His father glared at him. “Don’t get smart with me, young man. You’re not eighteen, and you need my permission, and I ain’t giving it. So just shut up and do as I say or you’re going to live to regret it.”
“Fuck you!” Bill shouted. “We’re going!”
It felt good to yell at his dad, and he wondered why he hadn’t done it before. What had that miserable old shit ever accomplished in his life? Who was he to tell Bill, or even Ray, what to do?
Fists clenched, his dad advanced on him. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that! I won’t have that sort of language in this house!”
“Yeah? Well, if you’re so good and pure, why did you shoot an angel? Huh? You think God hates me swearing more than he hates you killing his angels?”
His dad hit him. Not a slap, not a tap, but a roundhouse to the jaw that sent him reeling back and brought tears to his eyes. Recovering quickly, Bill kicked the old fuck in the nuts, and was gratified to see his dad double over, clutching his crotch and letting out a weak, ineffectual moan.
Ray was standing there, wide-eyed and shocked. “Go grab your stuff and pack,” Bill told him. “We’re getting out of here. Today.
“And we’re taking the Jeep,” he informed his dad, still doubled over and holding his damaged genitals. “You can have the truck.”
Bill waited until Ray was down the hall and out of sight, and then kicked his dad in the head as hard as he could, knocking him down. “Fucking hillbilly,”
He walked down to his own room to pack his clothes, guitar and amplifier, feeling good.
TWENTY ONE
Wednesday night’s final confession wasn’t over until ten, and Father Ramos locked the church doors immediately after the last parishioner, Elena Martinez, stepped outside, making sure no one else could come in. He was bone tired, and he was tempted to just lay down in the pew next to him, close his eyes and go to sleep. Ever since the angel fell, not only had occasional churchgoers become regular, but all of his flock had started coming to confession, many of them daily. It took a lot out of a man to deal with so much sin, to forgive so many transgressions when he himself was not pure.
He glanced back at the confessional, feeling uneasy. Hearing so many confessions had led him to notice a bizarre pattern that had emerged since the angel had fallen, a reversal of fortune among his parishioners that had to be connected to the event but that made no logical sense: people whose finances were in shambles had suddenly started doing well, while those who were well-off had suffered a run of financial misfortunes. A gorgeous young woman had been disfigured in an accident, while a frumpy matron had suddenly discovered beauty secrets that rendered her extraordinarily attractive. It was as though the polarities of luck had been flipped, and those who had been the beneficiaries of good fortune up until now had been cursed with bad luck, while the sad sacks who’d never had anything go right in their lives were suddenly having a run of spectacularly good luck.
At least that’s the way it had started.
But now things were becoming more complex, the patterns more subtle. Certain individuals seemed to be getting caught in competing cross-currents of changing luck. Charley McGill, for example, had always been poor but happily married—yet now his wife had suddenly died, leaving him a substantial life insurance settlement. Jack Judd was a failure as a husband but a very successful rancher—now he had reconciled with his wife but his cattle were dying. It was a strange and complicated amalgam of alternating good luck and bad that seemed to be playing out all over town.
Father Ramos himself was caught in the middle. His fortunes had changed not at all.
No, that was not true. His church was consistently full these days. The overflowing congregation he had always wished for had been delivered to him by the fallen angel.
He kept thinking of the angel as “fallen” because it made him feel better, but that was not strictly true. The angel had not fallen. It had been shot down. The men of Magdalena had killed it in cold blood, and he was still awaiting the full consequences of that accidental murder.
The full consequences.
Because some consequences seemed to be occurring already. From what he had heard, and from what he had seen—
the eggs
—there were pockets of unexplainable events that could have no source other than the angel. He would include the veterinarian’s disappearance and the Ingram boy’s mysterious death among them. As well as the poltergeist that Ana and Miguelito Chavez claimed was haunting their trailer, and the influx of snakes that had taken over the Garcezes’ property.
But as far as he could tell, there was nothing consistent about these incidents. Proximity to the body, involvement in the angel’s killing, none of these factors seemed to in any way determine to whom things would happen. The occurrences appeared to be completely random, and if there was a pattern to them, it was one that was known only to God.