Page 65 of Heart and Soul
“Child’s play,” Hillerman says. “We all did this at Halloween parties as kids, right? Reach your hand into a box labeledintestines, but it’s really just spaghetti.”
“This doesn’t feel like spaghetti. Spaghetti doesn’t have a heartbeat.” Russo pushes until he’s in that thing past his elbow, and finally he announces, “There. I got something. It’s either a hairy doorknob or this thing’s balls.”
“Either way, turn it,” Hillerman says.
“I am. Nothing’s happening.”
“This isn’t good.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve decided it’s definitely not a doorknob.”
“I mean, it’s not good that it’s to one side of the door. Why not in the middle?”
I read her meaning. “You think it takes two?”
“Danny, what’s on the other side of the door?”
“More gargoyles, I think. The ivy is covering them. Look, I’d go over there and check, but if I pull my hand outta this thing’s guts, there’s no way I’m putting it back in again.”
“I’ll go,” Jay volunteers.
Hillerman steps between him and the gate. “It’s a nice instinct, but think about it. If you were in his place, who would you really want going in there with you?”
Jay immediately looks at me.
“Another good instinct.”
I feel a little slow. “Me?”
“She’s right, babe. Let’s not take any chances with Russo. We play our best hand. That’s you.”
Hillerman steps away from the gate, as if to invite me in. “It’s called witchinghourfor a reason. We don’t have long.”
I want to complain. I want to whine something pathetic, like,Let’s not take chances with Russo? What about taking chances with me!But apparently my ego still trumps self-preservation, because I summon a totally fake bravado and trudge through the courtyard.
“Bad-ass, Shayne,” Russo says. “By popular demand. Must be nice, huh?”
“What?”
“Having friends who think so highly of you.”
I stomp up the steps and start pulling at the ivy vines. “Oh, it’s justswell. There’s no end to the privileges they volunteer me for. Like getting to be elbow deep in a gargoyle’s…” I quickly drop the vines back into place. “I’m sorry, we’ll need a plan B. What if we come back with a truckload of dynamite?”
Hillerman kicks the gate. “No. There’s got to be another hole. Look harder.”
“Oh, there’s ahole. The problem isn’t that there’s nohole. The problem is that theholeisn’t a mouth.” I jerk the vines away for all the world to see the glorious invitation awaiting my arm: a large, bulbous buttocks above hind legs, with a curly pitch-forked tail. Between butt cheeks of polished stone is a perfectly round hole the size of a softball.
I get no response. Everybody just stares.
“Hello? Is this thing on? In case you can’t see, it’s an ass. And no, not a biblical ass. An ass-ass!”
Hillerman shakes the iron gate and growls through clenched teeth. “We get it. We see it. We hear you, and yes, it’s gross. Now, please stick your arm up that gargoyle’s asshole and squeeze its balls so we can all get the hell out of here!”
I look at Russo, at a loss for words. He’s got nothing to offer me but a shrug. And he’s absolutely right. I have to agree. What Hillerman has just said is so profound—so unique in the history of spoken words—that the only appropriate response is to immediately put them into action. I stick my arm up the gargoyle’s asshole—elbow deep in warm, sticky innards—and squish its hairy balls as hard as I can.
Several things happen at once. All throughout the courtyard, candles spontaneously ignite with sickly green flames. The gargoyle’s asshole clenches tightly against my arm. It’s searing hot, burning through my jacket into my flesh. The same happens to Russo—the gargoyle’s mouth chomping down on his bicep, sinking teeth into his muscle. We both cry out in pain. The solid stone door rumbles, then swings open. The gargoyles release us and close their orifices tightly.
My jacket is unharmed, but when I pull my arm out of the sleeve, steam rises from a dark ring of burnt flesh all the way around my arm above the elbow. Russo’s bicep is bleeding from several deep bite marks. As we grumble in pain, Hillerman says, “Look above the door. What’s happening?”
