“I’m the Brazilian.” Her blonde hair was swept up and back and held by a gold clip. Her gray eyes speared whatever she targeted.
“How the hell do you know us?” Cricket asked.
“It is a small world these days. Wouldn’t you agree, Sister?”
“It doesn’t feel small to me,” Sister said, clearing her throat. “But it is a broken world.”
“Christian to the core!” The woman laughed. “I like that.” Cricket saw the Brazilian’s beautiful eyes in her perfect face harden and then by degrees soften, like she was taming her own inner tiger.
The woman turned to her dark companion for corroboration, but he seemed to be drifting with eyes half closed, a private meditation, lost in some pleasure garden.
The Brazilian was taller than Cricket, and Cricket wondered about her legs. They looked powerful. Dancer, skier, mountain climber? She was probably near forty and everything was peaking: her looks, figure, and face, which was remarkably free from any sign of age.
“But really, Ms. Hastings, when you have such a lovely first name, why Cricket? Hippie parents in love with Emily Dickinson?
The cricket sang,
And set the sun,
And workmen finished, one by one,
Their seam the day upon.
The low grass loaded with the dew,
The twilight stood as strangers do
With hat in hand, polite and new,
To stay as if, or go.
A vastness, as a neighbor, came,—
A wisdom without face or name,
A peace, as hemispheres at home,—
And so the night became.”
“A beautiful poem,” Sister said.
The Brazilian graciously smiled at Sister Marie and locked on to Cricket. “Shouldn’t you have outgrown your name by now? Is there a history?”
Cricket was reluctant to tell her anything personal. She looked to Sister Marie, who shrugged why not?
“My Dad’s great-grandmother was named Cricket. He convinced Mom it should be my middle name. I was Emily until twelve. When my mom died I decided to become Cricket. Why do you care about any of this?”
“Let’s say, I had an immediate attraction to you when I first saw you.”
“You were there. At my father’s crash site.”
“Actually, closer to the crash site of the savages. I saw what happened to your father. Horrible. It took me and my people by surprise. They might have killed a lot of us had the cavalry not come to our rescue.”
“What were you doing?”
“Initially, collecting herbs, darling. Until I saw you and fell in love.”
“Right.”
“Sister, tell her how attractive she is. You have an eye for beauty.”
Cricket fired off a look of annoyance, and the Brazilian laughed.
“Oh goodness, I didn’t mean anything carnal on Sister’s part. But even the most spiritual person appreciates real beauty and you, my dear, have it in spades. You weren’t aware but dozens of roamers were converging on the crash site to scavenge. They heard the gunfire; some probably saw your dad’s plane hit, on fire. I couldn’t let them harm you.”
“You killed all those people?”
“All those people would have torn you apart. People are starving in the cities. They’re on the move and very dangerous. My civic duty is protecting Little Falls from chaos and a very cruel end. My boys and girls have brought in a lot of extra food.” She glanced at her escort, who now watched the world with mild interest, arms folded, scooched down in his chair.
“Food from where?” Cricket asked, assessing the bodyguard—parked with the engine running.
“All legal schmegal, my dear. My troupe of young beauties make the rounds of the burbs and countryside with cash and tech toys—batteries included—and barter for food. They’re quite good at it.”
The Brazilian looked up through the trees, closed her eyes, and drew a long breath. Cricket felt she was trying to inhale the day, the sunlight, everything around her, including her. The Brazilian settled back in with a grin, eyes glistening, as if surprised by the range of her appetites. There was more.
“From a distance I watched you mow down those two losers I had sent out to scout for your car. Somehow, ‘Do not take out the car and its passengers’ was converted to ‘Let’s shoot the bitch up.’ I’m glad I didn’t intervene. You did a fine job, saved me a lot of headaches. It’s difficult executing people close to your inner circle. Impressive, you did it with two bullets. Don’t worry that it took Sergio a while longer to die; he was really bad news. But you were affected by both deaths. And then it hit me—you had been a virgin. Your first kills. I watched you bleed into life. And that sure deepened my love at first sight.”
Cricket stood up. Sister followed.
“Listen, I need you, Cricket.” The woman reached for her. “Okay, okay, I get it. You haven’t fallen madly in love with me. So how are you in sales?”
Sister and Cricket looked at each other.
The Brazilian continued while Sister and Cricket just stared at her.
“A few months ago when the world was still intact, I ran a half dozen very successful health-food stores between Columbus and Cleveland. The Promise. You’ve heard of us?”
Again, Cricket and Sister looked to each other for support. Cricket could see Sister was ready to bolt. “Sure,” Cricket said coolly. “Even shopped at the Akron store once in a while.”
“I’ve heard others talk about the wide range of products but have never been to one of your stores,” Sister confessed. “Though you supply a great many things for one’s improvement, I wonder, have you ever really cared for people? You sound like you need professional help.”
The Brazilian leaned back and laughed like it was all a game. Her bodyguard looked between the three women, unsure how to react to his employer being mocked. The Brazilian laid a golden hand on his dark tatted arm.
Sister continued, “If you have supplies, any means of helping the many people in need, then do it. Unfortunately, I think people are going to have to pay a very high price once they start dealing with you.”
The Brazilian said, “Very impressive. You’ve been Cricket’s manager, spokesperson, mentor, for a long time.” She appeared to be calculating the depth, the history of their relationship. “I’m jealous. But very impressed.”
Cricket thought, Whenever this chick’s impressed with something, she’s gonna devour it.
She folded her arms. “I don’t believe the crap about collecting herbs. The killing part I do.”
“Well, that’s the most important part anyway.” The Brazilian laughed. “To hell with the herbs.”
“This guy here looks like a savage to me,” Cricket said, eying the Latino, who smirked.
“Everyone needs protection.” The Brazilian patted the man’s hand. He stared at her through half-closed eyelids, his full lips thinned by his smirk. “I’ll say it again. I’m sorry for your loss, having your father knocked out of the sky. I would have liked to have met him.”
Cricket didn’t buy the offering of sympathy.
“How did you and all your savages get there?”
“The same way you did. We’ve got wheels—cars, trucks, motorcycles. Mine was parked off the road. Nothing impressive like your Barracuda. I’m driving a ’65 Nash Rambler. Got it from an old couple whose driving days were pretty much over even before the EMP disaster. It’s not sexy, but very reliable. Actually, the herbs are part of the story. You see, I was collecting that day for my own face cleanser I’ve been using for years. I got it patented when I was your age.”
“Bullshit,” Cricket said, and Sister smiled.
“You’re right, I was hunting that gorgeous mouth and beautiful body of yours, not herbs and flowers.” The Brazilian looked at her with hungry eyes. “We need to talk alone.”
Before Cricket could object, Sister Marie said, “I’ll be out of earshot, but I’m not letting Cricket out of my sight.”
“Than
ks, Sister. I can handle myself.”
Sister left the table.
“Admirable,” the Brazilian nodded. “Both of you.”
Sister Marie stood by the railing watching the two women.
“Remember, Cricket, I saw everything—you walking around your dad’s crash site—later, inspecting his dead killers. And I watched you kneel alongside one of the scoundrels still alive. I don’t know exactly what you said, unless you want to get together tonight for a PJ party, girl talk and all that, which would be fun. But I’m satisfied that I got the emotional gist of your short one-way conversation: you were leaving him alive to be mauled and eaten. Completely understandable reaction for a goddess—‘You go, girl’ passed my lips more than once.”
“Well, Goddess, you’re a few quarts low.”
The Brazilian shrugged. “It’s so easy to bring the level back up. And it’s better than being light in the loafers, which is a real insult on so many levels. Anyway, seeing you make that decision was quite exciting.”
Cricket said nothing and glanced at Sister Marie, who paced between a park bench facing the falls and an empty newspaper box, her eyes on the pair.
The Brazilian said, “I filled in for you after you had that lovely ceremony for your father. And I just loved the heart-wrenching hymn Sister sang.” She leaned toward Cricket. “I waited until dark and watched the coyotes approach the villain—should I continue?”
Cricket felt cold and sick and pushed back her chair, scraping the stone patio. Sister started to walk over and Cricket raised her hand for her to stop.
“Big changes in life bring real discomfort,” the Brazilian said. “You have Athena’s flesh and blood: huntress and pilot. I’ll make you a goddess of the earth and the sky. Apollo will be jealous as hell.”
“No thanks,” Cricket said.
“In my business I’ve seen some of the most beautiful women come through my stores. And you beat them all, Emily Cricket Hastings. Come over to my side.”
Cricket turned her back on the Brazilian and started toward Sister Marie.
A large man with a big, dopey smile approached the table.
“Oh, Mayor,” the Brazilian called out, ensuring everyone nearby knew she knew the mayor. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Cricket headed toward Sister.
“You can at least do my hair sometime,” the Brazilian insisted.
When Cricket reached Sister Marie, she turned and saw the tatted Latino man confer with the strange woman and the mayor. Briefly Cricket imagined the multiple tattoos were alive, slithering along the man’s well-muscled arms. Cricket had remained tattoo-free and sometimes felt naked around others at concerts without the inky expressions.
Two other men joined the Brazilian—a man dressed in black with a shaved head, not trying to hide his age, probably late sixties, and a Clark Kent type, mid-thirties, tall, Hollywood good looks, heavy glasses and hunched over, walking slowly with a cane. It looked like an act. But then she had just been with the top act in the Midwest.
“Now that’s a really odd duck,” Sister Marie said.
“Which one? They’re multiplying quickly.”
“The Brazilian, of course.”
“She’s hiding a lot, Sister, especially her age. She could be 107 and drinking blood to maintain her girlish figure. There’s a bad smell about her.”
“She could pass for late twenties.”
“Sister, this woman’s a cougar for the ages.”
21
Health Nuts
“I knew she was for real,” Tony said, delighted to have bested Ron, returning from the kitchen with a wet dishcloth to wipe down the table. Outside, heavy shadows across the front lawn and a deep gold light across the next-door neighbor’s house made Cricket uneasy, trying to remember the exact words of the old sailor’s warning about dusk and dawn; pretty heavens and angry skies.
“And all the nonsense associated with her is just that—nonsense,” Ron said.
Tony rushed the words out—“Cricket says she’s scary and beautiful, with a troubling sense of humor.”
“Oh, and that makes her a cold-blooded killer?” Ron looked to Fritz for support.
“From everything I hear, I still can’t get a read on her,” Fritz said. “She’s odd. I’ll talk to my parents. See how long she’s been here. Where she lives. I need real evidence to connect her with the hits on the distribution centers.”
“Eccentric,” Ron stated, “that’s all. And that’s not a crime. And neither is being a good hustler for food and whatever else she’s into.”
“She’s more than eccentric,” Sister Marie said. “There’s something eerie about her.”
Cricket nodded her agreement. She had a lot of thoughts ping-ponging but wanted to hear the others.
“How so?” Fritz asked.
“Nothing I can name,” Sister Marie said. “But I don’t trust anything she says, and yet everything she says is the truth. It’s one layer of an elaborate game perhaps.”
Fritz agreed. “The villain stands in the open and announces their villainy.”
“That’s right,” Sister said. “She alluded to the murdering of people roaming the countryside. Is it posturing, or is she really a killer and a serious thief?”
Cricket offered, “She not only knew our names, but that I’m a pilot and hairdresser. Weird.”
Ron said, “If she’s moving about, knows a lot of people, I mean … The Promise is a big, successful health-food store—”
“Health nut,” Tony said, and Diesel playfully rammed Tony for a head rub, seeming to second his remark.
“Maybe she’s a wannabe New Ager of some kind,” Cricket said. “With the world on hold for the time being, I bet there are thousands like her around the country. Those that feel they finally have their shot at New Age stardom. Get a few like-minded people together, boss them around, pass out drugs, lots of sex, and make them believe they’re following their own star.”
“Monsters are born that way,” Sister Marie said.
“Let’s get back to securing this town and getting it ready for winter,” Ron said.
“A pragmatist.” Fritz smiled. “I like that.”
“Let’s stop all the flap-jawing,” Tony said. “That broad’s dangerous. I’m turning in.”
A knock at the front door made everyone jump. It was Father Danko.
“I’ve got about two dozen teens outside the church, and they’re yelling obscenities and threatening the people that are guarding Saint Andrew’s. They’re threatening vandalism—today, tomorrow, forever. One huge guy just stands there, arms folded, smiling like he’s in charge. I went to him. I told him he looked reasonable, to stop this attack on our church. He says, ‘Heaven’s directing them, not me.’”
Cricket tallied up all the ‘crazy eyes’ she had witnessed since Dick and Jane, thinking of it as background noise, not as a headliner.
“Serious whacked-out designer drugs,” Tony said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin as though this had always been his assumption.
Father said, “Can I get any of you to watch the church tonight?”
“Father, can’t you just lock it up?” Fritz said. “One or two can guard outside.”
“Yes, it’s locked now. But they sound like they’ll come right through the door with battering rams, their very bodies.”
“Holy Woodstock, a smorgasbord of drug fiends,” Tony said.
Father paused, his face darkened with worry, eyeing the group. “I need folks on the inside as well. I’m sorry. I know I must sound like I’m overreacting, but it’s not only the drugs, it’s all the bad ideas, too.”
Sister Marie said, “I can stay inside the church. I’ll bring a blanket and a pillow. Your pews are wide enough for me to sleep.”
“I’m going with Sister.” Cricket pulled a couple of eight-round magazines from her vest and made sure they were fully loaded.
Tony was already strapping on a brown leather holster for his SIG 9. “I’ll take the first shif
t outside.”
Ron sighed and headed for the stairs. “Wake me up later. I don’t sleep more than five hours a night anyway.”
22
The Willies
There was a quiet elegance in the ending of Dickinson’s poem—“and so the night became.” But the Brazilian’s slow recitation of that last line had given it a chilly finality. Cricket rubbed her arms in the vastness of Saint Andrew’s. Candles lined the altar, and Father Danko had several other large sacramental candles lit at the four corners of the church. She and Sister Marie made beds in pews across from each other.
“I want to be able to see you,” Cricket said.
They could hear Tony outside yelling at some youngster, who yelled back about the goddess taking over the church.
Cricket walked toward the altar, her eyes fixed on the cross.
Sister Marie said, “It’s obvious she’s weaving a web.”
“A spider woman?” The very words brought another chill to Cricket.
“A woman like that hasn’t uttered anything truthful and straightforward since she was a child. And she might influence enough people to do terrible things, especially with the help of drugs. Her parents were probably afraid of her, too.”
“Sister, a lot of heavy psychoanalysis there.”
“How about this—she gives me the willies.”
Cricket’s laugh echoed in the empty church, and she quickly put her hand to her mouth.
“Good to hear you laugh,” Sister said.
She accompanied Sister in the rosary but her mind was elsewhere, especially reviewing all that she had learned about the Mustang. Then a thought arose: the Brazilian had entered her world as Uncle Tommy had left it. Again she saw her dream of the whitish sun that generated practically no heat mirroring Uncle Tommy’s last moments above the horizon. You’re one of the giants, Uncle Tommy. Men like you will be remembered a thousand years from now.
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 11
