Neil didn’t go to counseling. His mom pulled him out of school and enrolled him in a Lutheran academy. Del Ray only saw him once later, in a restaurant, when they were both having dinner with their families. Del Ray had given him a little wave from across the room, but Neil just looked at him for a few seconds, expressionless, then looked away.
The whole incident was supposed to have been a secret, but the word was out there. Del Ray’s brother Billy knew. It had colored their relationship ever since. Also, Del Ray’s buddies were wary of him, at least for a few months. He never developed any more close friendships. When he started sneaking out at night by himself and doing things that made him feel ashamed, Del Ray just drew more and more inward.
His biggest shame, one that he couldn’t get out of his head and that haunted both his thoughts and his dreams, was that night in the park. In his mind, he kept seeing that man on the ground, yelling, trying to protect his head while Del Ray kicked him, over and over.
Del Ray hadn’t said anything during the attack, but he thought plenty. You’re a long-haired faggot, hanging out with other faggots in the park. Not me! You’re a faggot and I’m not! FUCK YOU, FAGGOT!
And when he stomped with his boots and kicked with the steel-reinforced toe, he was kicking his future self, trying to snuff it out. Murder it. Stomp it into the ground so deep it could never come back. He had barely heard Chris and Joe yelling at him to stop. He didn’t want to stop. Finally, Joe had grabbed him and pulled him off, and they all got out of there.
In subsequent days, he was numb. He had felt nothing, even when he found out the queer nearly died. And now the man’s brain was damaged and he had trouble talking. Too bad, so sad. Maybe Del Ray’s own bad self was dead now, or at least so cowed that he could keep it locked up forever.
And then a few weeks later, Del Ray had taken Mom’s car and driven to the bus station looking for his secret self, to see if it was still there, and it was. When the police cruiser shined the light on his car, parked on a service road in Murchison Park, that’s when everything fell apart again.
His family was ashamed of him; his brother Billy rejected him cruelly. The therapist told Del Ray maybe what he really needed was more intensive treatment, in a special center for confused boys where they could help him change. Del Ray’s parents agreed, and arrangements were being made. It would be a six-month program with strict rules, intense therapy, and hours of Bible study.
A couple of weeks after he was picked up by the police, Del Ray called his old friend Veronica and told her he was going to kill himself.
She didn’t panic or cry. She didn’t even try to talk him out of it. She just said, Leave, Del Ray. Get out of Duro. She wasn’t being mean; she was trying to help. Del Ray knew that Veronica had a brother ten years older whom nobody talked about. His name was Lewis. He had escaped from Duro a couple of years ago. Lewis went to Houston, Veronica said, and found out it’s a thousand times better down there. People were more accepting. They didn’t bug you. Not everybody was decent, but there were so many other people like Lewis that he had found out he could feel normal and not hate himself anymore. In Houston, a guy could make friends, find a decent place to live, have a job. Be happy, even.
Go to Houston, Del Ray, she said. Get on the bus. Go.
Del Ray’s body jerked involuntarily with the sleep-falling reflex. It had been a restless nap. The awful yellow light was still there, and the hard, slick bench. He raised his head up because there was a commotion on the other side of the bus station. It was a dirty, ragged man, a derelict, raging.
“I’m gonna burn this place down!” he was yelling. “Burn it down!”
“Shut up,” said somebody.
“I’ll never shut up!” he yelled again. Then he started walking around the room holding his hand out to each weary person. His tone had shifted from angry to whining. “Help me out?” he said. “Please? Hey, help me out? Just some change. Help me out?” A few people handed him coins. He got to an old man with a cane, who was sitting up straight, dressed smartly in a straw hat and dapper jacket. He was from the generation who dressed up for travel, even on the Greyhound. “Help me out?” said the derelict.
“Get out of here and stop bothering people!” said the old man.
Challenged, the derelict started yelling again. “You want to fight? You want to take me? Let’s take it outside!”
The old man stood and brandished his cane. The derelict turned and fled, running from a man thirty years older than he was, out the door.
There was some quiet laughter. A couple of young men in army uniforms gave a quick smattering of applause. The old man sat back down.
Del Ray closed his eyes again and drifted.
The loudspeaker, which had been quiet for a couple of hours, suddenly crackled and came on with an announcement, unnecessarily loud for such a sparsely populated room.
Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention. The bus to Fort Hood … Killeen … Austin … Houston … is now boarding in the west port.
Del Ray looked at the wall clock. Four fifteen a.m. He got up and stretched out his aches, picked up the knapsack, and walked through the glass doors out into the warm air and diesel fumes, to climb aboard the idling beast that would take him away forever.
– 41 –
The Marine Could Use Some Ice
“He’s bleeding,” said Erycca. “You really hurt him. He needs to go to a hospital.”
Tank glanced over at Reed, who was still, lying on his side on the couch. Blood dripped from his forehead into his buzz-cut hair and onto the cloth upholstery. He had taken a hard pistol-whipping and was out cold.
“He’ll live,” said Tank. “Serves his ass right, trying to punch me.”
When Douglas and Reed had returned from the field to find three goons and a hostage in the living room, they were so clearly outnumbered and outmuscled it made no sense to fight back. But that didn’t stop Reed, who was noncompliant by nature. His spontaneous plan had been to temporarily disable Tank with one quick blow, then dash back into his room to retrieve his .45. He hadn’t made it past step one.
“I could get some ice,” said Erycca. She addressed Douglas, who sat across from her in one of the cushioned chairs. “Do you have any ice in your refrigerator?”
Douglas nodded, never taking his eyes off Tank.
“Shut up, cunt,” said Tank.
Erycca scooted over a bit on the couch, lifted Reed’s head gently, and put it in her lap, even though it meant blood would drip onto her jeans. Reed moaned and coughed but didn’t open his eyes. She took a small couch pillow and gently dabbed his forehead.
Downs came out of the kitchen, the shotgun draped across his arms. “They got a lot of beer,” he said. “You want a beer?”
“Yeah, give me one,” said Tank.
“Can I have one too, please?” said Erycca.
Downs looked at Tank, who shrugged. “Sure. Give her a beer. Maybe she’ll shut up.”
Downs went back into the kitchen and returned with three cans of Coors hugged against his chest with one arm. He flipped a can to Tank, who caught it in midair, then put another can on the coffee table in front of Erycca.
“Where’s Mitchell?” asked Downs. “Is he still outside?”
“Yeah, he’s scouting out a good place,” said Tank.
Downs sat down in another chair with his own beer, the 12-gauge shotgun across his lap. He popped the top on the can, tossing the pull tab onto the table.
Erycca picked up her can of beer, but she didn’t open it; she held the cold aluminum against the nasty cut on Reed’s forehead. He moaned again, but his eyes stayed closed.
“Shit, bitch,” said Downs. “I thought you were gonna have a drink and loosen up a little bit.”
Erycca glared at him but kept the cold can where it was.
The back door opened and Mitchell came in.
“It’s not gonna be that hard,” he said. “The ground is pretty loose. But we’ll need to drive the car
around on the dirt road. Nobody is back there. But we probably should wait till it’s dark, though … Hey, where’d you get beer?”
“In the fridge,” said Downs.
“Fuck, I want one,” said Mitchell. He walked into the kitchen.
“Did you see the damn dog when you were out there?” called Tank. They had shooed a wildly barking Leary out the door when they first arrived at the house, and the mutt had run away, up the street, loyalty free.
“Nope. No dog.”
“Okay,” said Tank. “I hope it stays gone. I don’t want any helpful neighbors bringing it back.” He stood up and pointed at Douglas. “You got a shovel?”
“Yes,” said Douglas. “In the shed next to the greenhouse. I have two.”
“Okay, good,” said Tank.
Mitchell returned and sat in a dining chair, straddling it backward.
Tank stood up. “I’m going to see about the shovels,” he said. “When it gets dark, we’ll take Fat Ass out there and get rid of him. Until then, I have to get some fucking sleep. You guys watch them.”
“Hey, I’m just as wiped out as you are,” said Downs. “I need sleep too.”
“You’ll get it, you idiot. We’re gonna take turns, okay? I just want at least two guys awake at all times.” He looked at his watch. “Give me an hour, till three o’clock. Then wake me up, and one of you guys can sleep while I help watch.” He went into the hallway and opened a door. It was Andy Zamara’s former room. “This one will work. Wake me up in one hour.” He shut the door.
Mitchell drank his beer and went into the kitchen for another one. Downs grinned at Erycca.
“Hey, sweet cheeks. How about you and me go in the other bedroom and practice free love?”
Erycca narrowed her eyes contemptuously.
“Shit!” said Downs. “Lucky me, I get to watch a frigid hippie bitch.”
Nothing much changed during the long afternoon, except one important fact. During the second changing of the guard, while Tank was conferring with Downs on the other side of the living room, Reed had opened his eyes slightly for just a second, then shut them again. Erycca looked down at him.
“Hey,” he whispered softly, “I’m awake. Don’t say anything.” He opened his eyes again and glanced over at Douglas a few feet away, who saw him, nodded slightly in acknowledgment, then looked away.
Reed whispered again to Erycca. “Listen. The bedroom next to the kitchen … bottom drawer of the bureau. There’s a blanket. There’s a gun wrapped up inside the blanket. Do you understand?” Erycca nodded slightly without looking down at him. “Okay,” whispered Reed. “In a little bit, ask if you can get a blanket to cover me up, because I’m hurt. Then try and get me the gun. Keep it inside the blanket.” Erycca nodded again.
A few minutes later, Downs went into Andy’s room to take his turn at a nap, and Tank went back outside to the shed. Mitchell, sitting in his chair, rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“Excuse me,” said Erycca. “This guy is shivering. Can I get him a blanket? Douglas, do you guys have a blanket?”
“It’s not cold,” said Mitchell. “It’s the fucking summer. He doesn’t need a blanket.”
“Probably loss of blood,” said Douglas. “He might be in shock. I think she’s right. He needs a blanket.”
“Shut up or I’ll put you to sleep,” said Mitchell.
At dusk, Tank woke up Mitchell from his nap, even though he hadn’t gotten his full hour. Erycca was still on the couch with Reed. His head rested on the small pillow, but he still hadn’t moved. Blood was caked on his forehead, which was badly swollen, but the bleeding had stopped. Douglas still sat in his chair, keeping his eyes on Downs. Tank went in and out of the house, collecting what he’d need—two shovels, a small aluminum flashlight, some rope, a soiled medium-sized rug from inside the front door.
Mitchell walked in from the bedroom, yawning. He went to the bathroom and washed his face.
“Shit!” he said. “I am so fucking tired.”
“Take the shotgun,” said Tank. “Watch sleeping beauty and the bitch. I need to take care of things.” He pointed at Douglas. “You come with us. I’m gonna put you to work.” Tank picked up the rolled-up rug and carried it under his arm.
Tank, Downs, and Douglas walked out the front door and around the side of the house, where the Oldsmobile had been pulled up close.
“Give me the keys,” said Tank, and Downs tossed them to him. Tank walked around the back of the long white vehicle, dropped the rug on the ground, and unrolled it. Then he unlocked and opened the trunk and pointed at Douglas. “Come help.”
Douglas came around the back of the car and looked in the trunk. Even in the twilight, it was awful to behold. Jerry was there. At least, Douglas presumed it must be Jerry. His face was sickeningly distorted, with a part of the side of his head missing. A foul smell rose from the trunk.
“Oh, Christ!” he said and looked away quickly.
Tank reached into the trunk, pulled up Jerry’s sport coat past the back of his head, and reached under the shoulders. Douglas stood still, numb.
“Get his feet, asshole,” said Tank. Douglas reached down and lifted the feet, and the two of them hoisted the large body out and onto the carpet. A thick stain of blood was left on the trunk’s carpeting. Tank knelt by Jerry’s head. “Help me roll,” he said. While Downs stood by holding the revolver, the two other men pulled the end of the rug over Jerry’s body, then rolled him up into the tattered carpet. It was a big, awkward package and looked like nothing less than a body rolled up in a carpet. Tank picked up a seven-foot length of cotton rope and tied it around the middle of the carpet roll, securing it crudely.
“Open the back of the van,” said Tank, and Downs complied.
They lifted and carried the body with some effort, shoving it into the back of the Econoline van. Tank tossed the two shovels into the van on top of the carpet lump.
“Let me have the gun,” Tank said to Downs. “Get back into the house and find me a sharp knife. Try the kitchen.” Downs handed the pistol over to Tank, then went back inside. He emerged a couple of minutes later with an eight-inch carving knife. Tank took the knife, returned to the Olds, and leaned over into the trunk. There was a cutting and tearing sound, and after a couple of minutes he pulled out a large swatch of the blood-soaked upholstery. He put the carpet piece in the van and shut the back doors.
“Okay, let’s go,” said Tank. “I’ll drive. You sit in the back with Dougy. Keep the gun on him. I don’t want him to try any bullshit. And by the way,” he said to Douglas, “if you do try anything, we’re gonna come back here and cut some throats. It’s a promise. Remember that.”
The Econoline backed out onto Jupiter Lane, drove slowly up the street to the stop sign, and turned right, heading for Saturn. As the van turned the corner, its high beams cut a swath across the open prairie, casting sharp shadows in the mesquite, thistle, and decayed remnants of human occupation.
Halfway down the middle block of the dirt street, they stopped and climbed out. They walked up onto the property, and Douglas unlocked the gate. Tank walked around a little bit, shining the little flashlight back and forth. He stopped right next to one of the marijuana patches, which looked sad and wilted in the twilight.
“Dig a hole here,” Tank said. Doug picked up one shovel, walked to the spot, put his foot down, and turned over a swath of dusty dirt.
“Help him,” Tank said to Downs. The younger man looked disappointed but handed the pistol to Tank and picked up the other shovel.
“I need a light,” said Douglas. Tank hesitated, then switched the yellow beam back on.
“Dig fast,” said Tank.
– 42 –
Apollo Completes the Picture
The first week of August brought an unexpected rainstorm to Duro. There had been no measurable precipitation in six weeks, but the dry spell was broken with a vengeance as a warm, wet, low-pressure system moved north from the Gulf of Mexico and collided with cool air sliding down from th
e Rocky Mountains.
On the west side of town, the storm drains were shallow and narrow, unable to accommodate more than sprinkler runoff and the occasional light rain. When the water came down in buckets, as it did once or twice in an average year, planning engineers counted on Beechnut Draw, a low, wide boulevard, which had been designed to collect excess rainwater and channel it south of the city toward Ten-Mile Wash and then on to the Concho River.
Apollo was at DCC working in the fire room when he thought he heard thunder. He looked up from the canvas and listened. How odd. Thunderstorms were common in the spring but rare in midsummer. Maybe it was something else. He went back to work.
It was time to finish the portrait. He didn’t know exactly what the conclusion meant, but he had a gut feeling. He twisted the end of the small brush to a fine point with his lips, then put a tiny dab of lightened blue paint. He fussed with the eyes. He was never satisfied with how eyes looked when he drew a human face, but he was especially unhappy with these eyes. He touched up and dabbed, stepped back, and dabbed some more. He used his little finger to smear the edges. After a few more touches, he stepped back.
You’re just stalling, man. You’re done. Finish it.
Picking up his smallest brush, he dipped it quickly in black acrylic and slowly, painstakingly, he signed his name and dated it.
He would let it dry for a few hours, then apply the fixative. Then it would be over.
A few moments later there was a loud, penetrating roll of thunder, and the windows rattled. It had grown noticeably darker, fitting Apollo’s mood. He set down his paint palette and the small detail brush he’d been working with and went to the window. From this angle, the clouds looked high and light, but he could see from the sway of the trees that the wind was picking up. He left the inner room of the studio and crossed the hall to the large double security doors on the south side. As he stepped outside, wind suddenly whipped his white hair, and he got a face full of dust. Apollo coughed, wiped his face, and walked around the building to get a view of the northern sky.
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