There was a long pause. A small car with four teenage boys zipped around me, music blaring from it. So I wasn’t the only maniac on the road. Nice to know.
“It’ll find us?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I ddn’t know where to find Dolores, so I went to Questa and stirred things up. The next part of the plan is that we hole up there and wait for the rider to come to us.”
“And why will it do that?”
“To get rid of me. Because I know about it and can rat it out to you and Chapin and the rest.”
“Only now, I’ll be there too.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“All right,” Alexander said. “Just wanted to make sure I understood what we were in for. You’re driving too fast.”
I looked at the speedometer and slowed down. My knuckles ached from gripping the wheel, and it was hard to get them to relax. When the streetlights started getting fewer and farther between, I pulled over, got out my cell phone, and dug around until I found where we were and a route back to the hotel. And, I hoped, Dolores. I twisted around in my seat. Behind me, Alexander still had his hand on the oh-shit handle. His eyes were closed. I felt a stab of sympathy for him. Being the chosen of God always did seem to suck.
“You want me to stop for coffee or something?” I asked. “Could be a long night.”
He opened his eyes, tried for a smile, and shook his head.
“Take me to Nineveh,” he said.
Chapter Seventeen
The Sangre de Cristo motel office was dark by the time we got back. The place was built like a strip mall: a long parking lot along the front, a small covered walkway, with numbered doors leading into all the rooms. I pulled in at mine and killed the headlights. The window to the left showed the flicker of a television, the one to the right was dark. A light wind had picked up, and dry snow blew across the blacktop like sand in the desert, making patterns like snakeskin.
“Wait here,” I said.
The air was cold and dry and smelled of wood smoke and pine. I unlocked the door, pushing it open gently. The room was dark. The bed—just one—lurked against the far wall. The dresser was nearest me with a television on top it so wide and thick, it was probably older than I was. I stood in the doorway for five long breaths, waiting. I’d been gone for a couple of hours. If Dolores and her sister had gotten my message, they could be here waiting. But the only things that came out of the darkness were the ghostly scents of spent cigarettes and old perfume and the muffled voices and canned laughter from the television next door. I flipped the light switch, and muddy yellow light filled the room. Pin-striped wallpaper, fake-quilt print bedspread, carpet that showed the years of strangers’ feet. A single chair huddled apologetically in the corner and the bedside table had lost some of its veneer, the particleboard showing through. The heat came from a little electric unit along the floorboard that clicked to life in the cold draft seeping in past me. I checked the closet—empty except for an ironing board, an ancient-looking iron, and a half dozen coat hangers. The bathroom was also empty. White porcelain sink and a toilet small enough for a five-year-old, a tub and shower with a white plastic curtain on a bar that bent out to make the tub seem bigger than it was. On the way back out, I looked under the bedh a telediv height='0em'>
At the door, I gestured to Alexander. He opened his door, let Ozzie clamber past him, and eased himself to the ground. He walked slowly, like a man in pain. Ozzie pushed past me into the room, wagging and sniffing everything she came to. When Alex got to the door, I took his arm and helped him to the bed.
“You’re still pretty messed up,” I said.
“Yeah, I am,” he said. “On the mend, though.”
He lay back, his head on the pillow, palms pressed to his neck and chest. He took a few long, careful breaths. I sat on the little chair. Ozzie came and sniffed at my knees, turned around three times, and lowered herself gingerly to the floor with a long, contented sigh. She, at least, was having a great night.
“What did the doctors say about it?”
“They decided it was a lightning strike,” he said. “Ball lightning. The kind that wanders around looking for something to bump into. I just told them I didn’t remember what happened, and they seemed comfortable with that.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“They don’t know how well it’s going to heal, or over what kind of time period. It looks like it didn’t kill the bone, though. That would have been bad.”
“That was an option, was it?”
“It was a fear. But at least I know where my first scar’s coming from. Father Chapin always says the people with the scars on the outside are the lucky ones. It’s the ones on your soul that hurt worst.”
“Well, there’s a cheerful way to look at it,” I said. “I’ve got a few scars too. I had this rider in Denver stab me with its fingers. And then this one?” I held up my arm and pulled back my sleeve, showing the long knot of white. “Voodoo god in New Orleans popped me open like a ballpark frank.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. New Orleans was hard. Chicago was worse.”
“Where’d you scar up from that one?”
“Hands,” I said. “Hands and soul.”
“Ah. Were you fighting against the … the one inside you?”
“No,” I said. “That was before I knew she was there. We were on the same team back then.”
“And are you now?” he asked.
“Am I what?”
“On the same team.”
I started to answer, then stopped. The wind was hissing and gusting outside. Cold radiated from the window behind me, just enough of a chill to make the room’s warmth seem cozy. I knew it was listening, wondering what I would say. I wondered too.
“We are. For now,” I said. “I don’t really know much about her. I mean, Black Sun. Black Sun’s daughter. Voice of the Desert. But I don’t know what that means. Chapin tells me she’s youo I guess I know that. But how old is old, and how long has she been riding shotgun on my life? Who am I without her? That’s why I came here. To find that out.”
“I thought you came here to get rid of it.”
I thought about that.
“You’re right. I did.”
“But that changed,” Alexander said, and let his head fall back against the pillow.
“I guess so.”
“Chapin shouldn’t have accepted you,” Alexander said with a sigh. “No offense meant, but this was a bad idea from the start. The old man screwed up.”
Ozzie whined, her leg twitching as she chased dream rabbits. The television next door switched to the deep, authoritative voice of a news announcer. On the bed, Alexander folded his hands over his chest. The urge to defend myself was like an itch. What was wrong with me? Why shouldn’t Chapin have taken me on? But I knew. I’d come out of fear and desperation, but I didn’t believe the things Chapin and Alexander—and Ex—did. I had once, or almost did, anyway. But I’d come looking for a cure to a disease. What they had on offer was redemption from evil. The two looked the same if you squinted, but I was starting to think they were really pretty different.
“Why do you think he took the case, then?” I asked. “My keen fashion sense?”
“Xavier,” Alexander said. “He couldn’t refuse him. They’ve got too much history.”
“You mean the girl who killed herself. Isabel.”
“I guess so. I mean, that was all before my time. I know it was a massive clusterfuck—Sorry. Language. I know it was a huge mess. When that one went south, everyone blamed themselves and each other. There was a visit by the bishop. Chapin had to go to Rome for a while. I don’t know what happened while he was out there. But
