Night Vision

by Randy Wayne White

  Blood, Tula realized.

  Inside the girl’s head, the Maiden’s voice warned, “He has a bullet in his lungs. To save him, God will forgive you for anything you must do. I lied to my Inquisitors. Remember?”

  Tula remembered. Jehanne had even warned the vigilante priests that she would mislead them, if necessary, to spare her warrior knights. It was in the book Tula had left back at the trailer park.

  I would rather have you cut my throat than betray my knights by telling you the truth, the saint had vowed.

  Lying to an enemy wasn’t a lie—it was a weapon. And it made Tula furious to see the giant lying on the ground, vulnerable and in pain. It caused her to remember that she had weapons of her own.

  You were born to do this, the Maiden whispered over the noise of Frankie’s voice. You were born to fight evil, to smite the devil down.

  Evil. This woman, Frankie, was evil. Tula had known it from their first meeting. In Harris Squires, the girl had recognized the scars of the redheaded woman’s sins. A wickedness so pervading that it had clouded the man’s goodness. It clung to him like an odor.

  That odor filled the air now, stronger than Frankie’s drunken breath, as Tula looked into the woman’s face and said, “I’m sorry ... I don’t want you to be mad at me. I’m sorry about your blouse—you’re so beautiful, it’s a shame. Because of the way you look, a woman so tall and pretty, it scares someone like me. That’s why I tried to get away.”

  The woman appeared startled. It took her a drunken moment to process what the girl had said. “You’re goddamn right you should be sorry. But maybe the stains’ll come out if I don’t let it dry. I’ve heard if you use warm water—”

  Abruptly, Frankie stopped, as if she’d just realized something. She had been looking at her tank top, pulling it away from her breasts, but then grabbed Tula by the hair and tilted her face upward. “Hey! Where’d you learn to speak such good English? Don’t get the idea you can fool me, you’re not smart enough.”

  The girl stared at Frankie, wanting the redheaded woman’s eyes to concentrate on her, only her. At the convent, Sister Lionza had taught her that focus was required if she hoped to influence a person’s thoughts.

  Tula winced because the woman was hurting her but maintained eye contact, saying, “I don’t blame you for being suspicious, but there’s something you don’t understand.” The girl lowered her voice as if to whisper a secret. “I’ve never had anyone say the things you just said to me. It’s like you were inside my mind. You understand my thoughts. Do you really? It would be nice to know that someone really understood. I feel guilty sometimes—and alone.”

  Slowly, the woman released Tula’s hair, looking at her, her expression puzzled. She watched the girl’s posture change, noting the girlish cant of hips, the innocent dark eyes, before asking, “What I said about not killing Harris, you mean? Or about the tomboy thing?”

  By then, Victorino was close enough for Tula to glance at the man, then say to Frankie, “Maybe later we can talk—just us together? It’s . . . it’s not easy for me to trust anyone, but you seem . . . different than other women.”

  Victorino arrived, throwing his arm around Frankie’s waist, asking, “What’s the problem with the little bitch now?”

  The woman disentangled herself from the man and gave him a shove, demanding, “Where’s the money? Did you find it?”

  The V-man couldn’t believe what he was hearing, the woman mad at him again for no reason. “You been watching the whole time,” he said. “What the hell you think? My boys are doing that job right now, stop worrying. I give them an order, you can bet they gonna do it.”

  “Priceless,” the woman muttered, “a regular genius,” as she placed her hand on Tula’s shoulder. When the girl felt Frankie’s fingernails on her skin—their questioning pressure—Tula walked her hand across the small of the woman’s back and leaned her weight against Frankie’s thigh despite the welling disgust inside her.

  Tula was concentrating on Squires, sending the giant strong thoughts, telling him, Stay alive . . . stay alive . . . stay alive, as Frankie said to V-man, “Tell me something—why’d you have to slap this girl? You’re so goddamn dumb, I’d slap you myself if your face wasn’t already such a mess.”

  The man thrust his wrist out, saying, “The bitch bit me, what you expect?”

  Frankie didn’t even bother to look. She leaned her nose toward Victorino, standing on her toes, Tula noticed, to tower over the man. “Big tough Mexican stud,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Harris almost kicked your ass, that’s what really happened. So you went and did this.” The woman nodded toward Tula.

  “A girl with a face as cute as hers, now I’m going to have to take her inside and get some ice. Why’d you do it? It make you feel like your dick’s bigger to bloody up some defenseless girl? Well, it hasn’t done much for you so far, amigo.”

  Victorino was glaring at the woman, pretending not to notice that one of his soldiers had stopped to listen, while the shorter one—Chapo—held a VHF radio to his mouth, talking to someone.

  As Frankie took the girl’s hand, turning her toward the open door, Chapo called to V-man in Spanish, saying, “Hey! Calavero says some white dude stopped, he’s asking for jelly boy. A redneck in a truck.”

  Tula’s attention vectored, thinking, Tomlinson?

  The girl shook her hand free from the woman, senses probing the darkness beyond the silhouettes of trees. Her mind was alert for the aura of godliness that accompanied the strange man with long hair. Instead, she discerned an unexpected force—something cold out there beneath the stars. It was a focused energy, dispassionate, moving her way. And human . . . Or was it?

  Tula tilted her head, hoping the Maiden would provide confirmation, but received only a vague premonition of violence.

  The V-man had his back to Tula and Frankie, relieved to be conversing with Chapo. A gringo stranger was easier to deal with than the redhead’s nasty attitude. Victorino called in reply, “The Gomer asked for jelly boy by name? What’s a redneck dude want, coming out here this time of night?”

  Frankie, Victorino realized, had stopped at the top of the steps for a reason. Probably waiting until Chapo was done talking so she’d have everyone’s attention before insulting him again. Victorino was so pissed off by the shit the woman had said, he considered walking over and kicking Squires in the ribs—blow off some steam—then demand to know if jelly boy had told anyone that he’d be at the camp tonight.

  Chapo spoke into the radio again, then called, “Dedos flipped the Gomer the finger, I guess. Pissed him off. So maybe the white dude’s a local and that’s why he turned around.”

  Victorino said, “Turned around?” but then realized what Chapo meant. He said, “Don’t waste your time worrying about rednecks. Tell Calavero don’t bother us unless he’s got a real problem. Search jelly boy’s truck, then get to work doing the other shit I told you to do.”

  Chapo nodded, forgetting that the woman didn’t speak Spanish. He’d already been told the V-man didn’t want her to know about the cans of gas they’d brought and the bag of rags so they could torch the hunting camp.

  Frankie, still watching, waited as Victorino changed his mind, saying, “No. First you two help me drag jelly boy in there ...” With his chin, he indicated the wooden steroid shack. Then changed his mind again, saying, “Shit, you haven’t found the money yet? You two drag his fat ass by yourselves. I’ll search the truck.”

  The woman turned to confirm that Tula was inside the RV, doing something in the kitchen—looking for a towel because of her nose, she guessed. Frankie swung the door closed, stepped down onto the sand and wiggled her index finger, motioning Victorino closer.

  “The hell you want?” The man took a couple of careful steps toward the RV, expecting the redhead to take a swing at him or launch into another tirade.

  Instead, Frankie produced a joint, lit it, then offered it to the V-man, her chichis sticking out because she was holding her b
reath after taking a big hit.

  Man, that banano grass smelled good. A couple tokes of cokesoaked weed, that’s exactly what he needed. Victorino leaned so Frankie could put the cigarette between his lips.

  “The girl has a thing for me,” the woman finally said, exhaling and keeping her voice low. “She wants me to be her teacher—sort of sweet, really. You wouldn’t understand. But all the signs are there.”

  Victorino said, “Probably because you talk to her so sweet,” being sarcastic.

  The woman shook her head. “Don’t take it personally. I said all that nasty shit to convince her I’m on her side. But I knew you were smart enough to figure it out. I’d have made a hell of an actress, huh?”

  The expression of confusion on the Mexican’s face. Priceless.

  Frankie grinned, holding her hand out impatiently for the joint as Victorino replied, “Then we still gonna do it, huh? In front of the camera?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get your share.”

  Victorino took a second hit of the banano as he watched the bodybuilder’s head disappear into the shack, the two pandilleros dragging the man by his feet. He said, “What about jelly boy? Do him later or after you have your fun?”

  “Get his clothes off him—at least his pants.” Frankie said, taking the joint from Victorino’s hand. “You meant what you said, didn’t you?”

  Cut the man’s nuts off.

  The V-man replied, “A dude disrespects the Latin Kings—I got no choice in the matter.” He was studying the woman’s face, hoping to see that hungry look again. And there it was: Frankie flicking her tongue to moisten her lips, eyes bright.

  The V-man couldn’t help himself. He kissed the woman, enjoying how she exhaled the last of the banano smoke into his mouth. Frankie let him slip his hand under her bloodstained shirt, too, then drew back and said, “I just wish you made better movies. Last one, you taped the girl’s mouth—you couldn’t hear her scream! What’s the point of that?”

  Now the know-it-all woman was being nasty again, telling Victorino that he sucked at making movies, too.

  The V-man was thinking, This is one very crazy gringa. High from smoking coke and grass, and probably thirsty for more Crown Royal, the woman’s mood swings were really pissing him off.

  In that instant, Victorino decided he was done with Frankie. As of tonight. Wait any longer, he realized, and she would want part of the sixty grand, once they found it. No ... she would want it all.

  The realization made Victorino want to smile. He was picturing himself using the box cutter on Frankie, too, but only after reminding her why it was better if he didn’t tape her mouth.

  You’re the one told me how to make movies, he would tell the woman. No ... he’d say, I could make it easier on you, but I don’t want to disappoint my audience.

  But the V-man kept that to himself, playing it cool, even when Frankie asked him, “What are you grinning at? You look like the cat that just ate the bird.”

  Whatever the hell that meant.

  She started to walk to the RV. “I’m going to see the girl. Get started on Harris. When I hear him screaming, I’ll know it’s time to come out and play.”

  Tula was inside the RV, rushing to follow the Maiden’s instructions and also trying to come up with some ideas of her own. She had to escape and save Harris Squires. But how?

  It was dark inside the trailer, even with the lights of the truck tunneling through the curtains, so first Tula found three candles, lit them, then got busy. Everywhere she went, everything she did, she ran. There was no telling how long Frankie would be out there talking to Victorino. Soon, the woman would come inside, expecting the girl to share her secrets—and her body, too.

  Tula had known from the start what Frankie wanted. The same with Victorino, with his vicious gold teeth. The two of them were plotting together, probably outside right now, forging an agreement about who would take her body first.

  It made Tula queasy, the thought of Frankie or the Mexican touching her. But she was now aware that she might have to allow it to happen. Jehanne had already promised Tula God’s forgiveness. Whatever was required to win the redheaded woman’s protection, and her help, was permissible.

  The thought of submitting herself to Frankie, though, was disgusting. But her feelings no longer mattered. Tula was resolved to do whatever was necessary to save Squires and find a way for the two of them to escape. It was what the Maiden was telling her to do.

  However, the Maiden’s written words were also strong in the girl’s mind: I would rather die than to do what I know is a sin.

  Tula had repeated the phrase so often that it was part of who she was. She believed she could endure anything rather than disappoint God. But those words, even when whispered as a vow, did not apply to the life of another human being. Allow Harris Squires to die just to spare herself embarrassment and pain?

  Tula couldn’t do that. If she could save the giant by surrendering her body to evil, she would. In the meantime, her brain was working hard to devise another way.

  The RV door had a tiny window, and the girl stood on her toes long enough to confirm that Frankie and Victorino had moved away from the RV so no one could hear them. The woman was just lighting a marijuana cigarette, which suggested that she was in no hurry. Tula knew that it was marijuana because many people smoked mota in her village, even married women if they were suffering cramps during their periods. That’s what the women claimed, anyway, although the girl was dubious.

  Tula thought about locking the door, then decided against it. Frankie had believed her lie about wanting to speak privately. It would only make her suspicious. So the girl hurried to the kitchenette to search for weapons.

  Help yourself, and God will help you, Jehanne had written. Act, and God will act through you, she had counseled her knights.

  Tula was looking in cupboards, opening drawers, hoping to find an ax or a large knife, or even a gun. Although she had never fired a weapon, the girl was willing to try. But could she kill another human being? Tula tried to imagine how it would feel, as the Maiden reminded her, These are our enemies. You must fight.

  That was as true, and as real, as the revulsion Tula felt for the redheaded woman. Still ... to sin against God by hurting another human being. It was a difficult decision to make.

  But then Tula reminded herself that the Maiden had carried the equivalent of a gun—a sword she had found behind the altar of a church and carried into battle. Jehanne had told her inquisitors that her sword had never shed blood, yet she had also warned that she would lie to them, if necessary. And there were witnesses who swore the Maiden had used her sword to kill Englishmen, and also to punish prostitutes.

  Tula pictured herself stabbing Frankie . . . then imagined the woman lying on the ground, dying, as the evil inside her bled out onto the sand.

  If it meant saving herself and the man who had fought for her, the girl told herself that she would have to do it. Even so, she still wasn’t convinced she actually could.

  Tula didn’t find an ax, or a gun, but the paring knife she had used earlier was in the sink, the blade bent but sharp. The girl wrapped a dishrag around the blade and hid the thing in her back pocket.

  Squires’s wrists and ankles had been taped. She would need a knife to free the man—if she could invent an excuse to be alone with him. But why would Frankie or Victorino allow such a thing?

  Thinking about it was discouraging, until the Maiden’s voice spoke again, telling the girl, God is with you. He will show you the way.

  Cupping a candle in her hands, Tula trotted down the hall to the bedroom. There, a steel locker had been broken open—Victorino’s men had done it, she guessed—but there were only boxes of shotgun shells, no weapons.

  Next, reluctantly, she checked the strange room with the bed and mirrors where there had been a video camera and a stack of obscene photos.

  Victorino’s men had been there, too. The camera was gone. The photos were scattered across the floor, dozens o
f them. Tula tried not to look at them as she searched under the bed, then a tiny closet, but she didn’t want to step on the pictures, either—it was like walking on someone’s grave.

  As she moved through the room, Tula winced at each new obscenity. The eyes of unknown women peered up at her, communicating a secret agony that was as apparent to Tula as the grotesque poses the women affected for the lens. They were young girls, some not much older than herself, each brown face forever trapped in a frozen silence from which Tula perceived screams of pain, of fear, of desperation.

  Then, suddenly, the girl’s legs went out from under her, and she found herself sitting on the floor, weeping, holding the candle in one hand, a photo in the other.

  From the photograph, despite the woman’s nakedness and despite her leering mask, a familiar face stared back at Tula. In disbelief, the girl turned away from the picture, then looked at it again, hoping to discover that she was wrong.

  No ... her eyes hadn’t tricked her. What Tula saw was a loving likeness of herself, the girl’s own first memories of home and kindness and safety.

  It was her mother.

  Still pinned to Tula’s shirt was the miniature doll that she had found earlier. The girl touched her fingers to the doll as she studied the photograph, her mind trying to ignore her mother’s shocking nakedness by focusing on the face she loved so much. Familiar odors came into the girl’s mind, then memories of her mother’s touch. Tula had been crying softly, but now she began to sob.

  How had this happened?

  Tula remembered the woman at the church in Immokalee saying her mother had gone to work for a man who made movies. But her mother never would have consented to something like this. Trade her dignity ... her very soul ... for money? No, impossible. Even more impossible because, also in the photo, a man’s reflection was visible in a mirror—not his face but his naked anatomy.