Snow was still so foreign to him. The world around him almost looked alien, blurred past the point of recognition, and the steep mountains did more than loom now, they crowded. It was strangely light under a dingy sky, but when his headlights flicked on he was peering into a dark abyss. He didn’t know how late into the night it had gotten, or the year or the season or anything he used to find essential to life and life on the run.
He had stumbled back to his car in a daze, each footfall uneven in the piles of powdery snow. It must have looked like a drunkard leaving the library, like Joe or his spirit minding the town. When he was too close to his car to turn back the doors slammed behind him in the wind with a crack that echoed like thunder. When his car slowly started up he saw some windows light, dim from their little candles, like Gin’s candles, but if someone felt concern or suspicion no one appeared in the streets. Probably they thought him a fool to be out in this, but there was a fire in him no frost could chill.
The Victoria shuddered all the way there. His tires felt slick against the snow, but something was grinding, too, and the lurch and the blood stuck to his shirt made him a little ill. He had pushed his beloved car too far in this cold, and wondered idly if he could find new rubber at Joe's, if his little spot would remain once all this was over, if it would be over at all tonight. The hotel looked grainy like a photograph when he came upon it, caked in snow and cloaked in darkness. Was it foolish to think he could sense the evil in it now, see it dance in the air like heat shimmer?
His head swam as he trod up the slick brick steps, more of Calders influence. When his hands found the heavy oak door he could barely feel them push it open, cold as it was, and when he closed it behind him there wasn't much warmth to the place. It all looked the same, lush from the red carpet and dim from the glow of candles. The concierge desk was empty, though Robert’s visage haunted him expectantly, like he would find him the moment he turned around. Like he would just be stood there with his stiff brow and disapproving gaze and everything Anson did was for himself and not this stranger, though he suspected that was already the case. He strode past the fountain, where he saw more light and followed it to the bar.
Sonny was sat this evening. Calder took up his usual spot behind the bar, his expression cool as ever even with the state Anson was in. He stood there a moment, his cheeks warm with rage, until Sonny seemed to notice him and startled. The salt shaker he had been filling toppled, and he stiffened, his lips a thin line.
“I didn't expect you this evening, Mr. Monroe.” He said in his usual low and level tone. Anson looked straight at Calder wordlessly. His side continued its dull ache as if to keep David in the room with them.
“I was just seeing what we could sip with dinner.” Calder continued, his tone formal. “We'll be having Salisbury steaks, if you'd like to join us.”
This seemed to be a test. A question of where they stood after the fun they had together the previous evening, the fun Anson sorely wished Sonny wasn't privy to. Fun he wished had ended differently, maybe with his hands around Calders neck instead, maybe with him on top. David's blood itched where it froze to his face. When his mouth twitched Calder seemed to smirk.
It was not a test he was willing to engage with.
“Where's Robert?” He asked, and Calder had his rote answer ready.
“Why, he's gone home for the winter to Eureka. I believe I've mentioned this. If you'd like to stay until Spring you may see him again.” As if Anson's stay here were optional.
“You killed him.” He said, and Calder smiled politely.
“I didn't.” Was all he had to say in return. Not much of a defense. Anson started forward and noted Sonny sizing him up.
“I know. I know what goes on here. You're all criminals, you're all hiding from something, running from someone. The law. Justice.” He thought of Ruth and her lifestyle, Joe and his morphine, David and his brains scattered across the floor. Sophia screaming. The blood, the cum on her skirt.
“You're all maniacs.” He said, and couldn't quite read the look on Calder’s face.
“All of us, huh?” Sonny chortled. His laughter rushed and echoed in ansons ears. “Me, you, and the fish wives, boss.”
“Anita!” Anson burst out. “She killed her husband. She threatened me. She's crazy. She's like you. She's -- she's --”
“Surely her threats couldn't have intimidated a big man such as yourself.” Sonny laughed again. “She's what, a hundred pounds? And you're a lot of dead weight.”
Anson started.
“I thought he was your friend, Sonny.”
“And I thought you were smarter than this.” Calder spat, suddenly loud. “You know, you could have fit right in. You -- I thought you'd be with me.”
“No! No. I am not with you, not in any fucking context am I with you.” Anson felt his fists shake. “I am not your friend, your fuck buddy, your countryman, your follower, anything! Fuck you! Fuck both of you!”
“I don't swing that way.” Sonny said, perfectly straight faced. “It's just you and the boss on that one.”
“You're forgetting one more.” Calder said, and Anson felt his bones rattle. He careened more than walked towards the bar, and Sonny stood to reveal the shotgun Anson would bet he'd had pointed his way under the table. His expression hardened as he leveled it as Anson's chest, as if he were a guard dog and Anson a little rabbit. He suddenly felt the urge to laugh at him. He could have been more, and he could have died for something better.
“Is this what Robert saw at the end?” Anson asked him, and Sonny looked at him through steely, unfeeling eyes.
“I didn't kill Robert.”
“Same as Anita didn't kill her man.” Anson said dryly.
“Same as you didn't kill Joe.” Calder spoke up. Anson froze. Sonny's eyes went wide, and he reluctantly looked back to the bar, where Anson also glanced. Calder seemed calm and he seemed certain, just as when he'd denied his own crimes. At least Anson could defend himself.
“I didn't kill Joe.” He paused. “You don't have anything on me.”
“When we find his body--” Sonny began, then looked to Calder again. He seemingly gave him no direction, so he continued. “He didn't just walk away. We'll find him. We'll see something.”
“Like what? Bones crashing in the surf. Needle tracks up his arms. Or nothing at all. We're in a big wide wilderness, there's every chance he's gone for good.” Anson said, then nearly laughed. “Some druggie goes missing and you point to the bible-man? Find me an officer to believe that hooey.”
“There are no officers here.” Sonny said flatly.
“No.” Anson agreed. “And no priest.”
“I would have forgiven you.” Calder said, like that was the great tragedy of it all. “That's all we get in this rotten world. Forgiveness. A chance to try again. We have each other, then we have death. Everyone here, we've tried again.”
“And how many chances do you give them? Since you're the one deciding?” Anson asked through gritted teeth. “Why is it you? Who are you to any of us?”
“Stop.” Sonny looked wary. “You don't know what goes on here. You're not one of us. You never will be, I see that now.”
“Because I'm not weak and I'm not pliant. And I'm not a pawn in these strange little games you play.” Anson responded, but he looked right at Calder, his face impassive, when he did. “This isn't the way to heaven.”
“We're making it for ourselves.” Calder said softly. Sonny's grip tightened on the gun. Anson didn't even know where he was. He saw his body like he was outside it, an imagined guest of this big, empty abyss of a hotel.
“I just want to know. Tell me where he is. Tell me I didn't throw myself away for nothing.” He said, but his eyes darted all around him, and to the sweat on Sonny's brow.
“Sweetie.” Calder tutted. “He gave you everything you needed to know. You should've paid more attention. I did. That's how I knew he had to leave.”
“Boss.” Sonny warned. Calder held up a finger, a signal to pause.
“I like you, Mr. Monroe. I don't want to imagine a world where this works out. I want to be in it.” If Anson were a sucker he'd call the moment vulnerable, the look on Calder's face open. But it was all a manipulation.
“Sure.” Anson smiled. “We can try again. Have Sonny put the gun away, and let's try again.”
“Get fucked.” Sonny said, but he wasn't going to fire without permission, and Calder hesitated. Anson wasn't sure what his play was here, but anything to stretch the time helped him, and threw Sonny off balance.
“You want me to understand, don't you? You want me to be part of this?” Calder seemed intrigued. “I'm stuck here till spring. Let's figure it out.”
If Calder bought that, Sonny didn't, but he wasn't calling the shots here.
“Unless you'd rather shoot me.” Anson offered generously. Calder blinked.
“This idea. That after death there's heaven for us righteous and hell for the rest. It's so Catholic. After death. . .” He shook his head.
“You were Adventist once, weren't you?” Anson questioned, and Calder nodded imperceptibly. “No hell.”
“Hell is for the devil and his foul beasts. Not for man. Never for man.”
And the way he said it was almost like he valued them. Anson never considered that he could, never saw those feelings stir behind that cold facade. He almost liked having a common bond. No hell, but heaven. Pearly gates and harps, to some, but to Calder. . .
“Heaven is life eternal.” Anson said slowly as he remembered his verses, then it was his turn to blink. “Paradise to us. But to you it's just waking up and moving on. Your own normal life, but forever.”
“And free. Free from sinners, free from morality, just us, all the good and righteous that will remain after He brings about the days of atonement.” Calder said, more gleeful than Anson had ever seen him. Even Sonny looked pastoral for a moment.
Judgment day. It was too fanatical for most groups Anson had met in his many days on the road. A belief in certain and inevitable scorched earth. He was never taught such a thing, and if he ever had he wouldn't have believed it, or he would've hated it. To sit under God's thumb was punishment enough, but to believe he was going to destroy your world and all the interesting and entertaining people in it? He shuddered to think.
“And you don't worry about missing out? Since sinners end up in the ground.” Anson asked pointedly, and Sonny snarled.
“God appoints kings and prophets. Acting on His word is no sin.” He said, and Anson knew there would be no further reasoning, no real answers. Sonny was the most loyal a man could be, with no dollar or prayer that could sway him, because he was deluded, and a deluded man was the most pliant of them all.
“I understand now.” Anson took a step closer to Sonny. “I finally see it.”
And he leapt at him. Sonny was quick to raise the gun, but not quick enough, and the one shot he fired off before they hit the ground together went right over Anson's shoulder. He pushed the gun against Sonny's chest, and he didn't have the muscle to push up against Anson's weight. He kicked at his shins until Anson got sick of it and bit his nose, the blood warm and sudden when it gushed in his mouth. Sonny screamed, and Anson took the opportunity of distraction to pull the gun away and hit him over the head with it, again and again and again until he stopped screaming, stopped punching and kicking, and stopped moving, too.
There was blood fresh on his face for the second time in a day. His cheeks were warm, and he felt like his eyes would bulge from his head. Sonny lay crumpled at his feet, with eyes that stared through blood spatter at the ceiling. The room was so silent, as though no wind were raging outside. All that raged was the blood in Anson’s ears and the rapid beat of his heart.
He had to feel that Sonny, in the end, was a somewhat ridiculous man. He had respected the stoic bartender he'd met a lifetime ago, the kindly friend of a bastard and an eccentric. They were all gone now. Calder had destroyed these men without a thought, without a care, and they half let him for their loyalty, their weaknesses. And yet Anson pitied them in a way he had never pitied before. Not for his victims, not for his miserable stinking father.
He looked up then, half expectant that Calder would be standing there with his usual cool stare, maybe with a slight quirk of his brow to modestly convey his disapproval. That was how he expressed himself so Anson had assumed that was how much he cared, but then he wouldn't have been surprised to see him lunge at him, too, with tight lips and veins bulging from his neck. But he saw no one in the room with him, and for a moment he thought the man had bolted. Just he and Sonny and the smell of liquor, the result of the only gunshot he could fire off.
Anson examined the broken glass sitting on the shelf behind the bar, and though he hadn't meant to feel it, dread pooled in his gut. He walked around cautiously, though he wasn't sure why, because when he came around the bar he found what he'd suspected. It was Calder on his back now, his hands raised helplessly, his whole body shaking. When Anson got close he felt his blue eyes on him, but he was too focused on the blood seeping from his skull to meet them. The bullet hadn't hit him dead on, but it put him on the ground and it was certainly going to keep him there. There was some relief, because now at least he didn't have to do it himself.
“God’s plan.” Calder wheezed through bloodstained teeth. “I guess.”
Anson knelt at his side, unsure.
“Hand me a rag.” Calder said, and Anson stayed. “Be a dear.”
“You're done.” He ran a tentative thumb along Calder's jaw, like a specimen, like something he could study. But they never stayed in this state forever, and they were never so interesting cold. “It's over.”
“Only this. Only you and I.” He seemed so calm, so ready. Anson felt like a caged animal. “I will rise. I won't see you again.”
“You're a fool.” He said, and he was shaking, too. “You've bought into your own bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit and it's not a game.” Calder looked him in the eye, and it was like someone put Anson's heart on ice. “If it were, you'd be happy you won.”
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Anson stood, and Calder smiled and shook.
“Are you happy, Mr. Monroe?” He asked wryly, and Anson turned and walked briskly away, his legs like jelly. “Or do you think maybe you haven't won after all?”
Anson practically ran past Sonny, down the red hallway and through the lobby. When his hands hit the heavy wood door a small voice in the back of his head told him to slow down, wait, but nothing could keep him in that hotel any longer, not his trunk and things, not Calder's life on the line, not those fine cigars and silverware and all their worth. He wanted out as fast as his feet could carry him, he wanted to fly through the snow and beyond the cliff tops and land at a dilapidated little shack by the sea and tell his love it was over, or it was just begun, or at least he had Anson to watch over him, and please, please hold him until he forgot the rest of the world.
The run to his car turned to trudging through snow. It must have gotten heavier, but it was hard to tell when he watched it get picked up by the wind and swirled around. It took everything to climb into the driver's seat, and he curled up there for a moment to watch his breath dance in the air and feel his cheeks cool down. Something was crusted with ice on his windshield: the library brochure Dallas had placed beneath his wiper blade.
Why he was so curious now, he couldn't say, but he climbed out of the car rather awkwardly in his big coat, dusted the powder from his windshield with a big wave of a stiff hand, and snatched the brochure up like it could burn him. When he settled back into the car he didn't even bother to close the door, just let the wind blow the paper into his lap and stared at it. It read like a Mormon pamphlet, reverent and absurdly practical, David's handiwork to be sure.
The followers honor the Sabbath in this house of learning. We honor Our Lord and Savior and his message. We honor the word used to write it. As the flock we are bound to this sacred institution, for in this place we Worship the Holy Spirit and his prophet, we worship the mortal life we are given, we RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN.
It was written in a dark pen with block writing, almost like a child. Anson had to wonder what a fisherman's education looked like. A warning. He hadn't expected such a gesture from two stoic figures. It was too late now, of course, but he supposed at least he wouldn't have to kill the two. Probably. Their concern once upon a time for Gin’s honor reeked of heroism, so who knew what they'd have to say if he went after Anita, or if they found Sophia. Oh well. It hardly mattered now that he'd started.
He turned to throw the paper into the back seat to discard later, then froze. Hadn't he been handed one of these before? He remembered he'd bristled the day Robert called him an idiot, gave him a snarl, nearly pushed him out the door with it. A pamphlet just like this one. When he turned and reached down he saw how red his fingers were, and when he felt something cold on the carpeted floor he struggled to wrap them around it. He lifted it carefully -- an identical brochure. He peeled it open. The handwritten words were red, now, and curled in a neat script.
THEY JUST WANT A BABY.
Anson blinked. It may have been a moment, but suddenly he had snowflakes on his eyelashes, then water on his cheeks. Gin and Heath. They had no children.
But of course this was gossip and hearsay. A guess on Robert's part. Jabs and falsities were not going to keep him at bay, he knew that much. He climbed into his driver's seat and fumbled for the key, then twisted it to a low churning sound. The lights on his dashboard flickered uselessly, the ice having finally destroyed her. No matter. He hardly felt cold anymore. He swung the door open and left it so, his key in the ignition and the papers swept somewhere out of sight. As he haphazardly stepped into the night he heard them flap in the wind like someone turning them over and over again, poring over the words until they could be made believable, though what of this could be?
The only real thing left was himself. Nothing else on the planet would leave footsteps in the snow like he did, no one else would have the tenacity to make such a trek. Other people -- look at how much time he had wasted respecting them. They were ridiculous creatures living and dying for nonsense. Was no one as intelligent as he? Was no one quick enough to look before jumping, to think things through? Stupid Sonny. Stupid Robert. Stupid Joe and David and even Calder. Why even follow another man? Why practice loyalty to anyone but a lover? If he were to threaten you, threaten in turn. If he were to coerce you, kill him. They all wasted time. They all looked the wrong ways at the wrong targets. They all played games.
Only Ruth and Sophia met expectations. At least in victimhood they held some dignity. He could forgive a woman in a man’s world. That was all they really had, innocent folk and the men damned and foolish enough to twist their arm. Good thing Anson was here to defend Heath and Gin. He only hoped he could shield them from whatever madness was to come of all this.
The ice kept flying up into his eyes. He had to squint into the ruddy light to follow the road. Something lit up the world and the snow reflected it, on the ground and crystalized in an inky sky, and dampened all of his senses. He didn't think of the ocean until the road curved and it came into view, and even then its permanent roar seemed further than usual. He had somehow expected the snow to collect on it like seafoam, gather like litter, and tangle up in seaweed and garbage when it arrived at the shore, but it fell as if into nothing, and the Pacific’s glitter, like the world's finest diamonds, went on uninterrupted.
But he kept his head down, mostly. A grimace froze to his face as each leaden step got heavier and heavier. He dredged the snow forever and a day, until he could no longer feel how wet his legs were, or the drip of ice water down the back of his neck, or the parting wound David had left in his side. The little shack, once it finally came into view, had never looked so warm and bright. He walked to it in slow motion, almost as though it shrank in his vision with each step. The darkness seemed to close in on such an inviting little home, and the wind howled and batted his ears as though the Venti themselves were looking to be let in. He sighed with relief when he finally made it to the shoveled walkway, and he felt nearly doubled over by the time he swung the door open: it was a harder walk than anticipated.
Heath and Gin were still up. The little waitress had shrugged a robe over her yellow dress, and had kicked off her shoes. They were lying beneath the table she sat and scraped candles at. Heath was behind the counter, sat to grate cheese while he watched her scrape her candle wax. It seemed they were having a quiet evening, and neither particularly started when he walked in, but Gin shuddered from the cold and Heath looked to her before Anson. He felt a little nauseous, and it stopped him from shouting out as he suddenly wanted to, though he had no clue what he could say.
“Evening.” He said after a moment, his voice strained as he attempted to stand straight. Gin looked him up and down, and he wanted to reassure her that everything was fine, he wasn't too hurt, but he didn't think that was true and he didn't see the shock and worry on her face that he'd expected, or seen on Sophia. She inspected him with a somewhat detached air, like he was a stranger, like she was sizing him up. It was Heath that spoke first.
“Is. . . Is Calder dead?” He asked, his face pained with concern, and Anson nodded. “Hmm.”
“Sonny.” He said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. “And David.”
Gin bolted upright in her chair. Anson let the question remain unanswered.
“Sophia's fine.” Before she could ask, and tried to step a little further in. His side suddenly ached, and he paused to take a deep breath. “I think I might be hurt.”
“Might be?” Gin burst out with an unexpected laugh.
“You should sit.” Heath spoke quickly. “Um, yeah, sit. Let's figure out what we're doing next.”
“We talked about this.” Gin said, and Heath came around the counter. Anson thought he would walk his way, wrap his arms around him, wipe his face and tell him he loved him dearly. He went to Gin instead, and Anson felt his grimace turn to a snarl.
“I know, beautiful. I know we talked about it. This is just a tough one, is all.” He looked at Anson with something like pity.
“Talked?” Anson croaked, then cleared his throat. “Oh, oh I see. You understand the dangers here. Or some enough.”
He took a step forward, and Gin stood, suddenly very stiff.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m taking care of everything.” He reassured them even as he tasted copper in his mouth. “I got rid of the leader and I'll kill anyone else who rises up. These fucking loons. Their perversions of scripture. I’ll stop them. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
“That’s funny.” Heath smiled softly. “I highly doubted you believed in these books you peddled.”
Anson sighed with a deep and unexpected relief. At least now he was seen. Finally, he had someone who knew him so intimately, so innately.
“This shit. It’s not real. It’s just a means to control for evil bastards like Calder. And means to hide in a crowd for bastards like me.” He cracked a little smile, and Heath matched it. Gin remained impassive. “Don’t be scared, Gin, it’s alright. I could use a rag, maybe, for the blood. Or if you could, help me take my wet coat off? I don’t -- I don't think I can move my arms.”
“Let’s not drag this out.” Gin turned to her husband, her tone almost conversational. “I don’t want him collapsing or anything, he could hit me.”
“No, I--”
“You ought to leave, Anson.” Heath spoke over his protest. He must have looked as confused as he felt. “We don’t need your assistance going forward.”
“My -- I can’t leave. It’s snowing.” He said, perplexed. On the other side of the room he felt suddenly very far from them.
“Listen, Mr. Monroe, you’ve walked into our home and offended us.” Gin said, very slow and gentle, as if to a child. “Now, the polite thing to do is leave.”
“Offended? I thought. . .” He paused, because actually he was starting to find the process of thought quite unwieldy. He was still so cold, and his head held a little more air than usual. “Gin, please, you invited me into the marriage. You held my hand.”
“You’re insulting our town and our religion.” She said, still patient, and his heart sank. He looked to Heath, but the chef wouldn’t return the gaze. He’d wrapped an arm around his wife, almost defensively, and seemed to hang on her every word. For a moment, he didn’t know them. Then he tried to reason.
“Calder’s dead. He’s -- I think he’s dead. They know about your marriage? You’re worried about an arrest?” He asked, but neither answered. “I’ll bury it. I’ll keep it quiet. He was an animal. He just wanted to control people. Anita? You’re worried about Anita? I can kill her, too.”
“No.” Gin said, too firmly. “Anita is our friend. We’ve always told you this.”
“She’s one of them.” He said, but he didn’t know what he meant when it seemed like his lovers were ‘them,’ too. “She’ll turn on you.”
He’d never begged to kill someone before, never asked permission to beat them down to nothingness, and he didn’t like it. Heath and Gin were confused. They were confusing him. Anita was just another threat, and he’d remove that threat whether or not they wanted it.
“She gave us this place.” Heath said, and Anson paused to look at him. He seemed conflicted, his big blue eyes full of sadness. “Didn’t you wonder about an abandoned look-out spot with a basement? It’s an old rum runner’s joint. Her parent’s place. We found it, and she let us stay here for a favor.”
“A favor.” He repeated, and distantly wondered why he wasn’t getting any warmer.
“Oh, hun.” Heath clicked his tongue. “Anita didn’t kill her husband.”
There was a very long pause as Anson tried to work out his meaning. He had just pointed to Anita, of course he had, she was so wild, so insane, so suspect. That husband of hers disrespected her, dragged her all across the country, and was purportedly a drunk. If he were in Anita’s shoes he would’ve killed that son of a bitch, too. But of course, he was caught. That first time was so passionate, so in the moment, he didn’t plan it out, didn’t think it through. This time, it was the same. It wasn’t his fault, of course, he was cornered. He couldn’t help that his father discovered his poor lover, couldn’t help that he formed a mob. He had to protect himself and Pietro, and he did. Anita protected herself. She thought ahead. She paid someone else.
“Ah.” He said, unsure of what to do next. Heath eyed him with some curiosity. Gin was harder to read. “So. . . you killed Mr. Judge. Calder held it over your head. You -- you did meet him. You knew him. But you don’t care that he’s dead, because. . .”
“Did you call him an animal and a bastard?” Gin asked, a sudden twinkle in her eye. “That’s our feeling.”
“He wanted a chef at his hotel all those years ago. I hate to play second fiddle.” Heath said, then seemed to catch himself and met eyes with his wife, who gave him an approving nod. “I know where my loyalties lie.”
“And we do so appreciate your hard work, Anson, but it is late. So you can leave now.” Gin said again. Anson had no idea the time. Maybe the moon slept at this hour. They were thanking him like ministers after a sermon, after he sold their flock bibles that lined his pocket and kept the churchgoers contented. Like he’d done them a favor.
“You couldn’t have known what I was.” Anson said quietly, almost to himself. Gin appeared kindly.
“You had a wonderful ruse, you poor man. Don’t ever believe you didn’t. You just couldn’t see past your own nose. You think so much about yourself, your animosities, your life on the run. We were right here. We were always here. In our food, our bed, our candles.”
“You. . .” He began, but couldn’t turn the fuzz in his head to words.
“Yes. We set you loose on them, and you handled it as expected.” Gin answered helpfully. “See? You can know you did well. You can carry that. Hurry along, now.”
A thought formed slowly, illuminated dimly inside and grew to light every nook and cranny of him.
“Where’s Robert?” He asked, finally asked, and knew now he would actually get an answer.
“Downstairs.” Heath said. “We had to tell you the slaughtered pigs were here to keep you away, that Gin was on her blood. You needed to be at the library, at Anita’s, anywhere but the hotel. We had to move him here. And the excuse, of course. The slaughterhouse truck. There had to be a source for the meat.”
He had for months walked past links of sausage, trussed hams, drying flesh. He had eaten such wonderful food. He thought back to the pork he’d eaten just the other night, when he had questioned over and over where this man could have possibly been.
“The candles.” His throat was so dry. “They’re tallow.”
“Lard. Common mistake.” Gin said, and Heath perked up unexpectedly.
“Lard doesn’t dry solid. It’s a type of grease. You can render it from pig fat, and from us, of course. Tallow is a solid, and you render it from the fat around a cow’s kidneys. They make very distinct candles.” He had the same bright eyes and lightness as he'd had a million times before, when he'd described gluten structure or simmering stock. Or butchering. He loved what he did. He loved cooking, and he loved this.
Anson wanted to sit, but he could not will his legs further into the room. He wanted to vomit, but not a single cell in his body would move. Unexpected hot tears clouded his vision. He had found Robert after all this time, and though he'd never known a happy ending he somehow wanted one. He wanted a man who cared to warn him to make it out safe. Instead he was killed for it, instead he sat in Anson's gut. And Heath. Had he found an equal at last, or the devil?
“I was never protecting you.” He whispered, though it was likely lost as the wind kept up her howling and the ocean her roar. “They're -- they're not cattle. Your whims aren't reason enough.”
“You just said Calder's an animal. Would you mind if we fried him up?” Gin asked, and Heath chortled. His whole face felt hot.
“Are you pregnant?” He asked, and they stopped laughing. “He told me. Right? I think he told me. You weren't really bleeding this month.”
Heath pulled her close, protective in a way he would never be for Anson, in a way Anson could never be for them again. Gin beamed. She glowed, actually, now that he really looked. Pregnancy suited her.
“We're so appreciative.” She said again, and Anson wanted to scream. “We've seen so many men come through, and tried so hard with them. None of them ever looked Heath’s way before, of course, but I'm so glad it worked out.”
He looked to Heath now. He seemed sheepish, but didn't match Anson in his tears.
“I really did like you.” He said, and it rung in Anon's ears. “But you're too dangerous to keep around. You're a sick dog.”
“I loved you. You felt it, you felt the same. I know it.” He said, and reeked of desperation. Heath shook his head.
“No, Anson. I told you that very first day. I love my wife.” He said, and oh no, he meant it. He had only ever been a plaything and a fool. He had been bested. He looked at Gin, with her glow and her broad smile, and reeled. She only had to sit back and wait for the right man to come along, the right danger. And he gave her everything.
“You just wanted to lead them, huh?” He shook his head. “The other crazies. They know? They know they're eating people here?”
“They know a sinner can always give back. Even in the end.” Gin said, so calm. “A sinner forfeits his place in heaven to serve the devil here on earth. That service is destructive to us all. We can forgive you, but a sinner doesn't always repent. Well, at least with our bellies full you can atone in the end.”
“Life eternal. You're not afraid of missing out?” Anson asked, and heard the words rush and echo in his ears.
“And why should we?” Heath asked in turn, very genuine. “We're doing the world a service. We're helping our community. And look how we've been rewarded.”
Anson would have jumped from his own skin to leave this room, the people he had loved just moments ago, but he feared his skin was all that was left of him. The thoughts were sanded over, the feelings frozen, the lust drained. Even his killer instinct had dulled. He was just a man, like any other, like the ones he’d killed so many times without flinching. A nothing, a loser, a brain and a nervous system and some background, but not much else. Not to him, not to anyone but those who loved him. No one loved him. Pietro had fled. His father betrayed him. His mother was dead. He was only a bible salesman. He was only a man on a lonely road, one who stumbled upon a godforsaken place. One who met the end like any other. Only one thought plagued him now.
You can't have my baby, Gin. He'll be like me. Like us.” Anson said, and Gin never stopped smiling.
“Better. He'll be our heir.” She was so self-assured. “You can go now, Anson. Make a game of it: see how far you can get.”
“I really don't want to kill you myself.” Heath spoke earnestly. “But I'll come by later to collect the meat.”
And somehow that was the answer. That was what Heath wanted, so Anson could give it to him, or no. He could run. He could run as long as he could. He could hope to get away. He could continue up the coast, go north, see the redwood like he always wanted. Maybe Calder was still alive in that big empty hotel. Maybe he would want to go with him. Maybe getting away from this insular town would be enough to fix them both. Maybe one day he could be whole again, he could be real. This all could be real. The reasons he killed could melt away, or the reasons it was condemned could be rid of, and he could just be a man like any other, but he could be loved. But he could be special. But he could be sane and normal. He could be accepted. Forgiven.
“I love you.” He said, just to heath. Heath stared him down. “I do. It’s too bad. This was. . . well, congratulations. You won.”
“You can go now, Anson.” Gin said, and he found the strength to move his feet, and he did.
And the night was dark and cold. And the wind was fierce and the ocean so, so loud. And he wondered if he could get to the redwood from here. And he loved them. He loved them both.
