Inside the tank, the hands and ankles of the captives were tied. Quinn stretched out while Ruby sat beside him, sunk against the wall. The air was humid like a sauna and moisture pearled on every surface. Ruby tried to rest but penetrating the semi-darkness were Troy’s ice-blue eyes.
“Something bothering you, Ruby,” Troy said.
“You really know her?” Dom asked.
“I know her name is Ruby Rosen Ryan. I know she lives in Zamora, New Mexico.”
“What did my mom ever see in you!”
Troy’s teeth gleamed. “Your mom likes men, Ruby. She likes doing special things with them. Special dirty things you starting to learn with August in the back of the truck.”
“Shut up,” Quinn groaned.
“I believe,” Dom said.
“I know what you believe, dingo,” Troy said. “I got cramps listening to it day and night. What I tell you?”
Dom couldn’t recall.
“Killing gives man an occupation and distraction. Men eat animals so they don’t have to kill other men.”
“But I believe,” Dom started again.
Troy butted the young man with his head and split his lip.
“We don’t give a rhino’s ass, you understand?”
Blood drooled down Dom’s chin onto his Led Zeppelin “Stairway to Heaven” T-shirt.
“Dom, he’s a liar! A pathological liar! A sicko!”
Dom gaped at Ruby. She was mixed, part black or Caribbean with cocoa skin and green eyes like tiger marbles. Except for her freaky haircut, she was beautiful. Maybe the hair was a fashion statement or symptom of the disease.
“Tell him, you’re not Edwin Ryan. Tell him, one true thing,” she said.
“Who says I’m not? And if I happen to like the sound of Edwin Ryan, I can change my name to whatever, even a symbol like that queer dude, Prince.”
“Dom, he picked my mom up in a bar. My mom’s not a slut. But he picked her up. She’s a good person, too good. He appealed to her goodness. She wanted to help him but she made a mistake. Like you, Dom. When she tried to dump him, the mistake stuck around our house. His name isn’t Edwin, it’s Troy.”
“Troy Mason?” Dom asked.
“He didn’t have a dime. All he had was a bunch of bullshit stories. Every day he lied to us like he lied to you. My mother gave him her savings to get rid of him. He would have killed me if I hadn’t shot him.”
“You shot him?” Dom asked.
“Shut up, cunt! You stole my money, my gun, my car! You shot me in the knee! You’re going down!” Troy’s voice echoed through the metal box.
“Leave it alone,” Quinn told Ruby.
“You’re not Edwin Ryan. You couldn’t be him in a million years.”
“I believe I am Edwin Ryan.”
“You don’t believe anything,” Ruby said. “That’s what makes you evil.”
Troy leapt from a folding chair, lunged at Ruby, and rammed her with his head. She rolled in a ball. Quinn rolled on top of her. Troy hopped back and charged again. When he contacted Quinn, he knocked the breath out of him.
Justice Jenkins sprang from the top of the tank, slammed Troy against the wall, and gripped his scrawny throat.
“You want to die today?” he asked coolly.
Scorn lingered on Troy’s pretty face until the hand of one man and the air passage of the other reached the liminal threshold between breath and death.
“Answer before I snap your neck like a turkey wishbone.”
“No,” Troy croaked.
Snorri shone a flashlight into the tank where Quinn and Ruby were prone, nearly unconscious and Dom crouched down and bleeding.
“Get them out!” Jenkins ordered.
Two cadets helped Quinn and Dom up the steps and out of the tank. But Ruby refused to be touched.
Snorri motioned for the others to back off and let him try. He approached her gently. He promised not to hurt her. She tried to tell him to fuck off but couldn’t find the strength. He explained that he was going to lift and sling her over his shoulder. He asked if that was okay. When Ruby didn’t respond, he softly recited an Icelandic poem and proceeded. She was limp and silent as he carried her up the steps.
The rain fell through the open hatch of the tank into a shallow puddle that filled the center of the floor. Justice pressed his boot on Troy’s chest.
“Who are you?” he asked, squinting his minuscule eyes. In Edwin Ryan he perceived an amoral man, a loose thread of Chaos, a scoundrel. Justice Jenkins used to be that man. “Who?” he pressed harder.
There were lots of answers to that question but Troy was weary. With a man like Jenkins, he had to play a different hand.
“Troy Mason, born and raised in Amarillo. Mechanic by trade, I been around, in and out.”
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody,” Troy said.
“Look at me!” Justice demanded.
Troy tried to find an aperture in the two points.
“If you don’t want to volunteer, we got methods. Or we can improvise. Imagine, improvise, implement, that’s the story of invention.” Jenkins ticked off his fingers. “Water board, branding iron, stun gun, gibbet. Being a Texas boy, I bet you seen most of them.” Justice kicked a solid cube. “Americans invented electro-torture. There’s a battery right there, MADE IN USA.”
“I swear,” Troy muttered.
Justice Jenkins tapped Troy’s face with the metal tip of his boot. “Good night,” he said.
In the center of the clearing, he stripped down to his briefs. The cold needle-sharp raindrops pummeled him like sprays of fine gravel. Ice to fire. Drops ran down his head and neck and over his arms and legs. They stung his back and the scallop of flesh around his waist. He opened his mouth and swished the hard rain pellets with his tongue. He went to his knees and cupped his hands like a child. Every morning and every night, he came to Jesus, hoping his sins would be forgiven. So far, that hadn’t happened. He listened but heard nothing. He prayed and no one answered. Not only was he abandoned by God but now his wife and son had deserted him.