The Bastard Hand

by Heath Lowrance

  “You killed him, after all,” I said, even though I knew it wasn’t true.

  He scowled. “I did no such thing. I liked Jathed. I wouldn’t a’ harmed a hair on his pious little head. But,”—the grin again—“I was there when it happened. I saw Jathed die.”

  In my peripheral vision, Tassie edged around the far wall, moving toward the door. The Reverend saw her too, I knew, but he seemed unconcerned. She wasn’t going anywhere, that much was for sure.

  “See,” he said. “We just got to his room, and I had to take a monstrous shit. So I excused myself to the bathroom. I was just settling in for a nice long one when I heard a knock on the outside door. I heard Jathed answer it, and you know what he said?”

  I said nothing.

  “He said, ‘China. China Bones, what are you doing here?’ ”

  He laughed out loud. “How you like that, Charlie my boy? China Bones, the little guitar-playing Sambo, wouldn’t hurt no one, came all the way up to Memphis, just to put a bullet in Jathed’s chest. I was peeking through the door, sitting there on the crapper, I saw the whole damn thing. China walked right into that room, shut the door behind him, pulled out a gun and said, ‘You ain’t gonna take Perrin away from us.’ And then he shot poor ol’ Jathed right in the chest.”

  “And you just cowered in the bathroom, did you?” I said. “Just sat there with your pants around your ankles and let him kill your new friend?”

  He shrugged. “Hey, I liked the man, but I wasn’t about to go and get myself killed on his account. I only just met the unlucky sonofabitch, didn’t I? But I tell you what I did do. When China left, I came out and I went to Jathed and I heard his last words. I ain’t gonna tell you what they were, that’s between me and Jathed and God, and it don’t matter much anyway. But he died in my arms, with me saying a prayer over his spirit. I found the Bible in his inside jacket pocket, the Bible with a clean little bullet hole right through its center, and I cleaned the blood off the cover and I vowed to Jesus to use that Bible to bring retribution for Jathed’s soul. I wasn’t sure just how or when, but I knew I’d make my way down to Cuba Landing and deal out God’s wrath on the sinners that destroyed Jathed.”

  “Just took it upon yourself then? Appointed yourself Angel of Divine Judgment?”

  “I didn’t appoint myself, asshole. God appointed me. And besides, it’s not like I had other things to do. So I hauled Jathed’s body outta there, out the back way, shoved him in the trunk of my Malibu, and dumped him in the Mississippi River.”

  “Jesus.”

  Tassie was getting nearer to the door, near enough for the Reverend to finally comment. “That’s about far enough, cutie pie. Why don’t you ease yourself back on in here and sit down, huh?”

  Tassie said, “Look, I don’t know what any of this is about, okay? You guys are talking all this religious shit, and I’m not even a Christian. I don’t know what any of this means, but it’s seriously freaky and I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Not a Christian?” the Reverend grimaced, as if he’d never in his life considered the possibility that someone might not share his faith. “You some kinda atheist then? Or even worse, one of them there Catholics?”

  “No, I just . . . look, I don’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Oh, but you do, little girlie. You done aligned yourself with the forces of darkness, and you’re just gonna have to take the punishment God decrees.”

  I said, “Give it a rest. You almost sound like you believe this shit yourself. You know as well as I do that you’re a liar and a hypocrite. You hide behind the cross and the Bible; you use it to justify your own appetite for wickedness. All you care about is fucking and drinking and messing up other people’s lives, so come down off your goddamn high horse and just admit what you are, why don’t you? Do us all a favor. Because if there is a God, I can promise you, He’d have nothing to do with people like you and me.”

  The Reverend’s eyes grew wide with outrage and anger, and the calm, in-control demeanor evaporated. His voice shaking with fury, he said, “This ain’t no joke, you lowlife mental case. Do us all a favor, you say? Do us all a favor, you piece of shit? Well, why don’t you do us all a favor, and don’t try to talk about shit you don’t know nothin’ about, you hear me? You ain’t nothing but a pawn in this, you understand? You ain’t nothing but the expendable little piece of human garbage I picked to help pave the way for my . . . my personal Apocalypse.”

  “Personal Apoc—”

  “Shut up! Shut up, Charlie! It ain’t your turn to speak, you half-witted little nut job! Who do you think you are? You think you know something, Charlie? Well, you don’t, you don’t know a thing, you hear me? Tell me, why don’t you tell me, what kinda person comes into a laundromat and picks up a Bible and just starts reading it, huh? And not only that, not only does he pick it up and stick his nose in it, never mind that it’s damn near unreadable ’cause of the hole right through it, but what else does he do? He takes it with him! He leaves the laundromat and takes the Bible with him!”

  “You left it—”

  “Damn right I left it. I left it for you, or someone like you. ’cause I’ll tell you what kinda person does that, what kinda person finds a Bible in a laundromat and reads it and keeps it and hides it away, even when he knows that keeping it could implicate him in a murder. Someone whose life lacks meaning, that’s who. Someone who wants, desperately, to believe in something. Anything. An empty vessel, with no purpose and no point. Do you get it now, you sorry sonofabitch?”

  I didn’t say anything. Because I did get it. And I couldn’t help it, I started laughing then.

  He glared at me, and his voice dripped with dark anger, “Something funny, Charlie? Does all this strike you as amusing?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it really does. It’s funny that we think this is all so important. Because it’s not. It’s not important at all, and it’s funny that you really believe you’re something special.”

  “Oh, is it?”

  “Yeah. You’re pathetic.”

  He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth. “Okay, Charlie. How ’bout I give you something to really laugh about, huh?”

  I saw them first, at the doorway, behind the Reverend, but I didn’t comment. They stepped into the room, three of them, and the last one kicked the door closed behind him and the Reverend jumped. He whipped around to face them, and got a fist in the nose.

  He stumbled back, almost directly into me, clutching his face, blood streaming down his jaw.

  The one who punched the Reverend rubbed his fist, scowling, and said, “Yeah, let’s do that. Let’s have us a good old time.”

  Three gangsters from Memphis, armed with big silver handguns. The one who took up the rear, by the door, also had a sawed-off. He slung it over his shoulder like a G.I. at ease and his smile was so easy that you could have forgotten they were there to kill some people.

  From the far side of the room, Tassie said, “Damnit.”

  Reverend Childe bent over, stunned, blood streaming from his face.

  The gangster with the shotgun stood at least a head taller than the others, and his bare arms swelled with muscles and tattoos. He said, “What the . . . what the hell is that smell?”

  “No shit,” said the one in the lead, the one who punched the Reverend. “Smells like dead monkey ass.” He was sleek and small and hard looking, with a pale scar running the length of his forehead.

  All three of them laughed, and Scar Face said, “You are some hard bastards to catch up with, you know that? And you,” nodding in my direction, “well, you a lot more than what you seem, ain’t you, homes?”

  Shotgun said, “He seem like just another dumb-ass cracker fuck.”

  “Yeah. But he’s really a dumb-ass cracker fuck can just shrug off a bullet or two in the stomach.”

  Ka-chunk went the shotgun. “We see if he can shrug off this.”

  Laughter all around. I didn’t feel as indestructible as they thought I was, what with the
Reverend making the strange power disappear, but I screwed up my bravado and said, “Give it a try. Let’s see what happens.”

  The Reverend had stumbled over near the giant cross, making the occasional “guh” sound, leaving a mess of blood all over the place. But as the three gangsters came another few steps into the room, his noises started to sound more like words.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said. “What the . . . who the . . . who are you assholes?”

  The gangster in the lead looked at the others and they all laughed again. They liked to laugh. Happy happy gangsters. He said, “My name is Hobby, preacher man. That’s what you are, right? A motherfuckin’ preacher? I gotta admit, the last thing I expected to see here was a preacher.”

  “No shit,” said Shotgun.

  “Just cuz I’m a preacher don’t mean I can’t whup your ass, boy.”

  The third gangster, ferret-faced and dreadlocked, hadn’t said anything until then. But now his grin disappeared and he finally spoke, “Boy? Did you just call him boy? Are you some racist motherfucker? One a’ them white power bitches?”

  “I think he is, Bee,” Hobby said. “I think he’s one a’ them thinks he’s better than the black man. Is that right, Preacher?”

  The Reverend looked ready to say something, but he didn’t get the chance. Hobby raised his gun and brought the barrel down, hard, on the Reverend’s already bleeding nose. The crack of bone snapping echoed off the walls, and I involuntarily winced.

  He dropped on the floor, blood gushing. His hands didn’t go to his face this time. He just lay there moaning and I couldn’t help it, I wanted to go to him. But I didn’t.

  Hobby kicked him once, in the side, then turned his attention to Tassie, who stood unmoving near the far cot. Her face looked intent, not panicking, not freaking out. Superhumanly attentive, as if she might spot a way to escape if she just paid close enough attention.

  “So, there you are. Tassie Hunter. Terrible Tassie.”

  I had it together enough to think, oh, her last name is Hunter, I didn’t know that. The fact that they were paying attention to her now sent a shiver of panic through me and I said, “Leave her alone. I’m the one that killed your thugs.”

  Hobby looked at me and said, “True dat. But the bitch here’s the one that put it all together. She’s the one who planned the hit. And it ain’t like we don’t know her. Right, Tassie Hunter?”

  Tassie’s eyes darted to me, and then back to Hobby.

  Hobby said, “This little bitch got a name. She’s what you call, infamous, right?”

  Tassie’s fists were clenched. I could see them shaking, even as she gritted her teeth and said, “Okay, fine. You found me. You gonna kill me now, or just pose with your big gun for a while? I ask, you know, cuz I don’t have all day.”

  I took a step toward Hobby. He didn’t swing his gun around to cover me; he just cocked back the hammer and kept it leveled at Tassie. “I ain’t in a hurry. But you wanna see her brains splattered, dog, you just take another step toward me.”

  The one Hobby called Bee said, “Just shoot the bitch and let’s get on.”

  Shotgun said, “And the preacher. I really wanna shoot the preacher, that’d be some wicked shit.”

  From the floor, the Reverend started laughing, weakly. He pushed himself up to his knees, blood smeared all over his face, and said, “You know what, Loretta? You hit like a motherfuckin’ girl, you know that?”

  All three gangsters looked at him.

  Shotgun stepped around Hobby, unslinging the shotgun. He hefted the weapon in his hand like a baseball bat and swung.

  Metal connected against the Reverend’s temple with a sickening crack and blood arced away from the Reverend’s head and splashed like rain on my boot. He dropped like a dead weight and didn’t move.

  “Now,” Hobby said, to me. “To bid-ness, yeah? Here’s the deal. You can still walk outta here. Walk right on out without a scratch on you. But there’s conditions, like.”

  “Let me guess. The money. All you want is your money.”

  “Straight up. We know what you can do. We, what you call, weighed our options and shit. You ain’t natural. You can do shit to people, like what you done to my boys. I don’t like it, but I ain’t stupid. I know that a few bullets ain’t gonna kill your ass. So that’s the deal. Give us the money you took, the money that belongs to us, and you can walk right outta here.”

  Shotgun said, “Yo, Hobby, I ain’t buyin’ it. I think Bee’s trippin’. Why don’t we just shoot him, we find out then if he’s Superman.”

  Bee said, “Hey, fuck you man. I seen it.”

  “Bullshit, man, you freakin’ out for nothing. James just missed him, is all.”

  “James shot him point fuckin’ blank. And he just laughed. I seen it. And then his hands started glowin’ all orange and shit and he melted James’s hand right to his fuckin’ gun, man.”

  “You trippin’.”

  “And you heard what he did to Leroy. He put a big fuckin’ hole right in his chest.”

  “Shut up,” said Hobby. “My boy Bee says he seen it, then he seen it. And I seen with my own eyes what he done to James and to Leroy. And to that sad fuck he left behind at the house. Dude with his neck bones all hangin’ out?” He turned his attention back to me. “You got my ear, Superman. What you wanna do? You wanna walk outta here?”

  “What about Tassie?” I said.

  Hobby shook his head. “Not part of the deal. She comin’ with us. Bitch been a thorn in my side for too long now.”

  I grinned at him. “You’re not thinking it through. If you can’t kill me, then guess what? I’m the one in charge. How about this? You drop your guns and turn around and walk away, and we’ll all avoid having to see what your goddamn ribcages look like, how’s that?”

  Hobby shook his head. “Boy, didn’t I just tell you, I ain’t stupid? I always think shit through. I’ll put a bullet through Terrible Tassie’s head.”

  Tassie looked at me, her eyes giving away nothing. Fists still clenched, teeth still gritted.

  A soft groaning from the floor. The Reverend stirred. All eyes shifted to him as he rolled over onto his back, saying, “Ah . . . ah, Jesus. . . . Okay, that one hurt, sister. But you know . . . you know what?” He sat up, gingerly, and blood practically poured off him. He grinned up at the gangsters and his teeth gleamed white in the mask of red. “I think I’m beginning to like it. You reckon I can have some more?”

  Hobby said, “Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch. I can’t believe it.”

  Shotgun said, “What is this motherfucker? Dawn of the Dead?”

  The Reverend laughed. “Come on, Maybelline. Gimme another kiss, huh?”

  Hobby shook his head, unbelieving. When he spoke, his voice started at a normal octave, but it grew louder and angrier as he went on, “I gotta admit, preacher man, you’re starting to get on my last . . . fucking . . . NERVE!”

  The Reverend cackled. “What? Don’t you love me no more?”

  Hobby said, “Pick him up, goddamnit. Pick him up.”

  Shotgun and Bee hurried to carry out orders. They flanked the Reverend, grabbing him under each arm, hefted him up off the floor. Hobby, keeping his gun pointed in Tassie’s direction, approached and looked him in the eye.

  The Reverend grinned at him.

  Hobby said, “You’re something, you are, preacher man. You are a right piece of work.”

  “I think you’re pretty, too.”

  Hobby scowled. “Masochist faggot preacher. How you like that?” His eyes went to the giant cross against the wall, and a slow smile played across his face. “I got an idea, preacher man. You wanna be closer to Jesus? How ’bout you share some of his pain, how ’bout that?”

  Everyone got it right away. I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Bee looked uncertain. “You mean . . . naw, dog. You serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. Find a hammer. And some goddamn nails. We gonna do it up right.”

  Shotgun kept Tassie
and me covered—pistol on Tassie, shotgun on me—while Hobby and Bee ransacked the cabin. It didn’t take long to find the toolbox, under the sink. Hobby whooped, “Yeah, bitch! This’ll do just nice.” The hammer was good, solid, but the nails were long and rusty and bent. No one seemed troubled by that.

  He’d hit the Reverend one more time, just long enough to put him out of commission for a few more minutes, then herded Tassie and me over to a cot and made us sit. The Reverend was just coming to again as Shotgun and Bee lugged him over to the cross. The fight seemed to have gone out of him. His eyes looked unfocused, and he mumbled incoherently as his head lolled on his shoulders.

  Hobby said, “Bee, don’t take your eyes off Terrible Tassie and Superman over there. We got this.”

  Bee looked relieved. He pointed his gun at us and didn’t watch what his partners were doing.

  “Okay,” Hobby said to Shotgun. “Hold his hand there. No, up on the wood, nigga. Fuck, man, ain’t you ever been to church?”

  Shotgun pushed the Reverend’s arm against the cross, and Hobby paused with the hammer and nail and glanced at Tassie and me. “Here’s something I bet you didn’t know. You know all those pictures of Jesus hangin’ on the cross, with the nails in his palms, holdin’ him up? Well, that’s bullshit. You don’t crucify no one by nailin’ their palms. They be too heavy, slid right off. Naw, man, you gotta pound the nail right in the wrist, where the bones can support the weight. Like this.”

  He placed a nail against the Reverend’s wrist, took aim with the hammer, and pounded it in.

  The Reverend grunted once and passed out.

  Tassie cried out sharply and her hands went to her face.

  I watched. I didn’t take my eyes away once, even though everything in me wanted to look away. I watched, and I waited, and I felt the power beginning to grow inside me.

  I watched the faces of three men who were destined to die bloody, horrible deaths.

  Shotgun looked as sick as I felt, but he did what he was told and held the Reverend’s other arm against the cross. Hobby was laughing. Blood had splattered on his face and ran down his jaw but he didn’t seem to care. He took the other nail in hand, placed it at the Reverend’s wrist, and pounded it in with the hammer. The sound bounced around the room like a bass drum. Hobby said, “Yeah! How’s that, preacher man? You feelin’ all holy and shit?”