After: The Shock (9 page)

“Mister
White?” Jorge called.

Willard
didn’t move.

Maybe
he’s sick. Maybe he was afraid to be alone so he spent his time with Old
Grand-Dad.

Jorge
stepped into the loft, one palm riding the butt of the machete’s grip. He
wasn’t sure someone could stay drunk for three days, even Willard.

“Something
bad happened, Mr. White,” Jorge said, louder than he normally would have. He
wanted the man to wake up, even though that would mean Willard would be in
charge, because Mr. Wilcox made sure his Mexicans knew their place. And if he
brought Willard White into the house, Willard would become the new Mr. Wilcox.

The
sunlight was soft on the hay, creating a golden bed around Willard. Wire mesh
covered the windows, which allowed the breeze to drift through and push the
chaff around. The hush of the farm was unnatural, and even the frantic chicken
had fallen quiet.

“Mr.
Wilcox and the others…they are dead,” Jorge said, now ten feet from Willard.
The man didn’t seem to be breathing, and Jorge was afraid again. If people
could still die from whatever had happened, that meant Marina and Rosa were at
risk.

He
suddenly wanted very much to be back in the house.

But
he had to know.

He
knelt by the man, sniffing. There was no sweet stench of liquor about Willard,
although the man’s dirty clothes and body odor were plenty strong.

Jorge
touched his shoulder. He whispered, “Mr. White?”

The
man turned suddenly, grabbing Jorge’s wrist with knotty, calloused fingers.
With a yelp, Jorge tried to fall back, but Willard clung with a fierce
intensity. The wide eyes glittered, the pupils almost completely filling his
sockets, and the remaining whites were streaked with scarlet.

Willard’s
mouth moved, and Jorge saw a large cavity in one of the yellow molars.
“Yuh…yuh…”

“Yes?”
Jorge said, still trying to pry his arm free.

Willard
wheezed and brought his other hand from the depths of the hay. It held a
ballpeen hammer. That must have been what had been hitting the floorboards.

“You’re
afraid, too,” Jorge said.

Now
Willard was smiling, although the twisted mouth was open far too wide.
“Yuh…yuh…”

“Let
me help you up,” Jorge said.

Willard
swung the ball-peen hammer while tugging Jorge toward him. Jorge swerved just
in time. The hammer bounced off his upper arm, sending a dull, icy knot through
his body.

“Mr.
White?” Jorge twisted away, but Willard kept his grip on Jorge’s wrist, cutting
off the circulation.

Willard
still grinned, but there was no humor in his brightly sparkling eyes. The man
hadn’t blinked at all and specks of straw were stuck to his eyeballs. Willard
raised the hammer again, unable to muster a good swing because he was still
lying down.

The
hammer came close to Jorge’s skull, close enough that he felt its wind, and he
unsheathed the machete with his free hand. Willard was drawing the hammer back
for another blow when Jorge struck.

Willard’s
forearm wasn’t as limber as the saplings Jorge weeded from the Christmas tree
fields. The machete’s blade cleaved the flesh and struck bone with a wet,
splintering sound. Blood spattered from the wound and onto Jorge’s face, but
Willard didn’t release his grip.

Worst
of all, Willard was still grinning, as if the chop was a joke between
co-workers killing time. “Yuh…yuh…” the man said, with no passion or pain in
his voice.

It
was when Willard drew the hammer back for another blow that Jorge chopped
again, scared and fierce. This time, the shattered bone yielded. Willard’s
stump spouted thick jets of blood in rhythm with his heartbeat, and the
grizzled farmhand sat and watched it with detached curiosity.

Jorge
fell backward now that Willard’s weight wasn’t serving as an anchor. His arm
was heavy. He wondered if he had been injured by the hammer, but when he looked
down, he saw Willard’s shredded hand still circling his wrist.

Horrified,
Jorge tried to shake off the amputated limb. It wouldn’t budge. Jorge tucked
the bloody machete in his armpit and started peeling back the fingers. One of
them twitched and wriggled as if it had a mind of its own.

Finally,
he shucked it free and it bounced off the hard wooden planks.

As
Jorge ran to the door, he gave one last glance at Willard White. The man stood
and began staggering again, as if Jorge had never been there. Blood dribbled
from his ragged wound, but his face showed no shock. He dropped the hammer and
it made its trademark
thunk
.

“Mr.
White?” Jorge said, desperate to see the slightest human emotion in that
unshaven face.

Willard
turned toward the door. “Yuh…yuh….”

The
spidery hand still twitched. Jorge stepped forward and drove his boot into it,
sending it spinning across the floor to Willard, who picked it up and looked at
it, then stuck it at the end of his arm like a child trying to fix a broken
doll.

Jorge
slammed the door and dropped the hasp into place, breathing hard. He found some
baling wire and twisted a loop to secure the hasp. Willard White could easily
remove the chicken wire from the windows if he wanted, but Jorge hadn’t seen
any glint of remaining intelligence in the man’s face.

Jorge
hurried down the stairs, wondering if he should remove his shirt so Marina wouldn’t see the blood stains. He couldn’t come up with a convincing lie, and he
still was unsure of the truth.

All
he knew was that he didn’t want to leave his wife and daughter alone if men
such as Willard White existed.

If
he’s even still a man…

In
the house were guns and ammunition, and even if Jorge didn’t know what was
happening, he could defend his family. He gripped the machete, too frantic to
holster it.

After
the shadowed dimness of the barn, the sunlight was blinding. He shaded his eyes
and headed for the house.

He
stopped after a single step.

Two
men stood between him and the front porch, their faces as slack as Willard’s,
their eyes devoid of emotion but glittering with mad energy.

CHAPTER
NINE

“
Hola
,”
Jorge said.

The
man on the left was dressed like one of Mr. Wilcox’s banker friends, although his
suit was rumpled, the sleeves ragged and his necktie twisted to one side. He
was short, fat, and balding, with thick hands and pasty, wormlike fingers. He
was a man who’d never performed manual labor.

The
other man was close to the porch steps. Despite the heat, he was dressed in
brown coveralls and there were dark blotches along the front.

Blood?

The
man in coveralls was tall and lean, his face pocked and stubbled. He looked
familiar, with his slicked-back hair, green baseball cap, and thick eyebrows, but
Jorge was pretty sure the man wasn’t one of the farmhands. Perhaps he worked on
one of the construction crews.

Neither
man responded to his greeting. Jorge lifted the machete, which had been
dangling along his right thigh. Jorge wasn’t sure whether they were sick like
Willard White. They didn’t look dangerous, but their quietness disturbed him.

He
pointed the machete at the banker and waved the blade down the driveway,
indicating that the man should go.

There
is no car. How long has he been here?

Maybe
the man had walked from town, but that would have taken a day. Jorge couldn’t
imagine the plump man walking the length of the gravel drive, much less the ten
miles to town. Not in those fancy leather shoes.

“You,”
Jorge said to the man in coveralls. “Move away.”

The
man turned his back and started up the steps. The banker finally blinked, the
first motion to cross his face since Jorge had emerged from the barn.

Jorge
pictured little Marina inside the house, and Rosa frightened of the noises
outside and unable to hide it. “Stop,” he said, afraid to shout.

The
man in coveralls ignored him, crossing the porch to the front door, his heavy
boots drumming the wooden boards. Unlike Willard, the man in coveralls moved
with purpose, although his gait was jerky and unbalanced.

He’s
trying to get in.

Ignoring
the banker, who at one time would have commanded almost as much polite respect
as Mr. Wilcox, Jorge ran for the porch. If he moved fast enough, the man in
coveralls wouldn’t reach the door.

But
as Jorge raised the machete and prepared to launch himself up the steps, he
sensed motion to the left. The banker closed in with a speed that belied his
girth. He slammed into Jorge, wrapping him in a hug and knocking them both to
the ground. The machete flew from Jorge’s fingers.

Jorge
rolled, scrabbling for purchase on the lawn. The banker gripped him around one
thigh, and Jorge kicked backward, pounding into the man’s shoulder. The man’s
face was pink with effort. He appeared to be grinning.

“You
blanco culito
,” Jorge muttered, not wanting to raise his voice.

The
“white little asshole” clung to Jorge, his expensive jacket ripping. Jorge
kicked and spider-crawled backwards. The crazy attacker still clung to him.

The
man in coveralls reached the door and rattled the knob.

While
the banker was definitely afflicted with whatever had contaminated Willard, the
man in coveralls acted with intent and intelligence. Jorge considered him as
the more dangerous of the two, but first he’d have to deal with the banker.

Jorge
used a trick he’d learned while wrestling the boars. Mr. Wilcox made them
castrate the young male pigs that weren’t needed for breeding. Jorge resented
the blood and violence of the act, but now he was grateful for the experience.

Treat
the banker like a pig
.

The
banker didn’t have the strength of a young boar. Jorge straddled the banker’s
upper chest with his legs, squeezing him in a scissors grip. The banker
bellowed and pushed forward, scraping Jorge’s back but moving them both closer
to the machete.

The
man in coveralls slammed his fist against the front door.

If
you make Marina cry, I will castrate you
.

And
that was when Jorge recognized him. He was the farrier who visited once a month
and trimmed the horses’ hooves and replaced their metal shoes. While the banker
had been inside the house, probably sipping lemonade or brown liquor in the
den, the farrier had no right seeking entry. Workers never went inside the
Wilcox house.

The
machete lay five feet out of reach, and the banker wasn’t letting Jorge gain
any traction. Jorge squeezed the man harder between his knees. His thighs
trembled with fear, rage, and exertion.

The
farrier pounded on the door with both fists, the noise like a horse galloping
across a wooden bridge.

Jorge
thought he heard a scream inside the house.

That
would be Rosa. Marina is the calm one. Marina would never break her promise to
be good
.

He
was almost as angry at Rosa as he was the two men. Marina would be an American,
not so weak with her emotions.

But
the scream fueled him. He grabbed the banker’s head and slammed his face into
the ground. A soft
merp
of surprise flew from the man’s mouth on impact.
He hardly seemed to notice the pain.

The
banker’s head lifted. Those dry eyes looked right through Jorge and into the Badlands beyond everything.

The
man’s pink skull enraged him. The banker became the symbol of all the times
he’d had to stand with his hat in his hands, all the nodding and sweating in
the immigration offices, all the frowns and smirks in the feed store when Jorge
picked up farm supplies. The banker was bacon in a world where Jorge could only
afford salted fatback.

Jorge
punched at the man, banging against one rubbery ear. He drew back for a second
blow, but the banker crawled forward when Jorge’s legs unclenched.

Now
the banker was on top of him like a lover, a stench of musky sweat mingled with
faint fancy cologne. Jorge swung again but the blow was stunted. It bounced off
the man’s shoulder.

“Get
off,” Jorge grunted at the man.

The
banker wriggled higher onto Jorge’s chest, his bulk making it difficult for
Jorge to toss him aside. Then his breath was on Jorge’s face and it stank like
a barn stall.

He’s
smiling. Like this is American football.

Jorge
angled his neck until he could see the farrier at the door. The man had stopped
pounding and was fishing in one of the thigh pockets of the coveralls. He
emerged with a set of metal pinchers, a tool used to trim hooves. Jorge shoved
the banker as the farrier clamped the tool on the door lock and began twisting
with a
skree
of metal.

The
banker lunged forward again, his glistening forehead now right at Jorge’s chin,
and Jorge had to fight an urge to bite into pink flesh.

Instead,
he used the momentum to slide them both forward another foot until his fingers found
the machete handle.

He
waggled the blade through the air, unable to get a clean arc. The side of the
steel blade slapped against the banker’s back with a
thwack
. The banker,
apparently not able to understand that the blade could harm him, ignored it and
continued to grind himself against Jorge as if to smother him.

Jorge
got a better swing the second time and the blade cleaved through the fancy
jacket and struck meat. Blood spouted from the wound.

The
banker’s face curdled in confusion. Jorge hewed another opening across the
man’s back.

Now
the banker relaxed his grip enough for Jorge to kick free and roll to his
knees, just in time to see the door open in front of the farrier.

He’s
broken in
—

Jorge’s
heart fluttered in fear. He used the adrenalin to hurtle toward the porch,
blood dripping from the machete blade. He was off balance, the bright sun
blinding him, and the creaking of the door hinges seemed as loud as an animal’s
scream.

He
wasn’t going to make it in time. The farrier entered the house, the wicked tool
dangling at his side.

He
waited for Rosa’s scream. He leaped up the steps and raised the machete.

But
before Jorge could enter, a loud
ka-doom
poured through the doorway.
Jorge entered to the acrid smell of gun smoke in the air.

The
farrier lay facedown on the floor, a patch of crimson blossoming across the
back of his coveralls. Rosa stood by the kitchen counter, the shotgun in her
slender arms.

A
blue thread of smoke curled from the barrel as if she’d just burned the toast
instead of killing a man.

Not
a man. A thing. A pig.

“Marina?” Jorge asked her.

“In
the closet.”

Where
the guns were. Jorge pictured Rosa shoving Marina in there and grabbing the
gun. Maybe he didn’t know his wife at all.

“Who
is he?” Rosa asked.

“The
horseman.”

“He’s
dead?”

Jorge
nudged the corpse with his boot. It lay like a sack of rotted potatoes. “
Sí
.”

“Who
are these people?”

“Something
has changed.” Jorge laid the bloody machete on the granite countertop, crossed
the kitchen, and opened the pantry door. Marina sat hunched on a cardboard case
of wine, her hands over her ears, hair trailing over her face.

He
knelt and brushed her hair away until she peeked at him.

“Is
the bad man gone?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t trembling or whiny, just
cautious, like she’d done something bad but wasn’t sure what.

“Yes,
tomatillo
, he’s gone.”

“It’s
not like on TV, is it? Where the bad man comes back after you think he’s gone?”

Jorge
hugged her, glancing back into the kitchen. From there, he could see the
farrier’s feet. “No, this isn’t TV.”

But
he’d forgotten about the banker. Jorge had delivered several vicious blows with
the blade but probably not enough to kill. “Stay here, okay?
Un momento
.”

He
was slipping, using Spanish. Marina would never become American if he didn’t
control himself. She nodded and even gave him a tired smile. He reached behind
her and took the hunting rifle with the big scope. He didn’t know what caliber
it was, but the shell he’d put in the chamber was nearly as thick as his pinky.

Yes,
smile in the face of danger and you will fit in here. Because America is a dangerous land.

He
closed the pantry door and Rosa was waiting, still cradling the shotgun. Her
eyes were wide and wet with fear, but her jaw was firm.

“Is
the other one dead?” she said, quietly so that Marina couldn’t hear, although
it seemed as if the boom of the gun still echoed off the kitchen tiles.

“I
need to check.”

“I
saw through the window. And when he came up on the porch—”

“You
did well. Stay while I check on the other one, the banker.”

“Will
we be in trouble? For killing these white men?”

Jorge
didn’t tell her about Willard. “I don’t know who would cause trouble. Mr.
Wilcox is dead. Who would call the police?”

“The
phone doesn’t work.”

Jorge
took a position near the big window, parting the white curtain with the tip of
the rifle barrel. The banker was on all fours, crawling away from the porch.
His jacket was shredded and his tie dragged in the dirt. Jorge wondered if he
should shoot the man. Was the man in pain, or was he beyond feeling? The anger
that Jorge had felt when his family was threatened washed away and left him
tired and confused.

“What
do we do now?” Rosa said behind him.

“We
could stay,” he said, not liking his indecision. He’s always been the
patriarch. And now his wife was a protector, a killer, while he let a man crawl
away who had attacked him and threatened his family.

“What
if there are others? Mr. Wilcox had many friends.”

“He
had no friends. He had people who wanted his money.”

And
now we have everything he once owned.

Jorge
glanced at the giant TV mounted to the wall in the living room, the shadows of
the tree branches from outside swaying across the black surface. The high glass
cabinet held carved wooden ducks, fish, and turtles, as well as ivory elephants
that Mr. Wilcox had boasted were illegal to own. Above the marble fireplace was
a painting of black people cutting wheat with hand scythes.

Upstairs,
in the dresser beside Mr. Wilcox’s puffy and waxy corpse, Jorge had found eight
thousand dollars in a cigar box. He had been afraid to take the money, sure
that rich people had a way to track cash.

Everything
Mr. Wilcox owned is now worthless, except these guns and the food in the
pantry.