Apr 22
It took me half the night, but when Asmador woke up this morning, he found my old Pocket Pal next to his sleeping bag, along with the little magnifying glass Rudy used to bring out in order to show his customers the THC crystals sparkling atop the sinsemilla buds.
The effort damn near killed me, but Asmador, whose condition has continued to improve almost hourly, was like a kid on Christmas morning. Obviously not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he tore into the new reading material with the same intensity with which he’d devoured the BMW owner’s manual, sitting up cross-legged with the book in one hand and the magnifying glass and a joint in the other, not stopping to eat or piss, his head wreathed in a cloud of pot smoke.
When he got to the final entry, where I’d added a crucial postscript last night, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open, like he was a ham silent movie actor miming astonishment.
“What’s up?” I called over to him. “You look all excited.”
He looked up from the book and asked me if I could keep a secret.
“To the grave and beyond,” I told him.
“My mission from the Council,” he said, his brown eyes sparkling like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “I know what it is.”
“That’s terrific,” I told him. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, just say the word.”
“Okay, I will,” he said solemnly. Then he lowered his head to the book in his lap, turned back to the first page, and started all over again.
Apr 23
Asmador spent all day yesterday reading and rereading my Pocket Pal from cover to cover with the aid of the magnifying glass, then was up half the night flipping through the pages at random, the way born- again Christians page through their Bibles, looking for inspiration and guidance. I can tell he has it memorized already: when I awoke this morning, he raised his forefinger in the air like Abe Lincoln giving the Gettysburg Address, and proclaimed, “He lives, he wakes-’tis Death is dead, not he!”
For a while there, I was worried that at some point he might get suspicious of my role in this whole affair. I certainly would have if I were him. But it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him to question who I am or what I’m doing here. He’s never called me by my name. I don’t think he even knows I have a name, much less that it’s Luke. As for the possibility that I’m the guy featured in the Pocket Pal, I’m pretty sure that’s never crossed his mind.
Of course, it helps that he doesn’t seem to remember anything that happened in the real world while he was under the influence of chemical restraint. As far as Asmador is concerned, he was sent here by the Infernal Council to carry out his mission, and nothing else matters. And when you look at the situation from his point of view, it only makes sense that there’d be a guy here whose entire function in life (other than rolling doobies for him) was to help him with that mission. He probably thinks the Infernal Council sent me to him for precisely that reason, and I sure don’t plan to disabuse him on that score.
At least not intentionally. I did come close to screwing it up this afternoon, however, while I was explaining how to get to Fred and Evelyn’s house, and accidentally referred to them as “my” grandparents instead of the grandparents. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice.
Apr 24
Asmador was like a new man this morning. He emptied my piss jug, made instant coffee, and even twisted up a sloppy but serviceable breakfast doobie for us to share. Then he hunkered down next to me, glanced to his left, then to his right, and whispered, “Tonight’s the night.”
Turns out he’d visited the Council last night and received his marching orders. Me, I wasn’t all that convinced he was ready yet, but when we went through the plan for about the zillionth time, I had to admit he had it down cold.
Of course, that’s no guarantee he’ll be able to perform under pressure, or improvise successfully if things go wrong. But I can’t let myself worry about stuff like that. I’ll just have to be contented with knowing that I’ve done everything I can, and hope I live long enough to find out how it all comes out.
Apr 25
It’s not so bad, this dying. I thought it’d be scarier. Instead it’s kind of peaceful. My leg doesn’t even hurt anymore. Not because it’s better, but because it’s numb. I can’t feel anything below midcalf. Which is lucky, because my foot sure looks painful, all black and swollen and getting ready to split open like an overripe tomato. Plus there’s this sweetish-sour rotting smell hovering around my corner of the barn. Can you say gangrene, boys and girls?
Of course, I could probably still save my life (though probably not my foot) by hopping into the old Beemer when Asmador gets back and driving straight to the nearest emergency room. But then what? I get to spend the rest of my life either in prison (I imagine some people are still pretty pissed off about that whole blowing up Meadows Road deal) or in some state-run maximum-security nut farm. And I’ve already done enough time in Meadows Road to know that that’s not really living, it’s only slower dying.
No, better to let it end here. But not quite yet, not until I get to see my grandparents again.
Asmador should be back with their heads any time now.
Tapocketa tapocketa ka-chunk.
Open lid, turn page of book, place book facedown on glass, push down lid to flatten book, press big green button.
Tapocketa tapocketa ka-chunk.
Open lid, turn page…place book…flatten book…green button.
Tapocketa tapocketa ka-chunk…
Pender and Epstein were in a rhythm now, slaving over a hot photocopier in the windowless room in the back of the Marshall County sheriff’s station, where they kept the office equipment. Laura Baldinger had agreed to let Pender enlarge Luke Sweet’s Pocket Pal diary for the purposes of the investigation, on the condition that he return it to her at the crime scene as soon as they’d finished.
“Here’s you,” Pender exclaimed, reading from a floppy, still-warm sheet of copier paper. “A skinny guy with fading reddish brown hair.…Skip Epstein. …Bounty hunter.” Pender glanced up at him. “Bounty hunter?”
Skip reddened-with his fair complexion, he’d always blushed easily-then flipped back through his copy of the sheets. “And here’s you. A huge fat guy wearing a loud sport coat and one of those stupid little checked hats with feathers in the brim.”
Pender took off his trusty hat and turned it around a few times. “Looks fine to me,” he said, just as his cell phone began playing “Moon River” in his pants pocket.
A practiced hand by now, Pender flipped the phone open with a flourish while Skip continued to work the copier. “Pender here. …Uh-huh. …Uh-huh. …That didn’t take long. …Yeah, I understand. Okay, shoot. …Really?… That explains the smell. …Thanks, Doc, I-No, nothing from Cal-ID yet. I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything. …You bet. Thanks again. …Bye.”
He keyed the End Call button, snapped the phone closed, turned to Skip. “That was Dr. Flemm, the M.E. He’s reasonably convinced he’s got the cause of death for our deceased friend-provisional of course, pending blood work and toxicology, but he says so far, everything points to gangrene from a crushed ankle.”
The phone, still in his hand, went off again. Pender, who was heartily sick of “Moon River” by this time, gave Skip the upraised, sorry-gotta-take-this forefinger. “Pender here. …Oh, hi. …Tell me you have good news for- No
