“Like he knew you were there,” Maureen said. “Knew who you were.”
“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Yeah. The way he crossed the room, the look on his face, he wasn’t choosing from a random array of targets, he was searching for someone specific. At first I figured he was meeting people, and that’s who he was looking for. But then he locked on target when he saw me.”
Anthony wiped his hand down his face. “You’re making me ill.”
“Then he made a move,” Preacher said. “I could see it—the first, like, microgestures, something in the shoulders or his hips or something—and I knew shooter’s stance was his next position. My brain added it up, the little things wrong about him. I hesitated for what felt like half a second. Less. Wesley had his back to the whole thing. I saw him see something in my face. He had a forkful of pork chop hanging there halfway to his mouth the whole time, white bean gravy dripping onto the tabletop. I couldn’t decide what to do: if I should say something, or try and push Wesley aside.”
He paused, catching his breath. Anthony set himself to rise from his chair, changed his mind and stayed seated. Preacher said, “That’s what cost us, in the end. I was too slow. My brain had it put together, but this fat, old cigar-smoking body … In that half moment, the shooter got his gun up and let loose.”
“Preacher, please,” Anthony said.
“Wesley caught the first couple of rounds in the back,” Preacher said. “I think he saved my life taking those. I would’ve taken those bullets in the guts. He definitely bought me time to return fire. I got my gun up and squeezed. It was so fucking fast. One moment this mope was walking in, the next my whole lower half is on fire, I got three holes in me, I’m on my back, blood is on the walls, plates are breaking, people are screaming. I only knew the shooter was dead ’cause he had stopped shooting.”
Pausing for breath, he looked at Anthony, as if checking to see if his partner could stand the rest of the story. Preacher turned back to Maureen. He seemed to sink even deeper into his pillows, a wounded bear settling into the snow. “I was never more scared in my life than when it was over, when I was lying there bleeding. I thought, what if there’s another one, what if he’s not alone? I thought I was dead, thought I was dying, I thought I was dreaming, I thought I was having a heart attack. Fuck.” He was out of breath.
Anthony held up his hand. “I think maybe this visit has gone on long enough. Thanks be to God, y’all will have plenty of time to talk about this, but, Preacher, you’ve been shot. Three times. You need to rest.”
“I’m good,” Preacher said.
“Maureen … Officer,” Anthony said, “we’re glad you stopped by. We are. I know he was worried about you. And I’m glad to meet you.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“I’m right here, Anthony,” Preacher said. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not.”
Maureen pressed her lips together, suppressing her laughter. Heinous as the situation was, she could hardly believe that hours after she was frantic with grief and worry that he was dead, she was standing there watching Preacher have a spat with his dentist boyfriend. Fucking New Orleans.
“Maureen will come back before her shift tomorrow night,” Anthony said.
“She has to go out there again tonight,” Preacher said. “These people came after her first. I told you about that. They’re out there.”
“Anthony’s right,” Maureen said. “And the Watchmen tipped their hand. They’re gonna go to ground now, these fucks. I’m safer tonight than I’ve been in weeks.”
“Because terrorists always do the logical thing,” Preacher said.
“Because they’re cowards,” Maureen said. “And cowards run when you chase them. They scatter when they lose the advantage. All fucking bullies are the same.”
“Okay, okay,” Preacher said. “One more thing. There’s something I need to tell you tonight, Coughlin. Something you could tell Detillier about.”
She decided not to tell Preacher about Detillier’s disappearance. Why give him any more to worry about? And if Preacher gave her good-enough cause, she’d go looking for him one more time. “Whatcha got?”
“I’m going for a soda,” Anthony said, clearly flustered. He got up, the chair squeaking loudly on the floor, and walked toward the door. “Make it quick, you two.”
“It’s out of love,” Preacher said. “He’s been waiting to meet you. He has. It’s the circumstances, like you said. He doesn’t even drink soda.”
“I think he’s doing great,” Maureen said. “If it were me, I’d be spitting nails and out for blood.”
“You mean you’re not?” Preacher said. “How are you holding up, by the way? You look terrible. Like, I hope I don’t look as bad as you.”