Chapter Summary
Robbie tries to get help for his anger. Then he demonstrates how much he needs help for his anger.
Chapter Notes
More graphic violence in this chapter. Robbie almost kills someone. (Not at church.) Big thank-you to heeeymackelena for help with Roman Catholic practices, especially the parts with the medallions. All errors are my own. To get myself some wiggle-room, I'm envisioning this church as kind of a casual, store-front, family-oriented, hip new church that focuses on outreach and community service.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Seven PM on a Wednesday and Robbie should be home, or taking fares. He'd texted Lisa, and she was watching Gabe for him—twelve dollars an hour, he'd offered, feeling awkward about the situation with the cookies, and she'd left him on read for half the day before accepting. So Gabe was at home, watching a Pixar movie with Lisa, and Robbie was in Boyle Heights, parking the Charger in front of a storefront advertising clothing alterations and bail-bonds, on the same block as another storefront duplex half painted deep blue, Alcohólicos Anónimos, and the other half bright yellow, Our Father's House.
Our Father's House had a glass push-door with an old-fashioned bell hung above the hinge. Robbie froze and checked in front and behind him at the noise.
The atrium smelled like new paint, cinnamon, perfume and cologne, and, deep under the other layers, old carpet. Hand-sewn lace curtains decorated the front window. There was a little desk with an old computer setup, and behind the desk, a narrow hallway. Robbie looked down the hall and saw rows and rows of chairs.
The Virgin Mary watched him benignly, a painted terra-cotta relief hanging behind the desk. He wasn't sure which Mary. Not the Virgin of Guadalupe. Another Mary. She held Baby Jesus in one arm and a scepter in the other.
"Someone there?" a man called in Spanish, from deep within the building.
"Yes, I came for the...the group," Robbie replied.
"Come in, before the cookies are gone," the man said.
Robbie crept down the short hallway into a makeshift sanctuary in what had once been a workshop or storeroom. A dozen rows of folding chairs with an aisle cleared down the middle, and a low platform against the back wall with a battered podium and a projector screen. He paused in the doorway. Just beside his elbow, screwed into the wall, was a little porcelain font with yet another Mary, and about two cups of clean water. Her face and clothes were gaily but clumsily painted, probably by a child.
Slowly, hesitantly, Robbie reached out.
Eli tensed in the back of his head, then dug into his arm and shoulder, numbing and cramping. His arm froze in mid-air, stiff like he'd brushed a live wire. Robbie clenched his teeth, breathed hard, and grabbed his wrist with his other hand. Now Eli was tugging on both his arms, but it was harder to fight over two limbs at once, and Eli forgot entirely about Robbie's feet. He lurched forward, crashed into the wall, and splashed his right hand into the holy water.
The water didn't boil, he wasn't burned or shocked, lightening didn't strike him, avenging angels didn't appear. Eli settled under his skin.
Heh-heh. Just messin' with ya.
Robbie wasn't convinced. He crossed himself, clumsy because he hadn't done it since he was little; all he felt was the cool water evaporating from his hand and forehead. He didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed. His throat hurt.
He straightened his back, crossed the threshold, and turned the corner. A little circle of a half-dozen people of various ages sat on folding chairs, next to a card table spread with two near-empty paper packs of Conchitas and a coffee pot.
"Help yourself," said the man who had spoken. He was maybe ten years older than Robbie, tall, heavyset, with a patchy mustache and a kind expression. "I'm Ignacio, everyone calls me Nacho. Welcome."
"Thank-you, sir," Robbie said. He turned his back on the little group and helped himself to a paper cup of coffee and a few cookies on a paper towel, then looked around, picked up a folding chair, and sat down. The other members scooted their chairs away to make room for him. He bounced his knee and sipped the weak coffee.
The woman beside Robbie, Nacho, and the man next to Nacho had rosaries in their hands or hanging out of their pockets. Should Robbie have a rosary? He'd lost his, years ago. He'd expected a trauma and bereavement support group, not a prayer meeting.
"Good evening, young man," the woman next to him said. Her Spanish had an accent, slow and soft. Her face was lined and her hair streaked with white, but something about her made Robbie think these were premature, that she couldn't be more than forty.
"Good evening, ma'am." He stuffed an entire cookie into his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of coffee.
Nacho smiled again. "While we're waiting for anyone else to arrive—hey, good news. Pueblos Unidos."
A younger woman, sitting stiffly upright in her chair, raised her coffee cup in acknowledgment.
"Yeah, Maria. Good times, right? We just finished renovating the library study room for Boyle Heights Middle School, repainted it, stripped and sealed the floors, and moved in donated chairs and tables. Lopez and Sons carpentry donated their time to build the kids some more shelves. Hector, such a great guy. And Juliana refurbished three laptops, put this neat free Photoshop on them. Tons of new people, volunteers from all walks of life, the kids were dee-jaying."
"Murals," said Maria.
"Yeah, oh, yeah, Mrs. Komorov's art class. Talented, clever kids. They drew this gorgeous surreal cityscape, projected it on the wall, filled the whole thing in in two hours flat, just twenty students working together. Guys, it's so humbling to watch, this little project my cousin started, it's grown so much and done so much good all through this city, and it shows that God loves this community, that He works through His people to heal this community."
Robbie had gone on a Pueblos Unidos project last year, sprucing up a homeless shelter with a busload of his classmates. His English teacher had arranged it and gotten the school board to sign off on counting it as extra credit. Robbie had gotten paint all over his clothes and, armed with a crusty old paint brush and off-brand masking tape, done what in his own opinion was a piss-poor job of touching up all the molding; still, the manager of the shelter had seemed pleased. "I didn't know it was...holy," he said. He stared down at the cookies resting on his thigh. He wasn't used to so much straight Spanish. It made him think of his mother, when she and his father had used to take him and Gabe to mass; it made him feel warm, but also small. He spoke it, but he wasn't well-spoken in Spanish. He wasn't educated in it. He didn't know how to impress social workers in it. Too much of what he knew was not the Spanish that nice people spoke.
"My aunt's agnostic," Nacho said. "But, 'by their fruits you shall know them,' and her work bears good fruit."
I guess, Robbie thought. He tapped his foot and finished his chonchitas as they waited. He wadded up the paper towel into his paper cup and set them under his chair, resisting the urge to pull out his phone.
"It was good to see the kids," Maria said abruptly. The others hm'd in agreement.
Seven-ten ticked past, and Nacho leaned forward, clasping his hands. "We've got some new faces tonight, so let's go around the circle and introduce ourselves. I'm Ignacio DosSantos, I'm a deacon at Our Father's House and a mental health counselor. First names are fine, doesn't have to be your legal name, and a little about yourself and how you got here."
Just clockwise to Nacho, a short man in his twenties or thirties hunched in his seat. "I'm Javier. I have two daughters. I come here and I go to mass because I can't leave them or disappoint them again."
The introductions continued. The prematurely gray woman on Robbie's right was Emely; she also had two daughters, and a son. Robbie introduced himself: "I'm a mechanic. I found this meeting on the Internet. I have...emotional problems." Maria, the woman who sat stiffly upright, had served in the Army in Afghanistan, and she had PTSD that the VA didn't cover because the events that caused it were before she'd enlisted. The youngest participant after Robbie was a tall young man named Tony. "I was best friends with Emmanuel Grocer," Tony said. Small world: Emmanuel Grocer was a student who'd died in a drive-by just two blocks from Robbie's high school.
After the introductions, Nacho clasped his hands. "Tonight, I'm going to pray for the intercession of Mary, Help of Christians, for the Lord's blessing and comfort during this meeting. You may close your eyes or keep them open, as you wish."
He prayed: old, elegant words, a rhythm that called up echoes from forgotten streets in Robbie's memory. "We beg your patronage, holy Mother of God; please hear our petitions for your wisdom, your love, and the necessities of life, and deliver us from all danger, O glorious and blessed Virgin. Amen." They sat in silence for half a minute, then Nacho rubbed his hands together and stood. "Anyone not have a rosary? Here, borrow some. I know it gets awkward sitting around thinking of something to say; you can pray it while you listen or you can just fidget with your hands. Here." He stepped to a cupboard next to the card table and got out a little wicker basket full of rainbow-colored rosaries strung together from plastic beads and laces. Tony and Robbie each took one. Robbie looked down at the beads in his hands, so unlike his mother's beads of turquoise and silver. There was a little tin crucifix and a large bead made of wood, and the spacing was uneven between the rest. The plastic lace it was strung on was translucent pink, with sparkles. "This week, I'd like you all to meditate on a quote from everyone's second-favorite saint, Anthony of Padua."
Nacho cleared his throat. "'We are formed by environment and grace, by politics and prayer, by church and conscience. All God's creatures conspire to teach us as well. We stumble. We stutter. We rise. We are lifted.' I love this quote. Just goes to show, no person is an island. We are all influenced by those around us, and by our kindness, even the smallest acts, we have the power to strengthen and uplift others in turn. Remember anytime you feel weak and powerless: with just a smile or a kind word you can help another person feel loved, even just for a little moment. Life's made of little moments." He leaned back in his chair again. "Okay. Go ahead, share what you feel is important, anything troubling you, anything you're proud of. And everyone else, just listen. At the end of the hour, we'll say another prayer for special intercession. New guys, this isn't a time to go try to fix anyone else's life, or make beef with anyone, or call the cops. If you want help from anyone else here, you can work it out yourselves, right? Alright." He looked to his left. "Javier, you're in the hot seat. How've you been?"
Javier, the anxious man with the rosary and two daughters, hunched forward, beads rattling in his hands. He opened his mouth and paused, lips pale, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. "I'm on borrowed time, Nacho. They're coming for me—my sins—the things I did on the inside, I still owe for them. I'm not walking away from this. I hurt people, I shed blood—"
Robbie's eyes snapped up. He had a creased, anxious face and a compact, muscular build; head wasn't shaved, but peeking out under the collar of his shirt was a tattoo, a plain dark corner of a line. It was crooked. Amateur work. He'd been in prison. He was an ex-con. Not even six feet away, sitting in a prayer meeting, fidgeting with his beads. And he was here—for what? Forgiveness? To feel better about the people he'd hurt?
Nacho clasped him on the shoulder. "Hey, hey. Javier. Where's this coming from? Did someone come after you?"
Javier shook his head, reached into his inside coat pocket for a little bible with notes sticking out every dozen pages. "Ezekiel," he mumbled, opening it along one of the bookmarks. "It says. 'Therefore, as I live, declares the Lord God, I will prepare you for blood, and blood shall pursue you; because you did not hate bloodshed, therefore blood shall pursue you.' I...the things I did, I'm responsible. They're still in me. They won't let me go."
Robbie felt an electric shiver run from the crown of his head to his toes. He gazed at Javier, imprinting the details of his appearance into his mind: one knobby ear, dusty work boots, wrist-watch held together with a bit of wire, wedding ring on a chain around his neck. He had a mole on his cheek, and he wore a pungent old-fashioned aftershave that failed to disguise his acrid fear-sweat, and one of his teeth was chipped. He had no accent—a Los Angeles native. They would leave this makeshift church inside an hour, and Robbie could watch him get in his car, follow him. That's us, kid. That's our purpose. He shed blood, and we're the bloodshed gonna strike him down.
Robbie couldn't think of anything to counter that except that it was highly suspect for Eli to weigh in on matters of morality. He rubbed the heel of his palm hard into his eye. Counted his rosary beads. Silently recited a different engine's cylinder-head nut tightening sequence at every bead, because he was drawing a complete blank on the Hail Mary.
"Hey, hey, hey," Nacho was saying, rubbing Javier's back. "How long's this been on your mind? All week? Buddy, you gotta give Ezekiel a break. You know who I think you should look to, until mass? I want you to read on the life of St. Paul. You feel guilty, right?"
"Guilt doesn't absolve what I've done," Javier choked out.
No shit.
"You feel real guilty. How do you know? Because you found that passage, and you felt it, right here," Nacho said, tapping Javier over the heart. "You feel guilt because you do hate bloodshed, and you're afraid because you're making a hard choice to disobey orders and not repeat these sins you regret so much. Okay? Do you believe me?"
Javier made an ambiguous head-waggle.
"You're gonna meditate on the life of St. Paul, can you do that for me?"
Javier nodded.
"You want a hug?"
He shrugged. Nacho wrapped his arm around Javier's shoulders and gave him a long squeeze.
He better not try that on us.
They went around the circle. Robbie kept Javier in the corner of his eye.
Emely on Robbie's right: "My daughter had her quinceañera on Saturday." Congratulations from everyone. "Thank-you. She just loved her party. I couldn't afford much, but her brother pitched in, bless him, and we had a cake, and I made a tiara with paste-flowers for her like my grandmother taught me—but I'm so scared, so, so scared, I had to leave half-way through. She's nearly the age that I was when I met my first husband, and I am so fearful for her, she's just a child, she doesn't know how people are, how evil they can be..."
Robbie passed his turn.
Maria on Robbie's left: "Nothing much to update. I had a quiet week. Checked up on my father. He's on dialysis now. Can hardly walk across a room. I'm trying not to feel happy, I know I should have compassion for him. But. He wouldn't want it if I had it." She rubbed a medallion on her wrist: a cross in a circle, with letters around it. "I've been keeping my demons away. Couple near slips."
Robbie squinted at her medallion. His mother had given him that very same one after his first communion: a silver pendant. She'd told him it was for protection from evil. She'd always emphasized that kind of thing: which Saints to call on, making sure he knew to cross himself and kneel before he entered the pews, making them sit near the center aisle at baptisms so they'd be near the priest when he walked past and sprinkled everyone with holy water. At one time, he'd have called it superstition. Now, he had to wonder if she'd been on to something.
He'd lost that medallion in a group home, like his rosary. Mrs. Campos, the nosy old lady who barged into all the group homes a couple times a year to give the kids candy and harass the foster parents, had given him a St. Anthony medallion for good luck to help him look for it. It was light and shiny and made of aluminum. Robbie never did lose that one, but it was in his desk at home where he kept his stamps. He'd never reached for St. Anthony for comfort. He'd wanted his real medallion.
As the turn passed around to the man after Maria, and then to Tony, Robbie started to panic. What was he going to say? He didn't belong here. He had a pretty good life. He didn't have anxiety or insomnia. He hadn't been stalked, or been to war, or gotten addicted to heroin, or been recruited by a prison gang. He'd literally been murdered, yes, but it hadn't stuck. All his real problems, he couldn't figure out a single plausible analogy to what was actually going on that wouldn't get him arrested or institutionalized.
I got chased by cops. Or gang-bangers. They shot me in the head and I almost died. Now I hear a voice that tells me to kill. It's harder to control my anger. Sometimes I think I'm a monster, and when I'm like that, I can't be around my little brother. I want to stalk and...hurt people, who haven't done anything to me. At first it was people who hurt other people, but now it's anyone who pisses me off. Sometimes I feel like someone else takes over my body. And I get the shakes when I hear helicopters now.
You're the only sane man in a world gone mad. You burn with Biblical anger. You are God's fiery judgment on the Gomorrah around you.
"I had a dream that cut me open again," Tony said. He rubbed his plastic beads purposelessly between his finger and thumb. "Me and Emmanuel were playing ball. Doubles, out in the street, with the neighbors like when we were kids. And we were doing good, Manny was making trick shots, dribbling through his legs, all that, and I got in this argument with the other guys, they said his shots don't count because he's a ghost. And I laughed and I was like, haven't you seen Air Bud ? There's no rule says a ghost can't play basketball, fools—and then it was like it hit me again. We kept playing, but I felt sick, I didn't know why Manuel and the guys were just cool with him being dead, and I couldn't ask, in the dream, you know? 'Cause it'd be rude. And I woke up, still feeling sick. Been smoking up ever since to keep my head straight. I know I shouldn't. But I can't be breaking down at work." He looked slantwise at Nacho, defensive. "I've been saying the novenas. But I need chemical help, too."
Nacho raised his hands, palms out. "We're here for comfort, not judgment."
"Not a lot of comfort," Tony whispered. "He's dead. He wasn't innocent, I mean, he could be a real dick, and he sold term papers and pirated DVDs. But he didn't deserve to be shot, and—and don't tell me he's with the saints, Nacho, just don't. Don't. They loaded him on a gurney, they took him away, he was making this gurgling noise—he died afraid and in pain. I failed him. I didn't make them let me go with him in the ambulance. And I didn't track down the bangers who did it."
"Tony," said Nacho softly.
"It's too late, anyway," Tony muttered. "Even if I did want to. To get justice. No way anyone remembers—names, dates. Who it was they meant to shoot at. Probably in prison for something else by now."
Not too late for us, Robbie.
Robbie gripped his rosary, feeling the plastic laces stretch. He remembered seeing the street blocked off the day Emmanuel died; he'd noticed the squad cars and ambulances out of the corner of his eye, kept his head down, headed for the group home. Then the next day after lunch, the principal had announced a memorial in the gym next Friday. The schools around here had a whole protocol for that kind of thing.
He couldn't waste time on old memories; he had to focus. He needed to come up with a story. I help my uncle with his job. He...he's a PI, he finds people, but he hurts them, too. I helped find this guy...a real asshole, he hurt someone bad. I got so angry. I wanted him to suffer. So we...destroyed him. I helped my uncle destroy his life. And he deserved it. But the people he hurt, they're never going to get justice after what we did. And now my uncle wants me to work for him full-time. And I'm scared I can't see the line of who deserves to be hurt like that anymore.
Don't make things complicated. Lookit this Tony kid, he's broken. Only one way to stop the animals who did this from continuing the carnage: put 'em in the ground. Blood follows blood.
Tony spoke again, looking down at his knees. "And I know whoever did it—they were probably out for revenge, too. Losing people does that to you. Even if I did find them, it'd just end in more violence."
"That's very wise, Tony," Nacho said.
Tony shrugged.
Not us, we don't have to play by those rules, Robbie.
Forget prison, we've probably already kicked his face in and we wouldn't know.
But what if we didn't. Fifty-fifty, the banger who did it is still out there, and if we kill him, there'll be no damn body to avenge. The "cycle of violence" comes to a fiery end. This Tony kid wouldn't have the stomach to do what we do, anyway. You, now—you stalked Northwick and ended him like a goddamn professional. This is the outlet for your sadism, Robbie. Vengeance. Justice. Slaughter the guys who killed that poor Emmanuel kid, instead of some hapless teacher's aide just trying to do his job.
I didn't mean it—I wasn't going to—
How would you know? I had to talk you down.
Tony was done talking. The guy next to him talked about his wife, who'd died of cancer six months ago. That was the last person in the circle, and the end of the hour was getting close, and Robbie still needed help. Something, anything—a meditation exercise to calm himself, a word of mental-health-counselor wisdom, a code of conduct. But he'd had forty minutes to come up with a plausible story and it wasn't coming.
People think they can just do whatever they want. There was this big kid in the group home with us who kept bothering Gabe. I got between them and he hit me in the face. Cut me. We had to live in the same house with him for a whole year until he aged out. I had to fight him over and over again. He scared Gabe. One time I think he broke one of my ribs. Nobody helped us.
There's no one you can count on. No one. Nobody gives a shit about anyone or anything around here.
Robbie raised his hand a little, and Nacho caught the movement and nodded at him. Robbie counted off the rosary beads, not reciting anything, just feeling the plastic in his fingers. The widower finished with his story, the others commiserated for a few minutes. And then Nacho looked at him again, and Robbie blurted, "I lost my brother for three months."
The others watched him respectfully, waiting for him to continue. The silence felt hard and cold. He ground his teeth and licked his lips.
"I couldn't stay in, in foster care after I turned eighteen. I knew it. I got a job. I got our house. I thought they would let me take my brother. We would live together, him and me." His throat cramped unexpectedly and his eyes watered. He dropped his head into his hands so no one else could see and took a shuddering breath. He hadn't meant to tell this story. He'd never thought this was a story he'd ever tell anyone.
"I didn't know the law. It wasn't simple. I had to be his legal guardian. I had to pay a lawyer. I had to send papers. Had to wait. But they moved my brother. The foster said he was too much trouble. They sent him to a different house for children with special needs. Because I wasn't there to take care of him, because they made me move out. And when they read my papers—the judge almost didn't let me have him back. She didn't think I could take care of him. Even though I did it for many years."
"That sounds very hard, to be separated from your family like that," Nacho said.
"I got him back," Robbie choked out. He covered his trembling lips with his palm. His cheeks burned, with embarrassment and with remembered terror. "He was so quiet. He didn't smile. I think they only took care of his body's needs. They didn't love him. Didn't talk to him. I have him now, but the judge could take him away again if I can't take care of him. They would hurt him if I can't take care of him. I need money—" Robbie felt his lips draw back in a grimace, a snarl. He held his breath, pushed the rage and heat back. Reminded himself why he was here. "I need money to take care of him, so I can't lose my job. But I have trouble managing my anger. That's why I'm here. I get too angry. I'm afraid I might hurt someone."
"You must be under a lot of stress," Nacho said.
"I'm handling it," Robbie ground out, staring him in the eye for a long second.
Nacho drummed his thumbs against his knees, a quick prprprprp. "Tell us about your anger. What happens? What do you do?"
I've put over a hundred people in the hospital this year, and I've killed two people on purpose. It used to just be people who put my neighborhood in danger. Now it's like I'm looking for an excuse. A fix. "A guy I work with yelled at my brother. I—it was as if there was a voice in my head, telling me to kill him." Very tactful, "a voice in my head." You know, I take that as an "ableist slur." "A friend was watching my brother, and she lost him. There were all these...terrible names and thoughts in my head about her, even after we found him. A teaching aide at the middle-school ignored my brother's medical problem, and I wanted to...I scared him. He was just trying to do his job, he didn't know."
"Sounds like you're very protective of your brother," Nacho said.
Robbie gave him a flat look. "He's my brother. That part's normal."
"What's not normal?"
"The things I want to do to people. How long my anger lasts. Wanting to hurt people who haven't done anything to us."
Nacho cocked his head. "Robbie, I'm gonna suggest something. Don't take it the wrong way."
Robbie shrugged and steeled himself. "Tell me."
"Very often, feelings of anger—especially uncontrollable, unfocused anger—are expressions of a different emotion entirely," Nacho said delicately. "Fear. Helplessness."
"I'm not helpless," Robbie insisted. "I have a good job. I can afford everything my brother needs. I can get more money if I need it. I'm not afraid, it's other people that I want to hurt. I want to hurt other people, all the time, and it's getting worse and I don't know how to stop."
"I'm sorry," said Nacho, sitting back and spreading his palms. "It's just, if it were my brother—after what you told me about the judge and all, I'd be terrified."
"I'm handling it."
"I believe you." Nacho looked him in the eye, and Robbie let out a breath. Nacho did believe him. It wasn't a trap, he didn't think. "I can give you some suggestions on how to deal with your emotions in a healthier way."
"Please."
"There's a list of tips on anger management from the Mayo Clinic. And prayer. Prayer isn't just a time to ask for help and intercession, although the Holy Mother is always listening—prayer is a time to be honest with yourself, before the Saints. Setting aside ten minutes a night for prayer and meditation can make a huge difference in your perspective and self-control. There's a novena I like, to Mary Undoer of Knots. It's my favorite set of meditations for anger. I'll get you the links. I think it's worth the effort to do both, the tip sheet and the novena."
"I can try," Robbie said, swallowing his disappointment. He barely remembered how to pray. He wrapped the rosary in his hands around and around his thumb.
"If you do nothing else, I recommend practicing forgiveness." Robbie tensed, and Nacho continued, gently. "If you hold on to grudges, your anger will continue to poison you. You'll forget how to feel any other way. It will separate you from your family, your community, and the counsel of the saints and the Holy Spirit. Forgiveness is one of the greatest lessons Christ taught us."
Yeah, look how well that worked out for him.
God can forgive people all He wants, Robbie agreed. Aloud, Robbie said, "Thanks for your advice."
"These are just suggestions," Nacho said. "Do you have any other family or close friends you can go to for help, or just to talk when things get hard?"
Robbie stared at Nacho's shoes, silent. At last he said, "My uncle lives with us."
Nacho smiled. "Good, good. Have you ever gone to him with your problems? Just to talk?"
"All the time," Robbie said. "He likes it when I get angry. He thinks it's funny." It's hilarious.
"We never do know exactly what goes on in someone else's head," Nacho said. "He could just be trying to lighten the mood, and not understand that he's being dismissive of you."
"He understands a lot." Robbie crooked his thumb, with the rosary wrapped around it, until his first knuckle started to redden and the plastic stretched. "He just got out of prison." Oh, please. "For...killing. And he has these ideas, work I can help him with that would get more money for my brother. Says I'd be good at it. And it's true. It would get a lot of money, and I would be good at it. He's a bad man and he wants me to be like him."
Nacho's eyes widened in concern. "These ideas. Would they get you in trouble?"
Robbie shook his head, very small. They would not get him in trouble, because no one would catch him. "They are sins." He wound and unwound the rosary. "Sometimes I think he wants to help."
"Does he," Maria interrupted from across the circle.
What I gotta do to prove it to you? Of course I want to help.
You tried to take Gabe.
"Sometimes," Robbie answered Maria.
She narrowed her eyes. "When it's convenient for him? When it puts you in his debt?"
Robbie thought back over the past year, and nodded.
Oh, that's not fair. That's not fair! You have the body! I'm at a constant disadvantage, here, it's like pulling teeth to get you to do anything, for me or for yourself!
"And he's trying to recruit you for some scheme. What is it, drugs? Extortion?"
Nacho raised his hands. "Guys, guys. I tell you every time. We're not trying to fix each-other's lives here. Robbie, you don't have to answer that."
"This is different, Nacho," Maria said. "Is your uncle pressuring you to do something illegal?"
Robbie thought for a long time. This meeting was first-names only. Tony hadn't seemed to recognize him; they'd never run into each-other in high school, and now they'd both graduated. They weren't even in East LA proper anymore; he'd never see these people again unless he came back. He nodded.
"And he knows how you are about your brother."
"I'd do anything," Robbie admitted.
"Does he use that to manipulate you?"
He nodded.
"How old are you?"
"Maria!" Nacho interrupted.
"Old enough," Robbie said.
"You can't be older than twenty-five," Maria pressed. "And you have a sick brother and you need money. That's dangerous. Understand? He is an adult, he's been in prison, he's got years of experience to draw on that you don't have. He can get you to do whatever he wants."
"He can't," Robbie insisted. "He—he's stuck. He got hurt bad in prison, and he can't do anything without me. There's a line, we made a deal."
"What kind of deal?" Maria demanded.
Robbie opened and shut his mouth. Murder. I get to pick the murders. Carefully, he said, "I have to help him, with things. But I get to choose when we do them."
Yes. Exactly. You are fully on-board here. Northwick, that was all you. I have been nothing but fair and patient with you, boy!
"He's already doing it," Maria said. "You see? Now he gets to say, 'See, you helped, you were aware before the fact, you're an accessory. Now you've got to help me with this other thing; you might as well, because you're already guilty.' He won't stop. He's going to use you until you're used up, put his sins in you, pin his crimes on you. You have to get him out of your life."
"I can't," Robbie protested, panic rising in his lungs. "I can't. But we have a deal, it's all I can do."
"Did you make this deal freely? With no implied threats to you or your brother? And do you really think your uncle is going to honor it, instead of just going behind your back and doing whatever it is you keep dancing around?"
Robbie shook his head. Don't listen to this bitch. You heard her, she doesn't give a shit about her own father.
"You can't make deals with people who have power over you," Maria said, her dark eyes burning. "You shouldn't honor deals when the other side has no honor. Your uncle wants you to become a criminal and he's using your human decency to make it happen, because he's a low person and it's all he knows."
"Maria is right," Emely said. "Get away from him. Run, if you have to."
"You're welcome to stay with my brother," Javier added. "He keeps offering to hide me, but his house is the first place the enforcers would look for me and I can't do that to him. But you, no one would make that connection. I'm sure he'd help you."
"I can't—I can't just leave," Robbie said, his voice cracking. "And I can't kick him out. There's nowhere he can go."
"It's always good to feel compassion," Emely said, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Don't let anyone take that from you. But remember this. It is natural and good to love those who are close to us, whether their behavior is good or evil. To want what they want, to take their perspective and let their opinions become yours. It's natural. But when you love a lost person who does not love you, or loves you in a twisted way, that is because of your goodness, not theirs. Do not mistake your affection for safety."
That is such bullshit. You are safer with me than you have ever been, Robbie. You and Gabe both. I give you power. Protection. Ideas. You are only alive because of me. You owe me. And I'm nice enough that if you give me what I want, you'll get what you need. We're partners! Act like it!
"Don't let him drag you into his wickedness," Javier added.
I already have.
"Tell him you're not interested in his scams," Maria said. "Use small words. If he keeps pushing, he doesn't want to help you, he wants to use you. Doesn't matter if he's family. Get him out of your life. First make your brother safe, in case he tries to retaliate. And then show him the door."
I can't, Robbie thought, pressing his hands over his mouth. I can't. I can't. I would, but I can't.
No shit.
He took wheezing breaths and Emely rubbed circles into his back. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and he tensed and curled forward, but leaned over to let her pull him against her side.
You're dead, Robbie. I don't mean that unkindly. You're dead, and we're one and the same. Even if there was a way to cut our souls apart, I don't think you or Gabe would like what happens after.
"I can't," Robbie said. "I really can't. And I want to hurt people. I'm bad, I'm like him. There's no difference between us."
"No, no," Emely said, squeezing him tighter. "I don't know you, Robbie, but the things you've said, you are full of doubt and compassion. Two emotions abusers rarely have."
"I get so angry."
Tony spoke up, in English, from across the circle. "Man, what's up with your parents? Can't they help you with this stuff?"
"They're gone," Robbie choked. "I don't remem—I don't want to talk about it."
Everyone but Emely hissed slightly, and Robbie wished the floor would swallow him.
You're a fuckin' basketcase, kid. You need me. I'm the glue that holds you together.
"Shut up," he hissed in English. "Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up." He smelled exhaust fumes when he exhaled. He was starting to lose it. He buried his face in his hands, trying to filter his breath through his sleeves so no one would notice.
Emely kept holding him and rubbing up and down his shoulder, and either she or he started to rock back and forth in their seats. Robbie let her, and for an endless minute it was just darkness and pressure and someone trying to soothe him and calling him cariño.
He pulled away slowly. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. The white cuffs of his hoodie were stained gray with soot from his breath; he tucked them under the sleeves of his leather jacket. Someone handed him a paper towel to dry his eyes on.
"Guys, let's take a minute," Nacho was saying. "That was some heavy stuff, Robbie. Are you getting help? Outside of this meeting?"
Robbie shook his head, looked up slowly. Focused at the wall over Nacho's shoulder. "No, sir. I—I'm handling it. I just needed some advice."
"Hey. Nobody re-sets their whole outlook on life after one meeting. Stick around, I'll get you those links and some counseling resources."
"Thank-you, sir."
Nacho checked around the circle, making eye contact with each participant willing to make eye contact with him. "I think it's time to close in prayer. Robbie, you're new here. We like to follow up with a prayer for special intercession for whatever we've talked about today; we try to rotate so nobody gets overworked. Do you have a particular prayer in mind? We bother San Antonio a lot, and Santa Dymphna, also San Judas if we're feeling especially down."
Robbie blinked at him, above his paper towel. He hadn't been to church in over ten years. He had no damn clue.
But no. He did. He pointed at Maria. "Her medal."
"San Benito?" Maria confirmed.
Robbie nodded. "I lost it when I was a kid. Against the cursed one."
Your mother had the most charming nicknames for her in-laws, Eli drawled.
"Interesting choice," Maria muttered in English. She fingered the silver disk at her wrist, the saint on one side, the cross and letters on the other.
Nacho bobbed his head at her. "Maria, would you lead us in prayer tonight?"
"Sure can," she said with a wry smile. "It's a short one. Easy to remember, especially when I paraphrase."
"Here we go," Nacho muttered, raising one eyebrow. It looked like he was trying not to grin.
Maria raised her voice. "Repeat after me:
"Fuck off, Satan."
Robbie's eyes widened. Beside him, Emely hissed in a sharp breath, eyes wide and scandalized but her hand hiding a stifled grin. "Fuck off, Satan," Robbie parroted.
"Everything you say is a suckjob."
They chorused back to her, Javier, Nacho, even Emely. Tony stared at the crucifix as if expecting to be struck by lightning. Nacho shared a grin with Maria.
"You pissed in this beer. Drink it yourself."
Robbie let out a shaky breath as they finished.
"Great closing note. Thanks, Maria," Nacho said. "Stick around a minute, Robbie. For your information, that is a...spiritual approximation of one of the oldest prayers of exorcism the Church endorses—if you want the original Latin, you can look that up, it's Vade retro Satana. I like it because it rhymes."
They stood, picked up their coffee cups and paper towels, and put away the circle of chairs. Robbie went to drop his rosary back in the basket. Tony stopped him. "You can keep that," he said. "The little kids make them during the sermons. They're for everybody. You kinda need one if Nacho's having you do novenas."
Robbie looked down at the purple sparkly rosary in his hand. He fished around in the basket until he found a blue one, and switched them out. "Does it help?" he asked.
Tony glanced over his shoulder at the crucifix, leaned in as if to shield Robbie from being overheard. "I know it's not right to think about prayer as whether it helps or not," he murmured, "but it's what you put in that's important. Helps you focus."
"My focus isn't the problem," Robbie muttered.
Tonight's a bust. You've just wasted time, sat around while these clowns insultedme, trying to fix what don't need fixing. Anger's just your nature, Robbie. Don't try to change your nature.
Maybe I don't want it to be my nature. Okay?
He got his phone out and googled the Mayo Clinic's recommendations for anger management—something he could have found on his own without driving out to Boyle Heights and feeling guilty over the fact that he hadn't been to church in ten years. There were ten simple steps, most of which Robbie already knew. 'Think before you speak'—Robbie did that. He was just usually still angry by the time he'd decided what he was going to say. 'Exercise,' Robbie got plenty of, if Ghost Rider counted. But he didn't have an hour to spare for a morning jog in his human body. 'Use humor,' fine, sarcasm and the dramatic understatement were super effective to defuse the cold, deep-banked rage that smoldered at his core. 'Practice relaxation techniques:' Robbie knew a great one—first you get two thousand dollars in cash, then you count it over and over until you fall asleep. The next time he had two grand in cash, he'd hang on to it a while, keep it in his nightstand until he used it up. 'Seek help,' he'd just done.
'Don't hold a grudge.'
I can't do this, he thought.
He felt a ripple of smugness from Eli.
At his request, Nacho printed out some of prayers for Robbie off the reception desk's computer, so Robbie didn't have to give out his email address. How To Rosary for lapsed Catholics and newbies, and a set of seven meditations to say after the rosary—the novena, a rotating nightly program.
"We gonna see you back next week?" Nacho asked as he stapled the prayers together and handed them over.
"Maybe."
"You should come to mass the week after next. Father Padilla is coming by, so we'll have confession and communion."
No way was Robbie doing confession. "I'll think about it."
Emely gave Robbie a little wave and a pat on the arm before she pushed out the front door, followed by Maria, and Victor, the widower. Tony and Javier, of all people, were still out in the sanctuary, talking quietly. Robbie trudged out of Our Father's House into the dark and windy street, the prayers stuffed into his back pocket, shoulders hunched.
"Forgiveness is hard, huh," he heard as the door shut behind him.
Maria was leaning against the painted cinderblock wall, arms crossed, watching him.
"I saw you shut down when Nacho got into that part," she said in English. "It's okay. He means well. People like him see a different world."
Robbie peeked through the door and made sure that they weren't about to be overheard. He glanced around his shoulder and walked around into the alley between the stores. Maria followed him. This was ridiculous. He was here for anger management, not a drug deal, although if he thought drugs would help, he was about desperate enough to start. "You have any better ideas?"
As she stepped into the shadows, Maria gave a grim, wry smile, more a baring of teeth. "I've got some Army bullshit. It helps me."
"Like your prayer?"
"Just getting back to the original intent," Maria said, and Robbie snorted. "You want my Army bullshit? It's good. It'd be real good if anyone actually practiced it. I think it helps."
"Sure."
"It's call and response. It's short."
"Short is good." Robbie backed against the alley of the store-turned-sanctuary, feeling illicit and desperate.
Maria's tone changed, turning firm, clear, vaguely Southern. "The ethical warrior is a protector of life," she declared. "Say, whose life?"
"Whose life?"
"Self, and others. Say, which others."
"Which others?"
"All others."
"All others?" Robbie repeated. Eli was silent, listening in the back of his head.
"All others," Maria confirmed. "Yeah. Some bullshit. But it's bullshit worth believing. You know?"
Robbie looked up at the dull stars, the sky-glow of Los Angeles. "All others. The Army?"
"The Army. The Army of the United States of America. Didn't apply to me, I just drove trucks. But what it means is, when you're angry, you remember. Use your anger. Anger is a signal that something is wrong. Be a warrior, master your emotions, and fix what's wrong. Protect yourself. Protect others. If you're the only one in danger, remove yourself rather than fight. If someone else is in danger, remove them rather than fight. And if, only if, the danger cannot be avoided, that's when you fight. And you stop when the threat is neutralized."
I don't stop. I don't master my emotions. I let them push me, and I hit people until they can barely breathe, and I hunt people, and I look for excuses to hurt them. "I'm not a, a warrior," Robbie said. "I'm just trying to keep my head down. Keep my brother safe."
"That's what a real warrior would say," Maria said. "Anyway, I've always had trouble with forgiveness. As a commandment. But forgiveness doesn't mean you let people abuse you. It means, to me, it means, don't waste energy on feeling anger, when you could be taking steps to protect yourself."
"And others," Robbie said.
"And others."
Hm. Changed my mind about her. This is good. This is our mission, Robbie. Listen to your anger, fix what's wrong.
"Thank-you, ma'am," Robbie said. They wandered out of the alley, having completed their covert exchange. "And thank-you for your service."
She snorted. "I told you. I just drove trucks."
"Then thanks for the bullshit."
"No problem."
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Boyle Heights wasn't that far from Hillrock Heights, but there was no quick way to get across town—just a few arterials, and so many two-lanes and stoplights. Stop and go. Long pauses in the wide streets. A few homes and businesses had already strung up Christmas lights. He saw trash in the gutters, junked cars parked on lawns. He saw a young man sweeping the street with a push-broom, he saw a man and a girl working on an early 00's Eclipse in their carport by the light of a work lamp. He saw neglect, he saw repair.
It was exactly the same as Hillrock Heights; the same age, the same number of dead streetlights, the same haphazard mix of residential and commercial zones; different graffiti but only if you knew what to look for. He didn't hate Boyle Heights like he did Hillrock. Maybe because he wasn't trapped here. Maybe because he was seeing it fresh.
He saw a kid stuffing a can of spray-paint surreptitiously into his backpack and jogging away into the dark; he hoped the kid got home safe. He hoped the kid was tagging his own name, his personal brand onto some wall, rather than the brand of a gang controlling him. But he didn't hate the kid, not like he'd hated Guero.
The world was in soft-focus. Maybe it was because he'd just cried in front of a bunch of strangers.
He crossed back into East LA, familiar numbers on familiar streets. There were Christmas lights going up here, too. Someone had tied twenty strands of them to the trunk of a palm tree, staking them to the ground to trace an invisible evergreen in the air.
He wasn't sure if tonight was a bust or not. He'd already figured out the Mayo Clinic's advice on his own and he was following it as well as he possibly could. He wasn't holding out that much hope on prayer, but maybe prayer was stronger than holy water, and in any case, it was sure to annoy Eli. The Ethical Warrior code, he wasn't sure if it was his salvation or just blanket permission for vigilantism.
He pulled up to his apartment block and parked on the street, trudged to the exterior door, let himself in. At the door to his own apartment, he paused. Stared at the number for a long moment.
He'd said he was going to forgive Lisa. Ought to keep that promise now.
He unlocked the door and stepped in. Smelled egg and cheese. "Hey, Gabe, I'm back," he called.
Gabe buzzed to the entry of the kitchen in his chair and stopped, gave him a careful stare. He was blocking Lisa behind him. "Robbie?" Gabe demanded.
Robbie stopped at the threshold, looked him in the eye, exhausted and suddenly miserable. "Yeah, it's me. It's Robbie."
"Robbie-Robbie?"
"Yeah, buddy."
Gabe whirred forward again, still watching him, and Robbie, with no idea, still, how he could possibly prove his identity, gazed back, waiting. Gabe nodded suddenly. "Robbie's back!" he announced. "Lisa, this is Robbie."
Lisa struggled to keep a straight face. "I know, Gabe. I can see him."
"Did you guys have fun?" Robbie asked, hanging up his jacket.
"Yeah!" Gabe zipped over to him. "I cooked dinner!"
"You did? Did it taste good?"
"I dunno. It's time for dinner, Robbie! Come to the table!"
Robbie followed him into the kitchen, where two place settings waited, along with two bowls covered with dish cloths.
"Gabe was telling me he wanted to learn how to cook, so I looked up some recipes online of things you can make in the microwave," Lisa said.
"With the egg, in the shell, the gas expands, it's a lotta-lotta PSI, it explodes. The shell explodes," Gabe explained excitedly. "It has to have the shell or it doesn't explode. You break it and mix it with cheese and take the shell out and put it in the microwave until it's not gross anymore. And spinach doesn't explode at all."
Oh, that's cute! The runt's making himself useful. Robbie, tell your brother he's cute.
"You made dinner?" Robbie asked, finally processing the scene in front of him. "Thank-you, Gabe."
"You're welcome," Gabe said, whirring over to the place setting with no chair. "I made scrambled eggs and spinach and butter sauce, and cheese. Lisa helped. Thank-you, Lisa."
"I didn't let him get hurt," Lisa said. "We looked up some recipes online and I was watching the whole time."
Robbie sat down and looked up at her. She looked hard. Her mouth was thin, like her mother's.
"I used the hot-pads!" Gabe exclaimed. "Microwaves make bowls really hot. You have to check first and use hot-pads if it's too hot."
"You're right, buddy. I'm so proud of you. I didn't know you—I'm glad you guys had fun, and Lisa was there to help. Lisa," he looked up. "You want to, uh, stay? For dinner?"
"My two and a half hours are up and you're out of eggs," Lisa said.
Gabe's face fell. "I didn't make enough dinner."
Robbie and Lisa both started talking at the same time.
"No, you made it just right with what we have—"
"I already ate—"
"Didn't plan to get groceries 'till Saturday—"
"My mom's gonna worry if I'm not back soon, I have to go."
"Oh," Gabe said. He sniffled.
Lisa tip-tapped over to him in her low heels and rubbed his back. "Hey. Hey. There's always next time. Okay? We can do dinner next time."
"I'm sorry, Lisa."
"No-no, you don't have to be sorry, you made a nice dinner for your big brother, right?"
Robbie cut in. "Yeah, you did, Gabe. Great job."
"Is Lisa still our friend?" Gabe asked. "I want Lisa to be our friend."
Robbie and Lisa shared an awkward look over his shoulder. "Yeah, uh, of course, Gabe. Lisa's our friend."
"I've got to go," Lisa said, giving Gabe one last pat on the back before she got her purse.
Robbie dug his roll of bills out of his pocket and handed her the cash for the night. "I'll walk you out."
"My car's back, so I don't need you to taxi me home," Lisa said. When they left the apartment and stood under the yellow porch-light, she added, "You don't have to pretend we're friends. I mean, he's your brother, but it just seems—"
Robbie groaned. "I'm not pretending. I really would like to have you over for dinner again."
Lisa pulled back, raised an eyebrow. "You're not just saying that? You're not still mad?"
"I trust you," Robbie said, forcing himself to look her in her eyes, with the big rounded false lashes and the sparkly wings, and the crinkle of tension and moisture in the corners. "I trust you to not to let Gabe out of your sight and to tell me immediately if anything happened to him. Or I wouldn't have hired you."
Lisa looked down suddenly. "I'm so sorry. You know I'm sorry? When I lost him, that must've been the worst night of your life."
"It was up there," Robbie agreed. His heart began to race at the memory, and his core felt hollow and light. His palms tingled.
"You're telling me you're not mad anymore? You look kinda...really mad."
"I don't want to be," Robbie said through gritted teeth. He smelled engine fumes, and he hoped it was just left-over from his near-meltdown at the little church. "I'm having problems with my anger."
Anger is a signal of a problem. See this bitch? She's your problem. Listen to your anger. Fixthe problem.
"I don't want to let my emotional problems get in the way of our friendship," Robbie said, glaring at the street sign over Lisa's shoulder. "And I think you learned your lesson."
Lisa glared at him. "Go screw yourself." She stalked off. Robbie watched from the apartment threshold until she got into her Beetle and started it.
"Great," Robbie said as she drove off. "Just...great."
Cut her brake lines.
Fuck off, Eli.
Then find another problem to fix. Put on some Cop Radio. You take out dangerous people, you're protecting life, Robbie. Eli stirred the fires below Robbie's heart, and his breath started to steam out his nose, crackle deep in his chest. His hunger faded away.
"No," Robbie muttered into the night. "No. No-no-no-no-no." Not now. Gabe was alone in the house, he hadn't eaten yet. He was waiting to eat dinner with Robbie. He'd cooked. He was so proud of himself. Robbie had to eat with him, he had to. The fires kept boiling, gasoline sweet on his breath. No, he insisted. Burning up wasn't an option right now. But after—
Later.
The fires ebbed.
Tonight.
Yeah.
Robbie took deep, cleansing breaths of the dusty night wind as the fires settled. He had a promise, a plan. Burning up could wait. But not long; he could feel the peace was temporary.
He returned to the apartment, the new smells, the familiar dents and stains on the walls, Gabe's long, interrogatory stare and final nod and smile. He smiled back, sat down to dinner. He was hungry again. Egg-and-potato casserole, cheesy and filling, and chopped spinach, steaming and mashed together with butter and garlic. He gave both dishes an extra zap in the microwave and dished them each up. Cut the casserole into two big wedges, dug in. "Thank-you, Gabe. This is super tasty." It was, but it would be better without the sickly metallic taste of exhaust in his throat.
Gabe took a few bites himself. "Really, Robbie?"
"Yeah, really, buddy. You should be proud. You want to show me how to make it? Or write it down while it's fresh in your head?"
"I'll write it down, Robbie, good idea." He dug in with more enthusiasm, his grin returning.
Robbie ate quickly, scraped his empty plate. There was a little spinach left. He took half. "Buddy, you know I'm happy to cook, and help out, and hang out with you, right? I'll always love you. You're my little bro. You don't have to worry about anything but school. Everything else is my job."
"But I want to help," Gabe said. "I can do things. I'm happy to cook, too."
"Then I guess you're gonna cook. I can cook school nights and you can cook Saturday and Sunday, sound right?"
"Today's not Saturday and Sunday. Today's Wednesday."
"We can change it up sometimes. Say." He spotted a stack of paving-stone-sized soft-cover texts by the door. "Where'd those come from?"
"Lisa gave them to us."
Robbie got up and looked. SAT prep books. Lisa trying to bribe her way back into his good graces—no, that was ludicrous, she didn't care what he thought. She just gave people things. It was who she was.
"Are you gonna read 'em, Robbie?"
Robbie envisioned another grinding afternoon at the testing center, more nights of studying by the cabin light between Uber fares. More fees. Community college, night classes. Master Automotive Technician.
He sighed. "Yeah."
hr
His anger idled deep under his bones all through dinner. He could feel the car across the street, click-click-clicking as the engine warmed against the chill night air. He looked over Gabe's homework for the night, approved an hour of MarioKart. Had a glass of water after Gabe went to bed. Took his phone so he could kid himself he was going to cruise for fares—but no. He wasn't picking up fares tonight.
Commercial district first, Eli advised. You see the shoes hanging from the wires, you keep your eyes peeled. Grid-search, up and down. Look for the cars.
I know.
Look for the out-of-place cars, the real nice cars, the Benzes, the Porsches. Nobody's got any business parking that kinda car in the industrial district ‘less the street rats are stone terrified of retribution, or they'd lose their rims in a heartbeat.
I know. I got this.
He cruised down the arterials in the sparse, late-night traffic, counting his breaths. In-two-three, out-two-three. He kept digging down on the throttle too hard, making the blower squeal, his heart race. Quiet. Quiet.
Heh. Your blood's up. Gonna be a good night's work.
This isn't work. This isn't my job. I don't want to be here.
You want me to take you to Arizona to punch some rocks? Condescending.
At the suggestion, Robbie's breath stuttered in frustration. That wouldn't be enough. He needed to feel—needed to accomplish something. Solve a problem. Break bones, smell blood boiling against his faceplates, see the terror in his prey's eyes, feel powerful—no, that wasn't what he needed. But that was what he was driving toward.
He saw a pair of kids leaning against a drugstore's front stoop, over-sized shorts and jerseys, duplicates of Guero and his crew: enjoying the night breeze, maybe. Sharing music, maybe. But the tingling in his palms and the burn at the base of his lungs said drug running, said posting lookout, said watching for victims. He did not know any of these things. His engine hummed with aggression; he slowed as he passed them. There were no cameras, no passing cars at that moment, no witnesses: they watched him with narrowed, hostile expressions, but they were exquisitely vulnerable. There was no safety in pairs, not from him.
He drove on. Eli chuckled in his ear.
He passed a cluster of women, five of them, wearing a mix of shorts-and-jerseys, studs-and-leather, victory-rolls-and-circle-skirts. Too many. But a conspicuous group. They would be walking between bars and music clubs, and eventually they would be drunk, or they would start walking home and disperse, and then there would be one woman, walking alone. Sheet of plastic wrap over the face, stifle screams and weaken her with suffocation. His shoulder shifted under the phantom weight of a kicking body. He drove on.
Two women standing at the edge of an alley, high-heeled boots, short skirts, fluffy faux-fur jackets shuddering in the wind. Wave his roll of cash. Name a nearby motel. Take her to Turnbull Canyon instead. No.
He wasn't going to hurt Lisa, he wasn't going to hate her, he wasn't going to cut her brake cables. When Lisa had lost Gabe last year, she'd been eighteen, but not like Robbie was eighteen: she had made an honest mistake. It wasn't right for Robbie to turn his rage on Lisa.
Robbie was a fighter. He hurt people—people who had it coming. People who threatened him and his brother. People who attacked his coworkers, his teacher. People who recklessly endangered his neighbors, who murdered the innocent. He did not attack opportunistically. He did not act on spite. He did not murder innocents.
"Low fucking bar," he muttered as he cranked the wheel around a street corner.
Check out that Caddy.
A black SUV waited in roadside parking outside a long-shuttered laundromat. No driver camped out at the wheel like the big organized crime figures liked, but still. A conspicuous car.
Grid search. Up and down this road four blocks each direction, then a block to the side, repeat.
Figure out where the cars are clustered around. I know.
He spotted a battered Honda near a self-storage facility, a cluster of cars near a busy bar. A supercharged Chevy Nova, sanded down with giraffe-splotches of body filler all over the panels, in front of a boarded-up restaurant. A Lexus RX near the loading doors of a warehouse.
Getting warmer.
He kept cruising, up and down the blocks between the oddly-placed cars. The Caddy—obvious. The Nova—a junker once, but no longer. The Lexus—just as obvious as the Caddy, without the ostentation. He drove slowly, practically idling in first, drifting up and down in the dull streetlamps, the engine chug-chugging. He counted his breaths, strictly measured out the pressure of his foot on the throttle. He peered down alleys, eyes and mirrors alert to movement. He spotted a strange silhouette on the top of a roof. It shifted: a human figure, crouched at the edge, elbows resting on knees, shoulders rounded. A lookout.
I see him.
Robbie cruised by, not speeding or slowing, but he turned sharply in his seat and examined the row of storefronts in the lookout's view.
Insurance agency, sushi bar, hookah bar, motorcycle parts—all apparently operating, unbroken glass, menus plastered to the windows of the sushi bar. The hookah bar's windows were blacked out, but he saw people parked out front, local cars. The next corner: laundromat, Zumba fitness, a restaurant just closing down for the night whose bright lights read "ta's...ood," a Muay Thai studio, payday loans. Maybe, maybe the Muay Thai studio—no one would be in, and the windows were screened. There were security cameras at either end of the row of low storefronts on the block.
He peered back in his mirror at the building the lookout perched on. It had good access—an alley led up to it, concealed behind the high concrete wall of a neighboring used car lot. It was dark, and no one was parked out front.
He made a last circuit, skipping a couple blocks to park just up the street from where the person still watched for him. He peered out in the dim yellowing streetlights. A darkened sign just below the roof, T&J Used & Custom Furniture. A steel grate over the door, plywood on the windows. A tag on the plywood read Blüe Crüe—no one had tagged for the Blue Crew since they'd been busted up that spring. It gave Robbie a time-line on how long the store had been left to rot. Plenty of time for the roaches to move in.
There were gaps between some of the plywood sheets where a steady light shined out.
He sat in the car and watched the light that shone through the plywood, watched the lookout watch him. He counted his breaths, in-two-three-out-two-three. Kept his foot flat on the floor, away from the gas pedal. His engine idled, every now and then giving a little shudder of anticipation.
He wondered what was happening behind the boards. Kids and junkies didn't post lookouts. Whoever was using the furniture store needed somewhere private for their work, needed a long warning before they disappeared. They needed plenty of space, otherwise they'd be working in their own home. Maybe they were doing something hazardous, like cooking meth. Maybe they were doing something technical, like adulterating and repackaging cocaine. Maybe they were stockpiling something that would alarm housemates or family, like weapons. People who planned and schemed and broke into vacant stores and turned the power back on and posted lookouts, people who were smart about crime and worked hard to succeed at it, those were the people Robbie hated. People who could have done better. Who could, if they were just less greedy, have put in the time and gotten a legitimate job, made their living at something that benefited people, like fixing cars or teaching, instead of killing and poisoning their neighbors. Those people deserved what was coming for them.
A streetlight flickered and went out. Flickered back on by itself. The insects that had accumulated in the bottom of its glass lens cast a gentle shadow on the sidewalk, like a tree canopy.
On the roof, the lookout straightened, then crouched lower—prone. Robbie caught a flash of a forehead in the light of a smartphone screen. Below, through the boards, the thin streak of light dimmed halfway up—someone passing in front of the lamp.
He waited more, watching the lookout. They made no move to switch roofs, as he might expect if they were separated from the rest of their crew—just crouched there, silhouetted against the flat roofline, staring at Robbie. Robbie goosed the throttle a bit, making the blower whine. The lookout ducked out of sight. Through the storefront boards, Robbie saw someone pass in front of the light again.
Good enough for me. He let his breathing pick up, punched the gas again, slammed into first gear and lunged forward, leaving rubber on the asphalt. The engine howled. He bellowed his anger and disgust and frustration until his voice was the car's voice, his flesh was fire, his hands were bone, and he hit the storefront at thirty miles an hour, shattering cinderblocks and howling as his bumper deformed and reformed. The storefront welcomed him with a blast of fire, like gasoline vapor. He stood as the fireball passed, walked right through the steering wheel and the engine block and the hood, into a big empty space scattered with boxes and barrels in the light of a halogen lamp. He saw four men in scorched plastic jumpsuits, and two expensive-looking pieces of machinery, and behind them, a big double door. He sent the car around toward the garbage alley, to chase down any runners.
He trashed the machinery first. Put his back into it and threw the big freestanding steel units across the room, where one pounded a satisfying hole into the floor and the other shattered into motors and cylinders. Bullets struck him, a whole spray of them, snapping through his ribs and ringing off his faceplates. He whirled, furious. One of the men had an automatic rifle. He was firing wildly at the Rider. People worked here. People lived here. He'd dared bring this weapon into his territory, and to top it off, he was stupid enough to think it might work on him. He stormed toward him as the man backed away, firing, then squeezing the trigger on an empty clip. He seized the man's gun hand, lifted him by it, roared in his face. Bone and tendon and steel yielded under his grip; this man would never hold a gun in that hand again. He'd never use that hand again. He struck him again and again: now this man would never strike anyone with his left fist. Never run, never walk without a limp. Never speak or chew without remembering the Rider.
Movement: two other hazmat suits were making a run for the back doors. He revved the car's engine and lurched forward again, broke the doors into aluminum curls, took the runners out by the knees with his front bumper and plowed them toward his feet. He passed his hand through the hood of the car, felt for the trunk, grabbed the chains. He swirled them in the cramped space and bound his two runners together while they were still stunned. They screamed from the hot steel. The Rider smelled burnt plastic, saw their suits melting and curling away from his chains. He struck them with fists and knees. Two for one. Punch one, and the other one would scream where his broken ribs rattled. A blow hard enough to break one man's pelvis popped something in the other man's knee. Their fear fed off each-other.
One man was wheezing and gurgling and the Rider contemplated stopping. He shouldn't be killing them. But maybe he could hit him somewhere else, in the arms or legs. Leave the torso alone for a bit. Concentrate on the other man.
Movement in the mirror of the car: the last man, crawling, trying to edge past the car and out the hole in the back wall.
No. He snarled, threw the chained men away, reversed and caught the sneak under the car tire.
A smart one. This would be good. The smart ones knew how badly they were hurt. Their fear was sweeter.
He hauled him up through the wheel well and struck him, again and again. He couldn't see his face through the safety goggles and gas mask, so he ripped those off. It was an older man, lined face, little thick at the chin, graying stubble. Old enough to know better. Old enough to have gotten out of this game. His eyes were wet, his face ashen, his lips drawn back over his teeth. Fillings. Nice white teeth. Drug dealing came with dental.
But this was the last man. The others, he'd beaten for all they could take. He wasn't ready to fade back to the darkness, his rage wasn't spent, his thirst wasn't satisfied, and this was just one man, one older man. He lifted the man by one wrist so he could see where he hit, the limbs to snap bones, lovetaps to bruise the torso, pausing to watch the man cry out and guard himself after every blow, to watch the despair build in his eyes. Threw him on the ground, watched him crawl away on his elbows while dragging one leg. Trapped him under one boot, felt the muscles of his back tremble and shiver with impending shock. He stared down at the man below him who sobbed and gasped into the rubble-strewn floor, whose entire being was currently devoted to escaping his attentions, who owed all his pain and his very life to the Rider, and felt power. Possession.
He lifted the man by the armpits like a child and gripped him, back-to-chest. One leg kicked, and he trapped it between his own legs; the man's struggles failed against the rage-born strength beneath the Rider's leather skin. He felt the man's every shudder and jerk within his tight hold, felt every gasp, smelled burning hair and flesh as he nuzzled the man's ear with his faceplates.
Oh, this was power. Oh, this was living.
He loved the smart ones, because they could see their future. He rolled the car forward to his reaching hand, and drew out a knife, his favorite knife, double-edged, a foot long, with the blood channel and the tactical handle. The storefront window against the plywood outside made a black mirror, and he turned the man to face it. Shook him a little until he could meet the man's eyes in the mirror. Then he switched his grip, grabbed his prey by the hair on the back of his head, keeping the leg pinned between his thighs, and slowly, slowly raised the knife: a perfect bisecting plane up the center of his head. He felt the man go still.
Smart. But that won't help you.
The knife pressed up into skin, resistance that suddenly melted, and then it was only the friction of flesh on metal, the slow glide. The scent of blood, the sight of it pouring down the blood channel, so dark against the polished carbon steel. He felt the man swallow, saw the blood flow faster, heard him grunt. He looked at his prey in the mirror again. An inch higher, and then a sharp twist and he would feel the death throes like a bucking bull, see life and consciousness leave him. The man's eyes were screwed shut, and he gave the knife a delicate twitch, just to say, wake up, friend. You don't want to miss this.
The man's eyes were huge and dark when he opened them. The whites showed all the way around. His jaw and lips were clenched. All his thoughts, all his life now fixed on the Rider—
Not the Rider. Me.
Robbie surfaced within the Rider's elation. It was his fist clenched in his victim's hair, his skin the man struggled and shuddered against, his hand that raised the knife, his mind thrilling to the blood and pain and despair, his heart climbing toward some dreadful joy.
He centered himself in the body with a snap that caught Eli by surprise.
No! Do it! Two inches,you want this, I can feel you wanting it!
This isn't our deal. He jerked the knife straight down, out of the man's tongue, and let him fall to the floor. The man heaved himself up on his elbows and drooled out a gout of blood.
No! We're so close. We were this close! Two inches! Look at him. Look what we did. It felt good! It was good! Now finish it, boy, pick him back up, come on, two more inches, two inches!
Robbie cast around the room, found a cell phone abandoned on the floor, the screen still showing its latest texts. The blood on his hand flaked off into a fine brown dust as he picked up the phone. He dialed 911 and threw it at the two chained men. They could talk to the dispatchers; he was pretty sure at least one had a functioning jaw.
The fuck do you think you're doing. You're a coward. You want to beat these men to shit on one hand and rescue them with the other? You hypocrite. If they're bad enough to maim, they're bad enough to kill. You think you changed their lives? You think they'll thank you for showing them the light? No. As soon as they heal up they'll be out on the street peddling their poison because that's all these cockroaches know.
Robbie rolled the car the rest of the way into the space, over the rubble and boxes and scattered drums and motors, drove through the backs of his own knees and scooped himself into the driver's seat. Rumbled out through the hole in the front of the store and into the night. His rage burned, a tight, focused pilot flame. They wove up and around the empty streets. The lookout on the top of the building was long gone.
You spoiled it. You're still hot for action, kid, you're not satisfied. You think you can go home and sleep in the same house as little Gabbie like this? Turn back. Finish the job. Unless you think you'll find someone else tonight—nobody's that lucky.
That's not our deal. They don't fit my criteria.
Fuck the deal, kid! You're not breaking the deal if you want it! You wanted it!
Because you wanted it.
Oh, yes, perfect, blame Eli. Robbie, you are me. And let me tell you what happens when I leave a job undone: it nags at you. It wakes you up in the middle of the night. It enrages you. It makes you twitch. Makes you obsess. They're drug-dealing scum, a big operation, who knows how many foot-soldiers die over their product, how many users croak or kill each-other for it. You're a warrior, a protector of life! Go back there and kill for it!
Robbie pulled the car into an alley and snuffed out. The car was hot around his human body and reeked of sulfur and burning oil. He breathed hard, in and out, deep and slow, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. Sirens screamed in the distance and began to weave closer and closer.
They don't fit my criteria, Robbie repeated. I don't kill because I want to.
No, you kill because you need to. You need to kill. You're not done. You're not satisfied.
I don't care.
You do care. I can feel your hunger. Your anger's telling you there's a problem needs solving. Now turn around and solve it.
The rage still burned, still hot and humming in his palms and his heart and the eager rumble of the engine. Robbie waited, measuring his breaths, as the sirens drew nearer and nearer, until there was no way he could return for the man with the wounded mouth without some paramedic witnessing. I'm not doing it.
Eli fell silent. He drew back so deep, he left a cold hollow void in Robbie's head, a feeling like the first instant of falling down a flight of stairs. The silence was almost worse than the nagging and cajoling and chattering, because when Eli was silent, Robbie had no idea what he might be thinking.
"That was enough," Robbie said into the silence. There was no answer from Eli; Robbie was alone in the car with his own rage. The rage was a sign of a problem, perhaps even a different emotion entirely: fear, helplessness. "Identify the problem," Robbie said to himself. "Find a solution."
The humming and tingling faded to the background, leaving him exhausted, sweaty, human. He reached under the seat and drank a water. It was two in the morning; he had work tomorrow.
Go home. Think. Sleep. Figure this out.
His rage was waiting for him.
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When Robbie drove home and let himself into the apartment, Gabe didn't stir; his evening meds made him a heavy sleeper. Robbie stood outside the closed door for a moment, as if he could hear through the thin plywood. He missed the days when Gabe used to leave his door cracked. But everybody needed privacy.
In his room, he dug the stapled print-outs from Nacho out of his pocket, Rosary For Dummies first. Figured that it would take at least thirty minutes he didn't have. He skimmed through the prayers, then flipped past to the novena, Day One. He was supposed to pray the Rosary first, but he, well, maybe tomorrow night.
Dearest Holy Mother, you undo the knots that suffocate your children. Extend your merciful hands to me. I entrust to You today this knot (mention your request here) and all the negative consequences that it provokes in my life. I give you this knot that torments me...I trust you and believe that you can undo this knot. I believe that you will do this because you love me with eternal love.
Mary, Undoer of Knots, pray for me. You know very well how desperate I am, my pain and how I am bound by these knots. No one, not even the Evil One himself, can take the ribbon of my life from your precious care. In your hands there is no knot that cannot be undone. O my Lady, you are the only consolation God gives me, the fortification of my feeble strength, the enrichment of my destitution, and with Christ, the freedom from my chains. Keep me, guide me, protect me, o safe refuge!
Mention your request here. He hadn't thought he'd have to choose what to say. But this was what he needed to do, identify the problem, the source of his anger. Find a solution.
He stared down at the bright screen of his phone in his darkened room. He couldn't pray this. Without putting a name on his problem, he couldn't be honest. It was bad enough he didn't pray; he wouldn't lie or make things up the first time he started again.
He used to think a lot about what his life should have been. Mom and Dad should have stayed with him and Gabe; he should have grown up in this apartment, Mom's art and furniture should never have been removed, the sunny yellow kitchen walls should never have been repainted. Robbie should have kept his bicycle and his San Benito medallion. Gabe should have had Mom and Dad to help take care of him so he never had to be alone. Maybe Dad could have made enough money for them to move, especially now Robbie was old enough to work.
But lately he was starting to think no one's life was how it should be. No one's life was what it looked like. Everyone had a hidden side and a false face; if Robbie had had Mom and Dad to lean on all his life, he wouldn't recognize himself. That wasn't the "knot" in the "ribbon of his life," that was a whole different ribbon.
A knot was a distortion in a cord's proper shape. A knot in an electrical cable weakened the wires and, by damaging the insulation, could even cause it to short and become useless or dangerous. A knot wasn't something external; the Novenna wasn't asking Mary to lift a rock off his foot. A knot was just the thing itself, just Robbie, circling around and around one thing and not moving forward.
"Dearest Holy Mother," Robbie said, tangling his plastic rosary around his fingers. "I am very angry—"
Yes, but he had plenty to be angry about. If Nacho was right, and his anger was actually fear, he had plenty to be frightened about, too. People got hurt around here all the time. Random violence could fall on Robbie; it had already fallen on Gabe. Emmanuel Grocer, Nora, maybe Lisa for all he knew. A knot was a distortion that weakened a cord and made it useless or dangerous; this anger was not a distortion.
Robbie hated. He hated Guero Valdez—less now, but when he was a healthy, aspiring thug, he'd hated him desperately, because Guero had been a dangerous asshole. He hated people who brought drugs into his neighborhood, rented normal houses on streets that families lived on and filled them with millions of dollars worth of product guarded by hardcases and teenagers armed with automatic rifles. He hated people who preyed on those weaker than them. He was not ashamed of these hatreds. The people who did these things deserved to suffer whatever violence would prevent them from doing it again.
Robbie hated Hillrock Heights. He hated the potholes and the hopelessness and the graffiti, he hated the school and the kids and the people who lurked in the bars on Hillrock Lane in the daytime. He hated his neighbors and he hated living here, even though he'd spent the happier years of his childhood here, even though it was the first place he'd been able to provide for Gabe, the only place he could afford on a junior mechanic's wages. He hated it even though his landlord remembered his parents and understood when he'd used to be late with the rent. He hated it even though the Patrick Wellman Development Center was just four blocks from his apartment and the teachers and doctors and therapists there worked hard at their jobs and helped Gabe and didn't look down on Robbie for needing financial aid. Even though there were people in Hillrock Heights trying to uplift the community, putting up murals over the gang tags, hosting music for the kids, organizing Pueblos Unidos projects. People who helped those in need, like the Valenzuelas and Ramón Cordova.
Robbie had died trying to escape Hillrock Heights. That was the first knot he recognized in the ribbon of his life: he'd died and now he owed his life to Eli Morrow.
Eli had told him once that his hatred made him the perfect host. As Eli's host, Robbie terrorized Hillrock Heights and half the San Fernando Valley, trying to direct his overflowing aggression away from the innocent, even as the horrors he saw strengthened his rage day by day. The locals argued about how to feel about the Rider: some were proud to have him, East LA's very own cape. Others, and all the newspapers, called him a joyriding supervillain. They were all wrong.
The second knot was shaped like this: the Rider's actions were reactive, not pro-active. He did not maim gangbangers for the sake of making Hillrock Heights a safer place; he did it because his rage and hatred had to go somewhere. And if the Nachos and Valenzuelas and Cordovas ever won the battle for the soul of East LA, then the Rider would be nothing but a plague.
The third knot was this: Eli wasn't satisfied with the status quo, and he would keep scheming and planning to get what he wanted, which was to use Robbie's body to kill. He was manipulative and stubborn and impulsive and obsessive, and also cunning. While Robbie was occupied with work and housing and trying to raise Gabe right, Eli had nothing better to do than to pry at the cracks in Robbie's mind.
This was the great snarl that all the knots made up together: Robbie was losing himself. He was all that stood between Eli Morrow and the living world, and while he could keep Eli out of his body nearly all the time, he could do nothing to keep Eli out of his head and heart, and he was fooling himself by pretending that didn't matter.
He folded his head over the rosary and tried again. "Dearest Holy Mother, extend your merciful hands to me. I entrust to you this knot that torments me: I'm afraid I can't stay safe for my brother to be around. I get urges to hurt people, and then I go find someone who deserves to get hurt. Because I don't think I can control it. I'm—I'm possessed. It's bad. I made a deal that I would kill people if they deserve it—I know that's not my place, but that's what I promised, and I'm not sorry but I'm scared. I'm turning into him. I don't know what to do.
"Holy Mother, no one, not even the Evil One himself, can take the ribbon of my life from your care. Mother Mary, you are the only one listening to me right now. Grant me freedom from these chains, in the name of your Son Jesus Christ."
He wanted his mom. If they were alive, he could ask Mom or Dad about this whatever-this-was, addiction, indebtedness, peer pressure, bad blood. He listened hard: blood in his ears, freeway traffic, bass-boosted hip-hop from a car cruising down a distant street. He remembered, when he was very young, feeling a presence, sometimes. Warmth in the room.
She's not listening, said Eli, breaking onto Robbie's consciousness so abruptly that he winced. I am, though.
Fuck off.
Morality is a construct, Robbie. It's just something they tell kids. You grow up, you stop believing, everything gets way easier. Trust me.
Robbie put the rosary away in his bedside table. I just want to sleep.
So? Sleep.
Robbie stood up from the bed and booted up his laptop. Alex Northwick was the first person Robbie had killed deliberately, rationally, as part of his deal with Eli. He couldn't blame the Rider or Eli at all: Robbie had found Candace, Robbie had decided to punish Northwick, Robbie had pushed Eli to help him. Weeks after the fact, Robbie still held that Northwick deserved what he got, every burn and break, in the chill of aftermath. But something nagged at him.
For all that Northwick had suffered in the minutes before he died, he had never shown regret or remorse. He'd died alone, and of the people he'd hurt, Candace wasn't around to see him pay, and Iris still imagined him on a tropical island looking for another innocent woman to entrap. Northwick hadn't learned anything before he'd died. Iris didn't have closure. As unlikely as it was, any hope that Northwick might confess to killing Candace was gone. Robbie was the sole witness to Northwick's last moments, and Robbie had never been hurt by him. He'd just obeyed the echoing scream of his psychometry that told him that Candace's death must be avenged. The sympathy of one murder victim for another.
He found Myspace, looked up DestinyDanger2001, saw all Candace's old entries with their clinical diagrams in Paint: arms with handprint bruises, expressionless faces with blackened eyes and green-tinted jawbones. At one of the recent entries, he saw a comment. He hadn't remembered any comments on here last time he'd looked.
Hey, Gremlin. I've been telling people about you, and now that your boyfriend's proved he's not Dr. All-American Ken-Doll Surgeon by wrecking his shitty sports car in a transparent attempt to fake his death, they're a lot more open to the idea that you're not just extremely accident prone but were, in fact, a dancer in high school and wrote your thesis on how to look both ways while crossing the street. They're putting up your Facebook photos. You look like a movie star. Mini-Bey. You look perfect. I wish you had had that perfect life they show in those photos. I'm sorry I let myself be fooled for so long.
I'm writing to warn you that I'm coming for your boyfriend. I'm coming for his money, his license, his reputation, his shitty cars, his house, everything they'll give me. It's the only way to hit him where it hurts. When he gets back from sipping Mai Tais on the beach, he'll have nothing left. They'll never get him in criminal court, but for a civil suit, we just need to show a preponderance of the evidence. He'll never be able to practice medicine again. He'll be in debt for the rest of his life. If he runs to Mommy and Daddy, well, with enough damages, they'll cut him off rather than pay. He'll die alone in the shadow of what he did to you.
It's a risky case but it's worth it to me if I can get some justice for you, even just the petty revenge of forcing him to defend himself in a wrongful death suit. Don't worry about the legal fees. What's money for if not to spend it on the people precious to me?
Know, always, you were precious to me. You were, you are, you always will be. I miss you so much, girl. You deserved a man who loved you the way you loved. You should have been so happy.
Forever, Snoots.
Robbie opened the drawer where he kept his English notebook, now full of hand-drawn maps and plans and observations and calculations. The jewel-cases with the hospital security footage were wedged into the plastic folder pocket just behind the front cover.
No. No. No. We've been over this. Now you're asking to get caught. You don't want to get caught, do you?
I'm not going to get caught.
That's just what someone who wants to get caught would say.
Hell. Get caught. Go to jail. I don't care, it'll be fun. We could light the whole place on fire.
Everything you say is bullshit. I'm not getting caught.
As he turned the March 12 jewel-case over and over in his hands, something painful deep within him relaxed and unwound. Later, he told himself.
Sleep was heavy behind his eyes. He put everything away. He had work in a few hours. He went to bed.
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This chapter references the first story in this series, "La Leyenda."
The prayers and novena have been abridged. They were lifted from English-language sources online.
Maria's prayer is her personal adaptation of Vade Retro Satana, a prayer associated with Saint Benedict. She uses it as a mantra against addiction. The Latin is:
Vade Retro Satana,Nunquam Suade Mihi Vana —Sunt Mala Quae Libas,Ipse Venena Bibas.
Which is supposed to mean:Begone, Satan, do not suggest to me thy vanities — evil are the things thou profferest, drink thou thy own poison.
Maria is a troll.
