He found an eastern slope on Chilicotal and stood for a long time before he activated the satellite phone. He dialed the country code and the area code and Dexter Poole’s number. There’s no way Dexter would answer an unknown number so he left him a voice message, It’s me; call me back on this number. Minutes later, the sat phone began receiving.
Yo.
Yo? Poole filled the handset, that’s what you’ve got for me is, yo?
Dexter, I understand how upset you must be right now. Poole graced him with a string of elaborate insults he had memorized like poems for recitation in school. Hatchet let him discharge, doing his utmost to consider these slanders hyperbolic. But when he heard his daughter’s name, he objected. Dexter, seriously, man, let’s leave my kid outta this; don’t be a hypocrite, brother, I never throw your kid in your face. Why should she be off-limits, Hatchet? she’s just another pothole in your fuckin avenue, man. You know what my life was like with Allison; you know what I was up against. I know you never took her to court to fight for what’s rightfully yours. That’s not my way, Poole, I'm not going into this with you. And there we go! Poole began again, your ways have fucked everything sideways, Marcus! you need to accept your fucking guilt! you’ve gone and fucked yourself forever with this stunt.
Hatchet felt challenged. He told Poole he had escaped the cage of herded existence, escaped a world where the quiet and obedient are rewarded with a facade of freedom, the things they had always railed against. That’s coffee house philosophy, you fucking asshole, what you’ve done is stupid. Am I caught, Poole? Hatchet regretted the question as soon as he said it. Number one rule in asking questions in a debate, his father had always told him, is never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer. No, I guess not yet, Poole said, but what does that prove? this isn’t the end; you’re a fugitive forever, man. Am I, Poole? where’s the posse? where are the choppers? you got cops knocking on your door? Poole could feel the shift in the winds the way the satellite delay jostled the words in his ear. He could smell a typical Hatchet magic trick in the making and he wanted to hang up for fear of its voodoo.
Hatchet listened to the weird ambiance of the sat phone silence, watching a seed swollen gang of pappus rolling and skirting the side of the mountain, dodging the creosote and the peeling blades of the lechuguilla as if sentient and certain of its destination. I am a starving artist who hasn’t had a job in nearly a year; they have nothing to clue this to me, man. Hatchet told him if the cops hadn’t been at his or Jane’s door then they hadn’t been to see Allison. He dared Poole to think of anyone who would miss him. Who would make the connection much less the effort to pursue the possibility that bum photographer Marcus Hatchet has stolen the Calvary Church’s precious offering?
As Hatchet made his case for the success of his crime, he remembered his monumental loose ends, the Dog Boys and Clancey. The damaged pieces dangling and lashing out from his escape vehicle and he had no faculties with which to rein them back or cut them loose. The longer they dangled and cracked in the wind, the more damage they would inflict and the flimsy conveyance could fly apart like any doomed jet aflame. He thought of the wild card Faberge Egg, the reason he had even given in to the need to call Poole. I’m on a satellite phone, he told him. I can tell. I need data service but the adapter won’t work with my phone. Where the fuck are you? I’m not gonna tell you; all you need to know is I don’t have service on the cell here; this is the only surefire option for communication; I didn’t realize the adapter wouldn’t work with the phone. You’re a real mastermind, Hatchet, why didn’t you just buy one with it all built in? I’m not made of money, Poole. Oh fuck off. Oh you fuck off, I didn’t want this goddamn thing but I’m too far out not to have a way to communicate. You could’ve Bluetoothed it to your phone but then if you had talked to me about, it you might know that. I think I have a way for you to make it up to me. Oh, that’s cute.
Yo.
Yo? Poole filled the handset, that’s what you’ve got for me is, yo?
Dexter, I understand how upset you must be right now. Poole graced him with a string of elaborate insults he had memorized like poems for recitation in school. Hatchet let him discharge, doing his utmost to consider these slanders hyperbolic. But when he heard his daughter’s name, he objected. Dexter, seriously, man, let’s leave my kid outta this; don’t be a hypocrite, brother, I never throw your kid in your face. Why should she be off-limits, Hatchet? she’s just another pothole in your fuckin avenue, man. You know what my life was like with Allison; you know what I was up against. I know you never took her to court to fight for what’s rightfully yours. That’s not my way, Poole, I'm not going into this with you. And there we go! Poole began again, your ways have fucked everything sideways, Marcus! you need to accept your fucking guilt! you’ve gone and fucked yourself forever with this stunt.
Hatchet felt challenged. He told Poole he had escaped the cage of herded existence, escaped a world where the quiet and obedient are rewarded with a facade of freedom, the things they had always railed against. That’s coffee house philosophy, you fucking asshole, what you’ve done is stupid. Am I caught, Poole? Hatchet regretted the question as soon as he said it. Number one rule in asking questions in a debate, his father had always told him, is never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer. No, I guess not yet, Poole said, but what does that prove? this isn’t the end; you’re a fugitive forever, man. Am I, Poole? where’s the posse? where are the choppers? you got cops knocking on your door? Poole could feel the shift in the winds the way the satellite delay jostled the words in his ear. He could smell a typical Hatchet magic trick in the making and he wanted to hang up for fear of its voodoo.
Hatchet listened to the weird ambiance of the sat phone silence, watching a seed swollen gang of pappus rolling and skirting the side of the mountain, dodging the creosote and the peeling blades of the lechuguilla as if sentient and certain of its destination. I am a starving artist who hasn’t had a job in nearly a year; they have nothing to clue this to me, man. Hatchet told him if the cops hadn’t been at his or Jane’s door then they hadn’t been to see Allison. He dared Poole to think of anyone who would miss him. Who would make the connection much less the effort to pursue the possibility that bum photographer Marcus Hatchet has stolen the Calvary Church’s precious offering?
As Hatchet made his case for the success of his crime, he remembered his monumental loose ends, the Dog Boys and Clancey. The damaged pieces dangling and lashing out from his escape vehicle and he had no faculties with which to rein them back or cut them loose. The longer they dangled and cracked in the wind, the more damage they would inflict and the flimsy conveyance could fly apart like any doomed jet aflame. He thought of the wild card Faberge Egg, the reason he had even given in to the need to call Poole. I’m on a satellite phone, he told him. I can tell. I need data service but the adapter won’t work with my phone. Where the fuck are you? I’m not gonna tell you; all you need to know is I don’t have service on the cell here; this is the only surefire option for communication; I didn’t realize the adapter wouldn’t work with the phone. You’re a real mastermind, Hatchet, why didn’t you just buy one with it all built in? I’m not made of money, Poole. Oh fuck off. Oh you fuck off, I didn’t want this goddamn thing but I’m too far out not to have a way to communicate. You could’ve Bluetoothed it to your phone but then if you had talked to me about, it you might know that. I think I have a way for you to make it up to me. Oh, that’s cute.
Edit 11.21.2018