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Frowning, I turned to follow her gaze and found a vagrant teetering into the parking lot.
One of his legs moved slower than the other, his age unknowable beneath his dirty hair and beard. I knew him from around town, one of the handful of homeless that wasn’t interested in our help beyond the occasional meal. I wasn’t sure what he’d been through, as he didn’t trust us well enough to say, despite our outreach. At town hall meetings, he was one who was brought up nearly every time. Doug Windley loved to use him as an example for the whole of them rather than the exception that he was.
Although the man had wandered into allies, everyone stilled, trying to go about their business without drawing any attention from him. Well, with the exception of Keaton, who had already approached the man as he peered into the pink plastic bucket where we’d put the money.
“Hey, friend—” Keaton started.
“Ain’t your friend,” the man answered with surprising ambivalence.
Keaton paused. “Can I do something for you?”
The man sniffed, ran his hand across the back of his nose, and headed for one of the cars. Until he saw my sisters and me.
He’d only taken two steps in our direction before Keaton put himself between us. “If you’d like to help out, we’d gladly give you a portion of the money.”
“Work for you? No thanks.” He tried to sidestep Keaton without luck.
“Can I get you somethin’ to eat?”
The man stopped, turned icy eyes on Keaton. “I don’t need your fucking help.”
“Fair enough. But I’m afraid you can’t be here if I can’t help you with something.”
Those eyes flashed. “Who are you to tell me where I can be and where I can’t? Looks like a parkin’ lot to me. Don’t think you own those, do you?”
“No, sir. But—”
“Then kindly fuck off,” he raved in an unexpected escalation. “You don’t wanna help me—you’re locking up whoever doesn’t agree with you. You’re gonna put me in jail, ship me off to the FBI, and I’m supposed to eat your shit?”
Keaton straightened up, his face drawn. The men present began to move in his direction the second the man came unhinged.
“No, sir, but I’m afraid you’re gonna have to leave.”
“Fuck you. I don’t have to do shit.” He looked around at the advancing men. “You can’t tell me what to do. Who the fuck are you?”
When he didn’t stop rambling, Keaton spoke over him, told him again he needed to leave. Made the mistake of putting his hand on the man’s arm.
It happened too fast to track. From where we stood at Keaton’s back, all I saw was his dodge and a glint of metal before he was subdued by the Meyer brothers and a few other men. Someone screamed, Presley, I thought, and the man thrashed, screaming his paranoia laced with obscenities at no one and everyone, his face pressed against the pavement.
From the knot of naked backs, Keaton stood first and turned. It was only then that I saw the weathered knife in his hand.
His chest heaved, his brows heavy, his eyes dark. The crimson streak across his ribs beaded and ran down to his hip, but he approached without noticing.
“Somebody calling the police?” he asked. On the affirmation of someone behind me, he glanced behind him where Wyatt worked on tying the man up with a rope he’d had someone fetch him from his truck. The men stared down at him for a moment, panting.
But I’d hurried to Keaton, my eyes on the cut.
“You’re bleeding,” I said with a shaky breath, using a small towel on my shoulder to clear the wound in an effort to determine how bad it was.
His arms opened a little as he looked for the wound, leaning when he found it. “Felt like a scratch—ahh!” He hissed when I tugged at his skin to open the cut.
With a sigh, I straightened up. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Are you all right?”
He nodded, dark as pitch. Glancing back at the man, he shook his head. “I tried to help. I didn’t want … he’ll be arrested. Only thing anyone can do at this point.”
Just behind me, Poppy said ominously, “Doug is going to have a field day with this. That man just handed Windbag all the ammunition he needs to lead a serious charge to stop us—a documented assault.”
“Have a little faith,” Keaton said. “Let’s not count our people out yet.”
As the words floated away, they took a little bit of our hope with them. Because Doug would make this his new campaign slogan, and anyone teetering on the fine line between us might be convinced to join him on this alone. It was possible even people on our side would flip at the sign of danger.
Because our jobs had just gotten a whole lot harder.
