Moffitt simply could not slip away and allow such shitheads to go on with their warped lives, exactly as before. After all, how often did one get the opportunity to make a lasting impression upon paranoid sociopaths?
Not often enough. Moffitt felt morally obligated to fuck with Bodean James Gazzer's head. It took only a few extra minutes, and afterwards even the rat seemed amused.
Sinclair was overcome the instant he touched the cooters: a warm tingle that started preternaturally in his palms and raced up both arms to his spine.
He was sitting cross-legged in Demencio's yard, on the lip of the moat. The daily visitation was over, the pilgrims were gone. Sinclair had never handled a turtle before. Demencio said go ahead, help yourself. They don't bite or nothin'.
Sinclair picked up one of the painted cooters and set it delicately in his lap. The bearded face gazing up from the grooved carapace was purely beatific. And the turtle itself was no less exquisite – bright gemlike eyes, a velvety neck striped in greens, golds and yellows. Sinclair reached into the water and picked up another one, and then another. Before long, he was acrawl with baby turtles – rubbery legs pumping, tiny claws scratching harmlessly on the fabric of his pants. The sensation was hypnotic, almost spiritual. The cooters seemed to emanate a soft, soothing current.
Demencio, who was refilling the moat with "holy" water, asked Sinclair if he felt all right. Sinclair spontaneously began to tremble and hum. Demencio couldn't make out the tune, but it was nothing he was dying to hear on the radio. Turning to Joan and Roddy: "I'd say it's time to take the boy home."
Sinclair didn't want to go. He looked up at Roddy. "Isn't this amazing?" Thrusting both hands high, full of dripping turtles: "Did you see!"
Demencio, sharply: "Be careful with them things. They ain't mine." That's all he'd need, some city dork accidentally smushing one of JoLayne's precious babies. Say adiosto a thousand bucks.
Demencio was tempted to turn the hose on the guy – it had worked like a charm on Trish's tomcat. Sinclair's face pinched into a mask of concentration. His head began to flop back and forth, as if his neck had gone to rubber.
"Nyyah nurrha nimmy doo-dey,"he said.
Roddy glanced at his wife. "What is that – Spanish or somethin'?"
"I don't believe so."
Again Sinclair cried: "Nyyah nyyah doo-dey!"It was a mangled regurgitation of a newspaper headline he'd once written, a personal all-time favorite: nervous nureyev nimble in disney debut.
The translation, had Demencio known it, would have failed to put him at ease. "That's it," he said curtly. "Closing time."
At Roddy's urging, Sinclair returned the twelve painted turtles to the water. Roddy led him to the car, and Joan drove home. Roddy began stacking charcoal briquettes in the outdoor grill, but Sinclair said he wasn't hungry and went to bed. He was gone when Joan awoke the next morning. Under the sugar bowl was his journalist's notebook, opened to a fresh page:
I've returned to the shrine.
That's where she found him, rapt and round-eyed.
Demencio took her aside and whispered, "No offense, but I got a business here."
"I understand," said Joan. She walked to the moat and crouched next to her brother. "How we doing?"
"See that?" Sinclair pointed. "She's crying."
Demencio had repaired the Madonna's plumbing; teardrops sparkled on her fiberglass cheeks. Joan felt embarrassed that Sinclair was so affected.
"Your boss called," she told him.
"That's nice."
"It sounded real important."
Sinclair sighed. Cupped in each hand was a cooter. "This is Bartholomew, and I think this one's Simon."
"Yes, they're very cute."
"Joan, please. You're talking about the apostles."
"Honey, you'd better call the newspaper."
Demencio offered to let him use the telephone in the house. Anything to get the goofball away from the shrine before the first Christian tourists arrived.
The managing editor's secretary put Sinclair through immediately. In a monotone he apologized for not calling the day before, as promised.
"Forget about it," said the managing editor. "I've got shitty news: Tom Krome's dead."
"No."
"Looks that way. The arson guys found a body in the house."
"No!" Sinclair insisted. "It's not possible."
"Burned beyond recognition."
"But Tom went to Miami with the lottery woman!"
"Who told you that?"
"The man with the turtles."
"I see," said the managing editor. "What about the man with the giraffes – what did he say? And the bearded lady with penguins – did you ask her?"
Sinclair wobbled and spun, tangling himself in the telephone cord. Joan shoved a chair under his butt. Breathlessly he said: "Tom can't be dead."
"They're working on the DNA," the managing editor said, "but they're ninety-nine percent sure it's him. We're getting a front-page package ready for tomorrow."
"My God," said Sinclair. Was it possible he'd actually lost a reporter?
He heard his boss say: "Don't come home."
"What?"
"Not just yet. Not till we figure out what to say."
"To who?" Sinclair asked.
"The wires. The networks. Reporters don't get murdered much these days," the managing editor explained, "especially feature writers. It's a pretty big deal."
"I suppose, but – "
"There'll be lots of sticky questions: Where'd you send him? What was he working on? Was it dangerous?" It's best if I handle it. That's why they pay me the big bucks, right?"
Sinclair was gripped by a cold fog. "I can't believe this."
"Maybe it had nothing to do with the job. Maybe it was a robbery, or a jealous boyfriend," said the managing editor. "Maybe a fucking casserole exploded – who knows? The point is, Tom's going to end up a hero, regardless. That's what happens when journalists get killed – look at Amelia Lloyd, for Christ's sake. She couldn't write a fucking grocery list, but they went ahead and named a big award after her."
Sinclair said, "I feel sick."
"We all do, believe me. We all do," the managing editor said. "You sit tight for a few days. Take it easy. Have a good visit with your sister. I'll be in touch."
For a time Sinclair remained motionless. Joan took the receiver from his hand and carefully unwrapped the cord from his shoulders and neck. With a tissue she dabbed the perspiration from his forehead. Then she dampened another and wiped a spot of turtle poop from his arm.
"What did he say?" she asked. "What's happened?"
"It's Tom – he's not in Miami, he's dead."
"Oh no. I'm so sorry."
Sinclair stood up. "Now I understand," he said.
Nervously his sister eyed him.
"Finally I understand why I'm here. What brought me to this place," he said. "Before, I wasn't sure. Something fantastic took hold of me when I touched the turtles, but I didn't know what or why. Now I do. Now I know."
Joan said, "Hey, how about a soda?"
Sinclair slapped a hand across his breast. "I was sent here," he said, "to be reborn."
"Reborn."
"There's no other explanation," Sinclair said, and trotted out the door toward the shrine. There he stripped off his clothes and lay down in the silty water among the cooters.
"Nimmy doo-dey, nimmy nyyah!"