Burn(42)

Twelve


NELSON WENT SILENT again as they drove out of Montana in the middle of the night and across the panhandle of Idaho. Malcolm hadn’t forced the issue, not even when he stopped for food and gas, not even when Nelson had to help Malcolm push the truck out of a snow bank after they crossed the border into Washington. He wouldn’t meet Malcolm’s eye. He wouldn’t answer Malcolm’s questions. He’d just do what Malcolm asked (never commanded, always asked) without hesitation or a word.

It was as if Nelson had died.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm said. Over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

And he was. He still believed in his mission, even more so when the Mitera Thea herself had shown up in the motel room, dressed in a way he’d never seen before, but it was her, speaking commands, telling him what to do.

Answering his prayers. Again.

He was a Believer. He believed in her.

But.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, as they approached the southern pass through the Cascade Mountains—a ten-hour drive that had taken over twenty in this weather—which would lead them toward Tacoma and then the little town of Frome where . . .

Where he would do his work.

The pass turned out to be nearly snowed over. If they’d arrived a day later, they wouldn’t have been able to cross it at all. Another blessing, he thought. They’d put on the tire chains Nelson (and every Canadian) kept permanently in their cars, and Malcolm drove the truck up the increasingly steep and snow-covered road.

“I’ll make sure you’re free after this,” Malcolm said, meaning it, but wondering if he could keep the promise. “I’ll make sure your name is forgotten. Or that everyone knows none of this was of your doing.”

Nelson whispered something.

“What did you say?” Malcolm said, too fast, too eager to hear from him after all the silence.

“I said, it doesn’t matter,” Nelson whispered, just a little louder. “It’s too late. There’s no going back.”

“Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that.”

Nelson turned to look at him, his face so lost, so hopeless, Malcolm had to stifle the sob again. “You think they’re just going to let me go?” Nelson said. “You think your Pope woman is going to protect a Guatemalan queer wanted for the murder of two federal officers?” He turned back to look out at the endless snow. “You really are a believer.”

Malcolm said nothing until they reached the summit. And then, he could only say, “I’m sorry” one more time.

“You’re planning to kill someone else, aren’t you?” Nelson asked, some hours later. The sun was rising, somewhere behind miles of clouds, not that it mattered when the landscape glowed white at every corner. They were being held up by an overturned semi-truck coming down the western half of the pass, surrounded on all sides by trees that looked like creatures waiting to pounce.

Surprised as he was by Nelson’s question, Malcolm didn’t answer, hoping he didn’t have to.

“Those knives in your sleeves,” Nelson said. “The easy way you cut that Mountie. Who are you going to kill?”

“Blades,” Malcolm said quietly. “They’re blades, not knives, and I hope I won’t have to kill anyone.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not. I don’t hope to kill anyone.”

“But you expect to.” Nelson’s gaze was steady. “You can talk about hope all you want, but you expect to, once we get wherever we’re going.”

Malcolm looked back out into the snow. There seemed to be some movement much farther down the zigzag road, brake lights coming off, then coming on again a moment later.

“I do expect to,” Malcolm said.

“Who?”

Malcolm didn’t answer.

“Who? You could at least tell me that. At least tell me why my life is over.”

“It’s meant to save your life. It’s meant to save all our lives.”

“And you believe that, too.”

Malcolm let his foot off the brake. Nelson’s truck slowly rolled down the opening left by the car in front. “Something has to happen. Something that can’t be interrupted.”

“And you’re going to make sure it happens.”

“I am.”

“By killing someone.”

“If I must.”

“Oh, you must, all right. I’ve seen what you ‘Believe.’ So who is it?”

Again, Malcolm didn’t answer. He didn’t know the girl’s name. The Mitera Thea felt it was easier if he never learned it. It would make the killing somehow less personal, which was an absurd, obscene idea, but one that had stuck.

He didn’t feel he could say this to Nelson, though.

“This is madness,” Nelson said. “How can any of this make sense to you?”

“It’s been foretold.”

“By who?”

“Dragons. For thousands of years.”

Nelson said nothing at that. The car ahead of them moved again, and Malcolm followed, down the long hill, the mountains around them hidden entirely by the mist and snow.

“You really believe that?” Nelson asked, after a moment.