“I’ll make that nigger squeal, all right,” Sonny vowed. Then he went white and vomited over the edge of the table.

“Aw, hell,” Frank groaned, backing away. He picked the bloody and deformed slug out of the kidney-shaped metal tray. “Messing up Doc’s floor for a little pimp bullet like this. Clean that puke up, Glenn. Doc ain’t got no nurse on duty.” Frank punched Tom on the arm and laughed. “Least not no more, he don’t!”

While Morehouse obediently cleaned up the vomitus, Tom finished working in silence. Twenty minutes was all it took to deal with the superficial injuries, but as he worked, he wondered whether Luther Davis had obeyed his order to remain in the surgery. More than anything, he worried how Viola was holding up in the darkness of Exam Three. He prayed she wouldn’t snap and try to check on her brother. Surely she wasn’t that crazy—

“Like we said, Doc,” Frank said expansively. “Anything you ever need, you let us know.”

“Just don’t let this happen again. You’re cutting into my sex life.”

The three men laughed heartily as Tom led them out, Thornfield limping along with Morehouse’s support.

“Get home and rest that leg,” Tom advised. “You can get your revenge next month. Come to the office tomorrow and let me check it. You all need rest, by the way. Head injuries are nothing to fool with.”

Frank laughed. “We’ll rest when we’re dead, Doc. Take it easy, okay? And sorry ’bout your pussy.”

Tom shook his head and shut the door, sweat suffusing his skin in a sudden wave. He’d felt fear like this during the war, but something was different now. In Korea he’d mostly worried about himself. Now he had a wife and two children to protect. And tonight he’d stepped between two warring armies—small ones, perhaps, but as vicious in their hatreds as any on earth.

He shut off the light and went back to get Viola. He found her shivering in the dark exam room, her shirt unbuttoned to the waist. A white bra showed through, cradling her breasts as though for a Playboy spread.

“They’re gone,” he said, averting his eyes. “Let’s finish up Jimmy.”

Before she could say anything, he went back to the surgery. While Jimmy and Luther peppered him with questions, he did some of the fastest stitching he’d done since his internship at Charity Hospital in New Orleans.

“They want revenge,” he told Luther. “They recognized you both, and they’re not going to stop looking until they find you. You need to get out of town.”

“I ain’t runnin’ from them cracker motherfuckers,” Luther vowed.

“Then you’re dumber than you look. They’ve got more guns and men than you do, and the cops and courts are on their side. You only have one choice. Retreat.”