stepped down from Richie’s truck and saw the rough wooden cross rising from the sand in the churchyard, The Other was still present enough in her for a feeling of revulsion to halt her feet, and she had to battle the urge to turn and flee.

“Just ask for Father Pedro,” Richie said, already reversing the truck.

Skye watched him go, rattling off
toward town,
regretting that she’d let him talk her into this.

The church was in disrepair, the once-white walls peeling, showing the gray breezeblock beneath, the rusted tin roof banging in the hot wind that blew Skye’s hair into her eyes.

As she set off toward the building she realized that she was avoiding the
long,
black shadow thrown by the wooden cross, and forced herself to pass through it. Was it her imagination or did she feel an actual weight as the shadow fell upon her?

She heard the sound of a shovel on dirt and saw a brown man in a torn shirt and baggy jeans digging a hole in the hard ground near the entrance to the church. A shrub of some kind, soil wrapped in plastic, stood waiting to be planted.

“Hello, sir,” she said in her patchy Spanish. “Where can I find Father Pedro?”

The man straightened. “I am he.” Speaking in almost accentless English.

He climbed out of the hole and wiped his hands on his jeans. He was sweating, and the faint wiff of stale liquor clung to him. A thin man with longish, graying hair, maybe in his fifties.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m looking to buy a crucifix.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

She shook her head. “No. Is that a problem?”

He laughed. “Good God, no.” He crossed to where a water bottle stood in the shade, beside a pair of dusty plastic chairs. He took a swig and sat, gesturing toward the other chair. “Please. What’s your name?”

She sat, the arms of the chair sticky to her skin. “I’m Skye. Skye Martindale.”

“Eugene’s sister?”

The use of her brother’s full name gave her pause. “Yes. You know Gene?”

Father Pedro laughed again. He had very white teeth and must’ve been a handsome man years ago.

“Oh, everybody knows Eugene.” He drank and wiped his mouth. “Back when I had more of a flock some of them tended to stray, and I’d have to go bail them out. Let’s just say your brother and I have agreed to disagree on certain fundamentals, but he’s a principled man and fair.” Sitting back, giving her a long look, his eyes dark and heavy lidded. “So, why would a good Protestant be in the market for a crucifix?”

“Do you believe in the Devil?”

Another laugh. “Well, believing in the Devil presupposes a belief in God, doesn’t it, since the two are a matching pair?”

“But surely you do?” she said. “Believe in God, I mean?”

“Let us just say that my faith has become a little
shop-soiled
over the years.”

“Then how can you do what you do?”

“You get bartenders who don’t drink, but they still know how to mix cocktails. I provide a service.”

This was silly, she realized, and stood. Then she saw his eyes darken and he waved her back to the chair.

“Please, sit. I’m sorry for being frivolous.” Fixing those eyes on her. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Like a confession?”

A tired smile. “No, no. You’re not Catholic so I can’t hear your confession. But if you have a problem, I’m a very good listener and my lips are, of course, super-glued shut.” Making a zipper movement across his mouth.

 “I’ve been having bad dreams. And, I dunno, maybe I’ve seen too many movies, but I thought having a crucifix over my bed may help.”

“To ward off evil?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re not a very good liar.” He wagged a hand when he saw her expression. “Don’t worry, I deal in untruths every day. I suspect that something has troubled you profoundly and you’re desperate, so you’re reaching for what you would’ve called idiotic superstition not long ago. How am I doing?”

“You’re doing okay.”

He stirred the sand with the dirty toes protruding from his sandal. “You asked me if I believed in the Devil?” She nodded. “The truth is I’m leaning in the direction of believing that God is dead but the Devil is very much alive.” She searched his eyes for humor and found none. “Certainly, he is very much alive in
me
.”

Before he looked away, out over the border fence toward the low hills, she caught something in his eyes and there was still enough of The Other awash in her to get a whiff of young flesh in rut, and trust betrayed and the toxic fallout of shame and guilt. A flawed man, this, banished to the borderland.

 “Do they work? Crucifixes?”

He looked back at her. “Well, the sophisticated interpretation would be that they facilitate a kind of self-hypnosis, and that since the Devil is merely a manifestation of human fear or guilt, if one’s belief is strong enough he can be banished.”

“And what’s your interpretation?”

“I’m with John Lennon on that one.” He saw her blank look. “Whatever gets you through the night.” Laughing again, then serious, sitting forward, his dusty hands dangling between his knees. “Look, Skye, maybe you need some professional help. Some counseling, perhaps?”