She’d wanted to say, No, not you, too. You have to stay safe. For me. But she couldn’t, afraid if she made that demand he would follow Jacob’s example and die, and after Lester was killed, and Caroline was smashed by the train, it cemented in her the idea that she couldn’t place any demands on him, that her needs were dangerous to those around her. So, by his bedside, opening the window to let out the smoke, she kept him company, fearful that he would die and leave her alone.

She needs him now, as she wonders what has become of Lincoln, afraid he might commit some grand stupidity in the city. Boo is right, One-Two is only a call away. A moment from making her worry disappear. She can’t do it.

She ponders the view and racks her brain, testing her memory for which plant or tree will bud and blossom first. Birch maybe. Or was it the uneventful hazel brush? Maybe, she thinks, with some shred of hope, maybe the maples will be next. And the maples, as we all know, they give us everything.

32

Simon sees them pass the rug store, their hunched and purpose-heavy postures leaking through the glass. He has seen it too many times not to know—seen it on the corner, in prison, on the block and in the cafeteria—the jerky try-not-to-be-noticed stride of men who will act. Will club or kill, or shoot, who have launched plans and are nearing their target.

His hand is on the door when he hears the first shot and he is in the jewelry store by the time he hears the second and third. He sees Jerry’s feet sticking out from behind the counter. His Rock-ported feet are jerking and crossing and uncrossing. There is blood on the wall behind him. Burt’s body is crumpled just inside the store, one leg folded back, the arm with the gun outstretched and the other raised above what is left of his head in an exaggerated salute. He is laid out angel-like, painted to fly on the floor. Except there is a hole the size of Simon’s thumb in his face and the skull looks as if it is resting too close to the floor. The entire back of his head is missing.

Lincoln is in the corner, fetused and shaking. Vera is crouched in the door to the back. She is saying, “Son? Is that you? Lincoln? Son? Son?”

Simon takes three steps and he is across the room, kneeling over Lincoln. Lincoln is racking, trying to keep his insides in. With every gurgle and shudder, Vera keeps saying Son? Son?

Simon puts his hand on Lincoln’s arm. “Close the store. Turn the sign,” he tells Vera. “Turn it.”

She barely moves. “Son?”

Simon rises and flips the sign and turns the deadbolt and switches off the lights.