32

We both saw it at once: beside the battered, steaming Mercedes there was a figure on the ground, in the green water that trickled from the radiator. It was a man in a suit, and as Nona and I hurried toward it, it was clear that the man we knelt beside was Fern.

His head was crushed, black and glistening remains streaming onto the street. Nona lingered with a physician’s urge to attend, to make right.

Arms grappled for me. Figures had Nona. I struggled, freed one arm, and lashed out with my fist.

It was the leisure of it all, the ease with which it all took place, that amazed and sickened me. It was a game, surely. No one was really going to be hurt. Fern’s injury was sham, and the police would be here soon.

They held Louisville Sluggers. The labels on the bats were clearly visible in the unreal light, black tattoos on the flesh of the wood. Men stood ahead of us, beside the steaming hulk of the Mercedes.

They had Nona. She was crying out.

I registered this as I wrestled with the arms that held me, grappled me in place, a grip on the back of my head, in a knot of my hair, forcing me to watch.

I fought, kicking, twisting. I wrenched my shoulders, and I was free. One of them crouched before me, his bat in his fists. The man took two quick, sideways steps and lifted the bat to strike my skull.

My right fist caught his mouth, a sharp slither of tooth and lip behind the black nylon mask. He exhaled hot breath upon my fist. He gathered himself to strike. I charged him, knocking him down. Someone else’s bat whistled through the air, and caught my arm.

There was a wet crack. I staggered, wallowing in a world that was suddenly sideways, lopsided, aswim and quaking. The pain was so great it wasn’t even pain, a neurological white noise.

They’re hurting Nona.

This time when they grappled with me, they held me harder, and there was no way I could work free. The hand at the back of my head, the hand digging into my scalp, searing my skull, forced me to look on.

Nona was on the ground. She was hurt.

The men worked hard, kicking, beating with bats aimed carefully, stabbing blows, work so quick that I could not associate it with Nona, except for the thought, wending through my semiconscious.

They are killing her.

I prayed, as I had prayed in the surf. Make me strong.

I had no thought for myself. I called out for Nona, again and again. They worked her expertly, twisting her one way and then another with their blows, shifting the angle of my body so I could watch as they took their time, like figures engaged in ritual slaughter.