Blessed are the Meek (26 page)

“Do you finally understand how serious I am?”

A small noise echoes from the stairs. Emerson jerks around and fires off a round up the stairs. I gasp, holding my breath, praying and hoping Donovan wasn't hit. Emerson acts like nothing has happened and continues speaking to Annalisa, who glares at him.

“I forgive you for everything. You were confused. But now you can see how much I care. How we are meant to be together. I even took care of everyone on the task force so we could be together forever. With all of them dead or put away, there'd be nobody who could dredge up the past to hurt us.”

Annalisa's face scrunches up with fierce concentration as she spits into the dirt at the same time she gives him a look that would have withered a lesser man. The veil drops from his eyes again. He looks like a little boy whose mother has scolded him for something he didn't even realize was wrong—­devastated and confused.

Although my ears are still ringing, I hear Donovan's voice shouting my name, seemingly from a long distance away. Thank God, he's okay.

“Stay where you are, rookie scum. One step down here, and I'm going to pull the fucking trigger. I'll blow their fucking heads off. You know I will.” Emerson turns his head and shouts again, “Stand down, rookie fuck.”

Silence.

Then he turns to me. “Tell him to back off!” He turns toward the stairway and crouches, creeping closer to it. He's trying to provoke Donovan. My body is now shaking uncontrollably. I start to feel as if I'm going to pass out. The walls and the darkness are closing in on me, and I start to hyperventilate. But I'm not going to cooperate.

“Say it!” he says, looking back over his shoulder at me. I shake my head in refusal. It happens so fast I don't have time to duck or react. Emerson is back next to me and his fist lands on my jaw. An acrid metallic taste fills my mouth. Blood. My head reels, and it takes me a moment to focus. I'm relieved I didn't pass out.

“Tell him!” He hisses the words. “He's the last thing standing in our way.”

Emerson kneels before Annalisa. “Nobody will ever love you like I do. You are my queen. Please—­”

She regards him with disgust, shrinking away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement in the shadows behind him, near the stairs, and hear a small sound. Emerson must hear it, too, because he whirls around, but it's too late. He is yanked off his feet by some seemingly invisible force in the dark. The light goes clattering out of his hands and shines on a graffiti-­covered wall. The reflection creates enough of a glow to dimly light the small chamber we are in.

I jump to my feet and grab the flashlight, shining it around in the darker, shadowy corners, frantically searching for my own gun. The light briefly illuminates Emerson and Donovan. The two men are struggling. Emerson is trying to put his gun up to Donovan's head. Donovan is pushing Emerson's arm down and away

I scan the chamber with the flashlight, looking for my gun. I hear Annalisa beside me, scrambling to her feet.

There it is. At the base of the steps. My gun. I set the flashlight down and dive for it. Once it is in my hands, I roll over, aiming for Emerson. In the blur of bodies illuminated by the flashlight, I can't be certain whom I will hit, so I don't pull the trigger. I can't take the chance of hitting Donovan.

“Get away from him, Mark.” My voice wavers as much as my arm.

A blur heads toward the two men. Annalisa. She brings a large piece of wood down on the back of Emerson's head. The blow stuns Emerson into lowering his gun to his side. He staggers back a few feet. Donovan retreats a few feet back, as well, and reaches for his gun.

But before he can, Emerson steadies himself, lifting his arm and aiming his gun at Donovan, who is still reaching for his own weapon. In the shadows, I see Annalisa rushing toward Donovan. I only have a second. I raise my arm, gun pointing at Emerson.

Time slows.

In small snapshots, I take in the scene. It's too late. Emerson's finger is squeezing his trigger. Donovan is reaching for his holster. It's empty. His gun is on the ground, lost in the struggle. He knows it at the same second I do, and our eyes meet. I fire my gun at the exact same moment as Emerson. The simultaneous gun blasts are deafening in the small space. I rush toward Donovan, but I'm confused by what I see. He is looking down in horror. At his feet lies Annalisa's crumpled body. A hole right between her wide eyes.

Donovan takes the gun out of my hand. I continue to stare at Annalisa, slowly comprehending what has happened. She threw herself between Emerson's bullet and Donovan.

I reluctantly turn my head to where Emerson had been standing. He's on the ground. Blood is gurgling out of his mouth and nose and throat, and yet he reaches both arms out toward Annalisa's body. “No. No. No.” The words are thick with blood. A look of intense pain blankets Emerson's face.

Donovan crouches and says something quietly in Emerson's ear. A second later, when Emerson's heart ceases to pump, the blood stops. His eyes remain open, glued on Annalisa's body.

All I can hear is the faint wail of sirens in the distance.

 

Chapter 58

I
'M A TERRIBLE
patient. All I want to do is throw on my clothes and run out the hospital doors. Instead, I'm sitting here feeling foolish in this flimsy hospital gown waiting for the okay to flee this joint.

The doctor said the lump on my head didn't even land me a concussion. I must have a tough skull. Emerson's punch in Mexico did more damage when he knocked out a tooth, giving me a goofy gap off to the side.

But because I violently threw up in the ambulance on the way here, the doctor gave me an MRI and took some blood. He told me not to worry, it was probably from drinking the Mexican water, with all its “assorted little critters” my body's not used to having inside.

“That's
not
reassuring,” I say to Donovan with a frown.

I yawn.

“Relax. You have time to take a nap, even,” Donovan tells me. He's sitting in the chair beside my hospital bed.

“Maybe I'm anemic.”

“Here. Meat.” Donovan scoops up some of the meat loaf from my tray, holding the spoon up to my mouth. “I know this is slop, but have a few bites, and I'll grill you a big, fat juicy steak when we get home.”

“If you don't move that spoon, I think I'm going to vomit all over you,” I say, trying not to retch from the smell. It doesn't work. I grab the ugly, yellow, U-­shaped tray and vomit.

Perfect. That's exactly what I want my boyfriend to watch me do.

But Donovan is holding my hair back from my face. When I am done, he gently wipes my face off with a wet rag, then sits back down and rubs my arm soothingly.

“I'm sorry,” I say with a sheepish look.

“You've been through a lot. But it's all over now. I promise. Try to rest for a few moments. We'll be home before long.”

Home. He didn't say his place or mine, he said home. I think about Annalisa. She must have truly loved Donovan to throw herself in front of that bullet. Maybe he was the only person in the world she loved more than herself. I wish I could say I was sad about her death, but right now, I have too many other emotions. It was her fault all this happened in the first place. I don't wish anyone dead, but I can't say I regret her actions. She did, ultimately, save Donovan's life.

Exactly like she told me she had done.

A chill runs through my body when I remember Emerson's face. He loved Annalisa obsessively, violently, more than he loved life itself. He died knowing that love was not returned, but it didn't diminish his love for her.

Now, he's on a morgue slab because of me. I have the blood of two ­people on my hands. I feel my heart thumping under my chin. Does that mean I'm no better than all the killers I write about? Who or what gives me the right to take a life? And then I scold myself. When I borrowed a gun, what did I think would happen? If you have a gun, you better expect to maybe use it one day. I was a fool to think I could play with it as a toy.

I put both hands up to cover my eyes. I feel the weight of Donovan's arm slung across my shoulders.

“Two men. It's a mortal sin. I don't know how I'm going to live with this.” My voice is thick with tears.

“You didn't have a choice.”

“That doesn't help. I can't take it back, Donovan. I'll have to live with it forever. With myself. I've done the worst thing you can do to another person. How can I possibly ever consider myself a ‘good' person again?”

Now, I'm flat-­out crying. He takes me in his arms and lets me cry until the front of his shirt is soaked. When I finally pull back and look up at his face, I see the pain in his eyes. He knows how I feel. He understands.

He purses his lips grimly. “Let's stop and talk to Father Liam tonight,” he says. “He's counseled me about these things before.”

I would like to see Father Liam, but I doubt he can tell me anything that will help me feel better about what I've done. Tomorrow, I'll have to come back to the police station and deal with the shooting. San Francisco detectives, not that jerk Sullivan, but another pair, briefly questioned me at Hill 88 before the ambulance came. I promised to visit the station for additional questioning.

Scenes from the bunker flash through my mind. I flash back to the image of Donovan crouching and whispering into Emerson's ear.

“Sean,” his name feels weird on my lips but I go on, “What did you say to Emerson?”

Donovan shrugs. “There wasn't much I could say . . . he was going fast. I just said I forgive him.”

The mercy of these words makes tears spring to my eyes.

Donovan's phone rings right when the nurse arrives. He steps into the hall to take his call. The nurse says the doctor will be in with my results in a moment, then leaves. I waste no time yanking my IV out, ripping off my hospital gown, and scrambling into my regular clothes. I'm lacing up my sneakers in a chair by the bed when the doctor walks in. Crap. I wasn't fast enough. I give him my sweetest smile.

“Can I go home now?”

The doctor eyes my uneaten lunch tray. “I'll release you, but you have to promise me you're going to try to eat better.”

I look at him in confusion. “Huh?”

“I want you to start with crackers and try to keep them down. Once you do that, see if you can stomach more substantial food. Maybe some toast will work. This shouldn't last more than three months. Most women start to feel better around then. And stay hydrated. Lots of water and juices.”

What the hell is he talking about? “I don't understand?”

At that moment, an image of my birth-­control-­pill container flashes into my mind, right when the doctor says:

“Ms. Giovanni, you're pregnant.”

 

Chapter 59

T
HE ENTIRE CEMETERY,
nestled in the rolling, green, Livermore hills, is bathed in a surreal glow from the sunset, brushing the Virgin Mary and angel statues with peach, pink, and orange strokes. Standing at the grave today, my mother and I have no words. Instead, we wrap our arms around each other's waists and look down at the headstones, which are side by side.

LOVING FATHER
AND HUSBAND GIACOMO
DOMENICO GIOVANNI,
1941–1977

ADORED DAU
GHTER AND SISTER, CA
TERINA MARIA-­THERES
E GIOVANNI, 1970–1977

I silently say a prayer for my sister and father. My mother fishes a small rosary out of her bag. I know she's going to be a while. I tell her I'm going for a walk, and I'll meet her back at the car.

I haven't told my mother I'm pregnant. I'm having the baby but want to wait until I'm further along to share the news. Donovan is bursting with excitement, but he understands why I want to wait to share our news. We got pregnant right before Donovan was arrested, so I'm only a few weeks along and want to wait just a little bit longer before I tell everyone. I hate being so cautious, so wary. But it's because I'm afraid. The thought of losing this little life inside me is already devastating. What it would do to my mother, I don't know, but ever since Caterina's death, I've vowed to protect her from as much pain as I could.

I came early to the cemetery, before my mother, and told Caterina everything. Sitting with my back leaning against the headstone, I confessed that she was the reason I've been terrified to have a baby. How could I ever love another child as much as I loved my sister? How could I go through the pain of loving someone that much again? And then losing them? What if I loved my baby more than Caterina? What if that love took the place of the love I felt for my sister? My serene, meek, and loving sister, who only wanted to make other ­people happy—­the last person on the planet who deserved the hand of fate she was dealt.

I spilled it all out to the cold gray headstone. And when I was done, and the tears had dried, I felt that subtle shift in the world. It would be okay. It was almost as if Caterina has given me her blessing.

Giving one last glance at Caterina's gravestone, I hug my mother and head toward a hilly area, making the sign of the cross as I pass Baby Land, with its bears and balloons atop tiny graves. Alone now, there is no longer even the threat of tears. Instead, I feel full of light and joy. I surprise myself and start singing The Verve's “Bitter Sweet Symphony.”

The air is crisp, and my voice carries across the empty graveyard. I sing as loud as I can. I can't stop myself. If a deranged man held a gun to my forehead and told me to stop singing, I don't think I could. A car passes, and the driver, an elderly man who has his window down, does a double take, looking at me like I've lost it. Maybe I have. I keep singing.

I decide to walk the perimeter of the cemetery and loop around back to my mother. I head over to the chain-­link fence and tromp through an area the lawn mower has neglected. It is dotted with tall dandelions, and for some reason, it feels good to have left the manicured lawn and tidy sidewalks.

As I walk and sing, something happens.

With every step I take, I trigger a mini explosion of small butterflies that take flight from the overgrown grass and flutter before me and around me. Orange and black monarchs, small white ones, and larger buttercup yellow ones tipped with a black stripe. They all dance around me. I laugh with delight.

As I walk, more butterflies take to the air in my path. And so, I continue on, laughing, singing, and walking with the butterflies.