His right eye was twitching. The hand gripping the gun was shaking.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked him.
He showed no sign of emotion, other than the twitching of his eye and the quivering of his hand. For the first time since our reunion at the airport, I noticed something odd about his hand: he was missing his pinky finger. I looked at his other hand. The little finger on that hand was missing too.
“You did that?” I asked Vosch. “You tortured him?”
“We considered it a no-brainer.”
That sent Sam over the edge. He twisted his fingers into Vosch’s hair and yanked his head straight back. He commenced to whisper something that sounded like Latin into his ear.
“. . . Per sacrosancta humanea reparationis mysteri
a—By the sacred mysteries of man’s redemption—remittat tibi omnipotens Deus omnes praesentis et futurae vitae paenas— may almighty God remit to you all penalties of the present life and of the life to come. Paradisi portas aperiat, et ad gaudia sempiterna perducat—May He open to you the gates of paradise and lead you to joys everlasting . . .”
“You’re wasting your time, priest,” Vosch said. “I’m not Catholic.”
“And I’m not a priest.”
Vosch acted like he didn’t hear him. “You’re supposed to forgive.”
“God’s business, not mine,” Sam answered.
He started to squeeze the trigger. I brought my hand down hard on his wrist and the gun clattered to the pavement.
“Please let me, Alfred,” he said. He had never begged me for anything before.
“Yes,” Vosch said. “Please let him.”
I picked up the gun and tucked it into my waistband. “We’re getting out of here.”
Sam held on to Vosch’s hair for a second longer. His eyes darted wildly back and forth, from me to Vosch and back again. Sometimes the bloodiest battles happen inside our own hearts.
He drove his knee into Vosch’s back, sending him sprawling onto the pavement. Then he spat on him, took a deep breath, and looked away, finally, from Vosch, toward me.
“It’s good to see you again, Alfred,” he said.
Then he did something he rarely did.
He smiled.
MOTEL 6
HELENA, MONTANA
01:00:06:14
I walked around the building a couple of times to make sure the coast was clear, then knocked on the door to room 101. The chain lock rattled, the dead bolt slid back, and Samuel opened the door. He tossed the gun onto the bed and took the plastic sack from my hand.
“I was about to come after you,” he said.
He threw the lock and fell into the chair by the little table. I sat in the other chair across from him. He fished a deli sandwich from the bag and dug in, eating with his nose about three inches from the table. I took out my meal and slowly unwrapped the yellow paper.
“Corn dogs,” he said.
“I’m superstitious.”
The TV was tuned to a cable news channel. A car bomb had killed some people overseas. Somebody important was going to speak at the UN tomorrow. A car maker was set to announce record losses for the third quarter.