Marisa.”
He turned his head and spat. “You got in a cab.”
“I had only a little money, not enough to get back to Guatemala. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Who did you call?”
“No one. Who could I—”
“You knew the name of the hotel where the others went.”
“I didn’t have my suitcase! I was so scared. I needed time to think.”
He dug something from his pocket. She dared a glance. The hand she’d kissed now held a pistol.
“Perhaps there’s some truth in your story. The river makes noise because it carries stones. But you lost a lot of money.”
“Marisa will tell you—”
“She washes her hands of you. Called you a scared, stupid fool.”
“Lorenzo—”
“He thinks you went running to the first cop you saw.”
“That’s a lie! I was confused, scared, I swear—”
“It doesn’t matter now.” He thumbed back the hammer. “What matters is the money. And the money is gone.”
Feeling the gun barrel nestle in her hair, she shut her eyes tight, praying: Lamb of God, who takes away…
He didn’t fire. Her terror broke, like a fever, dissolving into clarity, and she could feel, however slightly, that now he was the one trembling.
“I’m not a thief,” she said. “You’re not a killer. And yet here we are, two stones in the river.”
“Stop talking.”
“I understand now. Do what you must. I forgive you. Please forgive me.”
“Listen to you.”
“Whatever happens, you’ll go to the airport. You won’t be able to help yourself. You’ll look for the counter, the one with the blouses. And you’ll find it.”
“That proves nothing.”
“One blouse in particular, with dragonflies and sunflowers and lace. You’ll buy it. Tell them to wrap it. Rosela Melendez, Boca del Monte.”
“Stop saying her name.”
“She’s the reason I’m here. Just as you are here because of me.”
Finally, she looked up into his face.
David Corbett is the author of four novels:
The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime, Blood of Paradise,
and
Do They Know I’m Running,
as well as the story collection
Killing Yourself to Survive.
His textbook on craft,
The Art of Character,
was published in January 2013.
WATCH THE SKIES
----
----
Bill Crider
Y ardley Gardner hasn’t been out of his house at night since he was abducted by that UFO five or six years back. He claims he was abducted, anyway. He’s never said what the UFO aliens did to him, except that it was so awful that he couldn’t describe it to us and that his body cavities were sore for days afterward. Anyway, he won’t leave his house at all after dark anymore. Has storm shutters on all the windows and cranks them closed at sundown every day. Got three locks on every door.
Hear no aliens, see no aliens.
He comes out in the daytime, though, to talk to folks. He loves to gossip. The latest thing he’s told anybody who’ll listen is that Bertha Nance has killed her husband.
“Buried him in the backyard,” he told me one day.
Yardley has sort of a dent in the middle of his forehead where his cousin hit him with a shovel when they were kids. Bertha’s husband, Harve, claims Yardley’s been a total loon ever since. Those two never did get along, always spatting. Most folks think it was the aliens that pushed Yardley over the line, but it could’ve been the knock on the head, too.
“I believe Bertha said Harve was in Texarkana, visiting his cousin,” I told Yard.
Yard had come up to me and started jabbering in the parking lot at Walmart where anybody passing by could hear him. The mayor and police chief and everybody else goes to Walmart, but Yard doesn’t know enough to keep his trap shut in public. That was okay by me.
“That’s what she’d like us to believe,” Yard said. “Truth is, old Harve’s out there in her backyard, right under that new flowerbed.”
“How do you know that?”
“Where else would she put him?”
I could think of a few places, but I didn’t think it would be wise to tell
He turned his head and spat. “You got in a cab.”
“I had only a little money, not enough to get back to Guatemala. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Who did you call?”
“No one. Who could I—”
“You knew the name of the hotel where the others went.”
“I didn’t have my suitcase! I was so scared. I needed time to think.”
He dug something from his pocket. She dared a glance. The hand she’d kissed now held a pistol.
“Perhaps there’s some truth in your story. The river makes noise because it carries stones. But you lost a lot of money.”
“Marisa will tell you—”
“She washes her hands of you. Called you a scared, stupid fool.”
“Lorenzo—”
“He thinks you went running to the first cop you saw.”
“That’s a lie! I was confused, scared, I swear—”
“It doesn’t matter now.” He thumbed back the hammer. “What matters is the money. And the money is gone.”
Feeling the gun barrel nestle in her hair, she shut her eyes tight, praying: Lamb of God, who takes away…
He didn’t fire. Her terror broke, like a fever, dissolving into clarity, and she could feel, however slightly, that now he was the one trembling.
“I’m not a thief,” she said. “You’re not a killer. And yet here we are, two stones in the river.”
“Stop talking.”
“I understand now. Do what you must. I forgive you. Please forgive me.”
“Listen to you.”
“Whatever happens, you’ll go to the airport. You won’t be able to help yourself. You’ll look for the counter, the one with the blouses. And you’ll find it.”
“That proves nothing.”
“One blouse in particular, with dragonflies and sunflowers and lace. You’ll buy it. Tell them to wrap it. Rosela Melendez, Boca del Monte.”
“Stop saying her name.”
“She’s the reason I’m here. Just as you are here because of me.”
Finally, she looked up into his face.
David Corbett is the author of four novels:
The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime, Blood of Paradise,
and
Do They Know I’m Running,
as well as the story collection
Killing Yourself to Survive.
His textbook on craft,
The Art of Character,
was published in January 2013.
WATCH THE SKIES
----
----
Bill Crider
Y ardley Gardner hasn’t been out of his house at night since he was abducted by that UFO five or six years back. He claims he was abducted, anyway. He’s never said what the UFO aliens did to him, except that it was so awful that he couldn’t describe it to us and that his body cavities were sore for days afterward. Anyway, he won’t leave his house at all after dark anymore. Has storm shutters on all the windows and cranks them closed at sundown every day. Got three locks on every door.
Hear no aliens, see no aliens.
He comes out in the daytime, though, to talk to folks. He loves to gossip. The latest thing he’s told anybody who’ll listen is that Bertha Nance has killed her husband.
“Buried him in the backyard,” he told me one day.
Yardley has sort of a dent in the middle of his forehead where his cousin hit him with a shovel when they were kids. Bertha’s husband, Harve, claims Yardley’s been a total loon ever since. Those two never did get along, always spatting. Most folks think it was the aliens that pushed Yardley over the line, but it could’ve been the knock on the head, too.
“I believe Bertha said Harve was in Texarkana, visiting his cousin,” I told Yard.
Yard had come up to me and started jabbering in the parking lot at Walmart where anybody passing by could hear him. The mayor and police chief and everybody else goes to Walmart, but Yard doesn’t know enough to keep his trap shut in public. That was okay by me.
“That’s what she’d like us to believe,” Yard said. “Truth is, old Harve’s out there in her backyard, right under that new flowerbed.”
“How do you know that?”
“Where else would she put him?”
I could think of a few places, but I didn’t think it would be wise to tell
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