My gaze shifted from him to Michael. How had Michael, who was much shorter and lighter, managed to overpower this giant? And he seemed to have done so without getting a single scratch in the process.

I said to Michael, "You dragged him in here?"

Michael nodded.

"He was around earlier," said Greta, gesturing toward Davidson. "I saw him peering through the window. He didn't come in."

He wouldn't need to. He could have gotten my description from his wife. Or from someone else who knew me, another customer at the café maybe. So he came around to make sure I was at Greta's, and then he waited outside in the dark. He must've waited for hours, giving his anger time to build to a boil. And when I came out, he pounced.

If it hadn't been for Michael, I would likely have been severely injured. Perhaps even killed. Maybe Davidson would have disfigured my face. Like he'd done to Esther and Willie? I glanced again at the knife on the table.

"Who is he, Adam?" Greta asked.

"Alon Davidson," I said, leaning forward for a better look at him. He had on gray work pants and a yellow shirt with very short sleeves that showed his developed biceps. There were bloodstains on and around the shirt collar. His hair was black and cropped very short. Blood glued the short hairs at his crown. I couldn't see his face with his head drooped forward.

"Can you wake him up?" I asked Michael.

Without a word he stepped forward, reached one hand toward Davidson's face, and made a twisting motion. Davidson jerked in his chair, a sharp cry escaping his mouth. His head came up, eyes popping open. They were set very deep and a very dark brown. Purple bruising circled the left eye, the skin there already starting to swell. Blood caked along his eyebrow. More blood clogged his nostrils, and his large masculine nose was either badly bruised or broken. Two or three days' worth of bristles grassed his cheeks and chin. His brow and jaw and chin matched his physique—all were large and made up of inelegant lines, like a pile of rocks had been sown together atop his barrel of a neck. The result wasn't as ugly as it sounded. If you rinsed off the blood, some might consider it a handsome face, in a brutal sort of way.