Three cars short of the delivery truck, a man leaned out from behind the big SUV and slammed his fist into Jason's stomach.
Breath exploded from his lungs. He doubled over, hands flying out for something solid, coming to rest on the SUV. Pain blossomed in his gut, a warm and living thing. As his body fought for air, his mind raged, telling him to take the pain. He struggled to straighten, one hand against the rear door, the other up in a clumsy defense.
The man who'd hit him stood five and a half. Elaborately muscled shoulders tapered directly into his shaven head. He wore a spotless white T-shirt that hung almost to his knees and ornate gold rings on every finger of his punching hand. Soul Patch stood beside him, chuckling, the gun steady on Jason's heart.
Every breath was razors in his belly. Slowly, he forced his shoulders back, took the hand off the SUV. He glanced at it as he turned away, did a double-take, then looked at Soul Patch.
"I thought," Jason said, "you didn't like the Escalade."
The man smiled, his tooth gleaming. "I was just playing."
"No DVD?" He struggled to stay cool, to show that he wasn't panicking, that they didn't need to jump him.
"Oh, I got the DVD. You can watch it in back."
A shiver ran through Jason's belly. This couldn't be happening, not really. "Listen man, you've got the wrong guy."
"I feel you. Hop in, we'll discuss." He gestured, and the wrestler stepped forward to open the back, standing like a limo driver on the other side of the car door.
Jason could feel the blood vibrate through his palms, pound in his neck. In the truck he'd be trapped. That action-movie stuff about people rolling out of moving cars and walking it off, that was crap. Bail out of a car going faster than twenty miles per, you weren't walking anything off. Plus, here, in a public parking lot, he had some hope. A single bullet might be dismissed, but a firefight would attract attention. He hesitated.
"I said get in." Sun made Soul Patch's eyes glow yellow.
"Okay." Jason held his hands up. "Easy. I'll come." Electricity burnished his skeleton as he started for the car.
Then, for the first time, Soul Patch made a mistake. He stood still.
It was as much of a window as Jason could hope for. Continuing his forward motion, he stepped into Soul Patch like they were dancing, right hand closing on the guy's wrist to lock the gun in place. But instead of grappling for the weapon, he spun, planting his back against the man's chest, the gun arm now in front of both of them. The wrestler startled awake with a snort. Soul Patch gave a surprised yelp, struggled to free his hand. Jason continued his spin, remembering this fucker talking about Michael, threatening his brother. He yanked, and as he felt the man come off balance, he kept turning, transforming the fall into a throw that hurled the gangbanger against the half-closed car door. It flew open and slammed into the wrestler, the frame catching him square in the face with a meaty thump. The double impact knocked the wind out of Soul Patch, and the gun clattered from his hand.
The moment it did, Jason shoved away. Two awkward steps and he had his balance. His heart screamed to run, but his head was cool. They were enemy combatants. He didn't want to leave them armed. The grip of the pistol was warm and slightly sweaty as he snatched it from the concrete.
Then he took off in a sprint, knowing that he hadn't incapacitated either man. His legs pumped clean and strong. He crossed the open asphalt to the next row, then planted his left foot and lunged behind a car. A window exploded with a sharp crack. All the old energy came back. He jerked to the side again and broke from the row, then poured it on in a straightaway to the boundary of the lot. Leapt for the concrete abutment, planted one foot, and sprang off the second-story parking deck.
In the endless instant he floated through the air, Jason Palmer realized he was smiling.
Then he hit the soft earth of the park. He kept the fall going, tucking one shoulder and rolling it off the way he'd seen Jump School candidates do it. He was back on his feet and moving in a fraction of a second, knowing he was clear but running anyway, loving the rush, the gun part of his hand. A copse of carefully arranged trees lay twenty yards away, and he angled for them. The wind on his face cooled the sweat, and as he dodged branches he could smell the fetid dampness of the earth, a good clean scent like sex. After another thirty yards, he risked a glance back.
Soul Patch stood at the edge of the parking lot, his face twisted into a furious snarl. The wrestler leaned beside him, chest heaving, a pistol in one hand, the other clutching his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers.
Jason couldn't resist. Smiling, he stood at attention and threw them a salute. The pure hate on Soul Patch's face was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in days.
With a laugh, Jason tucked the pistol into his pants, dropped his shirt to cover it, and set off at a gentle jog. Just another guy working out on a beautiful day. When he reached the edge of the grass, he crossed the street and cut into the neighborhood.
He knew a bar two blocks away, thought about heading there to call the cops, decided against it. If he'd had his cell on him, maybe; those two stood out in white-bread Lincoln Park. But by the time he reached a pay-phone, they'd be rolling down Lake Shore Drive.
Anyway, there was Michael to think about. Jason turned right, digging for the keys to the Caddy. Forget the police. He had to check on his brother, just to be sure. No way this had anything to do with Michael – you could take the boy out of the choir, but never the reverse – but no harm in being certain. They'd probably share a laugh about the absurdity of the thing, a gangbanger tying to hijack him. But Jason doubted he'd ever know what it had really been about.
He was wrong.
CHAPTER 2
It was funny how something inanimate could become the focus of your whole damn day.
Michael Palmer stared at the phone resting on the end of the bar. Standard-issue pub telephone: Scuffed black plastic, cord a snarled mess, a chunk broken out of the handset where it had hit the floor two years ago. Funny thing is, I don't know if I want it to ring or not.
"Dad?"
"Huh?"
"What's a," Billy hesitated, then took the plunge, "tay-vurn?"
"Tav-ern."
"What's a tavern?"
"I'll give you a hint. You're sitting in one."
Billy glanced down. "A stool?"
"Not on one. In one."
His son looked at him, looked around, then smiled like a burst of sunlight. "A bar?"
"Bingo."
Billy gave a little nod like he'd known all along, he'd just been asking to test his father, then returned to the newspaper spread out on the counter. Eight-year-old fingers choked all the way down the base of the pencil as he scratched the letters. As he hunched over to read the next clue, his lips mouthed the words. His mother had been the same way. Michael used to find Lisa in bed with a novel, lips moving as though reciting a spell. How many nights had he stood in the doorway and watched her, just watched, entranced by the rise and fall of her breath, the curve of her shoulder, the smiles and frowns she gave her secret world?
He shook his head to clear the memory, counted how long since the last time he'd thought of her. Pretty good – not since lunch yesterday. Peanut butter and bananas cooked up like a grilled cheese, crunchy outside, gooey in. Lisa had always called it "De Elvis Especial," saying it in a bad Latin accent, and that was how Billy asked for it now, though Michael doubted he remembered much of his mother but auburn hair and love.
Michael, he remembered everything.
He glanced at the phone, then moved to the sink, started dunking dirty pint glasses: soapy water, clean water, stack to dry. A nice, easy rhythm, solid and steady.