Shovel Ready (23 page)

She’s close.

And you have people with her? To bring her here?

Yes. And don’t forget the motorman.

No, of course not. You see, Mr Spademan? There are other ways to resolve things that don’t involve spilling blood.

Sure. Or, at least not ours. Right?

He squints. Nods. Tries to laugh like he’s in on the joke. A reaction he must have seen somewhere and sporadically tries to re-create.

Grace, you remember Simon.

Simon joins them on the golden path.

Hadn’t been there a moment before.

Now you don’t see him, now you do.

Harrow turns to her and grips her shoulders, like he’s sending her off on a dangerous but necessary journey.

I’m so glad to have you back, Grace. But actions have consequences, my love.

Simon slips behind her. Grabs her arms from behind.

Her father consoles her.

Just remember, nothing that happens in here can hurt you. Not really. Not in heaven. No matter how real it may seem.

Harrow seems to pause for a second, as though searching for a thought, the addled mind of an old man, not what it used to be, but that’s not it at all, in fact he’s only shifting
his weight slightly, and curling his gnarled wounded bird of a hand into an even more gnarled fist, which he sends with all his heaven-assisted fury into the soft center of Grace’s babyswollen belly.

She cries out.

A cry that carries across pastures, statues, fountains.

A cry seeded, like a storm cloud, with sobs.

Harrow leans in to whisper. Sweet intimacy in her ear.

Don’t worry. He’s fine.

Then straightens himself. Laurel wreath askew.

I have a strong feeling it’s a he.

Uncurls his hand.

Grace, why did you think you could hide him from me? For whatsoever you have, I gave unto you. And whatsoever I gave, I can take away. So sayeth the Lord.

No Bible verse she ever learned.

He nods to Simon.

Now, I’m going to leave you two alone for awhile.

Her short sobs betray her. She struggles to swallow them.

Dad, wait. Don’t. Wait. Dad, don’t you remember the story of the Prodigal Daughter? The story you taught me when I was a girl? How she returns home and all is forgiven?

Oh Grace. Of course I do. But you know me. I’ve always been more of an Old Testament man at heart.

I ask Milgram, because I’m genuinely curious.

You ever go off-body? Visit heaven? That you created?

Me? No. Unlike many people, I still feel that there’s value in the physical world. That it is a blessing to have a body. I believe that’s as God intended it.

Me too.

To retreat to some dream, it’s wickedness. A temptation.
To embrace the spectral world. And the people who flock to it—well, they seek easy escapes. It’s a weakness. Pastor Harrow doesn’t see it that way, of course. But to me, bodies are glorious. To be alive is glorious. That is the gift from God. To turn your back on that—

Yes, it’s true. Bodies are glorious.

I check my watch.

Milgram frowns.

Do you have somewhere to be?

No. Just something to do.

He glances at the farmboy, who takes a half-step toward me.

I ignore him. Stare down Milgram.

I’ve always had one question about bodies though. A question for God, I guess.

Really? What is that? Perhaps I can help you.

Why exactly did He make them so fragile?

Go easy on her, Simon. She is my daughter, after all.

Simon steps around her, then turns sharply to Harrow, like a soldier about to salute.

Reaches up with both hands and grabs Harrow’s face.

Kisses him on the cheek.

Then steps back and snaps his fingers.

Presto.

A silver coin.

A trick.

Simon shows it to Harrow. Then palms it.

Snaps again.

Another coin.

He holds them both out, one in each palm.

Then brings his hands together.

Shakes them. Coins rattle.

Reproduce.

He opens his hands to show Harrow the bounty.

Thirty silver pieces in all.

So here’s the thing about a box-cutter blade.

You can take it out of the box-cutter.

The blade itself is very thin, like a razor blade, only longer. And it’s flat enough to, say, tape to the inside of your forearm.

Or on your chest, under your shirt, over your heart.

Frisk-proof.

I work on the farmboy first. The frisky one.

Nothing lethal. Just something quick. And distracting.

While he’s on his knees trying to keep what’s left of his eyes from dribbling out onto the floor, I pull the vault door closed.

It’s a heavy fucker. Tug-of-war, and I’m the anchor.

Beat the other farmboys by a half-step.

They pound with their pistols. Gunshots muffled on the other side.

I give the kneeling farmboy a last meaningful slice across the throat, and he slumps like a split bag of garbage, spilling its wet load onto the floor.

Now it’s just me and Milgram.

Mina’s white bandage throbs in the light of the laptop like a neon cross at night.

She searches.

She searches.

She searches.

She smiles.

Fucking finally.

Oaken doors creak and Mark rushes in and up the path like he’s late for a party.

A centurion head in each hand. Like luggage.

Chucks the heads in the underbrush.

Okay, first of all? Piggybacking is bullshit. Pardon my language.

Brushes his hands off. Stands shirtless. Golden curls. White raiment swaddling his loins. Gladiator sandals with straps wrapped to the knees.

Simon smiles.

Harrow’s face ashen.

Mark looks himself up and down.

What? Too gay?

Rolls his shoulders like he’s prepping for a prize fight. Bounces. Flexes his back.

Spreads the I RULE tattoo.

Letters reassemble.

URIEL.

That’s better.

Boxes the air. A one-two jab.

Now, if you’ll excuse me one moment.

He bends double. Grunts.

Stands erect.

Grunts again.

Fists clenched.

Then roars.

Wings unfurl.

I know what you did.

Milgram stands steady. Still smiling that unconvincing smile.

I am blameless in God’s sight. None but He can judge me.

That may well be so.

I step toward him.

He smiles. Sweats.

So what are you going to do?

I think you know.

What? Kill me, and then—live in this vault forever? There are three armed men out there, waiting for you, and what do you have? A razor blade?

It’s a box-cutter.

You know you can’t get out of here alive, not without me.

I pause.

He eyes me. Spots weakness. Crack of daylight. Heads straight for it.

I’m telling you, you do this, and we both die.

I stroke my chin, then take my chin-stroking hand and grab the back of his head. Yank him toward me.

For the first time, he squeals.

I whisper.

Fair enough. You first.

I work on his throat, nothing fancy. But with gusto.

Like ripping at a Christmas gift you can’t wait to get open.

We’re alone in the vault so there’s no rush.

When I let him go he falls to his knees.

Penitent.

Having seen the light. And the dying of the light.

His windpipe whistling.

Exit music.

He plays himself offstage.

Harrow calls for someone to tap him out.

No one’s listening.

Simon stands by, arms crossed, like a guy at a bus stop
waiting for the crosstown express. Waiting for the inevitable to play out.

Mark hovers.

Persephone holds out a knife in a stained leather sheath. Asks her father.

Do you remember this?

Yes. I gave it to you.

That’s right. For what purpose?

To protect yourself.

Right again. But from what?

The evils of this world.

Yes.

And they are many, Grace Chastity. They are many. And I did my best to prepare you.

Yes. They are many.

And to protect you. I tried to. And to teach you to protect yourself.

Yes. But I didn’t do a very good job of that, did I? Not when it counted.

I only wanted the best for you. When you cried, I comforted you. When you faltered, I picked you up. When you strayed, I corrected your path. That’s all.

Yes. And you taught me to protect myself.

I hope so.

And my baby. I have a baby to protect now too.

I can harbor you both.

She slides the knife from the sheath.

No, I think I can do this.

Checks her watch.

I think I’ve learned all I need to learn.

I stand alone in the vault. Me, and two bodies. Three, counting Harrow.

His sandpaper breath.

Still oblivious.

The box-cutter blade is too slow for my purposes.

And, by now, too dull.

I check under the bed. Find a gym bag, tucked out of sight.

As I was told to expect.

To be honest, I’m kind of surprised.

Unzip.

Check the contents.

A handgun. A hammer.

A spike.

A second spike, for the heart, as a failsafe.

All accounted for.

Six-inch railroad spikes. Further sharpened.

One thing left to do.

Check my watch.

Grace Chastity, I raised you from a little girl.

I know. I remember. I was there.

Look around you. I can offer you everything.

All I see here is a frightened old man.

I’m not frightened, Grace Chastity. I am saddened. To see what you have become.

Yes. I’m a little saddened myself.

These cheap theatrics don’t suit you, Grace Chastity. And despite what you might think, all of this? It’s just for show. You can’t hurt me in here, don’t you understand that? You cannot hurt me. You foolish, stupid little girl. Anything you do in here has no meaning in the actual world. And when I find you there, I will reap this pain on you a thousandfold.

All right.

You know I can do it, Grace Chastity.

Yes. I do.

Checks her watch.

It’s true I can’t hurt you in here. Not really.

Watch beeps.

But I can give you something to remember me by.

My watch beeps and I hammer the spike in. It takes fewer blows than I would have thought.

I’d etched a cross in his forehead with the box-cutter beforehand.

As a target.

Then held the spike steady.

Waiting for my cue.

Just two blows. Straight through.

Fragile. Like I said.

In the dream, Harrow gasps, shocked, a sharp intake, less in pain than in simple surprise.

Then he smiles. Even looks a little embarrassed.

The emperor dethroned.

Glances down at his chest, where she’s still twisting.

Blood spreading in a swallowing stain.

This is the moment he will live in forever. Looped. Like a record skipping.

His knife.

Her hand.

His heart.

It’s an old bank, but the vault was retrofitted more recently, the security precautions updated after an employee got locked in overnight.

I search for the emergency release.

Luckily I knew about all this beforehand.

A little bird told me.

After all, there’s really no reason to try and stop people from breaking out of your vault.

I find the lever and pull it, and shove the door open slowly, and since they’re expecting a guy frisked clean with nothing but a razor blade, I get off five clean shots before they even return fire.

Guns. They do have their uses sometimes.

Three shots hit, two with authority.

And the last farmboy standing has lousy aim.

Lucky.

When he falls I distribute the last half of the magazine more or less equally between them. For closure.

The nurse has, for some reason, stuck around.

She’s paralyzed in a corner until I wave her toward the exit.

Crepe soles soundless on the marble floor. Until she hits the puddle.