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Part XI: 1969- Back to the Garden
"Ya shouldn't even be here, man!" Federico blurted out, biting at his fist before throwing it at an imaginary enemy. "Shit, I shoulda let you jet it the minute I busted you out! But I can't fuckin' help myself!" He was shaking all over, fighting back angry tears. "I never fuckin' learn! I'm like a virus, dig? And I bring nothin' but trouble! I brought it to Fabia! I brought it to my fuckin' band! And now...I'm bringin' it to you." Federico sat down by one of the posts, burying his face in his hands. "Dream Curse...fuck that. It's the Fuckin' Federico 'Fucker' Federale Curse. That's my contribution to society...fuck."
Alice pressed her lips together, watching the laundry waving on the line, casting billowing shadows on the grass.
"You're right," she said finally, "I shouldn't be here. I should've listened to my gut and cut loose while the cutting was good. And maybe then I wouldn't have been roped into whatever wacko Hammer Horror movie your friend's Benjy's wily ways got us all caught up in. I should've left."
She paused, "But I didn't. And yanno, I'm not even that mad about it."
-Alice
Fuck, not even an argument? Federico didn't know if he should feel vindicated or offended. Maybe both.
Still, Federico felt the need to ask, "Why's that?"
"Because," Alice said evenly, "Last night, your friend Shaggy dreamed of my brother," she smiled sadly, "And if he did, why the hell shouldn't I?"
-Alice
He found her at the edge of the orchard, outside the boat-turned-greenhouse, legs dangling off the jetty jutting out over the lake.
Benjy picked at his arms, worrying the wrings on his fingers as he hovered on the soft sedge between the turf and the water, waiting for her to catch him in the periphery of her vision, though she determinedly avoiding looking back, keeping her attention out on the water.
Realizing he wasn't doing himself any favors lurking like he was the Coed Killer, Benjy stepped forward, "I was looking for you."
Joan didn't register any surprise at his voice, "I like it out here."
Benjy looked around, "It's nice," and took a tentative step forward, then another.
"You can come over," she said finally, "I'm not gonna do anything to you."
Benjy sighed, his boots thudding onto the worn wood of the jetty, "You pack a mean punch. Caught me by surprise."
"Me too," she rebutted, without explaining which surprise.
"Joanie..." he looked down at her, the sun catching in her cornsilk hair. In her poufy white linen, she looked like a girl from another time: one of those washed out sepia-tone photos of little girls from little frontier prairie towns, their names painstakingly inked in the margins, with a month and a year. A permanent record, rendered smoky and obscure by the passage of time.
"I want to tell you."
"Tell me?" her voice was glassine.
"About the necklace. Rosa. I just...before, with all of them there, it didn't feel right..."
"For me or for you?" she set her eyes on him at last. They were still red and wet from crying, and he drew his breath in.
"For us."
"Us," she laughed hoarsely, looking away, "Sure. How could I forget you're such a romantic..."
"Nobody's ever thrown that word at me before," he began to sit beside her, but Joan rose to her feet, blocking his way. She folded her arms, "What did you to her?" she asked, "For her. Whatever."
"Rosa," he lowered his head, "She, uh...we met in Atlanta."
The den was hot and suffused with heady incense: cloves and patchouli and the sour-sweet stink of grass. They'd just finished a set: they weren't Benjy and the Blackbirds yet, there being only one Blackbird and Chester still thinking they should opt for something a little more traditional, like the Everly Brothers or Chad and Jeremy.
Benjy had many reasons for hitting spots like this; jostling those quaint notions from Chess's mind not least among them.
"At a gig?"
He nodded, "After one. She was, uh..."
"Where did you learn how to play like that?" she had deep brown eyes, shaped like almonds. The rainbow lights of the stained glass casings stained the thick black mane of her curls royal purple.
"See, I'd love you tell you, sweetheart," he leaned in, the better to make out the stray spray of freckles over her aquiline nose, almost Arabic in its proportions, "But I never learned a damn thing in my life."
She laughed, "So you're a a born talent?"
"If you say so."
Her lips, thick and caramel colored, pursed into a perfect circle, "I didn't say so."
"You didn't like what you heard?"
She shrugged, "I like what I saw."
"She was a fan."
"Guess there've been a lot of fans," said Joan softly.
"Not that many," he admitted, "Not as many as...uh, as I make out."
"So you lied?"
"False advertising," he shrugged, "How else you gonna get asses in seats?"
Joan's lips curled, "You could play well."
Benjy rocked on his heels, "I guess we should've tried that?" he smiled darkly, "Rosa and me...it was just a few days."
"A fling?"
Hip to hip with her on a rusty-springed sofa in what he'd thought was her place, a record spinning Ella Fitzgerald into the frostbitten air between them.
"Will you stay?"
"Babe, I wish I could. But we have a gig. Athens."
"Greece?"
"Maybe someday," he brushed his nose to hers, "Nah, Athens, Georgia. There's a boozer short a singer and..." he shrugged, "Duty calls."
"It doesn't call alone, though?"
"Course not. Chester's a package deal. Someone's got to keep me honest."
"And what about me?" she propped her head up on one hand, "I don't keep you honest?"
And he'd laughed, rakish and bold and utterly unexamined, "Baby, you keep me too honest. But I'll come back. It's one gig, one do-nothing town away."
"You'll come back?" she repeated, mouth opening partway, "For me?"
"Set your watch to it," he kissed her, twisting his fingers in her hair, as her nails dug into the flesh of his back, the silver chain looped around both their necks sticking and hot and clinging from their lovemaking.
"I hurt her," he said finally.
Joan nodded slowly, "How?"
Benjy folded his arms, "I left her behind."
Joan scoffed, "But you told her you'd be back?"
"I'm not defending myself, Joan. But between us, it wasn't..." he sighed, "It wasn't some big romance, alright? It was just..."
"Just a little fun? A good time. Fun on the road. And I'm different?" she shook her head, "I wasn't like her, or any of the other girls from those clubs and dives. Of course, I was different. Sheltered a-and compliant and easy..."
"That is not what happened," Benjy jabbed a finger in her face, only to have her swat it away. He clutched his wrist, "Joan, after Rosa, I didn't want anybody else. Ever again."
"Oh please..."
"I'm serious! With Rosa...it was bad."
They were wrapping up a gig outside Tallahassee when she caught up with them. It was late winter, but the Florida air was balmy and suppressive. She emerged from the knot of passerby on the street, her plum-colored coat open in the front and trailing behind her like a queen's raiment.
He remembered the guitar dragging on his shoulder like a deadweight limb, his feet rooted in place and Chester's eyes on his back, knowing and, if not judgmental, than unsurprised.
She crossed the road to them, eyes for him alone.
"Rosa," his voice was sore and thin from a night's work, "Rosa, what..."
He'd preemptively held a hand out, as if to proffer an intangible apology he hadn't even mustered the words for yet.
She shoved the necklace into his open hand, "For you. To remember me by."
He'd been braced for a slap or a strike, but there'd been nothing but the gift: the token of her affection. He watched her melt into the gauzy glow of the streetlamps, the bird's wings digging into his palm like twin blades.
"I hurt her, and I said..." he bowed his head, "I told myself I wasn't gonna do that again. I was gonna stay on the road, work on the music, work on the band. I was gonna be somebody, and that wasn't gonna happen if there was..."
"If there was a girl," she laughed darkly, "Sorry to ruin things for you."
"I wasn't expecting you," he admitted, "You know that, don't you? That day, in the record store..."
"You didn't shoo me away."
"I told myself to," he insisted, "I told myself not to get attached, Joan, but..."
"But I didn't take the hint."
"I gave you offramps, Joanie..."
"And I chose not to take them, Ben!" she cried, "I stayed with you because I wanted to. Because I liked you. I liked your music and your bad habits and your horrible attitude..."
He winced, "Maybe you shouldn't've."
"Stop it!" she pointed, "I knew what you were. I know what you are. Ben, I spent my whole life cooped up in my house. I was sick my whole childhood. For years, I was physically locked in my room. My only way out was pretend! Storybooks and poems and music," she grabbed his arm, "You're acting like you tricked me. Like you sold me a bill of goods. Benjy, I knew what you were from the start. I saw you, Benjy, and I saw the world."
Her face was flushed with uncried tears, "You could've told me about Rosa. You could've told me anything. There was never anything to protect me from. I've been protected my whole life," she stepped back, "Not anymore."
"You're saying this now, Joan, because it already happened..."
"Don't tell me!" she pulled him flush with her, "Don't you dare tell me what I want and what I'm thinking. I wanted you! I choose you. I would've gone anywhere with you..."
"And you will!" Benjy spoke over her, unable to quell the burning in his gut, "You're going to go right to hell with me, Joan. For sticking with me. Because I'm a mess and a wreck and I go around and break shit, because it's all I know, so fuck me if I didn't want a nice kid like you to tag along for the ride."
Joan stepped back, "Maybe I don't want to be a nice kid."
She walked off, and Benjy didn't stop her. There was no point in it. She'd made up her mind and, if there was one thing Benjy knew about himself, he wasn't half as convincing as he'd once thought he was.
He watched as she walked up the jetty and through the orchard. He was pretty sure she didn't see Chester coming, nor did he see her, until they were upon each other, Joan falling into him as he pulled his arms close around her, rocking her steadily back and forth, whispering sweet nothings the provenance of which he could only imagine.
She wanted you, he told himself, She would've taken anything.
He swallowed the bile on his tongue and turned his back.
***
"Tired of that dishpan look? All the wives in the neighborhood use Palmolive, the soap that softens your hands! Delight Daddy with a home cooked meal, with a real lady's touch..."
Lettie groaned softly, instinctively reaching out to switch off the radio. Her hand met open air.
She blinked blearily, gradually becoming aware of the splitting ache in her head.
"J-Joan?" she tried, before remembering that her sister wasn't here and that was the whole point, wasn't it?
Her vision was slow to resolve itself: the world appearing like a patchwork of dull browns and grays. She shifted and the world shifted with her, a monstrous creaking resounding from all around her.
"...huh?" she sat up and bumped her head on the steering wheel.
Which was above her.
Feeling a cool blast of air, Lettie turned to the vacant space where the side door had been and looked out into emptiness.
"Oh," she breathed, shooting backward, right into Hesh, "Oh no."
The car must have flipped going over that precipice, landing upside down, but not hitting the bottom. The whole car was suspended maybe 10 feet down the ridge, having been caught by a gnarled tree limb growing from the side of the slope...about 30 feet from the bottom of the gully.
"Eh?" Bobby croaked from above the backseat, where he was sprawled inelegantly over what had been the top of the cabin, "Lettie, wha..."
"Don't!" she threw her arm out before he could even sit up, "Don't. Move."
-Benjy, Joan, Lettie, and Bobby
Hesh slowly came to, his vision blurry and his ears ringing. Lettie's voice had stirred him from his stupor and in an instant, he became aware of how sore is body had become when he tried to spur his muscles to action.
"What the...?" He finally got a clear look at his surroundings: the interior of his Corvette, flipped upside-down. If Hesh felt any kind of frustration at his cracked windshield from earlier, he was absolutely sick now.
He winced in pain as he leaned forward to see what Lettie was talking about. "What are you..." Hesh froze once his head peered past the front seat, immediately understanding Lettie's panic. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me..." He was met with a deadly drop, which was only set up by the way the car was precariously suspended between the cliffside and forest canopy.
On one hand, they had gotten really lucky. On the other, they were still a few bad steps from dying anyway. The Corvette was far from secure, and any kind of imbalance could send the vehicle crashing to the forest floor.
Trying to formulate a plan of action on the fly, Hesh analyzed the cliffside behind him. "There are some handholds in the rock. We can get up on top of the car and climb up there, one at a time." He emphasized these last words with a cool and firm demeanor, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "And whatever we do, we move slowly and precisely. No sudden movements whatsoever and no sudden changes in the car's weight. Any huge shift could be enough to break the balance we have here. So the way we should go is from lightest to heaviest." Hesh didn't need to do the math to guess who was going first, as he gave a somewhat apologetic look to Lettie.
Lettie pressed her hand to her racing heart, "Lightest, huh?"
"He's right, Lettie," Bobby chimed in.
"I dunno. He looks pretty petite."
"It's not that far up."
"Then you go first, if it's not that far!" she snapped.
"If I fell, my weight would shake the car loose."
"Is that supposed to be funny?" she leaned forward unthinkingly and the car shook around them. Bobby's knuckles whitened around the driver's seat, "I'm not in a laughing mood."
Lettie pressed her lips together, looking out the doorway, the air bracing against her face.
"Think of it this way," Bobby offered from behind her, "It's less time to the top than the bottom."
Lettie looked down the gully, sweeping her hair from her face with a shaking hand, "Depends which way you go."
"Just keep your eyes up. And don't worry about falling."
She laughed somewhat hysterically, "Why? Because it'll be over before I know it?"
"Because I'll catch you," he was bright scarlet, avoiding her eyes. Lettie, abashed, lowered her head with a smile, "I'll try to spare your arms."
She turned away before she could shove her foot any farther up her mouth and leaned out and up.
There was only about half an inch of tree between the missing side door and the gulf. A blast of air, shockingly bracing, chilled Lettie's blood to ice.
Don't look down, she told herself, and attempted to suit the inaction to the task, instead keeping her eyes up at the, she reminded herself, comparatively much shorter stretch of earth above. The slope was rough, dotted with protrusions of limestone peppered with moss and lichen.
"You okay?" Bobby asked from behind her.
"If I'm not, you'll know it," she assured him, grabbing a handhold and bracing herself against the cliff's edge.
-Lettie and Bobby
Hesh held his breath as he watched Lettie make her way from the car to the cliffside, with every tremor throughout the vehicle sending his heart into his throat.
However, much to his relief, she had successfully latched onto the cliffside and began her ascension to solid ground.
"Alright," Hesh exhaled, readying himself for what was to come. "I'll go next." He made to move for the front seat.
"Hey!" Bobby grabbed Hesh by the shoulder, "Why you?"
-Bobby
Hesh jumped when Bobby grabbed him, thinking for a split second that the car had jostled an inch in the wrong direction.
He kept calm, though, as he turned to face the young officer. "Because...well...uh..." Hesh didn't know how to say it politely, so he gestured vaguely between the two of them, hoping Bobby would get the idea. To be honest, Hesh didn't know why he was even bothering with manners in a life-or-death situation, but goddamn him, he really liked the kid and didn't want to hurt his feelings.
"What do you..." Bobby frowned, realizing what Hesh was getting at, "It's all muscle! I was a football player..."
"Hey!"
"Yesjesus," Bobby said very quickly, sticking his head out the door and finding no sign of Lettie until he craned his neck up.
"Howdy, Sir Galahad," Lettie leaned over the precipice, hands on her knees, "Resting your weary arms?"
An apology rose to Bobby's lips but he swallowed it, smiling despite himself, "Guess you didn't need 'em."
"Good thing I didn't look down."
Bobby looked at Hesh as if to tell him to look upon his foul work, but gestured with his hand to indicate he may as well skip to it.
-Lettie and Bobby
Deciding the matter was settled, Hesh clapped Bobby on the shoulder. "See you up top, boss." With that, he slowly crawled his way under the inverted front seats and inched his way to the open passenger door. His eyes darted back to Bobby, to see if he was being watched.
He wasn't. Hesh made his move.
Subtly, he popped open the glove compartment and found its contents tussled but in one piece. His top priority was retrieving the map Tacoma had given him. No use getting out of here if they were lost. He already had his service weapon on his person, though Hesh managed to snag any additional rounds he had stored in there. However, none of these items were the reason for his discretion.
No, that was his FBI badge, something he had up to now kept off his person for the sake of maintaining his cover. Considering his car was all but a lost cause right now, Hesh considered it wise to pick it up now, unless he felt content to pick through the wreckage later.
If you don't fall with it, that is.
Hesh reminded himself of the urgency at the matter at hand and made to leave his beloved Corvette once and for all...but he caught something out of the corner of his eye.
The walkie-talkie he had been using to communicate with Conrad, currently emptied of its batteries. Hesh considered if he should pick that up as well.
Meanwhile, the trees outside creaked ever so slightly, causing the Corvette's metal to seemingly moan in response.
Screw it. The fat bastard could deal with the radio silence. Not like Hesh enjoyed their conversations anyway.
Hesh closed the glove compartment and swiftly eked himself out of the passenger side. Lettie was smart not to look down, because Hesh snook a tiny peek below and saw a vertigo inducing drop. Fortunately, he wasn't faint of heart as he turned his head upwards and climbed atop the toppled corpse of his dream car.
It was fun while it lasted, he thought mournfully, thinking about how much blood, sweat, tears, and worst of all, money he had poured into his Corvette. Thanks for taking me this far.
Hesh gave it a few taps for good luck, took a few deep breaths, and, finally, leaped towards the rock wall. His instincts from his basic training days came back in an instant and so he began to scale this wall as he'd done way back in Quantico. Taking one handhold at a time, Hesh climbed without taking a single pause, determined to earn his rest once he had reached the top.
In less than a minute, Hesh had done it, heaving himself over the edge onto the cliff besides Lettie. All the energy he had expended to make that rush, not to mention all of today's events that preceded it, seemed to catch up with him as he finally took the moment to lie down and recover his breath.
He exchanged a relieved "Can you believe we did it?" look with Lettie before quickly remembering Bobby. "Alright, Bobby," Hesh called down to him. "You're up." He paused, before unnecessarily adding, "Be careful."
The 'Vette shook titanically once Hesh was out. Bobby grabbed the doorframe, knee buckling beneath him.
"Hurry, Bob!" Lettie cautioned.
"Hurrying," Bobby assured her, reaching his arm out toward the cliff face. The ground beneath his feet began to slip away and he gritted his teeth.
The branch groaned dangerously beneath the car. Bobby's stomach clenched as he looked across the gap, which now seemed farther than it had before. The car was sliding off its already fragile perch.
Lettie looked over her shoulder, "Shit. Shit, I hear them," she looked down, "Bobby, come on, we're not alone."
"What do you mean, you hear them?"
"I mean I think Dag's catching up!" she pleaded, "Bobby, come on, quick..."
A note of genuine terror crept into her voice. He had the sudden image of Lettie up against the wall, surrounded by knives.
"Look, it's okay," he told her, "I can make it, but you have to go ahead."
"What?"
"If they're gaining, you have to go! Lay low. Hide. I'll..."
The branch began to snap.
"I'll be right there."
-Bobby and Lettie
Hesh stepped back from the cliff's edge, tuning himself in to the sounds coming from the thicket. Forest detritus being trampled underfoot, mixed with the occasional acerbic order (variations of "They're not over here!" and "Keep looking!") To Hesh's distress, they were getting louder and louder.
Cursing himself, Hesh prepared for another battle, withdrawing his pistol and getting ready to enter another fight with bad odds. He couldn't help but wonder if this was the one where is luck would run out. By now, Hesh had to be running low on good breaks.
Nevertheless, Hesh wasn't going to abandon Bobby and Lettie now. He took a deep breath, standing his ground and training his weapon on unseen forests in the woods, ready to pull the trigger at the first sign of trouble.
"I'm serious!" Bobby continued, "Just keep going. I'll climb up."
The car groaned again. Bobby lurched forward, forced to look down the gully, which was pretty sobering, but no less than looking across at the cliff face. While Lettie and even Hesh had been able to just reach forward for a handhold, the 'Vette had slipped so much in the short time since that there were nothing for it but...
"Jump!"
He looked up at her, "Where?"
"Up, you idiot!"
"No, I mean...Lettie, you can't..."
She held out her hand, "Don't be difficult, Bob."
The way up to the top was about 10 feet. Lettie's arm covered maybe 2 and a half of those feet. Bobby's vertical jump...
Well.
Bracing himself, he crouched, leaning out as the car slipped away behind him, and lifted himself.
He knew a brief weightlessness, exhilarating yet terrifying. His arm knifed through the air as his legs kicked out, the toe of his boot striking the edge of the cliff, the force sending him back.
"Got you!" her hands met his.
He remained suspended there for what couldn't be a very long time but felt like ages. Lettie had fallen back to the narrow strip of crumbling earth at the cliff's edge, dragged down by his weight as she gripped his hand with both of hers. Her hair, tied into a hasty knot to keep it out of her eyes, caught the sunlight, staining chestnut cherry. Her face, though straining from the weight, was split into a relieved, triumphant smile.
The spell faded in time and Lettie pulled him up, Bobby sinking relievedly onto solid ground as, behind and beneath, Hesh's Corvette plummeted to its demise.
"God..." he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in, turning to Lettie, "Stronger than you look."
She thunked him on the head, "Heavier than you look."
"S-sorry," he apologized unthinkingly.
"For what? Asking me to ditch you?"
"I should've been paying attention. When you climbed up. So I could catch you."
"Well," she shrugged, "It all worked out. Nothing to be guilty about," she placed a soft emphasis on the word, thudding him lightly in the shoulder.
"Huh...ow..." he winced and then gave her a second look, her mouth tugging into a knowing sound, as he realized the soft emphasis she'd placed on that word: guilty, "Oh."
-Bobby and Lettie
Hesh instinctively winced at the sound of his Corvette hurtling down to the forest floor. He couldn't bear to look, lest he be seen crying. Damn, he loved that car.
However, the thought of Bobby perishing with his Corvette rushed through his mind first, only to be alleviated immediately at the sight of Lettie pulling him up onto solid ground. Impressed, he grinned and joined the two lovebirds, patting Bobby on the back.
"Lakewood's All-American! Nice moves back there," he congratulated Bobby. "Maybe you should have gone pro."
A voice called out from the thicket. "I heard somethin'! Came from over there!"
The time for celebration was over. Hesh quickly surveyed their surroundings and honed in on a narrow path leading down the cliff they had just treacherously climbed.
"We gotta get going," he chinned over to the trail, already gingerly jogging over there. "C'mon!"
"What?" Bobby asked at Hesh's 'pro' comment, "And miss out on all this protecting and serving?" he smiled, his shoulders relaxing and unearned years seeming to melt from his features.
At the muttered chatter from down the path, his features hardened, "Right. We can move quieter, at least," he looked over the cliff with a sigh, "If slower."
He got to his feet, offering Lettie his hand to help her up. Lettie's first churlish thought was to brush it away as, after all, she could quite literally pull her own weight and his.
But she took his hand and let him pull her upright, for the boyish look of surprise in his eyes if for no other reason.
-Bobby and Lettie
Dag ran up to the cliff's edge with his comrades from the van, only to be met with a pretty vista and nothing else. He peered over the edge, spying the smoking wreck of the fruity car that long-haired bastard was driving.
"You think they're in that, boss?" His young driver asked, hands gripping a handheld shotgun.
"Maybe..." Dag grimaced, not liking the look of this at all. "You two!" He barked to the men who just moments ago were tossing flaming jugs of moonshine at their prey. "Climb down there and look for a body. And you! Beeks!" The driver jumped as Dag turned to him. "Radio in the rest of our boys, tell 'em to leave their bikes by where we parked the van."
He looked out to the seemingly endless forest, something which his underlings informed him were "cursed." At least according to Tacoma.
Eye for an eye, Dag thought bitterly, his fist balling up at the thought of retribution of his fallen friend and partner in crime.
"We're goin' off-road, boys," he concluded, much to the concern of his driver.
"A-are you sure?" Beeks stammered. "It's gonna get dark soon and this forest is like a maze at night..."
Dag snatched the kid by the collar. "What are you tryin' to say?"
"Nothing, D-Dag," Beeks gulped down his nervous fear. "All I'm sayin' is this is a lotta trouble for three guys. And think off all the men we lost today..."
He struck the driver across the face, effectively shutting him up. "You goddamn coward." Dag snatched the kid by his jacket's lapel, indicating the sewn-in Tupelo insignia over his heart. "Does this mean nothin' to you?! You took an oath! We all did!" He leaned in closer, exposing his squirrelly driver to the full brunt of his liquor-drenched breath. "We avenge our fallen. Not only that but we retaliate ten times worse than they ever hit us. So either you're with us...or you're against us." Dag shoved the timid thug away from him, having made his ultimatum quite clear. "Now make the call or so help me God, you'll be at the bottom of this cliff next. Read me?"
Caressing his now-red cheek, Beeks nodded. "Y-yeah. I read ya, boss." He scurried back to where they had left the van, contemplating on what had just occurred. Dag was unusually aggressive today, even for his standards. Sure, he was taking Tacoma's death hard. They all were. But this...something was off with him. Something in his eyes...
There was no time to ponder what. Beeks valued his survival more than anything else. He'd make the call to their reinforcements, though he couldn't help but look back at the solemn form of Dag at the cliff's edge, limned by the afternoon sun. His fists were clenched as he watched his men rush down the cliffside to investigate the car wreck. In this light, Dag didn't look like the career criminal he'd been up to that point but more so as a conqueror, fueled by a fervent anger that seemed to spread to his minions, who obeyed him without question.
Beeks decided he ought to light a rage within himself, lest he get conquered himself. It was an dog-eat-dog world and as far as Beeks was concerned, he'd follow the big dog. That's how packs worked, in the end.
Besides, ideally, their hunt would be over soon. And Beeks wouldn't have to think of "conquering" and "vengeance" anytime soon.
-Dag and Beeks
Tony sat on the edge of his cot, rubbing the ball of his thumb over his wrist. Back in middle school, out in the Illinois sticks, outside Chicago and a thousand miles from civilization, it had been politely brought to his attention by the local spit-slingers that his wrists were pretty loose and maybe needed some tightening.
"Waving your hands around, no wonder everyone thinks you're a homo."
They were all too happy to help fix his problem.
"Just needs some elbow grease," leering faces, a strong hand ramming his hand, hard, into the chainlink fence encircling the schoolyard, "Fix you right up."
And Tony, not wanting to be a punching bag, knowing he was supposed to be a man and stick up for himself, pulled back.
He remembered the pop, clear as a gunshot, as his wrist popped from its socket.
"What's the world coming to," Gran had muttered in the ER, determinedly sucking a hard candy, "And nothing but a slap on the wrist for these punks!"
He'd looked at her balefully, silently drawing her attention to the splint his hand was in, and she sighed, "Right. Sorry, Tony."
There'd been a policeman there, putting them to the question. Tony remembered how he'd raced to characterize it as a fight, a struggle between himself and the other kid.
"We were just fighting. Stupid stuff. Kid stuff. I don't even remember why..."
And Gran's eyes on him, knowing but unquestioning.
They hadn't stuck around long after that.
Tony sighed, lifting his head to see the bright orange light knifing in through the flap of the tent.
Sunset.
Another day drawing to a close. Another dream in the offing, and another behind it, and another, and another, until...
Well, until the chain became a necklace.
And what was he doing? Sitting on his stupid, bony ass, twiddling his thumbs and flapping his wrist. Which, apparently, made him Doc Galdamez's star pupil.
Lucky him.
He stepped out into the cooling evening air, wrapping his arms around himself. The sky was tinged a wild mess of scarlets and purples, the cotton-candy clouds scudding over the horizon looking like tufts of down, wings divorced from their angels.
Tony wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything more achingly beautiful. But then, he'd never been the kind of guy to slow down and watch the sunset before. Possibly, he'd walked right by similar vistas a thousand times and never thought anything of it.
He walked between the tents, stepping in and out of the lengthening shadows, feeling the earth steadily rising beneath his feet as he mounted the soft hump of land just beyond the water's edge.
From down here, Todd looked like a figure in stained glass, propped up across the humble stick cross that marked Agnes's grave.
"Hey," Tony greeted cautiously, approaching gingerly as he dared.
Todd was sitting quietly, crisscross applesauce, at the grave. His glasses were off, closed neatly on the grass beside him. He turned with a start, as if jarred from deep concentration, "Oh. Hello."
"I'm, uh..." Tony indicated the cross, "I'm not interrupting, am I?"
"No," Todd shook his head, "It wasn't much of a c-conversation," he bowed his head, reddening, as if embarrassed at the humor, "S-sorry. Shouldn't speak ill of the dead."
Tony shrugged, "It's okay. I have shit manners too."
"T-too?" Todd smiled, "That's p-p-presumptuous."
"Well. Shittier."
He sat beside him, and they watched the grave quietly. No name had been carved into the wood of the cross. Chester had suggested it, but Fabia and Benjy had roundly quashed the notion since, after all, Agnes had more or less died while being in their unlawful custody.
"She got a bad rap, didn't she?"
"W-w-wrap?" Todd frowned, "Well. There wasn't much embalming, I s-s-suppose, but it may be that's b-b-better for the soil. Ecologically speaking."
"You'd know better than me."
"I w-wonder what she'd make of it. This..." he sighed, "This c-c-curse business."
"I guess she wasn't very superstitious."
"W-well. She was C-C-Catholic," he smiled, "Y-you have to be a l-little superstitious."
"Aren't you Catholic?"
"Anglican."
"Yeah, I..." he smiled, "I'm sorry, man, I don't know what that is."
"It's a-alright. I c-can forgive your heathenry," his lips twitched, "I'm getting p-pretty good at it."
"Right on."
"A-Anglicans are s-sort of Catholic. B-but it's the Church of England. Y'see, after Henry VIII..."
"So what you're saying is you're Catholic, but you call it the 'lift to heaven'?"
Todd guffawed, "W-what?"
"Yanno, like...Stairway to Heaven?" he frowned, "That is in the Bible, right? It's not just a song..."
"Oh," he nodded, "Well, that would be 'e-elevator to heaven'."
"More convenient for all the old people," he sighed, "But you believe it?"
"The D-Dream Curse?" Todd paused, "It's a pretty s-straightforward name. Right out of a comic book. The Absorbing Man, Radioactive Man, the Mad Thinker..." he paused, "W-well, the Thinker isn't really that straightforward. He does think a lot, though," he put his glasses back on.
"I t-think if o-one accepts God, than one should be able to a-accept all sorts of things. I dunno if Agnes would've agreed. S-she..." his breath hitched, "She said sometimes, my i-imagination was too big for my own good. I s-spent too much time in make believe."
"In your comics?"
Todd nodded, "And my drawings."
"Your drawings?" Tony cocked his head to the side, "You're an artist?"
"N-no. I just draw."
"Don't want to rock your world, Todd, but I think that means you're an artist."
"I'm not t-that good. And anyway, it's a f-frivolous activity. N-not a r-real calling."
"What, are you bad at it?"
"N-no!" he looked surprised, "I mean...just, even if I was bad, it's not...not something..." he bowed his head, "It's s-silly," he rubbed the back of his neck with his knuckles.
"I was never good at drawing," Tony volunteered, "I can't even draw a straight line," he waved his limp wrist around illustratively, "Actually, I'm not really sure I'm good at anything," he paused, thinking of Galdamez, "Well. One thing, but it's not much to be proud of."
"What thing is that?"
Tony looked at him, "I'm good at watching."
"W-watching?" Todd furrowed his brow, "Watching what?"
"Everything," he sighed, "My greatest talent, and it's sitting on the sidelines."
"I d-don't know," said Todd, "Y-you weren't very p-passive when you spoke up for A-Aggie and me. That first day. O-or when you stood up to Aggie later," the smile faded from his face at her name and he turned back to the grave.
"S-she must have been so f-frightened," he said softly, "N-not knowing what was happening, and w-with no explanation. S-she needed to have things explained. A-and that's not bad, it's just..." he blinked, "S-some things you can't."
He shuddered suddenly, violently, and Tony unthinkingly put his hand on his shoulder. Todd bowed his head, "I w-wasn't a very good friend."
"Why would you say that?" Tony asked, "No, seriously. Just because you were pulling away a bit..."
"F-friends are s-supposed to tell each other things, aren't they?"
Tony winced, "Some things."
"I-I made it out like she was being mean to me. But the whole time...she was lonely as I was. A-and she could be mean...she was, and c-cruel and not very understanding. But I didn't mind," he paused, "I d-didn't mind until she turned it to me."
"That doesn't make you a bad friend. Sometimes..." he lowered his hand from Todd's shoulder, "And, for what it's worth, I do think she was still your friend at the end. Even if she was a bitch about it," he eyed the cross, "Sorry. Just...maybe she didn't know how to say it."
Don't. Don't, Tone, what are you doing, babe, just...just stop, you stupid...
"My Gran," he said shortly, "My Gran could be like that."
"Your Grandmother?"
"She wasn't very good at...feelings. I'd come home from school crying or bruised, and she'd look after me, but..." in his mind's eye, he saw her fussing over him that day he'd busted his wrist on the schoolyard. The hard lines between her brow like a triple canyon in an arid desert, her mouth sunk into a perpetual frown.
"She wasn't the kind to kiss a booboo away or anything."
"This can't happen again," she'd said that day, at the ER, after his little performance for the cops, "And, anyway, the neighborhood is getting a little too crowded."
"She took care of me, but we didn't talk."
"W-what happened to your parents?" Todd asked carefully, as if not sure if he should. Tony smiled to show him he was okay, "I never knew my Dad."
"Oh," his face fell.
"And my Mom..." he shrugged, "Well, she had problems. So she wasn't around long, after I came. And my Gran stepped up, because I was all that was left, and she did the best but...I dunno, maybe it was hard for her to look at me."
"It's truly a miracle, Tony," she'd told him on the way to the hospital, "Barely four feet tall and sturdy as a scarecrow..." her wizened hands tightened on the wheel, "And always in the thick of trouble, everywhere you go."
"Because of my mom and...my auntie, who died before I was born."
"T-that was nothing to do with you, though. If she died before."
"But I was what was left," Tony repeated, "She loved me. I know she did. And I was hard to love. I know that. I wasn't what she expected or what she needed, and I sure as hell wasn't what she asked for...and I didn't ask for her either, and sometimes I let her know it."
"It's not my fault, okay!" he'd stomped up the stairs of their pokey little house, nursing his stinging arm in its sling, "I don't pick fights!"
"You don't avoid them either," she stood at the bottom of the stairs, "That wasn't just some pile on. They went after you for a reason."
"What do you want me to say? That they hatecrimed me? For fuck's sake, Gran..."
"Language!"
"I'm not gonna change!" he snapped, "Not for those jackoffs and not for you."
"We all change, Anthony," she watched him quietly, judging with cool dispassion, "Whether we want to or not."
"To be honest, I don't know if I can ever forgive her," he said at length, "But...who knows? Maybe one day I'll understand her," he turned to Todd, "Which has to count for something."
Todd watched him thoughtfully, "T-they say with time, we can understand anything. T-the trouble is, there never seems to be enough time," he smiled sadly, "I guess poor Aggie knows that now."
Tony thought of Agnes, confident in her certitude, her orderly world of black and white, of light and darkness. He thought of his grandmother, old and taciturn at one end of his life and long-haired and laughing here at the other.
And what was he doing, sitting here and playing Galdamez's game, when she was out there, somewhere, young and beautiful and free. If he sat with her, if he told her who he was and where he'd come from and asked her to explain herself, would she even be able to?
She wasn't the same person now that she would be.
"A-are you okay?" Todd asked, as if from far away.
"Huh?" and Tony realized he was crying, "Oh," he wiped at his tears with his knuckles, "Yeah. Just..." he turned his head up, "I miss her. She was a mean old bitch and, God, I miss her."
Todd didn't say anything to that, but...slowly, at first...wrapped his arm around his shoulders and let Tony's tears drop onto his lap.
Crying as he was, he missed the rest of the sunset, but didn't think to be sorry for it.
***
Joan wasn't brooking an argument. At this point, Benjy wasn't inclined to argue.
"You can find someplace else to sleep," she declared huffily, chucking his duster into his arms.
"Right. You can forward my mail to the nearest dumpster," he paused, "Or, I dunno, just shove it onto Chester. He handles the expenses, anyways."
She narrowed her eyes, "You really are something else."
"That's what they tell me, sweetheart."
She gritted her teeth and turned on her heel. Benjy supposed if you could slam the flaps of a tent shut, his ears would be ringing.
Joan was still wearing Rosa's necklace, the silver bird spreading its wings over the faded floral pattern of her dress. If it was up to him, he'd have chucked it into the lake, not that it would've done much good.
The damage had been done.
"In the doghouse, huh?"
He turned at the wry appraisal to find Trixie Boy Tony standing there, Todd shortly behind him. Benjy sighed, hefting his jacket over his shoulder, "Consider me neutered."
"What a relief," Tony remarked, "Except for the Dream AIDS you've already unleashed on us."
"What, you're trying to make me thirsty?"
"What? Ew."
"Dream-ade," he clarified, "Like...like a pop."
"Oh," Tony paused and sighed, saying, more sadly, "Oh. No. Don't...don't worry about it."
"H-he says strange things sometimes," said Todd helpfully.
"I've noticed," said Benjy evenly. Todd swallowed roughly and gave Tony a questioning look, but he shook his head, "I'm okay. I'll catch up, alright?"
Todd nodded and scuttled off, looking all too glad to quit the scene.
"Popular guy, huh?" Benjy prompted, taking a closer look at Tony and realizing how red his eyes were, "You, uh...you okay?"
"I'm fine," he said tartly, "Nothing 44 years of therapy won't fix. I should live so long."
"I'm sorry."
"For offering me your asshole as a consolation prize or for cursing me to an early death?"
He winced, "...it may not get to you."
"With my luck," he scoffed, "There's only so many of us here. It'll get to me sooner or later."
"Your luck," Benjy shoved his hands in his pockets, "You're, what, 12?"
"I'm 14. Going on 15."
He'd been out of the house by 14. Busking on corners by 15. Benjy sighed, "Adventurous life, huh?"
"Something like that. Look, I'm sorry you're having a lovers' tiff or whatever...and maybe I'm a sucker, but I would give you a place to sleep," he indicated the tent, "But it's a little crowded at the minute."
"No room at the inn?"
"Sorry. But maybe one of your friends..."
"You tryna to get me murdered, Tonyboy?"
"I hate to victim blame, but I think you do a good job of that yourself."
And Benjy laughed despite himself, low and husky, "You're not wrong. Son of a bitch."
"Goodnight to you too," he hesitated, "Sweet dreams."
Benjy watched him go, leaning back on the heels of his boots, "Yeah. Sweet dreams."
He turned and stalked up the causeway between the tents, weighing the merits of just walking down to the water and flopping down.
The damage, don't you know, having already been done.
"Don't you look pretty pathetic?" Shaggy was sitting in the mouth of his tent, elbows on his knees.
Benjy paused, "Lap it up, Shags."
He drew his lower lip in with a sigh, "Consider it lapped. There's a free cot if you want it. That is, if you don't mind sleeping bunk-to-bunk with a real life homosexual."
He smiled, "Agnes's bed?"
"It's been washed. Alice spent most of the day doing laundry."
"I was wondering what happened to my drawers," he sat opposite Shaggy, "Thanks."
"Don't worry about it."
"No, seriously, I..."
"Don't," Shaggy interrupted, meeting his eyes, "I figure I owe you."
Benjy cocked an eyebrow, "Not to stick my head between the gift horse's chompers, but...I figure as far as the local barter economy goes, I'm the guy who's doing the owing. For everyone."
"For last night, at least. What I said about you and Joan. I'm sorry. And I wouldn't have told her anything. I mean that."
Benjy nodded, "It's okay. You weren't wrong. She should've got out, shouldn't she? You all should've."
"Maybe," Shaggy granted, "But I guess you should've too," he rubbed his hands together, "You must've really done a number on that girl, to make her put a genuine gypsy curse on you."
"Not one of my nobler moments."
"What are your nobler moments? Just for comparison."
"Keeping you from getting your block knocked off last night. For starters."
"And enders too?" Shaggy prompted.
Benjy waved his hand dismissively, "It was complicated. With her, back then. Rosa."
"Rosa," Shaggy repeated quietly, "You write any songs for her?"
"I said I would."
"Oof," Shaggy grimaced, "I'd have put a curse on you too. I still might."
"Yeah, yeah, get your jollies," he worried his rings, "It was my fault. My life changed too fast. And I liked it, at the beginning, but...well, once she started acting..."
"Like it was real?"
"I bolted. I didn't want it, man, and I sure as hell didn't want to sit down like we were on goddamn Peyton Place and explain myself."
"Peyton Place, huh?"
"What, you a fan?"
"I quit after Mia Farrow left."
"Huh," Benjy let out a puff of air, "That's pretty queer."
Shaggy laughed, "Guilty as charged."
Benjy studied him quietly, running his hand down his chin, "Did you really just join up with the band because you wanted to fuck me?"
Shaggy guffawed, coughing dryly. Benjy waited patiently as he recovered himself, shaking his hair out and saying, "What, are you offering?"
"Fuck you," he smiled, "Rhetorically speaking."
Shaggy sighed, "It's embarrassing as all hell."
"Me being such a problem specimen."
"It wasn't just that," he said huskily, "Believe it or not. I wanted out, man."
"Out from..."
"Lakewood. The fuckin' silk straitjacket. And I saw you guys play and said to myself..."
"There but for the grace of God?"
"And you clearly needed a drummer," he shrugged, "To, uh, complement that dulcet warbling."
Benjy cuffed him lightly about the ears, "Don't puff yourself up too much, Ringo."
"Wouldn't think it," but he smiled cheekily, "But if you're asking all this because you're worried I'm gonna put my hand down your denims tonight, rest easy."
"Lost my appeal?" Benjy nodded slowly, "Can't blame you."
"It's not that. I just..." he pursed his lips, "I've spent a lot of time chasing stuff I know I can't have."
"Chasing straight guys?""
"Well, probably some of those models were queer."
"Models?" Benjy grinned, "What, like nudies..."
"Fitness magazines, excuse you," Shaggy chuckled, "I guess I should be embarrassed, but since we're all gonna drop dead from dreams..."
"That may not happen."
"May not," Shaggy nodded, "Well, we'll see what the old lady cooks up. I'm not holding out hope."
"And I can't tell you different, but..." he hesitated, "I hope for your sake it works out."
"Not yours?"
Benjy seemed to ignore this, "Look, if you want to be queer, Shags, go be queer. There's gotta be somebody around who's up for it and out of junior high."
"The Tony kid?" Shaggy laughed, "God dammit."
"Someone for you. Someone who isn't all fucked in the head, who can love you back without ripping the both of you to ribbons."
"That's a pretty thought, Ben, but I don't think that's real love."
"Well, I know I can put anybody off, Shaggy, but there's got to be some..."
"My folks have been married 30 years, man. Every year that he wasn't at war, he was with us. You know how many tender moments I remember? How many kisses under the mistletoe or slowdances by the radio?"
"You're saying your folks never loved each other?"
"I don't think the thought ever crossed their minds that they should. And then my brother's wife, Vanessa. She's been hitched to James for years, and you can count the times they've been alone together on one hand. Love...real love...isn't quiet domestic bullshit. It's painful. It's supposed to be and then, after the pain..." he sighed, "Comes the reward. But only if you stick it out. Only if you don't run."
-Tony, Todd, Benjy, Shaggy, and Joan
"Oh, cripes..." Buckley hissed, feeling the pain surge through his ankle and up his leg.
"Easy, now," James chided the deputy, urging him to stay still. "You fidgeting isn't helping me."
"Sorry, sorry..." Sucking up his pain, Buckley looked down to see the makeshift ankle brace and crutch James was fixing to his body. It was nothing fancy: just severed tree branches strewn together by Buckley's belt. James assured him that it would hold but the rough workmanship did nothing to inspire confidence.
Fortunately, they were in a secluded corner of where the party had set up camp, so not many people bore witness to Buckley's impromptu "operation." Not to mention most of the other guys were bickering about their own issues, whether it be the heat, their aching bones, how they were looking at one another, missing cigarettes and supposedly stolen pin-up posters (Ann Margaret was still missing). Conrad did little to douse these arguments, considering he was caught up in his own bitter mood, and of course, the closest thing they had to "moral police" in Schiano was as ineffective as ever. While this was horrible for the party's morale, it was okay in Buckley's book. He wasn't an egotistical guy but he had some pride to hold onto.
"You do this a lot?" Buckley tried to distract himself from the pain with conversation. "Over there?"
James allowed himself an incredulous smirk. "Over 'there,' the injuries were far worse than a sprained ankle. If you had trouble with your foot, it was because it was blown off seven ways from Sunday." He paused. "Sorry, if you're squeamish..."
"You're fine," Buckley said, biting his lip as James continued to tend to his ankle. "So where'd you learn to do this?"
"Eagles Scouts first," James explained matter-of-factly, his attention still fixed on his work. "Learned the finer details in police training." He let out a low whistle. "That's when your boss noticed me."
Buckley managed to smile, despite grimacing as James fastened a branch to one side of his leg. "Really?"
"Yeah, I was the only guy who didn't break the CPR dummy on his first try," James recalled. "It's a low bar in this town but I cleared it. From then on, I was like his teacher's pet. His 'protege' or whatever you call it. He liked that I was quick on the up-take. I don't know if you noticed, but he isn't the most patient guy."
The deputy chuckled at that. "So, uh...what happened between you guys?"
"Conrad being Conrad. What else?" He rolled his eyes. "We worked together a few years and half of it was boredom...some of it was good...and a tiny bit was intolerable." James finished the knot he was tying. "And that tiny bit went a long way."
"What do you mean?"
James wrinkled his nose, wondering if he should even go down this road. "How long have you been working with Conrad, Buck?"
The deputy thought for a moment. "About a year now."
"So maybe you've been lucky enough not to have seen him at his worst." James gestured vaguely about them. "Besides this. Conrad's not only impatient but he's a bitter asshole with a convenient memory. That doesn't mix well when you're in law enforcement." He sighed, reminiscing about his later years in the Lakewood PD. "Can't think of how many non-incidents he turned into incidents. How many people he harassed and busted with no good reason other than 'he doesn't look right.'" James bit his lip, feeling a ball of guilt swell up in his gut. "All this 'he' talk. As if I wasn't the one who did all the cuffing. All the dirty work."
Buckley sensed he'd touched a raw nerve. "You were just following orders..."
Story of my life, James mused to himself. "Yeah, but with too much of an attitude for Conrad. Despite how much he claimed to like to me for my smarts, he didn't like how much I talked back. That was the trade-off with me, I guess. He wanted a loyal lackey but one who was quiet. God, the number of times he threatened to let me go because I made some smart remark." He shook his head, a weak smile creeping at the corner of his mouth. "He'd never do it, though. He needed me more than I needed him. And let me tell you, Buck, after a few years of licking his boot, I know I didn't need him." James sighed. "So I enlisted."
The deputy leaned forward, weathering a twinge of pain as he did so. "You joined up in Nam to get away from Conrad?"
"More than that," James replied, a far-away look growing in his eyes. "I enlisted because I wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. You spend so much of your life in a town like this and you begin to wonder if you're wasting your life, just killing time, waiting for something to happen. You begin to wonder if this is all there is or all there could be for you, and you start to doubt the significance of your place in the world. So what better way to convince yourself that your life matters than to put it on the line for your country?"
He shook his head, skeptical of whether or not he should keep talking but doing so anyway. "The men in my family--we're alike, for the most part. We're a warlike people, driven to conflict. What we can't find at home, we try to seek out on some godforsaken battlefield. Growing up, I was told this was a virtue. It was brave. Heroic. But now..." A humorless laugh escaped him. "...now I can't help but think it's a sickness. That need to fight. A hereditary death wish, passed down from generation to generation. The vile Teague gene." Finally having finished his work on Buckley's brace, James leaned back and turned on his side, all too eager to get to bed. "That's what my son has to look forward to." Thinking out loud, he repeated the words he said to Conrad earlier that day. "God help him."
A quiet fell over the two of them; Buckley was hesitant to ask his next question but his curiosity got the best of him. "Did you find what you were looking for over there?"
James didn't turn around, his eyes looking solemn and haunted. He anticipated these attacks now, they were so frequent. The chest pains, the foggy vision, the twisting in his gut, the pounding in his head. All he could do was brace himself for the inevitable and bear the pain.
If there was anything James was good at, it was that.
***
James is crouched in a foxhole, trying to his best to forget what had happened to Troy and stay alert for potential threats lurking in the thicket. Alongside him is Sebastian, who is straining to listen to the the staticky sound of his girlfriend crackling from his tape recorder. It was the same tape he had giddily shown the rest of them weeks ago, eager to prove that Louise from Farmington wasn't a fabrication. By now, James had memorized it line by line as Sebastian had played it at least once a night.
And on this particular evening, over and over and over again.
"I think about you everyday, y'know. Sometimes, I get scared and wonder if I fell in love with you too soon and too hard."
Usually, the other guys complained about hearing the recorded message yet again but tonight, they're far away in their own foxholes, two apiece. The only soldier in Sebastian's company right now was James, but the message didn't bother him at all. He'd be a hypocrite if it did, since he was dying for another letter from Vanessa to keep him sane, at least for another few days.
"I can't stand to lose you. You drive me out of this world. It's both the worst and wondrous feeling, one that keeps me up all night."
Sebastian is still rattled from the day's expedition. His hands are trembling as his body rocks back and forth. He looks like he's on the verge of tears. Meanwhile, James is stoic as ever, studying Troy's dog tags in his hands. As much as he'd like to throw them away and forget what he'd seen today, James can't. He remains fixated on the filthy metal tablets, occasionally picking at the bits of blood wedged into the lettering.
"But y'know something? I don't regret a bit of it. I love how you make me feel, Sebastian. Even when you're not here, I don't feel so alone anymore because I know you're thinking of me, too."
James spares a glance to Colt, who had just made his rounds to Stellio and Murray's foxhole. He supposes he told them the same thing he had told James and Sebastian a few minutes ago, and presumably Marcus before them: they're close. They didn't have much besides his word for it but they were close. Apparently, the other squads in the area weren't too far off and they were close to zeroing in on their largest village yet, one that was suspected to be a significant hideout for the Viet Cong. The plan was for all of the squads to attack the village from all sides, leaving no room for escape.
A savvy strategy, supposing they would all survive to see it. James finds himself still glaring at his CO. Colt Harper, the brave leader with the Hollywood looks and the firm voice of God. Yet now, all James could see was the cold and cruel figure he'd heard today, ordering him to leave Troy behind. James felt sick, though if whether it was because of Colt's orders or the fact James obeyed them, he couldn't say.
"I love you, Sebastian. With all my heart. Every time our song plays on the radio, I..."
Suddenly, the tape stops. Sebastian freezes, shocked. James is surprised too and looks up, having gotten used to the crackly din of Louise from Farmington. However, Sebastian's shock soon turns anger as he tries to slap the dead tape recorder back into action. This anger transforms into panic as he frantically searches his equipment for spare batteries. Unfortunately, he's finally run out. His panic turns to sorrow as he's weeping openly, now, the weight of his actions finally crashing down on his conscience.
James' eyes flick back to Colt. The sergeant is looking at them from a distance, a disapproving look in his eyes. Sebastian had to calm down, lest he face swift consequences. James had heard stories of mentally unfit soldiers who were deemed to be a liability and shot by their comrades, as if they were putting down a sick dog.
Again, James remembers Troy's cries for help and how they had continued to relentlessly pursue him.
Determined not to lose another friend, James pulls Sebastian close, urging him that it's alright. He's never been good at dealing with other people's emotions, a fact his wife back at home was always quick to remind him of. However, he tries his best here, assuring his friend that he'll see Louise again soon. Remembering the tape, James asks Sebastian what their song was. A leading question, considering James heard the tape a million times, but a safe one that he knew Sebastian could answer.
The young kid feebly answers "Angel Baby." James says he likes that song, too, and begins to hum it gently, as if he were singing a lullaby to his infant son back home. Cradled in James' arms, Sebastian hums the song, too, though his tune is still unsteady, broken up by the occasional whimper or sob. Gradually, Sebastian begins to calm down but only to the extent that his crying has grown fainter.
James continues to comfort him, relieved to see Colt's attention turn elsewhere for now. He continues to glare at the sergeant, though, a fiery contempt brewing in his guts that was only tempered by his loyalty to his country. Albeit, a loyalty that was growing more tenuous by the day.
Finally, they finish humming the song and the two of them are still. The serene quiet is restored.
However, Sebastian soon breaks the silence, weakly uttering, "We're going to die out here."
James notices that he's still holding Troy's dog tags. The comforting melody of "Angel Baby" fades and Troy's screams return to the forefront of his mind.
He says nothing to Sebastian. Not out of cruelty but because a part of him believes the kid is right and he can't bring himself to say otherwise. He doesn't have the strength for it. Not anymore.
And that scares the hell out of James, more than all the bullets and bombs. That hopelessness which takes even the most optimistic and virtuous individuals and renders them devoid of purpose and meaning. A black cloud that paralyzes and corrupts, crippling its victims with fear or, even worse, apathy.
Looking at his fallen brother's dog tags one more time, James begins to wonder if he's already a lost cause.
***
"James! James, are you OK?"
James was forced back to the present, his head throbbing and beaded with sweat. He had passed out, if only for a minute. Buckley was leaning over him, trying his best to put his weight on his good leg.
"I'm..." James gasped out, finding his mouth to be drier than expected. "I'm fine. Just a bit of fatigue from today. That's all." His words we unconvincing, but his eyes told Buckley to leave it be.
Against his better judgement, Buckley complied. "Alright." He returned back to his corner. "Sorry for prying. I didn't mean to..."
"Buck." James spoke firmly, giving another warning look to the deputy.
The kid received the message. He turned around and closed his eyes, hoping to doze off sooner rather than later.
James did the same, though Buckley's question still echoed in his mind: "Did you find what you were looking for over there?"
A cacophony followed. A horrific jumble of gunfire and explosions. Villagers begging for mercy. Troy crying for help. Sebastian sobbing out of desperation. The discordant humming of "Angel Baby" stringing it all together in one sickening song.
James would not go to sleep for a few hours yet.
***
"OK," Hesh panted, stopping to put his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. "I think we can stop now." He sat down on a nearby rock, finally giving his legs a rest. "We ought to set up camp here. Get some shuteye."
The three of them had been moving through the woods for several hours since that debacle at the cliff and fortunately, they had yet to encounter a single Tupelo thug. Now having firmly further entrenched themselves in the woods, far and away from the crash, it was safe to say they had earned a reprieve, though how long of a reprieve was up for debate.
***
Are you fuckin' sure about this?
Yeah, I'm fuckin' sure. Shut the fuck up before you I'm not fuckin' sure!
After this turbulent existential debate came to an end, Federico "Fucker" Federale took a deep breath, a final effort truly convince himself that he was for sure fuckin' sure about what he was about to do next.
Finally, he decided to bite the bullet; Federico pushed aside the tent flap an inch with his index finger and called out, "Hey, Alice. Are you, uh...decent in there?"
Ever the gentleman, Federico knew better than to barge in on a woman undressing. For all his faults as a human being, he knew to respect a woman's privacy.
-James, Buckley, Conrad, Schiano, Hesh and Federico "Fucker" Federale
"Camp," Lettie looked around the unassuming glen they'd wandered into, trying to see what made this place different from the rest of the tractless wilderness they'd been stumping through, "Why here?"
"Because the sun's down," Bobby pointed out, "You wanna keep hiking in the dark?"
She folded her arms, "No, but squatting in the dark doesn't sound too keen either."
"We'll keep watch," said Bobby, "Sleep in shifts. Anyway, whatever Dag's melonheads are, they're not subtle. We'll hear them coming a mile off."
His confidence was bold and assured, and somewhat funny given their recent (admittedly, very unsubtle) encounter with the Tupelo. On Bobby, it was new and unexpected. She smiled, "I take it you're first watch, then?"
He inclined his head, "Unless you want to volunteer," his lips parted, eyes lingering on her hand which she'd errantly set on his shoulder.
Lettie withdrew, clearing her throat, "You've already been so gallant," she made a show of bowing, with much twirling of the hands, "How could I disappoint you?"
"By freezing to death," he folded his arms and, at her expression of confusion, clarified, "We're gonna need a fire. It gets cold out here."
Lettie, who'd spent the better part of yesterday festering in a mildewing hippie bus, didn't need to be told this, and sighed, "What if I start a forest fire?"
"I believe in you," he clapped her on the shoulder, about where she's clapped him, his hand lingering a half-second longer than hers before he too withdrew, "Uh. Good luck. And no slacking."
She stuck her tongue out at him, turning back to Hesh, "He's grown a real sense of humor," she began rooting in the thicket for fallen brush, having a vague recollection that you weren't supposed to use freshly snapped wood as kindling, "I should drag him to death's door more often," she turned to him, seized with a sudden...(the word curdled her expression) guilt, "I'm sorry about your car."
***
Alice pressed her lips together at the voice, "Well, I've been touched by the devil on account of some white boy not knowing where to stick it, but otherwise, I'm as much a child of God as I was this morning."
She turned on her heel and pulled the tent flap aside the rest of the way, "For now."
-Lettie, Bobby, and Alice
"Huh? Oh, right." Hesh tried to play off the intense feelings of grief and frustration that had welled up within him since his beloved Corvette's destructive end, but his attempt at nonchalance was unconvincing. "It's fine. The end of the day, it's just stuff. I can always buy a new car." He sighed mournfully, his expression growing sullen. "Just finished paying that one off but what can you do?"
***
Relieved he wouldn't be accused of being a lecherous creep, Federico took Alice's cue and entered the tent, mumbling, "'S'good, s'good..." He idled around her humble domicile, hands in pockets and clicking his tongue. "So, uh..." His words were slow and deliberate. Typically, he'd have said some profanity by now but for an instance like this, Federico thought it prudent to be less abrasive and more considerate.
Besides, it was the least he could fuckin' do.
"You, er..." Federico still struggled to find the right words, already doubting whether or not this was a good idea in the first place. "...you ready? For tonight?"
-Hesh and Federico
"Not to squash this sudden spurt of optimism," Lettie commented, "But how exactly are you gonna manage a new car on a writer's salary?"
"Didn't you hear?" Bobby asked from behind them, "It's gonna be a helluva book!"
"Right. How could I forget?"
They commenced their work with relative ease, returning to their humble campsite, their arms laden with boughs, sprigs, and other sparkable scraps.
"For the Scout Leader's inspection," Lettie declared, hefting her burden at Bobby's feet. He looked down at the offering, observing, "It's Scoutmaster."
"Don't push your luck, Bob."
He shrugged as if to accede the sensibility of this course and set about heaping their kindling into a good size hump, more suitable for firing. Lettie hung back, leaning gainfully against a felled beech tree, assuming a position that suggested her part was done and nobody had better try challenging the assertion.
"Seriously, though," Bobby continued, lifting his eyes, with some apparent difficulty, to Hesh, "Thanks. For before. And..." he clicked at his lighter, producing a sound like fresh sharpened scissors at work, "I owe you an apology."
***
"If you mean, 'am I tired', then boy you don't know the half of it," Alice said at length, "But if this is your way of asking me if I'm scared..."
She shrugged, looking around the cramped, intimate confines of her ramshackle quarters.
"It's just a dream, isn't it?" she asserted and tried to sound convinced.
-Lettie, Bobby, and Alice
Hesh chuckled, stretching his muscles as he listened to Bobby and Lettie's banter as he contributed to their little campfire. Even though he ached from head to toe, he counted his lucky stars that he had company. And on top of that, good company. Despite all the near-death encounters and visceral visions, this was the most fun Hesh had on a job. And that was in large part due to having traveling companions that were far more entertaining and, in some regards, even smarter than his old partners at the Bureau. His car may have been six feet under but Hesh couldn't have been completely dejected. At least he wasn't alone.
Even though you work better alone, huh? That was Hesh's motto for a while after he had burnt through a few bad partnerships in the FBI and especially after New Orleans. He kept swearing to himself that he was done working with others and having people tag along.
But then there was Lettie and the mission of charity Hesh had waged to reunite her with her sister. Goddamn him, he was a bleeding heart. If nothing else, though, another night when they were alive, if only by a thread, was a step closer to achieving that mission. Perhaps that was what made this partnership fulfilling.
Bobby caught Hesh off guard, snapping him out of his revery. "I don't follow." Fortunately, his cigarettes were on his person before the crash; he hadn't lost everything. He bit one out of the pack and extended it to Bobby to light. "You did pretty well yourself today. Don't think you have anything to say sorry for."
***
"Yeah..." Federico laughed uneasily, also trying to convince himself. "Yeah! Just a fuckin' dream..." However, he didn't sound too persuasive, as the image of Alice coughing up a fountain of blood in her death throes flashed through his mind.
He tried to shake the memory away and continued speaking. "Just in case, though...I was thinkin'...y'know..." Federico yet again floundered for the right words, realizing that no amount of rehearsal time could have prepared him for the pervasive feelings and nerves that were twisting up his guts.
Just spit it out, you dumbfuck. If she says no, she says no. You're not the biggest thing on her mind right now, asshole!
"...how 'bout I stay the night here?" His eyes widened as to how that might have come off, so he hastily added, "IN THE CORNER! Over there." Federico feebly pointed to an unmade cot across from Alice. "So if you need anything in the night, ya don't have to scream and shout." He paused, figuring he was done, before he remembered to ask, "If that's OK with you," as any gentleman would do, before adding, "Dig?" as Federico was often inclined to do.
-Hesh and Federico
"That's nice of you," Bobby said tentatively, seeming to second guess whether he should say anything at all, "Ah, hell."
He looked around and then above, shoulders lifting and falling with a heavy sigh, "Look, it's not a secret I wasn't your biggest fan when we started this vigilante roadtrip of ours. I thought Lettie was out of her mind trusting a word out of your mouth."
He passed a furtive glance Lettie's way and found her apparently unabsorbed in their conversation. He got the impression she was suppressing her natural nosiness out of respect and felt oddly childish about battling this reticence at all.
As if he hadn't had more arduous tasks today.
"I was wrong," he said bluntly, "You've been a good guy in a tight spot. Heck..." he shook his head, "I'm not sure any of the guy's at the station would've dug their heels in as much for my sake as you've been. So I'm sorry I misjudged you. And thanks."
***
Alice eyed the vacant cot with a wary smile, "Mr. Fucker," she turned back to him, grinning, "You're trying to seduce me."
But she waved this away before he made the vital mistake of taking her seriously and had a modesty (!) induced heart attack, "If it makes you feel better, I wouldn't mind the company. But if I get all scratch-happy like Joan did with hers, you keep a safe distance, you heard? I don't need to be racking up more charges on your account."
But she smiled, unable to be entirely flip about his odd chivalry.
"I've got those lyrics you wrote in that pile there," she gestured to a heap of odds and ends on the little folding table between the cots, "If you want to get some rhythm going before lights out. Might be..." she twisted her hands together with an almost guilty lurch she couldn't entirely understand, "Might be nice."
-Bobby and Alice
"I'm sorry I misjudged you."
Hesh felt a pang of guilt in his heart but kept any dismay he felt to himself. "It's no problem." He took the cigarette he lit from Bobby's lighter and placed it between his lips. "Just do me one favor..." Taking a drag, Hesh removed the cigarette from his lips and puffed out some smoke. "Whatever thanks you've got for me, multiply them by ten and give them to her." He gestured subtly to Lettie from a distance. "She's saved both of our necks more times than I can count now. She can handle herself pretty well and she's tough as nails..." Hesh replaced the cigarette in his mouth. "...but even the toughest among us need a shoulder to lean on sometimes." Again, he nodded his head towards Lettie, this time not-so subtly, hoping the kid would get the hint.
***
Federico smiled at the suggestion, both shocked and relieved he wasn't thrown out on his ass yet. "I can drum up a beat, yeah." Feeling totally relaxed and in his element now, he patted her on the shoulder. "Holler if you need you need anything. Night, Alice."
He retrieved the lyrics from the little table and sat down on the cot beside it, tapping his foot to the melody from Lucia De Lammermoor he pillaged for this song. Federico was tempted to polish the lyrics himself but he knew that meant having to sing them. And the idea for tonight was to keep Alice safe, not scare her closer to death.
So Federico hummed in tune with the beat of his foot, aiming to lull Alice to an easy sleep in the vain hope that tonight, at least, the boogeyman would be kept at bay.
-Hesh and Federico
Bobby followed Hesh's gaze to Lettie, sitting at the edge of things, her back to the fire and her face to the thicket they'd trampled on their way in.
"She's tough, alright," he said at length, "I guess I should present my shoulder. And my neck."
He crossed the few necessary steps to come abreast of her. Lettie gave him a small smile, "What were you boys talking about?"
"Eh," he shrugged, sitting beside her, "Boy stuff."
"Porno and piss streams?"
"You're filthy."
"I know. It's a constant embarrassment to the folks, but I keep telling them not to worry...not like anyone's gonna assume they taught me."
He gave her a glance, "Or that they're squeaky clean themselves."
Lettie's smile faded a notch, "That's true," she folded her hands together in her lap, "About that..."
"I'm not going to tell anybody, Lettie. You have my word."
"Please," she rolled her eyes, "I know you're not a gossip."
"I dunno. I've picked up some pretty deviant habits on the Force."
"Like sharpshooting?"
"That's mostly self-taught. But, seriously...I'm not gonna gab."
"I know you won't. Even if it would serve my Dad right. If he's not gonna tell her, I'll have to, and..." she sighed, "How that's received's gonna hang a lot on how I bring Joan back. If I do."
"Hey," he laid a hand on her shoulder, still half-expecting her to shake it off, only for her to instead lay her hand over his knuckles, "We're gonna find her. We're closer than ever now."
"Yeah," she nodded, "We are closer than ever. Bears and stunt jumps notwithstanding."
He mouthed 'notwithstanding' to himself, hopefully out of her line of sight, lips curling with fondness, "You saved my life today."
"Don't be dramatic, Bob."
"You caught me. Right before the car went over, you caught me. I told you to just go on..."
"And I didn't listen," she smiled, "You gonna arrest me, officer?"
"I may not know what's good for me half the time, but I'm not completely hopeless."
"Good answer," she smiled, "Anyway, you're crazy if you think I'd have let you plunge to your senseless heroic demise."
"There some fancy women's lib reason for that?"
"No. Just good old fashioned wilting self-interest," her eyes traveled the length and breadth of him, a faint tinge appearing in her porcelain ears.
"Woulda missed chewing me out, huh?"
"That," she granted, "And telling you you were right."
He did a doubletake, "Since when?"
"Don't get used to it," she sighed, "Last night. When you told me...about how I like to be in control."
"That's not exactly what I said," he pointed out, "And I was out of line."
"Sure, but you weren't wrong. I like to be responsible for people. Not that I 'like' it, like that. It's pretty awful most of the time. But I guess I prefer it to feeling helpless," she watched their campfire spitting, rubbing the heel of her hand against her chin, "Not that it really makes much of a difference, right?"
"It changes how you look at it. Which changes how you are."
"You're getting at my famous temperament, Bob?" she smiled coyly, "I guess it can be just as dangerous trusting other people."
"Maybe," he looked at her significantly, "But not always, or else I'd be in pieces at the bottom of that gully in a sporty red coffin."
She laughed softly, "The point is, Bob, you were right, what you said. I shouldn't have punished you for it."
"I wasn't trying to scold you or anything. It just...it seems like a lonely way to live."
She shrugged, "Maybe one day someone will come along so capable and forthright that I won't have to worry about managing them."
"Is that likely?"
"Not for a second," she leaned her head on his shoulder. Bobby savored the extra weight, exhaling deeply from his nose.
"You don't...feel responsible for me, do you?"
"Hm?"
"Because you shouldn't. I know, with Oz...and I get why you feel bad, but..." he looked at her, "I wanted in, Lettie. And even now, if I wanted to go, I would. But I'm in it. One way or another."
She eyed him, her eyes bright, "I've tried."
"Tried what?"
"I've tried to feel responsible for you. But somehow, Bob, I just can't muster up that motherly feeling for you."
"I don't know whether to be relieved or offended."
Her nose wrinkled up, "Try neither," and kissed him. Bobby leaned back, eyes widening in surprise.
She was soft against him, gently unspooling like a bolt of satin: soft and shimmering and, even after their days of toil out in the backwoods, scented faintly of cloves and rosewater and something distinctly forbiddenly feminine.
He thought of the dance, the freshman formal, her arms loosening around his middle as her eyes hardened in accusation and, in response, tightened his arms around her now, losing his hands in the untied mane of her hair, worrying her lips with his, feeling her heart pounding against his chest as they moved in tandem, him around her waist and she between his legs.
They came up for air, and the sight of her, flushed cherry-red and breathless, the gentle slope of her breast heaving as if she'd just run a mile, woke something in him he'd never known he had and now didn't know how he could ever live without.
"You okay?" he asked, touching his brow to hers.
She nodded, "You?"
He nodded in kind, "Just...and don't take this the wrong way...but suddenly I feel really responsible for you."
"Oh, Bobby..." she laughed, eyes sparkling, "Good."
She pulled him in again, surrendering her responsibility as he offered his.
***
With Fedder's surprisingly tuneful humming in her ear, Alice settled herself down to sleep. If she were at all the godfearing little girl her mother had raised, she'd say a little prayer before tucking in, but given she was guaranteed a supernatural experience tonight regardless, it seemed like a moot point, even without the strange man's pleasant but distracting warbling just out of her line of sight.
She could talk as big a game as she wanted, but there was no denying the apprehension gripping Alice's heart.
Not so much for the curse business. The way Alice figured it, she had no choice and it was probably better to get it over with, like the measles.
No, the fact of the dream wasn't scary. It was what she would dream of.
She turned onto her side, the patterned fabric of her head wrap scraping softly against the cot beneath. In her weary state, it sounded almost like a name, which was some damn poetic foolishness if she ever heard any.
Federico had ripped the melody for their song from an old opera. Not a crime and, as far as Alice figured, white folks stole plenty of music from colored people, and one good turn deserves another.
She wished she knew what it was about. Probably something sad. Alice didn't think there were any happy operas. Everybody always ended up dead, with only enough juice in them to belt out some final verses before keeling over and giving everyone permission to run to the shitter.
Alice had always wanted to make people happy with her music. To dazzle them with her smile and the words from her lips...and maybe a sequins-spangled outfit or two.
Not that it mattered if the melody was sad, when they didn't have the words yet. It was odd. The song had been a curiosity, some dumb thing to pass the time. Now she was lying here wondering if she'd live to sing it.
Miles, she thought, drawing his face on the inside of her eyelids, You planning to drop by tonight, big brother? I won't even ask for a keepsake.
And of course she knew that, even if Miles did appear in her dream, he'd be no realer than the Miles Shaggy saw. It was so stupid, so ridiculous to expect 'him' to say anything, to reveal anything...
Or it would be. If this was a normal dream. If magic and curses and gypsy witches weren't real.
If this dream could kill her, couldn't it also teach her? And even if it couldn't spin some hokey Biblical prophecy, even just the sight of her brother after all these years...
"Just promise you won't forget my punk ass when you've pole vaulted to the other side of the color line, yeah?"
Well, here she was, surrounded by white folks and one ornery old Indian lady, remembering her brother so damn well she was hoping he'd show up in the magic curse dream she was fated to have the second she drifted off.
She remembered, alright.
Had he?
-Bobby, Lettie, and Alice
Way to go, kid.
Hesh restrained to urge to applaud Bobby from afar. He didn't want to embarrass the guy in his big moment. From what Hesh could tell, there was history between the two, history that had made itself known during the last few days of banter and hijinks. Hesh was glad that they finally put aside the games and just got to the point.
"How much of our lives are wasted in waiting, Hesh?"
His mind was scalded by a searing flash, Margo's words echoing in his head. For a quick moment, he was back in bed with her, debating whether or not they had just made a terrible mistake.
Hesh didn't want to linger in the past. Not in this moment. He tried to will the memory away but it was no use; as that memory dissipated, a new one made itself known. Hesh closed his eyes and cringed in pain as images of the French Quarter flew through the darkness at lightspeed. Hesh relived his own kiss with Margo that fateful night, only to be met with the sight of Siobhan's petrified corpse. Yet again, he found it difficult to breathe, as if he were drowning in his own memories. His body rocked back and forth, as if he were trying to physically swim back up for air. The flashes kept hurtling through his mind's eye: his discreet meetings with Tacoma, the rain-drenched cemetery, his hand gently tugging the sleeve of Margo's nightgown, the door to Judee's hotel room beginning to creak open...
A sharp pain brought Hesh back to reality. He instinctively reached towards the back of his head, where he had just hit it against a tree behind him. Hesh was so entrenched in his memories, he didn't realize had fallen backwards from his seat atop the rock. Immediately, he swung his head to see if Bobby and Lettie had took notice of Hesh, but they were far enough away and preoccupied with each other that his little fit had gone unnoticed.
What the hell is happening to me?
The sensations he had felt were much harsher than the ones he'd endured the night before. They were more vivid, overpowering in their clarity. These flashes were more than mere déjà vu; they felt realer than that. It was a phenomenon Hesh had never before experienced and wasn't keen on experiencing it again. But Hesh was beginning to expect that these flashes were inevitable.
Hesh felt something trickle onto his upper lip. A trickle of blood had eked out from his left nostril.
Inevitable...and potentially lethal.
He wiped away the blood with his sleeve before the others could see. If Hesh didn't know what was wrong with him, neither could they. And there was no use introducing a new problem for them to worry about, especially with a much more treacherous and tangible threat at their heels. If they were going to stay focused on finding Lettie's sister, Hesh would have to keep this to himself.
Whatever this is.
Hesh didn't bother to theorize what was wrong with him. Whether or not this was some kind of neurological condition or trauma-induced response, he couldn't be sure. He briefly considered what Tacoma told him after their violent clash.
"Those woods you're goin' to, Hesh? They're cursed."
The undercover agent silently scoffed at the idea, turning on his side to go to sleep. It was a preposterous ghost story, probably one Tacoma made up as one last sick joke on his old adversary.
"The deeper you go into those woods, the more fucked you're gonna be."
He gave one last glance towards Bobby and Lettie, the young lovebirds who had put their trust in Hesh to help find a girl in trouble, even if it meant doing it outside the confines of the law.
"It's where sinners go to the die, and you and I both know you've got a rap sheet a mile long."
They thought he was a good man, someone who'd be willing to help them out, not for any selfish reason but out of the kindness of his heart. Because it was the right thing to do.
"Whatever's out there...it's shapeless, invisible, like a ghost...but you'll hear it. You won't know how and that's gonna drive you crazy."
Hesh felt burdened by this trust. He felt like he could never live up to their hopes, that he would inevitably let them down and prove they had made the wrong decision.
"You won't know your left from your right, what's good from what's bad, what you've done from what you're gonna do...."
However, what pained Hesh most of all wasn't the possibility of failure or the inability to keep Bobby and Lettie safe. He had long made peace with those fears and was willing to face them.
"...and you're gonna lose your mind. Though I guess with you, you ain't got much to lose."
It was the knowledge that they wouldn't be the first ones to make the fatal mistake of trusting him. That he had failed again.
Hesh closed his eyes and took a deep inhale of fresh forest air through his nose before breathing it back out of his mouth. He did his best to silence Tacoma's superstitious ramblings, to douse the raging fires of the past, and to be completely and totally present in the here and now.
After a brief moment of mental calm, Hesh reconsidered Tacoma's words and allowed himself a weak grin. As always, he managed to find some sick humor in his current situation, as dire as it was.
Hesh didn't need to be haunted by some ghostly boogeyman or abstract folklore to figure he was cursed. He knew that before. He had it survived it before.
And he would survive it again. If not for his sake, for Bobby and Lettie's.
So Hesh nodded off to sleep, doing his best to ward off any more thoughts of "curses" and to keep his mind focused on what was ahead of him rather than what plagued him from behind.
Night had fallen fully onto the camp, and with it a characteristic hush had overtaken the little white tents.
Well, a once characteristic hush that now seemed so novel as to half pass for a miracle. Fabia's latest class of freeloaders hadn't exactly left much to quiet contemplation since they'd deigned to darken her doorstep.
Not that it mattered much, one way or the other. Fabia knew she'd be getting no sleep tonight. At the same time, she was acutely aware she wasn't gonna get anything useful done either.
The only thing to do was wait. Wait and watch.
Her gaze alighted on Alice's tent, regarding it with the sort of quiet apprehension that attends a distantly spotted predator, or a looming bank of storm clouds.
It must be happening now. And then...?
Well, and then the next. And the next. Until eventually...
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!
Why were white people so fucking morbid? But she supposed nursery rhymes about bubonic plague weren't as bloodthirsty as playing Cowboys and Indians. A contagious illness is, at least, without prejudice.
Like a curse. In theory.
This curse, at least, was deliberately indiscriminatory, or so the soused gypsy girl had told her all those years ago.
"You pick one person," she held up a finger, bangles clanking on a surprisingly well-turned wrist as she did, "One person who did you wrong."
"And it'll get him?" Fabia remembered playing with her braided hair, twining the plait restlessly around her finger.
"Him and everyone around him. Everyone the dream passes through."
The logic seemed perfectly sound to her. And Fabia supposed it was...in ordinary circumstances. Even in this case, the object of the curse's ire was surrounded by friends and something like loved ones.
It just so happened that the victim pool had some near strangers mixed into it as well. People like poor dead Agnes, whose body was moldering on Fabia's hard-won ancestral land.
People like Alice Purcell.
Ashes, ashes...
"What if you need to deal with someone faster?" she'd asked, her lips curling with preemptive mischief, like a little girl cooking up a humdinger of a prank.
Her erstwhile companion's eyes twinkled across the scratched up table, "You have someone in mind?" by the fireplace, some faceless uncle or brother or cousin was playing a fiddle, low and sonorous, the steady hum shaking her blood in her veins.
If her braid got any tighter around her wrist, she'd need a surgeon.
"Several someones."
She'd assured Shaggy Teague she wasn't a witch, and maybe that was true, for all the comfort that could bring her. A word didn't change anything one way or another. And once someone's mind is made up about you, there's not much to do to reverse course.
A witch is supposed to hurt people. Make pacts with the Devil in the pale moonlight and sacrifice the blood of infants, preferably fat pink ones abducted from some moon-faced pilgrim bitch's upper room. Why the witch does these things is anyone's guess. The Devil, presumably, because he's a charming casanova with a silver tongue and, if certain New Religious Movements, were right, a massive pecker.
Now, whether this 'Witch', capital W, really existed, or was just the fevered conjuration of paranoid old men engaged in the respectable genteel equivalent of washerwoman gossip, who could say?
Fabia had met a lot of crazy broads in her tumultuous youth, but neither the Devil nor his insalubrious genitalia, had ever come up in conversation. When motives had come up, they'd been more...material.
Take this Dream Curse: somebody wanted revenge. Sure, she wasn't here to see it play out, but she'd get her money's worth in blood, complete strangers included. If there was some deeper spirituality at play here, it was utterly incomprehensible to those of them running the rat maze Benjy Boy's Gypsy Pretty had set up around them.
She'd wanted her blood too, and gotten it, once upon a time. No pagan paens, no spirit walk. But it was not a purely selfish need, as she'd explained, or tried to.
"You think this makes us free?" the reprimand resounded in her ears clear as day, despite the chasm of decades, "You've heaped up fresh bones and made us new chains from them!"
Maybe the old bitch had been right. Maybe she'd made a charnel pit out of her home. Sown the earth with bad medicine and expected the ground not to notice.
But the earth has a long memory, and she doesn't forgive lightly.
Maybe that's what this was. The lake's way of paying back her adolescent insolence. All these years presiding over a prison of her own making and now the bill was coming due.
She turned from the tent, to the great earthen mound looming over the camp. The womb of the world, or at least of her immediate vicinity. Time immemorial, the earth had opened up and spat her ancestors out, right on the bank of the lake where they'd washed the dirt of their journey from their newborn skin.
If you believed in that sort of thing. And given all the crazy shit some people believed in, why shouldn't you?
Why shouldn't this little lake in this little backwoods in this inconsequential corner of this massive, sprawling, overpopulated continent not be the center of the universe?
Certainly, Fabia had made it the center of hers. And at what cost?
She sighed, turning away from the purported womb of her ancestors, to the tents dotting the way down to the site of their heathen baptism.
Talking of heathens, Fedder sure as hell hadn't brought her his best. These young punks had nothing to do with her transgressions. Hell, they barely had anything to do with the curse their buddy Benjy had brought onto them.
It was unfair.
But Fabia didn't need a drop of Indian blood in her to know life wasn't fair.
Still...vain and stupid as these people were: egotistical and shallow and snipy...they weren't completely without their senses.
And nor was she. She was old, but she wasn't ancient. She was a sinner, but not a Devil.
Maybe there was a way out after all.
Redemption, if not from sin, than from her sordid debts.
Like something out of a story, maybe...but those stories had to have come from somewhere.
***
The air was full of the rustle of paper fans, flicking the scent of Brylcreem and Avon up the aisle to the altar, which didn't do much for her already tossing stomach.
Oh, well. She'd faced crowds before, and she'd have to face bigger ones, to get where she wanted to go.
Alice shifted her feet, polished Mary Janes scraping lightly against the thin red pile of the carpet. The crowd, packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the pews, seemed like a single shifting mass, differentiated only by the alternating pastels of the ladies' beribboned hats.
From the upper recesses of the balcony, the organ began to play, steady and smooth. She clasped her white gloved hands together, drew in a breath, and breathed it out as song.
"The water is wide..." even now, she couldn't disguise a thrill at the immediate effect of her voice on an audience, "I cannot get o'er/Neither have I the wings to fly..."
The church ladies' fans beat out the time, chomping through the air like paper metronomes.
"Build me a boat..." her voice resounded off the high beams of the church, clean and high and clear, "That can carry two..."
She bowed her head slightly, her neatly pressed hair framing her face like a pair of black silk curtains, "And we both shall row, my love and I..."
In the windows, something flashed, quick as a bolt of lightning. Alice blinked, startled, darting a quick glance to the high panes, towering above the pews to either side of the church. No sign of anything, and no disturbance in the crowd, though what she could see of them wasn't much, shrouded in shadow as they were.
"There is a ship..." she was joined by other voices: the choir, ranked along the altar to either side; Alice tried to turn her head to look at them, but somehow couldn't meet their eyes, "And it sails the sea..."
Another flash from outside, accompanied by a soft whirring noise, at first barely distinguishable from the chopping of the ladies' fans.
"It's loaded deep as deep can be..."
Helicopter blades, Alice realized, as the light flashed again...the probing beam of a searchlight.
"But not as deep..." her voice wavered as she turned back to the audience and found them far, "...as the love I'm in..."
The altar seemed suddenly much larger, the way down to the pews farther.
"I know not if I sink or swim..."
Another crash from outside: concussive, and hard enough to rattle the windows. Alice looked around, stepping forward, pleading with her eyes for the other choristers to...to what?
She couldn't see them. She couldn't hear them.
"I leaned my back..." she opened her mouth to say something, to speak to them, but the words that came out weren't hers, "Against an oak..."
The show must go on.
"Thinking it was a trusty tree..."
She was alone. Surrounded by people, but alone. Another blast, and this time she swore she could hear shouting, but not from here. From outside.
She stepped forward.
"But first it bent, and then it broke..." her neat black shoe stepped off the altar and met the air. She pitched forward, arms windmilling, but remembered herself, remembered where she was, and caught her heel on solid ground.
"Just as my love proved false to me..."
The darkness yawned ahead of her, shafts of alternating white light knifing through the windows to make lattices on the carpet. These lights, always evenly spaced, seemed always to miss the pews, leaving the parishioners in shadow.
The fans kept beating, indistinguishable from the blasts from outside.
She dashed up the aisle, the choristers' voices echoing in her ear as the carpet swallowed her steps.
"Oh, love is gentle, and love is kind/The sweetest flower when first it's new..."
The floor pitched beneath her, rocking like a ship at sea. As she moved down, the carpet moved up, the red drape ascending ahead of her, impossibly tall and wide, like a looming wall. But she could not stop.
"But love grows old/And waxes cold..."
She flung her hand out, reaching for the carpet...
"And fades away like the morning dew..."
It parted, and Alice fell through the curtain, into the spotlight.
She was on stage, looking out at a veil of pearly light, through which she could just make out an audience of uncountable pearly faces. Around her, the music was swelling: jaunty and bright.
She knew the words, of course. She knew her job.
"Have I ever told you how good it feels to hold you?"
She was spangled in sequins: a gorgeous silvery gown that glittered with every slightest motion. Pearl-like globes hung from her ears, and her hair was heaped upon her head in a gravity defying dome.
She felt beautiful. And heavy.
"It isn't easy to explain..."
Through the glow of the stage lights, she could barely make out the figures sitting in the audience. They were a blob of smiling faces, bedecked in fine clothes. No waving fans this time...they were all quite still. Still, Alice could see, and white.
"And though I'm really trying, I think I may start crying..."
The spotlights were still moving: besides the one pinning her on the stage, bright beams were circling the theater...or what should have been the theater. There was a floor and a ceiling, but no walls that Alice could see. Just a fence, topped with coils of barbed wire.
And the lights were searching.
It didn't take much imagination to figure who for.
"My heart can't wait another day/When you kiss me, I've just got to say..."
She's been looking for him too.
"Comes a time, little sister, when you stop thinking about what you can do for yourself."
She'd found him in the bathroom, washing up fresh scrapes on his handsome face, daubing the cuts with cotton swabs and peroxide. He'd smiled at her worry, shaking his head with his usual all-knowing authority.
"And start thinking how you can help your people."
Alice walked up to the edge of the stage and stared out, through the lights, through the crowd, through the audience...
"Baby, I love you..."
She found him. A leather jacketed figure moving, back pressed to the fence, clinging to the wire mesh.
She knew it. She knew it was only a matter of time! If she could just get to him...
Alice stepped down from the stage, nearly tripping over her dress in the process, her hairdo rocking wildly on her head. She opened her mouth to call out, but again found she only had so many words.
"I can't live without you/I love everything about you..."
He was against the fence, fidgeting with a bundle of some kind, affixing it to the metal. She felt a sinking in her gut. They were running out of time, but she could still make it.
She could still stop him. Save him.
She ran into the crowd and the audience met her. Tall, thin plasticine figures: mannequins of spotless ivory, decked out like Gimbals displays and topped by shiny synthetic hair. They rose mechanically from their seats and closed around her, cold, hard hands grasping with stiff fingers, prodding her dress, tangling in her hair, closing in around her from all sides.
"I can't help it if I feel this way..."
She struggled and gasped, pushing her way through. One of the plastic women had her hand on her hem, tugging with uncommon strength. She tore her way free and fell against a plastic man, his sharp nose nearly taking her eye out as cold lips fell arbitrarily against her face.
They clanked and clacked against each other, arms knocking and heads swiveling. Alice came up for air with a convulsive gasp, her hair hanging limply into her face. Blinking rapidly through watering eyes, she sighted the broad shouldered figure, still intent on his work.
"Oh, I'm so glad I found you/I want my arms around you..."
She ran, her tattered finery trailing behind her. The mannequins kept up their pursuit, the clacking of their plastic feet on the floor thunderous as applause.
But she couldn't look back. She couldn't keep performing. Not when he was here, not when there was a chance, not when she could save him from...
From what?
Nobody had forced him to do this. He wanted to do it. It was his choice...if he had made the choice. If he was guilty of the crime they accused him of.
But if not? If he wasn't? If he wasn't, then...
She raced up to the fence, hand outstretched, tears in her eyes and, from the bottom of her lungs, cried out, "Miles!" and grabbed him by the shoulder, whirling him around.
It wasn't her brother's face that greeted her.
She could do more but stand, petrified, as Federico Federale cackled in her face, laughing like a maniac as behind her, the interchangeable horde closed in, cold, bloodless hands outstretched to claim her.
She opened her mouth to scream and felt the dead white fingers push past her lips as he laughed and laughed, drowning out her final plea...
***
"Miles!"
Alice sat up, her heart in her mouth and the music ringing in her ears. She looked around the tent, blinking furiously as she realized, with dim surprise, that she was crying.
It was all a dream. Of course it was.
So why did she feel so betrayed?
-Fabia and Alice
"Hey hey hey!" Federico "Fucker" Federale immediately rushed to Alice's side, his face weary and wrought with concern. He hadn't slept all night, watching for any signs Alice was in trouble. Her bolting awake in a fit of panic, tears streaming down her face, was as strong a sign as any.
"It's OK, Alice! 'S'alright!" Any fear of not acting the gentleman went out the fucking window; he instinctively pulled her into his arms, trying to keep her steady and let her know she was alright. Briefly, he felt her heart beat against his and for a quick moment, her heart's frantic rhythm reminded him of Agnes's convulsing body, seconds before she bought the farm.
Federico held onto her tighter, in equal parts defiance and fear. He wasn't going to lose Alice the same way. The Fuckin' Federico "Fucker" Federale Curse wouldn't take her. Not over his dead body.
"I'm here, babe..." He didn't realize he uttered the words until they left his mouth; Federico didn't take the time to regret them. "I'm here..."
They sat together in silence as Federico hugged Alice tight, desperate not to lose the first good thing that's happened to him in years.
***
"What is the cost of faith? The true cost of faith?" Schiano paused, hoping for some audience participation for this morning's sermon.
Nobody volunteered.
So as usual, Schiano answered his own question. "For some, its money. Others, relationships. Lemme tell you, before I joined the seminary, I was the subject of a lot of hot dates, oh boy..."
James and Buckley watched from their usual spot, way in the back of the crowd. The deputy was testing the limits of his makeshift splint and had just gotten used to balancing himself on his crutches.
Although he had one eye on Buckley, James also surveyed the officers and volunteers, who looked far from well-rested. They were surlier than usual, with mean looks plastered on their faces. Maybe it was because they had gotten so far on this trip and hadn't pulled their triggers once. God knows they were close a few days ago at that tiny village they came across, if not for James' efforts. They were fixing for a fight and were short with one another, complaining about the weather the now measly rations they had packed from home, the latest bad bout of cards they had the night before--suffice to say, morale had only continued to plummet.
"But faith costs something more valuable than money and broads," Schiano continued his homily. "Something more precious that can never be made back--time." He spoke as if it was obvious, lecturing with an almost-professorial tone. "All things worth doing take away valuable moments of your life. Think of all the saints who sacrificed years of life to their studies and good works. Some even sacrificed their lives, robbing themselves of their own pursuit of happiness." Schiano wagged his finger. "Remember what I told you boys about duty when we first started this adventure of ours? How we must be motivated to complete God's mission? Well, it doesn't come easy as the days turn to weeks, the weeks to months, and the months to years...that's when the doubts start rolling in. Oh believe me, I know..." He took on a thousand-mile stare that seemed to reflect years and years of regrets and bad decisions. Schiano seemed to have gotten lost in his own thoughts and fell in complete silence.
"Uh oh," James muttered to Buckley. "Think he finally ran out of gas."
"Shame," Buckley replied, finally managing to limp along at a brisk pace. "He's the only guy who knows how to tell a joke around here." He glanced apologetically at James. "No offense."
James smirked. "None taken."
Finally, Schiano regained his train of thought, dabbing his receding forehead with a (now-filthy) handkerchief. "Sorry. I, er...forgot what I was sayin'. This heat, I tell ya. It..."
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
All eyes turned to one of the officers who had gotten to his feet and bellowed so loud, his voice seemed to echo through the woods.
Schiano was taken aback, fluttering his eyes in disbelief. "Excuse me, young man? What did you just say?"
"Shut the fuck up, you fuckin' dago!" The heckler continued, cupping his hands over his mouth as he yelled. "No one wants to hear it!"
"Hey, fuck you!" One of the volunteers stood up behind the officer, yelling just as acerbically and just as loudly. "Let the man finish!"
"Finish what, Wally?" The officer challenged. "Finish WHAT?! That man hasn't made a point in 20 years!"
Schiano feebly protested, "Hey, I resent that..."
"And you have, you fuckin' retard?" Wally spat back, undeterred by the priest's interjection. "Sit the fuck down, asshole!"
"You wanna preach to me?!" The officer snapped bitterly. "Why don't you get up there and tell the class that you stole Verne's Ann Margaret pinup?"
Verne stood up in the opposite side of the crowd, his fists balled in anger. "You son of a bitch..."
Another cop tugged on Verne's sleeve, shouting, "Didn't I try to fuckin' tell you: I didn't take your Ann Margaret poster!"
Verne shook off the cop's hand and roared, "WHO THE FUCK ASKED YOU?!" He swung a right hook at the cop's jaw, sending him hurtling back.
One punch was all it took for mayhem to spread throughout the camp. A huge brawl took out as all those pent-up frustrations were being released on one another.
"Aw, shit," James got to his feet and started to trudge over towards the chaos.
Buckley called after him, "Are you sure you want to break that up?"
"If it means heading out of here on time, yes." James turned away from Buckley and towards the chaos. He had to admit, it was an entertaining sight and most of these morons were due for a good beating. But they had a mission to complete. James wasn't sure it was God's mission but it was a mission, all the same. His brother was out there somewhere and he wasn't going to be held up by this melee between Neanderthals.
Schiano had also tried to enter the ring, protesting against these horrid acts of violence. "Peace, fellas! Peace! What can be gained by acting in this waARRGH!" An elbow collided right with Schiano's nose, promptly causing blood to gush from his nostrils. "Aw Christ dammit son of a bitch!"
James hurried to Schiano's side, quickly assessing the wound. "Father! Are you alright?"
"No!" Schiano snapped, the facade of the pacifist having instantly vanished. "What kinda question is that?! Course I'm not alright! Good Lord..."
"Just sit down over there," James kept his cool as he gave instructions to the priest. "I'll be right back."
"Those goddamn kids..." Schiano took the Lord's name in vein, his voice teetering on the verge of hysterics. "This is all their fault! All that talk about 'American heroes.' What a bunch of hooey! Why I oughta..."
Schiano's voice faded in the distance as James returned to the crowd and tried to pull the various fighters apart. But it was no use. There were too many of them. So many, James had become embroiled in the fighting and punches were being thrown his way. He was able to block most of them at first, but the sheer amount of the blows hurtling his way was too much to overcome. There was no escape from the havoc James had brazenly walked into.
Always heading towards danger and never away from it, James reflected sardonically. Story of your life.
BANG!
A pistol shot was all it took to cease the fighting. Conrad stood off to the side, smoking gun in hand. To James' surprise, he didn't look angry, at least in his usual way. His expression was reserved, though his frustration was evident in the way his eyes glared at them all.
Conrad studied his service weapon as he approached the mess that stood before him. "One bullet. I wasted one valuable bullet breaking up this lover's quarrel of yours. Talkin' about wasting time--boy, wasting ammunition's just as bad."
The officer who started all of this was quick to apologize. "I-I'm sorry, Conrad. I-I didn't know what came over me. I've just been so tir..."
In one quick motion, Conrad backhanded the cop and pointed his gun right at his forehead, prompting cries from everybody around him.
"Jesus, Conrad!" James shouted out instinctively. Few things surprised him anymore, especially when concerning his old boss. But this? This was extreme, even for him.
Conrad ignored his old deputy, concentrating on the quivering man that stood before him. "How 'bout now? You awake?"
The officer was slow to respond, his knees trembling and his eyes fixated on the gun's barrel.
"I ASKED..." Conrad raised his voice, spittle flying from his mouth right into the cop's frightened face. "...ARE YOU AWAKE?!
"YES!" The cop cried out. "YES, YES, YES! I'M AWAKE!"
Conrad looked his man over, as if to check if he was lying to him. After some time, he pulled the gun away and re-holstered it. He had gotten the answer he'd wanted.
"Good," was all he said before he walked over to James. "Are we good to go?"
James looked over Conrad carefully, barely recognizing him for a moment. He had known the sheriff to be a bully but the man who talked to him now was more than that. Cold, ruthless, angry--it was off-putting.
So James played it cool and nodded back.
Conrad smiled, satisfied. "Alright. Haul ass, boys! We've got a long day ahead of us."
The search party quickly got its act together, packing their supplies in an act of swift obedience. They were all silent, even Schiano, who ceased his complaining and instead tended to his bloody nose. James glanced at Buckley, who quickly returned an expression sharing his own shock and concern. Neither of them dared voice these feelings, though, lest they be the star of Conrad's next show.
However, James did manage to side-eye Conrad, who stood off to the side, impatiently waiting for his men to join him. He carried himself like a general, just as he had when James first reunited with him a few days ago. However, gone was the pompous self-assurance he had carried previously and in its place was a steely air of apathy. In a way, he appeared to be less human than he was just a couple of days ago. Perhaps this whole ordeal had strained Conrad's nerves, as it had for all of them, and he was just acting out. Or maybe this was who Conrad was and James hadn't gotten the chance to see that until now.
All James knew was that Conrad did look familiar in this moment. He didn't know how explain it exactly but this patch of the Louisiana wilderness was beginning to resemble Quang Nam in more ways than one. And Conrad was no exception.
The thought gave James goosebumps. He shrugged off the idea and walked over to join Conrad, where he'd pick up his trail where they had left off. James couldn't lose focus, not when he swore they were close. He'd find his brother and leave all of this deja vu nonsense behind him.
I'll be there soon, Neville. I'll be there soon. James repeated the promise to himself over and over, trying his best to drown out the events he had seen this morning and keep more unwanted memories from Quang Nam at bay.
***
Hesh does his best to shield her eyes but it happens too fast. Yet another crime scene, yet another dead girl who was taken from this earth too soon. Frozen in place, finger stretched out, pointing to something.
Margo is strong, though. She doesn't crumple at the sight. However, she's visibly upset. Upset that the killer struck again and that justice had yet to be carried out.
Taking a look around, however, Hesh questions if a killer was even involved. Just like Siobhan, Judee seemed to die of natural causes. Maybe a poison was involved but there was no evidence she had consumed anything before she died. When the local authorities brought in the FBI to investigate Siobhan's murder, it was for a number reasons, namely because it was another in a series of murders that the NOPD couldn't solve for the life of them.
Hesh was beginning to wonder if the FBI could do much better.
He does find something: a pair of boot prints imprinted into the musty shag carpeting, right where Judee was pointing towards. That'd be Judee and Siobhan's employer, Paul Jean, the lead culplrit in all of this.
Or perhaps there were more. Margo finds something wedged in the motel room's bible: a note written on a ratty napkin. It reads:
PJ,
I want what I'm owed. Meet under the Stabler Bridge. Bring the girls. Will pay upfront. If you're not there TONIGHT, I will be forced to permanently end our arrangement. NO LOOSE ENDS.
Do not let me down.
-Claude
A scribbling of some kind of bird sits beside the signature.
Payment. Bastard was going to sell off Siobhan and Judee. Hesh bites back his disgust and anger.
Something doesn't click, though. Paul Jean was supposed to sell these girls to whoever Claude was, yet he kills both? Hesh takes a closer look at the room, noting a half-packed suitcase, filled with men's clothing. Paul Jean was in a hurry to leave. Maybe because something went wrong. Both girls die on his watch and suddenly, he's the center of a murder case, plus he has nothing to show Claude...
Unless...
Hesh notes Judee's finger. Just like Siobhan, there's the imprint of a ring. No doubt the same one. If this Claude means business, Paul Jean's life was on the line. He needed to act quickly. Play the penitent man.
So he steals the ring and tries to pawn it off to him. It was a theory, one Hesh wasn't entirely confident in, but a theory nonetheless.
And the lead was obvious: the Stabler Bridge. Margo agrees and gets ready to leave but Hesh stops her. He implores her to go home and let Hesh take it from here. They're entering dangerous waters and it was already foolhardy to let her have gone this far.
She's defiant. Margo insists she needs the truth and that she can take care of herself. They've made it this far; why stop now?
Hesh's tone become firm but anxious. He makes it clear he doesn't want to see her end up like Siobhan or Judee.
"Trust me, Margo. I'll get to the bottom of this but please, for the love of God, keep yourself safe. I won't let you down."
She still seems hesitant to give up this fight. Hesh remembers their talk at the funeral, how skeptical she was of the law in pursuing this case to its end. Margo didn't want to be helpless and be a victim of fate. She wanted justice, whatever that looked like.
Margo sits down besides the suitcase, her expression sullen. She says she understands but deep down, Hesh knows she doesn't. That was fine. She didn't need to understand it now; she just needed to be safe. They embrace, arms wrapped tight around one each other, and a slither of the French Quarter manages to creep into the room, if only for a fleeting but tender moment.
Hesh stays to search the rest of the room and call his fellow agents to set up a crime scene. Before they arrive, he calls Margo a cab and tells her to keep her head low. Moreover, Hesh tells her to promise him she will. She does and gives him a weary smile, just like she did at the funeral.
The cab speeds off, though Hesh catches a glimpse of Margo through the tinted window. She takes something out from her purse. Hesh tries to see what it is but the cab is already gone. He goes against his gut instinct. It was probably nothing. He was just paranoid from all they had just discovered. Hesh shrugs off the suspicion and returns to the motel room, where he has a hell of a crime scene to log and investigate.
His colleagues arrive before he gives himself time to regret his decision.
***
SNAP!
The sudden sound of a twig breaking underfoot woke Hesh up from his slumber. For a moment, he felt relieved, glad to have escaped that particular memory. And even better, his nose wasn't bleeding this time. Things were looking up.
Then Hesh considered what made that noise to begin with and any semblance of relief he had dissipated. He got up slowly, careful not to make any noise himself. Silently, he prayed it was just a wild animal, prowling near their campsite.
Peeking up from behind a bush, Hesh glimpsed the silhouettes of about three men, shrouded in the early morning mist.
So much for a lucky break.
Hesh hurried to where Bobby was and shook him awake, urging in a hushed tone, "Wake up! Wake up!" He crawled over to Lettie and did the same. "C'mon, we gotta go!"
-Federico "Fucker" Federale, Schiano, James, Buckley, Conrad, and Hesh