The Last Goodbye (44 page)

Rabbit didn't need his father's encouragement. He had been trying to get a clear shot, but it was impossible. The mass of bodies was in constant motion, and at this range, a bullet from a gun like his could easily pass through its intended victim and into Pope as well. “Which one?” he cried.

“Either one, dammit!” Pope yelled. I spun Pope around, forcing his back to Rabbit. But Briah wasn't finished. She clambered to her feet and stood, swaying and crying. “Mama, mama,” she wept, and began moving unsteadily back toward the three of us. She was a wild card, not quite in control, but a force. If she reached us we would all tumble to the ground, and what would happen next was impossible to predict. Pope saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and said, “Her, damn it! Take her out!”

Rabbit turned to Briah, and the moment of grace flickered again. I don't know if it was because she was a young girl, no older than himself, but he hesitated. He stood woodenly, the gun pointed vaguely in Briah's direction. Suddenly, they were two teenagers, caught up in a horrible, adult world, and they had no business being there. They should have been out on a field, playing catch, or falling in love. They should have been a million places but in the dim light of the Southeast's most desperate housing project. They should have been doing anything else with their lives but playing out a young American tragedy with death in the air. Standing there looking at each other, they were
children.

For a moment, I thought Rabbit might throw the gun down and walk off. You could feel it; human decency was raising its quiet voice, telling a teenage boy that something was terribly wrong, and even though he was too young to understand how he found himself in this godforsaken back alley of hell, this was a moment when the evil in the world could and should be silenced. Everything froze and the night turned horribly quiet. Briah stood unsteadily in the dangerous air, a human target caught up in a game she had no more chance of understanding than Rabbit. It was the whole universe contained in one second, governments and futile poverty programs and black and white and the collapse of the family, all compressed into one boy whose anger had turned back into sadness and confusion before our eyes. I swear to God, it was the whole history of the world. Rabbit turned and looked at his father, his face covered in sudden confusion. It was in his eyes, like a kind of pleading:
What have you done to me here? How have I turned into this in so few years? Why is the world so unbelievably hard?
But Pope's cold breath blew out the flame. His voice cut across the night air, killing hope; the moment passed, and the world spun once again on its familiar axis. “Shoot her!” he screamed. “Shoot the bitch!”

Rabbit turned to Briah, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. But in that awful moment between father and son, Pope had loosened his grip. Michele wrenched free and lunged in front of Briah, taking the bullet full in her own chest. The bullet exploded through her, knocking her backward and collapsing her against the filthy wall. She slammed hard against the brick, her breath forced outward in a great sigh. She looked straight ahead in a frightened, surprised stare, and slid downward toward the pavement. Briah, in shock to have met and lost her mother in a terrible handful of moments, stumbled and fell to the concrete, trembling and sighing in a heap.

Rabbit stared at Michele and Briah, then dropped the gun. He turned woodenly back to his father, his expression blank. He had shut down, his conscience and mind seared into silence. Pope didn't hesitate. He made a lightning-quick move toward the gun. The world turned horrible again, when defending myself meant killing a man in front of his own son. And in spite of the chaos unfolding that night, I knew that inside the fourteen-year-old, budding sociopath called Rabbit, there was still a living, breathing, confused child who desperately wanted to live something like an ordinary life. The question that I had milliseconds to decide was whether or not I was willing to die for that vision.

There was a tremble in my soul, a crack of sound, and my bullet sent Jamal Pope to hell.

The sirens were coming. Rabbit was long gone, and I had no ability to follow. My leg was bleeding profusely, and I couldn't walk anymore. I made my way to Michele, pulling her halfway into my lap. I held her, stroking her hair. Her eyes fluttered open and settled on me. She smiled, reached up, and touched my face. I took her hand, kissed it, and replaced it by her side. I had finally made peace with loving her, and I was losing her the same day. It was unbearable.

“You're going to be okay,” I said, pressing her fingers inside mine. “You're going to be fine.”

“My baby? I saw...”

“She's all right,” I said. “Nothing happened to her.”

She squeezed my hand. “Can she see me? Jack, darling, I don't want her to see me like this.”

I looked across the dark alley to where Briah lay unconscious about fifteen yards away. “No. She's ... she can't see us. She's fine.”

Michele closed her eyes. Her breathing became labored, her chest rising and falling with the effort. She grimaced as pain shot through her body, then let her go. Her eyes opened again, more slowly this time. “I'm back in the Glen, Jack,” she said. Her voice was getting whispery now, thinning out as her life ebbed. “Back where I started. It's like nothing happened. I did nothing with my life.”

I reached down and held her face in my hand. The pain in my leg was like a hot iron. “You made the most beautiful sound in the world,” I said. “You made music for the angels.” She smiled then, and my own resolve to be strong crumbled. I began to weep. “I wanted to protect you,” I said. “I wanted to protect you so much.”

She squeezed my hand weakly and said, “It's all right, darling. It's all right.” The sirens had come closer, and a crowd had tentatively begun to gather. With the police arriving, even Pope's threats wouldn't keep people away. I held Michele closer, shielding her from view. She whispered something I couldn't quite make out. I leaned down, and she breathed into my ear, “You'll take care of her, won't you, Jack? You'll take care of my baby?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I promise.” With those words, another woman entered my life.

Michele's hand relaxed. She coughed, her body convulsing gently with the exhalation. A thin line of blood appeared at her mouth. I reached down and dabbed it away with my shirt. I couldn't bear the sight of her life draining away. It was like a wound on my own body, a rent across my own soul. I heard car tires screech; it would all be over soon, just a few more seconds. A harsh light flooded the scene, forcing me to squint. In the glare, I saw that Michele's blood had moved beyond her soaked clothing, gathering in an awful pool beside her body. She spoke again, her voice barely audible. “The bullet was Briah's,” she said. “It was for Briah.”

I kissed her forehead. “That's right, sweetheart. You saved her life. She's going to be fine.”

“I was a good mother then, wasn't I, Jack? A good mother?”

I pulled her closer. “Yes, sweetheart. You were a very good mother.”

A flashlight forced my hand up to shield my eyes. “Police,” a hard, masculine voice said from behind the light. “Let her go and lay down on your stomach.”

“It's time to go,” Michele said. “Time to let go.”

I ignored the police, rocking her gently. “That day, at my apartment. You told me you loved me.”

“I remember.”

“You said not to say it back. You said it was easier.”

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper.

“I do. I want you to know. I do, more than anything.” She looked into my eyes, and I knew she understood. “You're going to be fine, sweetheart,” I said. “The ambulance is on the way.”

I held her gently, my heart breaking into pieces. I wanted to go back in time, to our day in Virginia Highlands, the day when we were perfectly happy and nothing else existed but the sweet exhilaration of each other's presence. I wanted to change everything that happened from that point on, to walk together out of Atlanta and vanish into some quiet, safe world where we could love each other. But it was too late for that. I gently moved the hair from Michele's face, and she looked up at me, her eyes dimming. I watched the light in her go out, the muscles relaxing, her head gently falling back against my chest. Her breathing slowed, and then, with a great sigh, she let go. I reached out and gently closed her eyes, still rocking her in my arms. I felt the cop's hand on my shoulder. It wasn't rough; he realized he had stepped into something finally, ultimately, personal. I could hear the second siren, the ambulance that would be far too late.

“I'm sorry, baby,” I whispered to her. “I'm sorry.” There was some confusion, the shock of unknown people pushing near us. The police were in force now, four or five officers rapidly cordoning off the area. The cop knelt down beside me. “You're hit. The ambulance is on the way. Two minutes.” I nodded. “The lady,” the cop said. “Who is it?”

I looked up at the cop, who was asking a question it would take a book to answer. Michele had spent twenty-eight years trying to answer it, remaking herself into a magnificent woman. Now she had come home, one more victim of the world she had risked everything to leave behind.
She's the Queen
, I thought.
The Queen of McDaniel Glen.
But in the end, I gave the answer that would protect her memory the longest. “Fields,” I answered. “T'aniqua Fields.” There was another shooting pain through my leg, and darkness overtook me. The cop caught Michele in his hands, and I fell unconscious onto the pavement.

A DIM GLOW
became brighter, its light beginning on the outside of my vision, gently penetrating and illuminating inward, growing, until I could feel the brightness through closed eyelids. I fluttered my eyes open, squinting in the harsh, fluorescent lights of a hospital emergency room. Billy Little, his face concerned, was staring into my face. He peered at me a moment, then said, “Yeah, he's coming around. Come take a look.” A young, Arab-looking man, no more than twenty-five, appeared over Billy's shoulder. “That's fine, then,” he said, in a thick British accent. “The wound drew a lot of blood, but it wasn't that deep. Another half unit, and he'll be fine.”

I looked at the doctor, trying to figure out how I had got there. I felt a throbbing in my leg, and the pain brought everything back to me; there was the grapple with Pope, the awful, frozen moment when Rabbit fired his gun. And above all, there was the crushing memory of Michele in my arms, her life ebbing out of her in an unstoppable stream.

Billy took the doctor's place in my field of vision. He touched my shoulder. “You haven't been acting very sensibly lately, Counselor,” he said. “I don't expect to be making hospital visits to lawyers.”

“Sorry.” The word came out in a slur. “What are you doing here?”

“When the doctor says you're able, we're going to have a long talk about why I'm not going to charge you with murdering Jamal Pope,” he said. “Not that I mind him being dead.”

“It was self-defense,” I said, a little clearer.

“Of that, I have no doubt. Get some rest.” The doctor told Billy that was enough, and I slipped back into sleep. It was dark, and full of angry dreams. When I awoke, there was early-morning sunlight coming in my room; apparently, I had slept through the night. A new doctor came in shortly after I awoke to check on me. He examined me briefly, and told a nurse to unhook my IV. “You're a lucky man, Mr. Hammond,” he said, looking at my chart. “The bullet passed through your lower left thigh, leaving two nice clean holes. We've repaired the vein and replaced your plasma. You're going to be fine.”

“When can I leave?”

“In a few hours. Although I'd say your marathon days are over for a while.”

I nodded, and he left. My head was clearing, as evidenced by the throbbing in my leg. I didn't ask for any painkillers; I was willing to trade the discomfort for awareness. A few minutes after the doctor finished, Robinson's face appeared. He looked pale and anxious.

“My God, Jack,” he said. “What happened to you?”

“You first,” I said. “How are you?”

“Me? Between throwing up and running tests, it was one hell of a night. But I'm okay.”

“And?”

Robinson smiled with the innocent pleasure of a child. “We got the results from NIH an hour ago. It's just like I said. Those patients were screened, and Ralston and Stephens are going down.”

I closed my eyes, letting myself relax into the hospital bed pillow.
They're going down.
I let that news settle on my wounds, both external and internal. It would be enough to ease the pain in my leg. It would fall far short of erasing the ache in my soul. Suddenly, I opened my eyes. “Where's Michael?”

Robinson put his hand on my shoulder. “I know about the calendar,” he said quietly. “He confessed, about halfway through the night.”

“And you're okay with that?”

“He was scared, and I couldn't have done what had to be done without him. Yeah. We're okay.”

Nightmare appeared from behind Robinson, the frazzled look of an all-nighter on him. “Hey,” he said. “You look even worse than usual, dude. And that's saying a lot.”

“You didn't sell us out, Michael. I'm grateful.”

Michael flushed, his pale skin reddening. “Maybe I'll go straight for a while,” he said. “See how I like it.” He smiled. “But don't get used to it, dude. The dark side is strong.”

I sat up cautiously, relieved that all my parts moved as ordered. “What time is it?”

“About seven in the morning,” Robinson said. “They'll probably want to keep you a few more hours, just to be safe.”

“Get my stuff, because we're leaving now.”

Robinson looked surprised. “Not likely,” he said. “You don't want to end up back here with your leg bleeding again.”