And then I squint, or the haze clears, or she leans forward, and I get a better look.
Ingrid? Not even close. Too young. She's got the hair though, the thin wrists, the long neck, but the rest is pure Idaho. Her eyes are close together, her teeth every-which-way. Her dress is what you would expect, a place like this. But there's something in her look, in the way she watches Cranovicz, that makes me think of Ingrid.
My head clears. I know Ingrid, the real Ingrid, is near. I can feel it. Either she's at the crossroads already, or she will be soon. Waiting. For the first time in six years. And that means the only thing between her and me is Sandy C.
I let go of the pew. I elbow past the shouting men. By the time they're hitting their high notes, I'm out of the church and into the woods, my head clear, the .32 cocked and ready in my hand.
# # # # # #
The moon's out, but it's what old-timers call a rain-moon, where a light drizzle falls from a clear sky. The branches are black, the footing's slick. Soon I'm wet. Since we're in the mountains, wet means cold and I can see my breath in clouds in front of me. Twice I trip before reaching an outcropping of dark rock halfway up the slope. From here I can see the church and, farther off, the top of the water tower poking through the pines.
I settle on my haunches, break the .32, check the chambers. Six dolls, all tucked in. One slides out, and as I pick it out of the weeds I see my hand is shaking. It's the cold of course, though the scent of the hooch still clings to my slicker, and that doesn't help. And neither does the lungful of mustard I swallowed in '18. Or the bullet I took working for the Agency two years later. It's all mixed together inside me like a cocktail, and when you think about it I'm lucky I can get dressed in the morning.
I slip the shell back into the barrel, shut it, spin it. I hold it up at armslength, looking down the site through one eye at the doors of los Dolores. I should have brought a rifle. This isn't my sort of thing.
Below, the church doors crack open and the miners come spilling out. Last but not least is Cranovicz, the girl, three goons. Three is better than five, I guess. They start down the path to the watertower. I start going from trunk to trunk. My gloves get sappy, some rocks underfoot break loose and rattle down the hill.
I stop, they stop. I can see the glow of their cigarettes through the trees. Their voices go low. They've heard me. Christ. And then I hear laughter. Maybe not?
I wait, I watch. Something strange is happening. The gang is breaking up. Some continue up the path, but a few are coming my way. I get behind a fat pine. This is going to be bad.
The rain, which has been light, picks up. I can still hear their footsteps, though, and the laughter again, which is strange. And then I hear I different sort of sound altogether.
I look around the trunk. It's Cranovicz and the girl. She gets him by the scarf, and pulls him to her. He goes with it, presses her against a tree. Her hands are buried in his orange mop, and his are everywhere else. She makes a noise like a pigeon, and suddenly he grabs the hem of her skirt and lifts it up above her waist. The moon's so bright, I can see the material, a faded cotton print of blue fleur-de-lis. Beneath it, a white slash of thigh. Both of them start to get serious.
I'm many things, but a peep isn't one of them. I step out from behind the trunk, cocking the .32.
She hears it. Even through the rain and the rasp of tree bark and love-talk, she hears it. And no wonder. The sound is like nothing else in the world. Before I've taken my third step Fleur-de-lis opens her eyes, and cries out.
Cranovicz spins around, one hand holding up his pants, the other fumbling for his coat pocket. His eyes are big, and they should be. In a heartbeat I've crossed the space between us and snagged a handful of his orange hair. I spin him away from the tree, clock him twice with the butt of the gun. He goes down. Behind me I hear a suck of breath, and I turn and put my forearm to Fleur-de-lis's throat before she can let loose with the scream to end all screams. She gags. Her eyes are big with fear and she shoves off the trunk. I push her back, hard. There's a crunch as her head connects with the tree-bark. Her knees buckle and she's out.
There's a wheezing noise behind me. I turn. Cranovicz is up on his knees and pulling something ugly out of his pocket. By the look of the handle it's a .45, and the handle's all I have to go by since he's holding it by the barrel. Before he can get a better grip the laces of my boot connect with his jaw and he goes sprawling. There's a soft sound in the darkness to my left. The .45.
And that's that. I stand above him, breathing hard. My breath fogs the air between us. When it clears I see he's staring up at me. His face is black with blood, and the scalp is torn where I smacked it.
I raise the gun. He doesn't blink. His mouth moves, he says something, but I don't catch it. The blood is pooling in his ears.
I say, 'You should have shut the hell up, Red. You were warned. This is no one's fault but your own.'
He hacks a little and makes a gargling noise. It can't be what I think it is.
'You had this coming, I say.' Rain trails off the barrel onto his cheek.
Again the gargle. This time there's no mistaking it.
He's laughing.
'Do it then,' he says through the mess of his jaw, 'go on and do it.'
And I should, now's the time. But my finger's gone numb. I flex it, think to myself Ingrid, she's waiting, and start to squeeze.
Suddenly I can't see. There's a body on my back, hands clawing my eyes, a voice in my ear saying 'No, no, no!'
Fleur-de-lis.
I reach back, grab a hunk of her hair. I bend over and she comes off, taking some of me with her.
There's blood in my eyes, and by the time I wipe it away Sandy is staggering to his feet. His girl is crouching between us like a shortstop. 'Goddamn you,' she says, 'goddamn you, get back.' Her coat's gone, and she's soaked. The wet dress clings to her flat chest. Her black hair looks painted on.
'You get,' she says, 'get away from us.'
'I can't,' I say. I lift the gun. She's right in front of him. If I take her in the neck he'll get the same. Or I can put it in her gut and when she buckles, take him high in the chest. Or I could ricochet it off the goddamn moon.
'You should have known,' I say. 'Now it's just no good.' My thumb tries to cock the gun but it's already cocked. 'It's just no good,' I say. 'It's just no good.'
She's quicker than he is. She sees the barrel, how it shakes. She starts backing up, pushing Cranovicz out of the moonlight, into the dark brush.
'You get,' she says, backing up, backing him up.
'I'm…' Sandy says, trying to hold his mouth together, 'I'm…'
I could still do it. It'd be easy. But now my piece is pointing past them, over their shoulders, to the West. 'Get out of here, both of you,' I say. 'Get out while you can. They'll be back. We'll be back. Get out. Get
The woods swallow them.
'You ain't nothing,' her shaky voice says from the darkness. They're both in the darkness now. 'You ain't nothing at all.'
# # # # # #
I run through the woods, my heart pounding. The moon still hangs above me in the pine-branches, throwing crazy patterns on the ground, but the rain is easing off. Some of it is lifting into fog. I give the watertower a wide berth, but even so the crossroads is a lot farther than I thought. Then I see a flicker of light through the trees.
Turns out there's two cars waiting. That gives me pause, until I see that one is from the Agency. The other is a black Mercedes I don't recognize. I slow to a walk and cross the field, wading through a knee-high fog. The cars' headlights cut a white path through it, which I follow. There's the clunk of doors opening, one, two, three. Three people come out to meet me. One's Lancy, the other two I don't know. I look from one to the other. No one's wearing a dress.
'See you made it Frank, any luck?'
'Yeah, they split up, came my way.'
'Cranovicz?'
'And the girl, both of them.' I squint. Both cars are running, but there's nothing in the nearest one but the moon's reflection on the glass. I ask, 'Is Ingrid here?'
'How'd it go with Cranovicz?'
