A bright blade plunged into his belly.
Henry felt it slice sideways, severing vital tissue, and fire filled his torso. He sucked in one gasp of air, then the knife flashed to his throat.
“Last words, Mr. Henry? Before I shut your mouth for good?”
The boy with the knife looked about twenty, with a bland face and cruel eyes. The knife danced before Henry’s face, its blade black with blood. His blood—
“Speak up, Mr. Henry! You ain’t run out of words, have you? That can’t be!”
“Get off him!” screamed a woman’s voice. A familiar voice. It was Lou Ann, the Beacon’s receptionist. “Leave him alone!”
The boy pinning Henry’s right arm laughed with amazement.
“Run, Lou Ann!” Henry coughed. “Get back inside!”
The cold blade lodged against his jugular vein, and Lou Ann Whittington yelled again. “Don’t make me shoot you boys! I swear to God I’ll do it!”
The boy holding the knife looked left.
Henry followed his eyes. Lou Ann stood by the hood of the Explorer, all five feet four of her, her purse in one hand and a nickel-plated .38 revolver in the other.
“This ain’t none of your business, lady,” one boy said in a voice devoid of fear.
Lou Ann aimed her pistol over his head, and a crack of flame rent the darkness. “You let Mr. Sexton go!”
“Stay out of this, you old bitch!” shouted one of the others.
Through ringing ears Henry heard the receptionist’s shaky voice echo off the wall of the building. “Let him go right now, trash! Or I’ll kill you.”
“Cut his fucking throat, Charley,” said the boy on Henry’s left, moving toward Lou Ann.
She fired again. This time the bullet dug a divot out of the cinder-block wall behind the boys.
Henry tried to twist free, but all he managed to do was collapse on the pavement. All three boys were moving toward Lou Ann now.
“Run!” Henry tried to yell, but only a whisper emerged.
As the first boy reached Lou Ann, she shot him point-blank in the stomach.
He fell to his knees and looked down at his bloody shirt.
“Shit!” screamed one of the others, stopping in his tracks and holding up both hands.
The wounded boy fell facedown on the cement.
“Don’t make me kill you,” Lou Ann said in a shaky voice.
After a second’s hesitation, the other two grabbed their fallen comrade and dragged him around the corner of building. Henry heard car doors slamming. Then Lou Ann Whittington’s tear-stained face appeared above his. Her mouth was moving, but all he heard was squealing tires.
“Henry?” She slapped his face. “Can you hear me?”
He coughed and spat blood. “Thank you, Lou. That was …” He couldn’t remember what he’d meant to say. Then he caught it, like a soap bubble flying on the wind: “… a brave thing.”
“Don’t you die on me, Henry Sexton!”
“I’m not … just resting my eyes.”
“Henry!” Lou Ann was fumbling with her cell phone. “This is Lou Ann Whittington over at the Beacon! Mr. Sexton just got stabbed! He’s beat half to death. We need an ambulance over here right away. The law, too. Hurry!”
A dark veil was descending over Lou Ann’s face. Henry heard other voices but couldn’t make sense of them. People were gasping and barking around him, but he couldn’t make out their faces, or even their bodies. He thought of Katy Royal, who was probably sitting in a room with her husband somewhere, scared to death that he’d find out she’d once loved a black boy, or that she’d been in an asylum, or God knew what else—
“Stay awake, Henry!” Lou Ann slapped his face again. “Oh, God, roll over. Can you turn your head? Your mouth’s full of blood.”
He screamed as she rolled him, but at least the hot fluid drained from his throat, and he got one good breath. He spat out some more blood, and then she let him down onto his back again.
“Don’t let them get you like this,” she said, sobbing. “Not after all you’ve done.”
To Henry’s amazement, Lou Ann looked skyward and began to pray, appealing directly to Jesus in a voice that sounded as though it would break any moment. He wanted to give her a message for Sherry, but no words would come. His stomach and sides were wet. His balls, too. They must have hit an artery, he thought. Or I pissed myself …
“My files!” he cried suddenly, trying to rise from the asphalt. “Did they get my files?”
“Whoa, big fella,” Lou Ann said, gently pressing him back to the ground. “You’ve got a lot of stories to write yet. The ambulance is nearly here.”
“Keys,” Henry whispered. “Ya’ll need my keys.”
Tears poured from Lou Ann’s eyes, and her chin quivered like a child’s. She cradled his head in her hands. Henry wanted to tell her not to worry, but all he could do was gasp for air.
The wail of a siren rode to him on the night air. The wail rose in pitch, then became a horn, a solo saxophone, bobbing on the current of Ray Charles’s piano, the last show Ray had played at Haney’s Big House. Out of that divine music swelled the earthy yet ethereal voice of Swan Norris, singing alone in a blue spotlight, her timbre dark and true as Billie Holiday’s, giving voice to ineffable suffering: “… blood on the leaves,” she sang. “… blood at the root.”
“Hear that siren, Henry?” Lou Ann asked, palpable relief in her voice. “They’re almost here. It’s not your time yet.” She wiped his brow with the tail of her blouse.
As a wind of reverent applause swelled around Swan, Henry’s mind flickered, then winked out.
CHAPTER 44