Chapter 16
Popping sounds came from relaxing metal under the pecan tree. Jimmy and Gus found no more drivers licenses. Gasoline soaked the earth.
“You’ll want to walk back to the truck,” said Jimmy. “I’m going to roast some pecans.”
Gus walked back to the truck knowing what he meant. Jimmy did not smoke, but he always carried matches in case he needed to start a fire. He walked to the edge of the gas-soaked grass. Gus saw the match ignite in Jimmy’s cupped hands, then he dropped it. An orange swoosh raced across the ground towards the wreck. When it reached the twisted gas tank, a ball of flame plumed into the pecan limbs, crackling and hissing as it cooked the tree and the car. Jimmy shielded his face and studied the roiling fire, then turned and walked back to the truck where Gus stood.
A car came over the hill. The vehicle slowed. The driver’s face gaped, wide-eyed, through the windshield at the fire. Another explosion heaved the roiling wreckage. Gus held up a hand to staunch the heat and watched the approaching car through a squint. Blood from his wounds stained his wrinkled shirt. Acrid air burned his nostrils in a stench of combusting gasoline, burning leaves, roasting rubber and melting plastic. Gus rubbed his face. His features felt alien in his hand. His brain tightened around his dread. How had things turned so wrong so quickly?
Jimmy walked into the road, waving his arms. The driver – a wary salesman – pulled to the side and rolled down his window reluctantly.
“What the hell happened here?” he yelled at Jimmy. “Anybody make it?”
“We just got here ourselves,” said Jimmy. “You got a cell phone? Somebody should call 911. We would if we had one. It’s a bad accident.”
“I’d say so.” He squinted at the burning tree. “My cell just died after a two hour sales call. That whole tree is on fire over there. Damn.”
“Looks like they were flying when they left the road. The curve got them,” said Jimmy. “If it didn’t the explosion did.”
“I’d say they’re roasted,” said the salesman. “A fire that would roast a whole tree of pecans would sizzle a man pretty fast.”
“If you’ll stay here, we’ll drive up the road to a friend’s house,” said Jimmy. “We’ll call 911.”
The man looked at Jimmy and nodded. Jimmy walked back and got into the truck with Gus and left. He never looked back.
—-
The man dressed like a woman with a red snake tattooed on his wrist walked into the room sniffing the air as if the smell was an answer. He pulled off the wig and tossed it on the floor next to Bren. She felt a dread in his presence. It was thick and salty and soulless.
“Where is your father?” said Fussell Duware. Bren did not answer. “I’ll ask again, politely. If you don’t answer, the polite part ends.”
“I don’t know what you’re –” he cut her off.
“You’re stubborn like your brother,” said Duware. “Let’s see if you are as tough as he is.”
He hit her in the face. Her lip split against her teeth. Another hit followed. Then another. Then a kick to her ribs. She tried to breathe. Duware wasn’t much for drama. His training was strictly business. He pulled Bren up by her hair. Blood sprayed from her mouth as she heaved.
“Remember?” he said. “Clearly your brother is tougher. But you’re a woman, so I’ll cut you some slack. Or maybe just start cutting.”
Duware opened the blade of a box cutter, leaning in close to her bleeding ear. Blood gurgled in her throat as she heaved for breath.
“Gus won’t like the way you look when I’m done. And your daddy won’t like me any more than he does already. But Gus is out of commission.”
He waited for a reaction from her. None.
“Who knows where daddy is,” he said. “But he ain’t here.” He waited again. Nothing.
Outside a garbage truck was lifting a trash bin in metallic moans. Inside, trash lay on the floor around Bren’s broken jaw. Duware smiled.
“I’m dressed like a woman for practical reasons,” he said. “But I’m not a patient man.”
He acted like the two conditions were connected. Bren wanted to tell him to go to hell, but her voice was gone from the last kick. The pain was so intense that it was almost no pain at all.
“One last time, Miss Zapata,” said Duware. “Where is your father?”
Pinching her thoughts into a tiny, focused knot was the only way she could think through the descending darkness. Metal scraped and clicked. She heard Duware exhale and smelled his soured breath. Her father was not the one he should be worried about. Images of Gus smiling after they had made love filled her head. It gave her peace in the middle of what was about to be just the opposite. Bren was fighting to stay conscious. Lacking oxygen to clear her head, Duware’s words were abstract. She mumbled only one word, “Jimmy.”
As Duware made the first cut, Bren was falling into another world far from the dank room where she lay. She was beyond pain now.