Chap 31

Marie saw a small patch of skin. It was rough, more of a flap than normal, soft, shiny scalp that Marie used to love teasing Hank about as she smoothed her hand over his head.

"You always said you had golden locks when you were a teen?" she questioned her husband. 'The ball envy of all the other footballers,' you said. When did it all just blow away like this?"

"Ha! Just you wait, some day even your dark, silken tresses will begin to thin. It might take a while. I hope I'm around to see it." He paused, thoughtfully. "Well, maybe not. Then you'll always be my beautiful angel." He grinned, knowing how clichéd that sounded.

"You'll always be around, hubby. You're so stubbornly hard to kill. That's one thing I love about you."

"Just one thing?" Hank teased back, looking sorrowful.

"Yeah, mostly, just that one thing."

When they made love after such teasing, Hank was always so gentle. He would slowly pull her soft body to him, nuzzle her supple neck and breathe in the scent of her envious, dark locks. Quietly, he would begin to massage her shoulders as if it was she who spent the day sitting in a hot squad car or desk jockeying endless reports, pouring over minute, bloody clues. It constantly surprised her that such big, rough looking hands could find all her tender spots. Delicately, he'd start to kiss her cheeks, her closed, enraptured eyelids, her lips. He must have thought she would break, was made of the porcelain he always called her skin. He would smile whenever he made such compliments, as if he didn't believe he was saying such romantic things, hackneyed as they were. She never minded, of course. How can anyone tire of being complimented, especially since she knew what he meant, he just didn't know other ways of saying it, as if that mattered. He just wanted her to feel good, to feel loved, and he did make her feel that. And protected. Rough, tough hombre to everyone else, so different to her when things were good. He let her get away with so much, like the shoplifting. She knew she was doing it, whatever her denials. It made her feel good. It made up in a small way for the losses she had, made things more even for a moment. When Hank, or her sis, was being a jerk to her, she'd pick up a little something. When she thought of the children she should have had, she'd find a little extra shiny present in her purse. When she thought of her big, empty, lonely house without happy, little voices laughing inside, she'd find a bright object to fill a tiny, silent spot. Now the house was even quieter, a deathly stillness echoing deep within her, and her light fingers knew they could never fill it.

Marie stared at the dry patch of wrinkled skin. It had tiny holes in it where insects had burrowed in. She found herself on the ground again, crouching on all fours, her fingers just a mere inch away from the horrible thing. Her light would have to be cranked again, but for the moment she could do nothing. Why did she think she could just dig him out in a quick hour or two? Marie dry heaved the contents of an empty, throbbing stomach. Yellow acid burned her throat and tongue as she spit out what little moisture was left in her. She couldn't catch her breath, heard the severe panting in the growing, reverberating dark as her light waned, felt her dancing, drained heartbeat in her throat. In her faint, she might just lie down next to the thing, and the animals, or any poor people drifting by, would find them like that.

The desert has had me long enough, Angel. I know this is the hardest thing you've ever done, but try a little more. You're my only savior. No one else found me. Did the lazy bastards even try?

Without looking, her fingers dug little trenches around the scalp. Maybe if she didn't look, just felt around without trying to feel anything, she could at least free his head. She wanted him out of there, away from the smothering heat, the scavengers, the anonymity. It was almost as if he was begging her to be released from a devouring oven, and only she could do it.

You're just torturing yourself. He's way beyond sensing anything. Just stop it.

In a crazed rush, she starting scooping away large handfuls of dirt, threw dirt into the air like a mad, scavenging dog. An orb shape dimly emerged and every slavering, dark boogeyman in her past clawed at her imagination to stop. She thought she felt tiny, wriggling things scratch against her palms. It was funny how Marie used to be afraid of the quiet, screaming dark, alone in her house. Now she would confront her monsters, at last, and her, or they, would win.

She had gotten down far enough, slowly stood up as her hips made small popping noises, and felt around the edge of the pit. A small, red light guided her to the lamp. Her fingers were like claws, and she had trouble grasping the handle, but managed a few cranks and the area brightened immediately. She heard small animals scampering away.

Now to take the lamp down and look. Marie, it's time to look. Mare?

No.

Just walk over, it's only a few steps.

I'm not stepping over that.

Mare. It's time.

She instead edged around the small pit, placing her feet carefully, looking only at her feet.

This is the right spot. Look up Marie. Angel, look up.

She felt tears pouring down her face. Funny, she thought, her dried out body must have reserved them for this moment. She held her hitching breath and looked up.

It's also funny how much the mind filters an image, looks past the obvious, the layers of filth and blood and horror, ignores what other's would gag over and swiftly look away. That's because sometimes it's the heart of the observer that looks.

Hank's face was so endlessly sad. His expression was preserved in the desert heat, obvious to anyone who really looked. His last thought must have been of her, of leaving her behind and alone. It was his, this man of action, sole regret, but it consumed his eternity.