I did not let go of the axe. “You killed all those women.”
“Did I?”
“You said you did.”
“Did I?”
“Those were extremely graphic photos.”
“Special effects are amazing these days.”
I tensed my hand, flexed my shoulder. “You sent us a human kidney.”
“You can buy them on the black market.” He put up a single finger, wagged it at me. “No. That axe is too heavy for you, now. It’s game over.”
The axe was too heavy. I couldn’t keep it in my hands. It landed in the dirt, then dissolved. I wondered if it was back on the wall, or if Hades had stuck it somewhere else.
He turned back to Remi, now standing. Dirt and blood clung to every part of his person. His hands, I saw, were trembling. He was barely on his feet.
“My compliments,” Hades said. “Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine this type of denouement. A cowboy? Riding the Minotaur? Inspired. And it speaks well of your chances of a longer survival.” He swung back to me and his Vader cloak swirled. “Yes, it’s a game! My consortium and I drafted your team—sorry not to let you know—and we’re betting on you against other teams. But enough of the post-climax monologue. We need an epilogue. But that’s up to you, to heaven’s bastards. Time for me to go.” He bowed, flourished an arm across his chest, then stripped off the gold bull-mask as he straightened. Beneath it he wore the Guy Fawkes mask, not his own face. “Not yet,” he said. “Too soon blunts the impact. I’ll show you one day.”
He didn’t have wings to shroud himself in. He just—disappeared.
I looked past Remi to the huge black heap near the altar, head almost separated from its body. “There’s your brisket. We could take it back to Ganji. He said he’d fix us steaks.”
Remi wiped briefly at his shirt, quit when it served only to make bloody mud. The next attempt was a forearm across his face, which was no more successful. He squinted, spat lightly to the side, then gave all of it up as a bad job.
He eyed me. “Well, at least I’m fully clothed. You look like a male stripper who’s been mud-wrasslin’ a pig, and the pig won.”
“Do you really say that in Texas? ‘Wrasslin’?”
“We say whatever we want in Texas. If we say it, it’s Texan.”
I took a couple of steps, staggered a little, waved a hand in Remi’s direction. “See if you can find my weapons. I’m just gonna pick my clothes up off the floor, like Mom always told me to.”
* * *
—
We mostly staggered through the lava tube, occasionally grabbing one another to keep from falling down. Remi, weaving a little, was mightily impressed by the environs. He oohed and ahhed over it until I finally asked if he hadn’t noticed something as large as a subway tunnel on his way in.
“I wasn’t a sentient person on the way in, bein’ shanghaied by minions, rendered mostly unconscious, and dragged in here.”
“What were you on the way in if not a sentient person?”
“Pretty much a potato.”
It made me laugh. “Mashed or hashed?”
“I also wasn’t semantically inclined on the way in to sort out what version of food I felt like.”
“Are you semantically inclined to sort out what you feel like now, food or otherwise?”
“I might could be.”
“Well?”
He stopped walking, tucked his chin and looked down at himself. Then he raised his head and presented me with an expression of exceptional blandness. “What I am is as down to earth as horse shit in a meadow.”
We wobbled onward some more, and the echoing acoustics continued to fascinate him. But after intoning oohs and ahhs for a while, he began to sing instead. And then he sang a little louder.
“Nonono!” I cried, and it carried down the tube on the heels of his singing. “Not that song!”
“It’s a good song. I like it. Johnny Cash sang it, among others.”
“But it’s the red eyes and the steel hooves and the burning brand and the devil’s herd! Again.” I half-turned, pointed stiffly over my shoulder. “And we just did that for real!”
“Yes.”
“And the yippie-ki-ays!”
“You did your own yippie-ki-yay in there!”
“I quoted Bruce Willis!”
“And I am quoting ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky.’”
“Country. Country, Remi.” I stumbled, caught myself. “You know, it’s your call when we’re in your truck, and we now live in a cowboy bar with a jukebox full of country music and a live band playing country music and open mic night with people singing country music, all of it country. Can we just not do country when we’re, like, walking through a lava tube after meeting up with the god of the underworld?”
Remi considered that. “Well, what do you like to listen to? In your heart of hearts—hell, let’s just make it your guilty pleasure. Who would you pick?”
My time to consider. “Heart of hearts? Guilty pleasure? Really guilty pleasure?”
He bobbed his head, eyes bright. “Sure. Heart of hearts, guilty pleasure.”
“You won’t tell?”
“Well, unless you’re gonna inform me that it’s Liberace and we’re in a bar full of bikers, because it would be just too stinkin’ funny to announce it, I won’t say a word.”
I told him.
Remi stared back at me. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He blinked, and his smile grew into an exceedingly broad grin as teeth showed very white against the bloody, muddied face. “Well,” he said, “I never promised not to sing it!”
Which is why we tromped the rest of the way out of the lava tube with Remi singing John Denver’s “Sunshine On My Shoulders” at the top of his lungs.
* * *
—
The bike would not start.
After five tries and checking things mechanical, I informed my bike that I would get off, get down on my knees and pray to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and all the angels dancing on the head of a pin, if it would please start, please run, and please drive us back to the Zoo, where it could then go on strike if it wanted to.
But the bike was already on strike.
I looked at Remi, who was hiding a smile behind fingers supposedly scratching his lip. “Your phone?” I asked.
Remi blinked at me a moment. “If you’re hauling a guy off to see the god of the underworld and meet the Minotaur, all against his will, do you leave a phone with him?”
“Well, you had two phones.”
“Had being the operative word. What happened to yours?”
“One of mine got broken when Shemyazaz knocked it out of my hand in a fit of pique, but I do have the other. Gotta put the cards back in it.”
“Yaz is back?”
“Yeah, he wanted to pick on me.” I pulled the angel phone out of a pocket, examined it for damage. It appeared to be fine. Then I unzipped my secret pocket and pulled out SD card, SIM card, and also the flash drive.
I looked at the drive a moment. Things were no longer amusing.
Remi sensed the shift. “What?”
I displayed the flash drive. “There’s a story about this. Things have undergone a sea-change, and I have lots to tell you about the drive, Cassandra, Grandaddy, Greg, but not right now.” I tucked the drive away again, thinking about Cassandra. Then I zipped the pocket closed, placed the cards back into the phone and waited for a signal.
When it came, I called Ganji. “Can you come get us?” He said yes. “Okay, we are at the gate by the visitor center at Sunset Crater. You’ll see us.” I hung up. “He said he’ll come get us.”
Since we had to wait fifteen to twenty minutes, Remi and I attempted to enter the men’s room, which was locked, made do with a couple of trees. Then we hit
up the drinking fountains to clean the blood off faces and hands. I’d tied the torn Henley shirt around my hips and wore the jacket over my bare chest. Jacket was a little scuffed by its up close and personal activities with the bull, but nonetheless in one piece.
Ganji still hadn’t arrived by the time we were back with the bike. I frowned down the road with hands on hips. “What’s he doing, walking?”
“It’s a nice day,” Remi observed.
“It can be a nice day when we’ve showered, eaten, and imbibed alcohol, too. If we ever get there.” I called Ganji again, attempted to smooth the impatience out of my voice. “Do you know where the loop road is?” He said he was on it. “Okay. See you in a few.”
As I was tucking the phone back into my pocket, Remi started chuckling.
I looked at him. “What?”
“You asked Ganji if he could come get us.”
“Yeah?”
“You did not specify if he should come get us in a vehicle.”
I snapped my head around. Sure enough, the Mighty Lord of the Volcanos was ambling down the asphalt road on foot. I stared at him blankly for several long moments, then abruptly turned and began unbuckling the saddlebags from my bike. Remi just hooted.
Ganji arrived. “A beautiful day,” he proclaimed, “near one of my children.” He gestured to the cinder cone with pride, then looked us up and down. “Though perhaps the day has been particularly hard on you.”
I slung the saddlebags over my shoulder. “Did you know this particular child has a labyrinth inside?”
“The lava tubes? Of course.” His smile was sweet. “Now, despite your dirt, shall we enjoy a pleasant walk back to the Zoo?”
I did my very best to enjoy our pleasant walk back to the Zoo, because no one picked us up. Hell, I wouldn’t pick us up. Once back at the dancehall, I raced Remi up the stairs and jumped into the shower first. Probably I won because he didn’t know we were racing and I had a head start.
He yelled at me from the other side of the door. “Is that any way to treat a world champion cowboy who beat the bull who couldn’t be rode?”
I turned the water on, ran it to get it warm. “Are you a world champion cowboy?”
He sounded a little chastened. “No. Not enough weekends. And school got in the way.”
Well, that made me feel bad. “I’ll buy you a beer,” I promised, shouting over the water. “To celebrate the world champion half-angel cowboy who beat the bull who couldn’t be rode.”
“Tequila!”
I agreed it could be tequila, then stepped under the water.
EPILOGUE
It was after midnight, and the Zoo was closed. Ganji was off communing with his volcano, soothing her after the insult of two earthquakes that had disturbed her rest. Remi lasted through two glasses of tequila before he set the bottle aside and observed that if he drank any more he’d probably fall down the stairs and break his neck. That was not, he said, what the man who beat the bull who couldn’t been rode would do.
I told him I’d collect him at the bottom, carry him up, and dump his ass in bed before I called 911. “Because that’s what a hero would do.”
He eyed me askance. “Have another whiskey, Gabe. Might could drown your sorrows about your bike.”
I’d managed half a glass more than he had. Ganji made us burgers before he left—Remi said he’d have his brisket another time—so at least we had something in our bellies to soften the booze, but we were both feeling it. “Cisco said he’d meet me out there in the morning, haul it in. And I’d like to have a little talk with the kid. Meantime, shoot some pool?”
“Sure.” Remi slipped off the barstool, headed toward the jukebox. “I’ll see if I can find some John Denver for you.”
“Oh, c’mon now, you said you wouldn’t make a thing out of it.”
“I said I wouldn’t tell anyone, not that I wouldn’t make a thing out of it. Besides, I doubt there’s any on here.”
I slid off the stool, intent on finding the cord to the jukebox and unplugging it. Then someone knocked at the front door.
“Oh God,” I muttered. “Please let it not be Shemyazaz. I’m not up to counting pirouettes.” I went over, stood close, but did not unlock or unlatch the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Mary Jane!”
Much better than Yaz. But was it actually her? After meeting up with Hades, I wasn’t taking chances. I unlocked and unlatched, pulled it open as far as my planted, booted foot, which was about five inches away from the jamb. Saw it was indeed Kelly. She wore a fuzzy pink hat pulled low over her head to hide the shearing, but also a big grin.
I turned my head to shout over my shoulder. “Mary Jane’s here!” And I asked her if she wanted whiskey or tequila.
I closed the door behind her as she came in. She wore a jacket and had a daypack hooked over her shoulder. I assumed that meant she anticipated staying the night. And probably not alone, or on the sofa bed.
“Can I have beer instead?” she asked.
“You can have whatever you want.” I smiled blandly as Remi came up. “In fact, why don’t I just pour a draft while you and Remi get much better acquainted.”
She actually blushed. Remi, still hatless until he got it cleaned, just smiled slow and sweet. I figured they’d be moving to a booth, maybe to sit nice and close, but Kelly climbed up onto a barstool as I moved behind the copper-topped bar to take down a beer glass. Music came on in the background; I hadn’t unplugged in time.
Remi slid onto the stool beside her. “Be nice,” he told me. “It’s not ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky.’ I figured that’d be pushin’ it, in view of the circumstances.”
I set the beer in front of Kelly. Remi shook his head when I asked a question with raised brows; he was done for the night.
“You’re okay?” I asked her.
She nodded, touched the hat with one hand briefly as if self-conscious. “I’m okay. I’m good. He didn’t really hurt me. I mean, my scalp is tender, yeah, but considering what he could have done to me, a sore scalp is fine.”
I thought back to Hades standing over me in the bull-ring. We had a name, now. No more Jack the Ripper. No more Legion, or Iñigo Montoya. We had the god of the underworld.
“Wasn’t a demon,” I murmured. I caught Remi’s eyes. “Hic sunt daemones.”
“What?” Kelly asked. Then she waved her hand to dismiss the question. “Never mind. Listen, I brought something for you guys, to say thanks for saving me.”
I snorted. “I’m not sure we saved you.”
“You did.” She nodded. “You did. Anyway, this is something my grandmother left me. She told me I should save it for a special occasion. I figure this is about as special as occasions come.” She reached down and pulled something out of her daypack, set it on the bar.
It was a jar. A jug, actually, big gallon jug, stoppered in cork and sealed with wax. Someone had haphazardly mosaicked the exterior, as if for a school project. Kindergarten.
Kelly saw the fleeting expression on my face. “Yes, it’s my artwork,” she admitted. “Grandma let me practice on it with broken pottery. I know it’s not any good. She said she would put her most precious thing into it for me. Anyway, this is a special occasion and I want to open it.” She picked at the wax with a thumbnail.
“Here.” I slid the jug close, took a bar knife to the wax. “Easier this way.” I cleared the seal, slid it back to Kelly. “There you go.”
She thanked me, started working at the cork. It was deeply seated, and she scowled.
“Here.” Remi this time. A little thumb pressure applied, and the cork popped off.
“Bless you.” Kelly’s face lit up. “There!”
I expected the odor of old hooch to permeate the air. Instead what we got were shiny red beetle-things boiling out of the jar.
Remi scrambled off his stool and backed away.
I took two long steps, ran into the ornate barback. I looked away from the beetles to see ecstasy transforming Mary Jane Kelly’s face.
She looked at me and laughed. “You were so easy, Gabe! Didn’t even realize each time you took the ibuprofen I put in the bathroom, you had a ‘spell.’”
The crimson beetles flowed down the sides of the jar, across the bartop, to the edge, then abruptly took wing. The swarm broke out the front windows and flew into the night.
Kelly released a sigh that bordered on afterglow. “All those evils you’ll have to chase down.” Her eyes were laughing as she looked at me, then she turned her attention to Remi. “You of all people—a Biblical scholar!—should know they were never cockroaches. They’re locusts!” She shrugged. “Yeah, okay, they’re a different breed so they look a little different.” She gave me a limpid glance as I closed a hard hand on her wrist. “You can’t hold me, Gabe. I’m clay, not flesh.”
She felt solid enough. “You’re not a demon. Demons can’t come in here.”
“That’s why they sent me.” She smiled, removed her hat, and the wealth of brown hair with its bright gold streak tumbled free. “Hades never hurt me. That was for the picture. I’m in the consortium.” Grinning, she crumbled out of my grasp as she put her hand on the jug and stroked it.
I didn’t waste time in trying to grab her again. “Who are you?”
She indicated the jug. “It was never a box,” she declared firmly, reassembling clay dust into a woman’s arm.
Remi reached for her, but she crumbled aside, made herself whole again.
“My name, obviously, isn’t Mary Jane Kelly, though there is a real park ranger by the name.” She did not much resemble that false version of herself. Something a little wild, a little mad was in her eyes. “Neither am I Legion, or Iñigo Montoya—yeah, Hades told me about that little conceit. But he bet I couldn’t get you two to open the jar. Hah! Won some money off him!” She stopped short, got right up into Remi’s face. “My name is Pandora. And it was a jar, not a box. Some idiot so-called scholar couldn’t read his ancient Greek.”
Sinners and Saints Page 30
