Chapter Sixty-Three Here Comes the Thunder
My name is Domino Ray, but I am not Domino Ray. I am Wilson. I remember the things we did. The torture we inflicted on those men. The ways we made them scream. I remember watching as the last shovel of dirt fell over their faces, as their cars sunk into secluded lakes. I remember cement being poured over their bodies by unsuspecting construction workers and wringing our hands at the sight. I remember all the things we did.
And I will do them again.
I speed down the highway, the sun setting in the distance. Reds and purples spill over one another like a stomach split down the middle, innards everywhere. Look at me. I’m a poet!
Cain sits next to me, stoic. He’s holding a backpack full of tools I bought from Home Depot—serrated knives, rope, masking tape…and a can of red spray paint, because old habits die hard. I threw in a few other toys for good measure to produce when the time is right. Cain didn’t ask questions as we shopped for these things, Michael Jackson playing overhead while we pushed an orange cart down the aisles. He understands I’m gone. Or rather, that the new me has arrived. What really gets me going is that the dude took one look at my vacant eyes and seemed to disappear into his own head. Two can play at that game, he said without speaking.
See, that’s why I like the kid.
He knows how screwed up I am. That I have two sides. Domino the Gentle, Domino the Feared. And when he saw I’d flipped my switch, it’s like he thought, Screw it. Let’s do this thing.
He could have run.
He could have backstepped out of sight.
But instead he let his crazy flag fly and took my hand.
That’s some Romeo and Juliet shit right there.
The car I stole is lime green and one of the front headlights is busted. But the driver left the keys tucked above the sunshade, and they slid into my hand like a favor from above. Or below. Whatever. And you know what I did before we took off across New Mexico on our way back to Pox? Ask me. Go on, ask me!
I spray-painted HERE COMES THE THUNDER on the side of this lime green car.
Unlike Domino the Gentle, I’m one for theatrics.
Cain turns on the radio and finds a song that matches our rage and frustration and fear. Scratch that last word. I’m not afraid. I don’t do fear. I’m the one who inflicts pain. I’m the monster beneath your bed, in your closet, in your head. There’re some lyrics for you. Name that song.
The hours pass quickly, and the moon takes flight. Not too much longer. Even now I can smell the scent of poverty and lies at the tail end of this Texas summer. Almost fall now. Almost the gateway to death and destruction and bleakness.
“Do you remember what I told you?” I ask Cain.
“I remember.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
He turns toward me. “Yes, I do.”
Cain is pissed, too. He’s got months of backlogged anger toward Madam Karina, Mr. Hodge, and Eric. Sigh too heavily and that combustible dude will blow. I grip the steering wheel, and when I see the road that will take us to Madam Karina’s House for Bullcrap and Lies, I shiver with delight. As we pass over the railroad tracks, I throw deuces to my old friend.
Thanks for the ride out of this crap hole, even if it didn’t stick.
My pulse picks up as we bump over the rocky road, closer and closer. I can hardly contain my excitement. Here comes little ol’ Domino to gather her friend. My hot pink wig lies on the side of the interstate. Don’t need that protection anymore. Don’t need anything but me.
Cain tells me again, for the fifteenth time, that we should roll up on the house slowly. Maybe walk from a distance so we’re unseen. But that’s not my style.
We’re a few yards away when I roll down the windows and press harder on the accelerator. Turn up the volume. Blast that metal. And lay on the horn.
Beep-beep, beep-beep, beeeeeeep-beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeeep!
I stick my head out the window, suck in a lungful of Texas air, and scream, “Little pig, little pig, let me in!” I laugh at the night sky. “Not by the hair on my chinny, chin, chin,” I add in a high-pitched voice.
I jerk the steering wheel and plow through the gate. Then, hitting the breaks too late, we slam into the black rental car and my air bags deploy. Crap. Didn’t see that one coming. Not in this piece.
“Come on, come on,” I yell at Cain, tossing the keys into the driver’s seat.
He grabs the things we need from the car, and I skip toward the back of the house, banging on the windows as I go.
“Come out and play. Come out and play, little girls!”
The sound of the front door bursting open greets my ears. Perfect. I grab one of the white plastic chairs from the back, and Cain grabs the other. We pull them toward the closest window and slide the glass open. Such shoddy security. But of course, who would dare break in to Madam Karina’s house?
I would.
Me!
We abandon the chairs and window, making it appear as if we’ve gone through the Carnation’s entertainment room window when in fact it’s a diversion. Instead, we jog toward the basement window and push it open. Cain shoves himself through and offers an arm to help me in.
Don’t mind if I do.
Then he tugs the black backpack on, and I pat it twice. I am bouncing with excitement, clapping my hands noiselessly, a grin parting my mouth. Cain is my polar opposite—hard lines, firm feet, calculating eyes. We are a pair of misfits if I’ve ever seen one.
Cain starts to move toward the door, but I stop him.
“Give me the paint samples.”
He hands them to me—black and red. I draw two black lines on my face, one beneath each eye, and a red stripe down my nose. I hold them out to him, but he shakes his head. I can’t say I’m not disappointed he won’t wear his war paint, but hey, to each his own. Cain hands me a length of rope and swings the pack onto his back again. I hold up my fingers and count down.
Three.
Two.
One.
We rush up the stairs and, as God is my witness, the first person I see is Mercy. It’s late in the night, almost early morning, and her hair stands up around her head.
“You,” she says.
“Me!” I roar.
I leap on her like a lion would a gazelle, take her to the ground. Her head hits the floor, and I wrap the rope swiftly around her hands. She looks up at me, bewildered, but she shouldn’t be. She’s met me before. Remember the fork? I drag her across the floor toward the entryway and tie her hands to the stairwell. Then I wrap the rest around her ankles as she screams. When I’m done with her, she’s on all fours, masking tape over her mouth.
As I work on Mercy, a half dozen girls race through the entryway, terrified out of their minds because they see the emptiness in my eyes. And they see Cain, yelling at them to get out or they’ll get worse. He’s incredible, that Cain. Growling and throwing his fists into walls and asking if the girls want to tease him now.
We’ve lost our ever-loving minds, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.
Finally, the person I want to see most strolls in from the back room where we opened the first window. The look on her face is one I’ll treasure all of my days. She’s dressed in nightclothes; the blond hair she usually wears pulled back spills over her shoulders. Madam Karina looks shockingly young in this warm light. Young and susceptible.
I open my arms. “I’ve come home to you.”