For about three months I still watched for Juan Miguel’s goons. But Jim Bob was probably right. They were lost now, maybe working for the old lady. Or perhaps she blamed them and had used her considerable money to have them whacked. Perhaps they had gone to barber college and were now doing honest work in a border town, cutting hair, powdering the back of customers’ necks.
I thought about Cesar, Ferdinand, and Hermonie, left there in that house. We hadn’t contacted anyone. How long would they go before they were found? A day? A week? A month?
I guess it didn’t matter when you were dead.
It was odd, walking away from all that, going back to being a security guard at the chicken plant. But I hadn’t fallen back completely into old habits. I had started part-time at the college, taking courses in history. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but for the first time in years I felt like I was doing something that counted, even if I wasn’t sure what it counted for.
Leonard got another job, security manager of a bakery. All he does now is sit in the office with his feet up, eat sweet cakes and cookies and make sure everyone else does the work. He’s even gotten a little fat.
He and John are happy.
Jim Bob’s back with his hogs.
Hanson is walking without a cane now. A little slow, but he’s walking. He’s still wearing Charlie’s hat.
Me and Brett?
Well, we haven’t gotten married, but we still talk about it. It doesn’t seem quite as urgent as it did in that hotel room in Mexico, but the thought is still there.
The other night Brett and I were sitting out in her yard, which I had mowed and freed the lawn chair from, and I was sitting in that lawn chair, and she in another, just sitting there with the moon and the starlight above, a bug-thronged streetlight in view, when a blue Cadillac pulled up at the house, parked next to the streetlight, and killed the motor.
I had a momentary sinking feeling, thinking those dicks from Mexico had caught up with us, but then I saw Mr. Bond come out from behind the wheel and close his door. He went around and opened the other.
A fragile-looking woman with her hair in a ponytail and a bandage across her face got out of the car carefully, pulling crutches after her.
I stood up, but Mr. Bond held up his hand in a wait there signal.
I remained standing. Sarah Bond crutched over to me. Her face was a wreck of stitch tracks and little swellings, that white bulgy swathe across one eye. When she spoke she was missing teeth and her voice was a little airy.
“Thank you for saving my life,” she said. “I owe you everything.”
“You owe me nothing.”
“They say they can fix me good as new with ortho work and plastic surgery. Except for the eye.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s real good.”
“Mr. Collins, you will always be my guardian angel.”
She positioned her crutches, leaned toward me, puckered her lips. I lowered my cheek and she kissed it.
“She wanted to tell you that,” Mr. Bond said. “And I want to thank you again for sparing my daughter. God bless you, Hap Collins.”
When they were gone, Brett and I remained in the yard, sitting in our chairs. My cheeks were wet.
“You’re such a softie, Hap Collins,” Brett said. “And I love you so much for it.”
“Sometimes we do something right in spite of ourselves, don’t we?” I said.
“Sometimes,” Brett said.