The Reckoning by Jeff Long Page B

pressed it on his neck, like a signature. George Washington was here.”
    â€œTell him I have a tattoo,” Molly said, “a butterfly.”
    Duncan told Vin. “He said he’d like to see it someday.”
    â€œOh, it’s in kind of a private place.”
    â€œIn that case, I’d like to see it someday.”
    Molly’s eyes flicked up at the mirror, but she could see only Luke’s dark face. Duncan laughed and told the boy. Vin tucked his head, mortified.
    â€œYou didn’t have to embarrass him,” said Molly.
    â€œHe’ll survive.”
    â€œListen to you.” It was Luke, his voice hard.
    â€œYeah?” asked Duncan.
    â€œYou’re losing yourself.”
    â€œNo harm in connecting with the culture. It is their country.”
    â€œMaybe,” Luke said, “you should stick with your own kind.”
    â€œAnd why is that?” said Duncan.
    â€œIt’s all tricks, you know,” Luke said. “You’re only fooling yourself.”
    Duncan’s smile faded.
    Molly turned to Luke. Talk about bad luck children. “What about you?” she tried. “Where do you come from?”
    It was like talking into an empty pipe. He said nothing more. The Jolly Rancher candy sat in his hand. After that the talk died. The miles went by.
    A small light flipped on and off as Duncan periodically marked their position on a map spread across his legs. She guessed they must have covered two hundred miles, though it was impossible to know with the gauges broken or unhooked and the dash light dead.
    For years the American embassy had been warning against travel into the distant provinces, especially at night. Rogue soldiers and war cripples were epidemic, with a nasty habit of highway robbery. The wars were over, she told herself. Those days were done. But she knew they were not really. Violence lay just beneath the skin here. Rebels still came together for various causes, and the countryside held more land mines per square mile than even Afghanistan or Bosnia.
    But mile after mile there were no roadblocks, no highwaymen, and Molly tried to relax. Apparently the bandits had exploited the road too efficiently. It seemed they’d driven themselves right out of business.
    During one stop to put more oil in the smoking truck, Kleat came up to them.
    Molly made some remark about the wild night driving.
    â€œYou’re afraid? Good,” said Kleat. “Fear is a gift. It purifies us. Listen to it and you can see right through the night.” He was exultant. “And how’s our guide? How are you doing, Slick?” he said to Luke.
    Luke looked at him. “Johnny Hollywood,” he said, like he knew him.
    It startled Kleat. He flinched, almost as if it meant something. He spit on the road. “Do we have some problem?”
    â€œAre you really sure you want to be here?” Luke asked him.
    Kleat glanced suspiciously at Molly and Duncan to see if they’d been talking among themselves. Molly shook her head at him and frowned. She didn’t know what this was about.
    â€œI’m helping pay for your ride, aren’t I?” Kleat said to Luke.
    â€œThat don’t make it your party. Slick.”
    â€œHow’s that?” Kleat said.
    But Luke only trained his eyes back on the road. He had nothing more to add. Molly couldn’t make sense of it. Neither one of them played well with others. But hell if she was going to be the mommy. Let them sort it out.
    Kleat let loose his grip on. He returned to the truck and climbed up into the cab. The convoy started off again, back into the flash of metal giants roaring by in the night.
    The moon broke from the clouds, and the paddies bracketing the road jumped to life. The highway became a dark strip sandwiched between hundreds of reflected moons. The land turned dreamlike, a world of harbored water arranged in honeycombs. The clouds sailed over, returning them to darkness.
    Molly checked