He was silent, thinking about this.
"Let me ask you a question," she said. "Suppose it had been Terry Maitland who killed that child, and tore off his flesh, and put a branch up inside him? Would he be any less inexplicable than the thing that might be hiding in that cave? Would you be able to say, 'I understand the darkness and evil that was hiding behind the mask of the boys' athletic coach and good community citizen. I know exactly what made him do it'?"
"No. I've arrested men who have done terrible things--and a woman who drowned her baby daughter in the bathtub--and I've never understood. Most times they don't understand themselves."
"No more than I understood why Brady Hartsfield set out to kill himself at a concert and take a thousand or more innocent children with him. What I'm asking is simple. Believe in this. If only for the next twenty-four hours. Can you do that?"
"Will you be able to get some sleep if I say yes?"
She nodded, her eyes never leaving him.
"Then I believe. For the next twenty-four hours, at least, El Cuco exists. Whether or not he's in the Marysville Hole remains to be seen, but he exists."
Holly exhaled and stood up, hair windblown, suit coat hanging down on one side, shirt untucked. Ralph thought she looked both adorable and horribly fragile. "Good. I'm going to bed."
He saw her to the door and opened it. As she stepped out, he said, "No end to the universe."
She looked at him solemnly. "That's right. No end to the fracking thing. Goodnight, Ralph."
THE MARYSVILLE HOLE
July 27th
1
Jack awoke at four in the morning.
The wind was blowing outside, blowing hard, and he hurt all over. Not just his neck, but his arms, his legs, his belly, his butt. It felt like a sunburn. He threw back the covers, sat on the edge of the bed, and turned on the bedside lamp, which cast a sallow sixty-watt glow. He looked down at himself and saw nothing on his skin, but the pain was there. It was inside.
"I'll do what you want," he told the visitor. "I'll stop them. I promise."
There was no answer. The visitor either wasn't replying or wasn't there. Not now, at least. But he had been. Out at that goddam barn. Just one light ticklish touch, almost a caress, but it had been enough. Now he was full of poison. Cancer poison. And sitting here in this shitty motel room, long before dawn, he was no longer sure the visitor could take back what he had given him, but what choice did he have? He had to try. If that didn't work . . .
"I'll shoot myself?" The idea made him feel a little better. It was an option his mother hadn't had. He said it again, more decisively. "I'll shoot myself."
No more hangovers. No more driving home at exactly the speed limit, stopping at every light, not wanting to get pulled over when he knew he'd blow at least a 1, maybe even a 1.2. No more calls from his ex, reminding him that he was once more late with her monthly check. As if he didn't know. What would she do if those checks stopped coming? She'd have to go to work, see how the other half lived, oh boo-hoo. No more sitting home all day, watching Ellen and Judge Judy. What a shame.
He dressed and went out. The wind wasn't exactly cold, but it was chilly, and seemed to go right through him. It had been hot when he left Flint City, and he'd never thought of bringing a jacket. Or a change of clothes. Or even a toothbrush.
That's you, honey, he could hear the old ball and chain saying. That's you all over. A day late and a buck short.
Cars, pickup trucks, and a few campers were drawn up to the motel building like nursing puppies. Jack went down the covered walkway far enough to make sure the blue SUV belonging to the meddlers was still there. It was. They were all tucked up in their rooms, no doubt dreaming pleasant pain-free dreams. He entertained a brief fantasy of going room to room and shooting them all. The idea was attractive but ridiculous. He didn't know which rooms they were in, and eventually someone--not necessarily the Chief Meddler--would start shooting back. This was Texas, after all, where people liked to believe they were still living in the days of cattle drives and gunfighters.
Better to wait for them where the visitor said they might come. He could shoot them there and be pretty sure of getting away with it; no one around for miles. If the visitor could take away the poison once the job was done, all would end well. If he couldn't, Jack would suck the end of his service Glock and pull the trigger. Fantasies of his ex waitressing or working in the glove factory for the next twenty years were entertaining, but not the most important consideration. He wasn't going the way his mother had gone, with her skin splitting open every time she tried to move. That was the important consideration.
He got in his truck, shivering, and headed for the Marysville Hole. The moon sat near the horizon, looking like a cold stone. The shivering became shaking, so bad that he swerved across the broken white line a couple of times. That was okay; all the big rigs either used Highway 190 or the interstate. There was no one on the Rural Star at this ungodly hour except for him.
Once the Ram's engine was warm, he turned the heater on high and that was better. The pain in his lower body began to subside. The back of his neck still throbbed like a very bitch, though, and when he rubbed it, his palm came away covered with snowflakes of dead skin. The idea occurred to him that maybe the pain in his neck was just a real, ordinary sunburn, and everything else was in his mind. Psychosomatic, like the old ball and chain's bullshit migraines. Could psychosomatic pain actually wake you up out of a sound sleep? He didn't know, but he knew that the visitor who'd been hiding behind the shower curtain in his bedroom had been real, and you didn't want to screw around with someone like that. What you wanted to do with someone like that was exactly what he said.
Plus there was Ralph Fucking Anderson, who had always been on his case. Mr. No Opinion, who got him hauled back from his fishing vacation by getting suspended . . . which is what Ralphie-boy was, and fuck that administrative leave shit. Ralph Fucking Anderson was the reason that he, Jack Hoskins, had been out in Canning Township instead of sitting in his little cabin, watching DVDs and drinking vodka-tonics.
As he turned in at the billboard (CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE), a sudden insight electrified him: Ralph Fucking Anderson might have sent him out there on purpose! He could have known the visitor would be waiting, and what the visitor would do. Ralphie-boy had wanted to get rid of him for years, and once you factored that in, all the pieces fell into place. The logic was undeniable. The only thing Ralphie-boy hadn't counted on was being double-crossed by the man with the tattoos.
As to how this fuckaree would turn out, Jack saw three possibilities. Maybe the visitor could get rid of the poison now coursing through Jack's system. That was number one. If it was psychosomatic, it would eventually go away on its own. That was number two. Or maybe it was real and the visitor couldn't take it away. That was number three.
Mr. No Fucking Opinion was going to be history no matter which possibility turned out to be the right one. That was a promise Jack made not to the visitor but to himself. Anderson was going down, and the others would go with him. Clean sweep. Jack Hoskins, American Sniper.
He came to the abandoned ticket booth and detoured around the chain. The wind would probably die away once the sun was up and the temperature really started to climb again, but it was still blowing now, sending sheets of dusty grit flying, and that was good. He wouldn't have to worry about the meddlers seeing his tracks. If they came at all, that was.
"If they don't, can you still fix me up?" he asked. Not expecting an answer, but one came.
Oh yes, you'll be good to go.
Was that a real voice or only his own?
What did it matter?
2
Jack drove past the falling-down tourist cabins, wondering why anyone would want to spend good money to stay near what was essentially just a hole in the ground (at least the name of the place was truthful). Did no one have any better places to go? Yosemite? The Grand Canyon? Even the World's Largest Ball of String would be better than a hole in t
he ground out here in Dry 'n Dusty Asshole, Texas.
He parked beside the service shed as he had on his previous trip, grabbed his flashlight from the glove compartment, then got the Winchester and a box of ammo out of the lockbox. He stuffed his pockets with shells, started for the path, then turned back and shone his light through one of the dusty windows of the shed's garage-type roll-up door, thinking there might be something he could use inside. There wasn't, but what he saw still made him smile: a dust-covered compact car, probably a Honda or a Toyota. On the back window was a decal reading MY SON IS A FLINT CITY HIGH SCHOOL HONOR STUDENT! Poisoned or not, Jack's rudimentary detective skills were intact. His visitor was here, all right; he had driven down from FC in this stolen car.
Feeling better--and actually hungry for the first time since the tattooed hand had come creeping around the shower curtain--Jack returned to the truck and rummaged in the glove compartment some more. He eventually unearthed a package of peanut butter crackers and half a roll of Tums. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but better than nothing. He started up the trail, munching one of the Nabs and carrying the Winnie in his left hand. There was a strap, but if he slung it over his shoulder, it would chafe his neck. Maybe make it bleed. His pockets, heavy with cartridges, swung and bumped against his legs.
He halted at the faded Indian sign (old Chief Wahoo testifying that Carolyn Allen sucked his redskin cock), struck by a sudden thought. Anyone coming down the byroad leading to the tourist cabins would see his Ram parked beside the service shed and wonder what was up with that. He considered going back to move it, then decided he was worrying needlessly. If the meddlers came, they'd park near the main entrance. As soon as they got out to look around, he would open fire from his shooter's perch on top of the bluff, knocking two or maybe even three of them down before they realized what was happening. The others would go scurrying around like chickens in a thunderstorm. He'd get them before they could find cover. There was no need to worry about what they might see from the tourist cabins, because Mr. No Opinion and his friends were never going to get out of the parking lot.
3
The path up the bluff was treacherous in the dark, even with the help of the flashlight, and Jack took his time. He had enough problems without falling and breaking something. By the time he got to his lookout point, the first hesitant light was starting to seep into the sky. He shone his flash on the pitchfork he'd left behind the day before, started to reach for it, then recoiled. He hoped this wasn't an omen of how the rest of his day was going to go, but the situation had its irony, and even in his current situation, Jack could appreciate it.
He had brought the pitchfork to guard against snakes, and now one was lying beside and partly on top of it. It was a rattlesnake, and not a little one; this was a real monster. He couldn't shoot it, a bullet might only wound the goddam thing, in which case it would probably strike at him, and he was wearing sneakers, having neglected to buy boots in Tippit. Also, there was the potential for a ricochet that might do him serious damage.
He held his rifle by the end of its stock, slowly extending the barrel as far as he could. He got it under the dozing rattler and flipped it high over his shoulder before it could slither away. The ugly bastard landed on the path twenty feet behind him, coiled, and began sounding off, a noise like beads being shaken in a dry gourd. Jack snatched up the pitchfork, took a step forward, and jabbed at it. That rattler slithered into a crack between two leaning boulders and was gone.
"That's right," Jack said. "And don't come back. This is my place."
He lay down and peered through the scope. There was the parking lot with its ghostly yellow lines; there was the decaying gift shop; there was the boarded-up cave entrance, the sign over it faded but still legible: WELCOME TO THE MARYSVILLE HOLE.
Nothing to do now but wait. Jack settled in to do it.
4
Nothing before nine o'clock, Ralph had said, but they were all in the Indian Motel's cafe by quarter past eight. Ralph, Howie, and Alec ordered steak and eggs. Holly passed on the steak but ordered a three-egg omelet with ranch fries, and Ralph was gratified to see she ate every bite. She was once more wearing the jacket of her suit over her tee-shirt and jeans.
"That's going to be hot later on," Ralph said.
"Yes, and it's very wrinkled, but it's got nice big pockets for my stuff. I'm also taking my shoulder-bag, although I'll leave it in the car if we have to hike." She leaned forward and dropped her voice. "Sometimes the maids steal in places like this."
Howie covered his mouth, perhaps to stifle a belch, perhaps to hide a smile.
5
They drove to the Bolton place, where they found Yune and Claude sitting on the front porch steps and drinking coffee. Lovie was in her little side garden, weeding from her wheelchair with her oxygen bottle in her lap, a cigarette in her mouth, and a big straw sunhat clapped on her head.
"All good last night?" Ralph asked.
"Fine," Yune said. "Wind was a little noisy out back, but once I went to sleep, I slept like a baby."
"What about you, Claude? Everything okay?"
"If you mean did I feel like there was someone creeping around again, I didn't. Ma, either."
"Well, there might be a reason for that," Alec said. "Cops in Tippit had a home invasion last night. Man of the house heard breaking glass, grabbed his shotgun, scared the guy off. Told the police the intruder had black hair, a goatee, and plenty of tattoos."
Claude was outraged. "I never budged out of my bedroom last night!"
"We don't doubt that," Ralph said. "It could be the guy we've been looking for. We're going to Tippit to check it out. If he's gone--and he probably is--we'll fly back to Flint City and try to figure out what to do next."
"Although I don't know what more we can do," Howie added. "If he's not hanging around here and if he's not in Tippit, he could be anywhere."
"No other leads?" Claude asked.
"Not a one," Alec said.
Lovie rolled over to them. "If you-all decide to go home, stop in and see us on your way to the airport. I'll make up some sammitches from the leftover chicken. Long as you don't mind eatin it twice, that is."
"We'll do that," Howie said. "Thank you both."
"It's me should be thanking you," Claude said.
He shook hands with them all around, and Lovie opened her arms to give Holly a hug. Holly looked startled, but allowed it. "You come back, now," Lovie whispered in her ear.
"I will," Holly replied, hoping it was a promise she would be able to keep.
6
Howie drove with Ralph riding shotgun and the other three in the backseat. The sun was up, and it was going to be another hot one.
"Just wondering how the cops in Tippit got in touch with you," Yune said. "I didn't think anyone in authority knew we were down here."
"They don't," Alec replied. "If this outsider actually exists, we didn't want to raise any suspicions with the Boltons about why we're going in the wrong direction."
Ralph didn't need to be a mind reader to know what Holly was thinking at this moment: Every time you and the others talk about the outsider, it's conditional.
Ralph turned around in his seat. "Listen to me now. No more ifs or maybes. For today, the outsider does exist. For today, he can read Claude Bolton's mind any time he wants to, and unless we know differently, he's in the Marysville Hole. No more assumptions, just belief. Can you do that?"
For a moment, no one replied. Then Howie said, "I'm a defense lawyer, son. I can believe anything."
7
They came to the billboard showing the awestruck family holding up their gas lanterns. Howie drove slowly up the cracked asphalt entry road, avoiding the potholes as best he could. The temperature, which had been in the mid-fifties when they set out, was now edging into the seventies. It would go higher.
"See that knoll up there?" Holly pointed. "The main cave entrance is in the base of it. Or was, until they plugged it. We should check there first. If he t
ried to get in that way, there might be some sign."
"Fine with me," Yune said, looking around. "Jesus, this is desolate country."
"The loss of those boys and the rescue party that went after them was terrible for their families," Holly said, "but it was also a disaster for Marysville. The Hole was the town's only job provider. A lot of locals left after it closed down."
Howie braked. "That must have been the ticket booth, and I spy a chain across the road."
"Go around it," Yune said. "Give this baby's suspension a workout."
Howie drove around the chain, his seatbelted passengers bouncing up and down. "Okay, folks, we are now officially trespassing on private property."
A coyote broke from cover at their approach and sprinted away, his lean shadow racing beside him. Ralph spotted the remains of wind-eroded tire tracks and assumed that local kids--there had to be at least a few of them left in Marysville--brought their ATVs out here. He was mostly focused on the rocky bluff ahead, site of what had been Marysville's one and only tourist attraction. Its raison d'etre, if you wanted to be fancy about it.
"We're all carrying," Yune said. He was sitting upright in his seat, eyes fixed straight ahead, on alert. "Is that correct?"
The men answered in the affirmative. Holly Gibney said nothing.
8
From his perch atop the bluff, Jack saw them coming long before they reached the acre of parking lot. He checked his weapon--fully loaded, with one in the pipe. He had placed a flat stone at the edge of the drop. Now he lay at full length with the barrel resting on it. He sighted through the scope, putting the crosshairs on the driver's side of the windshield. A sunflash momentarily blinded him. He winced, drew back, rubbed his eye until the floating spot was gone, then peered into the scope again.