“How long have you had those?” I ask, pointing to the boils.
Russell looks at his hands. For a moment, I think he may cry. “Victor made me wash in our fountain.”
I’m surprised to see Russell alive. I’d expected Victor to kill him and eliminate any remaining witnesses to their crimes, but this illogical act is more in line with Victor’s motivations. He’d rather make Russell suffer.
Russell’s face is still smeared with some of the ghoul makeup, so he’s not been fully submerged during this bizarre baptism, but a few boils sprout like horns in the margins of his widow’s peak. Victor must have poured water over his hair. I can’t help but think it’s funny that we’ve both been betrayed. Russell was vain enough to think his false friend wouldn’t hold him accountable for his family’s crimes, and I was foolish enough to think someone might finally accept me.
“I can’t say you don’t deserve it,” I tell him.
Tears leak from Russell’s eyes. “I thought he was my friend. I tried to tell him I’d helped with Dad, but he said I was still culpable.”
I take a seat and find myself surprisingly calm as Russell wipes his tears with swollen fingers. Just like that night when The Reverend beat me, I can’t imagine such an infirm man being a threat. This must be how others feel about me.
Russell’s eyes are raw like he’s been up all night. Maybe he was watching from the brush while the rest of the town arrived with the police escort? The gun rests on his knee. This close, the man smells muddy and slick, like something just hauled from the bottom of a stagnant lake. There is a slight wheeze to his breathing, an exaggerated huff as he exhales.
“Where is Rosita?” Russell asks.
“You should know,” I say. “You’ve been in on the whole thing.” With the recordings and Caroline both gone, I suddenly don’t much care what happens.
His eyes refuse to focus, so Russell blinks hard. “What are you talking about?”
“You only got close to me so that you could introduce us, right? What was the deal you made?”
Perhaps it’s just the blood oozing from his palms like stigmata, but Russell looks wounded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
“I’m talking about all that fanboy bullshit you laid on me the first time you showed up.”
“I am a fan. Fuck, man, I’m sick about how things turned out for you.” He scratches his neck, and I see the splotches of red underneath the wilted collar. “Do you know how hard it is to see someone so talented get screwed out of their destiny? That music of yours is one of the only things I’ve ever loved, and you don’t get to share it just because you’re ugly. I wanted us to collaborate.”
Looking at the sores marring his tattooed skin, I begin to pity him. Maybe because I am so often the recipient of this emotion, I’m always surprised by how insidious pity can be.
The way it worms in and lets us confuse it for empathy. The two emotions have no more than an atom-sized difference between them, the constant chance for one to mutate into the other. Strange that humanity’s best quality is so close to its worst.
“I admire you,” Russell says. “They’ve done all they can to beat you down and you’re still here. That’s how I wanted to be. That’s why I always fought my father. I think that’s what I liked most about Victor. He helped me feel brave.”
“I want to know what happened to Caroline and I want to know what deal you made with Rosita,” I tell him. “So, are you going to put the gun away and tell me, or are you gonna use it?”
“I need those pictures she took,” he says. “I’m not leaving here without them.”
“Well, Rosita’s not here. She took your hearse and lit out this morning. Took my recordings with her.”
If Rosita left in the night, I don’t think Russell could’ve missed her. The hearse has too distinct a sound, and if he’d spent the early morning hidden in the thicket, Russell would have followed her. Maybe he’s suffering from spells, falling into moments of unconsciousness. Slumped in my chair like this, he looks like a starved pilgrim. Soiled black garb and ash-white paint still on his face to appease some cruel God.
“Bullshit. You’ve got her hid.”
“I’m being honest,” I say. “She stole my new tracks and left.”
Russell grins. “You’re writing again?”
“Maybe,” I say. He does look genuinely surprised to hear about the music. “You really didn’t know what she wanted with me?”
Russell shrugs, uses the gun barrel to draw little circles in the air.
“She wanted to know all about Angela Carver, promised The Excitable Boys a write-up if we could help her score a big story. I knew you liked your privacy, but I was willing to fuck that up for some ink. I figured that’s just how journalists work.”
“That’s all?” I ask.
“I never thought she was a thief,” Russell says. “After she wrote about you and The Troubadours, it would’ve received global attention. I figured we’d be playing together by then.”
“So, you just wanted me as a band member?”
“No, as a cowriter and collaborator. The story would’ve helped us get started.”
Russell touches his face and smears his makeup. I see a few smaller blisters clustered around his mouth.
“You need a doctor,” I say.
“Won’t matter if I don’t get those pictures.” Russell takes both thumbs and pulls the hammer back on the revolver. It takes considerable effort, but I know pulling the trigger is easy enough. “I won’t ask again, Hollis.”
If I tell him the photos are already with the police, he’ll probably just shoot me. There may be an opportunity for an alliance here. Neither of us can cross the creek alone. Without help getting to town, Rosita will be on the first plane home with the tracks. I can’t allow that.
“Rosita has the pictures,” I lie.
“You want those recordings back?” Russell asks. “You take me to her and I’ll get them.”
He’ll probably still shoot me after we find her, but I don’t see another option. “You got wheels?” I ask.
“No, I waded. Figured I was already too wet for it to matter.”
“So how do you suppose we’re going to get across?” I ask.
“I’ve got it all squared away,” Russell says. “Come outside.”
I hold the front door open for Russell. Outside, last night’s cool air is replaced by a pitiless sun. It’s not even noon, but people will need water in this heat. They’ll want to sip from frosty glasses and dip their feet in cold pools. Even at a distance, the babble of the creek sounds like an invitation.