Javier is sitting on a rock next to Simon, eating a bologna sandwich. He speaks some English, and Simon speaks almost no Spanish, but somehow they’ve managed to get themselves here, to this blind ravine where in seven minutes Simon will sneak into the Wizard’s compound and do his part to rescue a princess.
It’s been eleven days since the Hotel St. George, eleven days since Simon, Louise, and the Prophet met Felix and Story, since they heard their tale—how the Wizard is holding Felix’s sister, Bathsheba, in a tower, how he brought her here under false pretense and has impregnated her. They came to Marfa to rescue her, just as Simon has come to rescue—somebody, anybody. And, oh yeah, how Felix’s real name is Samson! He told them in confidence when his girlfriend was in the bathroom, because the Prophet kept asking if Felix knew where they could find Samson. Because Felix was desperate to help his sister and he thought they would help. Felix made them swear they wouldn’t tell Story—her name is Story! So hear his Story must mean listen to his girlfriend, to what she has to say—and they all swore they would keep it quiet, even as Felix swore he was going to tell her soon.
When Story comes back, he tells them about Bathsheba but says they can’t call the cops or the FBI or the press, because those roads don’t lead anywhere anymore. They end at a river and the bridge is out, blown from the other side. Authority is a runaround machine now, Felix tells them, designed to create heat and noise without ever returning a satisfying result. Justice is no longer the function of the justice system, in other words, if it ever was.
Flagg agrees. He knows all about sound and fury. He knows all about solemn funerals and calls for actions. He knows the talk show circuit. He’s watched his friends testify before Congress. He’s worn the red ribbon and the black armband. He’s seen performances of outrage and promises for change. He knows the joke—how many grown-ups does it take to change a lightbulb? None, because they don’t want the light to change. They like it the way it is.
See, that will all make sense when I am older
So there’s no need to be terrified or tense.
It’s almost one a.m. before Simon’s walkie-talkie buzzes. He’s removed the wire mesh, bending back the sharp edges so he doesn’t hook himself, trying to remember the last time he had a tetanus shot. Meanwhile, Flagg and Katniss are scaling the drop-off, ready to sneak onto the Wizard’s land from the rear. They’ve been out here every night for the last week planning their ascent, making test climbs, and sinking bolts. It’s slow going in the dark, and risky, but Simon gets the sense that, for them, danger is the point.
Felix and the Prophet are waiting outside the main gate, out of sight of the cameras, ready to be let in. Louise and Story are parked in a scenic overlook a quarter mile downhill with Duane, waiting for the signal.
“This is Condor,” says a voice on the walkie-talkie. “We’re in position.”
Simon straightens, the chill in the air making his small bones creak. Javier pulls the top piece of bread off his sandwich. He lays his bologna on the ground, then presses the two pieces of bread together again.
“Hey,” says Simon quietly. Javier looks over.
“I’m gonna—it’s time.”
Javier nods, puts the bread in his pocket. Simon checks the handgun on his hip. Maybe something with less kick this time, Flagg said. A .32-caliber Browning, weighing less than a pound. After the shotgun it feels like a toy, but Flagg assured Simon that from close range it’ll put a man down. He’s had a few days to practice shooting, hearing the echo, the flat crack bouncing off the hills, doubling back. Every shot is an explosion. That’s what you forget.
No stun cartridges this time. Now the hunt is real.
Simon keys his walkie-talkie three times to signal he heard the message, that he’s going in. Then he lies on his belly, nose filling with the dry loam of the earth, and stares into the dark mouth of the wall. Any second now he’s going to slither forward and pull himself through. Any second now he’s going to leap into the unknown.
I’ll just dream about a time
When I’m in my aged prime
’Cause when you’re older
Absolutely everything makes sense.
“Stay here,” he tells Javier. “No te muevas.”
Javier shrugs, sits again, whistling a tune through his gap tooth. He thinks of his mother, his brothers. As soon as the white boy slips under the wall, Javier will stand and walk back to the road. He is free now and wants only to get home to El Paso, to find Mama and the boys, to restart his life.
Simon exhales, pulls himself through the twelve-inch gap, feeling roots and twigs pull at his pants. And then he’s through. He stands, brushes himself off. It’s a new moon. The woods around him are dark. But ahead in the distance he can see light in the tower. He puts a hand on the wall behind him. He’s not going to the house yet. As quick as he can in the dark, he follows the wall through the trees. He walks low, crouching, for no reason other than it feels smart. He reaches a clearing. Ahead is the main gate. It’s on an electric trigger, but Flagg has told him there will be a manual release, in case of a power outage. He pauses at the edge of the driveway. There is a guard post across the asphalt, but it’s empty. Simon’s breathing is shallow and quick, but he doesn’t think about pulling out his paper bag. It’s a different kind of nerves, an adrenaline rush, a life-or-death electricity perfectly calibrated to the level of risk he’s taking. At that moment Simon realizes there is a difference between anxiety and fear and that he will take fear any day, if the alternative is a generalized dread that never shuts up.