Scarecrow Gods (38 page)

Ernie was halfway up the ladder, his upper body already in view. He placed his hands on the dock to lever the rest of his body up—those were what Danny the Dog sought. He bit down hard. Revulsion surged through the dog. Ernie screamed. Danny tasted the coppery blood and relished the heat.

Suddenly he was airborne. Ass over head, he flew through the air. Barely missing the side of the dock, he hit the water hard—the force of the impact sending the air rushing from the dog’s lungs. He’d hit upside down and felt immediately disoriented.

He urged the dog to swim, but it ignored him. He felt the dog’s mind falling away from him, so Danny took control. Seeking the light, he fought the muscles and urged them to paddle towards it. But they were like clay and refused his call. He sent thought after thought after thought into the muscles, each a strict imperative to function. Just as it seemed hopeless, the muscles began to respond. Grudgingly, as if the dog would be happier on the bottom of the lake, rather than the surface, it began paddling.

It broke the surface of the water near the shore. Danny made the dog stagger onto the gritty sand, where they collapsed. He was exhausted. So much effort.

He sought inward for the dog’s spirit, hoping it was there, wondering where it had gone. He was dreadfully afraid it was dead—that he’d killed it. Finally, he found the spirit of the animal, cowering in a back corner of the animal’s mind amidst memories of thunderstorms and bicycle tires.

Danny urged the dog to come forth, but it refused. Somehow, it knew that a foreign soul had merged with it and was terrified. There was also another emotion. The animal felt ashamed. Biting the boy was something it would have never done. A small piece of the dog’s shame broke off and skewered Danny as he realized what he’d done to this animal. This dog’s existence was predicated upon the production and receipt of love, and Danny, in his need for revenge, had caused it to hate. By doing so, he’d changed its very nature. Danny had allowed his own emotional wants and needs to supercede those of the host creature. He’d possessed it like a demon and made it do terrible things.

A vision of a little girl’s tortured face came to mind as she cursed at the priest in
The Exorcist
-–green bile running from the corner of a mouth as she levitated above the bed. Danny was no different than the
Legion
that had entered that little girl.

No different at all.

He allowed himself to float free of the dog as he re-entered
The Land
. For the second time in so many weeks, Danny was ashamed. It was not an emotion he could get used to. More like a pain of the heart and mind, the only salve was time, and good deeds. Maybe if he did something for the animal, he could make himself feel better.

A voice, somewhere in the back of his mind asked a short simple question:
Does that make it right?

CHAPTER 18

Saturday—June 30th

The Alexian Brother’s Retreat House

“I bet you’re wondering why you’re here.”

Simon ignored the obviously rhetorical question. A young family had pulled into the packed-sand parking lot in an old dishwater-gray station wagon. Mexican by the looks of them, the family’s hard times were clearly visible in the slump of their shoulders, the thread-worn garments and the crazy counter-balance of eternal optimism in four sets of brown eyes. Even the children seemed to be still, as if conservation of energy was a survival skill.

“We’ve spoken before on this subject, Simon. I honestly don’t know where I went wrong.”

Always willing to be a martyr. The foundation of Catholicism
, thought Simon.

The wife was speaking with the husband, but through the closed window and the distance it was impossible to hear her. He read her body language enough to see her agitation. Within seconds the husband had thrown his hands into the air and herded the young boy and girl back into the car. He sped off, a plume of dust billowing and the tires squealed when they grabbed the asphalt road. He headed south towards Tombstone, probably looking for a drink to placate some recent error in judgement or forestall some future self-realization.

Simon had seen it a thousand times. The women always sought guidance from the Mother Mary. At each station of the cross they’d attempt to find themselves within the words, see past themselves and into the infinite that was faith. This faith they’d embrace until finally, when the husband returned happily numb from a few drinks, crying and apologetic, the women would accept them believing it was their prayers and a gentle God who had made it all happen.

Simon wasn’t sure he could take it any longer.
We may not be perfect, but we are the answer
, a Jesuit had said to him in St. Louis on a particularly bad day when three children had turned up over-dosed. It sounded like a bumper sticker or, more aptly, a sales pitch. The caveat was too perfect. It allowed for mistakes. Not just one or two, but an infinite number. The perfect vagueness of
we are the answer
was just too neat. Although the Jesuit had rattled the saying off as if he’d just created it, Simon knew it was the product of a Papal Commission. It had probably taken ten men several days to come up with the saying, lest he not forget the field testing and demographic studies.

“Brother Simon, I’m speaking to you. It’s common courtesy to pay attention.”

Simon turned and met Father Roy’s gaze. There were things he felt like saying to the old man, but he held his tongue. In the Army he’d learned the prudence of such a tactic. To display discontent meant a beating or some type of extra duty requiring rubber gloves and late night hours. So, as he normally did, Simon suppressed his urge to comment and waited. He didn’t have long.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“I have an idea.”

“I bet you do,” said Father Roy adjusting the old metal fan on the book shelf behind him so it blew against the back of his head. Once, several weeks ago, the Father had dropped a pen. In the process of bending to pick it up, the wind from the ill-positioned fan had lifted the man’s toupee. Simon still remembered the black hair flapping in the air like some flattened road kill come to life.

He couldn’t help but grin.

“You think this is funny, don’t you.”

“There’s nothing at all funny about this,” he said, losing his smile.

“I’m glad you realize that. Do you know that we’re responsible for that man’s medical bills now? I was informed of that this afternoon when the hospital administrator called. What were you thinking?”

“What man? Billy Bones? The hospital called?” Simon sat up straighter.

“Of course they did. When their patient just up and leaves without paying, they get real upset.”

Just up and leaves? How can someone at death’s door just up and leave?
“Wait a minute.”

“No.
You
wait a minute. We had a deal, you and I. You were to do this outreach program and I was going to leave you alone. No getting into trouble. And I specifically told you not to bother that Evangelist over in the valley.” Father Roy took a moment to catch his breath. His face had turned licorice red. “Then not only do I get a call from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but I get a call from this
Brother John.
He say’s you’ve been bothering him. Is that right?”

The FBI called? Brother John called? Billy was missing? What the hell was going on?
Too many things were happening at once and Simon felt totally lost.

“I can see by your hesitation that you understand my predicament. Simon. Simon. Simon,” said Father Roy, shaking his head. “We both know why you’re here. This was your last stop. I think it’s time you called it quits. Knowing how stubborn you are, however, I’m going to call St. Louis and let them make the decision. Until then, you’re restricted to the Retreat House and its grounds. Do I make myself clear?”

Simon was too stunned at the developments to argue. Too much was happening, now. Too much by far. “The hospital, did they say how Billy was doing? I mean, did they say if he was going to live?”

Father Roy shook his head and pursed his lips. “You don’t get it, do you? It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not going anywhere.”

* * *

Grounded!

Simon had been grounded by Father Roy as if the chunky old slab of piety was his real father.
He might as well be
, thought Simon. He slumped in the wooden chair that sat at the foot of his small bed.

Simon’s small window looked out upon old chicken wire fencing. Clumps of sagebrush had rolled up against it and become stuck, the same color as the papery carcass of an old tomato plant. Someone, sometime, had tried to tame this small portion of the desert.
Might as well try and tame the wind,
Simon thought. Certainly the desert was as immutable. Like the wind, it had a nature that was intricately linked to everything else. On the surface death was its only promise, but beneath and within were vast possibilities, like the mighty saguaro. For there to be something so titanically green, some type of eco-cooperation had to have occurred.

Cooperation was fine, but submission? To submit without the benefit of understanding was where Simon drew the line. In nature, each living thing knew how to survive in concert with the others. Even predators understood the concept of balance.

Not the military, though. There he’d spent years submitting to the whims of lesser men. Following the rules and orders of people merely because their rank was higher. Never mind common sense or intelligence or compassion. Those things were immeasurable, therefore not required.

This was the main reason he’d refused to reenlist. He’d become sick of the almost practiced incompetence of many of his superiors. The cover-up of the accidental bombing of the mosque by later claiming it was a ‘
tactical disposal of an ammunition bunker
’ had been the last straw. Not that Simon was perfect—he understood good and well that he made mistakes. The difference was that he accepted responsibility for his mistakes and learned from them. One couldn’t learn from mistakes they pretended didn’t exist. It just didn’t work that way. So instead of perpetuating a lie, Simon removed himself.

As it seemed he would do now, as well.

Everything considered there wasn’t too much difference between the military and the church. Leadership far removed from the employees who were to be led. Both combated evil, but used different tactics. The promotion of ignorance. Exponential incompetence as one achieved rank and station. Simon chuckled. It was the old
Fuck Up, Move Up
mentality prevalent throughout the military. Although he doubted Father Roy would use those particular words, he was sure the man had a suitably Catholisized vernacular replacement.

So if there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of difference, then why had he turned himself over to them? Why had he allowed himself to once again become subjugated? He knew the answer to the question even before he asked it.

Structure.

He craved it. He needed the structure to replace what he’d lacked growing up. He enjoyed knowing that not only would there be a breakfast every morning, but that it would be at the same time. He appreciated being clothed. The military and the ministry had been family to him.

And what he was about to do was like running away.

He rose and packed his bag. There were too many things to be done. Following orders was just a furtherance of the grand scheme of incompetence. Bag packed, he glanced around the room and noticed for the first time how little there was of him there. Other than a few books he’d picked up from the St. Vincent DePaul store, there was nothing to show that he’d even existed.

He’d been depending too much on others to create an identity for himself. It was time he took charge of his own life. Picking up his bag, he bid farewell to his home. No use waiting on St. Louis—he and God had made the decision together. The Order of the Alexians had just become one less.

He headed towards the parking lot. He needed to find Billy and he needed a car. It was time for a little Grand Theft Auto.

* * *

Sierra Vista, Arizona

Simon eased the Lincoln to a stop and held his breath. The elation he’d felt earlier at escaping the bonds he’d forced himself to endure all these years waned in the face of the police cruiser idling next to him. No more was it about honor and standing up for what you believed in. No longer was it about bravery, doing what others were too afraid to do and laughing in the face of danger.

Now, at the stoplight at Highways 90 and 92, all he could think about was whether or not he’d end up in jail and if it was as bad as people said. Trying not to turn his head, Simon peered at the policeman. He kept his head straight and strained his eye, wishing it would move out half an inch. Finally, he gave in and minutely shifted his head so he could see. Immediately, he twisted his head back forward. The policeman had been staring right at him.