Chapter 47

Ten minutes later, the police and an ambulance arrived.

Feeling lightheaded, Joshua explained to the cops what had happened. He gave them Bates’ name and showed them his inmate record. The officers noted Joshua’s bruises and wounds, and the destruction wrought in his home, and told him that he was lucky to be alive.

He knew that he was, but the enormity of his battle with Bates hadn’t yet sunk in. He guessed that he was suffering a mild case of post-traumatic shock.

The paramedics treated his injuries, applying a splint and a bandage to his broken finger, and an ice pack to his swollen jaw. They encouraged him to seek further medical care from his physician. He promised that he would, only to get them off his back. He had no intention of wasting time in a doctor’s office until this was over.

Although he had shot Bates entirely in self-defense, the police forced Joshua to ride with them to the station. There, he gave an official account of what had transpired.

The cops wanted to know where Rachel had gone, of course. He told them he didn’t know—but that he did know Bates had committed other murders, in Illinois, Missouri, and perhaps Georgia, too. They said they would issue an APB on Bates, and would notify area hospitals to be on the lookout for anyone matching his description seeking treatment for gunshot wounds. With these action steps in place, the police felt assured of collaring Bates soon.

Joshua wasn’t so confident. He couldn’t forget how Bates had twice materialized, literally from thin air. It seemed Bates had found some way, as impossible as it seemed, of concealing himself from view.

He remembered what Bates had said: You can’t protect her from me. No one can. Not after what they’ve given me . . . the power I have. I could’ve knifed you and you wouldn’t have known a goddamn thing about who did it . . .

At the time, Joshua had assumed Bates had been babbling like a madman. But on retrospect, he wasn’t sure what to believe any more. Who were the people that Bates had referred to, the group that had given him his “power?”

None of it made any sense at all. Perhaps Joshua had been suffering from stress-induced delusions during their battle. The episode had such a surreal, loopy quality that he wasn’t quite certain which explanation was most likely.

Yet Bates had undeniably gotten up from three rounds delivered at point blank range. Had he imagined that, too? The cops told him that Bates was likely wearing body armor . . . but Joshua vividly recalled the quantity of blood that had dampened Bates’ jacket. Bates hadn’t been wearing any protective gear. He had taken three rounds at close range, fallen down a flight of stairs, and a few minutes later, gotten up and walked out of the house.

Like some kind of supernatural killing machine.

Unfortunately, the police confiscated Joshua’s revolver. In spite of his claims that Rachel probably had a license for it, since he couldn’t produce the permit, they took the gun away.

Joshua decided that he would purchase his own firearm as soon as possible. The gun had saved his life, as Rachel had predicted it would. He wasn’t going to be caught defenseless again.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when the police released Joshua to go. He called a taxi to pick him up from the station and take him home.

The rain had abated, and the clouds had cleared. The storm that had pummeled the city only a short while ago was only a bad memory—like everything else that had happened.

As the taxi approached his house, Joshua spotted a car parked in the driveway beside his Explorer: a smoke-gray Cadillac sedan with a bumper sticker that read, “I’m Saved. Are U?”

“Oh, no,” Joshua said.

It was his mother. She had dropped in for one of her unannounced “inspections,” probably because he had been avoiding her lately. She would not be ignored.

This had to be the worst possible time for him to see her. If she saw him looking like this, bandaged and bruised like a punished boxer, she would throw a fit. And if he dared to let her inside the house, and she saw the devastation Bates had wrought inside . . .

He couldn’t stand to think about it. He was tempted to tell the cab driver to turn around and drive away, to drop him off at Eddie’s. Eddie’s house was across the city, but he’d rather pay a fifty-dollar cab fare than face his mom.

No, I’ve gotta go home. I have too much to do, and I can’t let her get in my way.

The taxi parked in front of the driveway. Joshua paid the fare, and slowly climbed out of the car.

As the cab sped away, the Cadillac’s passenger door opened. Joshua saw his father’s small head behind the wheel, but his father wouldn’t get out of the car and participate in this conversation. During his mother’s inspections, Dad served as little more than her chauffeur.

With much effort, Mom rose out of the vehicle. She wore a long, black woolen jacket, a scarf, gloves, and a dark hat with a floppy brim. A gigantic purse dangled from her shoulder. Although the rain had passed, she gripped an umbrella like a walking stick.

“Where you been?” she asked. “We been waitin’ out here in the cold for half an hour!”

In his previous life as a bachelor, Mom never would have waited outside his apartment. She’d possessed a key to his place and would enter and make herself at home. Rachel, however, had refused to give anyone a key to their house, and though it had enraged his mother, Joshua was thankful that his wife had refused to bend.

“I’ve been taking care of some business, Mom.” He went to the mailbox and removed the day’s mail: what looked like a holiday card from Eddie and Ariel, credit card offers, and advertising circulars.

Mom slid on her glasses and shuffled down the driveway to get a closer look at him. Shock widened her eyes.

“What the hell happened to you, boy? Your face is all swoll, you got that bandage on your finger—”

“I got in a fight. I really don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look like somebody beat the hell outta you! Who was it?” Her eyes gleamed with malice, and she didn’t wait for Joshua to answer. “It was that heifer’s boyfriend, wasn’t it? I knew it! That low-down, triflin’ bitch!”

He wanted to clap his hands over his ears and run into the house. But he couldn’t force his feet to move. He was sick of running from her, sick of tolerating her tirades, sick of her rude intrusions into his life. It would never end. Until he brought an end to it.

Mom hooked her hand around his arm, her fingers like talons. Her voice was soft, lulling: “Come on home with us, baby. Let mama take care of everything.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” He paused, and then added: “I’m a grown man, you know.”

Mom stared at him, eyes muddy and confused. Then something shifted in her gaze, the old need to dominate returning, and her lips drew into a stern line.

“Get in the car, Joshua Earl, right this minute. Don’t make me tell you again.”

She pulled at him. Joshua stood firm.

“I’m not going home with you,” he said. “I’ve got business to handle here.”

“The only business you been handlin’ is gettin’ your ass beat! Now get in the damn car!”

“I can’t do that, Mom. Sorry.”

“You damn fool boy.” Blinking quickly, Mom lowered her gaze and rooted frantically in her purse. She soon found what she was looking for: a handkerchief. She had started to cry.

Joshua folded his arms across his chest as his mother dabbed at her eyes. He recognized the tears for what they really were: another weapon in her arsenal of manipulative tricks.

The weeping worked on his father, though. Dad got out of the car, looked at Mom and then at Joshua.

“What you say to your mama, boy?”

“I told her that I’m staying home, Dad. I appreciate your stopping by, but I’m in the middle of something here.”

“That bitch is gonna get him killed!” Mom said, fat tears streaming down her face. She honked into her handkerchief. “Look at our baby, Earl. Look at him! Some man his wife’s been keepin’ up with did this to him!”

Dad scrutinized Joshua as if seeing him for the first time. “You do look like you took a lickin’, son.”

“It’s not like that at all, Dad,” Joshua said. He turned to his mother. “And please do me a favor, Mom: don’t call my wife a bitch again. Or a heifer. She’s the woman I married, and whether you like her or not, you need to respect her as my wife.”

Blotting her eyes, Mom scowled. “Respect her? Hmmph.”

“No more,” Joshua said. “Please.”

Lips curled scornfully, Mom stuffed her handkerchief back into her purse. Her tears had ceased as quickly as if they had been produced by a water faucet that you could turn on or off at will.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Joshua said. “But I have to go inside and work on some important things. I can’t have any company right now.”

“You ain’t even gonna let us in?” Mom looked toward the front door. He could see the curiosity, the desire to pick apart and criticize, shining like hunger in her eyes.

“Not today,” he said.

“Our door’s always been open to you, baby,” she said. “You gonna turn us away like we strangers?”

“Mom, give it a rest, all right? I’ll call you when things settle down again.”

She glared at him, jaws set like stone. He matched her angry stare without blinking.

Finally, she shrugged. “Fine. Whatever you say, Mr. Man. Earl . . .”

“All right, Bernice.” Dad helped Mom get into the car, and shut her door. He approached Joshua and, shockingly, shook his hand.

“I’m proud of you, boy. Needed to tell your Mama all that a long time ago.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Be careful out there, son, whatever you doin’. Call me if you need somethin’.”

“Actually,” Joshua said, “I was wondering if you still have that handgun you used to keep in the house?”

“That .357? ‘Course I do. Man gotta have his guns. Wanted to teach you all about that, but your mama . . .” Dad sighed. “Well, you know how she is.”

“Can I borrow it? I wanted to pick up a piece myself, but I doubt a gun shop would sell me something if I walked in looking like this.”

Dad winked. “Stop by later tonight. After ten. Your Mama’ll be in bed.”

“Thanks.” Joshua smiled, though it hurt his bruised face to do so. “I’ll be there.”