"Fat rapacious p.r.i.c.k doing his best to survive. Which is more than I can say for you."

Pitt screwed the cap back onto the bottle of pisco, lowered it to the ground. "I'm sorry," he said.

"No you're not," I said. "Since when are you sorry for anything?"

He scrambled to his feet. He held the detonator out at me, as though it were a knife. "When I say I'm sorry, I mean I'm f.u.c.king sorry!" His thumb twitched on the b.u.t.ton.

"OK," I said. "You're sorry."

"If I wasn't sorry, would I f.u.c.king be here right now?" he said. "Don't you think I know what I have done?" He paced the precipice, shouting at the plains below, then into the silent volcano. "To watch my own hands, these hands, again and again. Like some bad movie. Not able to stop myself. Squeezing the life out of her. Out of Lynn. My own mother. And you know the worst part? The worst part of it all?" He waved the detonator in my face. His breath was foul. "Her body tensed. She bucked her hips. And she came. She came! In some sort of death o.r.g.a.s.m. And then-" he stepped back, wiped the back of his wrist across his nose, "and then-"

"Coming so hard you thought you'd die."

His head whipped around. "How did you know that?"

"That's how it feels when I do it to myself."

Pitt stood over me, chest to chest. "There's guilt enough to go around, you know."

I couldn't meet his eye. I struggled to control my voice. "You can't pin this on me."

"Your room. That morning? Found you in the bathroom, with-"

"Enough!"

"Well," he said, and drew himself up straight with the dignity of a drunk. "I tried it. Like you showed me. It was as good as you said. No, better." His shoulders slumped. "And then something happened. It was like wearing sungla.s.ses all your life, and suddenly you lose them." He swept a hand at the cloudy vista. "There was my life. Spread out before me. Everything I'd ever done. I saw the world for what it really was. Myself. Mom. You. Ambo." A bitter laugh. "Human filth, all of us." He chewed a fingernail so hard it bled. "It hurts, Horse. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts."

The cold wind knifed through the jacket he'd loaned me. I staggered on the edge of the precipice. "And that's when you called Kate," I said. "The postcard I gave you. Went to the ashram, found your way to end the guilt."

The bottle of pisco was halfway to his lips. He laughed. He drank again, long, slow, luxurious swallows. He poured the remainder of the bottle down his throat, and I realized that, instead of being jealous, instead of having to resist the urge to rip the bottle from his hands and drink it myself, for the first time in my life I no longer wanted a drink.

"End the guilt." He held the bottle upside down, shook it. He threw it over his shoulder into the crater. It rattled once on the soft shale, then-nothing. I waited for the crash. No sound came from below. "Not yet, but I'm working on it."

"So, what?" I said. "End the world and your guilt goes away? All your sins magically disappear? How does that work?" All of a sudden it sounded ridiculous.

"We are sinners in a world of s.h.i.t," he said, and slid to the ground against a rock, his thumb barely missing the detonator b.u.t.ton. "End the world. End the s.h.i.t."

I sat down and huddled beside him, in the lee of the wind. "They sent me here to stop you, you know."

He b.u.mped his shoulder against mine. "Sure fooled 'em good, eh?"

I put my arm around his neck, pulled his forehead down to mine. The detonator was within reach. "That doesn't mean I'm going to help you either."

Pitt went still. He pulled away. He ripped off his woolen hat. His dirty hair stuck to his skull in matted tufts. I saw his face then, as though for the first time: skeletal, emaciated, skin stretched tight across bony Nordic cheeks.

"What did you just say?" The tone of his voice made me shift sideways.

"You want to end the world," I said, "you can do it by yourself."

He stared at me, then slumped against a rock. "You're just p.i.s.sed 'cause I killed Mom, is that it?"

"No. It's not." I could still smell Esmeralda's diaper in my hands. But Pitt would never understand that.

He laughed again, slapped his leg. He wiped tears from his eyes. "I can't believe you were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my own mother-"

"-I didn't know she was-"

"-and no one knew a thing!" He punched the air with his fist. "Hurt the b.a.s.t.a.r.d where it counts."

"Who?" I asked.

"Ambo, of course. Who else?"

"I didn't do it because I hated Ambo."

"Oh, so you were head over heels in love with a fifty-year-old woman with fake t.i.ts?" He cackled, head thrown back. "Christ, Horse, you're more f.u.c.ked up than I am."

"Quite likely," I said.

Pitt leaned forward and exhaled in my ear, the smell of the liquor fumigating my face. "Want to know why I did it?"

I didn't answer.

He panted his barroom breath against my neck. "Kill her, that is?" he added, suddenly unsure of himself.

"Why did you do it, Pitt," I said in a monotone. "Please tell me."

"Well there she was," he said. "Down to her bra and panties. In your bedroom. She reeked of s.e.x. b.i.t.c.h in heat. Door was unlocked, I walked right in. She must have thought I was you. When she realized whose c.o.c.k she was grabbing, she started to babble. Tried to explain. Wasn't what it looked like."

He paused and spat again, a second medallion of red on the rock. "It was disgusting," he said. "My own mother." He snorted, sat up straight. "She had to die. Simple as that."

"Don't we all."

Pitt put a hand on my shoulder, pushed himself to his feet. The detonator swung back and forth in his hand. "I'm glad you see it that way," he said thickly. "Any world that could produce a man like me does not deserve to continue." He held his hand in front of my face. The detonator lay flat on his palm. "You deserve a clean slate, too."

I shook my head. "There is no clean slate."

Pitt crouched. "But there is! Mother Earth, the world spirit. Gaia forgives us. Will forgive us. If we do this one thing."

I nodded my head, not looking at him. "That we are an infection," I said at last.

"You feel it too? We're a disease, a cancer, and-"

"-the only cure is death. Yes," I said. "I got the lecture at the ashram."

Pitt rested the detonator on my knee. He held out his gloved fist. "Bros forever?"

I left my hands in my lap.

"Dude." The fist trembled in midair. "Bros forever?"

"Maybe our only task as human beings is to survive." I put my hand on his shoulder. "To survive and endure."

Pitt's eyes plummeted to earth. I will never forget the look on his face. He growled at me from deep in his throat, "Who would want to live on this vile, pus-filled canker sore of a planet?"

I pushed him away. "I would."

Pitt stood, the muscles in his face contorting and twitching. He spat at me. The loogie landed on my cheek, slid down to my chin. "Then you are my enemy. And you must die."

He lifted the detonator to waist height. Checked the safety. Off. Where I had left it. His thumb descended to the b.u.t.ton. I slashed my legs around, slammed my shins into the backs of his knees. He toppled to the ground. The detonator fell from his hand. It landed a few meters away. He reached for it.

I leaped on top of him. Curled my fist tight and crashed it into his face. His nose snapped against my knuckles. My broken pinkie collided with his teeth. I screamed. Clutched my injured hand.

He put his hand to his face. His fingers came away covered in blood. I thought for a moment he was going to punch me back.

Then he laughed. "I deserve that," he said. He held out his arms wide, palms open. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

I sat back on my heels. Shook my head.

"f.u.c.king wuss," he said.

His fist crunched against my jaw. I fell off him onto my side. A loose tooth rattled around on my tongue. He climbed to his feet, stumbled to where the detonator lay. I shook off the punch, stood up. I ran the few steps between us and threw myself at him. He tumbled backward, with me on top. I wrenched the detonator from his hand. Snapped shut the safety catch, threw it over the ledge into the volcano.

He rolled over on top of me. Gripped my throat with his hands. Thumbs pressed down on my windpipe. I grabbed at his wrists, but they held me tight. I squeezed his throat shut, blocking the lungful of air inside his chest.

Seconds pa.s.sed. Long, painful, dreadful seconds. I felt faint. Pitt's face went red.

His hands weakened. Loosened their grip on my throat. Air surged into my lungs. Pitt pulled away, but I got back on top of him, my hands still tight on his throat.

"Do. It," he grunted.

His eyes wobbled back in his head. I let go. His body shuddered with an intake of breath. He lay there, fighting for air.

"Finish it." His voice was hoa.r.s.e. He tried to sit up but couldn't make it. "d.a.m.n you, finish it!"

I stood. Stumbled and nearly fell into the crater. My lungs fought for oxygen. Black spots swam in my vision. I teetered on the edge. "Do what you have to do," I said. "I want no more deaths on my conscience."

The icy mist stung my cheek. The black spots disappeared. I stood up straight, still gasping for air. Stepped over Pitt's prostrate figure. Forced my feet to walk the dozen meters to where the rope lay spooled. My mashed pinkie pulsed with pain. I put it in my mouth and bit down. The pain eased. I spat the useless finger over the cliff.

I turned back. Pitt stood at the edge of the crater, peering into it. I looped the rope around my waist, prepared to rappel down. When I looked back again, Pitt was gone.

I took Liliana's photo from my shirt pocket. One last time. My lips moved.

"Goodbye."

I parted my fingers. The wind whipped her from my hand. She danced and floated between the clouds, like a dead leaf, or a bit of ash. Then she was gone. Where? Would I ever see her again?

Who knew? There was nothing more that I could do.

Go down the mountain, I told myself. That was all. After that? No idea. There was Aurora. No guarantees. There never are. But worth the risk? Maybe she could love me. Maybe I could even be worth loving.

Yes, I thought, as I descended the cliff, banging against the sheer granite wall, I would go down the mountain. But I would not go back to Lima. Not that far. Not that low. I wasn't dead yet. Not by a long shot. I had things I needed to do. Risks I needed to take. Pain remaining yet to suffer.

One man can save the world. One man can destroy it.

Now I knew which man I was.

Maybe even, I thought, as I landed on both feet at the base of the cliff, maybe even, a placard in my hands and a protest on my lips, a cop's billy club crushing my skull, maybe even joy.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Former Lonely Planet author J.M. Porup lived in South America for many years and traveled widely throughout the continent. American by birth, Australian by choice, Colombian by marriage and Canadian by accident, he escaped from the US in 1999 and plans to renounce his citizenship. His first editor-way back in the mid-90s-called him a loose cannon. Ever since he has done his best to live up to that high standard.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Thanks go first, as always, to midwife/editrix Alison Dasho, who patiently coaxed this one into the light.

Derek Murphy's fine artwork adorns the cover.

Michael Mandarano copyedited.

Derek Murphy pulled double duty as proofreader.

Many people read and commented on various drafts. Thank you!

Y finalemente, y mas importante que todo, gracias a mi conejita y ladybug girl. Te amo y te amo.

ALSO BY J.M. PORUP.

Novels.

The Judas Syndrome.