The Bastard Hand

by Heath Lowrance

  I sighed. “You’re not even giving me a chance to explain things.”

  “Explain things? Explain things, Charlie?” He laughed, and anyone who might’ve been passing us on the sidewalk would’ve sworn we were still best pals. “How can you possibly explain? I think the facts speak for themselves. Unless Mrs. Ishy was lying. Is that it? Was the whore lying, Charlie?”

  “No, not exactly. I did see the mayor. Forrey and Oldfield came and picked me up and took me out to Ishy’s house. You worry him. You’ve humiliated him publicly, you’ve seduced his mistress. And he doesn’t even know the worst part—you’ve even bedded his wife.”

  He couldn’t resist a grin. “He doesn’t know that, eh? You mean you didn’t run right off and tell him?”

  “No,” I said. Then, “What is it all about? Why are you here? What do you plan on doing to this town?”

  “I’m supposed to spill my guts to you, Charlie?”

  “I want to know. Something brought you here, and it wasn’t mere chance. I know that much. I know that you’ve lied.”

  His look was a studied mix of surprise and amusement. “Now, Charlie, what a thing to say. What in God’s name makes you think that?”

  “When we went through Holly Springs, you were as lost as I was. But here, you know your way around like it was your own backyard. You found your way to the Aarons cabin with only a few words from Oldfield.”

  “Now, Charlie—”

  “No more lies. Tell me. What’s going on here?”

  He fixed me with a withering stare, and I felt the amber that separated us shift and crack. Perhaps contact was not so impossible between us after all—but it would be a violent contact, not a friendly touch.

  He said, “Any information you might’ve been privy to, Charlie, is now null and void. You betrayed me. I just hope you got everything you wanted for it.”

  “I didn’t betray anyone. Ishy wants me to, but I haven’t done anything.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I’ve come here to make amends. That’s what this is all about. That’s why I came to see you yesterday. And you’re hardly in a position to talk about betrayal, after all the lies you told me.”

  His voice rose a notch: “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, boy? You got some kinda nerve, coming to my church and calling me a liar.”

  “Now’s the time. Now’s the time to come clean.”

  His fists clenched. “Get your things and get out of my sight.”

  “I can’t leave until we have this settled. We were friends, you and I. All the things you’ve done for me . . . I can’t just forget them. Look, whatever secrets you may have, it’s not important. If you don’t want to tell me about it, you don’t have to. The only thing that matters is that we’re friends.”

  I was surprised by the realization that I almost meant it. Almost. If he suddenly changed his position and agreed to patch up our relationship, I would’ve been at a loss to know what to do.

  No danger of that, though. He laughed again, this time not doing a good job of disguising the bitterness. “Friends! That’s a good one there, Charlie. You’re standing there, talking about secrets, talking about secret motives and whatnot. And you had the nerve yesterday to call me a hypocrite!”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I just mean,” he said, teeth clenched, “that all of us have our little secrets. You should know that better than anyone.”

  I started, my mind leaping for meaning in his words. He knew something.

  I said, “Look, we’re not getting anywhere with this. I was thinking about yesterday, about how you offered to make amends with . . . with Mrs. Ishy’s help. You offered me your hand, and I slapped it down. Now, I want to be the one with his hand out.”

  “Mm. And if I slap it down?”

  “I’ll offer my other one.”

  He shook his head. “Somehow, Charlie, I don’t think Mrs. Ishy would be quite as receptive about that as she was yesterday.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I—”

  “Just shut up. I’ve had enough. Go upstairs, get your stuff, and get out.”

  With that, he turned away from me, getting down on his hands and knees and going back to work on his flowers.

  I stood there watching him for a full minute, not sure how to proceed. Then, silently, I went into the church.

  It had only been a few days since I’d slept there, but in light of the current situation I felt strangely nostalgic about the tiny bed, the clothes hanging self-consciously in the small open closet, the modest row of books on the windowsill. Not much, but it was clean and warm and friendly, and it was the only place in recent memory that I actually felt was mine. I would miss it.

  I pushed all silly, sentimental thoughts out of my head and began packing.

  The few articles of clothing I’d acquired over the last month went into a cheap cardboard suitcase I’d picked up at the general store on the other side of town. In the bathroom, I found that the Reverend had already gathered up my razor and toothbrush and comb and piled them neatly on the sink counter. I scooped them up, went back to my room, dropped them into the case.

  And that was it, except for the books. If anything can actually be determined about a person by how long it takes them to pack their belongings, then there really wasn’t much to say about me.

  I pulled my traveling bag out from under the bed and started placing the books inside it—and then I noticed something that stopped me dead in my tracks. The bag was empty.

  Jathed Garrity’s Bible was gone.

  For a moment I could only sit there on the floor, frozen. The Bible was gone. It was gone.

  But it couldn’t be. Futilely, I pulled out the few books I’d already put in the bag, examining each one carefully, my heart suddenly pounding hard. I stared blankly at the bottom of the bag, where the Bible should’ve been, as if it would materialize there by magic and my fears would be calmed.

  I scanned the books still on the windowsill, thinking maybe I’d slipped up and placed the Bible among them. I went to the closet, searched its corners. I pulled everything out of the suitcase, one article at a time, then shoved it all back in. I pulled out all the drawers in the bureau by the bed. I lifted up the mattress. I got down on my stomach and crawled under the bed.

  The Bible was gone.

  Pushing the suitcase out of the way, I sat down on the bed and told myself to stay calm, to think. It had been about a week since I’d looked at it—I’d been on the front steps, sitting in the shade, hidden by the thick shrubbery along the front of the church. Right. About a week ago. And when I was done . . . when I was done reading, I . . .

  Think, I told myself. I had to think. What had I done when I’d finished reading? I couldn’t possibly have left it on the porch, that would’ve been stupid and suicidal. No, I hadn’t left it there, I’d taken it in with me, like I always did, I’d taken it in and hidden it in my bag under the bed. Just like I always did.

  But it wasn’t there now. It wasn’t there and the calm I’d forced on myself was beginning to crumble into panic. If anyone found that Bible, with Jathed’s name written in it and a neat little hole right through the O in Holy, it would be all over.

  Where the hell was it?

  Right away, my question was answered. From my open doorway, the Reverend said, “Lookin’ for something?”

  He leaned casually against the doorjamb, legs crossed.

  I said, “Uh, no. No, I have everything.”

  He smiled. “Are ya sure, Charlie, ol’ boy? Are ya sure you ain’t forgetting anything?” He stepped into the room. “For instance, your Bible?”

  Outside, a car sped by the church, radio tuned to some conservative talk show. I caught a fragment of what the host was saying; some crazy thing about building a huge wall between Mexico and the U.S. And then the car was out of hearing range and once again the entire world consisted of the Rev and me.

  I said, “Where is it?”

  �
��Someplace safe,” he said. “Someplace nice and cozy.” Then, “Would I be going out on a limb now to say that you know something about what happened to Jathed Garrity?”

  “That would be a limb that would crack as soon as you put your weight on it.”

  “And yet,” he said, “you had his Bible. Hidden in your room, with a little bullet hole in it and everything. Pretty damn odd, huh?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  He said, “I remember it, you know that? The Bible. I remember when we first met in the laundromat, you were reading it. It’s funny how I didn’t think nothing about it at the time. Charlie, wouldn’t you say this is an amazing coincidence?”

  “I found that Bible.”

  “Where at?”

  “In the laundromat, you son of a bitch. Right where you’d left it for me.”

  “Where I’d left it for you? Now, Charlie, surely you realize how amazingly paranoid that sounds, don’t you?”

  I stood up, feeling a wave of frustrated anger rising in my chest. Fighting it down, I said, “It’s just you and me here. No audience to play to.”

  “Why, Charlie, I really have no idea what you’re talking about. If you believe I left the Bible for you to find, why haven’t you told anyone about it?”

  “Because. Because I knew no one would believe me.”

  “Well, I reckon that’s true. It’s a helluva far-fetched story. Especially considering how you wound up here, in ol’ Jathed’s hometown. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, you’re nailing the ol’ boy’s sister.” He paused long enough to sigh dramatically, then said, “No, Charlie, I reckon it surely wouldn’t look too good for you, would it?”

  My fingertips tingled. I glanced down at my hands and saw the golden light building, and I smiled.

  I said, “Reverend. Give me that Bible, or I’ll take it from you.”

  His eyebrows raised, but the confident smile on his face remained unchanged. He said, “Oh, my. Look at your hands, Charlie old son. Now ain’t that interesting.”

  “I can kill you. I can wrap these hands around your throat and you’d be dead in seconds.”

  A look of mock horror. “Oh, no! Heaven help me! Whatever am I to do? Charlie’s gonna kill me with his supernatural gifts! Etcetera, etcetera.”

  His casual reaction threw me. I was expecting fear, confusion—“What are you?”—but he was clearly unimpressed. I clenched my fists and the light flared and I let the power build and took a step toward him.

  “I mean it, Reverend.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure you do, bless your heart.”

  He reached out with his right hand and rested his fingers along my knuckles.

  The golden light died.

  It went out, like fingertips snuffing out the flame on a candle. He touched me, and the power simply disappeared.

  “Anyway,” he said. “Where were we?”

  I stood there, staggered, trying to will the gold light back into my hands, trying to summon whatever weird power it was that had been granted me. Nothing. Not even a faint glow. It was gone.

  “And Pharaoh’s evil power paled next to Moses,” he said, “for Moses’s miracles came from the hand of God, and Pharaoh could not face it. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

  I could only stare at him.

  He strolled past me, stopped at the little window and looked out. As if our little supernatural showdown never even happened, he said, “See, I found this little surprise yesterday, after you left here. I was looking for evidence that you’d back-stabbed me.” He laughed shortly. “I surely didn’t expect to come across something so—what’s the word I’m looking for?—so incriminating. My first instinct was to go to Forrey. But then I realized that Forrey is Mayor Ishy’s boy. You and them, you’re cronies. A pack of dogs. You’re all gonna stick together. And they’d probably let a killer like you go if it meant they could stop me. Hell, they might even conspire to frame me for Jathed’s murder.”

  “Jathed’s murder. Is it true then? Is Jathed dead? Did you kill him?”

  He turned around, looked at me. “I didn’t kill anybody. And, if Jathed is dead, which he most certainly is, his Bible sure does implicate you, don’t it? And something tells me the cops up in Memphis might be a little less inclined to coddle you than these rednecks down here.”

  “So you’re going to take it up to Memphis?”

  He frowned thoughtfully. Then he said, “You been interested in that guitar kid, ain’t you?”

  “What?”

  “China Bones, he calls hisself. Unlikely name, but there it is.”

  I said, “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s an interesting kid. Plays a mean guitar.”

  “What the hell does—”

  “And you saw the boy, didn’t you? The little white boy. His name is Perrin.”

  I stopped, my mouth hanging open stupidly. He continued to smile at me, a smile that, to me, dripped with sinister meaning. After a moment, I said, “How did you know about that boy?”

  He laughed. “I know a lotta little things, Charlie ol’ son. There ain’t too much that’s a mystery to me. And as much as I know, there are some folks who know even more. It so happens that I know someone who has the inside scoop on that boy. Someone who knows all about why he’s staying with China Bone’s folks.”

  “Okay. Who?”

  “I reckon you may wanna ask your sweet little Elise Garrity about it.”

  “What?”

  He just smiled.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Now, about that Bible . . .”

  “You bastard. What are you saying? Is she the boy’s mother?”

  He put on a mock stern face. “Priorities, Charlie, my boy. We have to deal with this Bible thing. First things first, and all that. It seems to me that I have a helluva bargaining chip, don’t ya think?”

  He was right; I had to deal with the Bible situation first. And so what if Elise was Perrin’s mother? It changed nothing. Any questions I had about it would have to wait. “Bargaining chip?” I said. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Well . . .” His grin grew wider. “I wasn’t sure until just a few minutes ago. You said something about making amends, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned in close to me. “Then the question, I reckon, is what exactly you had in mind.”

  I left the Reverend in what had once been my room and threw my cardboard case onto the passenger seat of the Rover and lit a cigarette and drove away. The late morning sun hung crooked in the sky. It showed me a town in its Last Days. I concentrated on that image, hoping it could bring me something reassuring to cling to. It didn’t. Cuba Landing would fall, yes, and I would be there to see it, but the idea no longer amused me.

  • • •

  You’d have to be blind not to spot her; in a town full of summer colors and lively movement, she looked like a black and white ghost, like a clip from an old, deteriorating movie that didn’t quite make it to the Preservation Society.

  I stopped in the middle of traffic, stunned. Someone behind me honked a horn and I numbly started forward again.

  Tassie.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  She hadn’t seen me, hadn’t raised her head at the sound of the car horn honking. I pulled over to the curb, let the impatient car pass, and looked for her in the rear view mirror. She kept walking, the familiar swagger and confidence nowhere to be seen, and I felt something strange and tight in my gut. This couldn’t be good. I considered just letting her walk on, walk away, but before that instinct could play itself out I climbed out of the Rover and trotted across the street and caught up.

  She heard my footsteps behind her and turned around slowly and I stopped cold three feet away. Dirt streaked her round white face. A small band-aid with a daisy design was stuck just above her right eyebrow, and her dark eyes were bloodshot and slightly glassy. I said, “Tassie.”

  She stared for a moment, as if she didn’t recogn
ize me, then a wry smile spread across her face and she said, “Oh, hey, Charlie. You know, I was just looking for you.”

  We were parked on a desolate stretch of dirt road about three miles north of town, and Tassie said, “Dead. They’re dead.”

  They were the first words she’d spoken since climbing into the Rover and sitting back in her seat.

  I said, “Who?”

  “Everyone. Bone and Vinnie. Nothing left but a mess on the carpet.”

  Moments after we pulled over, two wild dogs had shown up to wrestle over the remains of a road kill possum. Not much of a meal, but the mutts snarled and snapped at each other as furiously as if the flattened mess of meat and bone was a juicy slab of prime beef. Tassie watched them, but it was obvious she saw nothing—nothing but bullet-shredded bodies and bloodstained floors.

  I looked at her blankly, and she leaned her forehead against the passenger side window. We sat quietly like that for several minutes, then she said, “It’s kind of weird, really. I mean, dead is dead, right? Whether you die peacefully in your sleep at the age of 99, or if you’re stabbed to death in a nightclub at seventeen, you’re only one thing—dead. There’s no such thing as degrees of death, you know?” Her pale face, reflected in the glass, grew slack. “There should be, though. There should be degrees of death. If there were, then Bone and Vinnie would rate way the hell up there.”

  I could barely hear her. The dogs were more animated, growling and barking at each other, and finally one went for the other’s throat and it was a full-on death match.

  “They deserve that, at least,” she said. “If they had to die, they at least deserved to have their deaths be bigger, more impressive deaths than anyone else’s. God knows the rest of their lives were pretty fucking pathetic.”

  I sat there and stared at her. The funniest thing about it was that I hadn’t even thought of Bone and Vinnie, had hardly wondered about them at all since our mad night at the crack house in Memphis. I left the city that night with the scent of Tassie clinging to me and no thought at all about whether our two partners had made it home alive.

  I said, “What the hell happened? Who killed them?”