The Second Bat Guano War: a Hard-Boiled Spy Thriller (40 page)

“What’s the occasion?”

“Since when you need an excuse?”

He dragged a half-full bottle of
pisco
from his rucksack. Unscrewed the top and poured a long swig down his throat. He grunted, held the bottle out to me. “Don’t look so glum,” he said. “This is a celebration!”

“What are we celebrating?” I asked.

“End the guilt, baby!” He leaned into me, his breath overpowering. “An end to suffering, an end to sin!”

He had me there. I lifted the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

Pitt laughed, pointed at me with a drunken index finger. “I knew they’d send you up here. Victor said so.”

The liquor tasted sour. It went down the wrong way, and I coughed. “You wanted me to come?”

“Of course!” he shouted over a sudden howl of wind. “That’s why I came back to Lima. To tell you. To share this with you.”

“Then you found Lynn in my bed, waiting for me,” I prompted, and drank again.

He hung his head. “That was fucked up, dude.”

“You’re telling me.” I put the bottle to my lips.

“Yeah, but hey.” He lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “Easy come, easy go.”

I hacked liquor from my lungs.

He slapped me on the back. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to share this with a friend?”

My breath returned. “Is that what I am to you?”

“There’s no one else I’d rather have here with me.” The clouds parted, and he gestured with a sweep of his arms at the view: crater yawning deep before us, salt flats distant far below, the mist a blanket of frozen wetness, snowy ground beneath our feet. “Front-row seats to the end of the world.”

I fingered my swollen pinkie through the mitten. “Is this the right thing to do, I wonder.”

Pitt laughed, a bright, melancholy sound. He took the bottle from my hands. “That is so like you. Always doubting. Never sure. You think too much, you know that?”

“Guilty as charged,” I said. “But is it?”

He paused, the bottle at his lips. “Is it what?”

“The right thing to do.”

He drank. “It’s what we deserve. All of us. You know that.”

“It
is
what we deserve,” I said. “But who died and made you God?”

He turned to me, excited. “But don’t you think I’m right?” He pointed an accusing finger toward the west. “Wipe out Lima. All the Limas of the world. The cesspools of humanity. A clean slate. The cities, the pollution, the crime. Back to a state of nature.”

“Hobbes would be delighted,” I said. “No laws. No medicine. No food. A billion people feeding on each other as the population dwindles, worldwide cannibalism, dog eat dog.”

“That’s somehow worse than what we have right now?” He snorted and spat a bloody loogie on the summit marker. It squatted there like a red medallion, frozen to the painted white rock.

I was so tired I didn’t know what to think anymore. “Maybe you’re right,” I said at last.

“Of course I’m right. We’re both right. Here.”

He lay the detonator on the ground at my feet. It looked like a toy remote control.

“Is this for me?” I asked.

“What do you
think,
dude? That’s why I wanted you up here. To do the honors. I knew you’d want to be part of this.”

I filled my mouth with
pisco.
Swallowed. It was no use anymore. The liquor did nothing for me. I picked up the detonator. Flipped off the safety. Caressed the button with my thumb. All I had to do was press this little piece of plastic and the nightmares would end. I’d get the punishment I deserved. I’d even be doing humanity a favor.

“Put them out of their misery,” I mumbled.

“Exactly. End the suffering. You ready?” He knelt, gripped the other side of the detonator with his thumbs.

The liquor made me woozy. I gulped great lungfuls of cold air. “But people will suffer because of us. It will take years, decades even, before they start to die off.”

“It’s like spaying a stray dog,” he said. “You cut off its nuts so the kids won’t suffer.”

That snapped my head around. “What about your kids?” I asked. I thought of Janine, her little black space fighter, the cat. The baby whose diaper I changed.

Pitt bowed his head. “They have gone where life can no longer hurt them.”

I frowned. “Why? What happened?”

“Janine thought it for the best. When she heard of our plans.”

“Our
plans,” I said. “What have you done?” Already knowing.

“Put them out of their misery. Like you said.”

“Even the baby? Even Esmeralda?”

“Especially Esmeralda. Did a DNA test. She’s the only one that was mine.”

“You killed your own child?” I said. “On purpose?”

He grinned at me, like he had in the surf. “Snapped her neck with a noose. For her own good.”

For a long moment I was speechless. Spittle froze on my lips. That little baby. Dead.

Pitt put his thumb on the button. He picked up my limp hand and put my thumb next to his. Closed his eyes. “On the count of three. One. Two. Thr—”

“Wait.” I jerked away.

“What? What is it?”

I shivered in the cold. Swallowed hard. “I can’t do this.”

“Don’t be such a wuss, man.”

“There must be some other way.”

“To end the guilt? You got something else, you tell me. I’m all ears.”

I thought of Esmeralda again, the way she had gripped my finger, waved her hand at me. She looked so much like Liliana. “Maybe there is no way out,” I said.

“Duh. Of course there’s a way out, dude. It’s called death.”

I chewed my lip. “It’s too easy. You’re admitting failure.”

“It’s not a question of failure.”

“But isn’t that what you’re doing here? Saying, you can’t cope?”

He whispered, “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“What
you’ve
been through?” I said, and stood. “Well boo fucking hoo. Poor little Pitt had a rough time, killing all those dissidents. You joined the fucking CIA, dude. What did you expect?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” he said. “All I know is that ever since I met you, I can’t stop thinking about the people I killed.” The words seemed to stick in his throat. “Innocent women and children, dead so that large corporations can ‘maximize shareholder value.’”

“And your own mother, Pitt. How could you do that?”

He looked at the ground. “I’m not proud of that, either.”

“Strangled with your own bare hands. I saw the bruises. I saw the photos.”

His answer came slow and late, his tongue thick in his mouth. “What photos?”

“The police photos, dude. Ones they showed me? Thought I did it.”

Pitt chuckled. “You?”

“Why is that funny?”

“You couldn’t hurt a fly.”

I crossed my arms. “That’s what Villega said.”

He half stood, then sat down again. “How is the good ol’ major these days, anyway?”

“Fat rapacious prick doing his best to survive. Which is more than I can say for you.”

Pitt screwed the cap back onto the bottle of
pisco,
lowered it to the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“No you’re not,” I said. “Since when are you sorry for anything?”

He scrambled to his feet. He held the detonator out at me, as though it were a knife. “When I say I’m sorry, I mean I’m fucking sorry!” His thumb twitched on the button.

“OK,” I said. “You’re sorry.”

“If I wasn’t sorry, would I fucking be here right now?” he said. “Don’t you think I know what I have done?” He paced the precipice, shouting at the plains below, then into the silent volcano. “To watch my own hands, these hands, again and again. Like some bad movie. Not able to stop myself. Squeezing the life out of her. Out of Lynn. My own mother. And you know the worst part? The worst part of it all?” He waved the detonator in my face. His breath was foul. “Her body tensed. She bucked her hips. And she came. She came! In some sort of death orgasm. And then—” he stepped back, wiped the back of his wrist across his nose, “and then—”

“Coming so hard you thought you’d die.”

His head whipped around. “How did you know that?”

“That’s how it feels when I do it to myself.”

Pitt stood over me, chest to chest. “There’s guilt enough to go around, you know.”

I couldn’t meet his eye. I struggled to control my voice. “You can’t pin this on me.”

“Your room. That morning? Found you in the bathroom, with—”

“Enough!”

“Well,” he said, and drew himself up straight with the dignity of a drunk. “I tried it. Like you showed me. It was as good as you said. No, better.” His shoulders slumped. “And then something happened. It was like wearing sunglasses all your life, and suddenly you lose them.” He swept a hand at the cloudy vista. “There was my life. Spread out before me. Everything I’d ever done. I saw the world for what it really was. Myself. Mom. You. Ambo.” A bitter laugh. “Human filth, all of us.” He chewed a fingernail so hard it bled. “It hurts, Horse. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”

The cold wind knifed through the jacket he’d loaned me. I staggered on the edge of the precipice. “And that’s when you called Kate,” I said. “The postcard I gave you. Went to the ashram, found your way to end the guilt.”

The bottle of
pisco
was halfway to his lips. He laughed. He drank again, long, slow, luxurious swallows. He poured the remainder of the bottle down his throat, and I realized that, instead of being jealous, instead of having to resist the urge to rip the bottle from his hands and drink it myself, for the first time in my life I no longer wanted a drink.

“End the guilt.” He held the bottle upside down, shook it. He threw it over his shoulder into the crater. It rattled once on the soft shale, then—nothing. I waited for the crash. No sound came from below. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“So, what?” I said. “End the world and your guilt goes away? All your sins magically disappear? How does that work?” All of a sudden it sounded ridiculous.

“We are sinners in a world of shit,” he said, and slid to the ground against a rock, his thumb barely missing the detonator button. “End the world. End the shit.”

I sat down and huddled beside him, in the lee of the wind. “They sent me here to stop you, you know.”

He bumped his shoulder against mine. “Sure fooled ’em good, eh?”

I put my arm around his neck, pulled his forehead down to mine. The detonator was within reach. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to help you either.”

Pitt went still. He pulled away. He ripped off his woolen hat. His dirty hair stuck to his skull in matted tufts. I saw his face then, as though for the first time: skeletal, emaciated, skin stretched tight across bony Nordic cheeks.

“What did you just say?” The tone of his voice made me shift sideways.

“You want to end the world,” I said, “you can do it by yourself.”

He stared at me, then slumped against a rock. “You’re just pissed ’cause I killed Mom, is that it?”

“No. It’s not.” I could still smell Esmeralda’s diaper in my hands. But Pitt would never understand that.

He laughed again, slapped his leg. He wiped tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe you were screwing my own mother—”

“—I didn’t know she was—”

“—and no one knew a thing!” He punched the air with his fist. “Hurt the bastard where it counts.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Ambo, of course. Who else?”

“I didn’t do it because I hated Ambo.”

“Oh, so you were head over heels in love with a fifty-year-old woman with fake tits?” He cackled, head thrown back. “Christ, Horse, you’re more fucked up than I am.”

“Quite likely,” I said.

Pitt leaned forward and exhaled in my ear, the smell of the liquor fumigating my face. “Want to know why I did it?”

I didn’t answer.

He panted his barroom breath against my neck. “Kill her, that is?” he added, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Why did you do it, Pitt,” I said in a monotone. “Please tell me.”

“Well there she was,” he said. “Down to her bra and panties. In your bedroom. She reeked of sex. Bitch in heat. Door was unlocked, I walked right in. She must have thought I was you. When she realized whose cock she was grabbing, she started to babble. Tried to explain. Wasn’t what it looked like.”

He paused and spat again, a second medallion of red on the rock. “It was disgusting,” he said. “My own mother.” He snorted, sat up straight. “She had to die. Simple as that.”

“Don’t we all.”

Pitt put a hand on my shoulder, pushed himself to his feet. The detonator swung back and forth in his hand. “I’m glad you see it that way,” he said thickly. “Any world that could produce a man like me does not deserve to continue.” He held his hand in front of my face. The detonator lay flat on his palm. “You deserve a clean slate, too.”

I shook my head. “There is no clean slate.”

Pitt crouched. “But there is! Mother Earth, the world spirit. Gaia forgives us. Will forgive us. If we do this one thing.”

I nodded my head, not looking at him. “That we are an infection,” I said at last.

“You feel it too? We’re a disease, a cancer, and—”

“—the only cure is death. Yes,” I said. “I got the lecture at the ashram.”

Pitt rested the detonator on my knee. He held out his gloved fist. “Bros forever?”

I left my hands in my lap.

“Dude.” The fist trembled in midair. “Bros forever?”

“Maybe our only task as human beings is to survive.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “To survive and endure.”

Pitt’s eyes plummeted to earth. I will never forget the look on his face. He growled at me from deep in his throat, “Who would want to live on this vile, pus-filled canker sore of a planet?”

I pushed him away. “I would.”

Pitt stood, the muscles in his face contorting and twitching. He spat at me. The loogie landed on my cheek, slid down to my chin. “Then you are my enemy. And you must die.”

He lifted the detonator to waist height. Checked the safety. Off. Where I had left it. His thumb descended to the button. I slashed my legs around, slammed my shins into the backs of his knees. He toppled to the ground. The detonator fell from his hand. It landed a few meters away. He reached for it.

I leaped on top of him. Curled my fist tight and crashed it into his face. His nose snapped against my knuckles. My broken pinkie collided with his teeth. I screamed. Clutched my injured hand.