Chapter Forty-One - James
I go back inside, walk straight through the house, go out to the Hummer, open the door, sit inside, and slam it shut.
Fuck.
What the fuck am I doing?
I weigh my options in my head. I imagine all the ways in which each path could make life better. Then worse. Every decision has a consequence. Every moment in my life accumulates to this moment. And this moment will determine my next moment.
Life is a tower. A very tall tower. Decisions lead to actions, and action stack up—one on top of another, on top of another. And sometimes you know why you’re clawing your way up that tower, but most of the time, it’s just pulling yourself up, hand over hand. Finding each foothold one crevice at a time.
And every now and then, as you climb your tower, there’s a bridge. And you stand there looking across that bridge, but you know that’s too fucking easy. There’s no other side. If there was another side, you’d hop off the fucked-up tower you’re climbing and try something new.
But there’s no other side in sight. Just a bridge.
So it’s a risk. Do you keep climbing? Do you use all your stacked moments to lift you up towards the ending you’ve been envisioning since you started this journey?
Or do you step onto the bridge and cross over into the unknown?
I guess it comes down to regrets. Not things like, Did I kill the right people? Or, Did I do my job the best way I know how?
No. Life is not about work, it’s about… love.
Unless, of course, your work is what you love.
Do I love my work?
I pull out my phone and call the number from memory. It rings and rings and then finally goes to voice mail. “Harrison,” I say in a low voice. “Call me back, I need a big.”
I end the call, go back inside, find the smokes I bought at the bar, and then walk out the back door so I can enjoy them. I flick the lighter and take a deep drag, then let it out and a little bit of comfort and relief floods into my bloodstream. I walk out towards the sign Sasha just shot and when I get there, I turn and look up to the roof. She’s gone now. Maybe back to bed. Maybe she’s pacing inside, weighing up her stacked moments too. Considering her options as she decides whether or not to step out on to that bridge.
I flick the lighter on the sign since the half-moon has dipped behind some clouds and it’s darker now.
It’s just silver, but then I realize I’m looking at it backwards and walk around the other side of the post. There’s no fence. It’s just a post in the ground facing the empty desert.
But it does have a message on this side. It says, I shoot everyone, and there’s a bullet hole smack in the middle of the sign.
Sasha is a damn good shot.
My phone buzzes in my pants and I let my cigarette dangle as I fish it out and press the green tab. “Yeah,” I say.
“What kind of favor do you need?” Harrison asks.
“You still in Vegas?”
“Yeah, till tomorrow, why?”
“I need you to pick something up in Colombia.”
His laugh is so loud I have to pull the phone away. “I’m not doing drug runs, asshole.”
I take a drag on my cigarette and let it out. “Not drugs, you freak. I’m gonna place an order for you to pick up, but I need it tomorrow night. Can you do it or not?”
“Dude,” he says, laughing. “That’s a three-leg journey at least. It’s gonna cost you a ton of dough.”
“Money is not a problem. I just need this package. Tomorrow night. Delivered to Orange County.”
“I can, but you will owe me more than money.”
“I’d expect nothing less. Look for deets soon. Later.”
I press end and immediately key in another number. It reroutes several times, making loud clicking noises that would usually have me on high alert for wiretapping. But this is just how it is when you want to talk to Roberto.
“Hola,” a woman’s voice says. “Roberto Moreno Diseñador.”
“This is Tet. I have an order and I am sending someone to pick it up tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, switching from Spanish to English effortlessly. “How can I help you?”
I give her my request. It’s nothing special, at least for Roberto. But they don’t sell them here in the States. At least not of this caliber. And I need the best for this job. I end the call, text Harrison the details, and go find Sasha.
“Come in,” she says softly after I knock on her door. I open it up and she’s curled up in a chair on the far side of the room, still holding the gun I gave her. “That was fast,” she says through a yawn. “I hope it’s not some crackpot idea that will get me killed.”
“Well, you can let me know afterward, OK?”
She stares at me for a few seconds and I can almost see her mind spinning with questions. Will she ask them? Will I answer them?
I don’t think I can, not yet anyway.
“Medicine Wheel or something like that.”
“What?” I shake my head at her randomness.
“That place my dad was gonna take me today. Something about a medicine wheel. And he had special permission to go up with some Native American friends because normally it’s closed to the public on the summer solstice.”
“Sorry, kid. I have no idea.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, her expression blank. “Who cares about stupid stuff like that anyway.” She turns away from me, curling her little body up in the chair like she’s cold. But this is the desert. It’s still almost eighty degrees out in the dead of night. Her posture is just another defense mechanism to protect herself from all the hurt. And not the physical kind. She’s got plenty of that tonight too. But missing that trip with her dad, that’s the kind of pain that can’t be fixed with a pill.
Not easily, anyway.
“Hey,” I say after her eyes have been closed for a few minutes. “Stupid medicine wheels are the only things that count, Sasha. How about… how about I make you a promise. For when this is all over.”
“What kind of promise?” She asks the question out of duty, it seems. Because she doesn’t even bother to open her eyes.
“I’ll take you to that place. We’ll find it and I’ll take you there.”
The tears start to fall down her face. “It’s too late. The solstice is today. I missed it and I don’t want to go anymore.”
I have nothing to say to that. Do you convince them? Kids, I mean. Is that what parents do? Convince them that they really do want to go, they’re just acting like… well, kids?
Or do you take them at their word?
I’m not sure. So I just get up and walk out. It seems like a cowardly move on my part, but fuck it. I’m not her father. She’s not my kid. She’s not my problem.
She’s my solution and nothing more.