“That’s the right choice, Wes,” he calls out from the base of the tree. His voice is warm, like we’re at a dinner party.
“Lisbeth, can you hear me?” I shout.
She’s fifty yards away and still on the ground. Among the shadows and the overhang of the banyan tree, she’s nothing but a small black blob between two graves.
“She’s fine,” The Roman insists. “Though if you don’t come help her, I think she might pass out.”
He’s trying to get me closer, and with Lisbeth bleeding on the ground, I don’t have a choice.
“I need to check she’s okay first,” I say as I head toward the path. He knows I’m trying to stall. “Step back and I’ll come forward.”
“Go fuck yourself, Wes.” Turning back to Lisbeth, he raises his gun.
“No! Wait — I’m coming!” Rushing down the stone path, I put my hands in the air to let him know I’m done.
He lowers his gun slightly, but his finger doesn’t leave the trigger.
If I were smart, I’d continue to watch him, but as I stumble down the path between the rows of headstones, I turn toward the First Lady. Her wide eyes are pleading, her whole body is in a begging position. This time, her tears aren’t fake. But unlike before, she’s looking in the wrong place for help.
“Don’t take it so personally,” The Roman tells me, following my gaze.
Moving toward Lisbeth, watching my footing, I keep looking at the silhouette of Lenore Manning. For eight years, she’s known I blamed myself for putting Boyle in that limo. For eight years, she’s looked into what’s left of my face and pretended I was part of her family. On my birthday three years ago, when they were teasing me that I should go on more dates, she even kissed me on my cheek—directly on the scars—just to prove I shouldn’t be so self-conscious. I couldn’t feel her lips because they were touching my dead spot. But I felt it all. Leaving the office, I cried the whole way home, amazed at what a beautiful and thoughtful gesture it was.
Right now, walking past a shadowed stone crypt with red and blue stained-glass doors, I again well up with tears. Not from sadness. Or fear. My eyes squint, squeezing each drop to my cheeks. These tears sting from rage.
Down on my left, Lenore Manning’s lips pucker like she’s starting to whistle. She’s about to say my name.
I glare back, telling her not to bother.
Even in this dim cemetery, she’s fluent in reading her staff. And that’s all I’ve ever been. Not family. Not friend. Not even a wounded puppy that you take in to clear your conscience from the other crap you do in your life. Hard as it is to admit, I’ve never been anything more than staff.
I’m tempted to yell, curse, scream at what she did to me. But there’s no need. The closer I get, the more clearly she can see it for herself. It’s carved deep into my face.
For a second, her eyebrows tilt. Then she takes a tiny step back and lowers her umbrella so I can’t see her face. I’ll take it as a victory. Lenore Manning has faced just about everything. But at this moment, she can’t face me.
Shaking my head, I turn back to The Roman, who’s now forty feet away.
“Keep coming,” he says.
I stop. Diagonally to my right, between two stubby headstones, Lisbeth is down on her knees, cradling her bloody hand toward her chest. In the eerie bluish light, I can see that her hair is soaked, her left eye puffy and already swollen. I’m nearly there.
“I’m sorry,” she stutters as if it’s her fault.
“I said keep coming,” The Roman insists.
“Don’t!” Lisbeth interrupts. “He’s gonna kill you.”
The Roman doesn’t argue.
“Promise me you’ll let her leave,” I say.
“Of course,” he sings.
“Wes!” Lisbeth says, her breathing growing heavy. It’s all she can do to stay conscious.
There are no sirens in the distance, no one riding to the rescue. From here on in, the only way Lisbeth’s getting out of here is if I step forward and try to make the trade.
The train gets louder in the distance. There’s a whisper over my shoulder. I turn back to follow the sound, but the only thing there is my own reflection in the red and blue stained-glass doors of the crypt. Inside, behind the glass, I swear something moves.
“You’re hearing ghosts now?” The Roman teases.
As the whispers get louder, I continue toward him on the path. I’ve got barely twenty feet to go. The rain lightens overhead as I reach the cover of the tree. Its tendrils dangle from above like a puppeteer’s fingers. I’m so close, I can see Lisbeth’s body shaking… and the First Lady’s pinkie flicking her umbrella strap… and the hammer on The Roman’s gun as he cocks it back with his thumb.
“Perfect,” he says with a wry grin. Before I can even react, he turns to the side and raises his gun. Directly at Lisbeth’s heart.
111
No — don’t!” I shout, already running.
There’s a high-pitched hiss. But not from his gun. From behind me.
Before I even realize what’s happening, a burst of blood spurts from The Roman’s right hand, through the back of his palm, just below his knuckles. He’s been shot. At the impact, The Roman’s own gun goes off.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lisbeth slapping her shoulder like she’s swatting a mosquito. I can make out something dark — blood — leaking out between her fingers, like water seeping from a cracked well. She pulls her hand away from her shoulder and holds it up in front of her face. When she sees the blood, her face goes white, and her eyes roll back in her head. She’s already unconscious.
“Shit, shit, shit!” The Roman yells, bent over, jerking wildly and holding his shattered right hand to his chest. On his right, the First Lady takes off, running back toward the main entrance and disappearing into the darkness. The Roman’s in too much pain to stop her. On the back of his hand, the hole’s no bigger than a penny. But the signature with the stigmata is unmistakable.
“You lied to me! He’s an angel!” Nico howls from the back of the graveyard, up by the shrubs. He plows toward us through the darkness, his gun straight out, ready for the kill shot. He’s in silhouette. I can’t see his face. But his arm is steady as ever.
“Y-You’re going to Hell,” The Roman whispers as he anxiously throws his own personal Hail Mary. “Like Judas, Nico. You’re Judas now.”
The way Nico flinches, it’s clear he hears it. It still doesn’t slow him down. “God’s laws last longer than those who break them!” he insists as he gathers his strength. “Your fate is rewritten!” Up the path, he grips his rosary with one hand and aims the gun with the other.
“Nico, think of your mother!” The Roman begs.
Nico nods as the tears again stream down his face. “I am,” he growls, but as he takes aim, there’s a loud whoosh from behind the back fence of the cemetery. Up on the train tracks, a silver passenger train bursts into view, moving so fast it almost appears from nowhere. The clanking is deafening. My ears pop from the sudden vacuum in the air. For Nico, it’s fifty times worse.
He still fights it, gritting his teeth as he squeezes the trigger. But the noise is already too much. His arm jerks for half a second, the shot hisses from his gun, and as the bullet zings past The Roman’s shoulder and shatters a hunk of bark from the nearby tree, Nico Hadrian actually misses.
A dark grin returns to The Roman’s face as the train continues to whip by. Barely able to hold his gun with his right hand, he tosses aside the umbrella and switches the gun to his bandaged left. The way his right fist is shaking, he’s clearly in pain. He doesn’t care. His shoulders straighten. His knees steady. As he raises his gun and takes aim, I’m already running at him. So is Nico, who’s at least thirty feet behind me.