Cool Woman and the cross. When the door closed it marked the end of the service. Some of the mourners left quietly, heads down in contemplation as they made their way to the bus. Others talked amongst one another, some happy, some sad.
Gibb didn't know quite what to do. He stared at the Long Cool Woman, whose countenance was as immutable as the Venus de Milo's. The rumors, the cable news shows, the late night wonderings had all been true. Everything he'd heard about this woman had proven itself before his eyes.
"Time to go, officer," Rev Boscoe said, his cold, scarred hand resting on Gibbs shoulder.
Two of the bikers approached and busied themselves securing the woman to the cot. They scooped her dress from the earth and tucked the edges beside her. From beneath, they brought out three sets of straps that they snapped in place across her body. Rev Boscoe tested the straps to make sure they were secure, then nodded to the one nearest the woman's head. Gibb stood silently as they lifted and carried the woman to the back of the black van where the third biker waited with the doors open.
The third biker approached the cross, wrapped two meaty hands around it, and snapped it at its base. He laid it against his shoulder, walked to the back of the bus, opened the door and slid it behind the back row of seats.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Gibb said, suddenly realizing what was going on. “You can’t do that?”
“It’s no longer needed,” Rev Boscoe said.
Gibb turned to look at the inscrutable face.
“The purpose of the cross no longer exists.”
Gibb nodded absently, but didn’t quite understand.
"Was it what you expected?" Rev Boscoe asked.
"I didn't know what to expect," Gibb said, not knowing why he lied.
"No? You hadn't heard of her before?"
"No, I—" Gibb shook his head. Although grown men weren't supposed to believe in ghosts, they also weren't supposed to lie. He smiled weakly. "Let me start over," he said. He swallowed, evaluating his thoughts carefully. "To tell you the truth, I thought she was a fake," he said.
Rev Boscoe nodded his head as if he'd heard it before. "Are you disappointed?"
"No."
"Then what is it? I see something in you that I almost recognize."
Gibb stared into the terrible face, his brain attempting to soften the harsh ridges and scars that scoured the man's face. "You don't know me," he finally said.
"No," agreed Rev Boscoe, "I don't know you. But you are of a type and I know that type."
"What type is that?" asked Gibb, feeling more and more like a child caught trying to do something.
"You've led an incomplete life, Mr. Gibb. Moreover, you've led someone else's life."
"What are you—"
"You long for something that cannot be. You live for someone that cannot care. You exist as something that you cannot become."
"Bullshit." Gibb felt the blood rush to his head. He frowned, trying to think of something to say that wasn't the truth.
Rev Boscoe waited a moment longer, and then nodded. "Fine, Mr. Gibb."
The tall man strode to the Cadillac and slid into the driver's seat. Everyone else in the Long Cool Woman's entourage seemed ready to go. Rev Boscoe waited for a break in traffic, and then the Bikers pulled out leading the way. Rev Boscoe pulled out next, with the van and then the bus following closely behind.
Gibb watched the taillights disappear past the eastern horizon as the convoy headed toward Phoenix and places unknown. By now the sun had set and had turned the desert dark. With the departure of the Long Cool Woman and her followers, he was reminded how dark the desert could actually be. He glanced once at where the cross had been, then to the space that the Long Cool Woman had occupied. There was a certain amount of fear enveloping his acceptance of the woman and her powers.
It was true that he'd sought her out. It was true that he felt that she could be provide him a sense of release... a sense that he'd done it right these last seventeen years.
But then there was the part of him that had never felt the need to ask anyone for help. There was that part of him who felt that anything worth doing, he could do himself—except of course speaking with the dead. Try as he might, he'd never been able to accomplish that task. So then why won't you ask them for help? the voice in his head shouted, putting to