“Yes, sir,” John says, responding to the authority in his voice.
Thomas nods and the two shake hands. At the last moment, Thomas pulls John in for a hug. John’s arms are stiff and he’s a little surprised by the gesture. It’s been a long time since he’s experienced any sort of human touch.
“Good luck, John.”
“Thank you, Thomas.”
He walks Thomas downstairs and out to the front of the shop to where his car is parked, waits until Thomas pulls away safely from the curb, glancing surreptitiously up and down the street. He takes extra care in locking up for the night and grabs his loaded Beretta from the drawer in his nightstand.
John stares down at the broken angel lying in his bed and wonders with some superstition if the boy’s arrival is a blessing or a curse.
2
BAYANI
The first thingBayani notices is the absence of pain. After so many hours—days—of torture, the relief brings tears to his eyes.
Is this Heaven, he wonders?Is the man standing over me God?
“Good morning,” the man says gruffly.
Morning? Is it morning?Bayani glances over to the window where a soupy light filters in through faded blue curtains with little yellow flowers. He hasn’t seen the sun in days. He thought he’d never see the outside of that warehouse basement ever again. At first, he’d been afraid he was going to die down there. Later, he’d hoped he would. He shudders at the memories trying to claw their way back into his psyche.
Bayani says nothing in response, afraid to move or speak and pop this bubble of sweet lucidity where his body floats on air and his thoughts are wrapped in cotton candy clouds. He observes the man instead—broad-shouldered with a muscular physique. He wears a few days of stubble along his square jaw that could easily grow into a beard if left unshaven. His mouth is full and frowning, giving him a stern appearance, and there are lines around his eyes that speak to his maturity—age or perhaps suffering. He has a strong Slavic nose that slants a little to one side, and the hair on his head has been recently cut, high and tight, in a military fashion.
“My name is John,” the man says, not making any motion toward him.
“Bayani,” he attempts to say, but the noise he emits is not his name, not even remotely close. He tries again, and it sounds like a seagull’s broken call. His tongue throbs and feels foreign to his mouth. He tastes the metallic tang of blood and remembers when Emile, with a manic gleam in his eyes, sat on top of his bruised ribs with his knees pinning his arms to the ground and gleefully cut out his tongue.
This can’t be Heaven, not with the harsh reality confronting him, which means he’s somehow survived. Bayani sighs and stares at the blue curtain, tears blurring his vision like rain on a windowpane.
The man, tired of standing, sits at his bedside and says nothing.
* * *
There are two men now,the one named John and another who’s wearing mint green scrubs and a face mask. A doctor, Bayani assumes. John introduced him but Bayani can’t remember his name. Now, he places the cold stethoscope against his chest and asks him to take a few deep breaths. It hurts to breathe, and it feels as if his whole chest is on fire, even with the pain meds.
The doctor outlines what he intends to do, something about injecting him with a numbing agent. Bayani sees the needle, feels a sharp pinch in his cheek, and then a prickling coolness as one side of his face goes numb. The doctor’s explanation is confirmed by the feeling of his skin being tugged back together.
Humpty dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty dumpty had a great fall.
Emile warned him that if he tried to run away, he would make him regret it, but it seemed worth the risk. By then, Bayani was living in a constant state of fear and dread, barely able to eat or sleep, trying to anticipate Emile’s moods and what he’d have to do next to survive. Bayani had even considered breaking the hotel window and jumping to his death below. Escape, though risky, seemed preferable to that.
So, Bayani waited for his opportunity when Emile was out and his guard was distracted. He slipped out of Le Grand in the middle of the night and hoofed it to the bus station where he persuaded a kind stranger to buy him a bus ticket, since he had no money of his own. Bayani only got as far as Mobile, Alabama before Emile’s men caught up with him and dragged him back to a warehouse in a freight yard owned by the Hand. There they tied him to a chair to await Emile’s arrival. The first thing Emile did to punish him was cut his face. While Bayani cried, Emile laughed and told him he was ugly now.
If only that had been the end of it.
Bayani doesn’t feel like crying anymore, doesn’t have much of an opinion on being alive either—he’s certainly not grateful—and he feels guilty because his grandmother would surely be heartbroken if he gave up on life altogether. She raised him after his mother ran off, and since then, it’s been just the two of them, a bond that endures despite the thousands of kilometers between them. He closes his eyes and pictures her soft, round face, her warm hand cupping his chin.
There will be something beautiful to smile about tomorrow, I promise.
The doctor finishes stitching up one side of his face, then gives the same treatment to the other. Seeking a distraction, Bayani focuses on the man named John, whose somber face seems to reflect his own misery. His deep-set eyes are surprisingly expressive considering his stoic demeanor. Who is this man, and how did Bayani wind up in his bedroom? Does Emile know that he somehow survived? Will he send his men after him? Bayani would rather die. Cold terror seizes him when he realizes they may be fixing him up just to send him back.
“Please,” he attempts to say. He can’t hear them above the roar of his own panic, so he gestures frantically with his hands. The doctor pauses his ministrations while John murmurs something to settle him and pets his head. He seems trustworthy and kind, but Bayani had once thought the same of Emile.
“You’re okay,” John says. “You’re safe here.”
