The next three days were good for Mike. He felt right at home, the belly wound scabbing nicely, aches and pains subsiding gradually. He?d been afraid the leg might get infected, but it would be okay too. He felt resurrected.
Linda nagged him to rest, but her heart wasn?t in it. She could see how good it was for Mike to begin the long process of clearing away the ruined vines, exploring the blackened wreckage of the barn and cabin for anything salvageable. More than ever Mike was aware that he moved like an old man, but he liked hard work and there was enough to keep him busy the rest of his life.
Mike built a bonfire, tossed debris into the flames. He would clean the slate, start over.
He found his empty Thompson gun among a tangle of vines, held it numbly a moment before a pang of remorse struck him deeply. He tossed the gun onto the bonfire.
That night at Linda?s he sipped a beer, listened to her rattle pots and pans in the kitchen. She was a good woman, patient, kind for letting him use the spare bedroom. She hadn?t asked her questions yet, but he sensed they were coming soon. He wasn?t quite sure what he?d tell her about himself, about his past, but she deserved the truth.
A knock at the door.
His nephew had returned. Mike felt sure of it, and his face stretched into a wide grin. He got up from the kitchen table, hobbled to the front door. He realized he?d be happy to see the kid. Perhaps they could have some kind of relationship, maybe eventually be like a real family. Mike liked the thought of that. Maybe Andrew would even stick around awhile, lend a hand rebuilding the vineyard.
Mike opened the door.
It took him a second to place the grim Indian?s face, deeply lined, skin like old sun-dried wood. Keone?s father. He loomed, towered over Mike like some inevitable force of nature. He didn?t say a word but held a stubby pistol pointed at Mike.
Mike understood. The fantasy of family and rebuilding the vineyard was a lie. The Indian?s pistol was the truth. He didn?t need Danny?s voice in his head to tell him that. This is the way Mike?s world would end. No comfortable old age for him. He?d traded that for a pink sock a long, long time ago.
?It?s okay.? Mike didn?t flinch.
Epilogue
Jamaal 1-2-3 sat in his dingy apartment off Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn and stripped wires for a detonator. Slowly, without drawing attention to himself, he?d gathered the components he needed. The explosion would be spectacular.
What would be exploded remained to be seen.
His contacts assured him that target information would be coming through the network any day now. What would it be? The Empire State Building? Wall Street? Perhaps they would instruct him to rent a car, drive to Washington, DC.
For many months now, Jamaal had waited, put together the device, worked washing dishes at the saloon two blocks away to pay the rent on the squalid studio apartment. But he was persistent, faithful. His own comfort meant nothing. The cause was everything.
Someone knocked at his door.
Jamaal checked the peephole. Saw the UPS deliveryman. Perhaps this was it! The UPS man might be delivering his final instructions even now. He opened the door, held out a hand for the thick manila envelope in the UPS man?s hand. ?Do you need my signature??
The UPS man said nothing, only stared at Jamaal?s face.
Jamaal frowned. ?What?s wrong? Do you need?
The UPS man pulled his hand out of the manila envelope. He held a gun. Jamaal tried to shout, but it was too late. The UPS man pulled the trigger three times, the blasts filling the studio apartment. Jamaal dropped, eyes
