by K M Stross
CHAPTER 24
Cross lifted the spade from the ground, taking with it another fresh clump of dirt and sand. What little vision remained in his right eye had begun to adjust to the dim light of the half-moon. Above, Taurus and Orion watched him dig furiously into the dry earth.
His sixteenth hole.
CHAPTER 25
The world darkened just before dawn as if the night itself was forced to make one final, desperate push against the morning sun, a hopeless exercise in failure doomed to be repeated every twenty-four hours. Cross no longer followed Ramon’s old checkerboard pattern of attacking the desert—it was too dark, the moon’s light frequently obscured by low-hanging clouds that hovered mockingly over his head. The flashlight beam had begun to dim as its batteries dried up. The air moved slowly across the empty desert, carrying with it an acrid stench of death that wrinkled Cross’s nostrils with every breath.
Time was running out. Soon, he would be surrounded by darkness.
He pressed the spade into a fresh patch of dirt, pulling it back, tearing with it a handful of dried grass roots.
“Whatcha doing back here, father?”
Cross spun, drawing in a fast breath. Sheriff Taylor took a step forward, pressing his boot down on a soft patch of disturbed ground. They stood just ten feet apart.
“I’m looking for a body, sheriff.”
Sheriff Taylor took another step forward, glancing at the patch of disturbed dirt at his feet and kicking it with the tip of his boot, spraying soft granules. “Of course you are,” he said. “Ramon had the same idea if I remember correctly. He thought he had a pretty good vantage point with his house so near the highway so he could keep all this a secret. But sometimes if I made it over the hills quick enough, I could see the workers out here. Then I’d get closer, and they’d scatter back to the ranch, just like the roaches they are.”
Cross turned back to the hole, pressing down with the spade and pulling out the dirt. He tried to ignore the shaking in his hands, waiting for the moment when he could turn and swing the edge of the blade in the direction of the sheriff. It was too late to go back, he thought. No matter what.
“Looks like old Jesus didn’t have too much luck with it,” the sheriff said. “What makes you think you’re going to do any better?”
“Because Ramon was close,” Cross said.
Sheriff Taylor took another step closer. “What makes you think that, father?”
“Because he’s sitting in his house right now bleeding to death,” Cross said, jamming the shovel into the dirt. He turned to the sheriff. “He won’t talk to me because he’s scared to fucking death that somebody’s going to come back and finish the job.”
Sheriff Taylor rested his hands on his belt, his left hand resting on his gun. “That what he said to you? Because he called me and told me you did it. And now I get down here, and all I see is you digging up holes on his fucking property. How am I supposed to deal with this?”
“He didn’t call you,” Cross said, keeping one hand wrapped tightly around the handle of the shovel. He could feel the rough wood grinding against his dry palm.
“No,” Sheriff Taylor said. “Didn’t have to. I could hear the fucker’s screaming a mile away. Them eyes… that didn’t happen tonight. Those eyes are rotting right out of their sockets, like the wound is days old. Not the type of thing someone from my town could have done, I’ll tell you that.”
“Oh wake up, Sheriff!” Cross said, spinning around. “Do you have any idea what’s going on here?”
Taylor shrugged, keeping his thumbs looped tightly around his belt. “You know, I’m not entirely sure what to think about you anymore, Cross. But I do know you ain’t from the Vatican. I got a little call from some priest who knew Father Aaron, and we looked you up. They said you were a deacon on sabbatical. And that was a long time ago.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with here,” Cross said, his fingers tightening around the handle of the shovel.
Taylor spat onto the soft upturned dirt. “And yet here you are trespassing on the property of one of Purgatory’s residents, digging up his back lawn looking for something that doesn’t exist while the poor fucker sits in his house waiting for God to take him back.” He took a step closer, still out of swinging distance but close enough for Cross to see the disgusted look on the sheriff’s face. “Were you ever even going to call the paramedics, you sick fuck?”
Cross slammed the shovel into the ground and turned over another patch of dirt, then looked up at the sheriff. “Let me tell you something about your precious priest, sheriff. His real name is Gabriel Morrissey, and he’s a fucking murderer. He took the life of our parish’s priest! My best friend, Sheriff! The… the only father I ever had!”
Sheriff Taylor stood motionless, frowning. He spat again, and a trail of saliva stuck to his chin, hanging from it. “Sounds like a case of mistaken identity.”
“Morrissey made one big mistake,” Cross continued. “He let me live, and I’ve been following him ever since. I lost his scent a long time ago, and then I heard about Father Aaron. The disappearance of Father Belmont, the miracles… none of it fit. Everything in this fucking town has the stench of Gabriel Morrissey. It taints your town just like those vigilantes in the hills.”
Taylor shifted his feet. His hand tugged on the gun holster, the fingers twitching. “You’re telling me everything that’s happened these past few years was a lie? I don’t buy it, son.”
“You don’t buy it because you need a saint,” Cross said. “Your saint brings in the illegals, and your illegals keep this town’s pockets full. Most of their pockets, anyways. Those who can stomach selling to a bunch of Mexicans.”
“You think this is fucking easy?” Taylor asked. He pointed south. “I got assholes lining the border doing anything they can to keep the illegals out. They don’t realize how fucked this town is. The world’s moved on, goddammit. There ain’t no Purgatory the way it used to be. The way it used to be, the Jacksons’ son could get a job over on a ranch and make a good penny. It doesn't work that way anymore. Those fuckers in the hills could be starting up their own ranches and making money! What are they doing instead? Sitting on the border, drinking beer and roughing up a bunch of desperate people.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Cross said. “I don’t care about your town or what delusions you have—all I care about is finding this body.”
“So you can do what?” Taylor asked. His fingers tickled the holster at his hip. “Look at you. You’re half dead already.”
Cross wrapped his fingers tighter around the shovel, keeping his right eye on the sheriff. “That’s why I’m going to find that body tonight. He’s watching us right now. The moment I find that body, he’s going to make a move. And then I’m going to kill your saint.”
The folds of skin around Taylor’s mouth sank low. “Well, that ain’t very Christian-like of you, Mister Cross.”
“Not your version of Christianity, Sheriff. This is Old Testament justice. The only kind Gabriel Morrissey knows.”
Sheriff Taylor stepped forward, drawing his gun and smashing the butt across Cross’s right temple and sending a fresh wave of pain through the soft, fleshy tissue around his eye. Cross fell to the ground, on his knees, groaning in pain, trying to steady his equilibrium while his head spun in darkness.
Sheriff Taylor tapped Cross on his shoulder with the barrel of the pistol. “Take out that knife you keep in your boot and very slowly put it on the ground.”
Cross used one hand to reach back for his boot, contemplating how to drive the sharp end into the sheriff’s throat without receiving a bullet in reciprocation. Before he knew it, a boot pressed down on his wrist, squeezing the hilt out of his hand.
Taylor kicked Cross hard in the ribs. “Get up.” He kicked Cross in the back of the head with the heel of his boot. “Get up, you miserable piece of shit.”
He turned his head slightly, trying to focus on the details of the ground to keep his visi
on steady. Everything was spinning wildly out of control. White spots danced around what remained of the blurred vision of his right eye. His stomach threatened to react violently should the vertigo continue, forcing his mind to pick one spot on the ground and focus on it until everything else righted itself.
Sheriff Taylor kicked him in the shoulder. “Get the fuck up.”
Cross pushed his body up, climbing to his knees and grabbing hold of the shovel to keep himself steady. He tried to turn, but another boot heel in his shoulder kept his body in place.
“Start digging,” the sheriff said. “Dig a fresh one. And make it a little longer this time, too.”
Cross dug his spade into the hard dirt, next to the previous half-finished hole. He pulled out a clump and repeated the process, trying to angle his head so he could see the sheriff through his right eye. With every scoop, he rotated his body slightly, waiting for the sheriff to come into peripheral view.
“That’s good, Cross. Don’t stop until you’re nice and deep.”
“You’re making a big mistake, sheriff. You don’t know what Morrissey is capable of. He’s gone through all of this trouble for a reason.”
The sheriff spat on the ground in front of Cross. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what your friend is capable of. Father Aaron ain’t your murderer.”
“He’ll kill you,” Cross said. “He’ll kill you because you know too much. He’ll call it a sin, and he’ll kill you as penance. That’s how he works. That’s how his religion works!”
Sheriff Taylor stepped back, lowering his gun so he could use the barrel to scratch absently at his waist. “You just don’t get it, Cross. Father Aaron was a good man, and everyone knows it. He was a true saint in a time when there just ain’t a whole lot of good people around anymore. His faith brings in good people.”
“Illegal workers.”
“Illegal Christians,” Taylor said. “Other towns are getting drug dealers, and we’re getting pious Catholics. Hard not to respect their devotion to God. The people who come to this town work their asses off for one reason: because they honestly believe when they die, they’ll be saved. And they believe it because Father Aaron showed up in Purgatory one day and changed things.”
“So you’re going to kill me to keep the illusion alive?” Cross asked. He could feel the wet tears in his eyes. The swollen area around his right eye burned, inflamed and throbbing with fresh pain from the last strike. His chest hiccupped, twice, warning him that his body was not ready to die. Not yet.
“You brought this on yourself, Mister Cross. The moment you stepped into Purgatory, you brought this on yourself.”
Cross turned and planted the spade into the loose dirt. The spade dug halfway in and stopped with a soft thump. Cross stared at the half-buried piece of metal through blurred vision, feeling the heat of the sheriff’s breath on the back of his neck.
“What’s that?” Taylor asked, his voice shaky with trepidation.
Cross pulled out the spade and used its sharp edge to gently dig around the object, using the edge of the shovel to sweep away the loose dirt. He dug the spade in and pulled it back out, tossing aside dirt and clumps of hair and dried jerky-like flesh. He wiped hard at his eye with one bare arm, sending a fresh wave of searing hot pain across the surface but also clearing the tears enough to see a man-shaped object beginning to take shape under the moonlight. He scraped with the spade again, and the edge caught on a tattered black fabric.
Cross dropped the shovel, reaching down and grabbing the fabric with both hands.
“No,” the sheriff said with a shaky voice. “Don’t…”
Cross pulled as hard as he could, ripping the rotted body out of its makeshift grave, tearing away the decomposed flesh of the arms and leaving a maggot-ridden outline in the dirt. Cross dropped the body’s torso, letting it roll over to reveal a face eaten away by bacteria and yet somehow strangely preserved: dull cheekbones, small eye sockets and a thin skull with patches of coarse, dirty brown hair. Between the delicate clumps, the skull had suffered multiple dents and hairline cracks. Below the thin Italian nose, the exposed jawbone was broken in multiple places.
“Goddammit,” Sheriff Taylor said, stepping back. “Goddammit.”
Cross looked up. “Can you tell? By what he’s wearing?”
Sheriff Taylor stepped back, shielding his nose from the stench. “Goddammit.” He raised his gun, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. “Could be anyone.”
Cross gestured to the body. “This man was murdered, Sheriff. He was murdered and left here to be forgotten! And your saint did it!”
Sheriff Taylor snapped back the hammer and aimed the pistol between Cross’s eyes. “You shut your mouth and get back to digging.”
“You can see his clothes,” Cross said. “You can see the robe plain as day!”
Sheriff Taylor shook his head. “Shut up, deacon. This is bigger than the three of us. This is my town we’re talking about! I ain’t letting my town die.”
“Your priest deserves a proper burial, sheriff.”
Sheriff Taylor turned the gun and fired once in the direction of the body, spraying a cloud of dirt next to it. The crack of thunder resonated in the darkness. “Shut the fuck up and dig!”
Cross looked at him a moment longer, then bent to retrieve the shovel. He moved closer to the sheriff and began digging. He pulled the shovelful of dirt to his right, seeing the sheriff’s lowered gun in his peripheral vision. He lifted the shovel up as hard as he could. The dirt sprayed in the sheriff’s direction, its topmost layer breaking apart into a fine cloud and spraying across the sheriff’s face.
“Shit!” Taylor screamed, raising his gun and firing once wildly, missing Cross by a foot. “You fucker!” He fired again, closer this time but already Cross was bringing the thin edge of the shovel around a second time, this time close enough to connect it with the sheriff’s hand. The gun fell to the ground, along with the tip of the sheriff’s pinky finger.
“Fuck!” Taylor screamed, opening his bloodshot eyes and blinking wildly, depositing more dirt between his eyelids.
Cross brought the shovel around again and felt the end of the wooden handle slip out of his sweaty hands, immediately disappearing into the darkness. The sheriff ducked back even though he was in no danger of crossing paths with the shovel, rubbing his eyes vigorously with the palm of one hand, keeping his dangling pinky finger close to his hip.
“You son of a fucking bitch!” His voice echoed inside Cross’s head, partially lost amidst the ringing from the gunshots.
Cross lunged at the sheriff before he could wipe the remaining dirt from his eyes, swinging awkwardly and connecting with the sheriff’s face. Taylor stumbled, groaning under the pain, reaching up blindly with both hands and grabbing hold of Cross’s wrist. Cross swung again with his free hand, this time hitting the sheriff on the hard spot between his collarbone and neck. The sheriff lets go and fell to the ground, crawling blindly on his knees and fumbling around for the gun.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he said, gasping through each fresh breath.
Cross looked around blindly for the shovel, for the gun, for his knife, but the ground was coated in darkness. The clouds hung motionless over the moon’s light, waiting patiently for the next draft of air. Cross kicked the sheriff again in the stomach, only realizing too late that Taylor’s wounded hand had wrapped around the gun. The sheriff fell back, aiming his gun blindly at the night sky and firing once over Cross’s shoulder. He adjusted and aimed closer, and Cross turned away toward the direction of the ranch. On his third step, he felt the tip of his boot press down on something hard. He bent over and picked up the knife in one smooth motion before breaking into a sprint.
“Cross!” the sheriff screamed. “Cross, I’m gonna shoot you in the knees if you run! Cross!” He fired another shot, but it sailed wide, disappearing into the valley beyond the Ramon’s ranch.
Blindly, Cross stumbled to the fence, ramming chest-first into one of the wooden
frames with the bulk of his weight. He climbed over it and heard another shot but refused to turn back. He ran into the house, grabbing for Ramon who was still sitting in the chair.
“We need to get out of here,” he said, pulling wildly at the Mexican’s cold hand. As the clouds temporarily parted, the moonlight entered through the windows over the television set, and Cross could see that Ramon was dead.
The moon disappeared again. Only a thin slit remained of Cross’s vision.
Cross pulled away from the cold hand, running to the front door. He made his way across the small yard and through the gate to the parked squad car, trying all four doors. “Shit!” he screamed.
“You can’t run, Cross!” the sheriff called out from the other side of the farm. The fat man was crossing the graveyard of dirt with a limp, his gun hanging at his side. Cross could make out little more than a shadow now—his right eye had begun to swell shut, affording him only a primitive effigy of the landscape.
He turned: northwest, resting atop the horizon, was a black cross. The church. Cross took his knife and stabbed the driver's side tires. He heard another shot and the windshield cracked. He forced his legs into a sprint, aiming directly for the cross in the distance. His breaths came out in rasps. His face throbbed in pain and his hot tears stung. He willed himself to keep moving, to ignore the pain in his side.
To keep his fingers wrapped tightly around the knife.
Behind him, the squad car’s headlights flashed on. He saw his shadow appear on the ground in front of him, surrounded by a heavenly light. He turned, still running, watching the squad car peel off of the highway road and onto the desert, rumbling desperately under the control of only two functioning tires. Cross picked up his pace, holding it for a moment before the realization set in that he couldn’t possibly outrun the car. He slowed, timing his steps as the car’s engine grew louder over his shoulder.
