Feast Day of Fools (Hackberry Holland 3)

“I see only one message in any of this: that of a man being led with a ring through his nose by the Chinese puta.”

“You are brave in ways that few men are, Negrito. But do not try to think anymore. For some men, thinking is a dangerous vanity. You must accept that about yourself.”

Krill stood and walked toward the back entrance of the house, a holstered .357 Magnum hanging from the right side of his web belt, his skinning knife in a scabbard on his left. He stepped up on the back porch and listened, then felt a breeze on the back of his neck and heard the windmill come to life and water running into the horse tank. But where were the horses? Or the illegals who came almost every evening for food or benediction at the house of La Magdalena?

He paused at the back door and listened again. The windmill was stenciled against the black and gray patterns in the sky, and tumbleweed was bouncing through the yard, hanging in the fences, skipping by the junked car where Negrito was crouched with t

he M16. Krill pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Through the hallway, he could see her sitting very still in a straight-back chair, her hands resting on her knees, her hair tied in a bun. In the gloom, he could hardly make out her features. Her face was so still that in profile, it looked like it had been painted on the air. He eased his .357 from its holster and waited, his left foot in front of his right, breathing slowly through his mouth, the checkered grips of his revolver hard inside his palm.

He stepped backward, never taking his eyes off the Chinese woman, his left arm extended out the door. He opened and closed his hand so the fading light would reflect off it, then moved his arm up and down so Negrito could plainly see that he was signaling with his left hand and not his right. Please remember what I told you, he thought. This is the moment I have to count on you, Negrito. This is when your skills will be of the greatest necessity.

Krill went down the hallway and could see the woman watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Magdalena?” he said, his voice hardly audible.

She continued to stare straight ahead, her hands absolutely still.

“¿Qué pasa?” he said. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Negrito? “Señora, look at me,” he said. “It’s Krill. I want to make confession. I murdered a Jesuit priest. I must have absolution. You can give it to me.”

He stepped into the room and felt the barrel of a gun touch the back of his head. “Bad timing, greaseball,” a voice said.

There were four men inside the room, all of them wearing beige-colored gauzy masks with slits for the nose and mouth and eyes. One man stood against the far wall, his left hand on the shoulder of a girl not over ten years old. With the other hand, he held the stainless-steel four-inch blade of a clasp knife under the girl’s throat. The girl’s eyes were wide with terror and confusion, and her bottom lip was trembling.

The man holding the gun to the back of Krill’s head removed the .357 from his grip. “Who’s with you?” he said.

“A shit pile of people. They’re going to cook you in a pot, too,” Krill said.

“That’s why you came in by yourself?”

“Who are you guys?” Krill said.

“Your worst nightmare, fuckhead.”

“In my nightmares there are no guys like you. I don’t have space in my head for guys in Halloween masks or guys who frighten little girls with knives. These are not the guys of nightmares. These are clowns and eunuchs who were born with penises but no cojones. Why would guys like these be in anybody’s nightmares? That would be a great mystery to me.”

“Antonio, don’t speak to these men,” the woman said.

“I was just clarifying my thoughts to myself, Magdalena. These men and their cleverness are a great mystery to me,” he said. The yard was empty, the light dying in the trees, the windmill spinning against a horizon that looked as though the clouds were dissolving and running down the sides of the sky. Then he saw Negrito moving from behind the barn and around the front of the house, bent low, his greasy leather hat pulled down tight on his head, the M16 gripped with both hands, his heavy, truncated body moving with the fluidity of an animal’s. In the distance, he thought he heard the thropping sound of a helicopter’s blades.

“Take me but leave the child,” the woman said to the man holding the gun to Krill’s head.

“That’s not a problem,” the man replied. “But this guy is. Who is he?”

“A man seeking forgiveness. He’s no threat to you,” she said.

“You a coyote, buddy?” the man with the gun asked.

“No, hombre. I’m a Texas Ranger. I’ve been shooting the shit out of guys like you for many years.”

“You’re a real wit, all right. So smart you came in here and stuck your head in a mousetrap.”

Then Krill heard banging and shuffling noises at the front of the house, booted feet coming down hard on the gallery, and a door flying back against a wall. Krill felt his heart drop. Two more men, each wearing the same masks worn by the men inside the house, were pulling and shoving Negrito into the living room. Blood leaked in a broken line from under the brim of Negrito’s leather hat, running through one eyebrow, streaking the stubble on his cheek. His face was lit with a grin as wide as a jack-o’-lantern’s.” ¡Qué bueno! Everybody is here!” he said. Then Negrito saw the expression on Krill’s face, and his grin faded. “These cobardes come up behind me. I’m sorry, Krill,” he said.

“So you’re the one they call Krill. We’ve heard about you,” the man behind Krill said.

The helicopter passed overhead and circled over a field and began to descend on the rear of the property, the downdraft flattening the grass, blowing dust and desiccated cow manure in the air.