Saint by T.L. Gray

me the information
I’ll make the arrangements right away.” Alice stood with pen poised.
    “I’ll take care of the arrangements myself.
You won’t be able to reach me. If I get a chance, I’ll call in, but don’t count
on it. Bick can handle any emergencies.”
    “Er, when should I expect you back, sir?”
    “When you see me.”
    She frowned at him through her spectacles. “Sir,
are you feeling all right?”
    “Never better, Alice. Never better.”
    Elliot Galen cleaned up the details of his
life and his business and within hours was on his way.
    Saint could have asked for a lung and he
would have given it.
    * * * * *
    Mississippi
     
    “Whatcha doin’?” The boy perched beside him
on the step.
    “Reading.”
    “Readin’ what?”
    “A letter from a friend.”
    “What’s yer friend say?”
    Little Jimmy ate bad candy. The man who gave it to him wants to
sell more. Saint.
    “My friend would like me to come and visit
for a while.” Tobias folded the note and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
    “Yer friend black?”
    “No, he’s white. What difference does it
make?”
    “White folks ain’t no account. My ma used
to say so.”
    “Your ma was wrong. Friends come in many
different colors.”
    “How many colors?”
    He shrugged. “Black, white, yellow, tan.”
    “That’s only four,” the boy scoffed.
    “It’s better to have four friends of
various colors than none.”
    “‘Round here there’s only one color to pick
from.”
    “The rest of the world isn’t like
Mississippi, son.”
    “You been around the world?” The boy’s chocolate
eyes widened.
    “Yes.”
    He’d been too many places. Seen too many
things. He liked it here—life was quiet and slow. But little Jimmy would never
know that.

Chapter Five
     
    “Shouldn’t we keep close to the cabin?”
Maria panted when Francis finally halted by one of the many streams that seemed
to spring up from nowhere. Their early morning jog through the fog took away
the chill of early morning and had her heart pumping harder than it had it a
while.
    “Jogging’s good for clearing the head.
Never know when you’ll have to run long distances.” He squatted, splashing a
handful of sparkling water on his face.
    She knelt beside him and did the same,
muttering, “My head wasn’t clogged ’til you dragged me out in the morning air.”
    He grinned at her. “You’re too citified.”
    “Was this Harris’ idea?”
    “You don’t like jogging?”
    This wasn’t jogging, it was slow torture.
The terrain was uneven, mushy in some place, hard and rocky in others. It was a
wonder she hadn’t twisted her ankle. “Not particularly.”
    “Then it was the colonel’s idea.” He
winked.
    “Uh huh. What else did the colonel order
you to have me do?”
    “Self-defense. We’ll start the first lesson
when we get back to camp.”
    By the time they made it back to camp, as
Francis had begun to call the house, she was fairly sure her lungs had expanded
another fifty percent.
    “Cigarette?” Francis offered, hooking a leg
over the porch railing.
    “I don’t smoke.” She dropped onto the step,
trying not to be obvious about sucking air into her aching lungs. “Doesn’t that
defeat the purpose? It’s not healthy.”
    “Crossing the street isn’t healthy either,
some days. But most people don’t think so ’til they get hit by a semi.”
    Okaaay… “If you say so.”
    “I do. When I finish this smoke, we’ll see
what kind of moves you’ve got. Breathe in through the nose, honey, out through
the mouth.”
    “I know a few things. My father was a
police officer. He taught me some self-defense tactics.”
    Ten minutes later she landed flat on her
back with the wind knocked out of her. She couldn’t be sure exactly how it
happened—Francis hadn’t seemed to move an inch.
    “Sorry.” He offered her a hand up. “I’ll
try to be gentle next time.”
    “Will that be before or after you break my
neck?”
    “Before. Okay, let’s try it again.