“bring it out.” The old man didn’t move. The blond man racked the slide on the shotgun. The old man scrambled to his feet so quickly that the tattooed guard giggled. He picked up the bucket. Awkwardly, he tried to get down off the tailgate with the bucket clutched in his hands. It sloshed a little, and some of the brownish-yellow sludge splashed on the ground. The blond man leaped back, but a few drops splashed on the legs of his khaki pants. The blond man screamed in outrage and grabbed the old man by the shirt. He hauled the old man from the truck and tossed him sprawling to the ground. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder and pointed it at the old man.
The old man rose to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Por favor,” he croaked, “por favor…”
The other men in the truck stirred restlessly. Some began to get to their feet. The tattooed man raised his own weapon, grinning. “I wish you would,” he said softly. “I wish you would.”
The old man was still on his knees, begging for his life. A dark stain appeared at his crotch. The blond man laughed at that. Then he kicked the old man in the chest. The man screamed as he went over backward. The blond man advanced on him and kicked him again, this time in the balls. The old man’s scream trailed off to a ragged croak and he doubled up from the pain, writhing in agony. The blond man reached to his belt and pulled something away from it. It was a stiff whip, about four feet long. The whip seemed to be made out of some kind of hide, rolled tightly, tapering from about an inch thick near the wrapped handle to a narrow point at the tip. The blond man swished the whip through the air, back and forth. It made a terrifying sound, like the beating of a demon’s wings.
Suddenly, there was a third man there, striding purposefully around the side of the truck. He walked over to where the old man was squirming on the ground, pulled a black automatic from a holster on his belt, and shot the old man in the head. There was another chorus of screams from the truck and the man with the pistol looked up. Ruben had thought the blond man was a demon; this man was the devil himself. He was small, his shaved head barely coming up to the blond one’s shoulders, but he gave off an air of tightly coiled and barely contained madness. His head was almost perfectly round like a cannonball, and his ears were small and lay flat against his skull. He looked over the people in the truck like a serpent regarding a boxful of white mice. There was no spark of humanity in his dead gray eyes, no pity or compassion. A couple of the women crossed themselves.
The man with the pistol turned to the blond. “We don’t have time for games,” he said. Despite his small size, his voice was powerful, the voice of a preacher or a politician. “Get the buckets emptied, get the water bottles in there, and get back on the road.”
“What about him?” Blondie said, gesturing with his weapon at the body on the road. His face was sulky, like a child denied a favorite toy.
The man with the pistol didn’t look down. “Leave him for the vultures,” he snapped. He walked off.
“All right, you people,” the tattooed man said. “Get that other bucket out.”
This time there was no hesitation. The people moved slowly, as if they were in shock, but they moved. In a few moments, the other toilet bucket had been handed out to a young, bearded man who had been summoned from the inside of the truck to the road. His name, Ruben remembered, was Diego; he had been one of the few who had bothered to introduce themselves to Edgar and Ruben at the beginning of the trip. Diego took the bucket silently and stood by them, staring sullenly at the road.
“Good,” the blond said. “You’re already learning not to eyeball your betters.” He gestured at the buckets, miming pouring something out of them. Diego picked up one bucket. Blondie pointed at the old man’s body. “Empty it there.”
Diego’s back stiffened. Blondie pushed the shotgun up under his ear. “Do it,” he said silkily, “or I’ll fucking stick your head in it and drown you while Benny over there fucks you up the ass.”
“Awww,” the tattooed man said in a mock-whiny voice. “An’ I was saving myself.” He cut his eyes toward the girl he’d been ogling earlier. The girl started to cry.
Diego picked up first one bucket, then the other, and emptied them over the old man’s body. He walked back to the truck, his head down, and climbed in. Benny threw the still-stinking buckets back into the truck. Blondie shoved a pallet of bottled water in and pulled the door down. It clanged shut like the gates of hell. They heard the truck start up again. Another woman began weeping. Ruben glanced over at Diego. He was sitting with his head down, looking at the floor between his knees. Then the battery gave out on the light and they were in total darkness.
Ruben felt Edgar trembling beside him, then he began to shake with sobs. Ruben put his arm around his brother. He didn’t know what to say or do. He knew that, at seventeen, it was his responsibility to look out for his fourteen-year-old brother. Still, he wished Papa were there to tell him how.
“SO,” ANGELA said, “Is he…”
“Well, he’s not rolling on the ground, tearing his clothes off, and howling like a dog,” Lucas said. “That’s something.”
“You know what I mean,” Angela snapped. She walked over and stood at the open window, looking out at the highway.
“And I know,” Lucas said, his voice even, “that it doesn’t make any difference if he’s ready or not. He’s coming with us. You know he is. You knew the moment you asked, Jack Keller would do anything at all to help Oscar. And to help you. Because you know that’s the kind of man he is. He’ll pick up the gun again. He’ll go on the hunt again to save his friend. Even if it costs him his sanity.”
She whirled to face him. “You think I don’t care about that? About him?”
He didn’t change expression. “On the contrary. I think you’re still in love with him.”
She laughed bitterly and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “Right. That’s why I’m asking him to help me find my husband.”
“Are you searching for Oscar out of love or out of duty?”
She didn’t answer.
“Understand,” he went on, “I’m not knocking duty. I spent twenty years in the Army. Despite all the bullshit, that word still makes me stand up a little straighter when I hear it. But you need to know why you’re doing what you’re doing.”
She leaned her head on the glass. “Does it really matter that much?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Lucas said. “It does.” After a moment, he asked, “Do you love Oscar?”
She closed her eyes. “He’s a good man. He’s gentle and kind and he made me feel alive again.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Lucas.” She sounded weary enough to sleep a thousand years. “I don’t know, okay? Can I just be alone for a little bit?”
He stood up. “Sure.” He walked to the door. “I’ll see you later.” She didn’t answer.
He stepped out into the light and the heat. He didn’t feel like going back to his room. He saw a couple of cars had pulled up to the bar across the street. He decided
