Los Angeles. All she knew about the city was that they played basketball there. Her stepfather often watched the men in gold shorts run up and down a wood floor, on the television in the living room. He roared with pride whenever the Los Angeles Lakers won a game, a fascination she never understood.
Kelly’s mother brought Eduardo home for the first time almost a year after Bryan Kelly killed himself. Miranda had cleaned out the closets. All of her father’s clothes were discarded. Kelly begged her mother to let her keep something that had belonged to him, but Miranda refused. Only the Silver Star remained, hidden under Kelly’s bed, because she removed the medal from the pile when her mother wasn’t looking. When all of Bryan Kelly’s things were gone, Miranda went out in her snug-fitting red dress and matching heels, face brightly painted, raven hair long and loose. She was gone every night for several weeks.
Then, Eduardo Garcia appeared with his TV, his suitcase, and his black pickup. Miranda told people they were husband and wife, but Kelly didn’t recall a marriage ceremony. At first, she thought they had just neglected to invite her, but later she guessed they probably never really married at all.
Eduardo was nice to Kelly. He didn’t act as if her face bothered him, and while he did not go out of his way to spend time with her, initially, he always brought her candy or a small trinket when he had been away. His presence also made Miranda relatively happy so, for a time, things in the tiny house halfway between Hyder and Agua Caliente improved.
As Kelly neared her fifteenth birthday, she sensed a change in Eduardo. His attention confused and sometimes frightened her, his actions varying depending on whether Miranda was home or not. He spent more time talking to her. He bought her more expensive gifts—a small locket, a bottle of perfume, a gold chain—with the caveat that there was no need to mention these trinkets to her mother. Miranda, who had never been very maternal anyway, withdrew even further from her child, criticizing her daughter for the slightest infraction, sending her to the chicken coop to sleep with the birds.
One afternoon when Miranda was at the market, Eduardo asked Kelly to sit beside him on the couch. He smiled, his dark face smooth and handsome. Kelly was too stunned to move when he reached over and ran his fingers down her immobile face. Instinctively, she pulled away, but he spoke to her in a soothing, gentle voice, and coaxed her back to him. Eduardo leaned over and kissed her on the mouth, a stunning display for a girl who had not been touched by another person in anything but anger since her father died. Soon there was a change in Eduardo. He removed Kelly’s clothes, urged her to relax and lie on the couch. He stared down at the naked girl and said something Kelly never believed she would ever hear.
“You are beautiful!” Eduardo Garcia exclaimed.
When it became obvious Kelly was pregnant, Miranda threw everything Eduardo owned into the yard. The television landed screen-side down with a thud on the cement-hard caliche. Shards of broken glass glittered like daggers in the harsh sunlight. Chickens scratched at the dry earth around the TV, the electrical cord unfurled like a snake.
Miranda took a broom to Eduardo. She swore and spit like an angry animal. When he jumped inside the truck cab to avoid the blows, Miranda beat on the windshield. After Eduardo drove away, screaming curses in English and Spanish, Miranda turned and used the broom on her daughter.
Kelly assumed having another mouth to feed was the real problem. Miranda always complained about never having enough money, and the child would certainly be an added expense. She had no way of knowing that her behavior with Eduardo was wrong. She had often listened to her parents make love through the thin walls and sensed their happiness. Eduardo produced the same sounds and general sense of satisfaction when he was with Kelly. Wasn’t this the way all families behaved?
And there was nothing horribly unpleasant about the attention Eduardo lavished on her. He had only hurt her once, just a little the first time. After that, he had always been gentle and kind, attentive in a way no one had ever been to her before. Since Kelly had so little contact with anyone outside her home, she had no understanding of how others would perceive her behavior with her stepfather. Nor did she realize a baby might start to grow inside her.
After Miranda let Eduardo back into the house, he stayed away from Kelly, but Miranda could not stand to look at her only child. That Eduardo had turned away from her and was attracted to her deformed daughter was simply more than Miranda’s considerable ego could bear. After a brief conversation with Elect Sun, the decision was made to send Kelly to live with the Children.
Kelly stared again at the empty pool, bereft of the miracle water that lured the afflicted from far away so many years ago. She felt the baby move, then rose from the warm, white stone steps of the ruined Hotel Modesti and walked toward the compound.
12
THE CHEVY PULLED to a crawl just a few yards behind the girl in the blue sundress. Her hair swung rhythmically as she walked, brown shoulders, arms and legs naked to the sun. Billy James eased the car closer and called out. “Hey, baby, need a ride?”
The girl ignored him.
“Hey! I asked you a question.” Kelly quickened her pace.
Billy hated to be ignored. “Hey, bitch!” He pulled the car alongside Kelly and saw her belly. “Woah! Somebody got there first, eh babe?”
Kelly, too pregnant to run, moved as quickly as she could, keeping her eyes down, her face turned away from the boy in the car.
But Billy kept pace. The last time he’d had a piece of ass was that little whore in the neighborhood back home in L.A. She’d followed him around relentlessly, until he told her he’d be her boyfriend if she’d fuck all his friends. Billy did her first, then watched the other boys go at her. Afterward, he laughed and told her to fuck off.
He’d never done a pregnant girl before, not that he knew of anyway. Still, she had a pussy, didn’t she? She looked Mexican or Indian, which to Billy meant nobody would probably give a damn if he played with her a little.
“Come on, chiquita, I know you’ve done it before. No big deal.”
Kelly veered off the road into the desert.
Billy watched the girl, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He scanned the area. First, he looked down the road before him, then he checked the rearview mirror. The girl was about fifty yards away across rocky undulating ground. Driving would be problematic. When he determined there wasn’t a soul around, Billy felt his dick stiffen. He reached for the door handle.
He quickly covered the distance between them. Billy grabbed her shoulder. She froze. He spun Kelly around and watched her hands jerk up and cover her face.
“I won’t hurt you. Just do what I say.” He laughed. “Just want a little fun. You know.” He poked her belly.
Kelly remained still, her hands and dark hair shielding her face.
“Quit playin’ with me, bitch!” Billy grabbed her wrists and wrenched her arms.
“No! Please, don’t.” Kelly’s hair fell back.
Billy blinked, then let go and stepped away. “What’s the matter with your face? What are you, retarded or something?”
Kelly said nothing, then raised her chin and refused to look away.
“Jesus, you are ugly.” Billy paused as he looked her over. Then, the grin returned. “But you know what, babe? This is your lucky day, cause I’m gonna do you anyway.”
Unzipping his jeans, Billy reached inside and grabbed his penis. “See, baby. This here is for you.” He put one hand on Kelly’s shoulder and pushed her to the ground, slamming her knee into a sharp rock that sliced the skin open. “First a little foreplay. Now open wide.” He pushed his dick up against her face.
He never saw the dog.
The animal tore into him from behind, grabbing Billy’s calf in her teeth. He screamed and fell sideways, kicking violently, instinctively trying to protect his face from the dog. Kelly, terrified, was unable to move.
“Dog! No! Stop!” Jason Ramm yelled from the roadside.
By the time he reached Kell
y, the dog stood snarling, muzzle inches from Billy’s head, teeth bared, drool slathering onto his face.
After Ramm did a visual check to see that Kelly was not seriously hurt, he yanked Billy off the ground and then burst out laughing. The boy had rolled into a jumping cholla, the most reviled of desert plants, a cactus noted for fishhook-shaped needles that, once they pierced the skin, were almost impossible to remove. And they had definitely pierced Billy’s skin. A thick stem with wicked spines had attached itself to Billy’s now flaccid penis.
The kid howled as he tried to pull needles from his groin only to have numerous spines sink into his hands. He would not be messing with the ladies anytime soon.
Ramm grabbed the boy by the collar and yanked him to his feet. “Listen, you fucking little piece of shit,” Ramm said under his breath, so Kelly wouldn’t hear. “I should kill your sorry ass right here and now, but I’m feeling benevolent.” He let go. Billy stumbled back, tripped over the cholla, and fell to the ground. The dog barked and lunged.
“Keep that fucking dog away from me!”
“What the—” The big man grabbed Billy again, yanked him by the arm, and pushed the boy’s sleeve up to expose the rest of the jagged swastika tattoo. “Under the circumstances, I should just let the dog kill you. After all, that’s what you tried to do to her, isn’t it?”
“What? I don’t know what you’re—” Billy stopped, and looked hard at the snarling animal, ears flat on her head, a low growl emanating from deep in her throat.
“You are one sick motherfucker!” And, despite not wanting to resort to violence in front of the girl, Ramm balled his fist and slammed Billy’s face, breaking his nose, splattering gobs of blood on himself and the boy.
Ramm regained his composure and became so icily calm Billy’s fear solidified in his gut. “If I ever see you near the girl or the dog again, I will kill you.”
Billy eyed the tall, muscular man with the big hands. There was something in the cold blue eyes, something Billy didn’t like. The boy scrambled to his feet, and, with one hand protecting his groin and the other holding up his pants, he stumbled toward the car.
13
AFTER KELLY’S WOUNDED KNEE was cleansed, she was examined by Elect Peter for any further injuries, and sent to bed.
Ramm sat with Elect Sun at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a sweating glass of iced tea.
“Jason, we have always appreciated the help and kindness you show to us, but we are especially grateful today.” Tears slipped down her wrinkled cheeks. “When I think of what might have …”
“She’ll be fine,” he answered, uncomfortable taking a compliment, feeling unworthy of Elect Sun’s kind words.
His gaze rested upon the bleeding Jesus on the wall calendar. A flash of heat, then a claustrophobic crush seized him. Politely refusing the offer of joining the Children for their evening meal, Ramm excused himself and rushed home.
The run and shower did not help. Images plagued him. The boy. Kelly. Ugly visions of what might have been, had he not driven by.
Ramm breathed deeply to calm himself. Pentecostals, in fact all believers in Jesus, were advised to turn the other cheek. The eye-for-an-eye beliefs of the Old Testament supplanted by the kinder, gentler Christian tenets of the New. Still, Ramm could not forget the words from Exodus.
You shall not afflict any widow or fatherless child.
If you afflict them in any way, and they cry at all to Me, I will surely hear their cry.
And my wrath will become hot, and I will Kill you with the sword …
Ramm paced the living room, ignoring the fiery orange sunset that blazed in the western sky. An edgy discomfort took hold, mimicking an overdose of caffeine. He clenched and unclenched his fists, noting the bruise forming where his hand made contact with the boy’s face. Ramm relished the ache. Physical pain he understood.
Popping the kid in the face was not what bothered Ramm. The little shit deserved a broken nose. He’d gotten off easy. If Kelly hadn’t been there, Ramm would have … What would he have done?
He took another deep breath and let the air out slowly. The fact that he had lost his temper was the problem. Ramm had survived all these years in part because of his unwavering demeanor: the cool, detached perfectionist. He slumped onto the couch, too tired to start a fire, too tired to eat. The skilled operative he’d been for over twenty years hadn’t been around for quite some time. He’d lost that man on his last assignment. Somewhere in Jerusalem.
Ramm stared out the window at the multihued Sonoran Desert sky and recalled other sunsets, blazing kaleidoscopic infernos in Vietnam. The killing there had been relatively easy, compared to his later missions. Initially, it was a simple matter of survival: kill or be killed. No justification was necessary. Things changed when he became a sniper. He’d be strapped in a treetop for days or crouched, invisible, immobile, blending in with a rock pile, waiting for his mark to appear.
During the war, his targets were bad people. The enemy. The world would be better off without them. That they were sometimes unarmed and periodically civilians disturbed him, at first, but he followed orders and proved to be extraordinarily skilled at his job. Not only was he an exceptional distance shooter, he had no qualms about striking a target at close range. He killed quickly, quietly, with any number of weapons including his bare hands. He was also smart. His handlers finally learned to just give him the target’s background information and known location, and leave the planning to him.
While he found no thrill in the actual killing, Ramm enjoyed the renown of his peers as his reputation grew. And, like others before him, he ended up being too good at what he did. The job came with a built-in shelf life, and he eventually became a target himself. Whenever he entered a crowded area, others stepped away, looking over their shoulders, waiting for a shot to ring out. A sniper sniping a sniper.
His superiors had too much invested in Ramm to lose him in the field, so they had pulled him out of Vietnam and gave him an honorable discharge. In truth, however, he never stopped serving. Like other highly trained special operations veterans, mostly former Army Rangers and Navy Seals, Ramm remained on call with a bag by the door, prepared to leave on a special assignment at a moment’s notice. Their credo: semper paratus. Always ready.
Ramm never questioned the logic behind his assignments and willingly traveled to Libya or Guatemala or Turkey or Iraq or any one of myriad countries where his skills had been needed. Nor did he ever question why his targets deserved to die. He was a good soldier. He did his job well and was paid handsomely.
Now Ramm wondered if he’d been chosen for this work because of something other than his skill with a rifle. Had one of the many personality profiles he’d been subjected to painted him as a man who could perform these tasks without question or remorse? Or could the military mold any average person into a killing machine? Why had he been able to so capably perform his duties for so long without contrition? And why was he no longer able to do so?
How had Jerusalem changed him?
And why?
The target who drew him to the ancient city was an elderly Hasidic Jew. Ramm, as always, was given no information about the man’s crime, only his whereabouts and the timeframe in which the hit must occur. Everything about the trip to the center of the Judeo-Christian-Muslim world seemed routine. He posed as an ordinary American tourist eager to see the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Via Dolorosa, and the other holy sites that drew Christian pilgrims to the city. He passed through customs at Ben Gurion airport undisguised, albeit with a passport issued under an assumed name.
Ramm easily located the target and followed the man for a few days to learn his habits. He planned a quiet kill, one that hopefully would not be discovered for at least several hours, allowing him an easy escape. He planned to use a common everyday item as a weapon. Or maybe just his hands. He’d performed the task countless times before. The job should have been simple.
14
WITH RESOLUTE DETERMINATI
ON, Elect Sun yanked the scorched weeds and sere residue remaining from the last garden crop. She jerked a tomato plant, wrenching the withered roots from the ground, and tossed the brown stalk onto the mounting pile next to her. She’d been working several hours, and her back ached. She had hoped the arduous manual labor would help her overcome the animosity she felt toward Miranda Garcia, such feelings, she believed, being an affront to God.
She worked her way down the furrowed rows on hands and knees in the surprisingly dark soil, a testament to constant additions from the compost heap by the shed. Despite the hard work, uncharitable thoughts tormented her. Why didn’t Miranda understand that the best place for Kelly and her baby was here with the Children? Elect Sun gritted her teeth as she fought a stout desert weed. How could a mother not love her own child?
The crunching of pebbles signaled someone walking up the garden path. The last person Elect Sun expected to see was Miranda. Kelly’s mother had a smug look of superiority on her face, one that effectively erased her natural beauty.
“Mrs. Garcia.” Elect Sun made a concerted effort to mask her hostility. She did not rise to greet the woman, but continued her way down the row, eliminating the garden detritus.
Miranda tugged something out of the back pocket of her skintight black jeans, and dropped a blank white envelope onto the ground. Elect Sun sighed, sat back on her haunches, and stared up at the woman.
“It’s a ticket for the train. It’ll be stopping in Hyder at twelve fifty-five Monday morning.” Miranda folded her arms defiantly across her prominent chest.
Elect Sun reached for the envelope, then looked inside. “There’s only one ticket here. The child is going by herself?”
Miranda offered no answer.
“You can’t send Kelly alone into Los Angeles in the middle of the night. She’s never been away from here. She doesn’t know anyone. She doesn’t know your … sister.”
A Light in the Desert Page 5