by J. Thorn
"I don't need it. Just the number. I have a friend who will know if we can use it to trace the signal to whoever answered it, or at least to where they were when they answered it. Danny's phone needs to be on, I guess, for us to have any hope of tracking it. If it isn't…" He shrugged.
"You didn't need to see me for that. I called you. You already have my number."
"I wanted to see you." When she said nothing, he nudged her shoulder. "Hey."
"What?"
"I'm sorry, all right? I know why you need this. And I can't stop you going alone. You just can't come with me."
A moment more of silence, then she cracked the door and stepped out of the car. She had grown so thin since Alabama he could see her shoulder blades pressing like incipient wings against the thin blue plastic of her raincoat. "Then who needs you," she said and slammed it shut before he could say anything further.
In the rearview, he watched her—a nineteen-year-old girl once pretty and vibrant, now bitter and prematurely aged—as she walked back to where he knew her sister was waiting.
-27-
"Hello Miss Daltry, and isn't it a fine morning?" the pawnbroker said cheerfully, his pudgy face molded around a large thick-lipped smile. Louise resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at the urban snowscape framed by the grimy storefront window behind her. It was a horrible day in almost every conceivable way, and as a result she had little tolerance for people like Rag Truman, who felt compelled to find the upside of everything and would probably keep on smiling even if he looked down at himself and realized he was on fire.
She hurried to the counter—a glass cabinet marred by greasy fingerprints, within which gold and silver jewelry on black velvet cushions sat next to nickel-plated revolvers, an assortment of cell phones, lighters, hunting knives, men's ties and women's silk scarves. Behind Rag was a blue steel door with a card reader to the left. A small red light showed that it was securely locked. A faded sign read: PRIVATE. All around were high metal shelves, packed with treasures for the undiscerning eye. There was so much of it in the musty room, it made Louise claustrophobic, but she acknowledged that a lot of that might not be the size of pawn shop, rather the feeling that a net was rapidly being cinched tight around her.
"I have somethin' that might interest you," she told the pawnbroker.
"Do you indeed?" He leaned closer, his hands braced on the cabinet, large ring-studded fingers smudging the glass. Evidently all the fingerprints there were his own.
Louise nodded, put her hand in her coat pocket, and then hesitated. Since taking the life of the man in her apartment, it was as if her senses had been enhanced. Her hearing, in particular, seemed to have strained itself, so that now the slightest sounds, once innocuous, registered as potential threats. As she stood there, frozen, fingers pressed against the soft material of the pouch in her pocket, she could hear the whistling of Rag's breath through his nose, the moist click of his dentures as he poked at them with his tongue. And outside, on the street, every engine sounded menacing as cars carved channels in the slush. She expected sirens at any moment as the police came to take her in. The thought of them rushing at her, guns drawn, broke her paralysis. She withdrew the pouch from her pocket and tossed them onto the cabinet between Rag's hands.
"And what's this?" he asked, with a curious smile.
"Open it."
He did. She expected him to be shocked, to whistle his appreciation, or pale at the sight of the diamonds, but reminded herself that in all his years of business, he'd probably seen more remarkable things. There were no exclamations as he upended the pouch into his palm and peered nearsightedly at the gems. If anything he seemed largely unimpressed, perhaps a trait he had adopted to keep his customers from overestimating the worth of their "treasures."
"Interesting," he said, and, spreading the sparkling diamonds out on the back of the pouch, fished beneath the counter and produced a small black loupe, which he screwed against his eye until it appeared affixed to it. Then he plucked a diamond from the pile and brought it close to the lens.
Time seemed to stretch interminably. Beneath her coat and despite the cold, Louise was sweating, could feel it trickling from her armpits, running like spiders down between her breasts. The world outside the shop seemed to be holding its breath, counting the seconds until it could release a scream of sirens. Controlling her breathing was an effort as panic squeezed her lungs.
At length, Rag finished his inspection of each and every one of the gems laid out before him, and he looked no more impressed than he had when he'd first seen them. Maybe they're fakes. Louise felt her heart skip as she watched him carelessly tug the pouch out from under the diamonds, scattering them across the surface of the cabinet before picking them up one by one and putting them back into the bag.
"I won't ask where you came by these," he said calmly, and drew the drawstrings tight before placing the pouch down between them. "Because I already know."
How? Louise thought in desperation. How could you know?
"There's much talk on the street about a certain robbery at the LaSalle Bank over in Troy a few months back," he said, folding his arms. "The cops have already been here three times, inconveniencing me greatly." He smiled and a gold incisor gleamed. "You see, whomever you acquired these from would not, I suspect, have been foolish enough to try to pawn them. I imagine there would have been some kind of a deal between those who facilitated their removal from the LaSalle vault and someone with enough money to buy them without drawing undue attention to his or herself. This," he said, with a dismissive gesture of his hand in the air above the pouch, "This would be the last place they'd try to offload them. Too many risks. They would have to be very desperate indeed to even attempt it."
"So you don't want them," Louise said, her attempt at a calm tone falling short. She reached for the pouch, but Rag beat her to it, drawing the small sack toward him and raising a hand, palm out to halt her.
"I didn't say that, exactly."
"Then what are you sayin'?"
He sighed dramatically. "If I purchased these from you, it would convert me from a humble pawnbroker to an accessory in the eyes of the authorities. My livelihood would be at stake. In short, I could lose everything just by helping you."
"So don't," she said, but made no move to retrieve the pouch. She simply glared at him, willing him to cut the crap and make his decision so she could be free to make her own.
Then she watched, incredulous as he picked up the pouch and slid them into the pocket of his soiled baggy slacks. "Here's what I'm going to do," he told her. "I'm going to hold onto these, for your sake. I'll give you two thousand dollars—call it a loan, or a late payment on that pretty ring you sold me when you first hit town—to help you on your way, and I'll turn these over to the police. I'll fabricate the description of the seller, of course, and make it a very good one. It should give you a considerable head start before they pick up your scent. What do you think?"
"I think you're a crook," she replied. "I think you don't have a goddamn notion of turnin' those gems over to the cops. You know you have me over a barrel, so you figure there ain't a goddamn thing I can do about it either, right?"
"I'm offended," he said, and clearly wasn't.
She stared at him for a long moment, watching the small smug smile play over his fat lips. She was not entirely surprised at this development, had known there was every chance he was going to rip her off, but with no money and a bag full of diamonds, he had been her only option. Her previous dealings with him—the first to pawn her grandmother's engagement ring; then later, a brooch her mother had given her—had left her less than satisfied, but with Wayne unemployed and nothing ahead of her at the time but a few interviews for waitress jobs that might come to nothing, she'd had little choice. Now, the avenues available to her were even more limited. But she was not going to stand here and watch what little hope she had left being crushed by a man who, despite his claims, was in all likelihood as shady and crooked as the thugs who pro
vided him his merchandise. She found herself wondering how much of his stock had come with clear evidence of how they'd been acquired. Probably pays less for bloodstained goods, she thought, disgusted.
Resolute, "Let me tell you how this is goin' to go," she said, and withdrew from her other pocket the gun Wayne's cousin had used to keep her docile, and leveled it at him.
"Whoa now," he said, and yet there was still no change in expression, as if facing a gun was something he endured daily.
She cocked the hammer. Rag didn't blink.
"You're goin' to keep those diamonds," Louise said. "You're right about that part. I didn't come here to rob you, and you need to understand that. So they're yours. All I want is a fair price, that's all. I have a boy that needs help and I can't give it to him here, not with what's happened, and not without money. Now those gems ain't mine, but I figure after what I've been through today, maybe I deserve them. What I don't deserve—" she said, stepping closer, so that her hip was pressed against the edge of the counter, the barrel of the gun scant inches from the bare spot between Rag's tumultuous eyebrows, "—is to have everythin' go to hell because of some greedy son of a bitch."
Rag sighed, as he might have over any deal that was not going his way, and narrowed his eyes. "So what do you consider a fair price then?"
She took a moment to consider this. All the way here she'd told herself that ten grand would be a good start. Enough to get them away for a while until she could think things through. Without knowing how much the diamonds were worth, she saw it as a reasonable sum to hope for. Not any more. Rag might have found it disturbing if she told him that instead of disheartening her, his stoicism toward the gems had persuaded her they were worth even more than she'd guessed.
"How much do you think they're worth?" she asked him. "And before you answer, keep in mind that I might already know. After all, I brought them to you, didn't I? So if you lie to me, I'll put a bullet in your skull."
She had no intention of pulling the trigger, of course, and hadn't even checked to see if it was loaded. Red had shot a hole in the apartment wall, but for all she knew that might have been his last bullet. The pawnbroker, however, didn't know that.
"Maybe a million. I'd have to take another look," he said.
"You don't need another look. You can fondle them as much as you like once I'm gone."
"Can you take that gun out of my face?"
"As soon as I have the money."
"How much money?"
The words barreled up her throat and were out of her before she had a chance to consider them. "Hundred thousand. Do whatever the hell you like with the stones after that, but that's what I want for them."
Finally, Rag's expression changed. He glowered at her, face flushed, blue-red veins visible under the bulbous flesh of his nose. "You're out of your fucking mind. What makes you think I have that kind of money lying around here, or that I'd give it to you even if I had?"
"I guess because when you're given the choice of makin' a fair trade or havin' your brains blown out, you take the easier route. Maybe I was wrong." Pulling on all the crime shows she'd ever seen in her lifetime, she tightened her grip on the gun, leaned forward and pressed the muzzle between the pawnbroker's eyes. Again, he defied expectation. Rather than pleading, or accepting the fate she'd promised him, he scowled, cursed at her and turned away. She watched, shaken by her own resolve, as he withdrew a slim white keycard from his back pocket and angrily jerked it down the slot in the reader by the metal door. The light on the display turned green. There came a short sharp electronic honk and Rag grabbed the door handle, about to yank it open. Louise stopped him.
"I'm comin' around," she said. "Leave the door open. You try anythin'…"
"Yeah," Rag said, half-turning. His eyes were glassy with anger. "I know how it goes."
He disappeared inside. Louise following close behind.
-28-
They buried Momma in stony earth on the summit of Hood Mountain. From where they stood, they could see the great dark bulk of the water treatment facility on the horizon. Between the plant and the mountain the land seemed sick, diseased, poisoned. The hue of the earth suggested it had been sustained by the blood of those who'd tried to farm it. Rough patches of overgrowth marked the boundaries of long-fallow fields. Here and there, small stands of trees, buckled by storm winds and infection in their roots, stood defeated and spiritless, their arms weak and hanging empty. The mountain had been sheared by mining, the east side oddly flat, almost smooth, veins of red hematite iron ore still threading its hide, adding to the impression of something living cut in half. Intermittent beds of shale and sandstone gave it a leprous hue.
At the foot of the mountain stood Krall's cabin, its chimney threading smoke. It was surrounded on three sides by thinned out groups of pine trees. To Papa-In-Gray, it was hardly protection enough from invasive forces, but the mountain at its back would help limit the avenues of approach for their attackers. If they were vigilant, and kept their eyes open, his family would survive. They would be ready.
Though the weather was warm, the wind carried a chill to them, and with it, the scent of rain. For Papa-In-Gray, it seemed fitting, as Momma had loved the rain, the sound of it a lullaby that carried her to sleep.
Gently, he removed his hat, and bowed his head. The boys flanked him, their postures equally reverent. Jeremiah Krall stood opposite, at the foot of the grave, staring at the earth as if were a brown pond from which his sister might surface at any moment. The horror that he had witnessed had changed him, though how much Papa could not yet tell. He still appeared a character roughly carved from hard rock, his eyes wintry, his disposition hostile, but something had shifted within him. He looked like a walking battlefield, upon which wars were raging to determine which emotions should preside over the landscape. He had said little since witnessing Luke's rebirth.
"Our Lord," Papa began, his voice loud enough to carry the words halfway down the mountain. "Gather your faithful servant to your breast and keep her safe. Accept her into Heaven, and your glory. Recognize within her the light you so generously instilled in her, and which she did not waste. Just as she come into the world, so does she leave it, with an unspoiled soul." He paused, and the boys murmured "Amen."
"Guide us, good Jesus," he continued, raising his face to the darkening sky. "Guide us in the ways in which we can strike the devil from your green earth and vanquish the defilers. Lend us your wrath so that we might turn the tide of corruption that even now laps at our shore. Give us the strength and the means so we can tear the skin from the sinners and cast them down into Hell."
"Amen," said the boys.
"We give you Momma, a good, proud, strong woman who loved you more'n anyone, and we will not weep. We give her to you so that you may in turn give us what we need to smite the Men of the World, the coyotes that sniff around our borders. We give our beloved wife, and mother, to you, so that you might make her a saint and return her to us as an angel who would instill in our veins the power we need to prevail. Hear us, our merciful God…Amen."
"Amen."
Papa lowered his gaze from the mercurial sky. You were a pure soul, he added in silence. And I'll miss our talks, and your strength. He looked up, and wiped a hand over his eyes. The breeze dried quickly the dampness beneath them, and for this he was grateful. "Jeremiah," he said. "Is there anythin' you wish to add?"
The big man returned his gaze, held it for a moment, then looked back down at the grave. He did not reply.
Papa watched him carefully, then turned to Aaron, who stood solemnly by his side. "Go down. I want you to get all our weapons together. Feed your brothers, and see to Luke. Clean him up. We'll need him. Then send Joshua up here to keep watch. Before it's dark, I want you all ready and waitin' for 'em to come."
"How do you know they're comin', Papa?"
He thought about this for a moment, then ruffled the boy's hair. "God sent an angel to whisper in my ear while I was sleepin'."
"How many
do you think will come?"
"Enough. Now you best get movin' while the light's with us."
Aaron nodded, and set off down the mountain, herding the twins ahead of him. Papa waited until they were gone, then walked over to stand beside Krall.
"I know you're hurtin'," he told the big man. "And that's only right. But if you don't end up seein' where all this is supposed to lead you, all that pain's for nothin'."
Krall continued to stare down at the ground. His lips moved slightly, but the words were lost to the wind, if indeed he was making any sound at all.
Papa studied him for a few moments, then clamped a hand on his shoulder. "The coyotes are comin'," he said. "Just like Momma knew they would. They took her from you, and I'm sure she'd be proud to know you joined us in wipin' them off the earth."
Without another word, he turned his back and left Krall to his mourning. It would pass, Papa knew. And when it did, it would leave only the rage.
This at least, they could use.
*
"Get out of the car."
Finch sighed, and rolled up the window. Stubbing out his cigarette, he was not entirely surprised when his door opened without him touching it. He would not have been any more surprised if Kara had reached in and slapped him. But she didn't. Instead, she held the door and waited for him to step out into the rain before slamming it shut and poking a finger in his chest.
"What did I tell you? What did I say? Were you listening?"
He glanced back over his shoulder to her car, where inside, he saw the ghostly shape of Claire watching from behind the reflected sky. He turned back to Kara.
"I told her she couldn't come. And she isn't. At least, not with me."
Kara's eyes blazed. "That's not enough."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to undo what's already done. She can't deal with this kind of shit. Now she thinks there's some kind of merit to your suicide mission. Thinks maybe if she tags along it'll help her make peace with being the only one to get out alive. She's vulnerable, and looking for somewhere to put the anger."