Gundown (37 page)

She watched as Hank gripped Hanson’s arm and towed her toward steps that led onto the stage. People lunged for her with hands like claws, but Hank put his body between Hanson and her attackers and stiff-armed them away.

On the stage, he led her to the lectern. The audience roared its bloodlust, and Hanson faced it, head high, defiant. Jewel stood mute, void of rage . . . and everything else.

Hank raised one hand; it took minutes, but the audience quieted. He spoke into the microphone on the lectern. His voice low, he said, “This . . .” He glanced at Hanson, and his expression softened. To the audience, he said, “This human being—”

The audience bellowed denial that she was one of them. But Jewel knew she was. She knew what it felt like to want to kill. She gazed at Hank as he waited for quiet. His face seemed calm, but how could that be?

When the crowd wound itself down, he said, “This human being has just killed”—he pointed to Noah’s body—“that beloved—” His voice choked off, and now his face revealed his anguish. The crowd remained mute.

His sorrow touched Jewel, deep, deep down. Her throat tightened. This was not the man who had killed Earl.

After a long moment, Hank finished. “. . . killed that beloved and benevolent man.”

Hanson turned to Hank, her expression hard and icy. Then the corner of her mouth ticked up in a tiny grin. Jewel saw Hank’s fist clench, and she hoped he would smash Hanson in the face.

A white-haired man screamed, “Hang the bitch!” Others echoed his cry. Yes!

Hank relaxed his fist and raised his hand high. Quiet returned. He stood straight, two glistening trails of tears down his cheeks. He said into the stillness, “I promise . . . to help . . . the best I can.”

Jewel stared. How could he do that? Where did he find the strength?

She’d once said she’d never seen a miracle. But this . . .

The silence deepened as if the audience held its breath.

Jewel gazed up at Hank, and tears flowed from her eyes. She had felt the wrath in him when he held Hanson’s throat and had shared it, had wanted him to crush the life out of the woman. But somehow he had conquered it. If he could do that . . .

Her mama’s advice surfaced. “You got to be hard. Ain’t nobody there for you but you.” But Noah Stone had been there for her. And Franklin. And Hank Soldado.

Hank’s gaze found her. He said again, this time to her, “I promise . . . to help . . . the best I can.”

The promise. Oh, if only the promise could be true! A knot inside her loosened, opening the way for his words to reach her. Hank had it right. Noah had it right. Jewel strode to the stage, vaulted up, and went to Hank’s side.

He turned to her. Through his sadness, he smiled. Then he turned back to the audience. Jewel lifted her chin, faced the silent crowd, and added her voice to Hank’s. “I promise . . . to help . . . the best I can.”

Footsteps thudded on the stage. Donovan and Sally added their voices to the chorus. The doctor stood and said the words.

Judge Edith Crabtree, streaks of tears glistening on her cheeks, made her heavy way onto the stage and joined Hank on his other side. She said the litany.

The woman whose husband had shouted, “Hang the bitch!” said the promise. She tugged on her husband’s shirt until he joined her.

Singly, and then in twos and threes, and then by the score, the members of the audience said the words.

• • •

Mitch knelt in the aisle, cradling the woman’s head in his hands. Her eyes were shut, and her neck poured blood. He tried to stop it with his fingers, but . . . He leaned close and said, “Ma’am? Ma’am?”

The woman’s eyes flickered open. Her gaze lifted past him and looked far away. She smiled and whispered, “Oh, Suzanne.”

And then she stopped breathing.

Around him, people chorused something, but it was just a blur of noise. He stared at the woman.

The color seemed to fade from her face. Her eyes stared up, vacant now.

He laid her head down and gazed at his hands. Her blood dripped from them.

He looked up at the dead man who lay on the stage.

Jesus, what had he done?

He tried to wipe the blood off on the floor. He rubbed. And rubbed.

What had he done?

Keeping the Promise

Alone in his hotel room, Hank flicked on the TV to catch the afternoon news. Maybe it would take his mind off the bone-deep ache in his shoulder. The pain meds were too tempting—he’d seen a lot of guys live through a hit and die from the dope. Speaking of dope . . . he loaded a pipe with a bud from the friendly local marijuana dispensary—high in CBD and lower in THC—and took a toke. Soon the hurt was still there, but it wasn’t such a bad thing anymore.

For three days, he’d watched the media turmoil surrounding the assassination of Noah Stone roil and bubble. Unfounded stories of cult rituals and the failure of the Alliance were hurting good people, but he could think of nothing to do. He’d had to change rooms and register under a pseudonym to avoid reporters slavering after him like hounds after a fox.

Hank stood and stretched his good arm, the other at rest in a sling, and then winced. The Chicago wound hadn’t opened up, but it was tender. He’d been lucky. Emotion tightened his throat—Noah’s last words flashed into his mind. “Help me.”

No, he had to stay away from that, it was too fresh, and too powerful.

A flash of light from the dresser caught his eye. Sunlight glittered off his daughter’s necklace. He lifted it and stroked the chain with his thumb. So delicate, so fragile, like the child who once . . .

He let the pain rise, and then tried to counter it with the sweetness of her memory. That almost worked. He slipped the necklace into his pocket, went to his window, and gazed out at the green hills and slopes of Ashland under a sky the blue of wildflowers. A beautiful place to be . . . except it wasn’t his place. You needed people to belong to a place.

He touched a ring of many colors on his right hand. After Hank made the promise, Benson Spencer had insisted on giving him the Alliance ring Noah Stone had worn. Dreams of Noah’s dying face still woke Hank in the night.

Hank turned to his open suitcase. He’d been packed for days. But he had no place to go. And no place to stay. Feeling caged, he rigged his sling and headed out.

Outside, the sun warm on his shoulders, he entered Lithia Park and strolled over a stone bridge. Children tossed bits of bread to the white swan that ruled the pond beneath the bridge.

The sidewalk wound past a lawn where Frisbee players dashed for discs, through the cool shade of tall trees, and skirted Ashland Creek. At a shallow spot, children waded in the rocky streambed and splashed crystalline water while their mothers sat in the sun and chatted.

Hank came upon a playground, and a flash of brown skin snagged his attention. It was Jewel, talking Chloe down a slide. Chloe gave a push and zoomed down to Jewel’s waiting arms. She giggled, squirmed free, and raced to climb the slide ladder. Jewel clapped her hands and said, “You go, girl.”

Hank slipped behind a tree. He didn’t want to upset either of them, and he was sure the sight of him would screw up their fun.

On a sunny summer day at the Lincoln Park Zoo, Amy had ridden on his shoulders and chattered about the pigs and cows and ducks in the Farm-in-the-Zoo. He’d set her down in the petting pen and hovered over her, ready to yank her away from a rambunctious animal. She had petted goats and sheep, and so had he, marveling at the soft feel of wool in its natural state. The memory was warm.

Music started up not far away, and Chloe pointed in its direction. The answer to her question was yes. At a distance, Hank followed them.

At the band shell, a group of senior men pumped out the happy rhythms of Dixieland. They were damn good, and soon attracted a couple dozen people. Jewel sat on the grass, and Chloe danced around her.

When Jewel had taken the auditorium stage to join him in the promise, there’d been a connection between them. He wondered . . . No, that wasn’t going to happen.

He turned away and headed back to Main Street. Maybe he’d see a play tonight and then think of where to go tomorrow.

• • •

Jewel caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned in time to see Hank Soldado walking away. She wondered if he’d seen her. Yeah, must have, and no doubt didn’t want to have anything to do with her. After sending him to the Keep, she sure couldn’t blame him for that.

But that night in the auditorium— She gazed at the sling that cradled his left arm. If only she could tell him, show him how what he’d done set her free to embrace the way of life Noah had offered.

She turned to watch Chloe’s antics, but the picture that came to her mind was the wistful way Hank had watched Chloe when he first met her on the Alliance campus. Knowing his history, Jewel understood the longing she’d seen in his eyes and the tears that had spilled. She’d been pretty much wrong about the man, six ways from Sunday.

Glancing at his retreating figure, she wished she could help him. She twisted the multicolored Alliance ring she’d added to the collection on her fingers, a gift from Benson Spencer. She laughed at herself. Damn, this promise thing was gettin’ to her. But that wasn’t all bad, was it?

Chloe danced close and Jewel grabbed her. She crushed her with a hug, fireworks in her heart for the joy in the life she now had.

• • •

At ten o’clock the next morning, Hank’s hotel room phone rang. Benson Spencer’s energy sizzled out of the receiver. “Hank, Hank, can I grab you for a meeting?”

Hank smiled at an image of Benson pinballing from meeting to meeting. “Depends on who with and what for.”

“The Alliance board.”

What? Hank said, “What?”

“The Alliance board would like to talk to you.”

It couldn’t be security, Donovan and Sally were handling that. “Tell me why.”

“Nope. How about you trust me on this?”

Benson had him there. “Would buying you those beers I promised do instead?”

Benson laughed. “No, but I’ll take you up on the offer after the meeting. Come to Noah’s offi—ah, the tower office at ten thirty?”

The man wouldn’t be denied. “Ten thirty it is.”

When Hank got out of his car at the Alliance campus, the people he passed walked with heads down and shoulders slumped. Well, the Alliance had lost its heart, hadn’t it?

He went to the main building—barefoot Becky was on the job, but her smile made it only halfway before it died. He climbed the circular stairs to the office atop the tower.

The place looked naked without Noah’s clutter. Benson paced by the windows, and sitting around the coffee table were five people; he recognized three. Judge Edith Crabtree. Faruq Al-Kadri, the Palestinian. And Joe Donovan, who stood and came to him for a handshake.

Joe said, “Shoulder going to be okay?”

Hank nodded and took in the other two people there. A slight Asian woman and a bearded giant of a man were people he’d glimpsed on the campus.

The Asian woman stood and smiled. “Mr. Soldado. Thank you so much for coming. I’m the chairman pro tem, Hoshi Anderson. Coffee?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Al-Kadri fidgeted. “I still don’t see what a former security guard can do for us. Our problem is not security, it is how to resurrect a dead body.” The bitterness and pain in the man’s voice touched Hank.

Benson zipped to the coffeepot and poured a mugful. “’Scuse me, Faruq, but when did the Alliance become a dead body?” He took the coffee to Hank.

“The day Noah Stone died.” Al-Kadri loosed a sigh. “He was the heart and soul of us. We were all killed.”

Judge Edith glowered at him. “Wrong. The promise is the heart and soul of the Alliance.” She turned to Hank and smiled. “Good to see you again, Mr. Soldado.”

“Me, too, ma’am.” What the hell was going on here?

Al-Kadri gave Edith a nod. “All right. I will give you that. It is what Noah would say.” His voice tight with anguish, he said, “But we have lost our leader. Our leader! Whom do we follow now?” He pointed at Edith. “You?” He swung his gaze across the other board members. “Any of us?”

Benson pointed at Hank. “Him.”

Hank said, “What?” He couldn’t be serious.

The bearded man spoke, his voice a rumbling bass. “Hold on, here.” He glanced at Hank. “No offense, Mr. Soldado”—he eyed the other board members—“but since when is a convicted killer qualified to lead the Alliance?”

Benson raised his hand. “Since right now.”

Donovan faced the board members. “Same for me.”

“Okay,” said the big man, “but your say-so isn’t enough. Not for this.”

Edith Crabtree said to him, “I think I know what is enough, Gordon, and I think it’s the reason Benson and Joe brought Mr. Soldado to us.” She eyed the two, and then turned her gaze to Hank. “It’s what happened in that auditorium after Noah was shot.”

Donovan nodded and Benson said, “Yes.”

Hoshi sucked in a breath, and then said, “Of course. The promise.”

Edith said, “If I’ve ever seen a lynch mob, that was it.” She shook her head. “I was ready to tie the hangman’s knot myself, and I’m a founding member of the Alliance—and a black one, to boot.” Her gaze settled on Hank. “And then your words—Noah’s words—reached me.”