Darkness began to claim the sky, and the sign on the First Texas Bank read 88��F. at 8:22.
Under the incandescents of the garage stall, Cody had finished his work for the day and was assembling tools to tune up his motorcycle. Mr. Mendoza would close the station around nine o'clock, and then Cody would be faced with his usual decision: to sleep at home and have to face the old man sometime during the night; to crash at the fortress, which was as rowdy as a fraternity house in hell and reeked of marijuana fumes; or sleep atop the Rocking Chair, not the most comfortable roost but surely the most peaceful of his choices.
He leaned over to pull some clean rags from a cardboard box and the little glass vial fell from his pocket, making a merry tinkling note as it hit the concrete. The vial didn't break, and Cody quickly picked it up, though Mr. Mendoza was in his office reading the newspaper and waiting for the Trailways bus to pull in.
Cody held the vial up and looked at the crystals. He'd tried cocaine once, on a dare from Bobby Clay Clemmons, and once was enough; he didn't like the shit, because he understood how people could get hooked on it and feel like they couldn't live without it. He'd seen several 'Gades go off the deep end because of it, like Tank's older brother Mitch, who four years ago had driven his Mustang onto the railroad tracks and crashed into an oncoming train at seventy miles an hour, killing not only himself but two girls and Mayor Brett's son. Cody didn't drink, either; the most he'd do is some low-powered zooming on a weed or two, but never when anybody's life depended on his decisions. It was chickenshit to let drugs do your thinking for you.
But he knew people who'd give their right arms for an inhale of what those crack crystals would put out. It would be an easy thing to go up to the fortress, cook them over a flame, and toke until his brains turned blue. But he knew they wouldn't help him see the world any clearer; they'd just make him think that Mack Cade was the only way out of Inferno and he ought to jump at the sound of the master's voice.
He set the vial down atop the worktable, pondering the crystals for a moment and what Mr. Mendoza had said about a man being responsible for his actions. Maybe that was tired old bullshit, and maybe there was truth to it too.
But he already knew what he'd decided.
He lifted his right hand. In it was a ballpeen hammer. He brought it down on the vial, shattering it to pieces and crushing the yellow crystals. Then he used his left hand to brush the mess off the table and into a garbage pail, where it sank amid greasy rags and empty oil cans.
Six hundred dollars a month was not the price of his soul.
Cody put aside the hammer and continued gathering the wrenches and sockets he needed for his Honda.
a horn rapped twice: deep bass hoots. The Trailways bus from Odessa. Cody didn't look up, just kept at his task, and Mr. Mendoza went out to speak to the driver, who was from a town near his own in central Mexico.
The passengers, most of them elderly people, filed off the bus to use the bathroom or the candy and soft-drink machines. But one of them was a young girl with a battered brown suitcase, and when she left the bus it was with finality; this was the end of her journey. She glanced over at the driver, saw him talking to a husky man with silver hair and a mustache. Then her gaze fell on the blond boy who was working in the garage stall, and she lugged the suitcase with her as she walked in his direction.
Cody had all the tools he needed, and the new spark plugs were laid out. He knelt down to start in when a girl's voice said, from behind him, "excuse me." "Bathroom's through the door in the office." He motioned with a nod of his head, used to being interrupted by the bus passengers.
"Gracias, but I need some directions." He looked around at her, and instantly stood up and wiped the grease from his hands onto the front of his already-grimy shirt.
The girl was sixteen or maybe seventeen, with jet-black hair cut to her shoulders. Her tawny eyes, set in a high-cheekboned, oval face, made a thrill run along Cody's backbone. She stood about five-six, was slender, and, in Cody's lingo, a smash fox. even if she was Mexican. Her skin was the color of coffee and cream, and she wore hardly any makeup except for some pale lip gloss. Her eyes surely didn't need any artificial help, Cody thought; they were soulful and steady, if a little red-rimmed from a long bus trip. She was wearing a red-checked blouse and khaki trousers, black sneakers, and a small silver chain and heart that lay in the hollow of her throat.
"Directions," Cody repeated. There seemed to be too much saliva in his mouth; he was afraid he might drool, and then what would this smash fox think of himi "Uh... sure." He imagined he must smell like a combination grease factory and barnyard. "Directions to wherei" "I'm looking for a house. Do you know where Rick Jurado livesi" He felt as if a bucket of freezing water had been thrown into his face. "Uh... yeah, I do. Whyi" "He's my brother," the smash fox said.
and he answered, in a small voice, "Oh." The blond boy didn't say anything else. She'd seen his eyes narrow slightly when she'd mentioned Rick's name. Why was thati a spark of light jumped from his skull earring. He was handsome in a rough kind of way, she decided. But he looked like trouble, and something deep in his eyes was dangerous too, something that might snap fast at you if you weren't careful. She had the sensation that he was taking her apart and then fitting her back together again, joint by joint. "Welli" she prodded. "How do I get therei" "That way." He motioned south. "across the bridge, in Bordertown. He lives on Second Street." "Gracias." She knew the address from the letters he'd been sending. She began to walk away, carrying the suitcase that held all her belongings in the world.
Cody let her go a few paces, couldn't help but watch her tight rear end as she walked. Smash fox, he thought, even if she was Jurado's sister. Damn, what a panic! He hadn't even known Jurado had any brothers or sisters. Must take after their mother, he reasoned, because she sure doesn't look anything like that wetback bastard! He knew other good-looking girls, but he'd never seen such a fine Mexican fox before; it was just kind of an added kick that she was a Jurado. "Hey!" he called after her, and she stopped. "Kinda long walk from here." "I don't mind." "Maybe not, but it's rough over there too." He emerged from the stall, wiping the rest of the grease from his hands. "I mean, you never know what might happen." "I can take care of myself." She started off again.
Right, he thought. Get yourself raped by some of those crazy fuckers too. He looked up, saw stars coming out. a dark red slash cut the western horizon, and a yellow full moon was on the rise. From the Inferno Baptist Church he heard wobbly piano chords and a few voices struggling for harmony at choir practice. Inferno's lights had come on: the red flicker of neon at the Brandin' Iron, the white lights around the roof of the bank building, the garish multicolored bulbs over Cade's used-car lot. Houses showed squares of yellow and the faint blue glows of TVs. The town had turned the power off at the apartment building, but the 'Gades had used money from their treasury to buy portable incandescents at the hardware store, and those illuminated the corridors. Cody saw a blue pulse of light and a spiral of sparks from the junkyard, and he knew the night work had begun, somebody cutting metal with a blowtorch.
He watched Jurado's sister striding away, just about to reach the limits of the gas station's lights. Looked as if the suitcase was going to win the battle of wills at any second. He smiled thinly as an idea crept into his thoughts. Jurado would scream so hard the grease would fly off his hair if he did what he was thinking. Why not do iti What did he have to losei Besides, it would be fun... He decided. Got on the motorcycle and kickstarted the engine.
"Cody!" Mr. Mendoza called, from where he stood jawing with the bus driver. "Where're you goin'i" "To do a good deed," he replied, and before the man could speak again Cody accelerated away. He swung the Honda in front of Jurado's sister just at the edge of the lights, and she looked at him with puzzlement that became a flash of anger. "Hop on," he offered.
"No, I'll walk." She sidestepped the Honda and kept on going, the suitcase tugging mightily at her arm.
He followed at her side, the engine putt-putting and Cody in the saddle but more or less walking the machine along. "I won't bite." No answer. Her steps had gotten faster, but the suitcase was holding her back.
"I don't even know your name. Mine's Cody Lockett." "You're bothering me." "I'm tryin' to help you." at least she'd answered that time, which meant progress of a kind. "If you hold that suitcase between us and hang on, I'll get you across the bridge and to your brother's house in about two minutes." She'd come this far alone, in a groaning bus with a man snoring noisily in a seat two rows behind her, and she knew she could make it the rest of the way. Besides, she didn't know this boy and she didn't accept rides with strangers. She glanced back, noting uneasily that there was no more light until she reached the protection of the glass orbs that illuminated the bridge. But the houses were close, and she didn't really feel in any danger. If he tried anything, she could either swing the suitcase at him or drop it and claw at his eyes.
"So what's your namei" he tried again.
"Jurado," she answered.
"Yeah, I know that. What's your first namei" She hesitated. Then: "Miranda." He repeated it. "That's a nice name. Come on, Miranda; hop on and I'll take you across the bridge." "I said no." He shrugged. "Okay, then. Don't say I didn't warn you about the Mumbler." It came to him, just like that. "Good luck gettin' across the bridge." He revved the engine, as if about to speed away.
She took two more determined steps - and then her determination faltered. The suitcase had never felt so heavy. She stopped, put the suitcase down, and rubbed her shoulder.
"What's wrongi" "Nothing." "Oh. I thought somethin' was wrong from the way you stopped." He read it in her eyes. "Don't worry about the Mumbler. He's not usually creepin' around before eight-thirty." She stuck her wrist in front of the Honda's headlight. "It's after eight-thirty," she said, looking at her watch.
"Oh. Yeah, so it is. Well, he's not real active before nine." "Who exactly are you talking abouti" "The Mumbler." Think fast, he told himself. "You're not from around here, so you wouldn't know. The Mumbler's dug himself a cave somewhere along the Snake River; at least that's what the sheriff thinks. anyway, the Mumbler comes out of his cave at night and hides under the bridge. Sheriff thinks he might be a big Indian guy, about six feet eight or so, who went crazy a few years back. He killed a bunch of people and" - think fast! - "and got acid thrown in his face. Sheriff's been tryin' to catch him, but the Mumbler's quick as a sidewinder. So that's why nobody crosses the bridge on foot after dark; the Mumbler might be underneath it. If you don't cross over real quick, the Mumbler's up on that bridge like greased smoke, and he takes you down with him. Just like that." He paused; she was still listening. "You'd do better if you ran across the bridge. 'Course, that suitcase looks mighty heavy. You set it down on the bridge, and he's likely to hear the thump. The trick is to get across before he knows you're there." He gazed for a moment at the bridge. "Looks longer than it is, really," he said.
She laughed. The boy's expression during the telling had gone from cool to mock sinister. "I'm not a dumb kid!" she said.
"It's the truth!" He held up his right hand. "Honest Injun!" Which made her laugh again. He realized he liked the sound of her laughter: it was clean, like what Cody envisioned the sound of a mountain stream over smooth stones must be like, someplace where snow made everything white and new.
Miranda hefted her suitcase again. Her shoulder protested. "I've heard some tall tales before, but that one wears elevator boots!" "Well, go on, then." He feigned exasperation. "But don't stop once you start across. Just keep goin', no matter what you hear or see." She regarded the bridge. Not much to look at, just gray concrete and pools of light and shadow. One of the glass globes had burned out, so there was a larger shadow pool about ten feet from the far side. She found herself thinking that if there really was a Mumbler, that would be the place he might strike. She hadn't come all the way from Fort Worth, changing buses in abilene and again in Odessa, to get killed by a big scar-faced Indian. No, it was a made-up story, just to get her scared! Wasn't iti
"Full moon," Cody said. "He likes full moons." "If you touch one place you're not supposed to," she told him, "I'll knock you cross-eyed." She held the suitcase upright, close to her chest, and sat behind Cody.
Bingo! he thought. "Grab my sides." She took his dirty shirt between tentative fingers. "We're gonna give it some gas to clear the bridge before the Mumbler knows we're there. Hold tight!" he warned - and then he let the engine rev until it howled. He kicked it into first gear.
The "motorcycle shuddered and reared back, and for an instant Cody felt his heart leap into his throat and he thought the extra weight was going to tip them over. He leaned forward, fighting gravity. Miranda clenched her teeth on a scream. But then the Honda was shooting along Republica Road, the front end bounced down and burned rubber, and they were heading toward the bridge with the wind in their faces.
Miranda's hands gripped into his sides, about to claw the meat from his ribs.
They shot onto the bridge, cocooned in a roar. The bridge's ornate lampposts with their smoked-glass globes flashed past. Here came the biggest pool of shadow; it seemed as large as a tarpit to Miranda.
and then Cody had a wild hair. He just had to do it.
He yelled, "There's the Mumbler!" and jerked the Honda into the left lane as if to escape something slithering over the bridge's right side.
She shrieked. Her arms clutched at his chest, the suitcase pinned between them and about to blow the breath out of both of them. Her hair was flying around her shoulders, and for a gut-wrenching second she imagined something had plucked at it with an oozy hand, trying to tear her right off the cycle. Her shriek kept spilling out, her eyes about to jump from their sockets - but suddenly the shriek reached its limit and gurgled into laughter, because she knew there was no Mumbler and there never had been, but they were through the shadow and off the bridge and now Cody was cutting his speed on the streets of Bordertown.
She couldn't stop laughing, though she didn't know this boy - this gringo - and didn't trust his hands not to wander down to her legs. But they did not. She loosened her grip on his sides, holding on to his shirt again, and Cody relaxed because she'd just about pinched hunks of skin off him. He laughed with her, but his eyes were wary and flicking from side to side. He had entered the kingdom of the Rattlesnakes, and he had to watch his ass. But at least for the moment, he figured he sure had a pretty insurance policy perched behind him.
Cody swerved onto Second Street, avoided a couple of roaming dogs, and powered toward Jurado's house.