TODAY. . . .

Roy left Deacon’s broken body in the driver’s seat of the Jeep and walked quickly down the sidewalk, looking to duck into a Metro station.  He considered the Shaw-Howard stop, just a few blocks down from the Jeep, but kept walking, dismissing it as too close.  As soon as Deacon’s body was discovered, with no obvious perpetrator in sight, Roy figured that the MPD would pull all the security camera tapes from the closest Metro stations, looking for somebody hurrying down the steps within a few minutes of the estimated time of death.  And once the police got a look at the way Deacon’s neck had been broken, they’d immediately suspect Roy, given the recent scrutiny over Flora’s death.  And if they matched Deacon’s neck with video of Roy ducking into a subway station a block away just minutes later, every law enforcement agent in the District would be hunting for Roy Temple.     

His time left in DC was now measured in hours.  But that was OK—he didn’t need long.  Just two more stops.  Then back home to pick up Graham, and they’d be gone.  He’d explain to the boy on the way, once he decided on just where it was that they would go.    

 Roy hurried down a few more blocks, then crossed the street towards the Mount Vernon Square station, figuring it far enough away from Deacon’s body to avoid close scrutiny. He fell in with a lunchtime crowd of men in business suits and wool topcoats as they made their way from the new Convention Center to the subway entrance. He fished in his pocket for a black watch cap, then put it on, pulling it down over his ears as he worked his way into the middle of the group in an effort to disappear for the security cameras.

A short man with an unkempt salt and pepper beard stood at the top of the escalator with a black five gallon bucket full of orange and red flowers. Zinnias—always Flora’s favorite. “Ten dollars,” the man said, catching Roy’s eye. “Take something home to the missus.”

Roy froze, and the lunch crowd flowed around him and down the escalator, as if he were a large stone in the middle of a creek back in Arizona. The zinnias would be perfect for Flora’s headstone.

A swinging briefcase banged into the back of Roy’s knee, snapping him from his reverie. “’Scuse me, sir,” the owner of the case said, as she descended into the subway’s maw. Roy looked away from the flowers, and up into the overhang that protected the station’s escalator from the elements, staring directly into the tiny camera that hung there, certain that he would be made.

Roy looked back from the camera to the flowers, a knee-buckling wave of guilt washing over him. He tugged his hat down low over his eyes, and disappeared down into the station.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

After leaving El Brujo, Roy had drifted up and out of Mexico, then slowly made his way east towards Texas, taking a variety of jobs along the way. He even found himself a lawman, working briefly as the sheriff of a small mining town outside of Van Horn, Texas. But the vein soon dried up; the town followed suit, and Roy drifted along.

Roy took a variety of lives in these jobs, feeding the sun as he had promised the giant witch. He kept his other promise, as well; not one of the men he killed was virtuous, and not one of them was felled with a gun. Roy was nothing if not a man of his word.

The century turned, and Roy began to suspect another, untold angle to his deal with Brujo. It had been ten years since Flora’s death, and from all appearances, he hadn’t aged a day. His hair was just as dark, his middle still as lean and firm as the day his wife had died. He had yet to find Flora again, as Brujo had said he would. But something was happening, that much was certain.

So he pressed on.

But the next ten years weakened his belief, and by 1910, Roy had no doubt that El Brujo was crazy. More than that, he was beginning to believe that he himself was crazy; after twenty years, it was crazy to have ever believed that Brujo could bring Flora back into the world, and he was crazy for ever even wanting such a thing. Shooting Flora was the worst mistake he could possibly make in his life, but it was his mistake, and his alone; no amount of witchcraft could undo it. He had to learn to live with what he had done.

As 1910 rolled in, Roy found himself working as hired muscle for Bumpy Robicheaux, a New Orleans gangster with ties to the formidable Black Hand gang. The job paid a decent wage, and the corruption in the Crescent City provided him with ample opportunities to feed the sun. And although he no longer believed in what Brujo had promised him, he kept fulfilling his end of the deal. Just in case he was wrong.

When he wasn’t working, Roy spent a lot of his time at a bar just off Bourbon Street that Bumpy owned. It was dark, it was quiet, and the food wasn’t awful, three important qualities. He found himself taking more and more of his meals there.

And then, one night, she was there.

Roy had come in a bit before seven, and seated himself at his usual spot, at the far end of the bar, nearest the kitchen, giving himself a clear angle on the front door. He ordered his meal and a beer -- and then there she was, coming out of the kitchen.

Flora looked exactly as she did the first day they had met, that day back in Whiskey Bottom when Roy had killed Dollar Bill Wallach and set his life down a destiny that had led him here. The same raven hair. The same dancing eyes. The same quiet smile. He had thought she was perfect before, in every way. But now. . . now, somehow, she was even more so. And she was headed his way.

Roy jabbed a fork into his etouffe, sliently cursing himself for ever having doubted El Brujo. A million thoughts raced through his mind, all at once, jostling for attention. He looked down at his plate, trying to avoid eye contact with her. It had been twenty years, but this was too sudden. He wasn’t ready –

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Her voice. Roy looked up slowly from his dinner. Flora stood in front of him, expectantly. He soaked in every detail, unable to breathe.

“Are you all right? Is your food OK?”

Roy nodded, still unable to speak. Flora turned and pointed over her back shoulder, at a large bouquet of brightly colored orange and red flowers along the back wall. “The flowers – I saw you staring,” she said. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Roy nodded again, praying that his voice would come soon.

“They’re zinnias,” Flora said, regarding him quizzically. “My favorites – they attract butterflies.”

Roy reached up and loosened his tie. “They’re nice,” he said, finding his voice at last.

Flora’s smile grew, a familiar blush creeping across her cheeks. Roy knew she was nervous. “Look,” she said. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Please,” he said, wanting nothing more.

She reached up with her left hand to twirl a strand of her long, dark hair around her fingers. A thousand memories came rushing back to Roy. “I didn’t come over here to talk to you about flowers.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You just – you look so familiar.”

It took all of Roy’s considerable strength to keep from leaping from his stool. It was all he could do to simply shrug. “I work for Bumpy,” he said. “I’m in here a lot.”

“I know. I’ve seen you.” Roy’s heart sank. How long had she been working here? How could he have missed her? “But other than that – do I know you from somewhere?”

I wish. “I don’t think so. I’m from out west – haven’t been in New Orleans that long.”

Flora’s eyes flashed, a familiar, playful tone that made Roy dizzy. “Ooh, a real outlaw,” she said, as Roy’s cheeks burned. “You look so familiar, though,” she continued, shaking her head. “Another life, maybe.”

“Maybe so.”

Flora turned and headed back towards the kitchen. “Stick around,” she called over her shoulder. “It’ll come to me eventually.”

I’ve waited forever, Roy thought to himself. “What time do you get off?”

“A giant pair of hands.”

Metro PD Homicide Detective Hibbert tilted his desk chair back, raising his arms over his head in a full stretch, feeling the threads of his cheap polyester dress shirt strain as he did so. The long-gone Mrs. Hibbert had been on his case since the very first days of their marriage. You gotta make detective; you gotta make more money; how are we ever gonna start a family on your salary. So he did. He got out there, busted his ass night after night, kissed all the right asses; and on the night before their seventh wedding anniversary, he got the call. He’d made detective, a pay grade that his lovely bride could finally live with.

Hibbert flicked a couple of crumbs from lunch off the front of his shirt, then smoothed his tie. Once he had made detective, he relaxed a little. He still kissed the right asses, but he stopped busting his ass quite so much. He found himself sitting at a desk a lot more than he used to, doing a lot more paperwork. The level of detail in homicide reports was exacting. Less time on his feet, more time on his ass doing paperwork, the slowing metabolism of a thirty year old man… Hibbert found himself looking more and more like his old man every day. Fifty pounds and three rounds of new suits later, she left him. You’re not making that much money, she said. If I had wanted this, I would have married the butcher. His ex-wife was a cruel woman, really; he had never realized it when they were married, but once she was gone, the only memories he had were of her verbal abuses. 

The phone on his desk rang, the two short, clipped rings indicating a call from dispatch. “New girlfriend?” Wilde asked from his own desk across the aisle. Hibbert flipped his partner the bird and lifted the phone off its’ cradle.

“Homicide,” he said. New girlfriend. Wilde could be a gaping asshole sometimes. Hibbert had never been much at the dating game, or any kind of social scene. It’d been a big relief for him to get married; not having to navigate the singles scene had been half the appeal. Never in a million years had he thought that he’d have to deal with all of that again. And even with her gone, he hadn’t. He’d spent most of his free time over the last five years sitting alone in the dark at the movies; two, three times a week.  One small Diet Coke, one small bag of unsalted, unbuttered popcorn per film.  His choice of snacks was a good faith effort, but it was still a lot of time spent sitting around, and the pounds just kept coming.   

 “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Hibbert said into the receiver, listening, taking notes.  His pen died on him mid-word. 

 “Can you hang on a sec?”  Hibbert snapped his fingers to get Wilde’s attention, then motioned for him to toss him a pen.  Wilde did – black, of course.  Wilde knew that Hibbert always used blue, and tossed the black one anyway. Ass. Hibbert pulled the cap off of the pen with his teeth.  “Can you give me the cross street again?”

Wilde shook his right hand back and forth crudely in front of his crotch. “She sounds sexy,” he said in a stage whisper.

“OK, thanks,” Hibbert said, wrapping it up. The dispatcher did sound a little sexy, but he wasn’t about to let Wilde know that. He cradled the phone, then tossed the pen back at Wilde.

“I hear the bar at the Hotel Monaco’s pretty nice,” Wilde said. “Get a few drinks in her, maybe head upstairs to room 219, see what happens?”

“Guess who’s body just turned up?” Hibbert said, ignoring him.

“Troy Aikman.”

“No.”

 “That’s too bad,” Wilde said, running his fingers across the laces of a souvenir Redskins football on his desk. “What I wouldn’t give to see that motherf—”

“Deacon Simms.”

Wilde tilted his head to the side, looking across the aisle at his partner. “His body?”

Hibbert nodded. “DOA.  Said it looked like his neck had been broken in half by—” He flipped back a page in his notebook to get the quote exactly right. “—a giant pair of hands.”

“Well, well,” Wilde said as he stood, pulling on his sport coat. “I think we know for sure what happened to Lady Temple.”