Poole felt the shadow of death, the shadow of Ricky Buckney in the reality of it all. What about Ricky, Hatchet? Ricky's dead, Poole. Poole froze. What have you done? I gave him a piece of misdirection, Poole, that's all. Then how is he dead? The Mexicans killed him; it's a war down there, ya know? You know he’s dead? A bunch of Mexican park rangers blew his truck to hell south of Boquillas. No way. You can read about that on El Toro’s site too. Holyshit, I don't wanna know any more; don't tell me. Have it your way.
I didn’t enjoy it, Poole, I want you to know that.
I hear you.
They sat in silence, Poole recalibrating his assumptions about the impact of all this violence on Hatchet, Hatchet kicking around visions of ants on an agave bloom.
Why are you here, Marcus? last I checked, Ecuador is south, brother. There are a lot of reasons; I’m worried about you and Jane, worried about Olivia; I know what yer asking. Do you? Yes, why didn’t I just run? Well, yeah, you should have run to Europe or somewhere to get rid of this thing. I hear you, Poole, I tried; I even found potential brokers but it became crystal clear that there’s no way to get away from Teague. Ricky was right. Damn right he was; I went to Mexico City and nearly got my brains blown out for this; that makes twice. What? That’s an exaggeration…
I had a long talk with a guy selling gilded furniture at a flea market in Ojinaga. I ease art into the conversation and he gets me in touch by email with this guy in Mexico City. We email, we text, we talk about Faberge Eggs, we talk on the phone. I find out this cat is actually from Cleveland of all fucking places. Anyway, I tell him that I have a fake egg, told him I bought it off a truck in Laredo. He wants me to send pics. I tell him, no way, I’m not throwing pictures of this thing all over the Internet. If he can tell me for sure it’s a good enough forgery, I’ll pay him a commission to get rid of it. He bites. I drive down there and immediately get a text message that he needs to change the meeting place. I’m a little paranoid and we have one of those text arguments where things get all mixed up and neither of us knows what’s going on. Then, in the middle of this whole exchange, I get an email from the same guy that he got jumped in his apartment, got shot in the fucking leg and his phone’s missing. It could have been anyone but how can I not consider it connected to Teague or Lassiter or both? Hell, it could’ve been Clancey for all I know. It’s not like I used my real name but how many assholes could be out there trying to peddle a Russian Faberge Egg, real or not? This is a tight gang of people these art thieves, Dexter. Everyone knows everyone and everyone knows what’s on the board and who it belongs to. The way I see it, it's too risky. If I go to anyone, he'll blindside me. I can keep facing the unknown out there or I can bring it back here and maybe do some of my own blindsiding.
I think you’re fuckin crazy, Marcus.
Regardless of the egg, whatever happened in Mexico City and the Buckney fiasco raise the odds that you and my daughter and Jane are potential leverage against me; it’s time to fucking settle this; all this talk about Jane, let’s call her, get some coffee.
Poole hesitated as if an explosion had gone off somewhere across the city. What's wrong? Marcus... What's wrong? Marcus, Jane's gone. Gone? where? I don't know; she didn't say; she just said she was leaving and packed up and went. What the hell does that mean? She said she wanted to be more involved in what's happening in the world and up and left. She quit her job? Yup. Bullshit. No bullshit. Poole watched Hatchet sink, thrown in the ocean, his feet ensnared in a nest of chain. What does that mean, be more involved? She just said the world is changing and we're changing; Hatchet, she hasn't been the same since you left; she's become lost, kinda out of place.
Hatchet reached for his phone. She got rid of it, Hatchet. Her phone? Yeah. Holyshit, why would she do this? She's a big girl; she can do whatever she wants. But...
An arresting regret found Hatchet's heart, binding it. He dropped to Poole's couch and stared through the window into the falling snow. He envisioned Jane out in the storm with only a suitcase and scarf with the screaming wind in her face and he felt responsible. Does she hate me, Dexter? She missed you; she wanted you to answer your phone and talk to her; she wanted to hear your voice and see your face; you only contacted her when you needed something and that bothered her. She hates me for what I've done, doesn't she? She doesn't hate you.
Hatchet closed his eyes and reclined on the couch and he thought of Allison and Olivia. Then he thought of Delilah. He could see them all, including Jane, sitting somewhere bright and quiet, smiling at one another with the cool satisfaction of completion. Looking back, I don’t think anyone I’ve ever loved has loved me in return and I don't think I've ever returned any love given to me; does that make me a mutant of some sort? No, Hatchet, it makes you tragic and I don’t think tragedy is a mutation, a burden maybe, but not a mutation. But it feels biological; it feels natural, maybe even useful; like pain? I think I need to pour you another drink. I think you do too.
I didn’t enjoy it, Poole, I want you to know that.
I hear you.
They sat in silence, Poole recalibrating his assumptions about the impact of all this violence on Hatchet, Hatchet kicking around visions of ants on an agave bloom.
Why are you here, Marcus? last I checked, Ecuador is south, brother. There are a lot of reasons; I’m worried about you and Jane, worried about Olivia; I know what yer asking. Do you? Yes, why didn’t I just run? Well, yeah, you should have run to Europe or somewhere to get rid of this thing. I hear you, Poole, I tried; I even found potential brokers but it became crystal clear that there’s no way to get away from Teague. Ricky was right. Damn right he was; I went to Mexico City and nearly got my brains blown out for this; that makes twice. What? That’s an exaggeration…
I had a long talk with a guy selling gilded furniture at a flea market in Ojinaga. I ease art into the conversation and he gets me in touch by email with this guy in Mexico City. We email, we text, we talk about Faberge Eggs, we talk on the phone. I find out this cat is actually from Cleveland of all fucking places. Anyway, I tell him that I have a fake egg, told him I bought it off a truck in Laredo. He wants me to send pics. I tell him, no way, I’m not throwing pictures of this thing all over the Internet. If he can tell me for sure it’s a good enough forgery, I’ll pay him a commission to get rid of it. He bites. I drive down there and immediately get a text message that he needs to change the meeting place. I’m a little paranoid and we have one of those text arguments where things get all mixed up and neither of us knows what’s going on. Then, in the middle of this whole exchange, I get an email from the same guy that he got jumped in his apartment, got shot in the fucking leg and his phone’s missing. It could have been anyone but how can I not consider it connected to Teague or Lassiter or both? Hell, it could’ve been Clancey for all I know. It’s not like I used my real name but how many assholes could be out there trying to peddle a Russian Faberge Egg, real or not? This is a tight gang of people these art thieves, Dexter. Everyone knows everyone and everyone knows what’s on the board and who it belongs to. The way I see it, it's too risky. If I go to anyone, he'll blindside me. I can keep facing the unknown out there or I can bring it back here and maybe do some of my own blindsiding.
I think you’re fuckin crazy, Marcus.
Regardless of the egg, whatever happened in Mexico City and the Buckney fiasco raise the odds that you and my daughter and Jane are potential leverage against me; it’s time to fucking settle this; all this talk about Jane, let’s call her, get some coffee.
Poole hesitated as if an explosion had gone off somewhere across the city. What's wrong? Marcus... What's wrong? Marcus, Jane's gone. Gone? where? I don't know; she didn't say; she just said she was leaving and packed up and went. What the hell does that mean? She said she wanted to be more involved in what's happening in the world and up and left. She quit her job? Yup. Bullshit. No bullshit. Poole watched Hatchet sink, thrown in the ocean, his feet ensnared in a nest of chain. What does that mean, be more involved? She just said the world is changing and we're changing; Hatchet, she hasn't been the same since you left; she's become lost, kinda out of place.
Hatchet reached for his phone. She got rid of it, Hatchet. Her phone? Yeah. Holyshit, why would she do this? She's a big girl; she can do whatever she wants. But...
An arresting regret found Hatchet's heart, binding it. He dropped to Poole's couch and stared through the window into the falling snow. He envisioned Jane out in the storm with only a suitcase and scarf with the screaming wind in her face and he felt responsible. Does she hate me, Dexter? She missed you; she wanted you to answer your phone and talk to her; she wanted to hear your voice and see your face; you only contacted her when you needed something and that bothered her. She hates me for what I've done, doesn't she? She doesn't hate you.
Hatchet closed his eyes and reclined on the couch and he thought of Allison and Olivia. Then he thought of Delilah. He could see them all, including Jane, sitting somewhere bright and quiet, smiling at one another with the cool satisfaction of completion. Looking back, I don’t think anyone I’ve ever loved has loved me in return and I don't think I've ever returned any love given to me; does that make me a mutant of some sort? No, Hatchet, it makes you tragic and I don’t think tragedy is a mutation, a burden maybe, but not a mutation. But it feels biological; it feels natural, maybe even useful; like pain? I think I need to pour you another drink. I think you do too.
Edit 12.19.2018