“All right,” Roosevelt said, and smiled and held them out.
“No, no. No, no. Behind. Behind you.”
“Behind me?” asked Roosevelt, now confused. Connelly walked around him.
“Yes. Behind you. It’s good for you, you see.”
“Oh,” he said. “Did you see where I left my rock?” he asked as Connelly tied his wrists.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” said Pike. He tore off part of his sleeve and began tying Roosevelt’s ankles.
“That was my special rock. I was going to get water from it. Poke a hole in it and make it give me drink.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.” He whimpered. “That’s tight,” he said, wriggling his arms. “That hurts.”
“Yes, yes,” said Pike. “Now sit.”
“Listen,” said Roosevelt as he sat. “Listen. Listen to me.”
“We’re listening,” said Pike. He secured the binds at Rosie’s feet.
“Listen—take a man,” said Rosie. “Take any man. Lawyer-man. Preacher-man. A man of law and civilization, the highest in the land. Take that man and put him before a desert and march him across that desert with naught but the clothes on his back and a thimble of water a day—”
Pike nodded. “He’s been changed, all right.”
Rosie’s voice grew stronger. “—march him across that vast dry expanse with no contact and no food, no meat nor grain, and by the time he reaches the other side he will have been whittled down to his darkest heart —”
“Do you want to stay or go?” Pike asked Connelly.
“—and his eyes will see no love nor comfort nor compassion in the arms of others—”
“I’ll go,” said Connelly.
“—but his hands will sing with the great red song that they have been waiting to sing their whole life.”
“Then go,” said Pike. “But give me the knife.”
“He will be as he was meant. The knife he has carried in his heart, the weapon that he is, it will find use —”
Connelly took the knife out and looked at it. Watched the edge gleam with the morning sun. Then he held the hilt out to Pike. Pike took it, nodding like he was listening to Roosevelt’s words.
“—he will find the bright cold use among his brothers and among the beasts of this world and he will find joy in it. He will find joy in it. He will find joy in it.”
Connelly began walking away. He heard Roosevelt say, “What’s going on?” in a quieter voice. “What’s going on?”
Connelly heard Pike say, “Hush now. We’re playing a little game,” and Connelly walked to the other side of the cliff and moved behind a stone and sat.
He was still for a second but then shifted uncomfortably. He reached behind and into his pocket and took out what was digging at him. It was a small crescent wrench. He could not remember where he got it. He tossed it away and looked up at the sky and wondered if it was going to rain. Then the shouting began.
There were words to the exchange but he did not listen for them. A question, calmly asked. An answer, given in panic. The question came again, whatever it was. A protest, again and again, no, no, not me, I don’t know, no. Then the mountain quiet was pierced by hysterical cries and maddened wailing. He heard Pike ask something again, calm and low, but the screams did not answer, just intensified. Then the voice choked and coughed and Pike said something once again.
Connelly listened for what felt like a long time, for hours or perhaps minutes. In that place time no longer functioned. Its purpose was moot, perhaps forgotten. When he could bear no more he stood up. He walked back down the path and paused behind a rocky outcropping, listening to what was happening on the other side. Then he steeled himself and looked out.
It was only the briefest glance, but it was enough. First he saw Pike crouched before something, something twitching and supine against the rock. He did not immediately recognize it as Roosevelt, could not even recognize it as a person, but then he saw a mouth and eyes in it, vague human features adrift among all the writhing redness. Pike sidled up before Roosevelt, back and legs taut, knife clutched low like the ovipositor of some foul insect. He whispered something to him, a priest delivering some depraved last rites, eyes small and muddy and empty and his fingers testing the hilt of the knife. Then the blade began to move back in and a burbling sound came from deep within whatever was left of Roosevelt, a sound that steadily grew to a scream.
Connelly withdrew and walked back up the path as the screams went on. He looked back. Thought. Then knelt beside a stone. He took out the last gun and counted the rounds in it.
“Bastard,” he said softly to himself. “Bastards the world over. Ever since I met you. Bastard.”
There were five rounds left. He did not know if there was any other ammunition. He rolled the cylinder and snapped it shut and stuffed it in the waist of his pants. Then he waited, listening. Trying to see if Pike had any more questions and hoping it was done with and he would see no more of it.
When he judged it was time Connelly got up and returned to where Pike and Roosevelt sat. He saw the two men ahead, piled on each other in the mist. Pike calmly digging at something in Roosevelt. Moving with the lapidary care of a master craftsman, eager to see his work done right. He was not asking any questions. Connelly could tell all his questions had come and gone.
“Stop,” said Connelly. “Jesus Christ, stop.”
Pike looked at him, startled, and stood. His knees and hands and front were stained with gore. “Mr. Connelly,” he said. “What are you doing here? I’m… I’m not yet finished.”
Connelly looked at Rosie. Looked at the lines in his scalp, his toes at sick angles on one shoeless foot. Below his chest he was a mass of redness. Connelly could still see his little soft eyes among the wreckage of his face, lids fluttering, struggling to stay conscious. He was curled around the rock beside him like he was trying to anchor himself to the earth and a few more seconds, even if they were spent in agony.
Connelly took out his pistol. He lifted it and looked away as he put the little soft eyes under his sights.
“No!” said Pike. “No, no!”
He pulled the trigger. The report seemed to sound from far, far away. When he turned back there was a gaping wound in Roosevelt’s breast, drooling blood. His back warped against the stone in his last throes, spasms racking him as the bullet drifted through his body. Then his back went slack and he was still, his face mercifully away from them.
“Damn you!” shouted Pike. “What… what did you do that for? I wasn’t… I wasn’t done.”
Connelly swallowed and tried to slow his breath. “What did he say?”
“I wasn’t done. I wasn’t done at all. Not at all.”
“What did he say, damn it? Did you ask any questions at all?”
“I did,” Pike said, indignant. “I most certainly did.”
“Then what?”
Pike considered him. Then looked back at Rosie and studied his work. “He said the scarred man was looking for a cave. A cave somewhere in the mountains.”
“Where?”
“In a fault,” he said. “A fault that ran between two peaks. One short, the other tall, rising up like one’s leaping on the other.”
“What’s he doing in there?”
“He said he was looking for something,” Pike said. “Looking for… for rebirth. To make himself anew.” Then he crouched before Roosevelt and reached out and touched the man’s cheek. He put one finger to his chin and tilted the dead man’s face toward him. Looked into his eyes. Stroked his bloody temple with one knuckle. Then he patted Roosevelt on the shoulder as though bidding goodbye to an old friend. “Well. He’s gone,” Pike said, standing. “He’ll be of no more trouble to us. Eh?”
He turned to Connelly and smiled. Connelly lifted the gun again and pointed it at Pike’s face and cocked it.
Pike’s brow furrowed as he saw the gun. He looked at Connelly, confused.
“I never liked you,” said Connelly, and fired.
A red eye opened on Pike’s cheek and his head snapped back and he fell in a heap. He stared up at the gray
