The Bastard Hand (28 page)

Please, God, he said. Please. I don’t wanna die.

But he died anyway. Young, fearless. He thought he had a whole life ahead of him, he thought he had forever to meet a girl, fall in love, maybe get married and have a kid. Buy a nice car, maybe, or a house or take a long vacation to Europe or something.

He never got to do any of that. He never got to do a goddamn thing.

I took a swig from the bottle and stumbled on through the woods.

Kyle, Kyle, help me. . . .

And I was sorry, yes I was, I said so, didn’t I? I was sorry. But was I? Sorry for stealing his dreams, sorry for the pain I’d caused his loved ones, sorry, sorry.

I gradually became aware that I was yelling something, yelling at the top of my lungs, voice hoarse and scratchy and inhuman. Yelling, ranting, barreling through the forest.

And oh my God, it’s true, isn’t it? I’m mad. I mean, they told me that, didn’t they? They told me I was mental, that I needed help, and how many times, how many times had I done things that only a madman would do and shrugged them off, saying hey, I’m crazy, what the hell . . . almost proud of it. That’s right, I’m one crazy motherfucker, don’t mess with me, I’ll go lunatic on your ass.

But it wasn’t like this. There was no perverted pride in this at all. This was bad and evil and twisted. I was bad.

I drained the bottle, feeling fire burn in my chest and gut, but distantly, then I flipped the bottle in the air, caught it by the neck, and smashed it against a tree. Glass splintered and sprayed everywhere and I felt slivers in my cheek and now my palm was covered in blood.

I wiped the blood on my shirt and kept moving.

“Jesus, Charlie,” Tassie said. “What happened to you?”

She stood there, blocking my way, horror etched into her face.

“Happened?” I said.

“Was it them? Did they find you?”

“Them . . . who them?”

She looked at me, baffled. “Them, Charlie. The gang. Bad Luck.”

No memory of how I made it to the cabin. I must have driven at some point, but I couldn’t recall being behind a wheel and the thought caused me a brief moment of panic. But I got over it.

“No,” I said. “No them. Old lady. And the kid, China. And the white kid. And there was a bottle, too, it broke, it got broken, see . . . and—”

“Charlie . . .”

“—cut my hand. My shin hurts like a motherfucker and look at this—” I showed her my hand, blood already congealing, not dripping anymore. “First the knuckles, see, then the bottle got all broken. Hurt my hand.”

Tassie took my arm, saying, “You’d better come in and sit down.”

She guided me into the cabin and set me down on a cot. The kerosene lamp on the dining room table burned bright. I could see the remains of a meal on the table, and that reminded me of the food I’d brought her.

“S’in the Rover,” I said. “Brought food for you.”

“Okay, Charlie, we’ll get it later. I managed to find a couple of cans of soup in the cupboard. I’m okay. But what the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened.”

She went to the sink, turned on the tap, and came back with a glass of water. Sitting next to me, she handed me the glass and I mumbled thanks and drained it. Then, very carefully, I placed the empty glass on the floor at my feet.

Bending over caused a wave of nausea to pass through me. I straightened up quickly, tried to breath deeply.

Tassie said, “I’ll be damned. You’re drunk off your ass, aren’t you?”

“Whiskey,” I said. “Dunno why I bought whiskey. Got no head for it. . . .”

She stood up and walked stiffly to the other side of the cabin. I watched her, sensing the anger but not quite certain of why. My head felt fuzzy and achy and something told me if I could just pull it together it would make more sense.

“It’s a’ whiskey,” I said again. “Never could—”

She spun around and snapped, “Goddamn you, Charlie, what the hell’s the matter with you? You come back all bruised and bloody, scare the living shit outta me, and then sit there mumbling crazy bullshit.”

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey nothing. What are you thinking, getting drunk at a time like this?”

“Time like wha—”

“Our lives are in danger, don’t you get it? This is not a joke, okay? I came down here because I thought we could help each other. Either one of us, alone, would be as good as dead. But I thought if we stuck together we might have a chance. But if you’re gonna just stumble around smashed outta your skull, we’re as good as dead already.”

She fumed, staring fury at me, and I could only stare dumbly back. I wanted to say, I wanted to say, Oh, that. The death squad that’s lookin’ for us. Why didn’t ya say? But I didn’t.

Instead, I just looked at her, feeling the grief well up inside me, the grief that anger had kept down until then.

Get a grip, Charlie. Don’t start blubbering, goddamnit. Keep it together.

I said, “I’m bad, Tassie.”

“What?”

“I’m bad. Can you help . . . can you help me be not bad?”

She raised her eyebrows, startled, and I saw the beginnings of a smile.

“S’not funny, Tassie. I’m bad.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, you’re pretty bad. And you’re pretty drunk, too.”

“Help me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t help the bad thing. You’re just gonna have to learn to live with it. The drunk thing, though . . . some sleep will help that. Get some sleep.”

“Sleep,” I said. “Yeah, I’ll get some sleep. Be sober in the morning.”

“Right.” She came over, helped ease me back onto the cot, took my boots off and tossed them across the room. “You’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just too bad,” she said, “that you’ll still be such a bad, bad man.”

She laughed, a real laugh, looking down at me, and I couldn’t help it, I started laughing too. I watched as she crossed the room, turned down the kerosene lamp until the flame died and the cabin fell into shadows.

Then she came back, pushed her way into the cot next to me, and covered us with a blanket.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” she said.

I closed my eyes and immediately fell asleep. I didn’t dream.

The next day, Saturday, mid-morning, I saw the first of them.

Right outside the diner, where I drank coffee and forced down a couple of eggs and nursed my raw head, he walked past the window and glanced at me and kept moving. No sign around his neck announcing BAD LUCK INC., no gat in his hand or gang colors, but I knew who he was.

I paused with the coffee cup halfway to my lips. A black kid, rough looking, out of place in Cuba Landing. Probably the same age as China Bones, but older in almost every way that mattered.

He made me, no question—hell, he probably made me long before I made him. Walked by the diner, just to check, just to make sure I hadn’t ducked out a back exit or something. Not good.

I woke that morning to Tassie coming in with the bags of canned foods I brought. “Well, the beast awakens,” she said, smiling, and set the bags on the table. “I was beginning to think alcohol poisoning had finally taken its toll on you.”

I sat up in the cot, mouth dry, head cloudy. “Coffee,” I said. “Is there coffee?”

Shaking her head. “Not unless it’s in one of these bags. Did you bring some?”

“Shit.”

“Or maybe we can find a few drops of moonshine around here. What do ya say? A little hair of the dog?”

“Shit.”

She laughed. I pulled myself out of the cot, stood up. My hand ached. I looked at it, saw that the cuts from the night before were almost gone, healed while I slept. It was just too goddamned bad this healing thing didn’t have any effect on hangovers.

Tassie had carried the bags all the way up Moker’s Hill from the Rover, a difficult little hike even without baggage. While I got my bearings, she pulled cans out, examined each one. “Canned peaches. Hmm, okay. Hormel chili, hey, that’s always good. Yams? Yams? What the hell were you thinking, Charlie, with the yams? What is this, Thanksgiving all of a sudden?”

“Sure, it’s Thanksgiving.” I went to the sink, ran the water, washed my face and hands, stuck my head under the faucet and gulped greedily. She kept talking while I drank but I couldn’t hear her.

When I straightened up, she said, “Hey, how ’bout some breakfast? I was just thinking how great some corn beef hash and yams would be, would you care to join me?”

I shook my head. “No. I have to get back to town.”

“You need coffee that bad?”

“Important things to do.”

“Ah. You mean there’s some booze left in town somewhere that you didn’t get around to drinking, right?”

I gave her a look, what I hoped was I’m not in the mood for this, but was probably more like, I am zombie. She just smiled. Smiled and unpacked the grocery bag.

When I left a few minutes later, she saw me to the end of the clearing and said, “Are you coming back soon?” and her tone wasn’t quite so flip. She even sounded a little sincere, for her anyway.

“Soon as I can.”

“Tonight?”

“Hopefully.”

She nodded, arms crossed tightly across her chest, her short black hair mussed and the band-aid on her forehead coming loose. I looked at her for a moment, and she found her grin and pasted it on for me. “Well, okay,” she said. “Supper’ll be ready at six, and I’ll be sure to have your pipe and slippers ready.”

“I might be at the office late today.”

She squinted one eye at me. “Charlie, are you sleeping with your secretary?”

Not a word that morning about Bad Luck Inc., although both of us were thinking of them. Well, not entirely true. Tassie was thinking of them, probably, but my head was somewhere else, mulling over the ugly job ahead of me, replaying last night’s encounter with China and his family, thinking about Perrin and Elise and who the boy’s father could be. Drinking coffee, forcing down the eggs, contemplating all of this. And then the thug strode by the diner window and I had more immediate concerns.

“More coffee, Charlie?” Gloria, standing by the table, coffee pot poised.

I shook my head, dropped some money on the table, and stood up and left without saying goodbye.

The thug had been heading west on Main Street. Standing in front of the diner, I looked in that direction, couldn’t see him anywhere. I started walking. Two doors down, in front of the bike shop, he stood in the doorway lighting a cigarette and didn’t look at me when I passed. I kept walking, saw from the corner of my eye the cigarette he’d just lit flicked out onto the street.

I knew without looking that he was following me now and my headache disappeared and my hands began to ache.

I had to wonder how he made me. What did he do, wander aimlessly around Cuba Landing until he happened to catch a glimpse of me strolling down the street?

I went into the bookshop and, ignoring the lady that ran the place, headed straight for the rear exit.

It let out in a clean, narrow alleyway just big enough for deliveries. No parking back here, just a dumpster and a view of the backs of the shops that lined Antigone.

No sign of the thug. I expected him to be there, to catch on quickly to the old “slip out the back” thing. Gave him too much credit.

But getting away wasn’t the plan.

So I waited, leaning up against the dumpster, watching the mouth of the alley. He didn’t keep me waiting long, bless him. After only a few moments, he appeared, peeking around the brick corner, cigarette dangling from his lips. He spotted me watching him, started to duck out. I said, “Hey.”

He stopped, stared at me, his face blank and dull.

I said again, “Hey, man.”

He nodded at me, and I said, “You got a smoke, man?”

Still staring, dumbly, blankly, then nodding again and moving toward me. Possible scenarios playing through his head, different approaches he might take to this slight complication. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

“Thanks, bud, I ran out, dying for a smoke.”

He handed me the pack, saying, “S’cool,” knowing something was up but not sure of anything else. I took one, handed the pack back to him, and then leaned over to meet his light. With the cigarette going, he put the pack and lighter back in his pocket, started away, and I tossed the smoke on the ground and grabbed him by the back of his collar.

He tried to twist out of my grip, but I had him good and jerked him off his feet. He tried to spin around, get a shot at me, but I shoved him forward into the dumpster and he exhaled a short sharp burst of air. I grabbed his belt then and forced him to the ground.

But my footing was sloppy and I stumbled a bit and he managed to pull away from me. While I regained my balance, he scrambled to his feet and swung wild and missed. I backed up one step, on my right foot, then snapped my left up and connected my heel solidly along his kneecap. There was a satisfying crack.

He howled and dropped, clutching his shattered knee. I knelt down and grabbed him again by the front of his jacket, pinning his arms with my knees, and pounded his nose, two, three times, until blood and snot and tears covered his face and he was blubbering something I couldn’t understand.

“Where’s your friends?” I said. “Where are the others?”

He shook his head, crying, and I hit him again.

“Where are they?”

“Ain’t here, man, they ain’t here yet, they ain’t here.”

“You’re alone?”

“S’jus’ me, man, please…”

I looked at him. “Bullshit,” I said, then poised my fist to hit him again.

“No, please, man, please, izz jus’ me, I swear to fuckin’ God, man.”

“Why are you alone?”

“I’m waitin’ on ’em, man, I spotted you and I called Hobby and I’m waitin’ on ’em.”

“Hobby? Who the hell is Hobby?”

“The boss, man. Hobby’s the boss.”

“When did you call them?”

“Yesserday, after I lost you.”

“What?”

“Followed the bitch, man, followed her down. Waitin’ for her to lead us to you, man, so we could whack botha you . . . but she got in your ride and you both bugged out, couldn’t find you. . . .”

“And then you just happened to spot me at the diner today, that what you’re telling me?”

“Been lookin’ all over town. . . .”

He was starting to calm down, the hysterical tone evaporating. So I hit him again, just to remind him of his situation.

“Stop, please, man, I’m tellin’ you, what do you want?”

“When are they gonna be here?”

“Today, man, I don’t know when, sometime today, please . . .”

“With your boss? With Hobby?”

“With Hobby. Please, man . . .”

So he was a scout, charged with keeping an eye on me once he found me again, waiting patiently for the others to arrive, waiting for me to lead them to Tassie. Waiting to take both of us out at once.

I moved my knees off his arms, pulled back enough to jerk his head off the concrete. “You’re gonna deliver a message for me,” I said. “You’re gonna deliver a warning, you understand?”

He looked at me, his face bloody and already swelling, tears running openly. “You . . . you ain’t gonna kill me?”

I placed one hand over his mouth, the other at his stomach. “Did I say that?”

And the fire flared in my hands, and he screamed against my palm and flailed with all his remaining strength. The fire sizzled against his skin, burned into his stomach, amber light surrounding his torso until his eyes rolled up and he was dead and my hand was buried deep inside him.

I pulled it out, all bloody and shaking.

Then my whole body started with it, started trembling, and my teeth chattered like it was winter and I stood up. Hard to breathe. The light faded from my hands and I struggled to draw air into my lungs and concentrated on not trembling.

After a moment, I pulled it together. My right hand dripped blood, not mine this time. I looked at it, watched it pool in my palm and drip to the concrete and then I stumbled away.

You’d never guess looking at me that I’d murdered a man in cold blood only half an hour ago. Murdered him, hefted him up into a dumpster and went on my way. Stumbled over to the park, wiped my bloody hands on the grass there, as best I could, then smoothed my hair and walked on.

They’d find the body in the dumpster, I knew. Probably before the day was over. They—being Oldfield or Forrey or some hapless citizen or the garbage man—and it would make the local paper at the end of the week but by then everyone would know about it. It would be a great mystery. Some black kid, not from around here, no one knows who he is . . . found dead in a dumpster, his stomach nothing but a bloody, gaping hole. And no one would know who killed him or why.

No one except those who would follow. They’d know, all right.

And that made me smile, pulling up in front of Ishy’s home. They’d know, and they’d know that taking me down would be no cake walk, not by a long shot.

The police cruiser was parked in front. One of the town’s fine law enforcement officials visiting, sitting back a spell. I climbed out of the Rover, made my way over to the little concrete stream that flowed from the fountain. I washed my hands more thoroughly, wiped them dry on my pants. Then I crossed the wide expanse of lawn to the front doors.

Jeannie Angel answered. “Oh,” she said, voice stiff. I was surprised to see her there and ran through the last few days in my head, trying to remember if I’d done anything to her in particular—so little time, so many enemies—but couldn’t come up with anything. I decided to just assume she wasn’t a friend, be done with it.

Her black hair hung loose over her shoulders today, a bit more casual than the average personal secretary to the mayor, but at least she had all her clothes on and that was more than I could say for Mrs. Ishy the last time I saw her. She said, “Mr. Wesley.”

“Jeannie Angel.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and she said, “You’re here to see Bishop? The mayor, that is?” and I said, “Yes,” and then it dawned on me what the problem was. She knew I knew. About her and the Reverend.

I almost laughed. As if it mattered, for God’s sake, as if her sleeping with Reverend Childe was the most secret and horrible thing going on in this town. Ishy still hadn’t told her he knew all about it, apparently, still hadn’t revealed that her ongoing romps had been the catalyst for this whole ugly mess.

Really, I almost pitied her just then.

I followed her into the hall, leaving the front door open, and into the living room. The wide windows were thrown open to the summer afternoon, gauzy white drapes stirring sluggishly and motes of dust floating in the glare of light. A nice room, big and bare of everything but the essentials—plants, a sleek white sofa and chair, a painting of a cornfield hanging over the cold fireplace.

“Can you wait here?” Jeannie Angel said. “Mr. Ishy is upstairs right now, I’ll just run and fetch him.”

I nodded, and she stood there a moment longer, looking uncertain. As if she wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t come. I smiled at her, shoved my hands in my pockets, and she went upstairs.