by Brian Hodge
Kneeling by his tackle box, Rusty fixed the blasting caps into place. Reached into a utility tray for a butane lighter.
He stood. Set two trails of sudden sparks to life. Two hands, two sticks, two caps, two fuses. Simplicity bred success. He leaned back against the base of the monster tank, arms extended in cruciform fashion.
Rusty Sykes, once more the focus of attention. There was a lot of screaming. A lot of running. A lot of hysterical prayers that would not be answered in the affirmative.
“Well what’s a man to do?” he bawled.
One consolation, however minor: No one would remember seeing him crying in public.
Two seconds later, Rusty was vapor and flying gristle at the center of twin blasts. Chain reaction. And all at once, the phrase hell on earth took on graphic new dimensions of reality.
Chapter 30
Laurel was a jogger, as Paul had learned, and since he had a light sweatsuit of his own, it seemed only right that he try joining her. She made it look too easy, in her canary yellow togs and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Running circuits around the compound grounds, she seemed to float, ever graceful. He slogged. Hell, this was hard work. He felt awful about himself beside her, needing only a curly tail and a snout, all the better for rooting truffles.
“You’re not concentrating, you’re not focusing,” Laurel looking over to him — prompted by the sound of a wheeze, no doubt — and speaking with such cardiovascular ease.
“I’m focused,” he panted. “On dying.”
She veered in another foot and nudged him playfully with her elbow. Why did he get the feeling she was still holding back and could run rings around him?
“Mind and body, mind and body, they have to work together.”
He scowled. She was so abominably cheerful about this, that was the worst part. Like those cheerleader types on video workout shows. Let her spring a surprise S/M spanking fetish on him, he could adapt to that just fine. This would take harder work. Perplexing, no? Perhaps because he found administering swats so much easier to accomplish. And did he have a unexpected proclivity for it, as well? The benign sadist in him, maybe, with no evidence of a masochist, benign or otherwise, that would warm to this jogging business.
He paced her as she aimed them for the sprawl of greenery before the dorms’ entrance. Eyes surreptitiously straining right, call it sexist, but he found incentive in watching the jouncing of her breasts beneath her sport top. The carrot at the end of the stick. They slowed to walk the last sixty yards or so, keep the muscles from cramping from a sudden stop. When they were before the dorms, she halted and did a few squats. Paul collapsed into the grass.
“You’re killing me,” he said. “Aerobicide.”
Even her eye makeup still looked fresh, damn her. “It’s just your first day. I promise, it’ll be easier tomorrow.”
He half groaned, half wailed. Tomorrow. This was Friday. He’d hoped she took weekends off, but apparently not. No rest for the insane.
Laurel plopped down beside him, and he managed to sit up for her, lean into her. Support. A quick kiss, and it wasn’t just pity, he took heart in that. She ran a hand through his hair. It was as far as she’d take it. Decorum held that public affection between couples here was okay; public passion was not.
“Baby,” she teased. “You don’t see me acting like a baby.”
He rolled his eyes. “You could run a marathon. What have you got to act like a baby about?”
Silence, as her gaze dropped groundward, and while she didn’t look unduly concerned, the moment sharpened. Paul could feel it like the sheen of a blade, and he straightened the rest of the way, oh man, what secret had she withheld this time?
“It’s my own fault.” Laurel frowned, as if she needed to slap herself sensible. “I, uh — I have an ulcer.” The wry grin of the embarrassed.
He let this settle. An ulcer. Well, nothing life-threatening, although he imagined it was unpleasant enough. This fit, actually, in retrospect. More than once she’d looked pained about the gastric regions, passing it off as indigestion. Like a few nights ago, the night of first kisses. Poor Laurel, thinking she had to maintain secrecy about this. Then, realization:
“And you still guzzle coffee the way you do?”
“I know, I know. We’re all gluttons for our doom.” She knew what an Indigo Girls fan he was; no mistaking the lyrical reference. “Please don’t yell at me, I get enough of that from Doctor Preston.”
Hmm, a common denominator, the same doctor who’d been summoned when Amanda emerged from deep cover last week.
“What, is he like the usual case M.D. for people here?” Paul asked.
“I think so.”
Of course he had to ask the obvious. “What about Donny? Have you seen him about it?”
Laurel looked at him, firm and gentle at once. The look of a young mother preparing to explain the truth about Santa Claus. “What do you think?”
Diplomacy, where are you now? Paul stroked his chin, the great statesman. But why bother? She obviously had some misgivings of her own about the man.
“I think,” he slowly said, “I’ve seen Donny do some genuine good with people … and that you’re probably still better off going to a doctor.”
She nodded. “Except I still have the ulcer.”
You don’t have to for long. He crept his hand toward hers. A simple ulcer would present no problem at all. He could mend that gastrointestinal hole and not even break sweat. A far cry easier than, say, keeping pace with her as she ran laps around the compound.
But she would deserve an explanation — all of it, no omission or sugarcoating of the unlovely flipside — and that would be infinitely more difficult than the healing itself. Whatever the two of them were destined for, this would forever affect it. Was he ready? Was she? Would she find it too mind-blowing to contend with, once the truth sank in, think him loathsome, inhuman?
Oh, just do it, and he reached for her hand, let the consequences take care of themselves—
“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Abort, abort. Gabe Matthews at three o’clock, flanking them after having left the dorm. Paul let his hand fall short of intention, and merely held hers. Smiled up at Gabe as he left the sidewalk and approached. Casual Gabe, at the moment, as opposed to dress-for-success Gabe. Wonders never ceased.
“Ready for a shock?” He sounded pleasant enough.
“I’m sitting down,” Paul said.
“I’ve been reduced to playing messenger boy.” A self-effacing shrug.
Paul slapped a hand over his heart, say it ain’t so. “Must be a good one.”
Gabe nodded crisply, and only now acknowledged Laurel’s presence with a tight belated smile. Intentionally rude, or merely preoccupied? Give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m hoping you have some free time now. Amanda would very much like to meet you at their house.”
A summons from the cloistered queen of Dawson Ministries — this was most unexpected. He glanced across to Laurel.
“Sure, sure, go,” she told him, nodding. Ponytail bobbing. “I was about ready to go catch a shower anyway.” She grinned wickedly, shook his knee with one hand. “Marathon man.”
“Great.” Gabe motioned him to follow. “I’ve got a cart over at the offices, I’ll drive you over.”
Paul tugged at the sleeve of his sweats. “Can’t I shower too? Or at least change? I look cruddy.”
Over her shoulder, Laurel gave him her teasing laugh as she mounted the steps toward the dorm, while Gabe waved his worry aside. “You look fine, you’re fine. You’ll set her at ease like this.”
They hoofed it for the office building and boarded the cart. With a jerk just shy of whiplash, Gabe set off on the western path for Donny’s house. Wind in their hair, as if Paul hadn’t felt that enough for one afternoon.
“So I assume you’ll be staying here after all?” Gabe said.
“Excuse me?”
“Staying.”
Gabe said it downright cheerfully. “As in, not leaving. Last week, after you brought Amanda back around, I was afraid you were about to leave Donny high and dry.”
This made sense now. Paul wondered, though, if Donny had set him up to this. A friendly Q&A session, report back when prudent. It was almost funny, the influence he suddenly held over the man. The goose that laid the golden eggs, who could fly anytime.
“I cooled down. I got it out of my system.”
Gabe was nodding. “From what I hear, to be honest, I don’t think Donny handled it well at all. I think his treatment of you was inexcusable. But he’s been under a lot of stress lately. I don’t mean that as a defense. Just an explanation.”
“He made me feel like a pawn that night.”
Cresting a small asphalt rise, top speed. Whee.
“You are,” Gabe said.
Nothing like a little painful honesty to take the wind out of your sails. “Thank you for being blunt.”
“I’m a pawn too. And so is Donny. We’re all pawns to something greater than ourselves. That’s why we’re all here, because we’ve chosen to be pawns for the same thing.”
More compound rhetoric, which Gabe had generally seemed to be free of. Paul nodded, sheer reflex.
“It takes a smart, secure person, though,” Gabe went on, “to know he’s a pawn and not mind it at all. Because he realizes he’s still vital. I hope you’re not overlooking that.”
Paul nodded again. “We’re square here. We’re fine. If Donny’s worried, tell him not to be. I’m not going anywhere.”
Gabe turned to look him in the eye for several beats, wind blowing his hair back to the right. Eyes off the road, driving by instinct and memory. “I was curious for myself, Paul. You don’t think I’m concerned about your welfare?”
Oddly enough, Paul believed him. The guy was so serious. Then he lightened, as if the possibility of hard feelings had been safely shunted aside.
“I take it that you and Laurel hit it off.” Light, okay, but very neutral.
“So far, so good. We’ve got enough in common, I think.”
Buzzing along in the cart, windblown and free, like holy golf fanatics. Now that he thought of her, he realized it had sneaked up on him, the exquisite ache inside — they’d been apart by just minutes and he wished it were otherwise.
“She told me,” he said.
Gabe turned again, curious.
“About the guitar player. Shooting himself. She told me.”
Gabe nodded. No frown, no smile, no nothing. “Congratulations,” in that same flat neutrality.
You are one odd fucker, aren’t you? And Paul decided he wouldn’t volunteer another word on it. Speak only when spoken to.
The compound fell in their wake and the Dawson house loomed nearer. Sanctuary, haven, prison. And speaking of pawns, Paul had to wonder which Donny was more of a pawn to: God, or house payments? Petty, yes, but valid.
He and Gabe entered through the back, porch to mud closet to kitchen to hallways to staircases to third floor. So many doors up here, so many rooms. So much space assigned to nothing.
And Amanda Dawson, surrounded by it. Paul’s first glimpse of her was heart-tugging. Poised in a chair by the windows of her room, staring out with a quietly desperate longing. Like the gaze of a wheelchair-confined child watching a park swarming with playmates running themselves into happy exhaustion. She wore some sort of one-piece lounging outfit, velour perhaps, nearly shapeless around her, body lost within it. Her right arm was tucked absently against her side, drawn up like a chicken wing. Her skin appeared bleached of color in the fading light of day, but at least more lifelike than before. And her hair, though limp, was clean and shiny.
On the mend, yes, but if only he could have restored her spirit along with consciousness.
Gabe cleared his throat, and she turned toward them with a start. Frowning briefly, ready to snap at unexpected intruders, then her brow smoothed. A warm smile, a beckoning invitation. They entered and she looked down at her clenched arm, made a conscious effort at letting it hang more naturally.
“Thank you, Gabe.” Spoken carefully, as if practiced. A considerably more pleasant voice than the raspy gargle with which she had awakened. “For bringing him, I mean.”
“Happy to do it.” Gabe checked his watch. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll be shoving off, let you two get acquainted on your own. I’ve got an in-basket in my office I wouldn’t wish on an enemy.”
He stepped forward, cordially touched Amanda’s hand, squeezed Paul’s shoulder with a smile of confidence and assurance, glad you’re still with us. Then gone, just like that, and Paul stood awkwardly, feeling abandoned. Never realizing until now that you could feel awkward in a sweat suit. Circumstances no doubt played a part in this. It was the first opportunity he’d had to hang around and see how someone he had healed fared in the aftermath. TV news recaps didn’t count, real life distilled into twenty seconds. Here, it went on and on.
“I thought we should meet formally.” Amanda glanced down at herself, then at Paul’s sweats, and barked a tiny laugh. “Well, this is hardly what I’d call formal. You poor thing, I didn’t mean for Gabe to drag you over here, come as you are.”
“He’s persistent.”
“Sit. Please.” She nodded toward the edge of the bed, and he did so. Gracious enough manner, non-imposing, she had been obliquely quick about setting him at ease.
“I was wondering how you’ve been getting along.”
“Day by day. It’s not been one goddamn bit easy.” She winced when she saw the flicker in Paul’s eyes. “I’m sorry. Ever since I … woke up … sometimes words like that just pop out. The therapists say it’s normal.”
He shrugged it off. “I’ve said worse.”
“So have I.” She smiled at him, head tilted lightly to one side. A look of affection, warmth, thank you for making this easy on me. “It’s just been this past day or two that my voice really started sounding like itself again. I sounded awfully strange those first few days.”
“You’d been through a lot.”
“But I’m bouncing back. I’ll be up and trying to walk between the parallel bars in another day or two. Oh, it’ll be just wonderful.” Her face and eyes hardened with sarcasm. “I’ll have a brace on my leg, and a belt around my waist so my therapist can catch me when I start to fall on my butt. It’ll be so much fun, I don’t think I can stand it.” Brooding by the window, unease condensing afresh in the room, and then she softened. Shook her head and apologized.
“It really did a job on you, didn’t it? That fever.”
“The fever,” she echoed dully, eyes slowly averting. “Right.”
In the moment, she reminded him of Lorraine, certain small mannerisms. Back at KGRM during his final days of tenure, so many things walled behind Lorraine’s eyes, so much she’d wanted to say but refused to turn loose of. Because of nameless fears.
Change of subject, too sudden. “You’ve made quite an impression on Donny. I haven’t seen him this excited about much of anything for years.” She seemed to share little of that enthusiasm at present. Although it would be difficult to jump for joy when your body wouldn’t even allow it. “You really can do it,” little more than a whisper, “can’t you?”
He nodded, wondering why the awe? She had seen Donny pull off similar wonders. Hadn’t she? “Yeah. I can.”
Her eyes were bright and moist, harbor of secrets swimming for release and finding only clear walls. Where they peered out, in envy. In anguish. Had she been a close friend instead of a new acquaintance, he would have begged her to spill it, all of it, hold nothing back until everything was purged.
“Then use it wisely,” she said. “And watch out for yourself, too.”
Paul nodded, assured her that he would, unsure just what dangers she foresaw for him. Perhaps her mood swings were augmented by paranoia, as well. She offered no further explanation, however, then announced she’d grown quite tired. He took the cue. His audience with the me
lancholy queen of Dawson Ministries was about to end.
So he made his goodbyes, rose from the bed. As he reached down to shake one fragile hand, she told him to come back and visit again. He said he would, knowing he meant it.
She isn’t what I thought she’d be, he thought on his way out of the house. Once outside, the fresh air cleansed his nose and mind of an underlying reek, so subtly lingering in her room. As if it had soaked into the walls themselves. The room stank of more than illness in retreat — it stank of despair. Her soul was sicker than her body had ever been.
With everything he had heard about her, the pictures seen in ministry literature, the film clips aired on the show, he had expected her to be, despite the coma, all sweetness and sunshine. Undaunted by obstacles, forever focused ahead with the determination of a bulldozer and the grace of a swan.
But no. She was human after all.
And he liked her this way better by far.
Some truths were painfully self-evident: Paul Handler was not much as she had envisioned.
Good news, bad news, that. On the one hand, she was relieved that he wasn’t some velvet-tongued huckster out to make a fast buck in the cash machine Donny’s ministry had degenerated into. On the downside, though, this genuine aspect of his character led her to immediately worry over what would happen to him. For she was in no position to keep watch and make sure the machine didn’t eat him alive.
Or worse, turn him into one more self-deluding cog.
It had all run out of control. Dawson Ministries, assuming an ugly life of its own, somehow, over bygone years when she hadn’t been looking. Or perhaps she’d seen it all along and had refused to let it register. Little humble girl from Arkansas, grown up to play in the big leagues. It didn’t matter now; the cause of your blindness was irrelevant when you started to stumble.
But in the hours preceding her early-summer header down the stairs, the veil had begun to lift from her eyes. Thinking of Christ, taking whip in hand to drive the money changers from the temple: You have turned my Father’s house into a den of thieves. In two thousand years they’d learned nothing, only how to raise the ante, and she could still feel the lashes.
