Night Vision (35 page)

Into Tula’s mind flashed the image of the sad bear in the zoo as Frankie swung her toward the RV, bragging, “Know how I do it? I understand how women think. All their sneaky, catty ways. Plus, we’re a lot alike, me and tomboys like you. The first time I saw you, I could tell.
A boy, my ass.

“Difference between us, you’re still hiding behind God. Me, I got smart quick and joined the other side. That’s where the fun is and the power. It’s all about power,
niña
. Power and money-money-money.”

Then the woman stumbled, slurring, “
Shit
—you spilled my drink! Look at what you did. And your goddamn blood’s all over my new tank top!”

They were at the door to the RV now, and Tula was looking over the woman’s shoulder, seeing two men use tape on the giant’s wrists as the Mexican with gold teeth watched, holding the shotgun over his shoulder like a soldier who was tired of marching. In the lights of the pickup truck, Victorino’s face appeared swollen, misshapen, which reminded Tula of her own throbbing nose.

She pushed herself away from the woman and said, “I can’t breathe, please put me down. I need to blow my nose because the man hit me.”

The woman dropped Tula without warning—like a practical joke. When the girl’s head banged the steel steps to the trailer, it evoked a snort of laughter from Frankie.

“Good,” she said. “Knock some sense into you.”

The woman had found a tissue in her jeans and was rubbing at the blood on her shirt, her balance unsteady, getting madder as she smeared the blood. Then she gave up and hurled the tissue at Tula. “Stop fighting me! If you don’t, I’ll tell that Mexican to kill your boyfriend. How’d you like that?”

Tula was on her feet, sniffling, trying to stop her nose from bleeding, but her eyes were focused on Squires, who was still on his back, hands folded across his belly like a corpse because of the tape. The two men had the doors to the giant’s truck open. They were leaning inside, throwing things out onto the ground, while the Mexican with the gold teeth walked toward the RV, a bandy-legged man trying to appear taller than he was.

Frankie looked away from Tula long enough to grin at the V-man, who was close enough for her to call, “Does my Mexican stallion need a drinkie?”

Then the woman stabbed her fingernails under the girl’s chin, lifting Tula’s face, and whispered, “How’s a little saint like you gonna feel? Murdering your sweetie when God knows you could’ve stopped it.”

Tula could barely hear the woman’s words because, suddenly, the Maiden was in her head, voice firm, telling her what to do, what to say. The girl’s heart was pounding, but she wasn’t afraid—not for herself, anyway—but she ached for Squires, who lay on the ground, breathing fast, shallow breaths. She watched him turn his head to the side and cough, something bubbling out of his mouth and nose.

Blood, Tula realized.

Inside the girl’s head, the Maiden’s voice warned, “He has a bullet in his lungs. To save him, God will forgive you for anything you must do. I lied to my Inquisitors.
Remember?
”

Tula remembered. Jehanne had even warned the vigilante priests that she would mislead them, if necessary, to spare her warrior knights. It was in the book Tula had left back at the trailer park.

I would rather have you cut my throat than betray my knights by telling you the truth,
the saint had vowed.

Lying to an enemy wasn’t a lie—it was a weapon. And it made Tula furious to see the giant lying on the ground, vulnerable and in pain. It caused her to remember that she had weapons of her own.

You were born to do this,
the Maiden whispered over the noise of Frankie’s voice.
You were born to fight evil, to smite the devil down.

Evil. This woman, Frankie,
was
evil. Tula had known it from their first meeting. In Harris Squires, the girl had recognized the scars of the redheaded woman’s sins. A wickedness so pervading that it had clouded the man’s goodness. It clung to him like an odor.

That odor filled the air now, stronger than Frankie’s drunken breath, as Tula looked into the woman’s face and said, “I’m sorry ... I don’t want you to be mad at me. I’m sorry about your blouse—you’re so beautiful, it’s a shame. Because of the way you look, a woman so tall and pretty, it scares someone like me. That’s why I tried to get away.”

The woman appeared startled. It took her a drunken moment to process what the girl had said. “You’re goddamn right you should be sorry. But maybe the stains’ll come out if I don’t let it dry. I’ve heard if you use warm water—”

Abruptly, Frankie stopped, as if she’d just realized something. She had been looking at her tank top, pulling it away from her breasts, but then grabbed Tula by the hair and tilted her face upward. “Hey! Where’d you learn to speak such good English? Don’t get the idea you can fool me, you’re not smart enough.”

The girl stared at Frankie, wanting the redheaded woman’s eyes to concentrate on her, only her. At the convent, Sister Lionza had taught her that focus was required if she hoped to influence a person’s thoughts.

Tula winced because the woman was hurting her but maintained eye contact, saying, “I don’t blame you for being suspicious, but there’s something you don’t understand.” The girl lowered her voice as if to whisper a secret. “I’ve never had anyone say the things you just said to me. It’s like you were inside my mind. You understand my thoughts. Do you really? It would be nice to know that someone really understood. I feel guilty sometimes—and alone.”

Slowly, the woman released Tula’s hair, looking at her, her expression puzzled. She watched the girl’s posture change, noting the girlish cant of hips, the innocent dark eyes, before asking, “What I said about not killing Harris, you mean? Or about the tomboy thing?”

By then, Victorino was close enough for Tula to glance at the man, then say to Frankie, “Maybe later we can talk—just us together? It’s . . . it’s not easy for me to trust anyone, but you seem . . . different than other women.”

Victorino arrived, throwing his arm around Frankie’s waist, asking, “What’s the problem with the little bitch now?”

The woman disentangled herself from the man and gave him a shove, demanding, “Where’s the money? Did you find it?”

The V-man couldn’t believe what he was hearing, the woman mad at him again for no reason. “You been watching the whole time,” he said. “What the hell you think? My boys are doing that job right now, stop worrying. I give them an order, you can bet they gonna do it.”

“Priceless,” the woman muttered, “a regular genius,” as she placed her hand on Tula’s shoulder. When the girl felt Frankie’s fingernails on her skin—their questioning pressure—Tula walked her hand across the small of the woman’s back and leaned her weight against Frankie’s thigh despite the welling disgust inside her.

Tula was concentrating on Squires, sending the giant strong thoughts, telling him,
Stay alive . . . stay alive . . . stay alive,
as Frankie said to V-man, “Tell me something—why’d you have to slap this girl? You’re so goddamn dumb, I’d slap you myself if your face wasn’t already such a mess.”

The man thrust his wrist out, saying, “The bitch bit me, what you expect?”

Frankie didn’t even bother to look. She leaned her nose toward Victorino, standing on her toes, Tula noticed, to tower over the man. “Big tough Mexican stud,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Harris almost kicked your ass, that’s what really happened. So you went and did
this
.” The woman nodded toward Tula.

“A girl with a face as cute as hers, now I’m going to have to take her inside and get some ice. Why’d you do it? It make you feel like your dick’s bigger to bloody up some defenseless girl? Well, it hasn’t done much for you so far,
amigo
.”

Victorino was glaring at the woman, pretending not to notice that one of his soldiers had stopped to listen, while the shorter one—Chapo—held a VHF radio to his mouth, talking to someone.

As Frankie took the girl’s hand, turning her toward the open door, Chapo called to V-man in Spanish, saying, “Hey! Calavero says some white dude stopped, he’s asking for jelly boy. A redneck in a truck.”

Tula’s attention vectored, thinking,
Tomlinson?

The girl shook her hand free from the woman, senses probing the darkness beyond the silhouettes of trees. Her mind was alert for the aura of godliness that accompanied the strange man with long hair. Instead, she discerned an unexpected force—something cold out there beneath the stars. It was a focused energy, dispassionate, moving her way. And human . . . Or was it?

Tula tilted her head, hoping the Maiden would provide confirmation, but received only a vague premonition of violence.

The V-man had his back to Tula and Frankie, relieved to be conversing with Chapo. A
gringo
stranger was easier to deal with than the redhead’s nasty attitude. Victorino called in reply, “The Gomer asked for jelly boy by name? What’s a redneck dude want, coming out here this time of night?”

Frankie, Victorino realized, had stopped at the top of the steps for a reason. Probably waiting until Chapo was done talking so she’d have everyone’s attention before insulting him again. Victorino was so pissed off by the shit the woman had said, he considered walking over and kicking Squires in the ribs—blow off some steam—then demand to know if jelly boy had told anyone that he’d be at the camp tonight.

Chapo spoke into the radio again, then called, “Dedos flipped the Gomer the finger, I guess. Pissed him off. So maybe the white dude’s a local and that’s why he turned around.”

Victorino said, “Turned around?” but then realized what Chapo meant. He said, “Don’t waste your time worrying about rednecks. Tell Calavero don’t bother us unless he’s got a real problem. Search jelly boy’s truck, then get to work doing the other shit I told you to do.”

Chapo nodded, forgetting that the woman didn’t speak Spanish. He’d already been told the V-man didn’t want her to know about the cans of gas they’d brought and the bag of rags so they could torch the hunting camp.

Frankie, still watching, waited as Victorino changed his mind, saying, “No. First you two help me drag jelly boy in there ...” With his chin, he indicated the wooden steroid shack. Then changed his mind again, saying, “Shit, you haven’t found the money yet? You two drag his fat ass by yourselves.
I’ll
search the truck.”

The woman turned to confirm that Tula was inside the RV, doing something in the kitchen—looking for a towel because of her nose, she guessed. Frankie swung the door closed, stepped down onto the sand and wiggled her index finger, motioning Victorino closer.

“The hell you want?” The man took a couple of careful steps toward the RV, expecting the redhead to take a swing at him or launch into another tirade.

Instead, Frankie produced a joint, lit it, then offered it to the V-man, her
chichis
sticking out because she was holding her breath after taking a big hit.

Man, that
banano
grass smelled good. A couple tokes of cokesoaked weed, that’s exactly what he needed. Victorino leaned so Frankie could put the cigarette between his lips.

“The girl has a thing for me,” the woman finally said, exhaling and keeping her voice low. “She wants me to be her teacher—sort of sweet, really. You wouldn’t understand. But all the signs are there.”

Victorino said, “Probably because you talk to her so sweet,” being sarcastic.

The woman shook her head. “Don’t take it personally. I said all that nasty shit to convince her I’m on her side. But I knew you were smart enough to figure it out. I’d have made a hell of an actress, huh?”

The expression of confusion on the Mexican’s face.
Priceless.

Frankie grinned, holding her hand out impatiently for the joint as Victorino replied, “Then we still gonna do it, huh? In front of the camera?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your share.”

Victorino took a second hit of the
banano
as he watched the bodybuilder’s head disappear into the shack, the two
pandilleros
dragging the man by his feet. He said, “What about jelly boy? Do him later or after you have your fun?”

“Get his clothes off him—at least his pants.” Frankie said, taking the joint from Victorino’s hand. “You meant what you said, didn’t you?”

The V-man replied, “A dude disrespects the Latin Kings—I got no choice in the matter.” He was studying the woman’s face, hoping to see that hungry look again. And there it was: Frankie flicking her tongue to moisten her lips, eyes bright.

The V-man couldn’t help himself. He kissed the woman, enjoying how she exhaled the last of the
banano
smoke into his mouth. Frankie let him slip his hand under her bloodstained shirt, too, then drew back and said, “I just wish you made better movies. Last one, you taped the girl’s mouth—you couldn’t hear her scream! What’s the point of that?”

Now the know-it-all woman was being nasty again, telling Victorino that he sucked at making movies, too.

The V-man was thinking,
This is one very crazy
gringa
.
High from smoking coke and grass, and probably thirsty for more Crown Royal, the woman’s mood swings were really pissing him off.

In that instant, Victorino decided he was done with Frankie. As of tonight. Wait any longer, he realized, and she would want part of the sixty grand, once they found it. No ... she would want it all.

The realization made Victorino want to smile. He was picturing himself using the box cutter on Frankie, too, but only after reminding her why it was better if he didn’t tape her mouth.

You’re the one told me how to make movies,
he would tell the woman. No ... he’d say,
I could make it easier on you, but I don’t want to disappoint my audience.

But the V-man kept that to himself, playing it cool, even when Frankie asked him, “What are you grinning at? You look like the cat that just ate the bird.”