Randy White - Night Vision

The fact was, he didn’t need Frankie to continue his steroid operation. He could set up an underground lab just about anywhere, plus he spoke English, unlike the Mexgear guys, which always made it a pain in the ass to deal with them.

Speaking English was definitely to his advantage, Squires decided, even in Mexico. Most bodybuilders were Americans or lived in Europe, so it would be a smart way to expand and maybe make a lot of money. He couldn’t wait forever for his rich mother to die.

“Go to Mexico for a few months,” Squires said aloud, testing the idea on his ears.

He looked toward the little kitchen as if he’d just awakened from a doze. “I don’t need any food. Not now. But I could us a little pickme-up. Come with me-I’m not taking my eye off you for a second. If you want to cook, that’s up to you. Here, I’ll show you how to turn on the gas.”

Tula watched the giant get down on his knees and open a cabinet beneath the sink. He told her, “There’s a red knob under here and an emergency-cutoff switch. But first check and make sure you turned the burners off or one spark and this whole place could go up.”

Squires stood, the trailer creaking beneath his weight, and Tula followed him out the door, past the peeping baby egret that she had placed in a box after feeding it water and a few drops of condensed milk with an eyedropper. Squires had refused to help her catch and mash up minnows from the pond, which is what Tula believed that baby egrets ate, but maybe later he would.

Or maybe the mother egret, which was still flying around, occasionally landing near the box, would figure it out and bring the fledgling some food.

A few seconds later, Squires removed two padlocks from the homemade-looking wooden building. He lifted a steel bar, and soon Tula was inside a dark space that smelled of chemicals and propane.

When her eyes adjusted, she saw a row of gas burners on a counter that were connected by hoses to tanks beneath. It explained the propane smell, just as shelves filled with bottles and stacks of paper filters explained the odor of chemicals.

“What do you make here?” the girl asked Squires.

“You ask too many questions. Forget you ever saw this place, that’s my advice to you,” the man replied as he touched a switch, neon lights flickering overhead. That done, Squires took a pack of syringes from a drawer, then opened two small boxes that contained rows of unmarked vials.

Out here, the propane burners had steel manual lighters, like lanterns the girl had used. She stood against the wall, out of the way, as the man put a pot of water on, flame low.

“I always heat my vitamins first. It’s cleaner, plus it shoots smoother,” he told the girl as he loaded a syringe with oily-looking liquid from three different vials, then dropped the syringe into the water.

“I got a shot once,” Tula said, pleased they were having a conversation. “A doctor came to our village. He was British, I think, but still a nice man. The needle was a vaccine for mosquito bites, he said, not vitamins.”

“Vitamins keep me strong and healthy,” Squires replied in a tone that told Tula he was lying about something, she wasn’t sure what.

Fascinated by what she was seeing, Tula watched as the man stripped off his shirt, then rubbed what smelled like alcohol on his left shoulder. Never in her life had she seen such huge muscles. Squires really was a giant. He looked as if he had been carved from stone, gray stone, the sort her ancestors had used to build pyramids.

“I saw a movie once in Guatemala City,” Tula told the man, aware of a strange feeling in her chest. “My father took us, my brother and me. The movie was about Hercules, the strongest man in history. He was so strong that he pulled down marble columns and defeated the Centurions who killed Jesus. But I think you are stronger than him. You are much larger.”

For the first time since she had met Harris Squires, a pleasant smile appeared on the man’s face. In that instant, Tula could see how the giant must have looked as a little boy. He had been a sweet child, probably, maybe a little shy. It caused the girl to wonder what had happened in this man’s life to make him mean and to do dirty things such as take photographs of naked women.

Squires replied, “Hercules, no shit? Well, it’s all about living clean and using the right vitamins,” as he plunged the needle into his bicep and emptied it.

He wasn’t done. He used two more syringes-one to load the steroids, a second needle to inject-and pinned a darker oil into the cablelike muscle that angled from his neck to his shoulder.

“Dianabol,” Squires said, sounding dreamy and satisfied, rolling his shoulders. “By God, I love a big hit of D-bomb. I don’t need any food now, I’m good to go.”

Tula watched the man, wondering what that meant as he added, “It’s twenty-some miles to Immokalee, but I don’t expect there to be much action on the streets. Not on a Wednesday. But if that’s what you want, let’s do it.”

Tula felt a thrill as the Maiden came into her head again, instructing the girl what to say next.

“We’ll go to the churches,” she told Squires. “On a Wednesday night, people will be praising God and singing. We will find people there who might know about my mother.”

Squires was shaking his head. “Where do you come up with this crazy crap? People don’t go to church on Wednesday nights, not even Catholics. Unless it’s to play bingo or some kind of shit. At least, they didn’t back when they made me go.”

“The Maiden speaks to me,” Tula told him, interested in the man’s reaction. “If she says it’s true, then it will happen.”

Saying it, the girl felt as if she was sharing a secret with Squires, something that increased the weight on her chest and gave her an odd sensation in her abdomen. It was a warm feeling, standing close enough to the giant now to touch her head briefly against his elbow just to see how he reacted.

This time, he didn’t yank his arm away. So Tula took another chance by placing her fingers on the man’s huge wrist as she told him, “We can trust the Maiden. Whenever I need guidance, she is always there for me.”

It felt strange to the girl, her fingers on a man’s skin, but Tula decided that she liked it.

Squires turned off the burner, then the lights, before padlocking the door closed. As they walked toward the RV, he said, “The Maiden

…? You mean that saint you mentioned? Don’t ever tell a shrink what you just told me. They’ll throw you in the damn loony bin. Which is probably where you belong.”

“Joan of Arc is my patron saint,” Tula said, her voice firm. “She does speak to me. Usually at night-that’s when the visions come to me.”

Irritated, Squires said, “Night visions, too. You’re even screwier than I thought. Listen, I don’t want to hear every damn detail. You talk too much.”

“But it’s true,” the girl said. “I see things that will happen in the future. Sometimes I see things during the day, too. But it’s better if I’m alone. For me, sitting in a tree is a nice place.”

Remembering that the girl had spied on him from a tree caused Squires to feel the dianabol he’d just injected accelerate to his temple, vessels throbbing. It created a blooming chemical anger in him, and he clenched his fists as he reconsidered what was happening.

Why the hell was he being nice to this crazy little chula? He brought her out here expecting to strip the girl’s clothes off, then have some fun. The little brat could send him to Raiford Prison if she wanted. At the very least, he should kill her.

It’s not too late. I can take her out to the pond, shoot her in the back of the head, then drive to Mexico on my own. I don’t need her. Why put up with any more of her crazy talk?