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* * *
From my desk, I stare across the room at the crucifix on the wall, and think how dangerous a prospect it is sometimes to do what we believe is right. I’m certain Jesus wouldn’t have bashed in a teenager’s face in the name of righteousness, and to that, I owe my father for instilling a bit of the devil in my soul.
My old man would’ve killed him. Finished him off and buried his body so deep, no one would ever know what happened to him. Much like I did with Calvin and the pedophile, whose name I can’t even remember now. He’s as much a part of the slush that’s begun to break down his body at this point. How horrible it must be to live a life so rife with evil that no one even knows you’re gone.
A knock at the door breaks my thoughts, and I straighten in my chair, shuffling some papers around so it doesn’t look like I’ve done nothing but sit here in silence the last two hours.
Javier peeks his head into my office “Damon?” He steps just inside, in spite of my gesture for him to take a seat. “I’ll make this quick. I have a meeting this afternoon for aquinceañerathis weekend. I just wanted to let you know that Gordon asked that you stop by the hospital to pray with him and his family.”
“Me?”
“He specifically asked for you. He said you told him some helpful things earlier, and he apparently feels comforted by your presence. Are you able to do this for him?”
“Yes, sure. I’m happy to pray.” For the boy whose face I smashed in with the butt of my own gun.
Of all the awkward invitations.
“Good. I’ll let him know.”
* * *
It’s just after eight in the evening when I arrive at the hospital. I received the room number from Javier just before I left, and the phone number in case I got lost en route.
Three young men with tawny skin and black hair stand outside of the room, while a small crowd gathers inside.
Beside the bed, Gordon stares down at his grandson with tears in his eyes, but the moment he sees me, his leathery cheeks wrinkle with a smile. “Father Damon, glad you made it.”
What I presume are family and friends step aside, allowing me to make my way toward the bed, and the moment I see Miguel laid out, his face bruised and puffy, with a tube sticking out of his nose, I know this is going to be the most excruciating thirty minutes of my life.
An older woman with graying hair and wrinkled skin reaches across the boy and sobs something in Spanish. When I approach, she takes my hand, kissing my knuckles, as though I’m the pope himself. She rambles on through tears in Spanish, from which I can only make outmi hijoandpadre.
Gordon leans in, setting his hand on my back. “Miguel’sabuelaon his momma’s side. One of those super religious types. Thinks holy water keeps the demons out, and all that.”
“I’d like to get started, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yes, I’d appreciate that.”
I keep the prayer quick and very formal, just as I’ve performed hundreds of times before, and try not to look at the boy too much. I do my best to keep in mind the reason he’s laid out on a hospital bed right now. In fact, I wish I could explain that to his family, who fawn over him like he’s some fallen saint.
That would surely get me killed, though.
“Thank you for coming out,Padre. Means a lot to our family and friends.”
“Of course. Hang in there.” A lame finale to this crap show, but I’m grateful that it’s over. Washing my hands at the sink just inside the room, I glance back toward Gordon where he’s chatting with a younger woman, and out of nowhere, voices emerge from the men outside the room.
“Tonight. We grab the girl. Couple hours, and she’ll talk. Then we show the bitch who roughed him up how we look out for our own.”
Shit. They’re going after Ariceli. And me, apparently, but I’m more concerned about the girl.
“Tell Gordo we’re out. We can have thispinche maricónbagged and tagged before midnight.”
One of the men slips behind me, and I take extra time to rinse, watching him out of the corner of my eye. When he turns back in my direction, I dry my hands off and let the trio get a headstart. Once they’re down the hall, I trail after them, my head chiding me for the plan I don’t currently have in place.
Through the hospital and out to the parking lot, I don’t take my eyes off them, and when they finally pull out on to the main street, I maintain a few car lengths behind.
Hopefully, I won’t end up having to pray over three more bodies, but if it comes to that, or letting Ariceli suffer whatever vengeance these stooges have in mind, I’m willing to say some not-so-heartfelt words on God’s behalf.
The route we drive is familiar, all the way to Holdridge Street, and my mind spins with the effort to devise a quick plan. I can’t imagine they’d barge in with Ariceli’s parents there, but they’re gang members, not hitmen. By nature, they’re less stealth.
