Shella (35 page)

“You remembered his name …?”

I was surprised too. I didn’t know I even knew his name until I said it out loud like that.

The Indian got up, walked around a little bit. I closed my eyes again. I felt him come close to me, sit down on the bed near my chair.

“Hiram was transferred the next day. They must have been typing the papers the minute the body hit the ground. They moved him into a Level Three joint. Cake. We can go in and get him anytime we want. It’ll take a while, set it up properly. But our brother has spent his last winter behind the walls.”

“Then …”

“He wouldn’t cheat us, John. It wouldn’t be worth it to him. But he might not know how things are…. You’re with us, understand?”

“With you?”

“Until it’s done. You did your piece. You did it perfect.
We think she’s there. But we’re not walking in the front door waving a sign. She’s there, it’s done. Like we agreed. She’s not there …”

“What?”

“We’ll find her. All of us.”

Amos kept the Jeep near other cars all the time, always rolling in the middle. He’d move from pack to pack, so smooth you could hardly feel it. He held the wheel loose in his hands, just flicked it a little bit when he wanted to move. Every couple of hours, he would move the seat. Forward, back. Up, down. Every time he did that, he would move the mirrors too.

I saw the overhead signs—we were in Arizona. Joseph turned around in the seat.

“No more problems, brother. Plenty of places to disappear to now.”

The Indian looked at him. “They’d rat us out just as fast on the damn reservations. We only have ourselves.”

Joseph nodded, turned around to look out his window.

We found a motel. Amos dropped us off, went away to get some stuff for the car.

“She’s close,” the Indian told me. “We go in tomorrow, soon as it opens up.”

“What?”

“A hospital,” he said, looking at me. “A hospital in the desert.”

The Indian was on his bed, smoking with the lights out. It was late, past midnight. I could see the red tip of his cigarette.

“Wolf?”

“What?”

“You think she’s there?”

He smoked the whole cigarette through, ground it out in the ashtray. After a long time, he said “Yes.”

In the morning, I felt like I should do something different, but I couldn’t think of what it should be. It was still dark. The Indian wasn’t in his bed.

He walked in about an hour later.

“You want some breakfast before we go? Some coffee?”

“I’m okay.”

“What’re you doing?” he asked me, looking at the bed where I had my stuff laid out.

“Packing.”

He nodded his head, walked out again.

By the time he came back, I was ready to go. But when I put the duffel bag over my shoulder, the Indian shook his head.

“What?” He was looking at the room key in my hand.

“We’re not going by the front desk. It’s paid for a few days, but if things don’t work out, we’re gonna keep rolling…. You don’t check out, they’ll think you’re coming back.”

“Who would?”

He just shrugged his shoulders … not like he didn’t know, like it didn’t matter.

Amos pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road on a long curve. I could see a bunch of white buildings on the right.

“Stay with Amos for a little bit,” the Indian said. “We’ll be back soon.”

I saw the flash of a shoulder holster on Joseph as he climbed out the front seat. I guessed the Indian had one with him too. They started walking away.

Amos drove off, with me in the back seat. “Its all right,” he told me. “We checked it last night, top to bottom. Just wanted to be sure, one more time.”

He circled around, a long loop. No matter where he drove, I could always see the white buildings.

It took about half an hour. Then Amos pulled to a bus stop. The Indian and Joseph were sitting on a bench, like they’d been there for days. They climbed back in the Jeep.

In the parking lot, the Indian took a bunch of papers out of his coat. He smoothed them on his lap, pointed out a name to me. Olivia Oltraggio.

“That’s the name she’s using,” he said.

I looked at it deep. Said it to myself over and over, so I’d know it. I couldn’t say the last name. The Indian said it for me. Slow. In four parts. It sounded Italian. She had been there almost three months … I could see that from the papers. It said Ward Four. The Indian turned over the papers, tapped his finger again. She was in Room 303, starting a few days ago.

“It’s a private room,” the Indian said. “They had her moved once it was done.”

I reached for my duffel. Felt the Indian’s hand on my arm. “Leave it here,” he said. “Outside her room, right
next to it, there’s a staircase. You have to get out of there fast, go down the staircase.
All
the way down, to the basement. Turn to your left, go past the laundry room, there’s a fire door there, a red door. You know the kind … you push the handle and the alarm goes off … emergency exit? You push it, nothing’s gonna happen, no noise, but the door’ll open, okay? We’ll be outside, keep you covered.”

“Ill be—”

“Right to the end,” the Indian said. “You come out the front door, there’s no problem, just get into the Jeep, drive it away yourself. Here’s the keys. Your stuff’ll be in the back. Go back to the motel, go someplace else, it’s up to you.”

I heard a door open. Joseph was already out, moving to the front of the building.

“When you get inside, just get on the elevator, the one right past the front desk. Go on up to the room, understand?”

“Yes.”

The Indian nodded at me, and I got out too. When I walked in the front door, I couldn’t see Joseph.

I went over to the elevator. Thinking it’s good that people never pay attention to me. There were people in white coats on the elevator, talking. I stood to the side. Got off on the third floor.

There was a sign there with an arrow. I walked down the corridor. People were going in and out of the rooms. It smelled like a prison with flowers.

The stairway was at the end. Room 303 right next to it.
There was one of those thin holders on the door, where they slide a piece of plastic in it with a person’s name. To tell you who’s inside. The name she was using was there. White letters on the blue plastic. It looked strange.

The door was closed. I pushed it open—it made a little hiss. The back wall was all glass. A bed was there, parallel to it. The sun slanted in—it was hard to see. The door closed by itself behind me. I stepped over to the bed and a face turned to me. It was all eyes, shrunken.

“I knew you’d come,” Shella said.

My legs locked. I moved toward her.… I felt like the white pit bull, crawling to the line. There was a brick in my chest. Right in the center of my chest, not over my heart.

I got there. Her hair was long, more white than blonde now, like dead straw, thin. Everything about her was thin, her arms were sticks. As she turned, the nightgown fell away…. her breasts were almost gone. Her cheeks were sucked in, big splotches on her face, dark ones.… I couldn’t see the beauty mark I made for her.

I saw her teeth. I couldn’t tell if she was smiling or snarling. She held out her hand.

I moved closer. I could hear a crackling in my chest, like when you crush the stuff they put around cigarette packs in your hand. I got close enough to touch her. She looked up at me.

“Hello, John,” she said, real quiet. “If you came to kill me, you’re too late.”

I just stood and looked at her. Shella. It was Shella.

“Same old motormouth, aren’t you?” she said. She shifted her hips under the sheet, patted the bed for me to sit down.

I did that. She put her hand on my thigh, the way she used to, like it was hers. The sun came in on her hand. I could see every bone in it.

I closed my eyes. Breathed as slow as I could. I could feel her doing it too.

When I opened my eyes, hers were still closed, but she wasn’t asleep.

“What happened?” I asked her.