good at small talk,” Corso said.
“Of course you are!” She slapped the paper on the seat. “Anybody who can beat an exclusive story like this out of the FBI is the Picasso of small talk.”
Corso grunted.
“Hell, you haven’t even asked about the goddamn tattoos. I know damn well you must know the story. Everybody knows the goddamn story. All the weird shit I’m supposed to have all over me. By now most guys are tripping all over themselves wondering if all the shit they heard is true.”
“Well, is it?”
“What?”
“True that you have some pretty weird shit on you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I’m not saying it never crossed my mind,” Corso admitted.
“So why haven’t you asked?”
“I didn’t want to pry.”
“You pry for a living.”
“The cops ever find—”
“Brian,” she said, shaking her head in the darkness. “Brian Bohannon. They think maybe he’s in southern France somewhere. His parents are very wealthy. I’m sure they’re supporting him. They see the whole thing as some sort of boyish prank. Can’t understand what all the fuss is about. They offered me money not to press charges against him.”
“How’d they get them off your face?”
“Lasers,” she said. “Dermabrasion.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s where they freeze a section of your face and then sand it.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“And of course the always exciting chemical peel.”
“What’s that do?”
“That makes the rest of your face look like a burn victim’s, so you can’t see where the designs were.”
In the darkness, Corso winced. “Hurt?”
She shrugged. “The pain I can handle. It’s the money that’s killing me,” she said. “I’ve had over twenty treatments so far for my face.” She brought her fingertips to her cheek. “They say, in another year or so, I’ll just look like I had bad skin as a teenager.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Of course, my HMO says the removal procedures are elective and won’t pay for it.”
“No parents or anybody to help you out?”
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought perhaps she laughed. “My parents had other plans for me. They’re from a little town in Iowa. Robbinsville, Iowa. Two b ’s. They didn’t approve of my moving to Seattle. They didn’t approve of photography as a career for me. They didn’t approve of my lifestyle, and they particularly didn’t approve of Brian. The way they see it, what happened to me was some kind of divine retribution.”
They rode in silence for a moment.
“What the hell was this guy thinking?” Corso asked.
“He was thinking that if he couldn’t have me, he was going to make damn sure nobody else was going to have me either. ‘Nobody leaves Brian.’ That’s what he said just as I was passing out. ‘Nobody leaves Brian.’ Like he was in the third person or something. He left a note in his shop. Said I would remain for all eternity…his palette, his personal work of art.”
She pulled her jacket over her chest and settled back against the door with her eyes closed. He mashed the accelerator and sent the white Chevy Citation lumbering out onto I-85, rolling south toward the tri-cities and the Columbia River. The eastern Cascades were capped in snow. The low hills were swathed in orchards. Rows of gray, skeletal trees filled the valleys and wound like a bezel around the cut, brown contours of the hills. Apple and pear and peach and cherry. Amputated for winter and huddled together for warmth. The kind of dead, lifeless country that comes alive and green only around the rivers and creeks, and even then after lifetimes of toil. The kind of artificial Eden that, for reasons too many to enumerate, would forever elude the likes of Walter Leroy Himes and his kin.
No…Walter Leroy and his ilk were remnants of those folks whose sole contribution to modern society has been an uncanny ability to make sagging front porches look comfortable. Walter was a direct descendant of
“Of course you are!” She slapped the paper on the seat. “Anybody who can beat an exclusive story like this out of the FBI is the Picasso of small talk.”
Corso grunted.
“Hell, you haven’t even asked about the goddamn tattoos. I know damn well you must know the story. Everybody knows the goddamn story. All the weird shit I’m supposed to have all over me. By now most guys are tripping all over themselves wondering if all the shit they heard is true.”
“Well, is it?”
“What?”
“True that you have some pretty weird shit on you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I’m not saying it never crossed my mind,” Corso admitted.
“So why haven’t you asked?”
“I didn’t want to pry.”
“You pry for a living.”
“The cops ever find—”
“Brian,” she said, shaking her head in the darkness. “Brian Bohannon. They think maybe he’s in southern France somewhere. His parents are very wealthy. I’m sure they’re supporting him. They see the whole thing as some sort of boyish prank. Can’t understand what all the fuss is about. They offered me money not to press charges against him.”
“How’d they get them off your face?”
“Lasers,” she said. “Dermabrasion.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s where they freeze a section of your face and then sand it.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“And of course the always exciting chemical peel.”
“What’s that do?”
“That makes the rest of your face look like a burn victim’s, so you can’t see where the designs were.”
In the darkness, Corso winced. “Hurt?”
She shrugged. “The pain I can handle. It’s the money that’s killing me,” she said. “I’ve had over twenty treatments so far for my face.” She brought her fingertips to her cheek. “They say, in another year or so, I’ll just look like I had bad skin as a teenager.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Of course, my HMO says the removal procedures are elective and won’t pay for it.”
“No parents or anybody to help you out?”
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought perhaps she laughed. “My parents had other plans for me. They’re from a little town in Iowa. Robbinsville, Iowa. Two b ’s. They didn’t approve of my moving to Seattle. They didn’t approve of photography as a career for me. They didn’t approve of my lifestyle, and they particularly didn’t approve of Brian. The way they see it, what happened to me was some kind of divine retribution.”
They rode in silence for a moment.
“What the hell was this guy thinking?” Corso asked.
“He was thinking that if he couldn’t have me, he was going to make damn sure nobody else was going to have me either. ‘Nobody leaves Brian.’ That’s what he said just as I was passing out. ‘Nobody leaves Brian.’ Like he was in the third person or something. He left a note in his shop. Said I would remain for all eternity…his palette, his personal work of art.”
She pulled her jacket over her chest and settled back against the door with her eyes closed. He mashed the accelerator and sent the white Chevy Citation lumbering out onto I-85, rolling south toward the tri-cities and the Columbia River. The eastern Cascades were capped in snow. The low hills were swathed in orchards. Rows of gray, skeletal trees filled the valleys and wound like a bezel around the cut, brown contours of the hills. Apple and pear and peach and cherry. Amputated for winter and huddled together for warmth. The kind of dead, lifeless country that comes alive and green only around the rivers and creeks, and even then after lifetimes of toil. The kind of artificial Eden that, for reasons too many to enumerate, would forever elude the likes of Walter Leroy Himes and his kin.
No…Walter Leroy and his ilk were remnants of those folks whose sole contribution to modern society has been an uncanny ability to make sagging front porches look comfortable. Walter was a direct descendant of
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