Three men, armed with tire tools and baseball bats, froze in mid-blow over a fourth man slumped on the ground.
They stared into the light, predators on the hunt. The man on the ground moved. He was alive. Needed help. Marilyn slammed her hand down on the horn, hoping the noise would scare them off, hoping they couldn't see through the lights, couldn't see she was a woman alone.
At the raucous sound, the three men broke and ran, scattering at the far end of the alley. Marilyn accelerated slowly, digging in her purse for her cell phone. She needed to call the police, an ambulance, help.
Their victim struggled up onto all fours. Slowly, as if it cost him a fortune in pain, he lifted his head, shielding his eyes from her headlights with a forearm, and Marilyn saw his face. She slammed on the brakes, staring. He was battered, discolored and bleeding, but she recognized him--the man who'd rescued her.
She threw the car into park and got out, rushing to him. "What did they do to you? How bad are you hurt?"
She crouched beside him, unwilling to kneel in the near-frozen puddle, and caught his arm. "Don't get up," she said as he leaned hard on her, pushing upright.
"Have to," he gasped.
"You need help. I'll call the police." Marilyn held him up, though she wasn't sure she should. Might he not be better off staying down until an ambulance arrived with people who were trained in this sort of thing?
"No. No police." His grip on her arm tightened. "I'm fine."
"Like hell you are."
He blinked, as if her feeble profanity had startled him. "What are you doing here?" His voice sounded full of rocks, things broken inside it.
"Rescuing you." She started toward her car, bearing him along. He resisted, but hadn't the strength to resist much.
"I don't need rescuing." His speech became less distinct as his mouth swelled by the second. "I can take care of m'self."
"No, you cannot." Marilyn opened the passenger door and pushed him into it. He cried out as one of his legs hit the side panel. She fought back tears and anger, helping him lift his feet inside. "Why don't you want me to call the police? Don't you want them caught? Punished?"
"Who's going to catch them? Half the cops in this town would probably rather help them."
"Why? Who are they? Wait." Marilyn shut the door and rushed around the car. She hesitated, keys in hand. She could be in and out of the Youth Center in a minute. But he was hurt. The living had to take priority over the dead.
She got in and started the engine. "Who were they?" she asked again. "Why were they beating you?"
"Why do you care?" He slumped in the seat, staring straight ahead.
Marilyn considered his question. "Actually, I don't."
There was a hospital somewhere in the area nearby, but she didn't know how to get to it. The hospital where Bill had died after lingering a week wasn't much farther and she had intimate knowledge of all its access points. She pulled into the street.
"That is," she said, "I don't care who they are except as to how likely it is that they'll do this to you again."
He stared at her a long moment. She could feel his gaze almost as a tangible thing.
"I don't think so," he said. "That's a gay bar. They were waiting for somebody to bash. I was an easy target."
"I doubt you were." Marilyn pushed down on the gas, slipping through the light on the tail end of yellow.
"Must have been. They caught me, didn't they?"
"Put on your seatbelt," she said, as they neared the freeway.
"Hurts."
"Put it on anyway."
He scowled at her. She scowled back and he did as she asked. He glowered out the window a moment. "Where are you taking me?"
Marilyn slid onto the freeway between two long-haul trucks and sped up to get away from them. "I'm taking you to St. Anthony's Episcopalian."
"A church?"
She smiled. "A hospital."
"You don't have to do that. I'm fine."
"Will you please stop talking garbage? You are not fine. You are not anywhere near fine, and you won't know just how not-fine you are until someone with some medical expertise checks you out. I don't want to hear any more idiocy out of you."
He fell silent for a moment. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?" Marilyn was pretty sure she knew what he meant, but she wasn't sure she had any answers for him.
"This." He gestured at his surroundings. "All of it. Chasing them off. Picking me up off the street. Letting me in your car. Why the hell were you in the alley to start with?"
"I left something in the Youth Center. I was coming back to get it. I figured I could get in and get it before anyone knew I was there."
"So why didn't you?"
"You were there, hurt. What did you expect me to do? Leave you there?"
He didn't answer. Obviously that was what he expected.
"Why didn't you leave me to be mugged?"
"That's different." He swayed against the seatbelt, though the car traveled down the highway straight and steady.
"It's exactly the same." Marilyn shot him a worried glance. "Are you all right?"
He turned and peered at her through his right, less swollen eye. "Yeah, 'M fine."
He didn't look fine. Not in the least.
"Stay with me, son. Don't go blacking out on me, okay?" She increased her speed.
"I'm not y'r son." The words came out mumbled and run together.
Marilyn wasn't sure she'd heard what he meant to say. "What? Is it better if you talk to keep awake or stay quiet because it hurts?"
"I'm not your son," he said with careful precision. "You're not my mother and I'm not
