“The chemical plant is five miles from your tributary,” Russell says. “Five whole miles to dilute before it reaches that stretch and just look at me.”
He holds out his red hands. Even cast in the low light of the motel room, the sores look as if Russell had lain dead for days and risen like Lazarus.
“You think about that before you judge me over my father,” he says.
“Where are my recordings?” I ask.
Rosita doesn’t bother to lie. “Under the bed. In my camera bag.”
“Did you listen to them?” I ask. It should feel trivial, but I’m more infuriated by this possibility than anything else.
“I did,” she says.
When she opens her mouth to say more, I just turn to Russell. “Get the sheets and tie him.” I keep the gun on him while Rosita strips the bed.
“You’re just gonna leave me here?” He sounds afraid for the first time.
“Isn’t that what you did with Caroline?” I say. “Just left her there with Victor?”
Rosita puts a hand on my slumped shoulder as the rage builds, but I knock it away. No one has arrived to investigate the first gunshot. I could muffle the muzzle with a pillow. Threaten Russell until he tells me everything or just shoot him down.
“Did you know your daddy was gonna end up online with a sign on him?” I ask. “That all part of your chat around the kitchen table?”
The edge in my voice is rising. I lean down, unworried about Russell’s bloody face so close to mine.
“All that was Victor,” Russell says. “I wasn’t sure we’d go through with it. Right up until it happened, I thought we were both all talk.”
It does make sense. Victor the idealist. Russell the deluded rock star. Rosita rounds the bed with a bundle of sheets to tie Russell’s hands.
“I don’t deserve this,” he says.
I’m inclined to let him run. He won’t make it far anyway, but Rosita ties his hands to the bed frame. The knots look professional. Efficient and quick, but not tight enough to cut off circulation. Not that Russell needs all his circulation. His fingertips still drip blood. After his hands are secured, Rosita opens the nightstand drawer, takes out a small pocketknife and cuts a long strip from the sheet. I watch her close while the knife is out. I don’t think she’d stick me, but I’ve allowed infatuation to blind me once already. I’ve yet to harden my heart to the truth that the only woman who loved me is long gone. Even that relationship is tarnished by time.
Rosita ties Russell’s feet. He doesn’t protest as she checks the knots for strength. When she’s finished, Rosita reaches under the bed to retrieve her equipment.
“I wanna know why,” I tell her.
“Outside,” she says. “I’m not talking in front of him.”
“Don’t leave me here,” Russell says.
“Somebody heard that shot,” I tell him. “Sheriff will be here any minute.” I don’t know if either of us believe it.
We step outside and close the door on Russell’s protests. Rosita takes a soft pack of cowboy killers from her camera bag and lights up. The acrid smoke almost overpowers the smell of her unwashed body and the lingering remnants of perfume applied days ago.
“Where’s the hearse?” I ask.
“I ditched it downtown. I’ve been trying not to draw too much attention.” She scoffs and flicks ash. “You know if we call the police, he’ll tell them it was us.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I say. “You’d rather let him bleed out?”
“I’d rather not be arrested.” I wonder if she’s pleading with me. Turning her over means I’d have to explain my songwriting. With nothing left to lose, Rosita would tell everything about my arrangement with Angela. I’m still curious how she knows, what exactly her plan was and what I should do next. None of those questions will be answered if I hand her over to the law.
“We need to get back across the creek,” I say. “Considering Victor’s still out there somewhere, I think Sheriff Saunders will understand.”
I’m not sure Victor will even be looking for us, but I’ll exploit Rosita’s fear if it helps me understand her motive. I open the door again to take a final look at Russell. Sunlight pours inside through the crack and in the new illumination, I see how rheumy his eyes look. He doesn’t have much time.
“I’m not going across that creek again,” she says.
“Yes, you are,” I tell her. “Or else I’m calling the sheriff about your light fingers.”
Rosita shakes her head, lets smoke roil out between her teeth. Now that she’s caught, she seems a little embarrassed. Maybe ashamed, or maybe that’s just what I want her to feel.
“Test me,” I say.
Rosita bites into the filter. “This a threat? Am I being kidnapped?”
“You’re being offered lodging at the only place in town with clean running water. I’d hardly call that kidnapped. Besides, there’s a murderer tied up in your room. Where else you gonna stay?”
Rosita takes a contemplative drag. Even angry, I can’t help noticing her beauty. Dark skin the opposite of Angela’s, whose arms were nearly translucent enough to let me see the tunneling tracks of blue veins. Physically, the women are nothing alike. Angela battled pimples with layers of makeup, but Rosita’s complexion is flawless. Her chest and hips are small compared to Angela’s curves. Even the straight cut of her lank bob is the antithesis of Angela’s curls that always seemed like coils of frozen fire. Even after all that’s happened, I catch myself wondering what her hair would feel like in my hands.
THE CONFESSION
Day Three of the Contamination
We take the hijacked Chevy, only stopping once on the outskirts of Cherry Tree where Rosita calls the police from what must be one of the last pay phones on earth. The protesters are still out, shouting and stomping until she must cup her hand around the receiver to be heard. I wait in the passenger seat and scan the crowd for Victor, but he’s too smart to be marching past the bars. There’s no sign of the Red Cross and FEMA representatives that should be crowding the street, either. I’m not surprised by the lack of assistance. In many ways, we’ve always been on our own, addressed only when the rest of the country requires our resources or needs something to mock. Relief isn’t coming, but that’s what most of these people voted for. An old-world version of self-reliance that cuts programs of aid, environmental regulations and other safeguards against days like today. Perhaps they did it out of feelings of desperation. You could argue that the poor don’t have the luxury of conservation, but I think those shortsighted notions have always been our weakness.