by Kim Fielding
Stunned, Des didn’t move or speak. That couldn’t be true. The angels and the gifts they could bestow were the whole point, the ends that justified the means. Larry was a doctor, for Christ’s sake! He’d seen people sick and dying, and while he hadn’t chosen the wisest or safest method to advance medicine, he’d wanted to save lives. He said so. A bit of suffering now but far, far less later. Why else would he have created the boxes?
Except… Larry wasn’t always completely honest, was he? Des had heard him twist the truth many times when speaking with others. Larry would say anything that would help him accomplish his goals. He’d lied to Des sometimes too, denying it later or claiming they were only small falsehoods that didn’t matter.
But no. Larry wouldn’t lie about something so fundamental and enormous. Wouldn’t have let the deception stretch for four fucking years.
Wouldn’t have led Des to murder innocent people over it.
“No,” Des whispered. Because if Larry had never intended to give the boxes to the angels, then he would have had some other use for them. He was nothing if not rational; he never did anything without reason. But there wasn’t really anything else he could do with the boxes. He could give them to demons, but he wouldn’t gain anything from that. Or….
Or he could have always intended to keep them for himself.
“He was going to use them to gain power.” Des said it so quietly that even he could barely hear it.
Kurt’s response was not much louder. “Yes.”
Chapter Fourteen
Des was unusually quiet all day and seemingly lost in his thoughts. He followed Kurt around like a puppy, watching as he got filthy searching the old stables, a couple of small storage buildings, and a bathhouse with a caved-in roof.
Although Kurt didn’t say so, he missed Des’s chatter. Kurt had been working mostly alone for years, so he should have been used to silence. He thought he preferred it. But apparently the past days had changed something in him, and now—especially while tediously waving around a bit of plastic in decaying buildings—he wished for conversation. Especially if that conversation came with a bit of an Irish lilt.
By midafternoon Kurt was discouraged and cranky. He should have continued to the next building but couldn’t force himself to keep working. Des at his heels, he returned to the cottage, where both of them washed up. They’d need to do laundry again soon.
Kurt’s mood didn’t improve when they went to the office to pay for another night and discovered the racist clerk slouched behind the desk. Although Kurt had managed to avoid him since the night before, he now stomped over and loomed, Des lurking even larger behind him. “We’ll be staying tonight too. And we need fresh towels.” Daily maid service was apparently not a perk at the Roebuck Springs Motor Lodge, which would have been fine, but Des bathed a lot.
Not so long ago—and even after the law prohibited discrimination—the clerk would have refused Kurt service, knowing that the local police would back him up. A black person who complained was likely to find himself thrown into jail on manufactured charges. But times had changed, and this guy had reason to suspect that he might not get away with being a bigot. He might feel nostalgic for the days when white skin automatically trumped brown, but all Kurt got from him today was some Confederate flag-waving and a sullen face. He felt satisfied knowing that the clerk was too big an idiot to notice that Kurt had been poking around where he wasn’t supposed to be.
Back outside, Kurt glanced up at the sky. It was solid gray, but rain didn’t seem imminent. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced.
“Can I go too?”
“Suit yourself.”
Kurt would have preferred a run but didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Anyway, he found this place oddly enervating. Weren’t spas supposed to be restorative? Maybe they just made people want to sleep.
A few houses stood between the motor lodge and downtown, along with empty lots that suggested Roebuck Springs had once been a more populous settlement. The weather was nicer than during yesterday’s walk to Sisters’ Diner. But even so, the downtown was sleepy, with a flag hanging listlessly in a little park and only a few pedestrians strolling down the sidewalk. Beyond the small business district were more houses, some well cared for and some long abandoned. Kurt found them interesting, very different from the stucco ranch houses of his LA neighborhood, but Des kept his eyes downcast as if watching every step.
A mile or so outside town, a gap in a brick wall led to a cemetery. Curious, Kurt wandered in.
It wasn’t in good shape. Gravestones listed drunkenly where the ground had shifted. Some had fallen down—or had been pushed over—and lay in cracked pieces amid brown leaves turning to dust. Even on the intact stones, the inscriptions were often illegible, the carvings eroded or clogged with lichens. Weeds choked the pathways. Overhead the crooked limbs of enormous oaks stretched outward, Spanish moss hanging from them like jewelry.
One large monument with a bronze plaque turned out to be not a headstone but rather a memorial to the local soldiers who’d died in service to the Confederate Army. Kurt ran a gentle fingertip down the list of names. He wondered if they’d been conscripted or had joined freely, and whether any of them really understood what they were fighting for. Did they sacrifice themselves so that some people, probably richer people, could hold others enslaved? Or did they march forward with dreams of glory and honor? Either way, they must have grown footsore and tired along the journey—sick of terrible food and dirty uniforms and sleeping on the lumpy ground. They missed their homes and families. And when they were dying from bullets or bayonets or dysentery, they were terrified and confused, yearning for the future they’d never see.
Des had been wandering the grounds, but now he stood just behind Kurt, so close that the puffs of his breath tickled Kurt’s nape.
“I killed men like these.” Kurt hadn’t planned to say anything. The words just burst out as if he were momentarily possessed.
He heard the long intake of Des’s lungs. “Vietnam?”
How grateful Kurt was to not have to explain every little thing! “Yeah. Most of them were barely men. Just boys, really. My son Jason’s age. I wasn’t much older.”
“You were all soldiers.”
“We were doing what we had to do. What they ordered us to do. At least that’s what I told myself. But it was my finger that pulled the trigger, not anyone else’s.” The only person he’d ever spoken to about this was the Bureau shrink. He’d never said anything to Maryann, not even when she’d gently hinted that she was willing to listen. So he was mystified as to why he was blabbing about it now, to a prisoner and in a Mississippi cemetery.
“It’s what you’re supposed to do in a war, isn’t it?” Des asked.
“Supposed to. I had a choice, Des. I could have set my gun down, and then maybe those men would have lived.”
“And maybe you would have died instead. At the very least the Army would have punished you.”
Kurt turned around to see Des’s brows drawn into a deep frown. “Yes,” Kurt admitted, “that’s true. I chose my own life and freedom over theirs.”
“Nobody could blame you. They were the enemy. Strangers.”
“They were human beings. They had homes and families and hopes, just like me. But I chose myself.”
Des backed up a step as if the words were dangerous. “You couldn’t help it. You were drafted, and as you said, you were very young.”
“I could help it!”
Kurt saw something like panic in Des’s eyes and suddenly understood why he needed to be doing this here and now—and with this particular man. He closed the space between them and settled his hands on Des’s shoulders, firmly but not forcefully. And when he spoke, his voice was clear and even. “I was in a bad situation. Partly because of stupid decisions I’d made but partly because of decisions other people made. I was a kid and far from home and scared shitless half the time. But I made the choice to kill those people. A lot of them, Des. I was a
skilled sharpshooter. All the rationalizations in the world won’t bring them back to life. I did it, and it’s a burden I’ll carry until the day I die.”
Kurt was crying, dammit, because what he’d done had ripped him apart. Time and therapy had taped some of the pieces back together—enough to keep him going—but his insides were still filled with broken bits and jagged edges, and they continued to hurt like hell. Even though tears blurred his vision and tickled his cheeks, he didn’t wipe them away. He kept his hands on Des’s shoulders.
“No.”
Kurt had heard dying men sound less stricken than Des, but he didn’t let go. “Feel it, Desmond. Look in your heart and you’ll know it’s true.”
“You didn’t know….” Des whispered.
“I knew. We knew.”
Des moaned and collapsed to his knees, then fell onto all fours. He wasn’t making any sound, but his entire body shook and his head was deeply bowed, hair trailing onto the leaf-strewn ground.
After hesitating only a moment, Kurt knelt beside him and stroked his back. He didn’t say anything; no empty words of comfort or consolation because he had none. Besides, some situations were best met with silence and a steadying touch.
After a long time, Des rose onto his knees. His eyes were puffy and red, and he looked years older. Well, Kurt probably wasn’t looking his best either; his nose was snotty and he didn’t have a tissue. He oofed in surprise when Des clutched him in a mighty hug. There was nothing sexual about this embrace, but it felt wonderful nonetheless. Des was solid and powerful, and to both give and receive strength like this was a blessing Kurt rarely enjoyed.
“In control,” Des said, his head against Kurt’s, and for a brief moment Kurt almost thought Des had read his thoughts. Then he remembered their conversation from two nights ago.
“In control,” Kurt agreed. “The world wraps us up in all kinds of chains, but in the end we’re each responsible for our own decisions. Took me a while to accept that, but it’s true.” He patted Des’s back, untangled himself, and stood, then held out a hand to Des, who took it with a grim little smile.
“How do you… keep on going?” Des asked
“Sometimes it’s hard. There’s a reason why all that booze and all those drugs seemed like a good idea. AA tells you to take it one day at a time, and man, sometimes remembering that really helps. But also, somebody really helped me put it in perspective.” Oddly, that somebody hadn’t been the Bureau psychiatrist but rather Townsend, who’d dragged Kurt to a downtown diner for one of his speeches.
“Yeah?”
“He said that as long as I remember that I’m in control, I can decide my fate. Not all of it, of course. How did he put it?” He searched his memories and recalled the sound of a jukebox, the taste of mediocre coffee and an excellent Reuben sandwich. “I am the captain of my ship. I’m going to encounter storms and deadly calms. Pirates. Sea monsters.” He chuckled at that. “Literally, as it turns out. I can’t stop those things from happening. But I decide on my course, and I choose what to do when there are unfriendly seas. I like that image a lot.”
Des gave a slow nod. “Free will, yeah?”
“If you want to think of it like that, sure. There’s another part of it too. If I’m responsible for the dumbass things I do and even the downright evil ones, I’m also responsible for the good things. I’m a good father, Des, and I’ve done my damnedest to never let Jason suffer because of my addictions or the divorce. People at work know they can count on me to protect them when they need it. I’m really careful about how I approach my missions; I don’t assume something needs to be blown away just because it’s not human. I’ve saved lives. And all of that’s on me, just as the men I killed, their deaths are on me as well.”
Wow. He’d never been one for speechmaking, not even to Jason. Kurt would correct his son with a word or two, but it was Maryann who delivered the parental lectures. Yet here he was, pontificating.
“You’ve treated me a lot better than you had to,” Des said. “And didn’t take advantage of me when you could have. That’s on you too.”
“I guess so.”
“But I haven’t done… anything good. There’s nothing on the other side of my ledger.”
“It doesn’t work like that. Nothing is ever going to balance out in the end. It’s not about salvation, Des. I don’t even know if that’s a thing. It’s about doing the best you can with what you have.” He’d never sat down and purposefully delineated his philosophy, but he figured that phrase captured it well enough.
“Okay. But I haven’t done much.”
“You’re helping me now. Helping the Bureau.”
Des snorted and shook his head. “I’ve done almost nothing. And anyway I’m doing this because I get something out of it.” Now he sighed. “I get a bloody lot out of it.”
“Well, you haven’t exactly had a lot of chances for philanthropy in prison. But you are making some good choices there. You spend your time as well as you can, with books and exercise. You take care of yourself. And you haven’t let yourself become hopelessly bitter.” Kurt smiled. “Your ship is in dry dock, I guess. But it’s still yours.”
Their laughter brought a measure of healing to them both.
They’d exited the cemetery gate and turned onto the road when Kurt grabbed Des’s arm to stop him. “You’re limping.”
Des looked down; his jeans were dirty from kneeling. But then he lifted his left pants leg and revealed a nasty scrape. “I think I landed on a rock.”
“Can you walk all right?”
“Yeah. It’s only a little sore.”
“I have a first aid kit in the car. We can patch you up at the cottage.”
“Okay.” Des pulled the jeans back down. Then he chuckled. “For only blood can wipe out blood, and only tears can heal. Thank you, Oscar Wilde.”
Des chatted lightly the entire way back, lightening Kurt’s heart with every word. The two pedestrians they passed on the downtown sidewalk gave a friendly hello, and even the gray sky seemed less oppressive. Kurt decided it was still early enough to search one more outbuilding, and then maybe they’d find a restaurant for dinner. He could really go for fried catfish and collard greens tonight.
He unlocked the cottage door, stepped inside, and froze.
The interior looked as if a tornado had passed through.
Chapter Fifteen
Des struggled not to mourn his books, even though they’d been torn to pieces. He hadn’t even had a chance to read them all. But that loss was much less important than the fact that someone had come into their cottage and pawed through everything, destroying all of their belongings. A quick check revealed that the car had been ransacked too, although that damage was minimal. The first aid kit remained, so Kurt had insisted on disinfecting and bandaging Des’s knee.
“Are you sure it’s not the clerk?” Des asked as he stuffed the remains of Reading Gaol into a trash bag.
Kurt was sorting through his clothing to see if anything remained wearable. “Don’t think so.”
“He doesn’t like you, though, and he must have a key. Maybe this is his way of getting revenge.”
“He wouldn’t have wrecked motel property, though. At least I don’t think so.”
Kurt had a point. The ceramic bases of both bedside lamps had been shattered, the table was upended with one leg broken, and all of the plates and cups were in pieces. The overhead light hung unevenly, its bolts partially pulled from the ceiling. Even some of the switch plates had been torn from the walls.
“Maybe he wants you to get in trouble for the damage,” Des suggested.
“But do you really think that idiot knew how to break into a locked car?”
“Yeah, all right.” Des tied up the trash bag and left it on the front porch, then grabbed another from under the sink and started to discard their torn clothing. The invader seemed to have taken a blade to all of the seams and pockets. It looked as though the only things to survive the assault were a couple of socks
.
Kurt righted one of the chairs. “We’re going to need to go clothes shopping, probably in Jackson.”
“Not confident in Roebuck Springs’ fashion options?”
Kurt snorted.
By the time they finished tidying the cottage, they’d determined that their only remaining possessions were the socks, the clothes they were wearing, and the items they’d been carrying. Even their suitcases were ruined. “Your notebook?” Des asked.
“I always have that on me. Along with my gun.”
“What are we going to do?”
This time, Kurt made a face. “I’m going to tell the asshole in the office what happened, and that we need a different room. We’ll probably have to talk to the cops. Let me do that part, okay?”
That was fine with Des, who’d never been a fan of law enforcement. After running away from the Chicago-area relatives and then living on the streets, he’d been harassed regularly by the police. He’d been arrested a few times. And there’d been a couple of cops who’d promised not to drag him to jail—as long as Des blew them for free.
“This wasn’t an ordinary thief,” Des said, dragging his mind back to their present situation.
“Not ordinary, no.” Kurt tossed a shredded pillow aside in disgust. “They were after the fucking boxes.”
Oh. Honestly, in the lingering emotional turbulence of the day, Des had almost forgotten why he and Kurt were in Mississippi. And the fact that other people were also searching for the boxes had completely slipped his mind. He’d have made a shitty agent.
“Was it those people we saw in the diner?”
“No. I told you, I think they’re from the Bureau. I don’t know who did this.”