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Standing, I walk over to them. It’s obvious they’ve done this before. The setup appears as if they’ve done this a thousand times. He looks at me, glances at the woman, and she takes his place.
With a bloodied glove, he pulls down his mask to talk to me. “The next twenty-four hours are critical. But Jamison Felder is a tough son of a bitch. He’ll probably pull through.”
“Probably?”
“Most likely?” He shrugs and looks down at my dad. “Twenty-four hours. The clock’s ticking. You, him,” he points at Dad. “And your man there needs to be gone by then.”
“What?”
“Got a church service happening here on Sunday. You can’t be here.”
“You’re fucking kidding me, aren’t you?”
The man shakes his head. “Nope. I owed him. I’ve done my best. You tell him if he wakes up, we’re square.”
“What do you meanifhe wakes up?”
He shrugs again. “I’ve done all I can do. The rest is up to him and whatever God he sold his soul to.” The man turns away from me and leans over Dad, looking at the stitches his female counterpart has put in. He nods at the woman. “Good job. Those are some good sutures.”
Even with a mask on, you can tell she’s smiling at him. Her head tilts to the side, and she nods.
Both move away from Dad, and I stand next to him, holding his hand. His color appears better, but he still looks like a corpse. If it weren’t for the machines monitoring his heart, I’d think he was already dead.
“We’ll leave you three alone,” says the man.
Holding up the gun, I shake my head. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Honey, there ain’t nothing more we can do for him. Our home is behind the church. If you need us, holler. Otherwise, we’re going to bed,” replies the woman as she tugs her husband out of the church.
Following them out, I watch as they enter what looks like a shack out back. It’s about twenty feet from the church and behind it is woodland. A light goes on inside, and after ten minutes, it gets turned off, and the shack is in blackness. Simon comes up behind me, hands on my shoulders. He rests his chin on the top of my head.
“You okay?”
“No,” I answer. The tears I’ve been holding in fall.
Silently, as Simon holds me, I cry. He guides me back to Dad, then drags over a pew for me to sit on. Holding onto Dad’s hand, I rest my cheek on the gurney, staring at Simon. I put the gun between us and take his hand in mine.
Neither of us speaks. Simon stares straight ahead, and after a while, I close my eyes.
When next I open them, it’s daylight.
Simon is gone, and so is my gun. Sitting up, I stretch and yawn.
“I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up,” whispers Dad in a croaky voice.
Standing, I lean over him. “You’re awake,” I whisper while tears glide down my cheeks.
“Don’t cry, Ann. It was a through and through. Where are we?”
Swiping at my face, I answer, “Post Oak Baptist Church.”
“Who worked on me?”
“There was a number in your phone with a skull next to it. I assumed it was help.”
“Smart girl. Who’d she send us to?” asks Dad.
Frowning down at him, I shake my head. “I didn’t get his name.” I laugh. “American Gothic?”
