a service and would appreciate if you’d refrain from speaking so loudly."
Gibb couldn't help but grit his teeth at the man's visage. The tall man's face had been horribly burned. The contour of the skin was like the surface of the moon. Smooth and rough patches were separated by painful dimpled crevices where skin had failed to graft properly. The man's blue eyes gazed startlingly upon him, capturing him, daring him to look away.
"I'm sorry," Gibb heard himself saying. He forced himself to stare, knowing that to look away would be the worst offense. "I didn't know I was so loud." He could only imagine the pain the man had gone through.
The man nodded once. His ruined lips pealed back into a feral grin. He ran his right hand down the lapel of his six-button suit coat in a smoothing motion, and turned back to the service.
"Wait," Gibb said, stepping forward. The three bikers intercepted him, one placing his hand on Gibb's chest. He ignored this, his pleading gaze on the tall man.
The tall man turned and stared at Gibb, his posture clear that he was awaiting the reason for the further disruption.
Gibb gulped. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to say. He glanced once at the three bikers, thought of trying to push his way past, thought of arresting them, then changed his mind. His shoulders sagged. His eyes turned sad. "Can I watch? I mean, can I attend the service too?"
The tall man stared for several seconds, then nodded slowly. "I see there is pain in your soul." He held out a hand that had also been scarred from fire. "Come and watch the Long Cool Woman. Perhaps you will find her words soothing."
The bikers stepped aside. Gibb walked between them and accepted the proffered hand. He felt strength and the smoothness of scar tissue as the tall man tightened his grip into a handshake. Moreover, the hand felt dead cold.
"Thank you," said Gibb, his voice barely above a whisper.
"They call me El Hombre Quemado," said the tall man.
The Burned Man, Gibb translated to himself. The name was a good fit, if not a little morbid.
"But you can call me Rev Boscoe," the Burned Man continued, pronouncing the word Rev, making it seem more like a name than a title.
"My name is Gibb," said Gibb.
"I know.”
Gibb raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Rev Boscoe grinned a horrible grin. “I see it there on your uniform." Rev Boscoe released Gibb's hand and pointed towards the nameplate. Then he turned, walked back to the circle of mourners and resumed his place directly opposite the cross.
Gibb's hand had grown cold from the handshake, and as he walked to the circle, he rubbed it, working the warmth back into the bone and tendons. He found a place between a young Hispanic boy and an older Hispanic woman. They shifted allowing him a space of his own, their heads down in some private misery. It wasn’t until then that he finally got a good view of the Long Cool Woman.
She wasn't beautiful. Nor was she ugly. Yet she had a presence that surpassed such earthly applications. Firm lips sat beneath the arch of a patrician nose. Lipstick had been applied to her slightly frowning lips. A somewhat pointy chin and high cheekbones complimented the delicateness of her eggshell white skin. Her long black hair held gentle curls, and had been arranged so part of it lay upon her shoulders. She wore a turn of the century black dress that covered her legs and her feet. She lay upon a specially constructed black cot that held her nearly two feet from the ground. The way her dress cascaded over the edges, it almost appeared as if she were floating. One hand rested palm up on her stomach, the other was held to by the hands of a weeping man.
Gibb watched closely and, only after a concerted effort, noticed the rise and fall of the Long Cool Woman's chest. So intent was he upon his gaze, that when she moved, he let out a gasp.
Her hand on her stomach twitched like a spider coming to life. Once, twice, then the fingers curled upon themselves into a fist as she grasped the cross.
Gibb's spine sizzled with electric alarm. His attention was trapped, as surely as if the woman's hand had closed around his throat. He felt the electricity encompass the circle, as if the mourners represented a closed circuit: the mourners, him and the sobbing man,