Holy water. Jesus strongly and quite nervously recommended holy water. He and Frank spent the good part of a couple of hours cleaning up the blood splatters. Straight ammonia did the trick and also left them both a bit reeling in the claustrophobic room.
Dios se presenta, sus enemigos se dispersan y los que le odian huyen delante de él. Como es lanzado el humo, por lo que están impulsadas; como se derrite la cera ante el fuego, así perecerán los impíos delante de Dios. Chanted Jesus under his breath.
Psalm 67, thought Frank. One he recited often, but not recently. Decades ago, as a different man in a different life…at the close of it. As she lay in the hospital clinging to life. Tubes and gadgets and beeps and the hurried cold movements of nurses. A man might find his innocence in the court of law to be no salve for the burning in his own conscience.
It was a Catholic hospital. The priest walked into the small sanctuary and toward the restroom. Ran tap water into a small, chincy chalice and spoke rapid words well under his breath. Latin? Then left with his holy water. At first it seemed ridiculous to Frank. Later, it would prove pivotal in his becoming a man of god.
He now did the same and Jesus sighed so deeply as it was applied to the corners of the room, that Frank thought he saw his spider plant perk up a bit. Holy water. Frank had to admit he felt somewhat relieved himself. Shel lay down with his legs poured out ahead of himself and let loose a calm breath. His eyes eased. His head sank slowly.
“Your Mr. Murphy?” Asked Jesus.
“He’s okay. Tompkins sent word out there and some local cops showed up.” Frank continued, “Marty was tied up in the shitter, a little ruffled but mostly pissed.”
“What the fuck was the point of that?”
“To send me a message. To tell me no one is safe, I suppose. That he is in charge.”
“Are we? Safe?”
“We are all destined for Hell, Jesus.”
Jesus thought of his wife’s large white tits, her soft thighs. “I should go, hombre.”
“Tell Candy I said ‘Hi.’”
Roger Tompkins sat at the counter of the greasy spoon and nursed a sugary coffee and stale Danish. The Murphy shit made no sense. Why were the two strangers killed, yet Murphy spared? Just then, Frank came up from behind, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Let’s go for a ride, pig.” He smiled.
“Where?”
“Sarasota… Marty.”
“My car?”
“Sure, I hate stopping at lights.”
Marty Murphy was around the block a hundred fucking times on horseback before it was even paved. He’d seen more in his inexplicably long life than most would see in a dozen go-arounds. He’d fought wars, survived the end more times than he could count, and had been threatened by an array of Gods, some of which whose names no longer rang a bell. This stuff, though, gave him ageda. He sipped from a short, fat glass of seltzer. This stuff, he thought, was no good. He wished to hell that he didn’t have to tell Frank. Frank was a good kid.
Jesus Guadalupe Guerrero practically ran up the stairs to his apartment. He always did. When he knew she was home. He was met with hot kisses, a warm cup of joe, and cold sandwich. She was all in red again…still. Her dress. Her shoes. Those lips ay ay ay…
“What did you do today?” He asked, if only to see her lips move their response.
“Cleaned, mostly.” Said the lips, full and red. “Went to Consuela’s, bought some more of those Marranitos you love.”
The Spanish words rolled off her tongue like mayonnaise from a spoon in a very cold kitchen. Which is to say they did not. He smiled. Her red framed cleavage somehow reached toward him. A child cried and as soon as Jesus realized it was one of his, which took a few long seconds, he was off to say hello to the brood.
Frank Ryan evaluated his body and its aches before hefting his carcass out of the car. He tightened up on the way over and felt like he might need to be air lifted out. He ignored Roger’s hand. Roger knew he would, but felt obligated to the awkward gesture. They made their way to the kennel. The hounds barked their welcome. Roger walked purposefully slow to allow himself a look at Frank. He was a big man with even bigger features and hands and feet than his size would deem proportional. The maple cane looked like a tooth pick and Roger knew that its lead guts were the only reason it didn’t snap. He was drenched in a faded black that brought to Roger’s mind an old wild west preacher soaked in booze; drenched in God’s favor—A lesser sinner in a sinful world. He saw that Frank’s eyes were elsewhere. They usually were.
As they approached, the figure of an old frail man sitting on a small boulder became clear. He was fumbling something in his hands. Odd, thought Frank. Marty usually had his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Almost like an apologetic boy. A babe in the cradle of our universe too long. A child of advanced age that had done everything wrong, as the Jim Fixx types died all around him.
Death. Fuck that fickle bony bitch, thought Frank. His eyes saw her. Not death. Her. His one love. Bleeding out in the car seat beside him. Gasping then gurgling out his name in something like a protective chant. The ambulance delivered paramedics and she was whisked off. Frank, too. He was sewn up and a cast was set on his right leg. She lingered on machines for days. They weren’t married and in those days, that left him no more rights than a stranger. The doctor came out on the third day to announce her death to Frank and the vending machine. Save but a sneaked glance through the crack of a hospital room door; Frank had the blood and the gurgling to remember her by.
“What do you know about the devil?” Asked Marty, never one to mince words. “What do you know about satan?”
“Too much.” Said Frank. “Too fucking much.” Even if the devil is simply the uncaring chaos of the universe he continued in his head.
He fumbled the piece of paper Marty handed him. It was a sheet torn from a legal pad. It explained everything in a single sentence. A sentence written in Latin. A sentence which Frank was quite familiar with. At its end was a crudely drawn pentagram. Drawn in blood.
Jesus was going to shit his pants.
Scratched! 