Jones jerked a thumb at Jenks. “Take this guy inside. He lost a lamb. Make sure he ain’t shot by accident.”

“Right. This way, kid.”

Morgan watched Nunzio lead Jenks back into Albatross Hall. The building looked like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe tale-dark stone, windows like vacant eyes, the snow piling at the corners. Morgan looked down, saw that Jones had latched on to his arm. He’d been holding the old man up. Morgan hooked arms with Jones, stood close to shield him from the wind. Jones let him.

Jones craned his neck, lifted his mouth toward Morgan’s ear. The old man was trying to tell him something. Morgan leaned forward, cupped his free hand around his ear to block the howling storm.

“You got to help me get my book into shape to show this Arkansas Press guy,” Jones said. “He says he’ll leave a slot in the schedule open this fall.”

Morgan said he’d help.

Dull gun blasts echoed from within Albatross Hall. Blue light flashed in the windows.

“W-what are they doing?” asked Valentine.

“Sweeping up,” Jones said.

A sudden flurry of shots like a spurt of microwave popcorn, flashes from the third floor.

Jones’s car pulled up on the sidewalk with Smith at the wheel. The big sedan carved dirty furrows in the white snow. Morgan opened the door for Jones. Valentine went around the other side. They climbed into the car, sighed relief at the warmth.

“Are they going to be okay?” Morgan looked at the dark windows of Albatross Hall.

“They’ll be fine,” Jones said. “I need some soup.”

Under the car’s interior light, Morgan took a good look at the old man. His lips were blue, breathing shallow.

Morgan took his hands. They were lumps of hard ice. “You okay?”

“I can’t feel them.”

Morgan put the hands between his own, rubbed hard.

“It was like you said,” Jones muttered. “When I knew I had the crowd. They loved it. I could feel them. It was the best I ever felt.” His voice was fading.

Morgan pulled the old man close, tried to give him body heat. This little, gnarled poet. Morgan’s deus ex machina hero.

Jenks knelt on the cold tile next to DelPrego’s body. His head ached from holding back the tears. Finally, he gave up, let them roll hot and salty down his cheeks and over his lips. Down the hall, Nunzio dragged a gangster’s body by the ankle, pulled him to the edge of the pile of bodies the hoods were making. It had been at least five minutes since Jenks had heard gunshots.

Jenks pushed himself to his feet. He felt tired, a hundred years old, like he’d been awake for a week. He looked at the last body Nunzio had put on the pile.

“You know any of these?” Nunzio’s hand swept over the pile.

“A few,” Jenks said. “The one on top is Red Zach.”

Jenks studied Zach, the slack, expressionless face. Eyes glassy and dull. It seemed impossible that this man had ruled his life. It was a hundred years ago he’d been Zach’s go boy, running errands. He had even hoped to be like Zach one day, but now the man was only cold bones and loose flesh and an already fading memory of fear.

The cocaine was gone. Red Zach gone. Even Sherman Ellis was gone, with no family to remember him. It was all gone. For Harold Jenks, only the whole, wide world remained.

forty-six

It took an hour for Bob Smith to drive Morgan home. None of Fumbee’s stoplights worked. Power was out in various neighborhoods. Fortunately, the roads were nearly deserted, most folks having enough sense to stay at home.

Jones regained some of his color and his voice was stronger. The sedan had good heat and Smith flipped it to full blast. Jones offered Valentine a spare bedroom and the old professor gladly accepted.

Morgan’s porch light told him he was one of the fortunate few who still had electricity. He bid everyone good night, rushed up the steps and into his little house. He found the thermostat and thumbed the heat up until it clicked on. He stood over one of the vents, let it blow warm air up his pant legs.

He moved into the kitchen, rummaged every cabinet until he finally tuned up a half-full bottle of Cutty Sark he didn’t remember buying. He filled a juice glass and sat at the kitchen table still wearing his coat. Valentine had told Morgan about Jenks. That was the kid’s name. Harold Jenks. Morgan still wasn’t sure he understood what had happened.

He wondered if Ginny were okay, vaguely wished she were with him. He didn’t feel like being alone, wasn’t really sure how he felt. His night had been a horror of dead bodies, yet Morgan felt relief he wasn’t one of them. He’d begun this mess with Jones bailing him out, hiding Annie Walsh’s body. Morgan could no longer remember Annie’s face. It didn’t seem like part of the same life.

Now Jones had bailed him out again, even given him a ride home. A strange, sweet, odd old man. Morgan drained the Cutty Sark.

He was so tired but forced himself to shower. The hot water felt good.

No towel on the rack when he stepped out of the shower. He dripped and shivered as he walked to the hall closet, feet slapping wet on the floor.

Morgan didn’t even see the lamp until it was an inch from his nose. It shattered against his forehead, and Morgan went down, blinked blood out of his eyes. He climbed to his knees, shaken, opened his mouth to yell. A fist caught him hard on the jaw, rattled teeth. He bit his tongue, more blood.

Morgan lay on his back, legs curled awkwardly under him. He looked up into the grinning face of the man over him. Stubble. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles. All disturbingly familiar.

The man’s left arm ended at a red stub, which had been wrapped in white gauze, blood spots seeping through.

“Oh, no.” Morgan heard his own voice, small and without breath. It sounded like fear.

Deke Stubbs laughed, a low wicked mix of scorn and amusement. “I thought you might remember me, Professor.”

“I thought…” Morgan rolled over, wiped the blood out of his eyes. His head throbbed.

“You thought I was dead?” Stubbs shook his head. “Nope. But I can see how you might think that since you left me trapped in the back of a goddamn car that was sinking into the fucking ocean.”

Stubbs kicked Morgan hard in the ribs, and Morgan whuffed air, went into a fetal position. Stubbs kicked again. A third time. Morgan felt something give along his side, wondered if a rib had cracked.

“I want to tell you something, Jay old boy,” Stubbs said. “When you’re halfway through your own arm with a saw, you really learn how to hate. I’ve killed you so many times in my imagination, I’ve lost count.”

“Please.” Morgan backed away, tried to stagger to his feet but froze when he saw the automatic in Stubbs’s only hand.

“In one scenario, I shove broken glass up your ass for an hour before I put a bullet in your head.” Stubbs stood close to Morgan, stuck the barrel of the automatic against Morgan’s temple. “But that’s too quick. After what I been through, everything’s too quick for you. You’re going to learn about a whole new bright world of pain. There’s going to be jagged things and sharp things and fiery hot things, and it’s all for you.”

Morgan said, “I just wanted out of the car. I thought it was sinking.”

Stubbs slapped the barrel of his gun across the side of Morgan’s head. Little fireworks went off behind Morgan’s eyes. Bells. Morgan felt something cool on his cheek. It was the floor.

Morgan was dizzy, couldn’t get his bearings. He lost track of Stubbs, allowed himself the fantasy that Stubbs had left, changed his mind for some reason.

But Stubbs was too in love with vengeance. Morgan felt his wrists being bound together. Some kind of thin cord. Then he was being dragged into the bedroom. Morgan could only get one eye open, the other caked closed with blood. He tried to twist around, see what Stubbs was doing.