“She’s gone, son,” the doctor said.
“I . . . I was using the phone . . .” Holly said, unable to think of anything else to say. The doctor cleared the room and Holly sat on the edge of his mother’s bed. He took her hand and held it to his face. The coolness in her fingers pushed the reality of what had just happened straight through his chest and he started to cry. He cried in loud sobs—a boy’s sobs. He ran his hand down her face and let his fingers explore the scar that crossed it. She never let him touch it. She always pulled away, ashamed of it. He thought it was beautiful. He thought everything about her was beautiful. Even more so now that the sadness was gone, as if it had evaporated along with her breath. He laid his head on her chest and closed his eyes. He stayed like that for minutes or hours. It could have been either.
Another hand was on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” a voice said behind him. Holly lifted his head but didn’t look at the hospital’s pastor, who was there to console him. He looked at the black-and-white composition notebooks scattered all over the floor and stacked on the chair beside his mother’s bed. He’d brought them here from the apartment he’d set her up in, to read while she faded away. Until today, he hadn’t even known his mother kept a journal. Until today, he didn’t know a lot of things. He didn’t know hepatitis C caused liver cancer. Or that it could kill you this fast. He didn’t know his mother had been keeping it from him. She must have started writing these journals when she got sick. It read like a Greek tragedy. Every horrible thing she went through, and not one word of regret about having Simon. Even when they had to sleep in abandoned cars, or had no food for days. It all started in Jacksonville, with this Pepé, and the night she was cut. From the top of one of the journals he hadn’t read yet, he saw the tip of a photograph being used for a bookmark. He sat up and willed himself to stand.
“If now isn’t a good time, Mr. Holly,” the pastor said, backing up and giving Holly room to move. “Or if my being here is making you uncomfortable, I can go. Maybe I can come back later.”
“Officer,” Holly said.
“I’m sorry?” the elderly pastor said, clutching a leather-bound Bible to his chest.
“It’s Officer Holly.” Holly picked up the picture, sliding it out from between the pages of the notebook.
“Of course,” the pastor said.
Holly looked at the photo of his mother and him at the Mobile county fair when he was a boy. He remembered having to sleep in the woods that night, and how she’d held him to her warm chest to keep him from shivering. He couldn’t stop the fresh tears from spilling over his raw cheeks. He sat back down on the bed next to his mother.
“If you decide you need someone to talk to about Marion’s passing,” the pastor said, “I am always available. My office is only four doors down on the left. I’ll leave my card for you here on the chair.” Holly didn’t answer, nor did he turn around. When the pastor had left, he laid the photo on his mother’s pillow and slipped a bottle of her painkillers from the side table into his pocket. He did want to talk about Marion’s death, but not with this hospital-staff Bible-beater. He pulled the folded sheet of paper from his pocket and looked at the name he’d circled. He wanted to talk to someone else entirely.
CHAPTER
19
PEPé RAMIREZ
PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA
2014
Headlights punched through the polyester curtains. The sound of crunching gravel outside mixed with loud mariachi music announced that the owner of the trailer was coming home. The man in the mask took several deep breaths and sank deeper into the faux-leather recliner. He stroked the barrel of the Glock 17 in his lap and coaxed his heartbeat into a calm and relaxed rhythm.
The trailer’s owner stumbled through the door into the darkened room, a cyclone of noise and marijuana stink, a sweet, earthy smell clinging to everything it touched like melted wax. The mark was a gangster from the old school. His tattoos identified him as one of the Latin Kings. He wore khaki chinos drooped way past his ass cheeks, showing a good six inches of powder-blue boxer shorts, and a wifebeater thin enough to see every cut line of muscle underneath. He also toted a massive black pistol tucked into the front of his pants. How the weight of it didn’t drop his pants to the ground was anybody’s guess.
The old gangbanger made his way into the kitchenette and pulled the chain of the wall-mounted lamp that illuminated the entire place. The man in the mask’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he watched the O.G. pull the enormous hand cannon from his britches and lay it on the kitchen table.