Corrosion Read online

  One pear-shaped woman wearing an oversized parka tried giving him money, and the masked prophet became incensed, shouting, I ain’t no televangelist! I ain’t no B-grade grifter! I’m a prophet for almighty Jesus, and my payment will come in the afterworld! And the woman picked up that one-dollar bill and stuffed it into her coat pocket, hurrying away with an anxious smile on her face.

  As for me, I couldn’t stop watching him because I knew him so well, from another life. And he didn’t notice me, hidden in the shadows…

  And then the door to the bar opened and a group of people exited—four or five roughnecks and a whore of a woman. They were all were drunk and spoke in voices loud and cruel.

  The masked prophet saw his opportunity. He grabbed one of them by the arm and, with a voice full of fervor, said: Jesus saved me, yes he did. He dragged me from the river of swine and gave me life that I didn’t deserve. And in return I made a promise to him. I promised that I would go from town to town and tell the truth to every last one of you. And here’s the truth: A life without Jesus ain’t no life at all. A life without Jesus is a life with the devil. A life without Jesus means eternal damnation. And hell is hotter than a blast furnace! He paused for a moment and pointed both fingers at his mask. People wonder about the mask. People say, Reverend Wells, why do you hide? That mask scares us. Show us your face. But I don’t dare! You see, it would be too shocking for the likes of you. Your eyes would bug out of your skull, and the bile would coat your throat. Because beneath this here mask is a face of heartache! Beneath this here mask is a face of sin! Let this be a warning to you. You stay on your present path, and this is what your soul will look like. And no mask can hide a hell-bound soul!

  Then the reverend raised his arms like Christ in Rio de Janeiro. Mustering all the power he could in his devil’s voice, he glared at the roughnecks and the whore and said: Oh, yes, I know a thing or two about sin! Drinking, whoring, fighting. I am here to tell you that I was a marionette with the devil as his puppeteer. My toes could feel the heat of hell getting closer and closer. But then I had a vision! A vision of God himself! You laugh! You say I’m crazy! But I tell you the truth. God Almighty spoke to me! And here’s what he told me: He told me to go to Hal’s Hardware down there in El Hornillo, Texas, and buy myself a bottle of lye. And I didn’t ask questions! Like Abraham, ready to sacrifice his only son, I did what I was told. And I sat inside a worn-out motel room and waited for my next instructions. Days passed until I heard from him again. The temperature must have been 110 degrees and the sweat was pouring down my face. And when he whispered in my ear, I was weak with dehydration. But what I heard wasn’t no aural hallucination. The Good Lord told me to open up that bottle of lye and douse my handsome face completely and absolutely. Straight from the Lord’s mouth! And I followed his word on that day, and I’ve followed his word every day since! Can’t you understand? I burned my face, so I wouldn’t have to burn my soul!

  And as the people gasped and murmured, he kept right on talking, fists clenched tightly. And now I ask you to take a look at yourselves. Can you do it? You’re nothing but whores, thieves, and liars! You think you can hide from your destiny? It’s just a matter of time. You’ll try to huddle beneath the Lord’s cloak, but it won’t do you no good. The Good Lord is ready to burn the chaff!

  I could listen to this filth no longer. I stepped out from beneath the shadows and showed my own face of heartache, my own face of sin. I said: Is this the face you’re preaching about? And the crowd was silent and so was Reverend Wells.

  My hands were suddenly clenched into fists. I stepped up to the reverend, shouted: You don’t know me! My face may be hideous, but my soul is pure! What gives you the right?

  A face of sin! he shouted.

  No sir, I said. A face of war!

  As I figured! A murderer by any other name! How many did you kill, young man? How many casualties of war? How many sins must be negotiated in the afterlife?

  I’d heard enough. With adrenaline flowing, I stepped up and gave the masked prophet a quick punch to his chest. The suddenness of my movement caught him by surprise, and he lost his balance. He started wobbling like a barroom drunk, grabbing at the air for support. Filled with rage, I took two quick steps and pile-drove him into the ground. Then I reached back and slammed my fist into his masked face, once, twice, three times. He’d feel some pain now. I really let him have it. Blows to the face, to the body, to the back of the head.

  Meanwhile, the whore of a woman was screaming and moaning, and a couple of the drunkards were trying to pull me off the preacher, who was lying on the ground shielding his invisible face with his arm. I yanked at the mask and he suddenly came to life, kicking and screaming. After a long struggle, I managed to pull the rubber mask off his head completely.

  His face wasn’t burned at all. No, his skin was smooth and healthy, and I knew he was no prophet. A phony! I shouted. A goddamn phony! With renewed fury, I slammed his face with my fist, over and over and over again, tearing up his skin, creating a bloody mess.

  Eventually a couple of the men managed to drag me off the conman and pin me to the ground. Phony! I kept shouting. Soon I heard the ambient of a siren. I watched, still good and enraged, as a big sheriff’s SUV pulled up at the curb and Sheriff Baker stepped out. He adjusted his Stetson hat, blew on his hands, and started walking slowly, wearily to the chaotic scene. He nodded at the bearded drunks twisting back my arms, and said: All right boys, let ’im go.

  CHAPTER 11

  The drunks released my arms, pushed me to the ground. The false prophet sat up, touching his torn face in horror, mumbling about the fiery furnaces. Baker looked me up and down and shook his head. Now lookie here, he said. If it ain’t Stratton’s public enemy number one. What kind of trouble have you gotten into this time?

  I was minding my own business, I said. It’s the preacher you should worry about.

  Baker grinned before reading me my rights. Then the deputy sheriff, a brutish-looking fellow with a snaggletooth, handcuffed me, pushed my head down, and shoved me into the backseat of the patrol car. My fingers were aching, bones crushed for sure.

  We drove around for a while, the lawmen speaking in hushed whispers, before ending at the local jail, a decaying old brick building a couple miles east of town. Once inside, they fingerprinted me and took my mug shot. Then they strip-searched me. They confiscated my wallet, a book of matches, my snuff, and a deck of cards with naked women on the back. My belongings were placed into an envelope, and the recording officer gave me a receipt. I was given the option of a phone call. Nobody wanted to hear from me.

  They tossed me into a small holding cell with a few dirty Mexicans and a couple of tattooed rednecks. One of the rednecks looked me over and shook his head. I wasn’t good enough even for his tastes.

  * * *

  The next day they cuffed my hands behind my back and escorted me down the hallway to another cell. The burlier of the guards shoved me inside, and the other one locked the metal door. Without a word they turned and walked away, their footsteps echoing in unison.

  The cell was stark. A mattress, a toilet, a sink. A small window covered with bars. Obscene messages written on the concrete walls. I lay on the mattress and folded my hands behind my head. Off in the distance I could hear the screams of the inmates echoing throughout the concrete hallway. I squeezed my eyes tight and covered my ears with my hands. Soon I was asleep. I dreamed about urban warfare—buildings turned to rubble, children charred beyond recognition.

  When I awoke, the screaming had stopped and everything was dark. I began to panic. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, but I was afraid of what might happen in the dark. I shook the bars and shouted for a guard. Nobody came. Terrified, I huddled in the corner of the cell, the smell of blood and urine rising in my nostrils.

  * * *

  All the next day I paced back in forth in my cage, the fluorescent lights flickering and the steel doors echoing throughout the corridor. Every so often a group of men wearing ident
ical blue suits and red ties appeared outside my cell, talking in hushed tones behind hands. I shouted at them, asked about my arraignment, asked about legal representation, but they only shook their heads and jotted down notes in spiral notebooks.

  And then, later on, while I was lying on the cement floor listening to my own dire thoughts ricocheting through my skull, I heard the jangle of keys and watched as the door banged open and a pair of guards entered with hands on their guns. And directly behind them, Sheriff Baker, Stetson hat perched on his head. With a slight nod, and something approaching a smile, he took a few steps until he was standing directly over me.

  How ya doin, Joseph? he said.

  I sat up and glared at Baker’s wind-chapped face. Why am I still here? I said. Why haven’t I had an arraignment? Why haven’t I been assigned a lawyer?

  You’ll get your lawyer, he said. You’ll get your arraignment.

  He nodded toward the guards and they exited the cell, staying within earshot down the corridor, arms folded on chests.

  Baker pulled out a can of Rooster, snapping his wrist a few times to pack it. He offered me a dip and I shook my head. He took an oversized pinch and stuck it between his lower lip and gum. Then he grinned with black-speckled teeth.

  He leaned up against the wall and shook his head and the grin slowly faded away. I been doin’ this job a long time, he said. Usually it’s a pretty quiet town, Stratton is. Some domestic violence here and there, maybe a drunken brawl or two, but nothin’ like this. He leaned over the toilet and spat a thick brown dollop.

  You talking about the preacher? I said. Or are you still fretting about the pig?

  He glared at me for a long moment. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head. We ain’t worried about the pig no more. And we ain’t too concerned about that phony preacher.

  Well then?

  Baker removed his hat and placed it on the bed. Then he sat down. I was still sitting on the floor. From somewhere down the corridor a prisoner shrieked, the sound reverberating against the walls and floors.

  Didn’t you know you’d be our first suspect? Baker asked, his voice a low growl.

  What are you talking about?

  You know what I’m talkin’ about. Your buddy. Nick McClellan. He was shot dead while he slept. Three bullets. Through a down pillow.

  I was caught off guard, rusty nails jammed in my gut. I kept it together, shook my head. Said: I don’t know a thing about it.

  He was found yesterday evening by his wife. You remember his wife don’t you? Sexy little number? Sometimes a redhead, sometimes not?

  I didn’t kill that man, I said. How could I have? I was locked in here.

  They placed the time of death a full 48 hours before you got into your little philosophical fight. Sometime after midnight the night before last. You weren’t in jail that night. Wanna try again?

  Sure, I said. I was in the Paisano that night. You can ask the owner. She saw me. I didn’t leave my room all night.

  That’s the best you can do?

  It’s the truth.

  We’ve got a witness. Saw you leaving your room early in the morning. Face like yours, kinda hard to miss.

  I didn’t kill that man, I said again.

  No. Sure you didn’t. Let me ask you a question, though. How long you been screwing his wife?

  Fuck you.

  Damn it, Downs. We had a little talk with Lilith. She told us a few things. How you bloodied up Nick after he’d gotten rough with her. How she followed you to the Paisano. How she showed you her gratitude. How she kept coming back.

  Doesn’t mean anything, I said.

  She told us how you fell hard for her. How you started talking crazy. Talking about offing the old man. Talking about life insurance money and a new start in the hills. She didn’t take you seriously. But when she found her husband’s body, she changed her mind a bit.

  Something like rage spread through my body. Not at being accused of murder. Rage at knowing I’d been betrayed. Rage at knowing she’d been unfaithful. Rage at knowing she was just like all the others…

  I rose to my feet and walked to the steel door. I gripped the bars tightly and hung my head. I pictured Lilith’s face and my hands around her throat…

  Over the next hour, Baker asked the same questions, over and over again. Only they were phrased in different ways. He played nice: You were just trying to protect her, he said. You gave him what he deserved. He played mean: Gotta talk, Joseph, or the state will kill you for sure!

  I knew his games. I knew his motivations. I didn’t break. I asked for a lawyer. He pretended not to hear. I was at the precipice of sanity…

  CHAPTER 12

  He finally ceased the interrogations, allowed me to sleep. Still, it was no good. The world was filled with moaning and laughing and metal doors slamming. Walls and pipes ringing in a secret code. I covered my ears with my hands. I squeezed my eyes tight. A tooth in my mouth was aching, rotting by the minute. I yanked at it with my fingers.

  I thought about Lilith, about the tattoo on her breast. I thought about what I might do to her if I ever got out of this place.

  I must have slept a little bit because I was jarred awake by a guard pounding on my cage with his billy club, shouting out my last name. I opened my eyes. It took a moment for them to adjust. The guard was a big man with a bald white head and a belly bulging over his belt. They all had murderers’ eyes, these guards.

  Rise and shine, he said. The judge is ready for you.

  He entered my cell and snapped on leg irons and handcuffs, then led me out of the cell into the corridor where the caged felons shouted and whistled and shook the bars. And along the way we picked up another half-dozen prisoners, their eyes beady and mean. But nobody gave me any lip, nobody at all, because my face was grotesque and even the devil can be frightened.

  We were led outside and loaded onto a black-and-white bus with the words Huerfano County Prison on the side. There was a guard behind us and a guard in front of us and they both carried rifles and were ready to use them. We sat down in the bus and were told to keep our goddamn mouths shut, and it was just like a field trip, except we were going to the courthouse to get our charges read.

  It was a twenty-minute drive. Nobody spoke. The courthouse stood in the shadows of a giant grain elevator. It was a menacing old concrete building that looked to have been converted from a hospital of some kind. We were led into the backside of the building and into another holding cell. This one here not much different from the one in the jail, except smaller and danker.

  After a short wait, we were summoned, and the deputies marched us into a tiny courtroom two at a time. It was there that a plump old man with a rumpled suit, raggedly sheered hair, and oversized glasses approached me and patted me on the shoulder. Name’s Desmond Harris, he said. I’ll be representing you, understand? Try my best to get you out on bail, understand?

  Bail?

  You’re a war hero. You’re not a threat to society. You’re the savior of society. Get you out on bail, hear me?

  The judge looked like all judges do. Balding gray hair. Glasses resting on the tip of his nose. An expression of sternness or smugness. He called my name and Mr. Harris grabbed my arm and led me in front of the judge. The judge spent a few moments studying my file. He looked at me over his glasses, his lips curled into a frown.

  Mr. Downs, he said. Are you aware of the charges brought against you?

  I nodded my head and said I was.

  You don’t need to make a plea at this time.

  I understand.

  Your preliminary hearing is scheduled for Monday, December 2nd.

  At that moment, my lawyer put up his finger. Your Honor, he said. We move to have my client free on bail. He does not have any prior offenses, not even a traffic ticket. He is veteran of the Iraq war. He served with distinction.

  A soldier, huh?

  I nodded my head. Yes, sir. 1st Battalion, 7th Regiment, 1st Division. Stationed in Mosul. />
  The judge watched me for a few moments and then nodded his head slowly. We owe you a debt of gratitude, he said.

  Thank you, sir.

  I hope you didn’t do the things they said you done.

  No, sir. I didn’t.

  Under the circumstances, the judge said, considering the lack of priors and valor in which he served, bail is set for $750,000. He slammed the gavel down. Next case.

  The other lawyer, a slick-looking fellow with bright white teeth and a bright red tie, didn’t like this resolution. Your Honor, he said. I think you should reconsider. He’s charged with first-degree murder.

  The judge took off his glasses and glared at the shyster. Only charged, he said. I’ve made my decision. $750,000.

  My lawyer said something to me that I didn’t understand. I was supposed to be thankful. $750,000? That meant, what $75,000 to a bail bondsman? It was as good as no bail. The sheriff’s deputies marched me back to the courthouse holding area. It wouldn’t be long now. They’d delouse me, wash me down, issue me a jail uniform, a towel, a bedroll, and then lead me back to that steel cage…

  * * *

  The next few nights, I died a million deaths. Hanging from a gnarled branch of a chestnut tree. Submerging slowly into a scum-covered pond. Bleeding profusely from jagged wounds on my wrists…

  Then early the next morning, as I lay on my cot staring at the cracks in the cement ceiling, a long shadow spread across my cell. I could hear those keys jangling again, then the thwunk of the steel door opening. I sat up. A barrel-chested, baby-faced guard stood in the doorway gripping his billy club tightly. Joseph Downs? he said.