Out of the Black by John Rector Page A

a finger to my lips, stopping me. Then she bends forward, kissing me long and soft. When she pulls away, there are tears in her eyes.
    “She’s waiting for you.”
    I stare at her, not understanding.
    Beth leans toward my ear, whispers, “Forever and always. Do you remember?”
    I nod, feeling the tears press behind my eyes
.
    Beth smiles, kisses me once more
.
    “Then wake up.”

    I opened my eyes and inhaled sharp.
    My clothes were soaked through, and cold water ran off my skin onto the floor. I tried to sit up, and the room spun around me.
    There was a deputy standing in front of me holding a dripping plastic mop bucket. He watched me, birdlike, his shaved head tilted to the side.
    “He lives.”
    There were two fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling buzzing a cold green light over the room. They were bright, and it took my eyes a minute to adjust. Once they did, I saw that I was in a large cement cell. There was a thick metal door open at one end, and two cement beds attached to the walls on either side. In the middle of the room was a metal toilet and sink. The floor was smooth and it slanted toward a drainage trench cut along the back wall.
    The deputy with the bucket stepped back, and for the first time, I saw that we weren’t alone.
    There was another sheriff’s deputy standing just inside the door. This one was younger, wide-eyed. He leaned againstthe wall, out of the way, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
    Standing next to him was a man in a charcoal-gray suit. He was tall, dark hair cut short, and he carried a black leather briefcase in his hand.
    At first, I thought he might be my lawyer, but then he leaned forward to sit on the cement bed across from me, and I noticed the gun in the shoulder holster under his coat.
    I saw another man kneeling in the far corner of the room. There was something familiar about him. He was older, and his thin white hair stood off his head in every direction. He had dirt on his clothes, and there was blood around his mouth and streaked down the front of his shirt.
    His eyes were swollen shut, his face bruised.
    He was holding a white rosary in both hands.
    I stared at him for a long time, trying to remember where I’d seen him, but my thoughts were clouded, and it took a while before I remembered.
    Then I did.
    He was the driver. He’d been parked across the street from the salon that afternoon.
    “I know you,” I said. “You’re—”
    The older deputy stepped forward and punched me. The blow snapped my head back, and sent jagged shards of pain tearing through my brain. I reached up, holding my nose in both hands, and stayed like that until tXe p.he pain began to fade. When I pulled my hands away, they were covered in blood.
    I didn’t say anything else.
    A minute later, there were footsteps in the hall. I waited until they stopped, then I looked up.
    The old man was standing in the doorway.

    Seeing him brought it all back, and I could feel my muscles tense. I started to get up, but the deputy stepped in and pushed me back down, holding me there.
    I looked up at the old man and said, “We had a deal. Where is she?”
    He stared at me, didn’t speak.
    “Where is my daughter?”
    The old man stayed in the doorway, watching me, hands folded over the top of his cane. Then he stepped in and crossed the room to where the driver was kneeling in the corner. He stood behind him, then reached down and put a hand on his shoulder.
    The driver jumped at the man’s touch and made a low cry in the base of his throat.
    The old man patted his shoulder and made a slow shushing sound that came out like a hiss. He said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand. When he finished, the driver looked up at him, his swollen eyes wide, and shook his head, talking fast through the tears.
    The old man listened until the driver’s voice broke off into sobs, then he held his hand out to him, palm down.
    The driver took it and kissed it and pressed it against his face, repeating