James Burke - Feast Day of Fools

“What does ‘zip’ mean?”

“As in ‘zipper-head.’ I’m talking about the Chinese broad.”

“She can absolve sins.”

“Did you know your ancestors never invented the wheel?”

“Before the Spaniards came, there were no draft animals. Why would my ancestors want a wheel when they had no animals to hitch it to? They did not spend their time on non-utile pursuits.”

“You said I’m operating under some illusions.”

“When you killed Negrito, you freed his spirit. You don’t know it yet, but you got some serious problems, man.”

“You’re inside a prison cell and I’m outside of it. But I’m in trouble? You got to clue me in here. I’m fascinated by Indian mumbo jumbo.”

“Negrito wanted to be me, to live inside my skin. The way an assassin wants to become his victim. But he was too loyal to hurt his friend. So you did it for him and let his spirit leave his body and go inside mine. Now, no matter what you do to me, Negrito is going to be waiting for you. That is very bad for you, man. You haven’t figured that out yet, but you will.”

“Can your friend’s spirit rise out of concrete? Because you’re gonna be part of the foundation in Josef’s new barn.”

“Me cago en tu puta madre. Or are you already standing in line for that?”

“What did you say?”

“‘I defecate in your mother’s womb.’ That was Negrito’s favorite expression. See, I told you, Negrito is on the loose.”

“See my friend there, carrying that bucket out? Know what’s in the bucket?”

“The waste your mother usually makes you carry out?”

“Take another guess.”

A thick-bodied man, stripped to the waist, with a buzz haircut, was walking up the cellar stairs, a bucket swinging from his left hand. The muscles in his back looked like oiled rope. In the yellow glow of the bare bulb that hung above the steps, Krill could see stringlike tendrils of blood on the man’s skin.

“The item in that bucket was donated by one of our other guests,” Frank said. “Those two guys you whacked and mutilated at Josef’s place were friends of mine. Keep shooting off your mouth, greaseball. I’ll make sure you’re a donor, too.”

At nine A.M. of the same day, an independent taxi operator parked his vehicle in front of Hackberry’s office and came inside with a package under his arm. The package was wrapped in twine and thick brown paper. “Got a delivery for you from the airport, Sheriff,” he said.

“Who’s it from?” Hackberry asked, looking up from his desk.

“I don’t know. There’s nothing written on it except your name. I got a call telling me to pick it up at the ticket counter and to keep the fifty dollars in the envelope tucked under the twine.”

“Where’s the envelope?”

“In the trash. I didn’t think it was important. What, you reckon it’s a bomb or something?”

“Leave it there.”

“It’s cold. Maybe it’s some food.”

After the taxi driver had gone, Hackberry went into the outer office. “Pam, tell Felix to go to the airport and see what he can find out about a package that was left for me at the ticket counter. Then come into my office, please.”

He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and removed a pocketknife from his desk drawer and opened the long blade on it. He placed the flat of his hand on the wrapping paper. He could feel the coldness in the box through his glove.

“Put on a vest and a face shield, Hack,” Pam said.

“Step back,” he replied, and cut the twine. He inserted his fingers under the paper and peeled it away in sections from the top of a corrugated cardboard box.

“Hack, call the FBI,” Pam said.

He pulled back a strip of tape holding the flaps on the box’s top in place and folded the flaps back against the sides. He looked down at a carefully packed layer of Ziploc bags containing dry ice. One of the bags had broken open, and the ice had slid down deeper into the box and was vaporizing against a round, compacted lump of matter wrapped inside a sheet of clear plastic. There were whorls of color pressed against the plastic that made him think of an uncured ham that had been freezer-burned in a meat locker.

“What is it?” Pam said, staring at the blankness of his expression.

He stepped back from the box, his hands at his sides. He shook his head. She stepped closer and looked down into the box. “Oh, boy,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“It was flown here?”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “Get the key to Barnum’s cell,” he said.

They went up the stairs together, Hackberry holding the box, Pam walking in front of him. She turned the key in the cell door and pulled it open. Noie Barnum was lying on his bunk, reading a magazine. He put the magazine on the floor but didn’t get up.

“Come in and close the door behind you,” Hackberry said to Pam.

“Something going on?” Barnum said.

“Yeah, sit up,” Hackberry said. “See this?”

“Yeah, a box.”

“Look inside it.”

“What for?”

Hackberry set the box on the foot of the bunk and picked up the magazine from the floor. He rolled it into a cone and slapped Barnum across the head. Then he slapped him a second time and a third. “I want to tear you up, Mr. Barnum. I don’t mean that figuratively. I want to throw you down those stairs. That’s how I feel about you.”

Barnum’s eyes were filming, his face blotched. “You don’t have the right to treat me like this.”

“Look inside that box.”

“Somebody’s head is in there?” Barnum said, his expression defiant, his eyes lifted to Hackberry’s.

Hackberry hit him again, this time tearing the cover loose from the magazine. Barnum lifted his hand to protect himself, then looked down into the box. The blood drained from his face. “Oh God,” he said.

“Tell me what you see.”

“It’s a hand and a foot.”

“Are they male or female?”

“Sir?”

“Answer the question.”

“There’s hair on the ankle. It must be a man’s.”

“Look at the hand.”

“What about it?”

“Look closer. There’s a ring on it. Look at it.”

“I’m not responsible for this.”

“That’s a University of Texas class ring. The hand and the ring belong to Temple Dowling. The people who did this to him will probably start on Anton Ling next. Right now I’d like to rip you apart. Instead of doing that, I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, and you’re going to answer them. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you and Jack Collins hiding?”

“Just like you said earlier, right south of the border. But Jack’s gone by now.”

“Gone where?”

“That’s anybody’s guess. You see him and then he’s gone. He’s standing in one place, then in another, without seeming to move. I’ve never known anybody like him.”

“You’re just catching on to the fact that there’s something a little unusual about him?”

“I don’t know where Jack is. I don’t know where Miss Anton is, either. I feel awful about what’s happened. My sister died in the Towers. I wanted to get even with the people who killed her. I didn’t want any of these other things to happen.”

Hackberry let out his breath and felt the heat rise out of his chest like ash off a dead fire. “I want you out of here,” he said.

“Say again?”

“You heard me. Hit the road.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to. You just got eighty-sixed from my jail. It’s a first. Burn a candle the next time you’re in church.”

“Maybe I don’t want to leave.”

“Son, you’d better get a lot of gone between you and this jailhouse,” Pam said.

“Well, you’re gonna see me again,” Barnum said.