~ * ~
Cole put away his gun. He dabbed at the wounds on his jaw, which bled freely, as head wounds liked to do. A cold feeling pulsed in their center, indicative of transfer. Hector’s head had taken a trip, but not completely alone. A little smidgeon of Cole
Szerszen
had gone with it, as well as some pieces of the pretty girl Paul had sent.
Cole was better now at controlling his personal loss, but still had a long way to go. From what he’d seen, Paul was capable of preventing the wounds altogether. Perhaps Cole could stand to learn a thing or two from him. Unfortunately.
Fighting through fatigue, Cole centered himself. He’d overdone it. Paul turned to
Chuy
, who still stood there like a posed action figure. “Where did Ramon go?” asked Paul.
His brother’s corpse appeared to be the only thing of notice.
Paul’s voice firmed. “Hey, tell me where that guy Ramon went.”
Chuy
glanced at Cole. “You... melted him. Hector…”
“Kid, Ramon? Where is he?” Cole staggered over.
The boy’s eyes still couldn’t unlock. “Ramon changed all of a sudden. Where’s Hector’s head at?”
“Where is
Ramon
at?”
“Going to California—
Reche
Canyon, Hector said. “How did you—? Why did you do that?”
Cole almost felt like laughing through his adrenaline, but he bit his lip. “The Church didn’t need Hector. That’s why.” He paused and then added, “The envelope on the floor has money in it. Use it on something worthwhile. It’s yours.”
Paul silently followed Cole outside, pointing the gun into every hall along the way. Cole felt his heart drop south faster with every step. He was close to passing out and didn’t expect Paul to try and catch him if he fell. He needed water, he needed food, he needed more air. The walls of the world were shattering and everything was coming down. Only when they got back to the limo and he saw Melissa’s face again, did Cole feel any better.
Still no letter. This was getting serious. Even though they had some spending money now, Martin wasn’t at ease. The Messenger was never this late. What if they missed a letter? That happened one time before, four or five years back. They arrived in the target city too late and the Church set a trap. Martin blew out his knee and took a bullet to the deltoid. Teresa almost got mauled to death by Cloth’s children. They essentially had to push in all their chips to break even. By a narrow margin, they won their lives. Martin couldn’t say the same for the Heart of the Harvest, a sixty-year-old investment banker named Morton Elisa; after taking the sacrifice from the old man’s chest, Cloth didn’t even leave remains that appeared human.
Martin thought of that year as a big fluke though. Usually the Messenger delivered no matter when or where. Despite his optimistic delusions, Martin expected they’d find a letter sooner or later. He prayed, however, they found one before the thirtieth. A day to prepare wasn’t realistic, especially given Teresa’s condition.
The blue toilet water had magically cycled green a moment earlier. Inside the rippling surface Martin’s face begged for a shave—soon he’d have a full blown beard. The father he no longer knew looked back at him with kind, sad eyes.
You know I love you, right?
Those parting words from his dad had been enough for the rest of Martin’s life. He didn’t have to go see his father to be at peace. As a kid his parents had always been ghosts anyhow. So let them stay that way. Poor Teresa should have known better than to dabble in the past.
Martin flushed the green water and went to wash his hands. Gazing beyond the chalky lime deposits and fingerprint signatures, another mirror-Martin met him eye to eye. The toilet water version had looked so much better, not this exhausted man plagued with worry. He pulled down his eyelids with his pointer fingers. Even the red hidden beneath had a tired, influenza color.
Quit feeling sorry for yourself,
he thought.
Think about what Teresa’s going through and suck it up buddy
. He snatched a hanging paper towel. Just one. Conserve. After the brown towel came apart in damp shreds he relented and took a second one to finish.
As Martin returned to their table, restaurant life rattled deep in his head: the clicking plates, the scraping forks, the blithe chatting—it all sounded like the digestive system of an enormous, annoying organism. And probably smelled like one too. He’d seen too many good diners and too many bad diners to know the difference. Dead ahead a skinny kid let a whole mouthful of hash browns tumble onto his plate in a steamy white pile. His mother silently reprimanded him by stabbing his fork back into the lump to force feed him.
Okay, so this was a bad diner.
Since their visit to her mother, Teresa’s coughing and retching had worsened. She waited for him in the red booth, a serene lady bathed in crosses of sunlight, and even though her fist went to her lips for a silent fit, Teresa’s eyes were so alive they looked clairvoyant. The burden was lifted. It’d been a long time, but he’d waited for this moment patiently, waited for a glimpse of a healthy Teresa again.
The leather seat blew out underneath Martin. He shoveled down a pair of sunny-side eggs, short stack of buttermilk pancakes with banana syrup, and crispy hash browns (which scalded his tongue). He conceded that even though the place didn’t have cage-free eggs and fair-trade coffee, he wouldn’t let mediocrity ruin the relief every bite brought. He started to think they’d be okay. No matter what.
Teresa fondly watched him as he gobbled the parsley and fan of kale that decorated the plate. The level of oatmeal in her bowl had not lowered more than a centimeter. After drinking a quick sip of orange juice, he set his cup down and rotated it with the sides of his fingers. “I’ve pretended I don’t care anymore, but you know how lousy I am at putting up fronts. I think we should do as the doctor recommended and take the next step.”
She glanced away, her face falling out of the sunlight. “Martin,
goddamnit
already... let’s not bicker right now. Let’s not talk about chemo and radiation or any shit I won’t be doing. Can’t you get it? We can’t go that route. The Messenger doesn’t even like us to stay in one town for more than a week. Just forget about my lung and try to focus on what really matters. Take a look, it’s all around you.”
“Who says we give in? I’ll deal with Halloween like I deal with it every year.”
“You’re getting loud.”
He reached across the table and took her hands, tried not to read into why they were so cold in such a stuffy restaurant. “You were a fighter when we first met. Maybe the next doctor will actually help. It’s about time someone helped
us
for a change. Isn’t it worth trying?”
She pulled her hand up from under the weight of his. “I’m just slowing down after running so long. It’s natural to slow down.”
“You’re as old as you feel.”
Teresa made a patronizing
how cute
sound and pinched his cheek. He rolled his eyes and she shifted in her seat, undefeated. “Look, I’m not trying to piss you off, but I’m gonna go outside and have a smoke while you pay.”
“Go ahead then.”
She leveled her dark blue eyes at him. “I’ve cheated death for thirty Octobers, Martin. I don’t have the energy to fight something else. Let me be.”
Teresa scooted down the seat and stopped.
“Excuse me, folks.” Their waitress stood there in her rose uniform and dangling grape earrings. She set the check on the table. “You folks are all set—I’ll take that up whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks.” Martin slid the black folder his way.
“There’s also this.” The waitress placed an orange envelope on the table. “The manager just told me or I would’ve brought it sooner. I guess one of your friends left this off earlier today.”
“Our friend?” asked Martin. “What did the person look like?”
The woman blinked back at him, speechless. She
pursed
her lips and shrugged, and then shuffled off.
After they paid and were outside, walking back to the van, Teresa laughed a little. “You asked her what the Messenger looks like. You still do that?”
“So?”
“Nothing, you’re just a broken record.”
“It doesn’t hurt asking,” he stated. “Maybe one of them will remember. I just want to know.”
“It doesn’t mean you ever will, Martin.”
He decided to let it go. They got into the van and drove down the blacktop road to a bleached out gas station. As they pulled up, he noticed a pair of stout biker women trading a muffled conversation the next pump over. He wondered what they could be talking about. Tattoo sleeves? Harleys? Tailgate parties at the football game? Leather chaps? Pabst Blue Ribbon? Mullets? None of those stereotypes probably, but at least it all sounded somewhat normal—safe. He liked that notion.
He took a deep breath of desert air and gazed to the road that stretched beyond them, a bitter gray line of cigarette ash flattened by time. He felt the heaviness of the drive before them, even though it might only be a few hours. His entire adult life had been spent on freeways and highways and
tollways
and side streets and thoroughfares and parkways and boulevards and lanes and avenues. How many red lights had they seen? How many road construction sites had they passed? How many oil changes? New places even looked familiar now when they arrived.
Teresa grunted as she fell into the seat. “All gassed up. Open the thing up for
chrissakes
, so we can get going already.”
He tore through the top of the intense orange envelope. The single page of vellum unsheathed like a paper blade. Teresa leaned in with him and they read the deep typewriter font burned into the pale beige surface.
TAKE NO MORE DETOURS AND HURRY WEST TO COLTON, CALIFORNIA. ROOM AT THE
HAPPY MOON TRAVEL LODGE
ON MOUNT VERNON AVE. STAY PUT IN THE ROOM AND KEEP UNDER THE COVER OF STORM CLOUDS.
REST WELL. NEXT LETTER SOON.
—
Messenger
“The letters have never mentioned
resting
before,” said Teresa.
“Or storm clouds,” Martin added, tapping the touch-screen of their portable GPS. The multi-colored map pivoted under a gauzy film of leftover fingerprints. “Says Colton’s six hours off.”
“What do you think it means about resting?” she asked.
“I’m just going to assume we were supposed to be there earlier.”
“Don’t bring up the trip to my mother’s.”
“I’m not, let’s just get to Colton.” He continued stabbing the GPS.
Teresa took the envelope and pulled free a banded stack of thousand-dollar bills. An ATM card was tucked under the yellow band, which had a PIN scrawled across it. She peeled the fresh bills over and counted. “Looks like sixty grand.”
He turned the ignition. “We got a raise this year. Sweet!”
She took out a clove and dabbed it on her lower lip. He stared at her and Teresa chuckled. She shook the near-empty lighter and coaxed a flame out. Through a racing plume, she traced the foggy landscape outside, ignoring the severity of his gaze. He gave up and moved his eyes in the direction hers had gone. The desert rolled on, a dry echo caught between the earth and sky; it was endless, like them. They were always moving, all year long, some of the Messenger’s jobs small and some large, but only at the last thrashings of October did they see their real purpose. No year had ever gone by without him doubting its worth though, and with age the doubts haunted every crack in the road.
The clove cigarette crackled.
“What kind of person do you think the Heart of the Harvest will be this year?” Martin’s was only half-interested in his own question.
Teresa shrugged, in the moment incapable of caring either. When they met a Heart there was little choice in the matter. “Can you put on Sam Cooke?” she asked. “Please.”
He located the album on the CD changer and soon they were drifting on the sad-hopeful sound of
A Change is Gonna Come
. Martin knew the song was about civil rights but he pretended it meant something unique to only them. He pretended all the way to California.
Paul watched the fleet of limousines slither down the desert hill. Melissa drove, silently dismissing his presence. Paul didn’t give a fuck.
Let the bookworm mope.
He sank deeper into thought as he traced the caravan of limousines. Intermittently the sun struck bumpers and projected faint orange dazzles between the black exteriors. After surviving last night and this morning, this wasn’t an image Paul wanted to endure. He bent his head down and shuttered. The marrow seeds spread their dry-ice roots and every time a blossom opened, cold napalm filled his bones. He couldn’t believe his old pal Justin had gone through this. It made Paul slightly regret dismissing him as feeble.
A day later and Paul was watching people lose their heads just from a touch, and worse, he was beginning to understand what it took to accomplish something like that. Before sunlight had even painted the Mojave, Cole took him into the rolling dark morning and taught him two mental exercises. Both were meant to control the blossoms’ growth. The first was a color game. Concentrate on the spectrum, separate the colors, one at a time, and then two and three at a time, and then put
all
colors together. Darkness formed a wall against the barrage of information flooding into their minds from the Old Domain.