“mission” in Sri Lanka was so radically different from his—a mirror image almost, destroyer and preserver. There must have been a personal aspect to the inclusion as well: the monk, after all, was metaphysician, exegete, and historian in one. Just what Stagg was becoming, it seemed.
Every time he came through this passageway, he wondered why he didn’t carry the weapon he was entitled—encouraged, even—to carry. It routinely brought him across the fear-worthy. But tonight there was no one, just a chain of decrepit parked cars dotted with pickups and vans and the occasional overworked subcompact racer. He slowed near the other side of the overpass. A maroon sedan, the right side of its bumper collapsed, sat behind a pickup whose body appeared tiny and frail above its own gargantuan wheels.
The tailgate was down, which was odd. Odder, though, was the woman beneath it, lying against the hulking tire in a bra and a silk skirt the color of straw. She forced the draft, the monk, from his thoughts.
Were it not for the peculiar way she was dressed, Stagg would have taken her for another unsheltered alcoholic and let her be. Instead he swung the tailgate shut and watched harsh purple light flood her face. Her eyes were open but so vacant he wouldn’t have thought it a mark of consciousness had she not eventually blinked. She stared out at the length of walkway he had just passed, her head down on her shoulder. She must have seen him coming.
Her face, her forehead especially, was swollen and bruised, her nose scuffed and crusted over with blood turned black. She drew shallow breaths and her chest jerked with each arrhythmic pull of air. Stagg knelt beside her, brought himself into her line of sight, trying to extract the true form of her face. Beneath the swelling and cuts and shifted bones, beneath the heavy eyeliner and thick rouge, there was symmetry.
Their eyes were very close now, but she said nothing (maybe she could not), and he obliged with silence (anyway he could think of nothing to say). Her chest was swollen and red in patches. He put the palm of his hand beneath her breasts, near the sternum, and felt the skin inflated with fluid. He was searching for the articulated firmness of ribs but finding only a vague mass of tissue wrapped in torn skin. His investigations made her squint, but still no words came, just a slightly heavier breath.
He lifted her head and set it against the treaded tire beneath the bed of the truck. With his thumb he cleared away the hair that had slid across her face, and her eyes shone green again under that strange light.
Soon he found himself pulling her from the shoulders, disregarding everything he had just confirmed about her condition. Her collarbones seemed to flex as he tried to raise her to her feet. She squirmed violently. It seemed to encourage him, this first vigorous sign of life, and he could think of nothing else, if he was thinking at all, than to pull her out from below, onto the sidewalk and up against the brick wall.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, leaned her upper body against his thighs, and dragged her toward the wall. She clasped her arms around her chest, closed her eyes, and mumbled or moaned as Stagg pulled her up the curb, her legs vainly kicking.
As soon as he released her she curled up on the sidewalk on her side, stretching her legs along the length of the wall. He didn’t try to right her. Instinctively he searched his pocket for his phone. It was at home, he remembered now, the source of his trouble earlier with Renna, or the excuse onto which it fell.
There was a phone booth at the end of the passage, though he’d never noticed it till now, and was unsure whether it actually worked, or if it were merely the remains of a dead technology too costly to bury.
He had none of the numbers he would have liked to use, so the call was to 911.
“Yeah, I’m under the freeway at Harth. There’s a woman, a hooker, I think. She doesn’t look great.
Every time he came through this passageway, he wondered why he didn’t carry the weapon he was entitled—encouraged, even—to carry. It routinely brought him across the fear-worthy. But tonight there was no one, just a chain of decrepit parked cars dotted with pickups and vans and the occasional overworked subcompact racer. He slowed near the other side of the overpass. A maroon sedan, the right side of its bumper collapsed, sat behind a pickup whose body appeared tiny and frail above its own gargantuan wheels.
The tailgate was down, which was odd. Odder, though, was the woman beneath it, lying against the hulking tire in a bra and a silk skirt the color of straw. She forced the draft, the monk, from his thoughts.
Were it not for the peculiar way she was dressed, Stagg would have taken her for another unsheltered alcoholic and let her be. Instead he swung the tailgate shut and watched harsh purple light flood her face. Her eyes were open but so vacant he wouldn’t have thought it a mark of consciousness had she not eventually blinked. She stared out at the length of walkway he had just passed, her head down on her shoulder. She must have seen him coming.
Her face, her forehead especially, was swollen and bruised, her nose scuffed and crusted over with blood turned black. She drew shallow breaths and her chest jerked with each arrhythmic pull of air. Stagg knelt beside her, brought himself into her line of sight, trying to extract the true form of her face. Beneath the swelling and cuts and shifted bones, beneath the heavy eyeliner and thick rouge, there was symmetry.
Their eyes were very close now, but she said nothing (maybe she could not), and he obliged with silence (anyway he could think of nothing to say). Her chest was swollen and red in patches. He put the palm of his hand beneath her breasts, near the sternum, and felt the skin inflated with fluid. He was searching for the articulated firmness of ribs but finding only a vague mass of tissue wrapped in torn skin. His investigations made her squint, but still no words came, just a slightly heavier breath.
He lifted her head and set it against the treaded tire beneath the bed of the truck. With his thumb he cleared away the hair that had slid across her face, and her eyes shone green again under that strange light.
Soon he found himself pulling her from the shoulders, disregarding everything he had just confirmed about her condition. Her collarbones seemed to flex as he tried to raise her to her feet. She squirmed violently. It seemed to encourage him, this first vigorous sign of life, and he could think of nothing else, if he was thinking at all, than to pull her out from below, onto the sidewalk and up against the brick wall.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, leaned her upper body against his thighs, and dragged her toward the wall. She clasped her arms around her chest, closed her eyes, and mumbled or moaned as Stagg pulled her up the curb, her legs vainly kicking.
As soon as he released her she curled up on the sidewalk on her side, stretching her legs along the length of the wall. He didn’t try to right her. Instinctively he searched his pocket for his phone. It was at home, he remembered now, the source of his trouble earlier with Renna, or the excuse onto which it fell.
There was a phone booth at the end of the passage, though he’d never noticed it till now, and was unsure whether it actually worked, or if it were merely the remains of a dead technology too costly to bury.
He had none of the numbers he would have liked to use, so the call was to 911.
“Yeah, I’m under the freeway at Harth. There’s a woman, a hooker, I think. She doesn’t look great.
Similar Books
