Thirty

“What are we going to do?” Misty said.

Crate circled the burn pile. He carried a red aluminum gas can and swung it back and forth, splashing gasoline onto the corpses, saturating their clothes and filling their gaping mouths and skulls. The wind changed, and the stink of gas and death washed over her. She took a few steps back, but that did no good—the smell was everywhere.

“We’re going to take care of this,” he said, starting to cap the spout, thinking differently, and then pouring a little more fuel onto the fat man’s legs. Bilbo Baggins kept his distance.

“You know what I mean,” she said through clenched teeth. The wind changed, but the smell lingered. In the south, dark clouds tumbled together. They were in for another round of storms—heavier than the last, by the looks of it.

Crate capped the can and took a few steps backward. Setting it down, he fished a pack of matches from his pocket. The match flared up between his fingers. He flicked his wrist, and a surge of fire engulfed the bodies, which crackled and hissed. Misty watched as Charles leaned forward, his hair ablaze, a thin line of dark fluid running from his gaping mouth and bubbling upon his chest, his clawed hands curling toward his chest.

She looked down at her feet, and eventually Crate was beside her and leaning in close. She didn’t have to look at him to know that his eyes were on the fire.

“Where is your gun, woman?”

Misty looked down at her pants, certain for some reason that the gun had been crammed into her right hip pocket.

“I think I left it on the table inside.”

“That’s smart,” he said, shaking his head. She winced, certain that he was going to hit her. It had been years since he’d given her a shiner, but the look in his eyes made it seem like yesterday.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“A few beers,” she said.

“A few beers, yeah. You need to lay off for a while, Misty.”

He rarely called her by her real name anymore—these days it was all woman and you and hey and, when she was lucky, honey—and whenever he did say that, she could not help but feel a little swell of some kind.

“You can’t kill them,” she said, and he stiffened beside her. She felt his gaze upon her.

“We can’t keep taking in strays.”

“I know, but you heard them—they’re leaving tomorrow.”

“That’s a good truck,” Crate said, eyeing the newcomer’s rig. “I can drive that truck. We may want to use that truck.”

“Jesus, Crate,” she said, and it occurred to her that she could march right into the store, right now, and tell Cardo and the colored trucker that Crate was crazy, that he meant to shoot them and take the truck. They’d gun him down before he got one foot in the store. She could do that, but she wouldn’t. There was another way, of course—she just had to get his guns, and that would be that. Without his guns, he was just a skinny old fart with a filthy bird’s nest of a beard hanging from his face.

“Jesus nothing, woman,” he said. “I looked in the truck. There’s a lot of food in there.”

“There’s a lot of food in the store.”

“Not for long, if we keep opening our doors to everyone.”

“What did you want me to do? Cardo’s a cop, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, and his buddies are lying dead out back. All it takes is for one of them to get nosy, and we’re done for.”

“They’re leaving,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “Just let them. Don’t do anything. Okay?”

He drew his chin back, sized her up, like he was wondering if maybe she had just threatened him. She wasn’t sure she hadn’t.

The fire raged, pumping smoke into the air in a churning black column. Crate had been right about the grease fire: liquid fat boiled out of Haggarty’s corpse and pooled flaming around the burn pile.

Feeling Crate’s eyes boring into her, she went inside. Cardo was nodding off at the table, and Stacy and the trucker were talking in hushed tones—she was looking at him as if it were all she could do to keep from fucking him right then and there. Not that Misty could blame her.

She showed Cardo to the back, where he lay on the couch with his upper body on the two remaining seat cushions and his feet in the dirty, coin- and dirt-filled hollow where the now burning third cushion had once rested.

“Want the TV on?” She asked.

“Hunh?” He said, looking at her with confused, bleary eyes.

“TV?”

“God, no,” the cop said. “That damned eye has always freaked me out.”

She laughed once. “Me too,” she said. Cardo mumbled something in response, and was silent. He rolled onto his side, his back to her, and she stepped around the couch and to the window. Her feet felt too heavy, and her head felt like it was somewhere else, far away and spinning. Crate was right—she needed to stop drinking.

She parted the curtains and peered out. Tasgal’s car was gone. She wasn’t sure when Crate had moved it, but he had. The garage door was closed, and that was that. Cardo would never know.

Feeling a little better, a little more at ease, she went upstairs and into her bedroom. She sat down and knocked back the bottle of whisky she’d slipped under her side of the bed, telling herself that it would be her final hit of the day and realizing as she drew it from her lips that Charles had been the last person to drink from it.

Charles. Stupid annoying Charles who didn’t mind how she looked naked, who went at her like a young man and who never complained, not even when she pushed his face down between her legs and told him to go to town. Charles, who’d wept and cried while Karlatos and his pals had begun to clean the place out, and who’d fallen silent as they’d peeled away Stacy’s clothes. Charles, who hadn’t looked away.

She understood. Part of her understood everything—his fear, his cowardice, even his lust. What else was a coward to do in such a situation, but weep and beg? And what else should such a man—a man who’d probably never touched beautiful flesh in his life, not even once—do when witness to such a sight, but stare?

And yet she felt nothing, nothing at all. He was gone, now little more than ash and bones, and she felt nothing. She took another long draw from the bottle, capped it, and returned it to its place under the bed.

There was a sound, muffled and familiar. She held her breath, tilted her head to one side, as if that actually helped one to hear, and there it was. It took her a few more seconds to realize what it was: Crate’s dog was barking.

The whisky burning in her chest, she stood up and looked around, realizing that she’d forgotten where she’d placed her gun. The bedside table was empty, as was the bed.

“Stupid,” she said, remembering that it was downstairs, on one of the tables. She took a step toward the bedroom door, and that’s when Crate’s rifle popped two times. By the time she reached the stairs, gripping the railing and walking nearly sideways, with her shoulder pressed to the wall, Crate had squeezed off three more rounds.