“Of course he tried not to kill her, Father Storey. He didn’t kill her. I heard he wasn’t even on the island when Sarah—”
“Oh! No. Of course not. He was an innocent grandstander. So was Nick. You can’t blame the boy. They were both her unwilling accomplices. What she couldn’t get from one she got from the other. She was a very accompliced woman. I know John blames himself, but he shouldn’t. He’s been incinerated for a crime he didn’t commit. The bride died and we all cried. Not that they were married. They never would’ve married. All firemen are wedded to cinders, in the end. You ever ear that old hopscotch? John and Sarah, sitting in a tree, B-U-R-N-I-N-G.” He paused, then his left eye fixed on something beyond her shoulder. “There’s my shadow! Quick! Stitch it back on.”
She looked. A dark form bobbed its head on the other side of the green curtain between the ward and the waiting room. Don Lewiston pushed through it, holding a steel pail of steaming water in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
“H’ain’t gonna believe our fackin’ luck,” Don said. “I came up with a fackin’ power drill, battery in it, still good. There’s a old cuss what pull’t in camp this week, had it in his pickup. I got the bit in the hot water right now.”
“Do you have a razor? Scissors?”
“Yes’m.”
“Good. Come over here. Father Storey? Tom?”
Tom Storey said, “Missed will owes?”
“Tom, I’m just going to give you a nice little haircut. Bear with me.”
“What kind of beer? I’m not shally much a drinker but I ad go fuh a beer. I’m sull shirty.”
Don Lewiston said, “You followin’ any a this?”
“Don, I hardly follow you most of the time. Lift his head.”
In the next room the song ended on a last deep note of harmony. Carol murmured to her small attentive flock. Carol and her faithful were deep in the Bright now, casting enough light to make the green curtain in the doorway glow an irradiated shade of lime.
Don held Father Storey’s head between his crooked fingers while Harper clipped hunks of bloody hair away from the spot behind his ear where he had been struck. The scalp beneath was purplish-black, like eggplant.
In the waiting room their voices rose again. The Beatles now. The sun was coming, the long, lonely winter was over.
Father Storey stiffened and began to kick his heels.
“He’s having a grand mal,” she said.
“He’s goin’ t’choke on his tongue,” said Don Lewiston.
“Anatomically impossible.”
“We’re losin’ him.”
Yes, Harper thought. If this wasn’t a final convulsion, it was close to it. Foam dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His left hand grabbed fistfuls of the sheets, let them go, grabbed again. He couldn’t do anything with the right hand. Harper was holding his right wrist, monitoring his erratic, racing pulse.
The song in the next room rose to a high, sweet, perfect note and Father Storey’s eyes sprang open again and his irises were rings of gold light.
His back had been arched right off the mattress, so only his head and heels touched, but now he relaxed onto his bedsheets. His heartbeat began to slow. Squiggles of dull red light pulsed in his Dragonscale, faded, pulsed again.
He almost seemed to smile, the corners of his mouth rising just slightly, and his eyelids sank shut.
“He’s out,” Don said. “B’God, it helped. They sang him outta the worst of it.”
“Yes, I think they did. Put the bit in for me, will you, Don?”
“Are we doin’ this?”
“He doesn’t have much strength left. If it’s not now, there won’t be another chance later.”
She shaved the rest of the hair off the back of Father Storey’s head, to reveal the outraged flesh. It was no good giving herself time to think. It wouldn’t help to dwell on maybe killing him, or lobotomizing him, slipping and driving the drill in deep enough to throw curds of brain.
Don stuck his hand in the nearly boiling water without any sign of distress—Harper thought those hands were just slightly more sensitive than a pair of canvas gloves—and brought up the dripping bit. He clicked it into a Black & Decker power drill straight from Home Depot and gave the trigger a squeeze. It whirred to life with a sound that made her think of eggbeaters and cake frosting.
He looked at the blackening bruise on Father Storey’s scalp and swallowed.
“You aren’t goin’ ta ask me—” he began, then caught himself, and swallowed again. “I don’t know how many fish I’ve put an end to, gutted and cleaned, but—a person—Tommy—I don’t think I can—”
“No. I won’t ask you to do it. It better be me, Mr. Lewiston.”
“’Course. You’ve done’t before.”
It was not quite a question, the way he put it, and she didn’t think he required an answer. She held out her hand for the drill. The bit steamed.
“I will need you to hold his head. Do not let it move in any way while I’m operating, Mr. Lewiston,” she said, in a tone of cold command that hardly seemed identifiable as her own voice.
“Yes’m.”
He spidered his fingers over Father Storey’s head, lifting it off the pillow.
She examined the drill, found the dial that controlled the power settings, and turned it up as far as it would go. She gave the trigger a test squeeze. It startled her, the bit spinning up to a chrome blur, the vibration shooting down her arm.
“I wish we had better fackin’ light,” Don said.
“I wish we had a better fackin’ doctor,” she said, and bent and located the tip of the drill two inches to one side of Father Storey’s right ear, where the bruise was ugliest.
She pressed the trigger.
The bit chewed up the thin layer of skin in an instant, turning it to what looked like flakes of wet cooked oatmeal. The bone smoked and whined as the drill worked down into it. She applied pressure slowly, determinedly. Sweat sprang up on her face but Don was occupied holding the head still and she could not ask him to wipe her brow. A single drop of sweat caught in an eyelash and when she blinked, the eye began to burn.
Blood welled from the hole in the skull and raced up the grooves of the bit. She thought, obscenely, of a child sucking red Kool-Aid up through a Krazy Straw.
Without opening his eyes, Father Storey said, “Better, Harper. Thank you.”
Then he was silent, and he did not speak again for two months.
BOOK FOUR
MARLBORO MAN
1
From the diary of Harold Cross:
JUNE 18th:
THE GIRLS IN THIS CAMP ARE A PACK OF LESBIAN BITCHES AND IF THEY ALL BURNED TOMORROW I WOULDN’T GIVE A SMOKY FART.
THE WORD FROM SF IS THEY’VE GOT 2500 PEOPLE ALIVE IN THE PRESIDIO WHO HAVE THE ’SCALE AND NONE OF THEM ARE BURNING. FUCK THIS BULLSHIT. I’M GOING TO MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT IN CHURCH TOMORROW. SOMEONE NEEDS TO TELL THESE IGNORAMUSES YOU DON’T HAVE TO WORSHIP IN THE HOLY CHURCH OF CAROL STOREY’S SACRED PUSSY HAIRS TO LIVE. ANY RELEASE OF OXYTOCIN WILL TELL THE ’SCALE IT’S FOUND A SAFE HOST.
IF I HEAR ONE MORE ROUND OF “SPIRIT IN THE SKY” OR “HOLLY HOLY” I’M GONNA PUKE. WE COULD SHUT DOWN THE SPORE JUST AS EASY WITH ONE BIG CIRCLE JERK. A GIANT COMMUNAL CIRCLE JERK, AND CAROL’S PRETTY LITTLE HAND RIGHT ON THE ROD. HER DADDY CAN FRIG HER WHILE SHE FRIGS ME, THAT’S WHAT SHE REALLY WANTS ANYWAY.
I HAVEN’T WRITTEN A NEW POEM IN DAYS. I HATE THIS PLACE.
2
Harper read just the one page in Harold’s notebook, picked at random, then flipped through some others. She glimpsed doodles of boobs and bush, saw some words in dark block lettering: SLUTS WHORES BITCHES CUNTS. Harper had never met him, but felt she understood Harold Cross pretty well. She thought a collection of Mr. Cross’s poetry would probably go nicely alongside a copy of Desolation’s Plough.