We left the kid in the camper when we got back here to the cabin. The old man will return him to the shed after dark. I’ve spent the day in the van, trying to sort things out. Right now I’m lying in the warm glow of a golden afternoon, but I’m chilled to the bone by what I’ve seen and what I’ve done. I’ve been searching for the truth about what happened to Benny, and I believe I’ve found it. I have no proof it was a rover that killed him, no hard evidence like Czarnecki’s ring, but I’m almost sure that’s how he met his end. There’s no happiness in this certainty, but there is the satisfaction of having solved the mystery, which is at least something after so much disappointment and frustration.
But a storm still roils within me. Because now I have to make a choice. Do I join Czarnecki in his war against the rovers, even though the chances of encountering the one that murdered Benny are slim? Or do I return to you and step back into my old life, knowing that the monsters that murdered our boy and God knows how many others are out there continuing to kill?
Truthfully, I feel whichever road I choose is going to lead to my destruction, and all I can do this evening is pray that you, at least, are at peace.
TODAY’S PASSAGE: Stand in awe and sin not. Commune with your own heart upon your bed and be still.
—Psalm 4:4
12
ANTONIA AND ELIJAH MEET GEORGE MOORE’S MAN AT A diner. “I’ll be the ugliest sonofabitch in the joint,” he said when Antonia asked how they’d know him, and he wasn’t lying. He looks like a possum with acne scars and a greasy pompadour, has the beadiest black eyes Antonia’s ever seen.
The waitress is refilling his coffee when the two Fiends walk up to his table. He motions for them to sit and proceeds to stir half the sugar in the dispenser into his cup.
“Nice bikes,” he says, nodding at the Harleys parked out front.
“Do you ride?” Elijah asks.
“Not me,” the possum says. “If I fell off and cracked my skull, they’d be washing my brains off the road with a fire hose. You, you’re good as new in five minutes.” His grin reveals a mouthful of crooked brown teeth. “Do you have the pictures?”
Antonia reaches into the pocket of her denim vest and brings out the Polaroids Bob 1 took of McMullin, tosses them on the table. The possum squints at the one of the tattoo.
“Mors tua, vita mea,” he says.
“Your death, my life,” Antonia says.
The possum’s lips purse like he’s tasting something sour.
“That about sums you rovers up, doesn’t it?” he says.
“And you’re somehow better?” Antonia says.
“At least I’m still as God made me.”
“God?” Antonia says. “You fucking child.”
“I dig blondes, but why’s your hair so short?” the possum says. “You trying to look like a man?”
Antonia slaps her hand on the table, smirking when the possum jumps.
“We’ll have what you owe us,” Elijah says.
The possum sets a paper bag on the table. Elijah picks it up and glances at the stack of bills inside.
“And the other?” he says.
“Meet me out back,” the possum says.
He downs his coffee and gets up to pay at the register. Antonia and Elijah walk outside. The diner’s neon sign puts on its show, flashing pink—TRUCK—flashing green—TOWN—flashing red—CAFÉ. A semi pulls into the gas station next door and stops, brakes hissing, at a diesel pump. A uniformed attendant runs out and shouts, “Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”
“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?” Antonia asks Elijah.
“Wherever you were,” Elijah says.
“What if I was in Japan?”
“I’d go to Japan.”
“Italy?”
“Italy.”
“Atlanta?”
“Don’t make me go to Atlanta.”
The possum comes out and says, “Follow me.”
Antonia and Elijah start their Sportsters and ride around behind the restaurant. A bright orange light burns at the top of a pole, but the possum’s Lincoln is parked away from it, deep in the shadows. He reaches the car as the Fiends pull up beside it.
The car’s dome light goes on when he opens the door. He grabs a cloth drawstring sack from behind the front seat and passes it to Elijah like it’s got something that stinks in it. Elijah looks inside. The baby is lying at the bottom. Elijah can’t tell if she’s dead or alive until he pokes her with a finger and she opens one eye.
The possum pulls out another bag, this one from Safeway.
“There’s formula in here, Pampers,” he says.
Antonia takes this bag, though she’s thinking the kid won’t be around long enough to need what’s in it. The possum slides into the Lincoln and drives across the parking lot to the frontage road. Beyond that, cars and trucks zoom past on the freeway, bound for better places.
Elijah opens one of his Harley’s saddlebags and lowers the sack containing the baby into it.
“Think it’ll be okay in here?” he says to Antonia.
“Why are you asking me?” she says. “I don’t know anything about babies.”
That’s not true. Elijah knows she had two children before she turned, both of which died of the pox. In all the years they’ve been together she’s never told him more than that, not even their names, but he can tell she’s thinking of them now as she pulls on her gloves. He wishes he could say, It wasn’t your fault. Those babies were taken from you by nature, not because you were a bad mother, but they aren’t that way with each other.
Instead he says, “I hope they haven’t burned down the motel while we’ve been gone.”
Antonia listens to the traffic on the freeway, which sounds tonight like wind blowing through trees. “Are we really stuck riding herd on these shitheads forever?” she says.
“We can do whatever you want,” Elijah says.
“Let’s feed on the baby ourselves and take off,” she says. “Let’s go to Japan. Let’s go to Italy.”
Elijah knows she’s just talking. They’ve never been as safe as they’ve been since they joined with the others, never been as powerful. In addition, the only human thing the rest of the Fiends have left is their pride, and they’d never forgive an insult to it. If he and Antonia swiped the baby and ran out on them, they’d have six wild animals on their tails, animals that wouldn’t rest until they tracked them down and exacted revenge. Elijah’s not ready to die yet, and he’s pretty sure Antonia isn’t either, but he’s still trying to come up with a response when she says, “Got ya.”
“What do you mean?” he says.
“That was a test.”
“Did I pass?”
“I’m not telling.”
However she wants to wriggle out of it is fine with Elijah. She stomps her Harley to life, pops it into gear, and roars off. Elijah follows right behind her.
Bob 1 and Bob 2 are by the pool when they get back to the motel. The rest of the Fiends are playing cards in Pedro and Johnny Kickapoo’s room. There’s been tension between the Bobs and the others since the Bobs won the right to make the hit and claim the infant. In the hours since they returned from the killing, Yuma has refused to give them enough weed for a joint, and Bob 2 and Johnny almost came to blows because Johnny didn’t laugh at one of Bob’s jokes.
Elijah suggests they pay the Bobs off separately from the others, but Antonia says no, they’re adults, and they’re going to act like it. She calls a meeting in her and Elijah’s room. Everybody files in looking glum except the Bobs.
The baby is lying on the bed. She’s been crying since Elijah took her out of the sack.
“Did you check its diaper?” Yuma asks. She was a nanny in another life, looked after the children of the richest man in Cincinnati.
“I just changed it,” Elijah says.
“Then it’s probably hungry.”
Elijah hands her the bag containing formula and diapers. “This came with it,” he says.
“Any of you fuckers know how to mix formula?” Yuma says.
“Just give it a tit,” Bob 2 says, trying to be funny.
Grumbling, Yuma sets about preparing a bottle.
Antonia brings out Moore’s original $25,000 and sets it on the table next to the twenty-five she and Elijah got from the possum. Minus Beaumont’s ten percent, everyone but the Bobs will receive $7,500. Johnny and Real Deal do the divvying, licking their fingers and dealing the bills into six stacks.
Yuma finishes shaking the formula. She picks up the baby and sticks the nipple of the bottle in her mouth. The kid stops crying and starts sucking.
“Enjoy your last meal,” Bob 2 says.
“You ever had a child?” Yuma asks him.
“Depends how you mean.”
“You’re a sick fuck.”
“The sickest,” Bob 2 says. He pulls a big hunting knife from his belt. “How about I nick the brat right now and make you sore losers watch us drink?”
Real Deal draws his knife.
“How about I cut you in half?” he says.
Bob 2 glances at Bob 1—who, with a tiny shake of his head, tells him to back down. Bob 2 twirls his knife like a gunslinger playing with his pistol before returning it to its sheath. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. Real Deal puts his blade away too.
“We need to take a vote,” Antonia says, looking to ease the tension. “We’re pulling out of here tomorrow night. All in favor of New Orleans as our next stop, say aye.”
A chorus of ayes rings out. It’s unanimous, as Antonia knew it would be.
“New Orleans it is, then,” she says. “Now, who’s next to feed?”
They’ve worked things out so their feedings are staggered, thereby leaving a narrower wake of dead and disappeared behind them.
Pedro raises his hand. “I’m up.”
“Seems like it’s been a while.”
“Forty-five days, but I can’t go much longer. I’m getting itchy.”
“We’ll find something along the way, set you right.”
Johnny gestures at the piles of bills on the table in front of him. “Come and get it,” he says.
Pedro, Antonia, and Elijah grab their stacks. Real Deal pockets his.
“Snag mine, doll,” Yuma says to him. She’s still feeding the baby.
“Go on,” Bob 1 says to Yuma. “I’ll take the nipper.”
Yuma hesitates, primal reflex tightening her grip on the child, but she quickly overrides it. Bob 1 rests the kid in the crook of his arm and tosses the bottle away. He picks up the drawstring sack and slips the infant back inside.
“Feed somewhere else,” Antonia says.
“We’ve got a good place,” Bob 2 says.
“And bury it deep when you’re done.”
The Bobs put the sack in one of Bob 2’s saddlebags and blast off. They take Central south. Bright and bustling downtown gives way to dark warehouses and auto-body shops, which give way to brand-new tracts of homes bounded by freshly planted palm trees. Out past these they ride across the desert until the road narrows and climbs a mountain. Near the top they turn onto a dirt road that leads to a spot overlooking the city.
They’ve been here before, to drink beer and get stoned. Teenagers use it as a lovers’ lane, but tonight they have it to themselves. They park at the edge of the flat and dismount. Bob 2 takes the sack out of his saddlebag.
The ruins of an old adobe cabin sit on a ledge fifty feet downslope from the overlook. The Fiends sidestep along the steep, slippery trail leading to it. Rocks and dirt loosed by their passage cascade down the mountain. Bob 2 trips, and the jolt startles the baby. She lets out a yell Bob swears will be heard all the way back in town.
“Shut it up,” Bob 1 says.
“You know of a magic word?” Bob 2 says.
“Try singing.”
“I’ll try stomping its brains out if it doesn’t stop soon,” Bob 2 says. He cradles and rocks the sack, quieting the kid to a fuss.
The Fiends enter the cabin by ducking under a low doorway. The roof has collapsed, and the floor is littered with rubble. The walls still standing are spattered with graffiti. A pentagram, a skull and crossbones, a broken heart. Bob 2 sets the sack down, and he and Bob 1 step through a breach in the north wall to where there’s an old rock garden. Bob 1 pulls out a pint of Seagram’s, has a sip, and passes it to Bob 2. The men catch their breaths while contemplating the lights of Phoenix.
“I remember this town when there were still horses on the streets,” Bob 1 says.
“You are as old as dinosaur shit,” Bob 2 says.
“Don’t I know it. I see twenty-two in the mirror but feel a hundred and twenty-two.”
“It’s all in your mind.”
“I’m not so sure. Years have weight.”
“Look at Elijah, born in seventeen-something and still going strong.”
“Maybe it’s the pace I’m living at, always on the run.”
Bob 2 nods toward the cabin, toward the baby.
“Wait’ll you suck on that,” he says. “You’ll be raring to go again.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Bob 1 says.
“Uh oh.”
“I want the kid to myself. I want a whole year where I don’t have to hunt, not just six months.”
“To do what?”
“I’m gonna go to Cuba and find the girl who turned me.”
Bob 2 is shocked by this, hurt even. “Are you serious?” he says.
“I need a purpose.”
“You need not to complicate things.”
“Maybe so, but I want to go to Cuba.”
“And what about me?” Bob 2 says. “That bitch left you high and dry, but I’ve been loyal for twenty-five years, never once let you down, always had your back.”
“You’re a good dude for sure. The best.”
“But fuck me anyway, right?”
Bob 1 looks away, uncomfortable.
“Well, I’m not just giving the kid up to you,” Bob 2 continues. “I made the hit and earned the right to feed too.”
“I know that,” Bob 1 says, “and that’s why I’m willing to gamble for it, double or nothing.”
“Gamble how?”
“Liar’s poker, roshambo. We can flip a coin, if you want.”
The baby cries again, a reminder to the Bobs that every minute they draw this out is one more when trouble might find them. An idea comes to Bob 2, one that’ll put Bob 1’s resolve to the test. He draws the snub-nosed .38 he carries.
“The game’s Russian roulette,” he says.
“Jesus,” Bob 1 says.
“It’s that, or let’s get to feeding.”
“You don’t think I’m serious, do you?”
“Prove it.”
Bob 1 stands there chewing his beard. He’s played Russian roulette a few times before, wagering with other rovers. He won twice and lost once, took a bullet to the brain. The pain was excruciating, and he’s always wondered if he’s not a little dumber now than before. But he’s determined to see Maria again and get answers to the questions that have tormented him for half a century.
“Roulette it is then,” he says.
Bob 2 is nervous. He only suggested the game thinking the other Bob would back down. With trembling hands, he opens the cylinder of the revolver and drops the cartridges into his palm. Retrieving one, he slides it back into an empty chamber, closes the cylinder, and spins it.
“Who’s first?” he says.
Bob 1 takes the gun from him. Might as well get it over with. He presses the muzzle to his temple and pulls the trigger.
Click.
Relief weakens his knees, but he keeps a blank face as he spins the cylinder and passes the gun to Bob 2.
“Goddammit,” Bob 2 says. He swipes at the fear sweat dripping off his nose. “Goddammit.” He puts the gun to his head. “Goddammit!”
Click.
“Ha!”
He spins the cylinder and thrusts the gun
at Bob 1, who moves a little slower this time, who takes a deep breath and twists the tension out of his neck before raising the pistol.
Blam!
The echo of the shot caroms and fades. Bob 1 crumples to the ground, blood spurting from a hole in his head. Bob 2 picks up the Seagram’s and guzzles what’s left. He won, but he’s still angry at the other Bob for ruining their partnership. Even if they keep riding together, things will never be the same. The baby stopped crying when the gun went off but bawls again now. Fuck it—it’ll be quiet forever soon enough.
Bob 1’s foot twitches. His mind restarts in stages, like lights going on floor by floor in a skyscraper. He sits up with a groan and touches the crater where the bullet exited his skull, flesh and bone regenerating even as he does so.
“You lose, motherfucker,” are the first words he hears when his ears stop ringing.
“Yeah, yeah,” he replies, relieved to find his tongue works.
The baby is still crying, but softly now. Bob 2 draws his knife. “To the victor go the spoils,” he says, and enters the cabin. A second later he shouts, “Where’s the kid?”
“What do you mean?” Bob 1 says.
“The kid. It’s—” Bob 2 checks the floor of the cabin again. “Where the fuck is it?”
13
TWO MOTORCYCLES CIRCLE THE OVERLOOK AND STOP AT THE brink. Jesse worms on his belly for a clear view. The bikes’ engines cough and die, and two bearded men—one tall, one short—step off the Harleys. Jesse’s heart freezes. Rovers. There’s a patch on the back of their jackets, a grinning skull with goat horns. A banner above it proclaims FIENDS, another below HELL. Jesse’s heard stories about the Fiends, rovers who travel in a pack, killing anyone, turned or unturned, who crosses them. Bad news all around.
Johona creeps over to lie beside him.
“Biker trash,” she says.
The shorter Fiend takes a sack out of a saddlebag on his bike, and he and the other start down a path that ends at the bones of a cabin on a ledge below the outlook. Jesse can just make out the crumbling structure from where he and Johona are hiding.
Rovers Page 9