In Extremis by John Shirley

Author:John Shirley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Underland Press
Published: 2011-08-18T04:00:00+00:00

PAPER ANGELS ON FIRE

“Mr. Cordell, I know how you must feel.” Bret Sage gazed sympathetically into Cordell’s eyes as he said it. “Yes, you’ve lost Muriel—for a while. But you’ll see your daughter again. I promise you.” Sage realized he had his hands in his jacket pockets. It was chilly on the front porch but hands in pockets didn’t look right, at a time like this. He took his hands out and clasped them in front of him. He’d seen funeral directors use that pose. “What happened was part of Muriel’s journey. Death is just a freeway interchange, Mr. Cordell.”

Cordell smiled coldly, and nodded to himself. “Yeah, it’s almost funny to watch—the way your mouth moves and those words come out, like puffs of smoke.” Cordell was a balding middle-aged man in a black sweater flecked with what looked like dog hair; the sweater’s sleeves were drawn back showing beefy forearms. Sage could see the big dog waiting in Cordell’s SUV—a German Shepherd. Cordell was wearing opaque dark glasses hiding his eyes, and maybe his intentions. “Just means nothing at all,” Cordell went on. “You are one empty son of a bitch, Sage.” And Sage saw that Cordell’s right hand was hidden behind his back.

Sage licked his lips, took a step back, edging towards his front door. Maybe he’d been hasty, coming out on the porch alone. It was starting to sound like this wasn’t about a settlement . . .

Little Bear was out back somewhere, fixing the hot tub. The sunset bite was in the northern New Mexico air. The shadowy pine woods around the house rang and chattered with birdsong. The ranch house was isolated—no neighbors around to call out to, if he needed them.

Something moved clickingly through the patch of prickly pear under the front window. Funny how vivid everything seemed, in this instant.

Cordell took a step toward him, and the birdsong, all at once, suddenly quieted.

“My daughter trusted you,” Cordell said, between clenched teeth. “And that is just goddamn amazing to me. Just look at you! Shabby middle aged long haired unlicensed therapist in beaded moccasins. A slick line of bullshit. Lots of worn out clichés. And your slogan. ‘Give me your trust and I’ll give you life’!” Cordell shook his head sadly. “She was always a bit lost, that girl. We tried hard, real goddamn hard, to help her—and she was getting on track! And then you got hold of her.”

That’s when Sage noticed the tattoo on Cordell’s left forearm. Faded blue ink, but you could make out an anchor slanted through the Earth, topped by an eagle and Semper Fi.

Sage swallowed. “Mr. Cordell—we’ve had hundreds of people in that sweat lodge with no problem and she probably had some . . . some pre-existing condition . . . a bad heart valve or . . .”

“No. She didn’t. You gave her drugs. You wouldn’t give her water. You wouldn’t let her leave. She died in that hole in the ground you call a sweat lodge.

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