‘There’s a man called Paul Watts.’ Cathy leaned forward, decidedly maternal. ‘Go and speak with him. He is missing a lung because of the work he undertook at the burn pits. Go and speak with him, speak with the other men who worked at Camp Liberty and ask them about what happened. Ask if they were told anything about the dangers of their work. Then speak with HOSCO, speak with Paul Geezler, and speak to the people who know him.’
* * *
Cathy sent the article as an attachment to Rem. In the subject line she typed a row:?????? The attachment was an article about the country singer Grey Wills and the dispute on a house outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico, with his neighbour, Paul Geezler, who had bought the land and developed a property without apparent permission, then cut down the bordering trees in order to build a second building closer to the ridge and river. The property, a five-bedroom country house in the English style, was built without the appropriate approvals and on inspection violated several county and state codes — and was, to Grey Wills’ satisfaction, ordered to be demolished.
The article, dated five years back, was intended as a last gift to Rem. A kind of statement about the men he’d done business with, how they had always been this greedy, this disregarding of other people, and how they would not change.
* * *
Santo drank and insisted on driving. He knew the route, he said, so Rem wouldn’t have to pay attention to the maps. He knew how to get there. South, then west.
Rem watched the last of the city pass behind them. One remaining building from the Robert Taylor Homes, the last out of a scattered wall of high-rise blocks. It didn’t occur to him until later that they were heading east not south — toward Michigan — a mistake which took a further two hours to correct.
The men hardly spoke, and Rem could not be certain what this drive was about, except that they would end up in Austin, see what work they could hustle from one of HOSCO’s subsidiaries, although any debate about this idea soon dissolved into argument: both of them unhappy to return to the company, but neither seeing a choice.
‘Would you go back?’
‘Iraq? No.’
‘Me neither.’
They could make it to St Louis before dark, find a motel on the other side of Memphis. It wouldn’t be beyond him to drive all night, he said. ‘We make Highway 10 at Baton Rouge.’ Once in Louisiana they would soon be in Texas. Sealy first, then up to Austin, after which, who knows.
At Sealy they would locate Cathy. Find her at her parents or her sisters. ‘She’s sending you this information. She’s still thinking about you. See?’
Rem rolled in and out of sleep. Santo opened energy drinks, answered his own questions and did not seem to mind if Rem was or was not listening. The smell, nutmeg and honey, of cold spice, brought back memories of Fatboy, and Fatboy’s small room — the cab of Santo’s car feeling almost as tight and airless.
‘Your parents alive?’ He’d never asked Santo about his family, but understood it to be large, that the Hernandez family were spread generously across North Chicago, Milwaukee, and Minneapolis, St Paul.
‘At one point we lived close. My grandparents, aunts, uncles. There was a fire, but up until then we were all together. After the fire my father had to start over. His business was destroyed, so he had to find work elsewhere. After the fire we started moving around, things were spread about. It happened quickly, but I don’t remember much. To me there was this fire and then people left, and there were new people about us who we called aunty and uncle. Things were hard for a time.’
Santo smoked, opened the window to flick out his ash. Commented on the landscape.
‘This place needs hills. Seriously. It needs landscaping. It needs the Hernandez family to sort it out. You know, there’s some pyramids out here. Maybe Indian, I don’t think they even know, but they found these chambers where they’d buried people alive. I don’t know how they know this, but there were these stone chambers underground that you could get into but not out. Like a sacrifice or something. A slow sacrifice.’
Rem half-listened, looked out at the fields of corn stubble.
* * *
Across the road from the parking lot Santo found a private members’ casino. He won $50 in his first game and then lost every time after. Nevertheless his mood lifted, Rem could see it in his gestures, how he became broader when he was playing, his arms widening to express his failing luck. He accepted the free drinks, sent beer over to Rem who sat apart, alone, the appeal of the place not extending beyond the ring of tables and slot machines. Sat next to a sticky wall in a vast half-darkness, Rem drank and waited, tapped his foot along with an entertainer who sang to a backing track, and wondered how the police didn’t shut the place down, and realized, it was all police — the gamblers, the drinkers, the investors.
When Santo came back, smiling, he shook Rem by his shoulder. ‘I know exactly what you need,’ he said. ‘After tomorrow, you’re going to feel better.’
As they walked out Santo leaned on Rem for support.
* * *
The countryside out of Santa Fe appeared contradictory, the air thin, mountain-like, but the land flat and stony, a desert, sure, but not the desert of Al-Muthanna. Here there was scrub, spiny and dusty-green, even some grass in place, piñon trees, larger boulders, a substantial flat plate of sky, a numb blue, a breathless blue, and the definiteness of the rocks, their honey colour, their solidity.
Despite Rem’s questions Santo still wouldn’t explain himself. This wasn’t Route 10, it wasn’t Louisiana, this desert wasn’t the swamp. Not even close. They were so far from Louisiana, he said, he couldn’t even imagine it. The further they drove the dryer and more weathered the land became, and as they turned off the highway and came slowly through a gate Santo hitched forward in his seat and drove with more attention. ‘Not long now,’ he said, and appeared to look for clues. ‘This is Peterstown.’
‘This is where Geezler lives?’ The name struck Rem in an instant.
‘Not quite. This is where he had a house.’ Santo couldn’t hold in his smile. ‘You think we might call in?’
‘He won’t be here. Neither will the house. This whole situation is five years old. The house will be gone. Besides, it’s a bad idea.’
‘It’s here all right. I looked it up. The man just can’t live in it. And anyway, we’ve arrived.’
He pulled the car round a long curve, the land opening out to a gravel paddock, and a low-lying building, roofless, but with long tan adobe walls.
‘The man likes horses. Can you imagine? And what was he? A deputy? An assistant? This was going to be a stud farm. He fucking breeds horses.’
Not a picture to keep in your head, Rem agreed.
‘I had to see this. I love this story. He built this house, and then they made him take it down — only one floor though. So that’s it. That’s what he has. One floor of nothing.’
‘Why are we here?’
‘It’s no accident. We’re not calling because we happen to be close. You think we’re the only people he fucked with?’
He let Santo get out of the car, watched him walk to the boot, take out a crowbar, then saunter toward the building and clamber over one of the low-lying walls. He waited, determined not to follow, but also curious.
* * *
The land split in front of the house, a vast narrow canyon, so that the house topped one side. The rooms were laid out, concrete, cleaned, and roofless. The walls had been cut, so the entire house held the appearance of being sawn horizontally in half. The range of the rooms, laid out like a villa, something you’d see on a holiday programme, where the presenter would speak about the possible activities that might once have happened in such a place, evoke a lifestyle by looking at stunted walls, views and prospects.