The Scream (57 page)

Why we are here.

What it all means.

And what is our ultimate purpose.

She didn't know what her ultimate purpose was, but she was pretty sure that, if there was one, she would be the first to know.

And like the man said: that was, after all, the essence.

The essence.

Of faith.

Joshua Walker sat at the otherwise empty table in the otherwise empty room, staring at the objects laid out before him. They were the talismans of his nightly ritual, the one constant in an otherwise ephemeral existence. As rituals go, it was not entirely unpleasant, filled as it was with an element of mystery and purpose and risk. He had engaged in it every night before sleep, without fail, for the last eighteen months. Every night, for the past eighteen months, he had slept soundly.

The table this evening was in the very back of the hot, solitary
cervecería
of the village of Nahuatla, a tiny dot of backwater civilization carved high into the rocky green hills of the Honduran countryside. It had been his temporary sanctuary for the last few days and depending upon the outcome, might be for the next night or so. Then he'd move on, shape-shifting his way across Central America, once again where he truly belonged. A living ghost, in the killing machine.

The locals feared him as they would any crazy
yanqui
, of whom there were plenty these days. He had money, he had weapons, he was maybe CIA, maybe not. He was scary enough that nobody felt like asking. They served him his drinks and stayed out of his path. This suited Walker just fine: involvement on any scale was a distraction to his purpose, and Joshua Walker was determined to fulfill that purpose.

He surveyed the talismans before him: a shot glass of rum, a .44 revolver, and a single hollow-point bullet.

Joshua smiled.

God is one funny son of a bitch
, he thought. He picked up the revolver in his left hand and the hollow-point in his right. The bullet was tarnished from the sweat of repeated handlings. It was a very special bullet, he knew; so special that he'd had it engraved about six months ago in a dusty little locksmith's shop in Mexico City. The surface of the cartridge was scored in tiny, floral script:

Joshua Walker. Paid In Full.

He placed the bullet in a random chamber and spun it.
Yeah, He's a real card, all right
, he thought.
Likes things mysterious. Can't just say it straight out, no
. . . There was no longer any bitterness in the thought, just a sense of incontrovertible realization.

. . .
it's got to be a passion play, every time
.

Walker stopped the cylinder randomly in mid-spin. He laid the gun down on the scarred, dried wood of the table.

It's got to be Jesus and Judas, right and wrong, heaven and hell
. . .

He grasped the gun, as he had every night for the last eighteen months. He gave it a vigorous twist this time, virtually insuring a few extra revolutions. He did that, periodically, just for the added sense of mystery. Not that it ultimately mattered.

While the innocents die, again and again
. . .

The gun spun expertly in place. It was American-made, bluesteel, and very well balanced, and he'd had lots of practice. It went round and round, making a scuffling, whirling sound that sent the waiter hustling over to whisper to the bartender. Crazy goddamned
gringo
.

Walker watched the gun go round as his thoughts rolled back over the last five-hundred-odd days. He wondered about Momma, that bitch. Was It a demon? Or was it just an opportunistic sentience, cashing in on our fear? Who knew. All he really knew for certain was that It was lurking out there. Its stink was everywhere. Every new atrocity these days wore Its signature, every undisclosed body dump bore mute witness to Its presence. Walker had even found a blasted cassette of
The Critical Mass
in the blood-streaked mud of his last ambush site. Soundtrack music for a real-life movie. He'd squashed it underfoot and left it there.

Momma was here, no doubt. On both sides, playing each against the other for Its sole aggrandizement. Also here were Momma's fans, in increasing numbers, what with the commitment of fresh combat troops and the escalated fighting that followed the invasion of Honduras. It was a statistical probability that some of them were even survivors from that fateful weekend in Philly. But then, so was he, and in a strange way that sort of evened the odds.

Momma knew it, too, and It was pissed off. It couldn't reach him anymore, even if It could still taint the hearts and souls of so many of the poor dumb fuckers pitched into this geopolitical insane asylum. Emotional scar tissue was funny like that; he'd turned his in like a winding sheet, and found it remarkably protective. He could still feel, oh, yes; perhaps more than ever before, which helped explain his continued sense of mission. But the heart-scars shielded him somehow. Perversely so; the detachment actually gave him an edge, one that It had never anticipated.

That's not much
, he amended,
but in hard times that would have to do. More fun from our pal God
. Fucker always stacked the odds in favor of evil, it seemed, giving the one side a David to go up against the inevitable Goliath, then giving that same side only the tiniest shred of hope to hang on to. Not for the first time, he felt himself squarely in the midst of complete and utter madness. Maybe Mark Twain was right: if God existed at all, He must surely be a malign thug.

Or maybe He just liked the odds. Maybe He was a gambler at heart. Walker could appreciate that well enough; he'd seen enough of what was at stake to last a lifetime. And he'd played the long odds every single night for the past eighteen months.

The gun stopped spinning. The barrel pointed straight at his heart, just as it had every night for the past year and a half.
Same as it ever was
. . .

Joshua Walker picked up the gun in his left hand and the shot glass in his right. He scrutinized the glass: an ounce of
Aguardiente
, a vile amber-oily liquid, which seemed to be all they ever had since the contras more often then not hijacked the delivery truck that brought in cases of
Salvavida
or
Superior
. Walker liked
Salvavida
-the name meant lifesaver-and drank it when he could get it. As beer went, it was good stuff.

But not for a talisman. Oh, no. For that it had to be tequila or, as tonight,
Aguardiente
-water with teeth. It was fitting somehow.

He scrutinized the rum, so viscous it seemed to cling to the sides of the glass.
Water with teeth
. It clung, but it didn't smile. That was good, like an omen, almost. Oboy. He wondered where it might lead.

But he didn't worry about it.

Walker downed the shot. It burned a smooth track down the delicate lining of his esophagus to nestle in his stomach. A warm, soft glow came back, spreading through his limbs. He welcomed it. It softened the rest of the ritual atonement. What followed was pure discipline.

He picked up the piece and hefted it. Nicely balanced, bluesteeled, American made. Clean. He pushed the barrel firmly into the hollow of his left eye socket and held it there. It fit right in. Joshua pulled and locked the hammer back in two deadly clicks, and he smiled.

The moment of truth, for the five hundred forty-second consecutive time. A purely rhetorical question formed in his head. There was plenty to do in a world like this: a lot of corrupt motherfuckers needing their clocks cleaned, a lot of darkness to be pushed inexorably back. And always, always-far too much innocent blood for one man to ever atone for.
So what do you want from me, anyway?

Only one way to find out. The deck was shuffled, the cards already dealt. If he lived, there was a supply convoy due in tomorrow on
Uno Norte
that was ripe for derailment. If not, well . . .

Walker pulled the trigger.

And let God sort it out.