fault.
"Uh...Sheriff?"
I look back at Hendricks.
"You just going to leave her here?"
I'm about to argue with him, but it slowly dawns on me that he's right, that I'd have asked the same question. Hendricks, unlike me or Kyle, still has a life, and I don't reckon we should leave a dead whore on his couch to remind him why we're different.
"Sorry, Doc. We'll take her back to Eddie's."
Hendricks looks confused. "Eddie's? Why there?"
"Because it's quieter than any graveyard. Most of the time. We can bury her out back right next to Eddie himself. I figure he deserves the company after all the shit we've done under his roof. Besides," I move close to the girl. "We've got some burying to do anyway."
"Who else died?" Queenie asks, her first words to us since we arrived.
"The Reverend."
"Oh."
I smile at the lack of emotion on her face. "Yeah. Ticker gave out on him while he was preaching to us about the evils of drink."
Hendricks shakes his head. "Man had way too much time on his hands."
"You got that right, Doc."
We stay for a while, exchanging the kind of uneasy banter unique to folks who're waiting for one among them to die. Kyle paces, torn between refusing to accept that the girl is gone, that we couldn't save her, and eager to be in a room larger than Hendricks' parlor so he doesn't have to be within touching distance of me.
At last there comes a single hitching sigh. The girl frowns, as if in her dreams she's stumbled upon something dangerous, then she shudders once, and that's the end of it.
No one says anything for a moment. We all just stand there, trying to read the story of the dead girl's life from the lines on her face, the punctuation marks on her arm, the commas at the corners of her mouth from too much time spent grimacing in pain. I reach down and brush a strand of hair away from her face.
"C'mon, Kyle."
For the second time that night, we load the girl into the truck. I imagine she feels lighter, that the soul, or whatever leaves us when we die, has weight, and hers is somewhere better now, somewhere no one can touch it, and use the stains on it against her.
Our drive back to Eddie's is a silent one. There's plenty that could be said, but no need to say it.
At least, not until we see the fire.
" Aw Christ no ..." Kyle says and is out of the truck and running before I have time to draw a breath.
Chapter Six
Eddie's is in flames, a funeral pyre burning against the dark, turbulent maelstrom of the night, and though the rain is still beating down and pockmarking the mud, it's not doing much to put out the blaze.
My first thought is that Gracie has finally had enough, that the Reverend's death is the catalyst she's been waiting for, the escape she's longed for all these years. I imagine her chasing everybody out, leaving the Reverend's body and Brody where they are, dousing the place from top to bottom with kerosene or spirits, then standing in the doorway, flaming rag in her hand. I see the light burning away the shadows on her grim face, making her seem young and innocent again. Then she tosses the rag, and the fire races across the floor and up the walls, a raging thing, but pure, and cleansing.
But as I watch the lithe silhouette of my son racing toward the inferno, I remember what I thought when I stood in there looking down at Hill's body, waiting for him to suddenly resurrect himself. Cold dread grips my heart. Is this the surprise we expected from him? Did he burst into flame moments after Kyle and me left the bar? I picture his almost headless corpse erupting into bright searing flame, claiming the lives of those standing nearest him first before they're even aware what's happening, then spreading out and cooking the rest as they try to escape.
And then I think of Cobb.
I pull the truck to a halt in the parking lot. Flames rise up, licking the sky; the rain falls down. Glass shatters in the heat and I have to shield my face. Not before my eyebrows are singed
"Uh...Sheriff?"
I look back at Hendricks.
"You just going to leave her here?"
I'm about to argue with him, but it slowly dawns on me that he's right, that I'd have asked the same question. Hendricks, unlike me or Kyle, still has a life, and I don't reckon we should leave a dead whore on his couch to remind him why we're different.
"Sorry, Doc. We'll take her back to Eddie's."
Hendricks looks confused. "Eddie's? Why there?"
"Because it's quieter than any graveyard. Most of the time. We can bury her out back right next to Eddie himself. I figure he deserves the company after all the shit we've done under his roof. Besides," I move close to the girl. "We've got some burying to do anyway."
"Who else died?" Queenie asks, her first words to us since we arrived.
"The Reverend."
"Oh."
I smile at the lack of emotion on her face. "Yeah. Ticker gave out on him while he was preaching to us about the evils of drink."
Hendricks shakes his head. "Man had way too much time on his hands."
"You got that right, Doc."
We stay for a while, exchanging the kind of uneasy banter unique to folks who're waiting for one among them to die. Kyle paces, torn between refusing to accept that the girl is gone, that we couldn't save her, and eager to be in a room larger than Hendricks' parlor so he doesn't have to be within touching distance of me.
At last there comes a single hitching sigh. The girl frowns, as if in her dreams she's stumbled upon something dangerous, then she shudders once, and that's the end of it.
No one says anything for a moment. We all just stand there, trying to read the story of the dead girl's life from the lines on her face, the punctuation marks on her arm, the commas at the corners of her mouth from too much time spent grimacing in pain. I reach down and brush a strand of hair away from her face.
"C'mon, Kyle."
For the second time that night, we load the girl into the truck. I imagine she feels lighter, that the soul, or whatever leaves us when we die, has weight, and hers is somewhere better now, somewhere no one can touch it, and use the stains on it against her.
Our drive back to Eddie's is a silent one. There's plenty that could be said, but no need to say it.
At least, not until we see the fire.
" Aw Christ no ..." Kyle says and is out of the truck and running before I have time to draw a breath.
Chapter Six
Eddie's is in flames, a funeral pyre burning against the dark, turbulent maelstrom of the night, and though the rain is still beating down and pockmarking the mud, it's not doing much to put out the blaze.
My first thought is that Gracie has finally had enough, that the Reverend's death is the catalyst she's been waiting for, the escape she's longed for all these years. I imagine her chasing everybody out, leaving the Reverend's body and Brody where they are, dousing the place from top to bottom with kerosene or spirits, then standing in the doorway, flaming rag in her hand. I see the light burning away the shadows on her grim face, making her seem young and innocent again. Then she tosses the rag, and the fire races across the floor and up the walls, a raging thing, but pure, and cleansing.
But as I watch the lithe silhouette of my son racing toward the inferno, I remember what I thought when I stood in there looking down at Hill's body, waiting for him to suddenly resurrect himself. Cold dread grips my heart. Is this the surprise we expected from him? Did he burst into flame moments after Kyle and me left the bar? I picture his almost headless corpse erupting into bright searing flame, claiming the lives of those standing nearest him first before they're even aware what's happening, then spreading out and cooking the rest as they try to escape.
And then I think of Cobb.
I pull the truck to a halt in the parking lot. Flames rise up, licking the sky; the rain falls down. Glass shatters in the heat and I have to shield my face. Not before my eyebrows are singed
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