Page 39 of Wall

“Do you want to say anything?” Heavy asks. The man’s Adam apple bobs but no sound comes out. He’s past words. Heavy turns to Eckels. “You might remember his daughter. Serena Smith. I think you gave her a ring, too.”

“You got her hooked on that— that—garbage. You killed her. Her mother— We—” Smith’s face, even his scalp where his hair is thinning, is bright red. Spit flies as he speaks.

Smith looks to Heavy. He has to crane his neck.

“Whenever you’re ready, friend.”

And Smith jumps Eckels. He’s so quick, Charge and Nickel almost don’t manage to pin Eckels’ arms back in time.

It’s clear Smith has never thrown a punch before, but damn, his heart’s in it. He aims for the face, sending Charge and Nickel bobbing and ducking his wild swings. He cracks Eckel’s nose and jaw. Blood splatters. Charge and Nickel leap back to avoid the spray, and I move to step in, but Eckels is down.

He’s screaming, and Smith is driving his brown loafers into Eckels’ unprotected ribs as he desperately tries to protect his mashed face.

Smith is screaming, too, a wordless wailing that spears me in the guts. I don’t know his loss, but the sound of his cries aren’t foreign to me. Grief is grief.

I find my eyes are prickling as I watch Smith’s energy ebb and the tears streak down his cheeks.

Finally, he stands still over Eckels’ writhing, bloody body, his fists still clenched in rage.

“My Serena was agoodgirl. We loved her.” His voice breaks. “He stole her away from us. Turned her into—” He can’t bring himself to say the words. “She was a good girl. She washappy, and we loved her, goddamn it!”

He meets each of our eyes, demanding we understand, that we acknowledge his love and his loss. My brothers aren’t cowards. They hold his gaze. But they don’t understand. None of them except maybe Pig Iron.

I step forward, rest my arm around his heaving shoulders. “She was your little girl.”

A ragged sob rips from his throat. “He killed her.”

“You loved her.”

“I would have doneanythingfor her.”

“I know.” As I lead him outside, I untie my bandana and hand it to him. He wipes speckles of blood from his face.

The street is as quiet as it was when we pulled up. While we were inside, a prospect showed up in the truck that we use for transferring sensitive cargo.

I help Mr. Smith into the van. He’s totally out of it.

“Did I kill him?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“But I hurt him.”

“Yup.”

“Is he gonna die?”

I shrug. “We all do, eventually.”

“I hope it hurts. I hope he feels it.” A small spark flares in his eyes. “Do you have kids?”

The muscles in my stomach tense against the question. “Ah, no. My wife and I…we had some losses.”

“I’m sorry.” He pats my knee.

We both fall silent and sag back against the metal walls. It’s uncomfortable as hell, but I don’t think either of us has much energy left.

That’s the first time I ever said that to someone. About the babies.

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