Faithless Angel (23 page)

“Where is he?”

The man shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I—this is crazy. You ain’t really you.” He started to laugh—a nervous, high-pitched laugh that rang with fear and the coke he’d probably been snorting. “You’re dead, man.” Another burst of laughter. “Dead!”

“Where?” Jesse demanded, tightening his grip on the man’s collar. “Either you tell me where he is or I’ll kill you right here, right now. Your choice. A choice I never had.” Jesse’s fingers closed around the man’s throat and squeezed.

“The Dungeon,” the man rasped, and Jesse loosened his grip enough to let him gasp for a breath.

“The Dungeon?”

“On the corner of Fifth and Travis. Late,” the guy said, gulping. “You can find him there late”—he swallowed—“after ten or eleven when he finishes his rounds. He likes to kick back, down a few brews.”

Jesse’s fingers flexed, tightened, and the man’s eyes bugged out.

“Don’t,” the guy pleaded. “I—I told you where Bryan is. Lemme go.”

“You let him kill my brother and sister.”

The guy shook his head frantically. “I—I didn’t want no part of that. I tried to help her.”

“You let him stab her after he did the same to my little brother! He killed them both and you watched. Dammit, you
watched
,” he said in a hiss, fingers convulsing, tightening.

“But I didn’t kill ’em, man, and I tried to set things right with the girl.” He struggled, saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. “I tried to help her. Bryan’s the one who stabbed ’em both. You, too.”

Bryan
.

Jesse flung the man back against the brick building
and whirled. The murderer’s name pounded in his head like a war chant.

It was war. A war for Jesse’s soul. For his peace of mind. For justice, and forgiveness.

“You’re dead,” the man’s voice followed Jesse as he walked through the alley. “You ain’t real. I saw you bleed. I saw you, man. You’re dead.”

He was, and so was Jason. Thanks to Bryan.

Jesse stormed down the street toward his motorcycle. The Dungeon was about ten minutes away. If he hurried, he could be there in time to pay good old Bryan a little visit.

He cut through another alley and picked up his pace, the scar on the back of his hand tingling. His body came alive then in remembrance. Six stab wounds, and each of the scars fired to life, sending shock waves of pain skidding across his nerve endings.

A life for a life.

In the far corner of his mind, he glimpsed Faith. She waited for him, calling to him, promising salvation.

But she was no one’s savior. He’d seen that for himself. He’d felt her hopelessness. And he didn’t blame her for retreating, for giving up her work. He tasted the same bitterness, like a mouthful of sea-water burning his tongue, choking him. It wasn’t fair. Dammit, it wasn’t fair—

A small cry pushed past the roar in Jesse’s ears, and he came to a dead stop. A bare bulb flickered nearby, sending skittering shadows across the muddy, garbage-lined alley just to his left. The heartbreaking sound continued, carrying from the far end, niggling at his conscience despite the turmoil inside him, and he couldn’t resist.

He moved deeper into the alley, his gaze searching
the narrow dimness. With every step the noise grew louder. A whimper here, a sniffle there. Then he saw her.

Trudy was slumped against a brick wall, her nose bloodied, her eyes puffy. Her guitar lay broken beside her.

His rage dissolved the instant he saw the tear trickle down her bruised face. The past faded into a blur and there was only now. The present. The poor girl broken and bleeding and calling out to him.

“What happened?” He reached her in three long strides, boots stomping trash and muck, and hunkered down in front of her.

“Jesse? Is that you?” She stared at him through eyes no wider than slits.

“Yeah, honey. It’s me. What happened?”

“They”—she swallowed, struggling for a breath—“beat … me up for my … my shoes.”

His gaze went to her bare feet and something twisted inside him.

“They took your letterman’s jacket, too, and the money I had left.”

“It doesn’t matter, honey. All that matters is you’re still alive.” With gentle hands, he examined her face. She winced and grunted several times, and he frowned. “I’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

“No!” She struggled against his hands, pushing him away all the while fighting to sit up.

“But you’re hurt.”

“They’ll—the hospital—they’ll turn me in,” she managed after a deep gulp of air. She shook her head, her face contorting with the effort. “Nothin’s broken. They just punched my, ugh”—she grimaced, touching a tender hand to her puffy cheek—“my face a few times. I’ll be all right. Honest.”

Jesse checked her arms, legs, ribs, moving her this
way and that to make sure she was telling the truth before he took a thorough look at her face. “Your eyes are pretty bad. Can you see?”

“Yeah …” She felt for his face. “Well, maybe not so good.”

He muttered a curse. “We’re getting out of here.”

“If you could help me back to my place … the apartment …”

“Forget it. You need rest, some ice for your eyes, and somebody to clean those cuts.” He gathered her in his arms.

“No!” She fought him, but Jesse wasn’t about to leave her alone again, fresh pickings for the scum who roamed the alleys and the abandoned buildings. “Just leave me alone. I don’t need any help. I’m fine….”

He hoisted her up over his shoulder, his arms firm but gentle, and navigated back to where his motorcycle was parked.

“I told you to leave me be, dammit!” She pounded his back, ranted at him, and sucked air in painful gasps. “You ain’t my boss.”

“No,” Jesse said, depositing her on the seat. He climbed behind her before she could scramble off, and kicked the bike to life. “I’m your friend, and I’m a helluva lot bigger and meaner than you. So settle down.”

“Fat chance. I ain’t going to no hospital.” Trudy struggled, her efforts useless with Jesse’s arm locked around her waist. But she tried anyway. She was so desperate, so spirited. So much like Rachel.

“We’re not going to the hospital.”

Her movements paused. “Then where?”

“To salvation,” he replied, sending the motorcycle speeding forward. “Yours, and mine.”

*    *    *

“I’m coming.” Faith peeked past the curtains before throwing open her front door. “My God, what happened?”

Jesse stepped inside, a bruised and battered teenage girl cradled in his arms. “Somebody beat her up. She’s got lacerations to the face, bruising—do you have a first-aid kit?”

Faith nodded. “Bring her in here.” She led him to the spare bedroom that had only recently housed all of Jane’s belongings. “Lay her down.” Faith motioned to the double bed adorned with a red and gold patchwork quilt.

While Jesse settled the girl upon the bed, Faith retrieved a large tackle box marked with a bright red cross on the handle, a bowl of warm water, and some washcloths.

“Let me get a good look.” She pushed Jesse aside and went to work, gently bathing Trudy’s face with a cloth before applying ointment and a bandage here, another there.

“How bad is she?” He hovered over her shoulder, a worried look on his face, and Faith had the overwhelming urge to pull him into her arms.

“She’s bad, but not too bad. Nothing life-threatening.” She reached for a fresh washcloth.

After several more minutes of bathing and doctoring, she closed her medical kit and reached for an oversize T-shirt and thick socks she’d retrieved from her bedroom. “Go on into the living room,” she told Jesse, ushering him from the bedroom, “while I help her get changed.”

The door closed and Faith turned to the battered girl.

“I’ll be fine in my own clothes,” the girl mumbled, her slitted, puffy gaze fixed somewhere to Faith’s right.

“If your vision isn’t better by morning”—Faith walked toward the bed, a watchful eye on the girl—“I’m taking you to the doctor.”

“Like hell,” the girl muttered, her gaze still riveted in the direction Faith had come from. “I see all right.”

“Oh, yeah?” Faith asked.

The girl jumped, her gaze swerving to the side of the bed where Faith now stood. “So it’s not great now, but it’ll get better.”

“I hope so, but if not, we’re hitting the clinic.”

“I don’t like clinics. Or doctors.”

“The worst that’ll happen is he’ll give you a shot, some antibiotics.”

The girl laughed, her face twisting into a distorted puzzle of bruises. “And I could find myself handcuffed to some social worker, on my way to a place worse than the one I came from. No, thanks. I’ll do fine on my own.”

“You could always go blind,” Faith said, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. “Think you could survive on your own then?”

The girl’s frown twinged with worry and she gave Faith a wary glance. “But I ain’t got no money.”

“I’m paying.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a friend of a friend, and friends help each other out. Now try to sit up so we can get you out of these clothes.” She reached for the girl with gentle, practiced hands.

“How is she?” Jesse asked a half hour later when Faith sank down on the couch next to him, the girl’s tattered clothes bundled in her lap.

“Sound asleep. She all but passed out before I even finished helping her off with her socks. She
was tired.” She slanted a glance at him. The living room was lost in shadow, the only light the play of the street lamp sifting through the blinds. Slats of yellow played across his dark profile, giving his features a harsh edge.

“So who is she?” Faith asked.

“Just a kid I met last week. Her name’s Trudy. I don’t know about a last name. She’s on her own. Lives in an abandoned apartment building over off Elgin.”

“How do you know her?”

“It’s my old building.” He slumped back against the couch and closed his eyes. “Where I used to live when I first moved to Houston. I haven’t been there for the past year, and I went back to see what had happened to it. And there she was,”

“You should have called CPS.”

“I promised her I wouldn’t. Besides, it wouldn’t have done any good. She would have taken off and ended up in another building, in another part of town. At least this way I could keep an eye on her. I took her some food and a blanket the night before last, and the phone number for Faith’s House.”

“Let me guess.” She leaned back and surveyed him. “She told you to go to hell, right?”

“Not in so many words, but yes.” He passed a hand over his eyes, looking tired and drained. “She’s been through a lot. She hasn’t said much, but from what I can figure, her mother is a junkie and a prostitute. No father. I don’t know about brothers and sisters. She doesn’t seem to have anybody.”

“So you’re playing the hero?”

“I’m nobody’s hero, Faith.” He leaned down, forearms resting on his thighs as he clasped his hands together. He looked extremely weary all of a sudden. So … vulnerable. The strength that normally
cloaked him seemed to slip away and she saw the man beneath. A weary, frightened man.

“I’m about as far away from a hero as you can get,” he muttered. “Trouble. That’s what my mother used to call me. ‘Here comes trouble,’ she’d say. ‘Just like your father.’ ”

“And what did your father say?”

“Not much. He was drunk most of the time. They both were. Then when my mother got pregnant with my little sister, my dad split. He couldn’t take care of two kids—me and my kid brother—much less three.” He laughed, a bitter sound that brought tears to Faith’s eyes. “My mother was so drunk, she didn’t even notice he’d left for near a week.”

“Drunk and pregnant?”

“Good old Mom.” For all the sharpness to his words, his voice trembled.

“Thankfully Restoration is a real small town,” he went on after a moment of silence. “The sort of place where everybody knows everybody else’s business. Anyhow, when my dad left, a few of the church ladies stepped in to help. They got my mother to sober up, at least for the duration of her pregnancy. It was a miracle, but my sister was born without any complications or problems. Then my mother went back to drinking while I took care of my brother and sister.”

“How old were you?”

“Just turned fourteen.”

“You were taking care of a newborn at fourteen?”

He nodded. “And a toddler. My brother was two.”

“What about the ladies from church? Did they help?”

“Mom crawled back into a bottle, drunk and unappreciative. They washed their hands of her. And us.”

“I can’t believe they didn’t call CPS.”

“They did. A county case worker came out to our place a couple of times. But the visits always seemed to be on my mom’s good days. She seemed halfway normal; the kids were fed and clothed. The house was small, but clean.”

“So they stopped coming?”

He nodded. “I kept everything together, everybody, for the next few years. I kept thinking if I held on a little longer, my mom would come around. She couldn’t ignore her kids, right?” He shook his head. “But after that she drank harder, heavier, until one day she passed out and never woke up.” He covered his face with his hands for a long moment. “That was close to five years after my dad left. I was eighteen. Jason was six and Rachel was four.”

“That’s terrible.” Her hand covered his shoulder, feeling the tightness of his muscles, the tension that thrummed through him.

“It was the worst day of my life,” he went on. “I remember standing there, staring at her grave, begging her to come back.” A harsh laugh passed his lips. “I don’t know why. She was never really there anyway, but at least while she was alive, I never felt quite so alone. As long as she lived, there was hope.” He laughed again. “Stupid, huh? But I was just a kid, and there I was looking at her casket, and it was so … final.” He raked tense fingers through his hair, his muscles rippling from the movement, drawing tighter, stiffer beneath Faith’s hand.

“I’m sorry, Jesse.”

“Don’t be,” he muttered after a drawn-out moment of silence. “Things were actually easier after that. No more watching my mother kill herself. She was gone and so the three of us got on with living. I quit school, took a job as a mechanic, and supported
my brother and sister. In the meantime I finished my senior year in night school, then went on to night classes at a local college.”