BY THE NEXT MORNING ALL THE SNOW HAD MELTED AND THE falling snow had turned to rain and all the beauty the snow carried with it was gone. The trees were bare and gray. The leaves on the ground in the woods were rotting. The air smelled heavy. The stench of winter was so thick you could almost chew it.
They were driving south on the interstate and not saying a word because to say anything might talk them out of it. So they went on like that, not talking and only thinking.
The interstate was dark and ribboned on before them. It was all different shades of black. The sky was low. The tall firs set back from the interstate were of the darkest shade and so close together they looked like a black wall to some storybook fortress. Fielding was looking out the window. The wipers smeared across the glass.
No Bronco tonight, Fielding finally said.
No, Batey said. Thought the optics of a government vehicle participating in what we’re about to might look suspicious.
That’s puttin it mildly.
What time are you meeting this guy? Batey asked.
Eleven.
Cora said you two had a nice chat yesterday.
I listened, Fielding said. That’s what I did.
She can talk alright.
She can ride too. She tell yeh about that?
She told me she watched an old man nearly break his neck.
She’s got a way with horses, Fielding said.
Did she lean in and talk Spanish to it?
Yep.
In the light from the dash Fielding could see that Batey was smiling.
Yeah, he said. She’s got a way with horses.
Fielding had a hard leather case and an envelope stuffed with strips of paper sitting in his lap. Batey eyed it. First the envelope. Then the case.
That what I think it is? Batey asked. He nodded at the case.
That depends on what yeh think it is, Fielding said.
Your old peacemaker on its comeback tour?
Yeh know I’ve only fired it a couple times? And only then at a target. Never even pointed it at another human.
Fielding unlatched the case and opened the lid and the dark metal glinted in the light. There was a space beside the gun carved out for a box of bullets. Fielding sat looking at the gun.
Yeh want some truth? he said.
Okay.
I don’t even like lookin at it, Fielding said. No good can come out of it. No good at all.
He shut the lid and put the case on the floor between his feet.
Think the guy will buy that ringer? Batey asked, nodding at the envelope.
I’m hopin he won’t get the chance.
They didn’t speak again till they reached the outskirts of Seattle. Batey asked about the address. Fielding turned on the dome light and took the slip of paper from his chest pocket and read off the address. Batey told him there was a map in the glove box. With the map spread out on his lap Fielding traced a finger to the location. Where the tip of his finger finally landed was the warehouse district south of the city. Fielding checked his watch.
We going to make it? Batey asked.
How fast can this truck go?
North of the city they crossed an enormous bridge where far below the water was the color of oil. The skyscrapers rose into the night with their squares of yellow light awash in the Ford’s glass. The interstate took them through the guts of the city, the buildings towering in the clouds. Lost up there, the shapes of bullets stood on end. They went under overpasses. Drab figures moving around barrel fires, their shadows pitched upward on the concrete like crude carnival spectacles.
South of the city the long tracts of industry took over. As they got closer, Fielding called out the road and Batey exited.
The lights of the warehouses grew dimmer the farther they went until soon there were no lights and the buildings themselves looked to have not been lit in quite some time. Most of them had temporary chain-link fencing around the perimeters and the warehouse walls were covered in graffiti. What little dirt there was in this abandoned place was consumed with tangles of blackberry vines and within those tangles were pieces of trash smeared like wasted bugs on the grill of a truck. Skinny cats prowled for a meal, their white eyes flashing for an instant in the headlights and then vanishing altogether.
Seeing the faded and moss-coated numbers, Fielding said, That’s the place.
There was no fence and there was no gate. Batey stopped the Ford.
I don’t see anyone, Batey said. Do you?
No I do not.
The Ford’s headlights shined across the parking lot where a large oval of water lay collected. It was big as a pond. Went from building to fence. No way around it. They sat there for a moment in the warm cab with the engine idling. Plotting their next move.
You sure this is the place? Batey said.
And then as if on cue a set of headlights flashed at the far end of the lot. Then everything was dark again. Even the shape of the car that had flashed them.
Okay, Fielding said.
Batey put the Ford into drive and set the truck ahead. At the edge of the pond he stopped.
How deep you think this is? Batey said.
One way to find out.
Batey let off the brake again and the water rose on the tires. It rose to the axle and then to the top of the fender.
I hope this asshole didn’t put something in the water, Batey said.
The water on the undercarriage sounded like crashing surf. Batey was looking out the window, judging the depth. But Fielding looked straight ahead. Didn’t take his eyes away.
The water fell away from the undercarriage and on the other side they could see the car now. Came closer and they could see it was a little rusted-out Civic. The driver was the same guy Fielding had talked to at the porn store. He was sitting behind the wheel. The truck’s headlights lit up the car’s cab. He was smoking a cigarette and the cherry flared from time to time. Twenty feet away Batey stopped the truck and put it into park and let the engine idle. The guy in the car held up his hand like a visor and then he opened the door and stood there smoking.
The rain had quit. It was cold and the exhaust from the truck and the breath from the guy lingered in the air. He held the tape in his right hand. It was wrapped in a plastic bag. Fielding reached down and picked up the leather case and laid it on his lap and popped each latch and opened the lid and lifted the gun from its felt bedding. Batey just looked on without a word. Fielding opened the cylinder and took the box of bullets from its cutout and with his thumb and forefinger slid a round into each chamber. Then he closed the cylinder and he closed the case and set it on the floor again. He leaned forward and jammed the gun into the small of his back. He stuffed the envelope of paper into his jacket pocket.
Alright, he said.
He took a deep breath. He looked at Batey.
Keep the engine goin.
Fielding opened the door and stepped out.
You’re late, the guy said.
Got held up.
Who’s that in the truck?
Friend.
Tell him to cut the fucking lights. Can’t see a fucking thing.
Fielding turned back to the truck and made a motion and the headlights went out. Only the orange of the parking lights reflecting on the wet ground.
Nice truck, the guy said. It’s always the guy who’s into freaky shit that drives a nice truck.
That it, Fielding said. He pointed at the tape.
Yep.
Where’d yeh get it?
That’s not part of the deal.
Yeh seen it?
I took a look-see. Didn’t finish it. The ending isn’t my cup of tea.
Am I goin a like it?
How the fuck should I know. I don’t know anything about you.
I’m into knives. Fancy kinds. Masks and antlers. Any of them in there?
There might be.
How old’s the girl in it?
How old do you want her to be?
How old are you?
You want the fucking video or not? It’s freezing out here.
Just makin conversation.
The guy took a long pull of his cigarette.
Those will kill yeh, Fielding said. Yeh know that?
Listen, old man, he said, you got ten seconds to show me some dough or you’ll have to jerk off to something else.
How much I owe yeh?
This is a rush order.
Like it was newly made?
How the fuck should I know when it was made.
Just askin a question.
Ten, the guy said.
Ten what?
Nine, eight, seven . . .
How much?
The guy said the number.
That’s quite a lot, Fielding said. That’s more than we agreed on.
Things changed.
Maybe my friend comes out here to help yeh change yer mind.
Maybe I got someone here too. Maybe that someone has got a gun pointed right at your fucking temple.
No yeh don’t, Fielding said. There ain’t no one. Just you.
Fielding saw a flicker of unease in him. Something fluttered in his eyes.
The amount we agreed on, Fielding said.
Let me see the money.
Give me the tape.
Fielding reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope and handed it to the guy. The guy put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and weighed the envelope in his hand as if he knew what he was doing.
Feels about right, he said.
He went to open the envelope and when his eyes fell upon all that shredded paper Fielding had already pulled the gun from his belt and before the guy could say a word Fielding pistol-whipped him on the side of the head. The spray of blood in the orange light hung for a moment like mist. He dropped the tape. Fielding hit him again. The guy fell to the pavement and Fielding began to kick him. He kicked him once, twice in the stomach. He kicked him in the chest. The guy gasped and moaned. Fielding didn’t stop kicking him till Batey ran around and pulled him off. Fielding wavered on his feet like he might faint. He walked off a little ways and put his hands on his knees and vomited. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then came back and stood over the guy, trying to catch his breath.
He dead? Fielding asked.
No, Batey said.
Yeh got cuffs in that truck?
You want to bring him in?
Yeah.
Where to?
I don’t know. Figure that out later.
They carried him to the bed of the truck and lifted him in. More than once the guy tried to plead but Batey slapped him across the mouth. Fielding climbed up and manacled one hand and then slid the other cuff through a D ring and then cuffed the other hand. Then he jumped out and closed up the back. Batey handed him a handkerchief. He had the guy’s blood stippled across his face. Batey went around and picked up the video wrapped in plastic. Went to the guy’s Civic and opened the door and leaned in and began rummaging through its contents. The upholstery was torn. The ashtray was overflowing with butts. He found the guy’s wallet and opened it up and removed the license. He shut the door and looked at the license and read out the name. Then he put it in his pocket and walked back to the truck.
Fielding was already sitting inside. When Batey got in and sat down and looked over at Fielding he could see his hands were badly shaking.
We’ll bring him in, Batey said. If he knows anything they’ll get it out of him.
Fielding didn’t say a word. He stared straight ahead. A vacant look on his face. Thinking about the guy in the back. Thinking about the horrors held within that video. Maybe daydreaming about what his life used to be. Wherever he was it was not in the truck. As far as far can go. Long gone, and never coming back.
Batey put the truck into drive and turned it around and drove out the same way they had come in. Batey kept checking the guy in the rearview but he was exactly where they had put him.
Batey said something that men like him do in an attempt to comfort someone but Fielding did not hear it. Finally he was roused as Batey repeated his name.
This was a good move, Batey said. We’ll turn them over to Wilson. The guy and the video. Wipe our hands if we want. Call it quits. Over and done.
Yeh believe that?
I think I could.
Where’s that leave the girl then?
Batey kept driving. Fielding said,
What about yer girls? Yeh remember what yeh told me?
I remember, Batey said. You remember what you told Cora? What you promised her?
Yeh ain’t killed yet.
Not yet.
Yeh tellin me yer quittin?
No, Batey said. I’m saying what if there isn’t an answer in this.
Maybe not.
You want to spend the rest of your lucid life searching for a ghost?
Fielding thought about that. Thought about what lurked in the future and what lay buried in the past. He looked out the window at the darkness, at the dark warehouses. The dark railcars motionless in the dark rail yards. Out beyond all of it to where the lights of the city spread out in a metastatic glow turning the low clouds pink. He said,
All I got are ghosts. That’s the only thing I got left. Sara and that girl and that—
He was interrupted by glass shattering and his world going sideways as if jerked on a cable as a semi slammed into the side of the truck like some ribald meteorite crashing into the earth. The semi kept pushing until the tires of Batey’s truck caught and flipped the truck and the semi pushing, rolling the truck like it was a bale of hay. And when the semi finally stopped the truck came to rest on its busted-out wheels. All the glass was smashed out and Fielding and Batey were still alive but unconscious. Their heads hanging forward as if asleep.
But this was no sleep. Their faces were battered. The canopy of the truck had been ripped off and the guy in the bed was dead with one arm severed at the wrist where the cuff had cut through. His bottom half gone and lying somewhere back in the road. The organs and viscera in his torso hanging out like a ragged piñata.
The semi idled where it was. The radiator was smoking. The headlights were all smashed out. The door opened up and a man stepped down. The clearance lights burned on over the cab and in their wash of amber light the totaled truck sat in full view. The man had a gun in his hand and he held it alongside his leg. He watched for a long time before stepping any closer. Watching for any movement. And then he started toward the truck and Noon’s shadow stretched out under the amber light as he reached in and took hold of Fielding’s collar.