CHAPTER 17
The USA
‘Don’t get many folk like you roun’ here.’
Passing comment or passing judgement. Could be meant, could be mechanical. Mary blenched inwardly, averted her eyes and ordered coffee. She was used to such talk in Mississippi, to the casual put-down, attuned to the threatening whisper, the vicious aside. It still scared her. But the old man, sun-dried, desert-lonely, had moved on to new observation. No threat. His chatter had the compulsion and desperation of the stranded. Coffin maker, barber, store owner, gambler, drinker, prospector. Generic face, forgotten past. The donkey must have died. Didn’t get a lot of folk of any kind round here.
Two disused gas pumps preserved by dryness stood on the forecourt. Museum pieces. Everything abandoned and silted in fine powder dust. Even flies died before they made it this far. A stencilled sign attached to the prefabricated cabin announced ‘DINER’. More of a myth than a legend. Turkey melts were promised. So was atmosphere, air-conditioning, family-friendly service, a unique and combined collection of UFO and meteorite specimens on demand. There was no demand. Lone Pine, fifty miles. Most people chose to stop there.
She manoeuvred to a corner table, peering through the sand-blown panes. The road was empty. No reason for vehicles to pass by, let alone to pull over. Outside, a grainy image of broken and occasional cacti jutting askew from parched earth and rock debris; inside, a clutter of unwiped Formica and a montage of press cuttings showing military aircraft at China Lake. Acquire a hobby or go insane was the message, the moral. She sipped her coffee. Only the whirring of a generator and chill cabinet, the monologue of an aged cook-cum-curator, to distract. She glanced again through the window, fingered her watch, nervousness driving habit. Had to be sure, had to be secure. Too many uncertainties to make either operative, too many unknowns for informed assessment. She was chosen or condemned. It depended on perspective, relied on timing. Hell, she was just a maid.
‘So, you lookin’ for someone?’ Galvanized by the presence of a customer, the old man made a token attempt to flick a dustcloth at a chair.
She hoped he would not invite himself to sit. ‘No.’
‘Want anythin’ to eat?’ He shuffled closer.
‘No t’ank you.’
‘You gotta eat.’
‘Ah know.’
‘More coffee? Danish?’ She shook her head. ‘You jus’ holler when you want somethin’.’
She muttered her gratitude, relaxing back to pensive watchfulness. Another time-check. Ten more minutes and she would walk to the car, climb in slowly and drive away. It was hard to avoid drawing attention. The proprietor would notice that she was returning the way she came, would mention the unusual to those enquiring. Don’t get many folk like you roun’ here. She wanted to run to the Chevrolet, gun the engine, to squeal-accelerate in a fog of wheel-churned particles. An invitation to be picked up and picked off within five miles. They could be anywhere, searching. She gulped the coffee, its taste gritty and caffeine bitter. Bad for edginess. The vehicle was beyond her line of sight, parked up at the side of the shack, quarantined from ongoing observation or comment. It was a temporary loan from Fletcher Wood’s family, her licence the residue of years spent ferrying church preachers, occasionally hand-relieving church preachers, in the Delta. Wheels gave mobility, access; wheels provided membership to the American dream, the US mainstream. Weird to be part of it.
The door had clattered softly. She awoke from her state of concentration, reflexive alarm stifled by inaction and entrapment. A newcomer. He stood at the counter, dark-haired, rangy, stubble shading the jaw, loose khaki shirt suggesting paramilitary hinterland. The gaze swept. Nowhere to hide, no corner to curl into. Exposed by confinement. Mary busied herself with her cup, readied herself with a prayer. Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ. Cloak-and-dagger was not on her skills manifest. A station wagon had crystallized in the glass, a second nudging into view to cover another axis. They were here for her or for ambush. The till rang. Stranger was purchasing a soda. ‘Danish?’ the old man asked, a pleading note to his voice. He had probably over-stocked.
Mary heard the scrape of a chair, the arrival lowering himself to while away the minutes, the hours. Soda opened. The ancient fretted, conjuring questions, taking jabs at conversation, insecure at the silence. You vacationing? You on business? We got ices, y’know? Nice truck. People’s friendly in these parts. Implied complaint. He was ignored. With bad luck, he might suggest a three-way discussion. And luck was bad enough. She swallowed, throat drying, diverting herself from the window, focus roaming sham-casual, snagging on the pair of eyes. They were evaluating from a near distance, above the rim of the soft drinks can, directing energy, looking straight at her. Into her.
Synchronization between clock and heart had ceased. She counted seconds, coldness heaving in her chest. Those eyes. The man was no outsider. He had been inside her head before, had entered in Mississippi, been carried in her memory since that night when the Forresters gathered at her bedside. A nausea rush. She steadied herself with a hand. But the hand was trembling. This was the face behind the devil mask, the mouth that had ordered her from her home, threatened her and Jesus her baby with extinction. Stripped of disguise. No horns, red nose or goat beard, no zodiac gown, no anti-Christ apparition. Yet the same. The sorcerer. No coincidence. No mistake. She must have been followed, must have displeased them, must have attracted them to her location. Instinct was shrieking, her temples pounding. She could not move, could barely breathe. Fragmented thoughts, broken recollection, invaded in a charge. She tried to clear the debris, fight through. Too confusing.
‘Hey …’
He spoke, was demanding a slice of raisin toast. One sentence, and it felt as though she were the one sentenced. It was confirmation. Otherwise, the Citizens Council will send us ridin’ out to track you down, he had rasp-whispered. ‘Tidin’s of great fuckin’ joy. She climbed to her feet and started to walk, rehearsal-deliberate, for the door. Five feet, no challenge; ten feet, no comment. She passed close, kept going, squeezing between two tables and reaching the handle.
‘Say, lady, you goin’?’ The old man seemed disappointed.
She waved, rhythm and stability interrupted, and pushed through to the heated density of sunlight. Ahead, the tan station wagon was drawn in her path, a mental obstacle, physical block. She headed for it, eyes flickering, checking, brain noting the driver, the passenger emerging to remove a pouch-laden waistcoat. Sense of purpose, air of threat. AA. All American. The roundel tattoo was etched prominent on the shoulder. A further souvenir from the evening her world changed, her perspective shifted. It was unmistakable, unforgettable. 82nd Airborne. Fletcher Wood had told her so out on the deck in Playa del Rey. He was not here now. Absence seemed sensible. She faltered, casting for inspiration, desperate for resolution. Instead, the blood-roar grew, muscles and brain oxygenating, pressurizing. Lose-lose, all round, three-sixty degrees. The Forresters had the bases covered, had her covered. She wanted to be sick, wanted to run screaming into the Mojave to lose them, lose herself. Retreat, and she would attract attention; proceed, and she could draw fire. Stay still, she was dead.
Her head turned. The eyes remained on her through the dirt sepia filter of the cabin window. Recognition? Recreation? Playfulness? Loathing? The meaning and subtleties would have to wait for a more reflective moment. She stepped forward, cardiovascular tightness notching higher, her footsteps quickening. Electronic squirt of the lock, car door opened and she had climbed in. Rescue in progress.
‘Don’t talk, don’t look. Just take it easy and roll her out smooth.’ Krista’s voice, hissed from behind and below, calming, accompanied by the heavy vapour of diesel. ‘Sorry about the smell. Designed to throw off the dogs. And it’s better than the original.’ A hand insinuated itself at the side to pat Mary reassuringly. ‘Sisters on tour. Nothing to it. Let’s go.’
The Chevrolet swung in a shallow arc, dipped onto the desert asphalt and motored to sedate cruise speed for the long haul across the naked plain. In the rearview, the shabby diner had merged organically with the backdrop. No pursuit. Two miles in, the questions-and-answers.
‘How you doin’, Miss Al’house?’
‘Grateful to see you. Fletch?’
‘In hospital, alive. Close-run thin’, ah can tell you. But we made it.’
‘Thanks, Mary.’
‘No need.’
‘You took a risk.’
‘Ah figures, if we don’ beat them Forresters, an’ tha’ crazy mad reverend an’ his Tigers, there’s no hope. We all at risk.’
‘That’s a fact. I still owe you for coming for me.’
‘Nothin’ to it.’ Gentle mirth, trepidation unravelling. ‘Sisters on tour. Right?’
‘Right.’
Krista rested her head, unaware of discomfort, consumed with fatigue. She had grown used to travelling on the floors of vehicles, her limbs and torso contorted and covered. Once more made no difference. She rubbed her eyes, ran fingers through sand-stiffened hair. It was the aftermath of pursuit and escape, when the adrenaline-burned body closed down, ached for sleep. The easiest option. She had to beat it, claw herself back to the present, to the reality of the information gleaned from a man she had killed. Her hand still felt the weight of that rock, sensed the resistance and give of the skull as it broke beneath her blow. She had passed the threshold, strayed to a dimension few in peacetime ever tried. Cold-blooded, hand-to-hand. Initiation. She was forced to act, had done so methodically, unemotionally, stripping the corpse, adopting the clothing, taking the trail-bike and riding for her life. Mile after mile. She had weaved through canyons, played cat, then mouse, passed herself off, accelerated by. There were shots, shouts, the blurred disorganization of an enemy surprised, of off-roaders peeling away in belated chase, of garbled messages on a stolen radio. Then the track changing to highway, the phone call to Mary, the lying up. Waiting over. Trust repaid. Saved by an unassuming black girl. And all the while, she transported the word Compton in her head, would get it to the Bureau, avoid the gatekeepers, carry it to the top. There were too many interests vested, too many individuals placed, to have confidence in the system, the chain of command, her own survival or success. She had already been ambushed and kidnapped, Fletcher Wood gunned down, Los Angeles put to the torch. Insiders were dangerous, suspect; insiders might be listed on the cellphone acquired from her victim. Accidents happened.
‘Miss Al’house, they’re comin’…’ Whispered alarm squeaked from the front.
Krista sunk lower. ‘Play it cool, Mary. Whatever happens, don’t stop.’ Whatever happened, she had a knife and gun.
The station wagon shut the distance, inexorable, gaining, swerving out to draw parallel. The occupants scrutinized, their aggression latent, attention focused. A few seconds. Mary held the wheel steady, her eyes fixed ahead. Duet or duel. A close call, close encounter. Surging, overhauling and the station wagon powered off. It had a separate mission, of damage limitation, was running fast for home, for cover. In the Chevrolet, there was silence. An expression of fear uncoiling, of hesitant relief. Exiting the Mojave.
* * *
Compton. A curfew was in force and unenforced. It was prioritization, a question of resourcing and courage. No one wished to be caught in the open or down a cul-de-sac; no convoy wished to slow at lights, tempt trouble. Peace with firepower was more easily applied to foreign nationals, interdiction a skill reserved for overseas. So the National Guard swept through and dodged around, manned checkpoints, guarded enclaves, contained, ran errands, ran scared, would allow the poor to chew each other up. With 3,000 hostages Downtown, it was unwise to start a firefight, another front, foolish to tip the balance, to become diverted or ensnared. Capitulation by order. Order abandoned. The ghettos had automatic weapons, were hotspots not nightspots; the ghettos could go hang. The ghettos could string up anyone they chose without interference. A mistake.
