Page 64

Is it Jesse next time? Or a dream? They’re giving him a lot of dope, so he can’t be sure.

But he’s positive (almost positive) that he sees a dark brown hand over his white one.

Next time he surfaces it’s Ella Davis.

He’s a little stronger and she looks a little younger in faded jeans and a boatneck tee.

Her hair is down.

And she is smiling.

“Danny? Are you awake?”

“Yes.” A bare croak.

“Water.

Is there—”

She holds a glass for him.

There’s a bendy straw sticking out of it.

He drinks and it’s heaven on his throat.

“Danny, we got him.”

“The kid?” His voice is a little stronger.

“I think Edgar told the cops—”

“Not the kid, him.

The man who killed Yvonne Wicker.

He… are you getting this? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes.” Does he feel relieved? Vindicated? He can’t tell.

He’s not even sure how badly he’s hurt, or if he’ll ever be really well again.

What if he has to spend the rest of his life shitting into a bag?

“He’s confessed, Danny.

Confessed to Wicker and two others.

Cops in Illinois and Missouri are looking for the bodies.”

“All right,” Danny says.

He’s very tired.

He wants her to go.

“I went to Mass and prayed for you.”

“It helps if you believe,” Danny says.

He feels her take his hand, her skin cool on his.

He thinks he should tell her he doesn’t blame her, but the very idea of blame seems pointless right now.

He turns his head.

Floats away.

Darkness.