Lawrence grabbed Wayne’s knife hand at the wrist and pushed him back. He danced Wayne across the tiles and into the green metal divider, rocking it. He had Wayne’s T-shirt bunched in his right hand, still gripping the wood of the carpet knife. He spun him and held tight, pushing and lifting him, Wayne’s feet grazing the tiles as they headed back to the sink wall, and Lawrence, with great force, slammed him up against the hand dryer. He let go of Wayne’s shirt and moved the knife to the little man’s neck and broke the flesh with the end, hooking it in beside the artery. Wayne’s eyes pinballed in their sockets and he bared his teeth. He made an animal sound and freed his hand from Lawrence’s grasp and stabbed at Lawrence furiously with the spine-cut knife. Lawrence gasped as the blade entered his chest again and again. Still, he held fast to Wayne.
Lawrence buried the hook deep and found purchase in the little man’s flesh. He grunted with effort and ripped the Crain knife violently and almost completely through Wayne’s neck, severing his artery and windpipe. Lawrence was showered in blood.
Wayne’s head unhinged in a backward direction as he crumpled and fell. His boots kicked at the tiles. His head, loosely attached to his torso, floated in a widening pool of fluid. He had voided his bowels, and the stench was heavy in the room.
“God,” whispered Lawrence.
He stumbled to the divider and leaned against it. He looked down at his T-shirt, drenched in crimson. He winced at the pain and dropped the Crain knife to the tile floor. He listened to the wheeze in his own breath.
Let me keep my feet.
Lawrence drew the heavy revolver from inside his shredded jacket and walked out of the men’s room and into the rain.
The heavyset woman was now standing beside her truck. She saw Lawrence and her eyes grew wide. She turned and bucked. Lawrence saw her lift her radio off her hip as she ran into the woods.
He heard the opening of a car door. An old black sedan was parked at the end of the stone path. Its driver’s- side door was opening and a big white man with a walrus mustache was getting out. He stood behind the open door and glass. Lawrence raised his gun and pointed it at the man’s torso.
Lawrence saw the big man reach inside his windbreaker. His eyes lost their will, and his hand came out empty.
The man smiled. “Where’s my friend?”
Lawrence did not reply.
Sonny Wade’s hand slipped back inside his jacket.
“You ain’t get to do that twice,” said Lawrence, his weak voice lost in the rain.
“I can’t hear you, fella,” said Sonny, and he drew his. 45.
Lawrence squeezed the trigger of the magnum. The. 357 round shattered the window and blew a quarter- sized hole in Sonny’s chest. The slug flattened, tumbled, and ruined everything in its path. When the lead exited, its hole was as big as a fist. Sonny grabbed the top of the open door, and Lawrence walked forward and shot him again. Sonny went down on his back.
It felt to Lawrence that he was floating as he moved crookedly to the car. He stood over the big man, whose shirt was moving in and out where he had taken the first bullet. The second round had entered Sonny’s abdomen. His chest and belly were slick with red. Sonny was blinking his eyes slowly, struggling to breathe, the rain hitting his pale and frightened face as he pondered eternity. Lawrence pointed the gun at the big man’s face and locked back the hammer. But he did not pull the trigger.
I’m not gonna give him that gift, thought Lawrence. Let death laugh at him and walk toward him slow.
Lawrence stumbled to the edge of the parking lot. He saw the path of wood chips and mud lined by beveled railroad ties. He made it there. He looked at his hand and saw that it no longer held the gun. He tripped and fell and slid down the hill. He managed to get back up. He saw the bench at the end of the trail, set before the ledge. He was there and he dropped onto it. He sat and looked across the treetops, down to the Anacostia. It was a wide ribbon of brown, and rain dotted its surface. He heard sirens and his vision began to fade.
This is where I want to be.
Lawrence stared at the river.
When they found him, he was staring at it still.
PART FOUR
THE WAY HOME
THIRTY
On a Sunday late in April, the family attended early mass. They then visited Ben’s grave at the cemetery and went to breakfast at the Open City Diner in Woodley Park. Afterward, Thomas and Amanda returned to their house on Livingston, changed their clothes, and put Django in the back of the SUV. They met Chris and Katherine on Albemarle Street in Forest Hills, where they all walked onto the entrance of the Soapstone Valley Trail in a tributary of Rock Creek Park.
They went along a flat stretch, followed the yellow trail markers painted on the trees, and navigated a steep slope into the valley. They stopped to look at a tall oak. On its trunk had been carved a heart enveloping Thomas’s and Amanda’s names, and the year 1980. A smaller heart was below it, bearing the name of Darby, Chris’s childhood dog. A third heart contained the name of Chris and 1982, the year of his birth. Using her cell phone, Amanda took a photo of the tree. Chris and Flynn exchanged a look and they walked on.
Seeing no other hikers or pets, Flynn let Django off his leash. The Lab mix immediately galloped off trail and crashed into the woods in search of the creek, where he could splash in the water. They followed him there, Katherine and Amanda walking ahead of Chris and Flynn. Chris noticed the gray in his mother’s hair as the sun, streaming down through the trees, highlighted it and brightened the water where Django played. There was a lightness in Amanda’s step.
Flynn tripped on an exposed root, and Chris grabbed his arm before he fell. Steadying him, Chris smelled alcohol on his father and wondered when he had found the time to steal a drink. Chris made no mention of it. He felt that he was perhaps responsible for his father’s deteriorated condition. Or maybe his father would have gotten to that place on his own, without the troubles they’d had. In any case, Chris wouldn’t lecture him or question him in any way. For a long time it had seemed unlikely that they would all be back here, together and settled, as they were now.
“Thanks,” said Flynn.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“To prop up your old man.”
“You’re not so old.”
“Feels like I am. I’ll never lay carpet again, that’s for sure. I can’t get up off my knees.”
“You’ve got Isaac and his guys for that.”
“And you,” said Flynn. “And your boy, what’s his name…”
“Marquis.”
“Yeah, him. How’s he doing?”
Marquis was a work in progress. Chris said, “He’ll be fine.”
With some convincing from Chris and Ali, Flynn had put Marquis Gilman on. It was one of Ali’s last acts as an assistant at Men Movin on Up. His boss, Coleman Wallace, had accepted a job in the D.C. government, and Ali had taken over the top spot. Ali was frequently on TV now as a spokesperson and advocate for at-risk boys, and sometimes as a voice of community conscience when boys got murdered. Chris smiled when he’d catch him on television, at press conferences and such. It was funny, realizing that all those cameras and eyes were upon him, knowing where Ali had come from. It was true that Chris was a little envious, seeing that Ali had done something meaningful with his life. But he was also very proud.
Flynn and Chris found a seat on some boulders in a patch of sunlight out on the creek. Amanda and Katherine were playing with Django on the bank, throwing a stick into the water, the dog’s tail spinning like a prop as he
