The Faceless One (29 page)

Jimmy laughed.

“I’ll remember that,” he said, and went to collect George.

Outside, Jimmy and George bought Cokes at a vending machine and strolled the grounds. It was hot, and they took a seat in the arcade leading to the main entrance. To their right was a large totem pole.

George took a long sip and smacked his lips appreciatively. “Nice having as much of this as I want,” he said, “ ’Course, it would be better with some rum.”

Jimmy drank his Coke in silence, wondering how to broach the idea of a break-in. Maybe it was too much to ask of his friend. He eyed the totem pole, which featured a man on the back of a killer whale, the dorsal fin protruding from the man’s torso. He was either incredibly well endowed or impaled, depending on your point of view. He knew in his situation there would be no such ambiguity—he would end up impaled for his ambition or his presumption. The old gods were not always gentle when they bestowed their boons. He wished for a fleeting moment that he could contact the carver of the totem pole and leave all this at his door.

“What’s on your mind, Cochise?” George’s voice was low, and he watched Jimmy with concern.

“I know why Raven brought me here,” he said, and took another swig of the sugary soda.

George looked at him but said nothing.

Jimmy looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. They were alone except for a small brown lizard sunning itself on one of the columns.

“At some point, I must confront The Faceless One. There is no one else. I am the last of my village. The last that believes, anyway. To do this, to have even the slimmest chance of succeeding, I must conduct myself in the ways of my people. I cannot do that without the proper clothing, the proper tools.”

He looked at George, who nodded. Then George’s eyes widened as realization dawned
on him.

“Are you nuts?” he hissed.

“It is the only way,” Jimmy said quietly.

“This isn’t like stealing chicken from the kitchen and losing our television privileges, Jimmy. This is major felonies and prison time.”

“I cannot believe
Yéil
would show me how I might battle The Faceless One, then let me be imprisoned, unable to use that knowledge.”

“You said yourself he’s a Trickster.”

“True, but Raven watches over our people. For all his clowning, he wants us to survive.”

George shook his head, considering.

“Even if you could get in there, which I doubt, they must have alarms, guards.”

“Alarm panel’s by the door, and it’s not even locked.”

George snorted in derision.

“That just means they got a good code and plenty of guards and motion sensors. For somebody who watches cop shows, you sure show a lot of ignorance.”

“I have to do this, George; you don’t. I can take a cab to the bottom of the hill and walk up here.”

“And then what? You gonna take a bus, your arms loaded up with medicine rattles and fancy feathers?”

“We don’t use feathers.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn if you use helium balloons and kosher salamis. You’re not going to get very far hauling that crap on foot.”

Jimmy looked at him, his face calm but resolute.

George wouldn’t look at him, just took a drink of his Coke. The liquid had gone flat and was already tepid in the summer heat. He spit it out in the planter like tobacco juice. He watched a lizard for a moment, as if it were the most compelling thing he had seen that day.

Finally, George spoke. “This Faceless One. He won’t be satisfied with just your village.”

Out of the corner of his eye, George could see Jimmy shake his head.

“And there’s no way we could get that stuff of yours out of storage?”

Again, Jimmy shook his head. “No time,” he said.

George walked over to the trash barrel and tossed his can. He cracked his back and straightened his cap. He walked back to Jimmy.

“Let’s go,” he said, “I want one decent meal before we go to Sing Sing.”

Jimmy grinned and stood. He clapped George on the back. “Thank you.”

“Maybe we’ll get adjoining cells,” George said sourly.

Stan was in it now. He was sure the Big Boss wouldn’t give a good goddamn that he had had to drive around a fucking whale in the middle of fucking Oklahoma. All the God of Colossal Fuckups would care about is that he had deviated from his route and was causing a delay in the delivery of what the Big Boss was sending to California.

He looked around but could find nothing that he could put under the wheels for traction. There was nothing in the backseat except fast-food wrappers and empty bottles and cans. The surrounding terrain offered nothing but low flatlands of dun and orange.

Then Stan remembered that there were a couple of sheets of plywood in the trunk of the car. They carried those to protect tire prints and footprints at a crime scene. All he had to do was open the trunk and get the plywood.

Under Richie.

Stan reached in the driver’s side of the car and hit the trunk release. The trunk opened silently, rising about two inches. Stan went to the rear of the car and steeled himself for what he would find. He had seen plenty of corpses on the job, and the heat could really speed up decomposition. He was sure temperatures in the trunk had exceeded a hundred degrees.

He opened the trunk and looked down at his partner. Richie looked almost peaceful. He was lying in such a way that his wounds were obscured, and he seemed in pretty good shape. There was no sign of bloating, no indication of the buildup of gases that come with putrefaction. His face looked a bit tighter, and his mouth was pulled back slightly from his teeth. Stan realized that Richie was becoming mummified in the trunk. Another week, and he’d look like a specimen from the Museum of Natural History.

He could see the edge of the plywood under Richie. The blond wood had what looked like a large, redwood-colored stain on it. Stan reached down and yanked on the board. It slid out from under Richie, who seemed lighter, a dried husk in the shape of his best friend.

“Sorry, man, I gotta do this,” he said.

Hurrying, Stan dropped the plywood on the ground and got a grip on the other sheet.

“He’s coming,” Richie said.

Any other time, Stan might have fallen back, filled with shock and fear. Now he looked down at Richie.

Richie’s head turned to look up at him. There was a cracking sound as the bones in his neck shifted. He looked up at Stan with eyes that were cloudy and covered with a layer of dust. He didn’t blink.

“He’s getting close,” Richie said.

“The Big Boss?” Stan asked.

Richie said nothing. Stan grabbed the other plywood sheet and pulled it out.

The sheets were roughly three feet square. He placed one just under the left wheel, then stooped to grab the other one.

“Close now,” Richie said.

Stan looked up. Richie was now sitting cross-legged on the closed trunk lid. Stan wondered how he had managed that. He was surprised to see Richie sitting up, and even more shocked to see that his eyes and mouth had been sewn shut with coarse twine, giving him the appearance of a strange, leathery doll.

“I think I can delay him, but you might not like the price,” Richie said.

“Do I have a choice?” Stan asked.

Richie tried to grin, but the heavy twine stitches prevented him from giving more than a Mona Lisa smile.

“Not really,” he said. Stan was surprised his voice was so clear when he wasn’t moving his mouth. Of course, he was dead, which should have prevented him from performing any of these actions.

“Who did that to your face?” he asked.

“I asked them to,” Richie said.

“Who? Why, in God’s name?”

“You’re my friend, Stan, even though you blew my brains out.”

“That wasn’t my doing.”

“I know, but part of me wishes you had had the balls to turn the gun on yourself.”

Stan looked down. It was true, for one moment that option had occurred to him but he had been too selfish to take his own life. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

Richie nodded. He pointed to his eyes.

“If I could see, I might come after you.” His hand dropped to his mouth with its grisly stitch work. “And if I could chew …” He let that thought hang in the air between them. Richie motioned to the other board. “Better get that down. The time I bought you is almost up.”

Stan put the board in place.

“What’s the price?” he asked.

“If I tell you, then it’s like a discount. I ain’t giving you no freakin’ discount, Stan.”

“Jesus, Richie, you can be such a tool at times.”

“I’m having a bitch-kitty of a day,” Richie said. He sniffed the air. “I can’t smell anything. What does it smell like around here?”

“Like the desert, you know, dust and sage and baked asphalt.”

Richie nodded. He looked down at his hands, a patchwork doll in flesh.

“My son’s birthday is Friday. I was gonna get him a new mitt and a Game Boy.”

Stan felt tears in his eyes, hot tears that would surely scorch his face when they fell.

Richie fumbled in his pocket, and Stan thought he might be going for his gun. Stan hoped he was. He would welcome that.

Richie found what he was looking for and held it up. It was small and glinted in the sun.

A bullet.

“This is for you, Stan,” Richie said, his voice like a breeze through an empty house.

“I’ve got bullets, Richie,” Stan said, hoping he didn’t sound ungrateful.

“Not like this one. It’s lucky.”

He held it up, turning it so that small starbursts of light flashed across Stan’s face.

“My old man gave it to me the day I graduated from the academy. He said there were always times you wished you had one last bullet, and this was for then. See those markings on the side?”

Stan squinted. He could make out small markings. They kind of looked like Hebrew.

“Those are runes,” Richie said. “My old man said the druids used them for power and luck.”

“How’d your old man find out about the druids?” Stan asked.

“From a correspondence course—how the hell should I know? Here, take it.”

Stan reached for the bullet. It occurred to him that the bullet hadn’t protected Richie from him but he didn’t feel like pointing that out.

Stan took out his gun and started to load the bullet. Richie wagged a finger at him.

“Put it in your pocket, Stan. Jesus H. Christ, don’t you know anything about good-luck charms?”

Stan put the bullet in his pocket. It made a small click among the coins. Richie couldn’t possibly see him, of course, but nodded just the same.

“Time to go.” Richie sighed, and the way he said it seemed to indicate he meant both of them, along their separate ways. Stan felt the sorrow wash over him again.

“I’m sorry I shot you. You were my best friend. I’m sorry.”

Richie waved him off.

“Forget it. You’re suffering more than I did. I guess in a way you did save me. If you had shot yourself, the motherfucker would have made me the courier.”

That made Stan feel a little better.

“Stan,” Richie said.

Stan looked at him.

“Think of the fish, and Donna Pedigo.”

Stan started to say something, then heard a sound. He turned and saw a raven sitting on the whale. It looked at him sideways and began to peck at the rubbery flesh. It tore off a long, bloody strand, then gulped it greedily. Stan considered shooting it but didn’t want to waste any bullets. Besides, he’d better get rolling. He turned back around.

Richie was gone. The lid was up once again, and he peered inside.

Richie lay on his side, peaceful once more. The heavy twine binding his mouth and eyes was still in place.

Stan shut the lid and ran to the driver’s side. He got in, revved the engine, and put the car in gear. The wheels started to find their purchase, then slipped again. Cursing, he threw it in reverse, then forward, rocking the car. Finally, the wheels grabbed onto the boards, and the car shot forward. It fishtailed as it neared the highway, and he prayed he wouldn’t get stuck again. He had a feeling that Richie wouldn’t be able to buy him any more time. The wheels struck asphalt, and Stan left a sizeable dust cloud as he sped down the road. There was the slightest feeling of a chill, then icy fingers trailing across his mind. It happened quickly, like a storm passing overhead, then he was alone once more. The Big Boss had checked on him and was gone.

Stan looked in the rearview mirror and saw that there was no sign of the whale.

He began trembling, the events of the past two days catching up with him. He began to cry in great, hitching sobs, the hot tears streaming down his dusty face. He was scared and alone and wanted so much to wake up in his familiar bed. He fought to regain his composure, but the tears wouldn’t stop. He cried like a child, ever fearful that he must not let his other selves take hold. If he was to stop the Big Boss, if he was to have any hope of redemption, he must remain in control.

Gradually, his tears subsided, to be replaced by a pounding headache. He reached for a bottle of water from the cooler and had difficulty opening the plastic twist cap. He had to struggle, and, afterward, his muscles thrummed like violin strings. With a trembling hand, he raised the bottle to his lips and drank.

He realized with awful clarity that he was losing his grip. Further, that he was weaker somehow, as if prolonged exposure to the Big Boss was like a continuing dose of radiation, rapid debilitation leading to a painful death.

How much time did he have? Probably just enough to get the package to California. Then he would be cast aside, a used-up piece of garbage. Whatever life he might have left would surely be spent in prison.

He sped along toward Texas and thought of Donna Pedigo. They had met when the two of them were just five years old. His folks had taken him to Rockaway Beach for the day with his sister, Karyn, and his brother, Brian. Donna Pedigo had been wearing a bright pink bathing suit and had large blue eyes and bright red hair. Stan had thought she was pretty, and she liked to play Scooby Doo like he did. After making a castle for the Scooby gang to investigate, they had gone to their separate families for lunch, with a promise to meet after the requisite half hour to digest.