The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(50)

Wanuri, Johnny, and Frederickson mumble “Yeah” vaguely in a way that sounds more like “This is what we killed and died for all this time?”

“So that’s an obelisk,” says Doris. “It reminds me of the marker on Tootsie’s, my cat’s, grave. Though it’s a bit taller, of course.”

I wash the dust out of my mouth with some water and hand the bottle to Doris. She drinks and passes it on.

I call to the Magistrate, “What does it say?”

“I have no idea,” he says brightly. “It is very old. The markings are an early, degenerate form of Hellion that I do not know.”

“Then what the fuck good is it?” says Johnny in a tone that visibly annoys Daja. I don’t say anything, but I definitely agree with his sentiment. “You brought us all this way and almost killed Gisco, and for what?”

“Calm down, Johnny,” Daja says.

“No. It is all right,” says the Magistrate. “I knew all along that there was a chance I could not decipher the markings. That is why we have a specialist.”

Now I understand the bodyguards.

“You mean Father Traven,” I say.

The Magistrate turns to me. “Of course. While I have some facility with languages—”

“No shit.”

“—he is an expert in ancient mystical tongues that even I am not acquainted with.”

“Then let’s fucking get him out here and be on our way,” shouts Johnny.

Daja walks over and gets right in his face.

“Not. Another. Word. I mean it.”

He holds up a hand and makes a gesture by his mouth like he’s turning a lock.

“All in good time,” the Magistrate says. “You have noticed the tension among the havoc. We will bring the father out here quietly and at a discreet hour. Should anything go wrong—if, for instance, he does not have the proper reference books or needs time with a proper translation—we will deal with it among ourselves and no one else. We must do nothing to further damage morale. Does everyone understand?”

We nod and grunt grudging affirmatives.

“Good. When we return to the havoc we will smile. We will be cheerful and optimistic. But we will reveal nothing else for now. Leave all revelations to me.”

Everybody agrees, but it’s a bullshit plan.

I say, “Shouldn’t we give them something? Otherwise they’re going to be suspicious.”

“I hate to admit it,” says Wanuri, “but he’s right. There’s bad talk around camp. That we’re lost. That the crusade itself is a kind of punishment.”

The Magistrate thinks about it for a second, then says, “Since you brought it up, do you have any bright ideas, Mr. Pitts?”

I point back the way we came.

“In one of those towns we passed, there was a roadside store. Let’s see if there’s anything left. It isn’t much, but everyone likes candy and presents.”

“That’s pretty fucking optimistic of you,” says Daja.

“I know. Maybe the place is picked clean. Maybe there was never anything at all. But it’s worth a look.”

“Indeed it is,” the Magistrate says. “And since you noticed the shop, you will lead us there.”

“Okay.”

Fuck. There better be something there. M&M’s. A pecan log. Some goddamn bubble gum. Anything.

The Magistrate gets back in the car with Gisco and yells, “‘Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries “Hold!”’”

“What?”

“It’s a line from Macbeth.”

“What does it mean?”

He beams at me.

“It means lead the way, Mr. Pitts, to sweets and glory.”

Wanuri shakes her head. Johnny gives me a “don’t blow this” smile. Doris winks. Gisco gives me a thumbs-up.

I don’t bother looking at Daja.

Gisco guns the convertible. I kick the bike to life and take off. Hit the throttle and take point.

I look cool and keep my eyes peeled for the right town, but inside all I’m thinking is Give me one damn box of Tootsie Pops.

A half hour later I spot the shop. An hour after that, we pop the trunk on Gisco’s convertible and it’s goddamn Christmas day in camp. You’d be surprised how much handfuls of stale chocolate, bubble solution, stupid hats, and cotton candy can improve the moods of even the most psychotic killers. I’m not saying it’s a party in camp that night, but it’s the most relaxed night in the havoc since we looted the casinos.

I find a couple of dried-out fortune cookies in plastic wrappers. As Traven walks up, I hand him one. We crack them open.

He says, “You go first.”

I hold the fortune up so it catches light from the fire.

“‘Your smile will tell you what warms your heart.’”

“Dear God,” says Traven. “I’m an optimist and even I think that’s awful.”

I agree. “What’s yours?”

“‘With a cheerful demeanor, career opportunities abound,’” he says.

“Aren’t we the luckiest assholes in Hell?”

“Without a doubt.”

I take a bite of my cookie.

“Thank you for not saying ‘in bed’ at the end. I always thought that was a stupid joke.”