What Immortal Hand
By
Johnny Worthen
Omnium Gatherum
Los Angeles
What Immortal Hand
Copyright © 2017 Johnny Worthen
ISBN-13: 9780997971798
ISBN-10: 0997971797
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and publisher omniumgatherumedia.com.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
First Electronic Edition
For Kate
The Tyger (from Songs of Experience)
By William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
1794
Prologue
The neckerchief whips around Isaac’s throat with a jangle of coins. It slaps into the waiting palm behind his left ear, then tightens like a noose. A knee in the small of his back sends a jolt up his spine and the garrote tightens under his chin.
He drops his beer can and digs his fingers into his neck, scratching to get under the cloth to pull it away from his windpipe. Fighting to draw another breath. He struggles and kicks, drives his weight backward into Bryce who grunts in his ear when he hits the cinderblock wall, but keeps the grip on the scarf.
Tyler rushes him. He throws his arms around Isaac’s legs and pins them.
Isaac tries to scream, to warn Janie to run. But of course, he has no air. Janie has no chance here. Petite Janie is no match for these thugs.
He thinks of her, writhing as he does, fearing for her life more than his own. It’s not that he loves her. Well, maybe he does. But not as lover—more as friend, or a daughter. He’d known her only four days and yet he feels as protective toward her as any member of his own family. Four days, such a short time. Short time.
The first time he’d seen her, she’d been sitting in the back pew of the mixed denominational chapel beside the Crazy-J truck stop in Wendover, Nevada. Besides the two of them, there had been three other drivers there that day; two he’d never seen before, one he’d met in the same chapel half a year earlier who’d greeted him like an old friend.
“Hey Texas. Going west or east?”
“South actually,” Isaac had said. “Phoenix through Ely.”
“God be with you.”
Isaac wasn’t religious, but there was little else to do on a Sunday morning in Wendover if he didn’t want to give money to a casino. He couldn’t legally drive again for three hours and was in no hurry since dispatch had told him to drive slowly after a shipper’s check bounced.
Wendover is a border town half in Nevada, half in Utah. I-80 runs through it like a wire. To the east lay salt flats and nothingness until Salt Lake City. West was also nothing, but with less salt. It wasn’t a pretty town. It stank of desperation and roadside vomit. The only beautiful thing Isaac had ever seen there was Janie.
She sat apart from everyone—not unfriendly, just wanting to be left alone.
Isaac had stolen a glance and taken in her faded Levi jacket, jeans, and leather boots made for walking not for show. When she caught Isaac looking at her, she offered him a warm smile that made him like her immediately.
“Welcome everyone,” began the preacher, a cragged-faced, long gray-haired man in a flannel work shirt. He had on new blue jeans with a big silver belt buckle that matched the tips of his cowboy boots.
“God loves the traveler,” he said. “He watches over you in all you do, wherever you go. He loves that you carry Him in your heart when you cross the land, His lands, His blessed lands.”
It was a bland, inspirational talk, meant to be uplifting and inoffensive. Something to take the sting out of being so far from home. Around election times, Isaac couldn’t come near a trucker chapel for all the politicking and gun-talk. At other times though, he could find his way into one after a hot shower for a little inner warmth. The thought of the Divine made his day a little better, his load a little lighter, and his outlook a little brighter. He’d never be a regular in any church, but he liked thinking that God looked out for him.
Janie lingered after the service, taking advantage of the free coffee and donuts.
The other truckers all looked at their watches, stretched, and headed for the road, confident that their sacrifice of time and a communion of weak coffee and pastry would grant them safe journeying.
“Just here for the donuts?” Isaac said and instantly felt like an idiot. “No, I didn’t mean that. I don’t mean I think you’re…” He took a deep breath and started again. “I’m trying to say hello.”
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” he said and shook her offered hand. It was sticky with sugar. “You here for the service?” He could have slapped himself for such an inane comment and nearly did.
“Well, I wouldn’t be here for the coffee,” she said. “I’m Janie.”
“I’m Isaac. Isaac Lowe. From Appaloosa, Texas.”
Her tan hair was short, combed and clean, her face bright as a new nickel. Her eyes looked at him as if she could see the future and liked it.
“Nice to meet you Isaac,” she said and smiled.
“So you believe all this?” He looked to make sure the preacher had gone.
“Don’t you?”
“Not all of it. I’m a cafeteria Christian. I pick out the parts I like and try to ignore the others.”
“I liked what was said today,” she said. “That God is with travelers. My God is, I know it.”
“Yeah, mine too.” He smiled but didn’t get the same reaction from her. “You traveling?”
“Always.”
“You mean you’re homeless?”
He’d caught her with her mouth full. She chewed on a day-old glazed donut, no doubt a leftover from the Crazy J convenience store. Isaac looked at her clothes. They were fashionable and neat, not the kind of thing a homeless person would wear. Not the clothes of a hobo or a bum, but not something that was just picked out of a dresser either. Her clothes were more rugged. Traveling clothes. Road clothes like his, only prettier.
“I have a home, but I don’t go there much. I work on the road,” she said.
“What do you do?”
“Whatever I have to.”
“You’re a bum?” He felt his face flush. “No, I didn’t—”
“You can’t keep your size elevens out of your mouth, can you?”
“No, I gues
s not,” he said relieved she’d smiled when she said it. “How’d you know I wore elevens?”
“I’m good at sizing people up.”
“What do I look like to you?”
“Still working on that,” she said. “I assume you’re a driver. You have the callouses of a trucker there on your fingers. You smell of diesel and free shampoo, but I guess I do too. I’ve never been to Appaloosa, but I bet it’s sunny all the time. That’s where you got the tan. It’s too even to come just from driving. You’re a desert-dweller. The way your wedding ring cuts into your finger, I figure you got married at least ten years and twenty pounds ago.”
“Not bad,” he said. “You should do a show.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Vegas?”
“Yeah, once. Off the strip. Private parties mostly. Camp fires especially. For my friends.”
“Independently wealthy?”
“Dirt poor, but I get by.”
“You don’t look poor.”
“Poor in money, not in other things.”
“You need a ride?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
It was against company policy to give rides, but everyone did it. If the company were smarter they’d arrange for people to ride with the long-haul truckers instead of forbidding them. There’d be fewer accidents that way, fewer drugs and happier employees. Instead, the company turned a blind eye toward the practice and would use it to their advantage if something happened. If a driver got in a fender bender or was pulled over for a ticket, was late or early, they could use a passenger as an excuse to dock a driver’s pay or worse. Isaac wasn’t worried about that though. He’d been driving most his life. He knew how to play it.
“I get rides all the time,” she said. “Not all are as nice as you’re going to be, right?”
“What? Me? Of course, I’m nice. I’m married. Two kids and a dog named Denver. Guess where I got him.”
“Uhm, Colorado?”
“Boston. But if you name a dog Boston in Appaloosa, Texas you’re going to have a bad time.”
He grinned at the story and she smiled back. Damn, but she had a smile that made him feel good.
“So, you’re heading to Ely?” Isaac asked.
“Closer to Phoenix. Can you take me that far?”
“I have a load to pick up in Ely and don’t need to be that far south for nearly a week. They don’t want me crossing into Arizona for a while. If you were expecting a direct ride, this ain’t it.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “Easy is the way I like it.”
She was easy to talk to. Isaac felt like he could tell her anything. She was entertaining and lively, a breeze of fresh air in the muggy truck cab. Funny, but with a wisdom that belied her years. And she was patient. She didn’t complain a breath when the trip, already sluggish, became all delays and waiting after a sudden reroute to Reno when the Ely load wasn’t ready. When he told her the news, he was sure he’d lose her then and she’d find another ride south, but she went with him to Reno just to keep him company. It was there in Reno, on the third day—yesterday, they’d met Tyler and Bryce.
He feels his tongue push out between his teeth in a silent scream, an empty gasp. “Run Janie,” he would shout if he could. His vision darkens at the edges, the closing irises of consciousness.
Then he sees her. He renews his fight, trying to warn her—to show her the horror he’s facing so she might escape it. He tears at the cloth. It is slippery from the blood he himself clawed out of his neck. It’s a furious last attempt at action—the depletion of his last reserves, but he has to try.
Janie is a silhouette in the darkness, black against black. She stops and turns. She sees what’s happening to him.
Isaac knows it’s too late for him. The cracking tells him it’s over. Before his windpipe is crushed he could have hoped to survive the attack, but after the pop he knows he is dead. In the echo chamber of his own skull, the sound is a blast of doom defining his disaster, a signal of his death. He is murdered.
Janie’s eyes flash wild in the starlight, her teeth shine a ravenous smile. She raises her arms above her head and like a ballerina, she pirouettes and dances while he dies.
Part One
The stars are blotted out,
Clouds are covering clouds,
It is darkness, vibrant, sonant.
In the roaring whirling wind
Are the souls of a million lunatics,
But loosed from the prison house,
Wrenching trees by the roots,
Sweeping all from the path.
The sea has joined the fray,
And swirls up mountain-waves,
To reach the pitchy sky.
Scattering plagues and sorrows,
Dancing mad with joy,
Come, Mother, Come!
Chapter One
Michael Oswald’s car smells of cigarettes and unwashed clothes. The backseat could be mistaken for a shanty and the front seat of the classic Mercedes looks like a wall for a firing squad, pockmarked with cigarette burns and torn upholstery.
He puts the camera down on the seat beside him and strikes up an L&M Red to fill his lungs with heat. He holds it until he gets a rush and then exhales in a long slow stream. The rush isn’t what it used to be. It’s never been what he was looking for, but it’s closer than most. And a pack a day gives him something to do. Today though, it’s come up particularly short. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and pinches the filter off and takes another drag. The burn catches him off-guard and he coughs once, but only once.
Ron Anderson looks out from behind his drapes and Michael knows it’s time. He ejects the memory card from the camera and slides it into his computer. Another set of drapes move and he catches sight of Mrs. Anderson. He uploads the new footage and drops ashes on his keyboard. He blows them off without taking his cigarette from his lips. The aluminum computer is stained rust from the toxins from his fingers and air. He doesn’t mind.
When the upload is done, he removes the card and stubs out his cigarette. He gets out and stretches, looks up the lane for traffic and crosses the street to the Andersons’ lawn.
The house is original to the subdivision which means it’s five years old. The trees have taken hold, but not prospered in the heat of southern Utah. Why anyone under the age of sixty not addicted to golf and heatstroke would want to live in St. George is beyond Michael, but here are the Andersons in their air-conditioned McMansion and Ron out of work.
Two sets of eyes follow him across the road and up the sidewalk to the door. Michael presses the button and hears the chime inside. He wants another cigarette, but shifts the computer to his other hand instead of lighting one. He rings the bell again.
“Who’s there?” comes a woman’s voice.
“My name is Michael Oswald. I need to talk to Ron. And you too, Paula.”
“What is this about?”
“Prison,” he says.
“Ron’s not here.”
A lie. An obvious lie. Michael watched him carry groceries into the house not five minutes ago. He has film of it. He can see him in the room behind the curtain backlit from the kitchen. It’s the lies that get to him, that drag him down and drain him out. They’re all liars, and they’re never very good at it. What’s the use?
“You know what?” Michael says reaching for a cigarette. “Okay. We’ll play it your way. It’s been a while since we’ve run anyone into the ground. You’ll make a fine example. See you in court, dipshits.”
He wishes they’d let him go. He doesn’t want to face them. The company’s lawyers would take his footage and bury the Andersons without him ever having to actually speak to them. He’d prefer that. It’s not that he’s upset by what they’ve done. He puts no moral judgment on it or them. They just did it badly. They’re unimaginative and sloppy. They’re dipshits.
“Wait,” Paula Anderson says from behind the door.
Michael turns and lights his cigarette. He sees sha
dows behind the peep hole, hears noise, whispers, and scraping chairs. The door opens. A wide-eyed woman stares out under a chain.
“I’m sure—”
“Cut it,” Michael says. “I’ve got something to show you. Open up.”
She glances to the living room and then unlatches the chain and opens the door. She doesn’t invite him in.
He walks in anyway.
“Don’t get up Ron,” Michael says.
“I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
Lies. To his face. Lies.
He ashes his cigarette on the floor as he steps deeper into the house.
The inside is neat and clean, decorated in sunset orange. He wonders if it was the show unit during construction of the neighborhood. The Southwestern theme is too complete and calculated. Showroom quality. Nothing old or hand-me-down. No keepsake that couldn’t be replaced from a catalog and shipped overnight.
Ron Anderson sits on the sofa, a pair of aluminum crutches next to him. Pill bottles lay scattered on the side table beside a plastic hospital pitcher and vomit basin.
“Souvenirs?” says Michael. “From Mercy? Mercy Hospital?”
“We don’t allow smoking in the house,” says Mrs. Anderson.
He throws her a contemptuous glance. “Then I won’t look for an ashtray.” He sits down on the ottoman in front of Ron.
“Looky here, sport.” He opens the computer on his lap and presses play. A high-definition video of Ron Anderson picking up a sack of lawn fertilizer plays in a loop.
“This is just “the best of,”” Michael says. “I have plenty of filler for the slow spots. Like here where you get out of your car without as much as a cane.”
“Who are you?” says Ron.
“The name’s Oswald, I’ve been hired to save American Casualty some money from a fraudulent insurance claim.”
Paula comes behind the couch and puts her arms on her husband’s shoulders.
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