As for his emails, Mom expected him to not use it. No shit. That was her solution. His time would be far better spent reading the Bible and surrounding himself with the wonders of the Lord’s love. Tristan didn’t even know what that meant.
Isolde, meanwhile, knew a losing battle when she saw it, and decided to stay on the sidelines. Just do what Mom says. Helluva battle cry, Sis. And brave, too, being fifteen miles away with her live-in boyfriend.
Tristan had actually tried to live with all the restrictions for a while, but it didn’t take long for him to start identifying with Carrie White from the Stephen King book. Having already been born into Ichabod Crane’s body, and carrying the name of some German knight, he didn’t need any other fictional metaphors in his life, thank you very much.
So he started to push back. Hard. In so doing, he discovered that Mom’s parenting weaponry was pretty much limited to guilt speeches and crying jags. As a teenager, you can adapt to those pretty quickly, but parents adapt, too. She started invoking Dad’s memory-specifically, how disappointed he must be in his son.
So Tristan adapted again. The secret to success, it turned out, was simply to hide everything and lie like a rug. It works, he figured out, because deep down inside, she didn’t want to know the truth. As long as he had the decency to pretend, she would never look past the thin outer crust that his private life had become.
Isolde had moved out by the time the craziness started, so she was totally disengaged, but Tristan worried about Ziggy. He wasn’t more than a few years past Santa Claus, so he took a lot of Mom’s bullshit as gospel-literally-and it was already beginning to get him beaten up in school. Tristan did what he could to serve as a sanity buffer, but next year he had an appointment with Buttscratch University, and when that train pulled into the station, there was no power on earth that would keep him from climbing aboard.
As the time for this trip had approached, he’d talked himself into believing that maybe it would be a good time. He did, in fact, spend too much time on his computer, whether with surreptitious emails or games-truly the devil’s work-so he’d suspended disbelief just enough to give it a try.
There were supposed to be more people than this on the trip back then. Bill Georgen was supposed to be here, and so was Bobby Cantrell. Neither were what he’d call good friends, but they were decent enough, and they’d shared a few laughs over the years. A week before the trip, though, both of them dropped out, leaving him alone with two jocks, a diva, and a cheerleader, all of whom seemed far more attached to the party potential than the doing of God’s work on Earth.
When Tristan had found out about the change in the cast, he’d considered petitioning his mom for a reprieve, but abandoned the thought before even trying it.
It wasn’t a battle worth fighting.
So here he was, the lone survivor, sitting among guns and explosives and gasoline, in the company of people whose primary talent seemed to be killing people. With his eyes closed, he could see the carnage all over again, the white flashes of bone against the crimson background of extruded tissue. If he allowed himself, he could even smell the blood. Who even knew that blood had a smell?
“You okay back there, kid?” the driver asked. Big Guy.
“Tristan. Not kid. Tristan. And no, not especially. To be really honest, I’m scared shitless.”
“Good,” Scorpion said.
“Excuse me?”
He turned in his seat to look back at him. “The thickest streams of bullshit flow from terrified people who claim not to be scared.”
“Does that mean that you’re scared, too?”
Scorpion thought about it before answering. “Scared’s not the right word,” he said.
“Frightened?” Tristan helped. “Terrified? Paralyzed with fear?”
Scorpion laughed. It was a hearty, happy sound that showed genuine amusement. “None of the above,” he said. “Big Guy and I have been doing this stuff for a long time. It’s more like that feeling you get before you walk out on stage to give a speech. Anticipation, I guess.”
Tristan smiled. “You must give some wild speeches, dude. Seriously, what do you think our chances are?”
“Chances are of what?”
“Getting home.”
The humor drained from Scorpion’s expression. “Remember that you asked,” he said. “And that I promised not to lie to you.”
Tristan felt the wash of dread.
“None of this is going to be easy,” Scorpion went on. “People want us dead, apparently in a bad way. If they want it badly enough, they’ll put bounties out on us, dangling cash for the person who kills us, or at least turns us in.”
“Holy shit,” Tristan breathed.
“While we’ve got a thousand miles to travel through some pretty hostile terrain. Then, when we finally get to where we’re going, it looks like we’re going to have to be smuggled out of the country.”
Boxers growled, “Christ, Scorpion. You’re depressing me.”
“Well, those are just the risks, Big Guy. Now, on the positive side-”
“There’s a positive side?” Tristan interrupted.
“There’s always a positive side,” Scorpion said. “On the positive side, these are by no means the darkest odds I’ve ever faced, and I’m still here. Plus, I have a team of colleagues back home who are moving heaven and earth to help us work out the details.”
“Mother Hen?” Tristan asked.
“And others,” Scorpion confirmed. “You eavesdrop well. You’ll make a good intel officer one day.”
Tristan assumed that to mean intelligence officer, and if that was a job that involved shit like this, he wasn’t interested.
“Plus,” Scorpion said, “be honest with yourself. I know you’ve seen a lot of trauma and you’ve lost friends, and I don’t mean to take anything away from that. You’ll have a whole lifetime to grieve. But ask yourself this: Aren’t you living pretty intensely right now? I mean, if you take away the fear and the loss and the pain, can you think of any time in your life that has felt like a bigger adventure?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Here it was nearly midnight, and when Captain Ernesto Palma of the Mexican Army’s La Justicia, or military police, should have been home with his mistress, he was instead in Santa Margarita, investigating the immolation of a telephone substation. The miscreants had used thermite, for heaven’s sake. They’d made no attempt even to give the impression of a natural fire. His sources here in the village told him of visitors who’d arrived in a vehicle that fit the description of the very vehicle for which he’d been alerted to be on the lookout. By all accounts, the occupants of that vehicle were American military, and the presence of thermite certainly seemed to back that up.
A second source told him of larger cooperation among the villagers. The sort of cooperation that was always disturbing, if only for its ability to spin out of control. Once you allowed peasants to feel powerful, the first casualty was respect for authority. And once people stopped fearing authority, violence was inevitable.
So here he was, in the unlikeliest of places-a tiny country church-having to mete out discipline to the unlikeliest of people. “Father, be reasonable,” Palma said. “The questions I ask are simple to answer. It needn’t be this difficult.”
Father Perón stood naked at the altar, his hands folded across his privates. It was a supplicant posture, an attempt to mine dignity out of a confrontation that would ultimately allow none. Members of the clergy in general-priests in particular-posed special annoyances for Palma during interrogations. They seemed to feel that the costumes they wore and the deference given to them by their followers earned them a kind of immunity. Palma had seen it so many times that he’d come to expect it. There was a time in his life-his adult life, even-when it might have worked; but that was well before the cartels had started running the country. With all that money to be made, there was precious little room in the world for magical deities and superstition.