A Light in the Desert

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A Light in the Desert Page 7

by Anne Montgomery


  Billy flung his arms wide and screamed into the desert wind. The train was less than a mile away. He saw only the light as it grew, a piercing beam that completely obscured the engine and the cars it pulled. The track rumbled beneath his feet.

  Still, he waited.

  “Five! Four! Three! Two! One!” Billy jumped, flailing his arms as he fell. He landed with a thud and a roll in the sandy wash below the track. The impact ripped open the dog bite, sending a bright stream of blood streaking down his leg. But Billy didn’t care. He threw back his head and howled as the train roared above him.

  “What’s that for?” Ray asked, when he found Billy sitting before an ancient black Smith-Corona typewriter late the next morning.

  “Typin’ a letter from my grandpa. Least I can do.”

  “But your grandpa’s dead, Billy.” Ray scrunched up his face as if he were trying to figure out a tough math problem. “He can’t write no letter.”

  “No shit, Ray. But Grandpa was always writin’ letters. Pissed off about one thing or another. It was kind of his hobby. Look here.” Billy tossed a bundle of envelopes held together with a thick red rubber band toward Ray. “Anytime somethin’ happened Grandpa didn’t like, he’d pull out this old typewriter, sit down, and write a letter. He was proud of ’em. Made these copies so he could read the letters to anyone who’d listen. Said that’s why America was great. Anybody could say anything he wanted anytime.”

  “I guess your grandpa had a lot of complaints.” Ray sat cross-legged on the ground and flipped through the pile of envelopes.

  Billy nodded in agreement. “Especially after he got fired from the railroad. Grandpa said America was goin’ down the toilet. All the niggers and spics and women’s libbers fucked it all up. White guys just couldn’t get a break any more.” Billy eyed Ray. “Give me those!” Billy snatched the papers from the other boy’s hands. “It’s not like you’re gonna read them or anything. Shit! Didn’t you go to friggin’ school?”

  Ray frowned and looked away.

  “Get me a beer!” Billy watched Ray shuffle toward the cooler. Something would have to be done about the boy. He couldn’t leave him here to blab.

  Billy pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter. He was proud of the one-page diatribe dedicated to his grandfather, the only person on earth who he believed had ever given a good goddamn about him. The entire piece was composed of excerpts from the letters his grandfather had written. He titled it “Indictment of the ATF and the FBI,” stealing the wording from letters addressed to the two government agencies the old man seemed to like the least. The opening narrative spoke of the government’s bungling of the 1993 siege at Waco—the burning of David Koresh and his followers—and the shootings at Ruby Ridge. Billy also picked out some obscure crimes with which his grandfather had been especially annoyed, one of which involved the shooting of a police officer’s wife who knew too much about drug kickbacks.

  He read the letter over, happy with the contents. But how should he sign it? His grandfather had always indorsed his letters with a large, bold signature, but, since he was dead, Carl James’s name wouldn’t work now, and Billy wasn’t dumb enough to leave a trail that might lead back to him.

  Still, he wanted to take the credit for the crime, wanted his homeboys to know he was the mastermind. Billy looked at the swastika etched into his arm, and remembered the pain from the razor and the black ink oozing from the broken Bic. His friends had referred to themselves as members of the Gestapo, claiming all blacks and Jews and Hispanics—anyone who wasn’t one hundred percent Caucasian—as their targets. Needless to say, Billy had not ever mentioned his mother’s heritage to anyone in that group.

  Billy signed the letter “Sons of Gestapo”. He read the page again and smiled.

  He couldn’t wait for the carnage to begin.

  19

  AS RAMM DROVE, a trail of iridescent dust swirled in the dusky light behind his pickup. On the front seat rested a coiled belt of supple brown calfskin into which a zipper had been sewn. He’d used the pouch countless times over the years to carry various forms of currency and the alternate identification papers that often became necessary in the course of his work. More than once, the extra cash and varied passports had saved his life.

  As he passed the cemetery, he thought of Kelly and how she would sit placidly by her father’s grave, a bouquet of flowers in her lap, the sad, unchangeable expression on her face. He touched his foot to the brake as a large dust devil surprised him, skipping over the low, rocky wall at the edge of the cemetery, whirling among the headstones, and spinning detritus high into the air. He eased the truck to a stop on the side of the road as a steady south wind blew in from the vast plain that stretched into the distance.

  Ramm stepped out of the truck, transfixed by the dancing funnel as dried flowers rose from the graves of the long dead children. The bougainvillea branches were rendered into hundreds of individual petals, whirling specs of vermilion dotting the devil’s vortex, which danced toward Ramm, then backed away, as if contemplating where it wished to go. At least three stories high, the dust devil steadied before him, launching small stones into the side of the truck, each one pinging off the metal frame. Grit stung his eyes. Then the funnel moved and cooler air encircled him; red petals swirled in a dizzying dance. He raised his palms and was suffused with a sense of calm, a promise of peace.

  In a matter of seconds, the dust devil moved away, and the early evening desert heat enveloped him once again. Stunned, Ramm watched the sandy shaft move over the desert. The funnel drew him. Irrationally, he wanted to follow.

  Later that evening, the dining table in the compound was set for supper.

  “Please sit, everyone.” Elect Sun placed a large bowl of spaghetti next to a white pitcher filled with steaming tomato sauce, heavy with garlic and a hint of fresh basil.

  The Children of Light moved to their seats, their attention diverted as Elect Peter made his way down the stairway. He carried a small, battered suitcase. Kelly walked slowly behind him, her hand clutching the railing as she descended.

  Ramm entered silently and placed the leather pouch on the massive oak sideboard that stretched the length of the room. He noted Elect Sun’s solicitous look and, when he realized the concern was for him, felt a sudden urge to bolt.

  “Take that seat, Jason.” Elect Sun indicated the one at the head of the capacious table.

  The Children were somber as they ate. Kelly had added a dimension to their lives they had long been without. They enjoyed having the young girl around and had looked forward to the arrival of the baby.

  The girl, who had not spoken during the meal, kept her head down and didn’t respond.

  Elect Sun looked pleadingly at Ramm.

  Ramm wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Um … yes, Kelly. I’m certain you’ll be surprised by the things you’ll see in Los Angeles.”

  Elect Sun nodded in agreement.

  “There are parks. And the zoo. I bet you’ve never seen an elephant. Or a zebra.”

  Kelly turned toward Ramm. “No, I’ve seen pictures, in books. What other animals do they have at this zoo?”

  “I remember a trip to the zoo.” Elect Sarah’s face lit up at the memory. “I was just a little girl, but I will never forget …”

  During the remainder of the meal, the Children of Light recounted for Kelly all the zoo and animal tales from their varied pasts. There was laughter in the house, and though this was a temporary solution to their sadness, Elect Sun was grateful for the reprieve. She was adamant that this night, which might be Kelly’s last at the compound, should be a happy memory for the child.

  With the dinner dishes done and Kelly in bed for a nap, Elect Sun and Elect Peter sat in the swing beneath the cottonwood’s dark canopy. Ramm leaned against the great trunk, rubbing the soft calfskin pouch between his fingers.

  “These friends of yours, are you sure they’ll keep track of her?” Elect Peter stared at Ramm.

  “Absolutely.” He’d m
ade sure the men would watch and protect Kelly well by offering them twice their normal fee, imparting that, should anything happen to the girl or her baby, he would deal with the watchers personally. “She’ll be all right, until we can get something else worked out. And she’ll have cash.” He held up the pouch.

  Elect Sun shook her head. “Kelly’s never dealt with money, except for her trips to the General Store. She doesn’t know anything about fiscal responsibility.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll speak with her. I’ll explain that the money is only for emergencies.”

  Elect Peter edged his wiry frame off the swing. “I think I’ll go put together a small medical kit for Kelly. Band-Aids, ointment, that kind of thing.”

  When Elect Peter had gone, Ramm sat next to Elect Sun, causing the old swing to creak under his weight.

  “I think he’s just trying to keep busy.” She nodded in the doctor’s direction. She turned to Ramm, laying her weathered hand on his arm. “You’re losing weight, Jason. I’m worried about you.”

  He turned away, unable to look at her, lest she see his lie. He stared up through the cottonwood branches into the clear night sky.

  “Jason, I hope you know you can come to me with whatever is bothering you. Perhaps, I can help. Or maybe you’d rather speak with Elect Peter, if it is something you don’t wish to discuss with a woman.”

  Ramm furtively rubbed away the tear that escaped down his cheek.

  “I’ll go fix you some chamomile tea,” Elect Sun said, patting his arm.

  Kelly watched from her bedroom window as Elect Sun crossed the lawn. Jason remained motionless in the old wooden swing.

  She couldn’t sleep. Why was she being sent away? Why couldn’t she stay here with the Children? Why had she never heard her mother speak of Aunt Lilliana?

  Kelly spent her final hours with the Children listening to the yips of distant coyotes and gazing out the second-story window at stars that glittered across the vast desert sky like a spill from a voluminous sugar bowl.

  20

  RAMM DROVE THE TWO MILES to the Hyder Station. Gravel crunched beneath the truck’s tires, air whooshed through the open windows. There had been no rain in weeks, so the desert smelled of dust with a hint of pungent creosote.

  Kelly sat in the middle. Elect Sun held her hand tightly in an effort to calm the girl. In a matter of minutes, they were parked next to the concrete slab that was the station. A sign suspended from an aluminum pole simply said Hyder—the word positioned above the Southern Pacific Railroad logo.

  Ramm spotted Miranda. Dressed in a bright red, spaghetti-strap shirt, tight black jeans, and black cowboy boots, she was hard to miss. A cigarette dangled from full crimson lips. She was alone. Eduardo Garcia had not come to say goodbye.

  Ramm carried the suitcase, while Kelly clung to Elect Sun’s hand. As they approached Miranda, the girl’s gait slowed.

  “Mrs. Garcia,” Elect Sun nodded curtly when they stepped onto the concrete.

  Miranda blew a thick stream of smoke into the air between them, but said nothing. Then she turned her dark, almond-shaped eyes to Ramm. The edges of her painted lips—a color that matched her shirt—turned up in a coy smile.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she cooed. “Surely you are not a member of the Children of Light. I mean, that would be such a waste, now wouldn’t it?”

  “Jason Ramm.” He set the suitcase on the concrete and extended his hand. “Elect Sun and I are old friends,” he added with an abundance of disingenuous charm.

  “Why Sun, you surprise me.” Miranda purred. “Hiding this strapping man all for yourself.”

  Elect Sun, shocked by the exchange, didn’t respond. The train’s whistle sounded, and the engine’s headlight appeared down the track. Elect Sun turned to Kelly and busied herself straightening the collar on the girl’s cotton dress. “Now you must remember to wear your shoes. One can’t go traipsing around a city barefoot.”

  Miranda continued to boldly appraise Ramm. She made no attempt to talk to Kelly.

  “Don’t you have a sweater or a coat?” Ramm asked the girl. “It might get cold on the train. And Los Angeles is not like the desert.”

  Kelly shook her head.

  “Just a minute.” Ramm loped back to the truck and fished a huge dark blue U.S. Navy sweatshirt out of the back of the cab.

  “I’ve only worn it a couple of times,” he said when he returned. “It’s kind of big, but I think it’ll come in handy.”

  “Thank you.” Kelly cradled the sweatshirt in her arms.

  Her face remained, as always, expressionless. Still, Ramm was learning to detect subtle changes in the girl’s eyes. He could tell she was pleased.

  The engineer at the helm of the Sunset Limited forced the train to a halt with a steel-on-steel screech. Elect Sun bent, kissing Kelly on the cheek as the train’s doors snapped open.

  “You have the tickets?” Miranda pitched the cigarette to the ground, grinding the butt with a twist of her boot.

  Ramm removed a package from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Miranda reached over, took the envelope, and made an obvious show of running her fingers down the back of his hand. Then Ramm beamed a grin at Miranda and the woman flashed a dazzling smile of her own. Kelly’s mother, never looking at the child, picked up her own bag and sauntered toward the train.

  Elect Sun frowned.

  Ramm turned to Kelly. “Remember what I told you.” He patted her right hip, keeping his voice low so Miranda wouldn’t hear.

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “No one at all,” he reminded her. He’d explained earlier that even Miranda should not know about the money she was carrying.

  The girl nodded. “I understand.”

  Ramm lifted her chin. “You have no reason to be afraid of anything. We’ve made sure of that. And before you know it, you and the baby will be back here with the Children. Okay?”

  Kelly took a deep breath. She picked up her suitcase. “Okay,” she whispered.

  Elect Sun and Ramm stood silently as they watched the girl disappear onto the train. Their eyes met, a question hanging between them.

  “Give me a little more credit than that,” Ramm said as they walked back toward the truck.

  “Well, it was pretty obvious that—”

  “I certainly hope Miranda thought so.” He smiled.

  Elect Sun cocked her head.

  Ramm put his arm around the woman’s shoulders as they walked. “Flies and honey, Elect Sun. Flies and honey.”

  On the train, mother and daughter sat separated by an empty seat. Miranda on the aisle, Kelly by the window. With her mother already engrossed in a magazine, Kelly turned and was surprised by her own reflection in the dark glass. She rarely looked at herself in the mirror. Kelly turned her face slowly one way, then the other, and tried to establish the exact reason people reacted to her the way they did. Other than Miranda and the female members of the Children of Light, she had never had much contact with other women, and she didn’t watch much television—the reception was bad and they had no cable or satellite dish. She had never been to a movie. The only hints Kelly had about what she was supposed to look like were gleaned from the fashion magazines Miranda was constantly leafing through.

  She studied her ink-black hair and blue eyes, so unlike her mother’s, the one link she had to Bryan Kelly’s Irish ancestors. Her ears were small, lips full, skin tawny and clear, perhaps a shade or two lighter than Miranda’s. She remembered the way her mother smiled at Ramm, lips pulled up presenting two rows of perfect white teeth. She’d seen him smile back. Kelly glanced at Miranda, then turned to face the window again. She tried to smile.

  Tried again.

  And again.

  But the face in the window remained lifeless, a quiescent mask. Kelly finally gave up and glanced at her mother’s stony profile. Was Miranda ignoring her because she was angry about the baby or because she was embarrassed to be sitting with her in front of strangers on the train
?

  A man wearing a red cap, white shirt, and gray pants with a navy-blue stripe down the side approached them.

  “Tickets please.” He smiled.

  Kelly was tempted to turn away, but forced herself to look straight at the man. If her face startled him, he failed to show it. He took a portion of each ticket, handed the remainder back to Miranda, then thanked them, and moved down the aisle.

  By the time the Sunset Limited pulled out of the station, Ramm had deposited Elect Sun on the steps of the compound, and was on his way back to the cabin. He passed the graveyard, headstones ghostly apparitions in the glare of the headlights. Turning left, he drove along the eastern edge of the basalt mountain where the dust devil had danced earlier in the day. Rows of long-dead palm trees—planted by someone with good intentions, but who, for some reason, left them to wither—rose like sentinels into the night sky. Ramm’s head ached as he turned onto Hyder Road, which flanked the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks.

  21

  THOUGH BILLY HAD CHECKED and rechecked his work, he decided to go over the preparations one last time. The SP Trainline article, written as a historical perspective, outlined the procedure step-by-step. The Southern Pacific track—like the one in Harney, Nevada in 1939—consisted of old-fashion jointed rail, not the welded variety used on lines that carried high volumes of traffic. Billy had unbolted the steel plate that held two sections of the track together. He’d removed twenty-nine spikes and an eighteen-pound steel bar that connected the two, thirty-nine-foot sections. The article explained that the pressure of the wheels on the rail would force one section laterally outside the other, causing the wheels to go between them, derailing the train.

 

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