The Soul Hunter (38 page)

I sat across the table, my injuries throbbing, but feeling safe for the first time in weeks. I watched the two of them laugh and talk in Spanish about their Yayas and wondered to myself what
sort of help Maria Chavez really needed. What had that dying homeless woman meant that night in the E.R.? Maria was a survivor. Anyone could see that. And she was, clearly, the perfect mother for her son, chosen, it seemed, for that purpose.

But her son, born of violence into serenity and love—what of him? Was Nicholas, sweet, wild-haired Nicholas, really as fatherless as he seemed? Had Peter Terry been there that day too? With Gordon Pryne? In Gordon Pryne?

I studied Martinez, so strong and quiet and wise, and wondered what a father—a spiritual man, a man of God, a man of strength and integrity—what could a man like that add to Nicholas’s life?

“Dylan,” someone said.

I came back to the table. “Hm?”

“We’re being so rude! We’re leaving you out of the conversation entirely,” Maria said. She turned to Martinez. “No more Spanish tonight.”

Martinez nodded. “
Si, no mas Español.
”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “You guys are hysterical. I don’t feel left out. I just wish I had a Yaya, that’s all. Anyone know where I can get one?”

We sat laughing and talking and eating pizza and drinking wine late into the night, the company warming me as much as the fire did. It was the first time in a while that I could remember smiling. The first time I could remember feeling anything other than afraid. Or alone.

I missed David, of course. He still hadn’t called. Eventually, I knew he’d come around, at least to end it politely. It wasn’t in his nature to leave things unresolved.

I hoped, though, that sometime soon I’d get the chance to talk to him. And to give him a kiss. And to say, quite sincerely, that I was sorry.

That, after all, is what is required in matters such as this. A little angel had told me so.