Holy Death Read online

  From all around. From different voices. Cold then hot then salty then bitter.

  Then it would start again.

  And the fucking pain, shit, as if pain was everywhere. No body to pinpoint it on—left, right, up, down, pain pain pain the pure essence of pain—

  This was Hell, the literal Hell of the Bible, the goddamned—he shouldn’t say that word, it was a blasphemous word, but if he was in Hell it was too late to blaspheme or repent or fuck it’s too HOT it’s too COLD it’s too TOO.

  But then he forgot what he’d felt and there was another dream and he forgot his first dream and then it was TOO TOO TOO...

  *

  Time came back in strange ways. He was lifted up and set down again. It made him blink, made him see lights. People. Faces. Masks. Surgeons? One hovering, She was shoving something painful and plastic into his mouth. He tried to speak to her but all that came out were rocks and brake squeals.

  “Oh my god, he’s awake!”

  Then he forgot and there was another dream where he was having trouble talking to his wife. He was mad at her for something, maybe for dying, and wanted to shout at her but all that came out were more rocks, more brake squeals. She stood there with that face, the one the mortician reconstructed after the bullet had wrecked most of her first one, lips curling, finally saying, “Least I tried.”

  *

  Rome was back in his cabin, although it seemed jittery, out-sized, as if the lake was rolling in right at his feet. He was sitting in his favorite chair, watching out the same windows. Gray skies, lamplight beside him. Next to him, in the chair no one ever sat in because he never had visitors, was Billy Lafitte. This was the Lafitte of when they had first met, Billy as an arrogant deputy-sheriff in Yellow Medicine County with a Gene Vincent pomp and a Johnny Cash sneer.

  Lafitte said, “So where do we go from here?”

  “Will they let me chase you across Hell?”

  “Ask me again once we’re dead.”

  “Hard to tell.”

  “What about him?” Lafitte jerked a thumb at the windows. On the outside, lying on the glass as if it was horizontal, not vertical, was the wrecked, limp body of Wyatt. Not a complete view of him. More like a close-up.

  “He’s dead.”

  “You know for sure?”

  “I think I do.”

  Lafitte stood. He was carrying a mug of coffee. He walked over to the window, sipping and staring as if Wyatt’s corpse was not blocking the view. “You still know live from dead. You saw this,” he indicated Wyatt with the mug. “Right before you went under. You know dead. You know you survived.”

  “Say I did. Now what?”

  Lafitte turned. “I guess you and me can talk it out. I’ll say the things you’ve always wanted me to say. You can kill me a bunch.”

  Headache. Rome rubbed his forehead. “It won’t mean anything.”

  Shrug. “Something to pass the time, I guess.”

  He sat again. The lake was in the window once more, waves impossibly high, impossibly loud.

  Rome looked down. He was holding a coffee mug, too. He couldn’t read the writing on it. “I’m sorry, you know. I’m sorry I killed that girl of yours. The bass player.”

  “Drew. Her name was Drew.”

  “Yeah, if only...but it’s your turn. Say you’re sorry you killed my wife. Desiree.”

  Lafitte smiled wide. “Shit, she was going to shoot me. I’m glad I killed that bitch. I’m glad I shot her twice. You should know by now, the only time you’ll get an apology from me is when I’m done with you.”

  *

  He’s flatlining. He’s gone.

  No! How the hell—

  Wait, he’s back.

  Come on, Mister Rome, you survived a plane crash already, so don’t let me be the one to kill you.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Manuel fed Kasier half a can of cat food. Dogs don’t care. Dogs eat anything. Manuel put it in a bowl and set it at Lafitte’s feet. Kaiser started into it and pushed the bowl all the way to the wall.

  Manuel sat beside Lafitte at the small round table in the kitchen, one made of aluminum with a vinyl top over cotton, stapled to fiberboard. It was dusty and covered in piles of unopened mail. Lafitte used a pile to prop up his elbow and his fist to prop up his face. Goddamn he was tired.

  Manuel asked him if he wanted tea. Lafitte said no, but Manuel got him some tea anyway. Iced, too sweet, too weak.

  “Your mother will love to see you.”

  Lafitte shook his head. “She’s not my mother.”

  “Well...” Manuel picked at a spot where the cotton was stringing out of the vinyl. “She still calls you son, I mean. That’s her way.”

  “My mother is dead. Your wife is nuts.”

  “And I let you in my home? With some dog? Not even a call after how many years?”

  The dog had found the cat’s water bowl and was lapping as much as he could. Across the kitchen on the counter was a small flat screen TV, a talk show, one of those “You are the father!” things. The sound was low. The TV looked out of place, too modern for this kitchen, but Lafitte thought even a flat screen was old these days. Most people would use their iPads. Hell, even their tiny-ass phones.

  Lafitte closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Manuel. I’m sorry. It’s been a bad, you know, decade.”

  “I’ve kept up. Don’t think I haven’t.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Manuel reached across the table and gripped Lafitte’s hand. “All these years. It’s good to see you. It’s really good. If you really thought I would turn you in, you wouldn’t have come. Right? Son? I need to know.”

  Lafitte closed his eyes again, tighter, and tried to tug his hand away from Manuel’s, but the old man wouldn’t let go. Lafitte said, “All right, yeah, I know. I need help, man.”

  It was a strange feeling, this thing, this lump in Lafitte’s throat. He hated Manuel. After his father had left or died or whatever, it was all a blur. His mother had bought a car from Manuel and then had a whirlwind romance that led to six shitty years of marriage, most of them forgotten now except for the parts where Manuel was either unfailingly generous but melodramatic—wanting Lafitte to call him ‘Dad’, getting his feelings hurt when Billy refused—or unfailingly drunk and almost violent. He never got quite to the point of hitting, choking, kicking. He would get loud and stupid. He would break things. The police had to be called a few times, but they knew Manuel and either gave him a warning and a ride to a motel, or a night in the drunk tank, until his mother had had enough and moved out, not even telling Billy where she was going. Billy and all his things, left behind. So Billy lived there for most of the year until he graduated high school and was able to move to a dorm for college. After that, “home” was either his grandmother’s house, or wherever he happened to be sleeping.

  He would see Manuel now and then, but tried to avoid him. Then Lafitte’s mother died, and he found himself having to let Manuel come to the funeral with his new wife in tow. She was a kind woman, a Mexican who barely spoke English. Jimena. She was twelve years younger than Manuel, but with a shock of premature gray hair. While Billy had to agree with his other relatives that bringing her was bad taste, he couldn’t help but notice how kind she was. How gentle. How she had the ability to do what his mother couldn’t do—rein in Manuel’s fire.

  Lafitte said, “How is Jimena? Everything okay?”

  “She’s good. She’ll be happy to see you.”

  “Me too.” Tried to grin. “Hey, you don’t know how to get me some nitro pills, do you?”

  They heard a hiss and then a bark. The dog was gone. Manuel stood and rushed out, saying, “Blanco! No, leave the doggie alone! Blanco!”

  Not the other way around.

  Manuel always was a bullshitter.

  *

  He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep. Manuel had left him in a front sitting room, the pretty furniture for the priest or the neighbors should they visit. No TV. Lafitte had leaned back on th
e loveseat, then the dog had jumped up beside him, and the afternoon sun had angled so it was a little darker in here.

  But before, while Manuel had locked the cat into another room, Lafitte had wandered out into the backyard. There was more stuff out here than there used to be. A wooden deck, that was new to Lafitte, even if it was old and weathered by now. Lots of flowerbeds, a chain-link fence on two sides lined up to the neighbor’s plastic or privacy fence. It used to be all chain-link, so when he was out here with friends, or even out here alone, the neighbors’ dogs on three sides would bark at him a while, then forget he was there, then bark again if he moved or made any noise. So he’d yell back at them and then the neighbors would yell from their windows and he’d yell at those fuckers and then dogs would bark some more.

  He had fucking hated living here.

  Manuel came outside, stood by him. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Listen. So. I, um, I helped Ginny kill herself. I think.”

  “Ah, boy. Boy. Jesus.” A gush of breath. “Why did you tell me? Why would you do that?”

  “She kept trying, years and years, and I finally saw her, and she asked me to. She wrote me letters. She was begging.”

  Manuel put a hand on Lafitte’s shoulder, but Billy walked out from under it. Manuel said, “Are the kids okay?”

  He wanted to punch the old man. Rage on him. But of course Manuel didn’t know about Ham’s death. How could he know? Mrs. Hoeck had kept Lafitte’s whole side of the family from them, their cousins and great uncles and aunts. The authorities had managed to keep it quiet because heads would roll, right? Heads would roll. But somehow, someone was going to slip one day and it would be all over the news. Just not yet. So the step-grandparents sure as holy hell wouldn’t know.

  “Ham’s dead. I watched him die.”

  “Jesus.” Silence. “Jesus. What are you...what did you...”

  Billy barked a laugh that got a dog barking too through one of the slatted fences. “I didn’t do it, asshole.”

  “You can laugh about it?”

  He turned. “Laughs aren’t always happy. I saw him die and it was bad. He died bad. I couldn’t stop it. It was all my fault. So I laugh. I laugh because I’m fucked.”

  “Billy, please.”

  “Please what? Now you know I broke out of prison, you know my kid died. I told you I helped kill Ginny. But I’m not here to kill you, so keep it together.”

  “I never thought you would.”

  “Sure, sure, because me and you, we were good. I was the teenage kid of the woman you were fucking. You got drunk and treated me like shit. You once peed in my parakeet’s cage in the middle of the night. I once had to go out my bedroom window and get the neighbors because you were tearing apart our kitchen.”

  “Long time ago, buddy. Long time.”

  “But I don’t know you now. That’s all I ever think of you as. I’m never going to get over what you were. I shouldn’t have to.”

  “Your mother, she forgave me.”

  “That’s not the fucking point.” He turned, got in Manuel’s face. “You’re all I’ve got, and I hate you. My son is dead. My wife is dead. I don’t want to go anywhere near my girl because, yeah, because it’s better if she never knows me. And now I’m here. I’m here. I need help. My chest hurts. I’m a fugitive. I’ve got nowhere else to go after this. And, fuck, I hate you. Can you tell me something that makes any sense? Anything? Anything that’s not about me having to forgive you right now?”

  He backed off. One step, two steps, three steps. Nearly tripped. Kaiser’s paws scrabbling at his shins.

  Manuel, Jesus, all sainted now. Hands clasped behind his back, a calm like Billy’d never seen from him. Fuck forgiving him. The guy didn’t need it. He’d already found his peace or whatever shit it was in Spanish, what, de paz interna? Que?

  Then Manuel led him inside, saying, “Get some ice water in you. You’re dehydrated.” Got him a glass. And within ten minutes Lafitte was on the loveseat, fading out.

  Next thing he knew, he awoke to a woman’s voice and a slamming door. His left arm was scrunched up, his hand a claw on his chest, and it was numb. Kaiser was curled on top of him, making it hard to breathe. And then Jimena was in the doorway, a continuous stream of Spanglish, shooing the dog off Lafitte, then out of the room, where it turned and peeked back.

  “No doggie on the furniture. I don’t like the dogs! I don’t. You never call, you never visit, but then I’m expected to feed and clean up dog poops? You clean up your own dog poops, Billy. It’s your dog.”

  She wore shorts. Her legs were tanned, shimmering, but some veins were showing through. Her shirt was thin, flowing, and sweat-through. After chasing the dog out, she came back, sat beside Lafitte, helped him sit up. An awkward hug, least on his end, as she squeezed and let the Spanish take over.

  Then, “You stay, then? I wash these clothes for you? Billy, they say bad things about you, but family is family. My husband’s son is my son, you see? We need to buy some food for the dog. Why did you bring a dog?”

  “I’m not his son, you know—”

  “We don’t get to choose our families.” Then her hands on his cheeks. “Look at you! What happened! A fight? You need some stitches, I do them. Did you get blood on the loveseat? Did you get any on the floor?”

  This was the way he remembered her, mouth always going. Except that one time. That one time at his mother’s funeral, she was the epitome of reverence. She was perfect. And he’d always been grateful for it. Looking at her now, the age having gathered on her in a graceful way, like Spanish moss on an oak. Her dark hair, long, a bit of a flyaway mess, shot through with more gray now.

  He said, “Thank you. Thanks for everything.”

  Shrugged. “Where is this thanks coming from? Look, go away, puppy! No, not in this room. Off limits!” She turned back to Lafitte. “Go, go, go get a shower and take off those clothes. You need them? Is this real, this Muscle Max? I’m sure Manuel has...you’re only a bit shorter is all.”

  She was up and off again, echoing through the house, shouting at Manuel, him shouting back. Not angry shouting, just shouting. Whatever. She was always kind to him, and she did know when to stop for breath.

  He had fallen asleep right in front of the large picture window, in full-view of the entire street. He was letting his guard down, a bad thing to do. Outside, sunshine, an old-fashioned suburban street, kids riding bikes, skateboards, people in their yards, some iced tea and a cigarette, the smell of someone grilling steaks.

  A whimper. Lafitte turned his head. Kaiser, still peeking in from the dining room. He wondered how long the owners had been frantically looking for him, how long it took them to realize the car was missing. He wondered if the guys he’d seen around the parking lot where he left the car would rat him out to cops—the white dude walking a dog? A little dog? Yeah, we saw. He was walking yo mama, too.

  “Come on, buddy.” He stood from the couch. “Let’s get that shower.”

  *

  There was a point during the shower, which pushed the pain in his arm and chest and jaw onto the back-burner, when Lafitte didn’t want to ever get out. He was up for standing there and letting the hot water jet beat down on him twenty-four-seven. But really, right? Come on. What he needed to do was get himself back to full strength, get himself back to Minnesota, and from there, get lost in the northwoods like those off-grid types. Whole hell of a lot of them in Alaska, for sure. So many they’ve got TV shows. Kind of defeats the purpose, Lafitte thought.

  But if DeVaughn would still be out there searching, stirring up trouble, could Lafitte feel safe? Having the entire US Government was bad enough. At least DeVaughn was just one guy. Crashing into him with his Cadillac was one way to go. Why do that? Why take the risk? Why so public, risk arrest? Something to do with the fat girl he was with. Something about her. That angry fat girl.

  He looked at his scrapes and bruises. He rubbed over the crust of one, brushed the scabs off and watched the water run red
. He grinned. He shouldn’t have grinned. It made him think of Ginny. He shouldn’t be grinning because Ginny was probably dead and he had helped. He had made it possible.

  Did Manuel and Jimena already know? Wouldn’t the cops have put out a net? Manuel was the closest thing to a parent he had left. Maybe they already knew and were being all nice in order to keep him here, keep him calm, make him forget the SWAT team was on the way. Jesus. Had he really lost his edge? Really?

  He cranked off the water and slung the curtain open. Nothing there but Kaiser, curled up on the fluffy mint green rug, and a pile of fresh clothes, Manuel’s, on the mint green toilet lid cover. Beside the toilet, a pair of beat-to-shit work boots. Black.

  Lafitte toweled off, climbed out. He rubbed the fog from the mirror, but it fogged right back up. He stared into it, rubbed it clear again. Another stare. Dude was beat the shit up. As if the last four, five years hadn’t fucked up his face and body enough. Dude looking back at him was a different dude. Dark bags under his eyes, one eyelid floppier than the other, hollow cheeks, scars on top of scars, skin all patchy, zits on the sides of his nose and on his chin. Stupid fucking mullet hair, streaky from where he’d dyed it to stay incognito. His neck was getting old before its time, too.

  Hand though his hair, slinging water. Kaiser got up and shook off. Lafitte looked around. Some electric clippers on the back of the toilet. Okay, okay, that was something. He clicked them on and off a few times, then went after his sides, wild and frayed, covering most of his ear. He wanted it gone, hated his hair this way. Left, right, then an appraisal in the mirror. Okay, cool, okay. Now the mullet. He lowered his head and held his arm up and over and tried to do the best he could. Hard to tell. Guided the clippers up until they bumped and buzzed against his fingers. Sorry for fucking up the floor. Some was falling on Kaiser, too. But when he was done, he found a compact with a mirror in it and got the best view of the back of his head and saw it was good. Clean. He went over it again once more for strays. Then, very clean.