‘Stay calm. Tonight you’ll be safe.’ Eric sounded hollow. He had shushed Luke the few times in the past hour when Luke had tried to speak again. ‘Stay in the middle lane until we get to the downtown exits.’
Traffic slowed again. And, for the first time, Eric clutched Luke’s shirt, grabbing the seat belt in his fist as well.
‘You’re considering making a run. I’m telling you I will kill you.’
‘You don’t need the threats. I’m done fighting you.’ He was gripped by a panic that someone would see Eric threatening him and try to help him, making it worse. Luke glanced at the car on his left. He saw a woman driving a minivan, a bored teenage girl in the passenger seat, texting on a phone. To his right, an older man in a pickup truck drummed a beat on the steering wheel. None of them looked over at Luke’s car, lost in the world of what was directly ahead of their wind-shields.
‘Strange to be so alone, each of us, when surrounded by thousands of others. We don’t even know who we can reach out to, who will understand us.’ Eric gave a ragged laugh. ‘That’s why the world’s going to hell.’
‘Then let’s not take one further step into hell. Please. You’re not a bad guy.’
‘You need to be afraid of me, Luke.’
‘I am. But… you don’t want to hurt me. I can tell. You’re not a criminal, you don’t want to do this. Let me help you get out of whatever mess you’re in.’ He had to convince Eric it wasn’t too late to stop, to let him go.
‘You are helping me. You just don’t know it yet.’ Eric’s jaw clenched.
‘But…’
‘It changes you, breaking the law,’ Eric said quietly. ‘I can’t go back. I made my choice. And I want you to shut up now.’
They had to work past a traffic jam caused by a chain reaction of fender benders, and by the time they reached the heart of the city evening had begun its slide over the sky. Eric got more agitated, checking his watch every half-minute. Sweat was bright on his face. Downtown Houston rose in light-bejeweled towers. Downtown had undergone a renaissance in recent years; old abandoned hotels and buildings reborn into new establishments, lodgings and office space. Luke steered the BMW through the weaving pedestrians – office workers heading to the light rail and bus stops and parking garages, or to trendy new bars and restaurants. Luke had always thought Houston a place of unbounded energy and bustle, but right now he just wished someone would slow down long enough to notice he was in trouble.
‘This is about to get dangerous,’ Eric said. He leaned forward, as though scanning the pedestrians for a face, for a threat.
‘Like it wasn’t already.’
‘Turn here.’
They drove past Minute Maid Park where the Astros played, then deep into a neighborhood that had not yet benefited from the economic renaissance of downtown. The buildings were older, the businesses humbler. Unrepaired potholes, the by-product of Houston humidity, pocked the pavement.
Luke reached a small parking lot and Eric said, ‘Pull in here.’
Luke did, parking in a slot closest to the street at Eric’s order. They had a view down the street. The sidewalks were less crowded; fewer pedestrians strolled to their evening’s entertainment. Luke saw an old couple ambling slowly, carrying grocery bags; a young woman hurrying past, chattering on a cell phone and gesturing wildly; an older woman dressed too young, venturing into the twilight with her painted, pained smile. Down the street Luke could see a small bar, a homeless shelter operated by an Episcopal charity, a liquor store, a clothing resale shop, a neon-signed Tex-Mex eatery. The storefronts were weathered and worn.
‘Now what?’ Luke asked.
‘We wait.’
‘For what?’ Was someone coming here to meet them? To collect Luke? This might be his one remaining chance to escape. But no way he could get clear of the car without Eric shooting or knifing him. ‘What are you going to do?’
Eric glanced again at his watch, tugged nervously at his lip. ‘Everything will be okay. Trust me.’
Twenty minutes passed; sundown completed its glory. The night threw its stars across the dark-purpled sky. Eric’s gun rested back in its second home, Luke’s ribs. Luke’s legs ached from sitting so long. Hunger rumbled his stomach, but he kept fighting off a fear-induced nausea. He’d already decided that if he puked he was aiming at Eric’s rotten face. Puke and run for his life. A mark of real heroics. He thought he was starting to lose his grip.
He closed his eyes. He wondered if this sinking acceptance in his chest that the end was close was what his father felt like in the moments before he died, if Dad had realized the plane he was on was doomed.
Luke’s hand found the medal under his shirt and clutched at it. He thought of the conversation he’d had with his father, his mom asleep in the sleeping bag, he and his dad sitting by the soft flicker of the campfire.
‘I want you to have this, son, keep it close to you always,’ his father had said. ‘Always. It will shield you from danger.’
‘Dad. Seriously? You’re not religious.’ His father had been raised Episcopalian but he wasn’t a churchgoer, except maybe at Easter and Christmas, when Luke’s mom insisted.
‘No atheists in foxholes, Luke,’ Warren Dantry had said.
‘We’re camping, this isn’t a foxhole,’ Luke said. He raised the medal to the firelight’s glow: a faceless angel, muscular wings, holding a sword and shield.
‘Saint Michael the archangel is an emblem of strength and determination, of order and reason overcoming chaos and violence. He’s special in that he figures in Christian, Jewish and Islamic traditions. He’s a hero for the world, good overcoming enormous evil.’
‘Evil. Like Darth Vader?’ He didn’t remember the story of what Saint Michael had done, what evil he had defeated.
‘Worse than Darth Vader,’ his father had said. ‘Saint Michael will keep you safe, Luke. If not now, then someday.’
‘Safe from what?’
‘From whatever darkness comes into your life. You might be called to fight one day, Luke. Think of Michael. Think of strength and know you can win.’
‘Brains are better than strength, Dad.’
His dad smiled at him. ‘Yes. But together, they’re unbeatable.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Luke didn’t like jewelry of any sort, he thought this a goofy gift and most unlike his dad and he put the medal in his pocket. His father had said nothing more, poking at the fire with a stick.
And a month later his father was dead, and Luke had worn the medal every day.
‘What are you doing?’ Eric’s voice rose.
Luke opened his eyes. ‘Nothing.’
Eric jabbed the gun hard into Luke’s side, pried his fingers from the medal, pulled it from Luke’s shirt. A flat circular medal, with an angel armed with a fiery sword. The angel’s wings were wide, strong, like an eagle’s.
‘What’s this?’ An edge came to Eric’s voice.
‘Saint Michael. The archangel. My dad gave it to me.’
‘You… you don’t need to be praying. Everything’s cool if you do what I say.’ Eric let go of the medal as though it burned him; Luke tucked the silver back into his shirt.
Eric put his gaze back to the street. ‘Saint Michael. He’s the one who casts Satan out of Heaven, right, sends him plummeting to Hell?’
‘Yeah,’ Luke said. ‘Who sent you to this hell, Eric?’ This might be his only chance to reason with him. They were waiting, for God knew what, and Eric was scared. He swallowed past the broken-glass ache in his throat. ‘The woman on the phone? Who is she?’
‘Shut up.’
‘She’s giving you orders.’
‘Shut up.’
‘She ordered you to kidnap me. Why?’
Eric kept his eyes locked on the street. ‘Hello,’ Eric said. Luke followed Eric’s stare and saw a flicker of light as the homeless shelter’s door closed. A tall older man approached their car, his weathered face lit by the juxtaposition of passing headlights and the pool of a street-lamp. He was dressed in the uniform of the homeless, a shabby coat, a bandanna secured over greasy hair.
