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Aw, fuck! Abraham yelps. He lies on his back on the ground and clenches his thigh with both hands.
Before Moses can determine his next action, he sees the Vestal already running towards the man with the gun. The man wears jeans and a pair of boots and a baseball cap, but no shirt. His bare chest is gaunt and taut against his ribs, his skin tattooed with homemade designs. The Vestal runs straight at him, in spite of the fact that the gun is pointed directly at her chest. This is something Moses will remember about the girl. It’s not bravery – he wouldn’t call it bravery. Nor is it fury or daring or hard mettle. Not exactly those things. In fact, it is nothing she possesses in the positive but rather something she lacks. There is a blankness in her action – an absence that allows her to move rapidly and without hesitation. Yes, that is it. It is not bravery but instead the absence of fear.
Whoa, says the bare-chested man to her. Hold it there. I’ll shoot you, I swear to—
But he doesn’t shoot. Instead he begins to back away, and he can’t even complete his sentence before she is on him. She seems to pass right by the gun, as though he were merely holding his finger out to her in playful mimic of warfare. She moves past it, leaping at him, her small form still dressed in the white robes tossed absurdly against the larger man, her body itself a weapon, her thin elbow cracking him across the face, something snapping in his jaw, a jet of blood, black in the night, spitting from his nose.
Her movements are not beautiful or elegant – she is no graceful spectre or lithe athlete. Her violence is not art but simply the act of a weary and brutal practitioner.
The man drops the gun, and screams loudly. When he stands upright again, Moses can see that his jaw is dislocated, his lower teeth jammed at an oddly angled underbite, the bony hinge protruding at the side of his face, tenting out the flesh of his cheek and giving an inhuman droop to his eyelid. The man has been made immediately monstrous, and he is suffering – his hands up around his jaw as if wanting to put it back in place but at the same time afraid to touch it lest it pop off completely.
Moses sees the Vestal retrieve the man’s pistol from the ground, and before he can call to her to stop, she has aimed it at the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
A charred hole appears in the man’s cheek, and a thick soup sprays from the exit wound at the back of his head. He collapses first to his knees, his hands still held up near his skewed jaw, and then falls forwards on his face. There is an absolute stillness to him now, and the bullet through the brain means he won’t come back.
What’d you do? Moses calls to the girl.
She turns to him, still holding the gun, looking confused.
He rushes to her and seizes the pistol away from her.
What? she asks. He shot your brother.
In the leg, Moses says, pointing to Abraham who sits up in the distance, gritting his teeth and grasping his thigh.
I know him, the girl says about the corpse at her feet. He would of killed all of us give him the chance.
And besides that, Moses goes on, the racket’s gonna bring em all—
But it’s too late, because beyond the girl’s shoulder he can see them coming around the perimeter of the wall, a group of men with rifles and baseball bats. There’s one man in front, wearing a wide sombrero. He would seem ridiculous if he weren’t so putrid with evident corruption. There are tears all over his flesh, wounds kept open by picking fingers. Some are scabbed over and some are dripping blood or pus. Others are sealed closed but still fresh. It seems as though, riddled with plague and offence, he cannot keep it all contained behind the walls of his thin, translucent skin. The sombrero, with a neck strap that hangs down like a disembodied grin below his chin, is a horrific joke. The displaced laughter of a man cursed by hell to giddy misfortune.
It’s Fletcher, Moses knows, recognizing him from the description Ignatius gave. And it’s not surprising, such a torn and bloodied little man. A relay of brutality – inflicting on the world the same mundane suffering he feels daily.
Moses hesitates not a second. He rushes forwards while the men are still startled and confused by the corpse of their companion lying on the ground, gets one big arm around Fletcher’s neck and spins him to hold him from behind, the gun in his hand shoved against Fletcher’s temple.
What Moses hopes for is some loyalty on the part of Fletcher’s men – and it’s a risk, because loyalty is a quaint and toylike notion in this ravaged place.
But there must be some impulse that touches on loyalty, because when Moses tells them to drop their weapons, they lower them at least.
Moses pressed the barrel of the pistol harder against Fletcher’s head, and it feels like it will slip away on the greasy film that covers the man’s skin.
Goddamnit! Fletcher says to his own men. Do it! Drop the guns, you pricks, or I’ll kill you myself!
So it’s not loyalty so much as fear. But it works in any case. They drop their weapons.
Now who the fuck are you? Fletcher asks Moses, trying to angle his head to see the man who has him by the neck. And what do you want? You might as well wish big, cause you’re gonna be dead by dawn, you cocksucker.
Moses looks out over the horizon, the sky diffuse with brilliant umber.
It’s already dawn, he says close to the man’s ear.
Fuck you, you literal prick.
Now Moses can see Ignatius and the other congregants carefully peeking over the edge of the wall, watching the exchange with solemn interest.
Moses backs away, dragging Fletcher with him.
I’m taking my brother and the girl, Moses says loud enough for everyone to hear. That’s our Chevy in the front. We’re taking it. Understand?
Fletcher’s men look uneasy about what to do, so Fletcher gives them commands.
Let’s just hold off on takin action at the moment, he tells them. Let’s all just wait till I don’t got this goddamn pistol on my brain. How’s that sound? This asshole can’t keep huggin me all day.
Moses pulls Fletcher back to where his brother sits on the ground.
Can you stand? Moses says.
Just barely, Abraham says.
Lean on the girl, he says. Then he says to the Vestal Amata, Help him up.
So the four of them hobble their way around to the front of the mission, Fletcher’s men following at a respectful distance. But when they turn the last corner to the front gate, there are more of Fletcher’s crew waiting. A caravan of eight or ten trucks and vans, lined up in a neat row, and figures posed around each with rifles and pistols aimed at Moses and his small, stumbling group.
Now what, smokey joe? Fletcher says to Moses. You gotta let go of me at some point.
Yeah, Moses says. About ten miles up the road.
The fuck you are.
Moses moves them to the Chevy and then calls out to Fletcher’s crew surrounding them.
Now look here, he says. We’re gettin in this car. First the girl and my brother. Then your bossman. He’s gonna sit in the front seat with me. I’m driving away, but my brother’s gonna have a gun pointed at his head the whole time.
He hesitates. The snarling faces of the men suggest that he is relying too heavily on their love of Fletcher. He wonders if they would mow them all down where they stand if it weren’t for the loss of profit from the girl herself.
I’ll tell you like you told the padre and the people inside, Moses calls out. I got no truck with you or with your boss. You stay back, you let us get out of here – and if I don’t see you behind me, I’ll drop him by the side of the road ten miles down the freeway. Then you can chase us down all you want if you got the time and inclination.
How do I know you’ll let me go? Fletcher says.
I don’t like lookin at you, Moses says. And I won’t kill you cause I ain’t a killer of wretched things.
There are about thirty of them, the caravan’s crew, and they all wai
t on Fletcher’s word. For a moment, the little scabbed man is silent. His sombrero is tilted to the side in goofy asymmetry so Moses can fit under it too.
Everything is quiet, and Moses can hear the metallic thudding of the slugs inside the caravan trucks – no doubt moving back and forth in their miniature black cells.
All right, goddamnit, Fletcher finally says to his people. Wait fifteen minutes and then come after me. I don’t wanna be sitting by the side of the road all goddamn day.
*
Watch your hands, Abraham says to Fletcher, pushing the barrel of the pistol against the back of the man’s head.
But Fletcher isn’t going for any weapon – he’s just reaching up to pick nervously at the scabs on his neck and the side of his face.
Ugh, Abraham says. Why don’t you just leave yourself alone?
Fletcher ignores him and speaks instead to the girl.
Who’s your friends, Tillie?
You won’t let him harm me, will you? the Vestal says to the brothers.
Listen at her talkin now! Fletcher says, laughing heartily. Ain’t we graced to carry a little princess in our motor carriage!
Hush up, Moses says to the man.
But Fletcher doesn’t hush.
She was my hire and salary, he says to Moses. And she was took from me unlawful. You want to pay for her release, we can talk terms. I ain’t an unreasonable man. But she was my main event, so she don’t come cheap, and she certainly don’t come free.
I ain’t payin you, Moses says. I got nothing to pay you with.
Fletcher looks around the car, sneering.
No, he says. I don’t guess you do. This is sure enough a sorry little band of rescuers. You realize we’re gonna kill you, right? And we’re gonna kill you sloppy.
Hush up, Moses says again.
They drive west along the highway, Moses glancing every few seconds into the rearview mirror. No one is following them yet. One of the advantages of desert travel – you can see miles of where you’re going and miles of where you’ve been.
She’s more fuss than she’s worth, you know, Fletcher continues. Trouble with a capital T. But I guess you ain’t seen that side of her yet. I don’t know what kind of show they had her doing there at the mission, but she was never dressed in no white robes for our performances. Seems like she picked up some airs these past couple weeks.