With a great groan, the crucifix pulled free from the wall and lurched forward. Jack gasped and threw out his hands, surprised to find that it was heavier than a man, and far more solid—there was no give of flesh and muscle. He wasn’t fast enough, strong enough. Mahogany crashed against his face, pulverized his nose and front teeth. Blood sprayed.
Jack coughed, choked on his own teeth. Shoved the crucifix away so that it smashed through the drywall in a hail of dust and debris. Blood streamed down his face, stained the carpet.
Horrified, unable to comprehend the damage he had caused, unable to think of anything but his mother’s total and complete despair when she learned what he’d done, he fled. By the time he arrived back at the hotel, three separate people had tried to call him an ambulance. He’d only just convinced them not to.
Blood soaked the front of his shirt, poured down his throat, puddled in his nasal cavity, stained his pants, shined the toes of his shoes. He used his jacket to staunch the bleeding, but he knew the cops would find him soon enough—there wasn’t enough rain to wash away the trail of evidence.
Boris didn’t glance up from his magazine, and Jack was grateful for it. One less awkward conversation, one less person recoiling at the sight of his face. His eyes were starting to swell shut.
In his room, Jack crawled into the shower, and sat there a long time, watching as pink water swirled around him. Bruises bloomed on his arms, his legs, his torso.
How much blood could one human hold? How long until he watched the last of it go down the drain, until he had no choice but to endure October seventeenth as a bloodless corpse?
Could he die? Would he come back if he did?
What if he didn’t?
The bleeding didn’t stop. Jack prodded the tip of his tongue into the holes where his teeth used to be and tasted metal.
The water ran cold, so he shut it off and stuffed an undershirt over his mouth and nose. When he looked in the mirror, his eyes were bruised, swollen. In a matter of hours, he wouldn’t be able to see.
Unsure what else to do, he filled the ice bucket. It was no substitute for real medical attention, but hospitals meant police. Even if it was an accident, even if he hadn’t actually broken into the church, the entire incident would reflect poorly on him.
No, he’d just take out another loan, get his teeth fixed, and live in the shadow of medical debt for a few decades.
But his face was destroyed. His nose was completely smashed. Just touching it made him whimper. Agony lanced from his face to the base of his spine each time he shifted the undershirt to examine the damage beneath.
He laid in bed with ice chips piled atop his broken, shattered face. One hand rested on the phone. The TV droned on.
CHAPTER
NINE
He woketo a ringing phone and a splitting headache.
Groping blindly for the receiver, he mumbled, “What day is it?”
“Wake up, motherfucker!” cried Boris, undeterred. “And, uh, it’s the seventeenth? Yup, the seventeenth. Tuesday.”
Jack let out a sigh—of relief or exasperation, he couldn’t say. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, yeah.” A click, a dial tone.
Jack brushed his fingers over his lip, along his front teeth.
“Thank fuck,” he groaned, hardly daring to believe it. His head felt as if it might explode, but his teeth had returned and his nose had regained its structure.
He did not rise from bed until well into the afternoon, when the sun streamed through the velvet curtains and heated the room until it became unbearably hot and humid. Head pounding, he filled the ice bucket again and spent the rest of the afternoon sucking on ice chips, watching reruns of an old show calledStaring Down the Barrel. A gruff, cigar smoking detective named Buck and his grouchy but sensual assistant, Nora, solved crimes in a gritty, downtrodden city.
It wasn’t terrible, Jack decided. A bit dramatic and too on-the-nose, but the characters were interesting. Every episode had a twist ending, so he was never bored, even when he’dsettled into the rhythm. Nora was as gutsy as she was beautiful and Jack rather enjoyed watching her move across the screen, graceful and deadly as a lioness, gun in hand. Conversely, he enjoyed Buck’s analytic prowess, his sharp, biting humor.
By the time the sun set behind the trees, Jack’s stomach growled mercilessly, so he dragged himself to the gas station, change rattling in his pocket. It took great deal of effort to change into his suit. He didn’t bother to shave and found himself on the receiving end of a few critical and pointed stares.
He may as well have gone out in his pajamas. What did it matter? At least he’d be comfortable while other people judged him.
Buck Hawthorne doesn’t need to shaveto solve mysteries, thought Jack listlessly as he paid for what felt like his umpteenth hot dog.So why should I?
Becausethatwas what he was doing, he realized. The bright lights of the gas station grew sharper, more vivid. His mind raced and his heart pounded. The hot dog nearly slipped from his fingertips.
