Who was the president of the USA before John F. Kennedy was assassinated?

‘How did you know?’ Thistle asks.

We’re in the waiting room at the hospital, drinking crappy coffee out of paper cups. The doctors have told us nothing. But at the scene, the wound looked superficial. Like the first little wedge an axe takes out of a tree. The blood flowed from the guy’s upper arm, but didn’t squirt out of it.

His hand, when it came out from behind his back, had been empty.

‘You ever try driving with a gun in the back of your pants?’ I ask. ‘Me neither—because it would be a stupid thing to do.’

‘Not that,’ Thistle says. ‘How did you know he wanted us to shoot him?’

I look down into my coffee, which is somehow swirling even though no one stirred it. I think of the way the guy stared at those two guns. Looking for a way out, then finally seeing one. Taking a deep breath, like he was about to jump into a cold river.

‘I’m not exactly sure,’ I say finally.

‘Hell of a risk for not sure.’

‘I was sure—I just don’t know why I was sure.’

Thistle leans back in her chair.

‘Thanks for trusting me,’ I add.

‘You’ve never been wrong before.’

I grimace. ‘Actually, I’m wrong all the time.’

‘Now you tell me,’ she says, with something that’s almost a smile.

A doctor emerges from the double doors. But it’s not Gomez’s doctor, and she ignores us.

‘So you don’t know why he did it,’ Thistle says.

I shrug. ‘Didn’t want to go back to Mexico?’

‘I’ve been to Mexico,’ Thistle says. ‘I did some training in Cancun with an anti-cartel unit. Mexico isn’t that bad. I can imagine risking my life to stay here, but I can’t imagine killing myself to avoid going back.’

Her phone rings, and she answers. ‘Yeah?’

I watch her from the corner of my eye. As always, I’m worried it’s a call from Vasquez. We’re pulling Blake’s house apart. There are bodies in his freezer. Arrest him, now!

‘Thanks,’ Thistle says. ‘See you soon.’

She hangs up. ‘That was Vasquez.’

My heart speeds up a little. Maybe I feel normal fear after all. ‘Yeah?’

‘The guy’s name is indeed Hector Gomez,’ she says. ‘He’s undocumented. But he has family here. A wife, a brother and two kids. Five and seven.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘His kids were born here. They’re US citizens. ICE won’t deport the parents of an American-born child.’

‘You think he knows that?’

‘For sure,’ she says. ‘Undocumented immigrants know the law better than the politicians do.’

‘So when he ran from us the first time, he wasn’t scared of getting deported.’

‘No. He was scared of something else.’