All of which would be fine, if I’d asked for it.I didn’t.
“That is so kind,” I say.My voice catches in exactly the right place.“I can’t tell you what that means.He’s—it’s been a difficult week.”
“I’d love to sit with him,” Patricia says.“Just for a few minutes.Sometimes the laying on of hands can?—”
“He’s sleeping,” I say.Soft.Apologetic.The faintest crack in my voice—practiced, precise.“The medication knocks him out.He finally drifted off about an hour ago and I just—I can’t wake him.Not when he’s finally peaceful.”
“Of course,” Mrs.Mather says.“Of course.”
“But would you like to pray with me?I could really use it.”
That pivots them.Patricia’s eyes light up because someone just asked her to do the thing she came to do and Marin—poor, brave, saintly Marin—is the one who needs ministry today.
47
Luke
I’m halfway down Marin’s driveway when I see them.
Not the black pickup.A sedan this time.Dark blue.Sitting across the road.They learned.
I should have been watching.I should have been checking the road before I pulled out, the way I check everything—twice, three times, until I’m sure.But I wasn’t watching.
That’s the mistake.That’s always the mistake.You stop watching and the world reminds you why you started.
I turn onto the county road.The sedan pulls out behind me.Just the shape of it in my mirror, growing.
A second car comes from the other direction.Pickup.Not the black one—a white flatbed, the kind you use for hauling.It swings sideways across the road and stops.
I hit the brakes.The sedan closes the gap behind me.
Boxed.
I sit in the truck for three seconds.Engine running.Hands on the wheel.Three seconds is a long time when you’re counting.
The doors open.Three men this time.Not two.Tall one from the Lamplighter.Wide one with the catcher’s mitt hands.And a third I haven’t seen—shorter, thicker, moving like a man who’s done this before and doesn’t need to prove it.
I kill the engine.Get out.
The short one hits me first.Fast.A right hook that comes from somewhere I’m not looking because I’m watching the tall one.
It catches me above the left eye and opens the skin like a zipper.Blood in my eye before I can blink.
I drop the tall one.Elbow to the throat.He goes down gagging.Same spot I hit him at the Lamplighter.He should have learned.
The wide one grabs me from behind.Bear hug.Arms pinned.The short one steps in and works my body—ribs, stomach, ribs again.Methodical.Professional.Not rage.Business.
I snap my head back into the wide one’s face.Feel his nose give.His arms loosen enough for me to twist free and I drive my knee into the short one’s thigh.He buckles.I hit him again—open palm to the ear.He staggers.
But the wide one is back.Blood pouring from his nose, angry now, and he catches me with a right hand to the jaw that sends me into the side of my truck.The metal is cold against my back.He hits me again.Same spot.My vision goes white at the edges.
The short one recovers.They work together now—taking turns, one holding, one hitting.I get a few in.Enough to matter.The tall one is still on the ground holding his throat.But it’s two on one and they’re fresh and I’m not and the math doesn’t work.
A knee to my kidney.I drop.Gravel under my hands.The taste of blood and dirt and the exact flavor of a man who let himself get sloppy.
The short one crouches next to me.Close.I can smell cigarettes and cheap cologne and the sweat of a man doing a job.
“Javi says this is the last conversation,” he says.Relaxed.Not out of breath.“Next time there’s no conversation.”
