I suddenly hated the whole fucking unfair world. I’d pawned my guitar and amp so long ago, I couldn’t remember what the strings felt like beneath my fingers. I could barely recall playing in some hot, smoky joint, really getting into the groove, how we could mesmerize a crowd when everything was working right. I left all that behind me to do the right thing. Doris was gone, and Molly would leave soon. Was there anything left to sacrifice?

The dried blood on my hands looked black in the pale light. The boy’s skin glowing white and untainted. A lifetime of bruises and broken bones waited for him. He’d climb trees and fall out and step on sharp rocks in the river. But it wouldn’t keep him out of trees or out of the river. I’d see to that. I didn’t want him growing up afraid to live. This was my new mission in life. To make things right for the boy and fuck Doris and everyone else.

Then I remembered I’d axed Billy. Who would take care of TJ if I went to prison? I wanted to cry again.

A noise from outside, the loud creak of the metal step leading up to the back door.

I held my breath and waited, listening. If it was Doris coming back, I’d rip her a new one like she wouldn’t believe. I waited, but nobody came inside.

I stood, edged forward and took my revolver from the dresser. The boy slept, a warm and heavy bundle in the crook of my arm. I walked out of TJ’s room, stepping softly toward the back door. The bathroom was opposite the door, so I backed in, keeping the revolver trained on the door, listening carefully.

Maybe it was Doris coming back. I wanted to think it was her feeling bad for running off, but she’d have put her key in and opened the door by now. She’d have come in.

The silence was like a thick syrup that had oozed down over the whole trailer. I couldn’t hear the step creak or the boy’s breathing or any cars out on the highway. Nothing at all. Time held me in the frozen blue haze of my imagination, hoping it was Doris, knowing it wasn’t, somebody standing out there waiting to come into my home.

Then, two things at once.

A light rattle from the other side of the trailer. Somebody trying the knob on the front door.

And the middle step at the back door creaked again.

I lifted the revolver and fired, squeezed off three rapid shots.

The bangs shook the trailer, the slugs blasting through the door in a neat triangle. TJ came instantly awake, screaming bloody murder and clutching at my shirt. Something on the back steps went tumble and thud.

Shouts outside, in Spanish.

I ran down the hall, and a blaze of bullets ripped through the trailer, tearing through the walls like they were aluminum foil. I dove for the floor, twisted at the last second to land on my back and avoid crushing the boy. He screamed louder. I hunched over him turtle style, more bullets shredding the trailer, some kind of hellfire machinegun rattle outside the trailer. The gunfire obliterated a lamp, blasted the television, battered the clock off the wall.

The next burst of fire shattered the living room windows. If they were out front, then I sure as hell was going out the back.

I crawled on two knees and one elbow toward the back door. I held TJ hysterical in the other arm. I stood, revolver ready, and kicked the back door open just as I heard somebody do the same to the front.

I jumped down the three steps and landed next to a dead Mexican in a red shirt, the one who’d kicked me in the ribs, I think. Good.

I ran. Lights came on in some of the other mobile homes, dogs barking insanity. Halfway to the Nova, I turned, looked back at the trailer. A face appeared in the back door. I paused and squeezed off two shots, and the face ducked back inside.

By the time I reached the Nova I saw the Mustang parked right behind me. I shot one of the front tires and the boy jumped in my arms. He was gulping air now, big sobs wracking his whole body. I would never forgive myself. No matter what happened from now forward, I had failed. No child should ever have to go through this.

I got into the Nova and cranked the engine, fishtailed a U-turn and squealed the tires putting the trailer behind me. More gun shots but growing distant. I remembered Doris had TJ’s car seat in her car.

Fuckingbitchfuckingbitchfuckingbitchfuckingbitch.

“D-daddy.” He was reaching for me, eyes so blurred with tears he couldn’t see.

I pulled him into my lap, kissed the top of his head. “You’re going to be okay, buddy. It’s going to be okay.” He rested his head against my chest, still crying but more evenly, not so panicked and out of control.

I uttered some kind of brief prayer. I wasn’t sure about my relationship with God. I was in eighth grade the last time I went to the Methodist Church with my mother. But now seemed like a good time to take it up again. I asked for help. I made promises. I hoped He was listening.

I left the trailer park, drove straight and fast toward town and didn’t see anything in the rearview mirror.

CHAPTER NINE

I parked in front of Molly’s house, behind her dad’s Peterbilt.

I rocked the boy in my arms until he quieted down some. I didn’t like what I was about to do. This wasn’t really Molly’s thing, but I trusted her to be a good person when all was said and done. And I didn’t exactly have a whole lot of choices.

I climbed her front steps, the boy on one hip, and knocked. It took a while, and I knocked again. Molly wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight. I worried briefly that Roy might’ve snuck home after I left. I’d shoot him. Swear to God, I would shoot him.

But Roy wasn’t home. The door swung open, and Molly stood there in panties and a t-shirt. She rubbed her eyes.

“I need help, Molly.”

“What?”

I pushed in past her.

She closed the door. “Is that Toby Junior?”

She’d never seen the boy. They’d both been in my life so thick, it hadn’t occurred to me how separate they were. Of course she’d never seen him. “Yes. He’s had a scare.”

She looked me over. “What happened to you?”

“I’m in a lot of trouble, Molly.”

“Tell me.”

“I killed Billy Banks.” She’d hear about it soon enough anyway.

She gasped, her hand going to her mouth.

“It was self defense,” I said too quickly.

“Why?”

“I think Billy was smuggling illegals. Or working with some Mexicans. I don’t know. You remember that news story a few years ago, the truck with all those dead illegal aliens in the back? Earlier tonight I found a truck just like that, padlock on the back to keep them inside. Parked in the firehouse.”

“No fucking way. They were dead?”

“No, not dead. Live ones.”

“Why here?”

“Beats me. You got any milk?”

“I think so.”

“Can you warm it up and bring me a cup?” I sat on her couch, held the boy. He wouldn’t let go of me, kept shivering.

“I’ll put it in the microwave.”

“No, you’re not supposed to do that. Can you heat it in a pan?”

“Give me a minute.” She went to the kitchen.

I rocked the boy in my arms, something overwhelmed him, shock or exhaustion maybe because I watched his eyelids sink down. His cheeks were tear-smeared. In a moment he breathed steadily, back to sleep. I could not imagine holding my head up among decent people if I let anything happen to him. I was supposed to be a dad.

I settled him down on the couch, made a ring of cushions around him, then went into the kitchen. Molly had four different size pans on the counter, her head stuck in the refrigerator.

“We don’t have any milk,” Molly said. “There’s Mellow Yellow and carrot juice.”

“It’s okay. He’s asleep. But we’ll need milk in the morning.”

“Morning?”

“I need your help, Molly.”

Her eyes went round. “Oh, no. I don’t know anything about kids.”