“Are you feeling better?”
“Chest still hurts. I think I fractured a rib coughing yesterday.”
“Exaggerator.” He tickled just under her triceps.
Her eyes opened, that dangerous blue of open water. “Don’t screw around Martin. I’m not playing.” She shut her eyes again and softened her tone. “Where are we, anyway?”
“Nowhere.”
“There again?”
He spent a moment admiring her. She had hit fifty in August but looked younger—even with the cancer. His thirty-eight year old body had taken as much mental and physical abuse as hers, and yet, glancing in the rearview mirror, he could see the old man gimping to the surface. Sometimes he wondered if this was genetic, if his parents had prematurely aged. He wished he could remember them better. All of his photos were either destroyed or left behind somewhere in the sprawling galaxy of roadside motels.
Eighteen years without seeing another person diminished everything to dry details. He remembered his parents held him at a distance because he was different, then because he reminded them of the
other place
, and then because they knew he’d leave someday anyway, to do the Messenger’s work. Birthdays were spent in solitude with heaps of unwrapped presents: butterfly knives, smoke grenades, M-80s, and pellet guns. They knew his destiny. His mother would be off
Windexing
windows and his father would be on duty doing good-guy police stuff, and Martin would always be left alone to think on his future, with no idea what kind of man he’d become, a man worried about the saccharin content of this horrible raspberry swill.
Teresa stared at him now. “Are we going to leave or what?”
“Or what
what
?”
“The last letter said the Heart of the Harvest would be in San Bernardino County this year, so I think we should head that way before we run things too close.”
“Like last October?”
Teresa said nothing and rested her head again. She’d looked a deal worse than this before. Right after the diagnosis, after the pneumonia, he’d wondered if she would even make it to another autumn.
She had.
She wiggled in her seat and glanced unhappily at the bottle of water he’d brought her. “Did you waste our last three bucks on that? I told you to pick up my
Djarums
.”
His morning rush vanished and Martin turned the ignition.
“They only had regular cigarettes.”
Paul’s best friend was still.
Pieces of Justin’s skull stuck into the Joshua tree like shards of cinnamon glass. The ugly desert tree slowly dripped in ruby streams, thin and thick, dark and light. Its bayonet leaves
trembled from the impact of Justin’s body falling back—
drip, drip.
Paul felt his eyes water. The ugly bastard of a palm and cactus had given him allergies. The sneeze wouldn’t come though.
Come on, sneeze!
His mother, who Paul affectionately referred to as the Whore to End all Other Whores, once said all you needed to do was stare up at the sun a bit to catch a sneeze.
The sun wasn’t far off. Rose shadows gradually colored the toasted landscape. Paul holstered his piece in his coat and knelt. The gun’s discharge had sent several kangaroo rats scurrying out from the coarse bushes nearby. A few of the stunted rodents inquired around Justin’s spattered pant leg with twinkling black eyes. Paul half-considered shooting one, just to see what design a fifty caliber would leave behind in the dirt. It was a trifle cruel though, not to mention
loud
.
A bit of human meat—one nostril in its bloodless center—swung from a reluctant branch of watery flesh. Paul could still see Justin’s open eye in the mess. The lonesome eye wasn’t posing a question. It wasn’t demanding a cause. Causes were out of the game now.
But the eye persisted:
We were friends, cocksucker
.
“That’s right Justin,” Paul told the corpse. “But that’s love, isn’t? Some kind of fucked up shit.”
Unseen bugs chirped nearby, or maybe his ears still rang from the bullet. Paul smoothed a hand over his head and gripped a wad of his blonde hair at the back. Sweaty, oily. He would need another shower something fierce after shuffling around in all this dirt, before people started offering him pocket change.
The eyeball stared listlessly.
“It’s the only way, Justin. You know me and women. I don’t jerk off;
I get off
. You should have let the job go to the right guy. I warned you.”
The right side of the speckled face wasn’t sympathetic. Paul shifted onto his other knee and put a hand in his inner pocket. He brought out the suicide letter, which had been folded in a neat square, as he knew Justin would have done in his hyper-obsessive way.“I want you to know that this is no small thing. It’s beyond pussy, pal. This is on a different scale.
She
is on a different scale. I don’t expect your naïve
ass
to understand.” He tucked the square inside Justin’s pants and patted his hip.
He could just imagine Justin’s rebuttal. “You think I’m being unfair calling you naïve? You’re the damned nature boy. When have I—in all the time you’ve known me—ever asked to drive out and see a desert sunrise? I was afraid you’d think I was coming on to you. Ever since
bishophood
you’ve been a big ole pile of fucked-up, Justin. You just slipped man, you slipped. It’s a fine resting place out here though.” Paul stood at a gradual, respectful speed. More and more, blowing Justin’s head off was making him feel giddy, and worthy. The friendship had meant something to him, and so it was a just sacrifice. For the Priestess.
And Paul Quintana would keep sacrificing. His place in line was next and he would be named a Bishop now. There could be no sidestepping him this time. Hell, there would be a string of “suicides” if it came down any other way. He’d see to it. Things were full circle, finally. The eighteen year old whelp who left home and never said goodbye, that boy had known this day would come; he would have the ideal woman, even if it killed him.
Paul’s heart jumped and his body followed. Through great, rolling plumes of dust, a limousine sped around the foothill and accelerated at him like an out-of-control coffin. His comrades found him. The Church of Midnight had come. Dust clouds wrapped around him and he let out a fierce sneeze into his shoulder. He couldn’t enjoy the sneeze though.
The limo shuttered to a halt. Paul heard a door open but couldn’t see anything at first. The dust cleared and Cole
Szerszen
stepped out, a leaning fortress in a faded Giorgio Armani. The suit might have been scrubbed over river rock for all its wrinkles. Had it ever been black? Cole’s thick unruly hair matched the suit, as did his ashen eyes. For a Bishop of Midnight, he took little pride in grooming.
Two others fell out of the stretched deal. Raymond Traven and Melissa Paterson. Ray unsheathed his road bottle of Wild Turkey. The burst capillary hue of his cabbage nose took on a sudden happy glow. Melissa sidled close to Cole and yanked tight her well-ironed pants suit. She kept her eyes down. Her mortification made her look overcautious, like an old lady trying to avoid breaking her pelvis. No way was she going to look Paul in the eyes. Not with Cole standing so close nearby.
The Bishop’s cool expression bore into Paul. His drafty voice often sounded to be nearing discovery. “You know what the Tomes say about days like this?”
Paul shrugged. He gave his best-natured grin, despite the corpse. Regardless what they thought, he had to stick to his story.
“You should remember the passage, Quintana. I have it you’ve been hitting the Tomes hard lately, like a college kid cramming for finals.”
“I’m trying to remember, Bishop, but I’ve got a shitty memory. I only look at the pictures in the Tomes.”
“In
Ramifications
it states that ‘indescribable beauty in the world can foretell a transformation in the beholder. Beware the lures of beauty.’”
“That doesn’t sound familiar, Bishop
Szerszen
. You’re not adlibbing, I trust.”
“Still have that Magnum?” Cole’s gunmetal gaze drifted to the red disarrangement before the tree. “I see you do. Take off your coat. Slowly.”
A spray of dirt blasted up and Paul shielded his eyes. “Wait
goddamnit
! Don’t shoot! I’m taking it off. I’m taking it off.”
The dust layered the air still. The three had their weapons drawn but only one shot had fired. Melissa’s Berretta, still trained on Paul, seemed comical in her small hands, but he didn’t doubt her intent. Her expression told the story. Melissa still had his taste rolling around her mouth and she didn’t like it much. She didn’t like it all.
Paul unbuttoned his coat and sucked in his disgust as he dropped his black Joseph
Abboud
on the ground.
“Now your holster,” Cole instructed.
“What?”
The Beretta shifted.
“Whatever,” he answered. “Can I check the safety?”
“No.”
Next, his holster and weapon clunked below. “Now can I explain?”
Cole jerked an order with his head and Ray Traven obediently moved forward, his drunken gait directing him to his goal on a strange, slithering route. Cole caught Ray’s shoulder before he could get too far and put out a palm. Ray’s lips pressed together like a forlorn toddler. He handed over the Wild Turkey.
Paul’s spine stiffened. Ray tripped over a kangaroo rat hole on the way over to the tree. He stared back accusingly before stopping at the dead man. Leaning over the Justin mess, Ray inspected the scene in dropped-mouth awe.
“Is it Margrave?” Melissa asked behind the Beretta.
“Not the best parts of him.”
“Leave him for nature,” said Cole.
“No rites?”
“Leave him,” Cole said in his
last time
voice
.
Paul’s heart pounded in his ears. Were they even going to let him tell his story?
“You’ve killed a Bishop of Midnight.” Cole swiped up the whiskey from the hood and regarded it like something he’d never seen before.
“Can I tell you what happened?”
“With your sudden interest in the Tomes, and with October 31
st
approaching, I find it fairly obvious. You might have gone after me, but since Justin and you were sewn at the hip, this was a simple transaction. I get it.”
“You’re implying—”
“Wasn’t implying, was
stating
. You scored perfectly in the gauntlet and Margrave over there scored half as well. You had the highest score, yet he became a Bishop. The Church nearly had to force you to take the test last year. I could cry jealousy, but I don’t think you care about
bishophood
, Quintana.”
Paul took a deep swallow before he proceeded. “So killing Justin for ascension would make no sense, but you still don’t believe me?”
“Killing Margrave for status only wouldn’t make sense, right, but something else certainly does.
She
will be at this year’s conclave again.”
Christ, thought Paul. Was he so transparent? He had to redirect this quickly. “Look, Justin wasn’t doing so well. He wanted to clear his mind, so we came out here. We were talking about responsibility and duty and then he suddenly clammed up. I didn’t even see it coming. His gun came out before I knew it—”
Cole widened his eyes in feigned shock. “And what? He couldn’t take living anymore? Shit Quintana, that’s weak, though I suppose it’d work for most Inner Circle dimwits.” The big man tilted his head, amused, “Hey Traven, was his firearm drawn?”
Ray reviewed the corpse. “Nope.”
Paul cringed.
“Putting a gun in his hand would have been a trifle more realistic, don’t you think?” Cole lifted the Wild Turkey. He flinched at the flavor and set the bottle back down with sidelong disgust at Ray.
“Hey, there’s a note.” Ray sorted through a few credit cards and the folded note from Justin’s pocket. He took the note by a corner to unfold it.
“Leave it,” Cole ordered. His face brightened with an intense thought as he studied Paul. “Forgery will not be enough. You realize that the Archbishop will see right through that, just as I have. Margrave had Colombian contacts. What could you offer the Church, Quintana? A list of your favorite
poontang
?”
“I don’t understand—”
“Stop lying to me or the vultures will have two bodies for dinner.”
“What do you want then?” asked Paul.
“In order for Margrave to go unmissed, you need my support, and you need to follow my every order to the syllable, word, sentence and exclamation point.”
“Of course Bishop
Szerszen
. You have my word.”
Cole took three heavy steps toward him, got right in front of Paul. His breath burned of whiskey. “You’re an asshole Quintana, but you also happen to be an asshole that scored the gauntlet perfectly—even Archbishop Pager can’t say the same for himself. I
want
you to be named Bishop. I need you, and as awful as that might sound to me, it’s the truth.”
“Okay, I’m confused.”
“I have my plans, no different than anybody else.” Cole stepped half a pace back and appraised him. “So tell me, should I let you pick that Magnum up? Can we go on our merry way and leave the truth to rot out here?”