His stomach didn’t agree, and neither did the ice-spiders that strolled up and down his arms, his spine, raising gooseflesh here and there until he hurried inside and dropped back onto the couch.
“Okay,” he said to the living room. “Okay.”
The chairs, the coffee table, the television on its cheap wood stand were too vague to look at in the dim glow from the kitchen. Highlights on the screen and on smooth wood surfaces gave the illusion they were made of dark glass, and when he turned his head slightly they seemed to shift, slipping toward him, slipping away.
Entirely way too calm, you jerk; entirely way too calm.
Still, the ghostly images drove him back into the kitchen, where he poured another glass of juice and sat at the table, staring at the radio he had unplugged the other night.
Curiously enough, what bothered him, what began to unnerve him and annoy him as he sat with his hands cupped around the glass, wasn’t the business with Eula, or what he was supposed to do about it; it was the way he had assumed, back there in the car, that he was, in fact, supposed to do something about it.
No options had been offered.
There were always options.
From a cupboard above the sink he fetched a cheap ashtray, one that had been in some hotel or other until he’d slipped it into his suitcase a couple of lifetimes ago. He put it on the table, walked around the table once, a finger trailing along the surface, then took a pack from the drawer next to the sink, sat, lit a cigarette, and followed the smoke’s plume as it made its way toward the ceiling like a sidewinder’s ghost
Options:
He could ignore it all, keep his life simple, add to his stash and ... He snorted. Sure. Right. Sometimes options weren’t options at all.
He could borrow Jude’s gun, walk up to Eula’s, knock on the door, shoot her right between the eyes, and end it right now. Tempting, but too easy. Much too easy. He had never read the Bible except for excerpts in church, but he had a powerful inclination that someone like her wouldn’t be stopped by something so simple.
He could always run, but like the old cliche says, he sure couldn’t hide. Besides, running would mean abandoning Jude and the girls. He was perhaps a fool, but he wasn’t an idiot.
His gaze shifted absently to the long ash on the cigarette. When he twitched his finger, the ash fell onto the table in two long pieces, like, he thought, a column fallen from some ancient temple.
Which made him think of something else: accepting the premise of Eula’s nature had to mean that she wasn’t demonic, wasn’t satanic, wasn’t a creature loosed from the bowels of Hell. Which meant... he put the cigarette down, pushed at it with a finger until it fell into the ashtray. Which meant she was, theoretically, one of the Good Guys.
He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head sharply, and fished another cigarette from the pack and lit it, blew smoke, and decided he wasn’t clever enough to handle stuff like that. He was a gambler, not a philosopher; just keep it straight and simple, don’t get yourself lost in a Biblical swamp.
Halfway through the second cigarette, it occurred to him that neither Sir John nor Beatrice had actually said he had to fight. They had made a great point of telling him about the others, Chisholm and Bannock and those who were with them, but they’d said nothing, not really, about actually standing up to Eula Korrey. In fact, Beatrice had straight out told him he had to go find these guys, right? Didn’t she say that? That he had to go find these guys?
He sat up.
Yet if he did, if he tried . . .
“Son of a bitch.”
He looked around the kitchen, hoping something on the counters, in the cupboards, on the floor, in the air, would warn him away from the conclusion he had reached.
“No.”
He crushed the cigarette out so furiously it fell apart, tobacco spilling across the table.
“No.”
He was halfway out of his chair when someone pounded on the front door, then shoved it open. He tried to move quickly, but his feet tangled with the chair legs, knocking it over sideways, forcing him to grab the table’s edge so he wouldn’t fall as well. By the time he was able to stand again, the girls were in the room, yelling at him. Their eyes were swollen from crying, cheeks flushed with helpless anger. Starshine’s hair was loose and wild, strands clinging to her face; Moonbow’s T-shirt was smudged and damp with tears.
“Where were you?” Starshine demanded in a near scream, slapping his chest as hard as she could while grabbing for his arm.
“We thought you’d left,” Moonbow yelled, grabbing his other arm. “Where were you? We thought you’d left.”
They couldn’t decide which way to pull him, and so practically tugged him over the table before he could brace himself and yank himself free. “Stop it!” he snapped. “Damnit, stop it!”
They froze, lips quivering, breath coming in hard hitches.
“What the hell’s going on here? And what the hell are you doing up so early?”
Moonbow tried to answer, couldn’t, and Starshine, glaring, teeth bared, said, “You left. You left us.”
“I left,” he said tautly. “I’m back. You haven’t answered my question.”
Moonbow shook her head. “What’s the matter, Trey? Don’t be mad. What’s the matter?”
His right hand shoved at his hair, while the fingers of his left tapped stiffly against his leg. Having finally understood what the Harps expected him to do, he hadn’t realized how furious he was until the girls had charged in, cornering him, accusing him, pushing him on the defensive. He couldn’t take it out on them, they had nothing to do with it, didn’t even know about it, and he held up a hand to keep them silent until he was able to muster some semblance of calm.
What he wanted to say was, “Look, kids, I’ve had a really crappy day, okay? I’ve been shot, left in the desert to maybe die, sort of kind of healed myself I think maybe, punched out a guy I thought was a friend because he’s working for a woman who really isn’t who you think she is, and I’m not in the mood for your goddamn kid hysterics.”
What he said was, “Tell me.”
There was a brief silence before Starshine blurted, “Momma, Trey, it’s Momma. There’s something real wrong with her. Something bad.”
* * * *
2
1
T
rey had too many images and no reliable information as he followed the girls at a run through the house and across the street. He was aware of their footsteps on the dirt, of the still-blowing wind, of the night that hadn’t cooled off as much as it should have for this time of year. He was aware of the way his lungs wouldn’t work exactly right, causing him to gulp air despite the shape he was in. He was aware of a spreading heat across his face, of a midnight chill in his stomach, of a muffled steady roar in his ears that had nothing to do with the girls’ constant desperate chatter, making no sense, only saying that Jude had gone out around eleven and returned shortly afterward, crying, pushing them away, racing into the bedroom and locking the door behind her.
“We saw your light,” Starshine said, slapping open the front door.
“We were watching,” Moonbow told him, practically shoving him inside.
A few long strides took him to the arch; another took him to the bedroom door, where he knocked and said, “Jude? Jude, it’s Trey, you all right?”
The girls stayed back, holding hands, doing their best not to cry.
He knocked again. “Jude?”
A voice on the other side, but he couldn’t make out the words.
“Jude, I can’t hear you. Let me in, okay?”
“Don’t touch me!” Jude screamed. “Stay away! Don’t touch me!”
Jesus, he thought, and looked over his shoulder. “She tell you anything? Anything at all?”
Moonbow shook her head. “I couldn’t understand her. She was . . . she was ... I couldn’t understand her.”
“She went to see Eula,” Starshine said, fear and anger in her voice; “We made her a deal. She wan
ted to see Eula, but she had to go see Roger first.”
“What? Why, for God’s sake?”
Moonbow sank to the floor, crossed her legs, grabbed her knees. “Momma wanted to be better.” Her voice quiet, each word an effort. “She said Eula would fix the others, and she wanted to be fixed, too.”
Aw, Jesus, he thought; dear God, aw Jesus.
Starshine knelt beside her, an arm around her shoulders. “We made her a deal. We said she could go if she’d see Roger first and find out why he wasn’t with them. She promised us. She said you’d left again. She promised us.” Her face twisted; she swallowed hard. “Where were you, Trey? Why weren’t you here?”
He looked back at the door. “Jude, let me in.”
She screamed something incomprehensible, and something thumped hard against the door. A shoe, probably; it made him jump.
He straightened, inhaled slowly. “Jude, I’m not kidding. If you don’t unlock the door now, I’m going to break it in.” The girls made a sound like a whimper, or a stifled scream. “I’ll do it, Jude. The kids are scared to death, and I’m telling you, I’m not doing so well out here myself.” He leaned closer. “Jude. Please. Unlock the door.”
He stared at his feet, at the tiny gap between the door and floorboards, nodding when he heard the lock turn over, wondering if the kids could hear her crying.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
They didn’t move.
Another deep breath, and he opened the door just wide enough for him to slip in; when he closed it again, he waited until his eyes adjusted to a faint light that slipped past the partially ajar bathroom door. Jude sat in the corner on the other side of the bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned when he stepped around the footboard in order to see her more clearly. “Stay away. Don’t touch me.”
A gentle question: “What happened, Jude?”
“Don’t touch me, please don’t touch me.”
Left hand on the footboard for balance, he lowered himself into a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet. “I won’t, Jude, I won’t. Tell me what happened.”
She tried to make herself smaller. “I’m going to die. Don’t touch me. I’m going to die.”
He blocked most of the bathroom’s light; it was like looking at her through dark gauze. “You’re not going to die, Jude.”
She shook her head. “Yes, I am. I saw him.” Her voice rose, near hysteria. “I touched him.” Her voice fell, near sorrow. “I’m going to die.”
“Talk to me, Jude. Man of action, remember? Maybe I can help, but you gotta talk to me.”
She raised her head, and her dark eyes held glints of silver. “Roger has the Sickness. I found him. I didn’t know.” She began to rock, to get excited. “I found him. In his bathtub. His face.” She began to bounce a little. “His skin. I didn’t see it at first, Trey. I swear to God, I didn’t see it at first so I tried to help him out because I thought he’d fallen or was drunk, but he wasn’t drunk, he was sick, and oh God, Trey, I touched him. I reached out, and I touched him.”
He didn’t hesitate. He pushed forward onto his knees, reached out and grabbed for her arms. She cried out and pulled away, slapping at his hands, his arms, his legs. “Don’t touch me, you’ll die, don’t touch me, I’m dying.” He batted away the slaps, his head back so she wouldn’t accidentally punch him, and this time grabbed her shoulders and yanked her toward him, gathered her to his chest, and held her tightly while she struggled and cried and pleaded with him to let her go because she didn’t want him to die, didn’t he understand, she didn’t want him to die.
One arm around her back, his right hand cupping her head firmly, he waited until whatever terrified her drained her and she couldn’t struggle anymore. Weeping instead, and he could feel the tears seep through his shirt, warm on his chest.
He held her.
He rocked her.
When even the tears were too much and she could do nothing but moan softly, he said, “Jude, I’m not going to die.”
“Yes,” she said.
“No.”
“I touched him. You can get it by touching.”
“I know.” He stroked her hair. “I know you can.” He stroked her back. “But I’m not going to die. And you’re not going to either.”
For five minutes, ten, he rocked and he whispered and when she finally lifted her face, her veil pushed down over her ravaged nose, he looked down at her and said, “I ain’t lying, Jude. You’re all right now. I ain’t lying.”
In the dark he could almost imagine that her face was whole.
When she realized the veil was nearly off, she gasped, but he wouldn’t let her free to set it back in place.
“Jude.”
She rested her forehead against his chest. “I don’t want to die. The girls. . . I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t.”
She shook her head. “How do you know?”
“Funny you should ask.” He looked to the door and suspected the girls were on the other side, trying to eavesdrop, too scared to barge in. “If you got a minute, I got a hell of a story to tell you.”
* * * *
2
There was no light in the desert, but she didn’t need any. She rode the pinto in a large circle well away from Emerald City, humming to herself, nodding every once in a while, touching the horse’s neck whenever it shied from a shadow.
She had sent the others home after telling them when she expected them back, and not five minutes after the last one had left, she had known.
She had known.
Rage had clenched her fists so tightly blood dripped from her palms; fury had made her storm through the house, swinging at anything that got in her way, each punch spilling more blood as a door was slammed off one hinge, as a mirror was shattered into black shards that rippled into shadows that slid into the walls, as the walls trembled and the ceilings bulged and dust fell like fine rain. She rode to find calm.
She rode to remind herself that those who had gone before her had been stymied as well, that none of it really mattered because she was who she was and it wouldn’t happen to her.
Because she knew.
She knew that nothing the old man and that foolish stupid woman told the gambler would do him any good, knew that their time was short and she was going to make it shorter, knew that she had an army and all he had was children and cripples, and old men and stupid women who didn’t know enough to know how hard they would die.
The pinto snorted, steam roiling from its nostrils.
“Hush, now,” she whispered, caressing its neck and mane. “Hush, now.”
It was time to get back.
Time to get ready.
When she reached the boulder that marked the edge of the gambler’s world, she read the words he’d scratched into it, and she lifted her face to the stars and she laughed.
* * * *
3
In the mountains, coyotes howled.
On Lake Mead there were whitecaps.
In the desert, the wind blew, and dust and sand lifted from the ground and formed a cloud.
That waited.
* * * *
4
When he dreamed before, when he imagined himself a great sports star whose prowess and fine looks were known throughout the world, it was, before, soccer of which he was king.
In soccer hands were a liability unless you were a keeper.
In soccer you were penalized if you used your hands to touch the ball.
Now, drifting through a light sleep in which dreams were a wafer’s width beyond his control, he was a gridiron star, a basketball hero, an unbloodied two-fisted heavyweight champion of the world.
Top of the world, Ma; top of the world.
A moan and a grin as he rolled onto his side.
Top of the goddamn world, and all he had to do to stay there was rip a gambler apart.
* * * *
Lying on top of the s
heets, hands folded on her stomach, too astonished, too bewildered, too excited to sleep, Stephanie Olin stared at the darkness with a grin so wide she thought the corners of her mouth would split and tear her cheeks. Cable lay with his back to her, every so often punching his pillow to reform it, drawing his legs up, straightening them out, sighing quietly, grunting as if he found it difficult to breathe.
She touched his bare hip, stroked it, squeezed it lightly, an often-used trick to settle him down when his dreams got the best of him.
Chariot - [Millennium Quartet 03] Page 24