Caged: Reclamation

Chapter 17

The sister hurried up the steps, tray in hand, late snacks for their guests. Joella was volunteered by the women to deliver the tray. It wasn't anything unusual. One sister or another often took an evening repast to the tower room.

Angel likes you! You take the tray tonight!

She'd admonished them, reminding them of their decorum.

You are acting like schoolgirls. Behave!

Twittering birds, they all laughed. But the truth was, they found his lingering gazes on Joella life-giving, a sign that they'd done good work at saving him. His attention on her was like wine with their meals, the warmth from the alcohol a similar reminder of their humanness. Joella couldn't argue the point. In mere weeks, he'd gone from a patient on a bed to a man in their house. And he was about to leave their watchful eye.

Nobody felt unmoved by that.

Joella, admittedly, knew the attention was slightly uncontrollable, that he tried not to look. She kept her distance so he would not be tortured with the effort. Even so… he had been an important part of her purpose here.

She had visited the convent as a young girl before it was permitted to be a convent. The place had imprinted itself into her. She fell in love with a boy down the road however and lost her virginity to him… experienced a woman's life… but then had a calling while getting trained as a nurse in Havana. A vision really. She had seen Santo Pancracio, the young martyr, walking among the sick in the hospital she worked out of. She wasn't ill, no fever plaguing her, no inadvertent exposure to drugs either. Yet there he was, shimmering in a heavenly haze and looking at her, hands out. So young! So beautiful! She married God that summer and never looked back. She understood Mother Superior Beatrice when she took in Angel. The medal of their precious saint he wore around his neck was a sign.

He needed to be saved. They would not let him die.

She pushed open the slightly ajar door with her hip, huffing a little with her burden. Turning, she saw Jedediah was not in the tower room but that Angel was…

… and he was in the midst of doing pull-ups on the old pipework that ran along the top of the wall. Legs slightly bent, he used his upper-body to pull himself up slowly, inch by inch, certainly an act that called for real strength. He didn't see her because he used the section of piping above the bathroom doorway, and in doing that, he faced the sink, the shower. He had no shirt on and the pajama bottoms he wore were just beginning to slip off his hips with his exertions. Dimples appeared at the base of his spine, the split of his buttocks a bit visible. The sister tried averting her eyes but the sight so differed from months of him in bed, she couldn't do it. She… could not look away.

He'd gained in strength since his recovery, muscles tight now, defined, his shape emitting every bit of dark energy Raquel warned them about. The Grim Reaper and Black Angel on his back suggested the danger he brought… La Habana X Cuba, assured it. He pulled himself as high up as he could get, grunting with the effort, holding himself still, as still as he could, until he couldn't anymore and dropped down.

Just as feet touched wood, he startled, spinning around because the tray made noise when Joella settled it on the dresser.

He was so quiet… she wondered if he'd always been so.

Angel hadn't expected her and he stood in the doorway of the bathroom, panting, his bareness revealing all the ink he'd acquired in his life, all the scars given to him. He was embarrassed, a hand at the waistband of the cotton pants riding low enough to show the hair below his navel, and Joella smiled, apologetic. She knew his body well. She wasn't sure he understood that, that he didn't need to be modest. That she respected every bit of him.

"I am sorry to interrupt you," she said.

He glanced down at himself and blinked at his undress, tightening the drawstring and rubbing at his cut hair, at the scar on his head he could always feel. "It's… fine," he murmured.

The sister turned and moved the pot of hot chocolate off the tray along with the empanadas and sweets prepared especially for Angel and Jedediah, tender affection by the women. They knew the days were almost done, knew they'd done good work.

She stood still because suddenly she felt him close to her, behind her. There was something distinctly animal in his silent approach. Like a predator, like a lion. She heard a soft sigh. She almost smiled because he was life itself, yes? So much inside that had no place to go right now. She wondered if he dared try something. But he was too respectful. Too acknowledging of who she was: a devoted servant of God.

She turned in place and he was closer than she expected, only inches from her. His height forced her to look up, and there she found a hazel-eyed gaze heated in a way he could not disguise. My God. Such life. She carefully placed a hand on his hard chest, sensing his heart beat beneath the light spray of hair. Light eyes gentled at her touch.

"Angel…," she said, a prohibition in the saying aloud of the name he'd been given.

He did not move however. Instead, he reached out and caressed her hair that had indeed escaped the habit.

"You remind me of someone," he said.

He glanced down at her hand and then very delicately put his hand to hers, holding her hand against him, the heartbeat stronger now. Eyes on hers once more.

A fine layer of sweat covered him and the scent reminded her of his first days here, of the permanent sleep he would not wake from. It had been hot those first days and the bandaging and gown overheated him so the women stripped him, discovering the tattoos and the gang affiliation but what affected them more were the scars. They had all looked at each other and felt so sad at things people did to him and one pointed out the cuts on his forearm, "He did that one on purpose, used a blade on himself," and they prayed over him, prayed for him, getting the sense that maybe he didn't want to be saved. And the last point required additional prayers.

She ran fingers down his chest, touching unforgiving muscle, down his belly, ghosting the healing scar where the feeding tube had once been, her eyes downcast. She rested her fingertips on the very top of his pants. She knew what stirred beneath the cotton.

"She is waiting for you," Joella said softly, "I am sure." She didn't dare look at him because she was still human and what he had on his tray was thrice the hot chocolate and thrice the empanadas and sweets. It took everything in her to not touch farther down.

Then he breathed in because he'd been holding his breath and pulled away, leaving the sister's maddening touch, a touch that screamed his Delgado. He sat on the bed.

"Thank you… um… for… for the tray."

"We will miss you, Angel. You are like a bird we found in the garden, broken, unable to fly. You can fly now. Fly home."

He shook his head at the description, remembering a certain Red Baron plane and repeated promises that he'd fly just the same one day. He dragged his gaze to her, swallowing audibly. Eyes moving up her body from her leather sandals, mocha-colored legs exposed because today she wore a light-blue cotton skirt and the white blouse had pearl-like buttons and he bit down because dirty thoughts continued to come at him and he could practically taste those pearl buttons in his mouth, resulting in an erection stretching upwards as if his cock had awakened from a hundred-year nap but she was an innocent and married to someone far better than he could ever hope to be… the Savior… God… not that any man or woman could aspire to such perfection, to a kind of existence that wasn't human…

… much less a monster.

Own it. Fucking show it.

"In another life," he said, haltingly, "I mighta hurt you. You think I want you like any other man… but… " He paused and glanced around the room. Landed on her again. "I can move now, I'm stronger now. You should go."

"I am not afraid of you."

He smiled at that, at her gumption, and he lit up and darkness seemed to ebb and he was just Angel again but that was not true. It wasn't possible.

She reminded him of someone.

"You should go," he repeated. "Before I break you."

Life had taught her much and in this moment she knew Raquel was not wrong in calling him the devil. He tempted her and then warned her of exactly what he could do. Would do. Most likely… did. She closed her eyes a second or two, tasting the truth in his words, and then… she walked past him and went out the door and hit the steps, heading down.

Saved.

He listened until the secret door opened and then shut. Alone in his tower now.

An exiled king.

He lay back on the bed with a huff, achingly hard against all his wishes and for fuck's sake it wasn't going away so he grabbed his cock and as soon as he did a thousand images flew through him, love and hate all mixed up, colors, grays, whites, every inspiration he had ever come across flying through him, and he stroked himself at all of them because life was about to change and he was afraid, desperately afraid, that he'd fail to save the someone and he huffed and thrusted into his fist, ashamed that he could be this way in the wake of the dark-haired girl who was married to God, but it felt good, a high all its own that he supposedly no longer wanted. He groaned at the feel, the thousand images distilling into just one, Téa springing forth, the way she looked when she fucked him on top, her long hair falling and her focused expression, but then Rico too was there, the way he looked when Todd finally fucked him inside, the way he wanted, and Todd groaned at how close he was, so goddamn quick, feet rubbing on the wooden floor, all his muscles trembling as he kept up the sliding grip. He shoved the pants down now because wetness came, making him slick, and he moved his wrist faster and faster and god, GOD, there it was, there it was, oh my fucking God, and he held his breath and the pulses now grabbed him so intensely that tears rolled down his cheeks, heat then streaking his belly, his chest, and he squeezed his flesh, the sensation not ending, and he kept moving and kept thrusting until a second orgasm tore through him, making him moan in a choked way, head tipped back, his palm smashed on his mouth to shut himself up because god, god, he had to be dying.

He then just lay on the bed, spent utterly. Slid fingertips through the wetness and tasted the bitter-salt that spoke to him of a different kind of freedom. Kisses he remembered. He wasn't sure what faced him at home… prison, a Delgado who hated him, maybe a forever-lost Rico that Raquel would never forgive him for. Another death, his own. Maybe there was no path home after all.

Truth-pain.

These things derailed the rise of chaos inside. Didn't need dope or cigarettes when the fucking truth existed. He moved off the bed and needed to shower now. Needed to wash away all that truth.

He was going home.

Fucking hell.


Téa strolled into her new office, a wonderfully large space on the top floor of the old farmhouse, windows overlooking the great span of sycamores and oaks spread across several acres, summer making everything green and hopeful and hiding the fall to come. Coldness would arrive soon enough.

Jed had been in Cuba nearly an entire month. Unbelievable. He called every few days, this last time repeating a story that he was chasing leads on government corruption that would help Bo Buchanan. Téa controlled her rage, tried to ignore his back-stabbing act of entering a country that burned her husband without her permission…

Nothing but ashes in a box.

Her heart skipped a beat at that thought, a catch in her throat, and she turned back to the windows, her hand suddenly a fist, raindrops of memory hitting her, forcing her to look at the storm clouds where he lived… no, no, no…

Love is right now. Love is when all the shit goes away. Only with you could I forget who I was. That's what you did for me. You always made me forget. Just for a little while. I wish I could forget long enough to go home.

Fingertips at her lips as she closed her eyes, fighting him hard, fighting so hard to stop him from breaking through Blanco's specter, no, no, no….

She focused on the trees, spotting a hawk flying along the tops, a creature in his claws. He landed in the tallest tree, disappearing into the safety of the branches. Must be a nest there. Yeah, a home in those American Revolution trees. She tried breathing in a calm, tried sinking back into herself, the new self she had embraced except there was a new pack of unfiltered Camels on her desk and Todd was there again...

no, no, no...

But memories are relentless and she sees him reclining on their couch after dinner, almost time for Lucia's turn in the bath. Téa had just put baby Reese in bed and she came down the stairs to find Todd watching TV, a silly nothing show, probably a kids show, Téa can't remember, but she does recall standing at the entrance to the family room watching him with Lucia next to him. Téa's heart was so full at the sight, her whole self bursting with love, to see him so relaxed because it had been a hard year of him adjusting to life after prison. She looked at his bare feet on the coffee table, those strong masculine feet of his, curling his toes on the wood like he always did, and he looked so huggable in his favorite worn jeans and long-sleeved tee-shirt, hands behind his head, long hair glistening with silver stands, light eyes on the people on the screen. And then seven-year old Lucia pulls his jacket to her, a heavy canvas jacket that was on the couch, and she struggles with it and he thoughtlessly helps her, eyes still on the TV as she scoots to get under that jacket, scoots to get closer to him, to cuddle with him, but noise gets her attention, a crunching noise, and she finds a pack of cigarettes in the pocket and she knows about cigarettes from school and she yells, holding the crushed pack in her tiny warrior's hand...

Papi! These are cancer sticks!

Téa repressed a smile because he smiled in that memory, saying Oh no! Are they?! And he grabbed Lucia up in his arms and he kissed her neck and cheeks and she was giggling like crazy as he tickled her belly and gave her more kisses, such mad physical love of his baby girl, and she laughed and laughed, loving him so much as little girls always love their strong daddy, and then the cigarettes were forgotten and the two were tight together, the big jacket warming Lucia, both of them watching the show and yes, yes, it was a kids show he'd been watching as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. And Téa saw the cigarette pack on the floor. He'd kicked it under the coffee table so Lucia wouldn't worry about it.

Téa shook herself, shutting it down hard because that was Todd… beautiful strong unkillable Todd, tears threatening to come...

No, no, no, oh God, it hurts so much to see you that way. Oh amor, you had so much to come home to, oh baby, oh God...

What Lucia would not know for a long time, maybe not ever, was that he probably smoked only to give himself a reason to light up because what he really needed the cigarettes for was to burn his skin… his wrists, his palm, his belly, and at one time, his cock.

For a moment, everything disappears. All I feel is the physical pain. It's relieving.

No, no, no… go away. Please. It hurts too much.

Slamming the door shut in her mind, deep inside of herself, stopping him from coming through any more, she cursed, whispering her constant mantra. Shoved the cigarette pack into a drawer. She had them only to remind herself of Blanco so she could hate Todd.

No, goddamnit, no. You stay dead you fucking bastard. You left us. You chose hell.

She turned to scan her computer screen where new applications waited for her review. Sniffling and adjusting her position on her ergonomic seat, she saw a good number of regional marijuana dispensaries that wanted to join the Method Makers team. The flow of applications has been steadily climbing. She critiqued every one, searching for hints of organized crime connections. She sent every name associated with the applications to her Llanview PD contact for a screening. Some came back positive—El Salvadoran, Irish, numerous Native American. Japanese, Chinese, and so forth. She axed those currently active within gangs. But the expatriated? She put them in the to-be-considered pile. She needed people with street knowledge who were looking for new loyalties. She clicked and clicked, starting an email with more names to follow up on. Her tears had dried, the box of ashes put away on that shelf behind coats and suits and dresses.

She heard someone clearing their throat so she glanced up, finding Rolon in her doorway with an expression that said he knew about the arming of her workers.

"Go ahead," she snapped. "Lecture me."

"What the fuck, woman!"

Rolon was still Rolon, shaved head, tatted all over, MK and prison tattoos the featured artwork, bulky muscles that said his ex-con status was a mere technicality. He stormed to her desk and she lifted an eyebrow at the gall of him to be so impertinent. He stopped a couple of inches away from the front of the desk.

Téa sat back and crossed her arms.

"Dígame," she said.

"I just saw a goddamn delivery downstairs and it was Christmas at an Afghanistan army base! What… are… you DOING?!"

"Marijuana is a dangerous industry. My people need protection."

"Some of those people are felons. Ain't allowed to carry," he hissed.

"Those who cannot carry a gun get alternative weaponry. I leave it to Victor to make the appropriate determination. He has a management degree from Columbia."

"Yeah?! Well I got a fuckin' incarceration degree and I am saying to you, mujer, that this is a one-way street to Statesville!"

She laughed, her long hair dark and lustrous in the afternoon light, her red lace jacket falling open to reveal her low-cut black silk blouse that had no buttons, no way to stay closed, red screaming the power she wielded, breasts announcing feminine might that will steamroll any opposition…

She pushed her chair back and put an impossibly-high heel on the desk, shiny black sandal. Just the one foot. She showed off her tight black pants, the crotch plenty visible to Rolon. He had to work to not look at any of it and she fucking well knew it.

Jesus CHRIST.

"Rolon," she explained in a voice befitting a school teacher, "Los Muertos are out of control and they need to learn their place. Some of my workers are willing to do a little meet-and-greet. I don't know what you're panicking over. Nobody's going to prison. Legitimacy is still my goal here." She kept her hard-as-diamond eyes trained on Rolon.

He shook his head, then dropped his voice, "Is that right? You got Marcus doing this… Marcus was our main enforcer and you know that. That man wouldn't know meet from greet from dead meat!"

"I do not know any such thing. He's got a—"

"A degree in murdering! He was the lead guy we sent to finish off Serrano founders! He ended Irish dealers, Nazi gamblers… Téa!"

"Second chances, Rolon. My god, you are not very progressive. Or Christian. What would Jesus do?"

He huffed, nostrils flaring, skin flushing, and he pulled out his phone, scrolling and tapping until he found what he wanted. He slammed the cell in front of her. She leaned forward, eyes on him a second before looking at the screen.

A black spray-painted MM3C on a wall stared back at her. She shrugged. "Ok?"

Leaning on his hands, he said, "That's your people… Method Men Third Circuit."

Another chuckle… "As in… federal circuits? As in... Pennsylvania being in the Third Circuit?"

"Yeah… you inherited a bunch of comedians."

She laughed now, "I'm so honored they recognize my legal credentials. How touching."

"Téa! You are not just draining MK, you are transforming them into your own gang!"

"Stop worrying your pretty head with things you don't understand. How can we be an organized crime syndicate if we're not committing crimes?"

"Tell me this then… your men knock Los Muertos out of say, the river district for drug imports. Who's taking over?"

"I don't know. Whoever wants to fight them. Or hey… maybe nobody! Maybe pushing Los Muertos out of the river district, into say, the river, removes them, period!"

"And how are your men going to push them into the fucking river?"

"An offer for them to leave. It's not murder if they just ask them to leave…"

"You are saying this with a straight face."

"Yes, I am. And if my people have to defend themselves against these violent dogs after an offer to leave is made, that's not murder, it's justifiable homicide. Self defense."

Those brown eyes stayed on his, eyes bright with heat and determination and in-your-face hate. Rolon licked his lips, not sure who he looked at. He scratched at his chest. She was still beautiful, doll-like, still Téa Delgado the brave attorney, the woman he always knew as Blanco's treasure. Madre de dios, she was the love Blanco kept locked out of Statesville and MK for so long, one of the very few things they fought over when Rolon tipped her off that not all was kosher in her husband's world. Blanco made him pay for that.

And yet she wasn't Todd's precious Delgado at all.

He came around her desk and sat on its sharp edge. He looked down at her and dropped a reality she needed reminding of. His old Cuban accent rolled across his harsh words.

"Revenge, mí Reina, killed your husband. Revenge was why he ended up in MK chains. Are you listening, mamita? Your revenge against Pedro will get people killed. You… could die."

She got up, got in Rolon's face, teeth gritted, "This isn't revenge. This is—" A blast of silence interrupted her. She held his gaze, misty eyes shifting quickly, trying to make him understand...

"What is it," he said softly, "if not revenge?"

"A reclamation."

Tears suddenly spilled over and she stepped back, surprised at them, almost confused by them. "I am taking back all the power he never really had. Power he should have had. Power he gave up. Now… get out. Get the fuck out of my office and get to Victor—use that degree of yours to organize these workers to take back our region."

"How is this different from MK?! How?!"

"How? Because it's ME, you bastard… I am in power now. I am la madre celestial. That's how it's different. Now… get... OUT!"

Rolon slowly got to his feet, all that bulk useless. A vase whizzed past him and crashed against the wall next to the door. He spun back to her, eyes on her heaving self. Glared at her before flying outta there. He skipped steps, down, down, his mind completely electrified at what he was dealing with.

When he got to the bottom floor, three of her bodyguards met him in their new outfits. All of them had licenses to carry, all wore black denim, black jackets… and the coup de grâce… masks hanging out of side pockets. Yeah, balaclavas to cover their faces when dealing with less-than-legit people. Less chance of identification if things got dicey. The Queen's edict.

Jesus Christ.

Rolon's stomach knotted up and he grabbed Mark by the collar… "Come," he growled, dragging him into the conference room, the guy nearly tripping with all that strength Rolon used. Mark was the one white guy in the security crew guarding Téa. He had short sand-colored hair and was built in a way that reminded Rolon of Blanco, just enough to make his heart ache a little. Big difference was a persistent gentleness despite being an ex-army dude with good fighting skills and a willingness to defend Téa at all costs. It was why RJ picked him. He knew security detail, had a good head on his shoulders, was cool as ice, but he had a puppy-dog heart. He wasn't a big talker either. He never shared his stories of running with Chicago's Jamaican gang most of his life. It's how R.J. knew him… through the Posse.

"You know about her plans to use the workers to take down Los Muertos?"

"Yeah."

Rolon grunted at Mark's typical one-word response. "So you just gonna go along with this shit?! Come on, hombre!"

With his ever present unflappability, Mark sniffed and said in his laconic way, "Los Muertos needs puttin' down… leastwise… oughta know they could be."

"Oh no," he groaned, cursing a string of Spanish. "You're drinking the Kool-Aid, man."

Mark chuckled softly, "We got her back. She safe." He waved a hand as he walked out, leaving Rolon practically hitting his head against the wall. Téa had asked earlier, just to be the bitch she could be, what would Jesus do?

He wondered now… what would Blanco do with Téa? He had no goddamn idea.

Hours later, she descended the stairs, heels hitting the wood like she meant business. Dinner had been brought in for everyone on campus. Delicious Cornish hens and potatoes and greens all by Hank's restaurant. A celebration of sorts. First full week in the new digs.

Téa glanced at her men in the entranceway, all wearing the balaclavas like she requested. She liked the look; they were black and covered the head and lower part of their faces. Cool material, of course, so they wouldn't get too hot in summer. Practically ergonomic. Yeah, she definitely liked it. Sent a message to anyone she dealt with that she was not to be fucked with.

"We're off to visit the new grower, Diego, again. Let's go. He's got new strains he wants to share, apparently."

"Eladio is really pushing this Diego shit," Lanzo rumbled.

"Yes, he is. And we don't want to disappoint his little game by revealing the punch line."

"Not sure I get the game though."

"He's hoping to join me, Lanzo. Create some kind of monopoly in the gangland. He's also hoping to fuck me." She snorted, "As if."

The men scrambled.

She'd been there several times already. Tasted the product, toured the facility. Drank wine as they admired the crops. They flirted and she'd let him get close enough so he could imagine what she'd feel like. But then she'd pull away and play Southern damsel.

Well, I say, aren't you a delight?

She was surprised Eladio ran such a clean operation. The only indicator that it was a Muertos production that Téa pretended not to notice were the workers. They were rough. Dark looks to them, lots of swirling face tattoos. Like the man who played that exploding prank on her.

She got into the new SUV tonight, American-made Cadillac Escalade recently arrived from the heartland with its bullet-proof windows and reinforced steel sides, black of course, sharp. She climbed into the back seat, Victor and Mark in the front, Lanzo and Tony in the Cadillac sedan behind, equally armored.

As they drove out of town, her eyes drifted to Mark, noticing the snake tattoo on his neck for the first time. It was almost exactly like Todd's. Funny. She tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to her, his warm eyes crinkling in a smile hidden by the balaclava, light brown she noticed, almost hazel.

"Tell me about your tattoo," she said. "Never noticed it before."

"Black Mamba. Inspired by these MK dudes." He patted Victor on the arm, Victor giving a don't-you-know-it nod, Mark turning back around to face the front. He wasn't MK but he was experienced enough with the dark world of organized crime from growing up in Chicago on the southside.

Téa sat back, watching the passing cityscape. Snakes could be so very dangerous. Such poison in their bite.

Later, as she sniffed the buds offered up by one of the agricultural workers and read a report by scientists on the premises, Eladio, who did not know Téa already knew who he was, asked her about their new uniforms.

"Why the face coverings?"

She smiled seductively and shrugged, "You never know when lack of recognition might be useful."

He laughed but it hadn't been an easy one.

And she liked that.


Before Jedediah left, he sat with Todd in the Sanctuary, just the two of them. They had decided to travel separately. Safer for both. Less chance for recognition.

"I'm afraid I'll never see you again," Jed said.

Todd wanted to promise him, wanted to argue, but he knew better. The fucking fates had a way of intervening in things. People got kidnapped, dealers showed up with drugs, lovers did the unexpected. He looked at his beautiful boy, the words stuck in his throat. Finally, he simply said, "I'm getting on that plane."

Jed nodded, "I know. Still." Then after a moment, he said in a quiet heavy voice. "Things are gonna be hard for you, Pops. I'm kind of worried about that. Moms isn't the same. You gotta understand."

Smiling sadly, Todd heard something else in Jed's words. Something not related to Téa. The days with Jed had been kind of blissful, endless hours together, hard physicality but wonderful. Strange to get to know his son this way. Jed was a fucking force in his own right. Todd couldn't deny he was humbled by it. He'd say proud, but he didn't earn that word. Jed's strength and level-headedness had been built into him the way smoothness is built into wood: through sandpaper. And Todd was the opposing force that had done it. And who did Jed mostly know?

A heroin addicted father.

Yeah, all these years and Jed had never been around an entirely sober father. Until now.

Things are gonna be hard…

He wasn't talking about Téa, he was talking about fucking dope. He couldn't explain how he felt these days. Too many words. And like the promise to see him at home? He couldn't promise heroin wouldn't be in his life again. He was an addict and just because he had truth-pain to derail hard things, didn't mean shit.

He pulled him into a tight hug, a hug that tried to be assuring, a hug that swore sobriety. A hug that said, I'm never going to hurt you again. I'm going to be the angel daddy you tried to find when you were just sixteen on that motorbike.

Get on, Pops. Where you wanna go Pops?

He closed his eyes and fought tears for his boy. Whispered, "I love you." He pulled away and just studied Jed. "I can't believe… you… um... found me."

"A fucking miracle. It's uh… gonna be something explaining it. The kids…?"

"Eh…. I've come back from the dead before." He nodded and eyed the Savior. "People are weird a while and then… they wish I stayed dead." He chuckled but it wasn't a joke.

"Dad, don't you dare think about it. I mean it. You're making me nervous."

"I'm coming home."

The front door creaked open and Raquel came to them. "Taxi is here."

The two men looked at each other and Todd gave him one last hug. "Home," he said. "I'll see you there. Go. Go!"

Jedediah grabbed his bag and Todd followed him out, Abram at his side. All the sisters met them, hugged Jed, final words of advice, a few tears. Raquel held him for a long time. Nodded at him. "Be strong," she said in English, for him. Jed gave his Pops one last look and then he was off.

Nothing was easy in it.

Todd's turn would come next. Everything was set. Papers looked good. He was taking his dog with him. Abram was his only traveling partner.

The convent settled after a bit, everyone back to their jobs, cleaning, working the clinic, the winery. Todd had a knife in his gut as he walked to the garden behind the clinic. He walked the rows, seeing the radishes, lettuce, and potato plants. He still had a slight limp, but it had lessened. He noticed if he tried, he could cover to the point where it was almost not noticeable at all. But if he was tired, it was there. A signature. Raquel said the surgery he had to repair a broken hip revealed scar tissue from the stabbing in Statesville. Doctor cleaned that mess up. He shook his head at the small blessing. Too bad his epilepsy hadn't been similarly repaired. Still needed meds.

He moved all the way to the back and sat on a bench near the struggling citrus trees. Weather and soil made life difficult for the oranges and lemons. La Gata hopped up onto his lap and he pet the grey tabby, and she loved it and he smiled. Found himself tearful, missing Jed already and knowing he'd miss this place.

For all the hate that filled him up, Las Hermanas de la Misericordia had given him a lot of love and patience and faith. Everyone that helped him recover gave everything of themselves. He'd seen true goodness in the sisters and of course, in Raquel. He hoped some of that goodness stuck to him.

Right now though… he needed faith. Faith that the world for once would work in his favor.

Yeah, dear fucking God… let me at least get there.

He didn't ask that home would be given back to him.

To be continued...