No Greater Love

The bank alarm was still screaming when Rachel walked outside.

I watched her.

Not because of the bank.

Because of Rachel.

The difference was getting harder to ignore.

Twenty minutes earlier, she’d looked exhausted.

Now she looked—

Better wasn’t the right word.

Less exhausted.

Like somebody had turned down the volume on whatever was hurting her.

Through the glass doors behind her, employees rushed in every direction. One woman held a phone against her ear while another knelt beside a man on the floor.

The bank manager.

He clutched his left arm against his chest and rocked in pain.

Bodhi emerged behind Rachel.

Then Willard.

Willard looked pleased with himself.

Which immediately worried me.

He glanced up at the security camera over the entrance and tipped his hat.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Being polite.”

“That camera just recorded you.”

“Good side too.”

“You know they’ll identify you.”

Willard grinned.

“They always do.”

“What happened in there?”

“We got it.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“We got the key.”

“The alarm told me the rest was complicated.”

“Complicated,” Willard agreed.

I pointed at him.

“I hate that answer.”

“Everybody does.”

Bodhi looked like he needed a drink.

Or sleep.

Possibly both.

Rachel sat on the edge of a fountain and watched the crowd.

Not us.

People.

Arguments.

Confusion.

Festival volunteers trying to decide whether the bank alarm was part of Decadence Day.

Somewhere beyond the courthouse, a siren began to wail.

“What happened?” I asked again.

Willard sighed.

“The manager wouldn’t cooperate.”

“You don’t have an account.”

“I explained that.”

“You broke into the bank after hours.”

“Entered.”

“You took an unused safe-deposit box.”

“Borrowed.”

“And then asked the bank manager to let you into it?”

“It sounded better in my head.”

Gene appeared carrying a paper bag covered in powdered sugar.

Of course he did.

“What did I miss?”

“Willard committed another felony,” Kristy Lee said.

Gene reached into the bag.

“So, nothing.”

Willard ignored him.

“The manager said there was no box registered in my name. I told him registration was a social construct.”

“It isn’t,” I said.

“He disagreed too.”

“Imagine that.”

“He said he was calling Dwayne.”

Willard pointed toward the man on the floor.

“Then things took a turn.”

Rachel looked over.

“You were rambling.”

“I was providing context.”

“You told him you’d entered his bank in the middle of the night.”

“Honesty is important in financial relationships.”

Rachel rolled her eyes.

Willard continued.

“I called Henry for advice.”

“What kind of advice?”

“The kind that keeps Dwayne out of things.”

“You called Henry.”

Willard nodded.

“Rachel took the phone.”

My attention moved toward her.

Rachel shrugged.

“The manager kept saying no.”

“That is generally what happens when you request access to property you don’t own,” I said.

“He wasn’t listening.”

Willard laughed without humor.

“Oh, she made him listen.”

Rachel’s expression sharpened.

“You wanted the key.”

“I wanted advice.”

“You wanted Henry to solve the problem.”

“Not like that.”

I looked between them.

“What did she do?”

Willard lowered his voice.

“She walked away with the phone. Told Henry to fix something.”

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

“You know what happens when Henry fixes things.”

Rachel looked toward the crowd.

“Yes.”

The single word carried no remorse.

Willard nodded toward the bank manager.

“Man grabbed his arm like somebody hit him with a hammer. Started screaming.”

The manager remained on the floor behind the glass.

His employees tried to comfort him while the alarm shrieked overhead.

“Then she told Henry to fix something else,” Willard said.

I stared at Rachel.

“You demanded a second repair?”

“He was already helping.”

“Helping?”

Rachel stood.

“We needed the key.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“I didn’t ask for anyone to get hurt.”

“But you knew someone would.”

She looked at me.

Calm.

Unapologetic.

“The manager collapsed. Everybody rushed over. Willard got into the back.”

“You make it sound easy,” Willard complained.

“It was easy for you.”

“Still involved walking.”

He reached beneath his coat.

Then pulled out the key.

Nobody spoke.

It was longer than my forearm.

Pale.

Yellowed with age.

Symbols had been carved along its shaft in a language I didn’t recognize. One end spread into crooked teeth. The other curved into a handle worn smooth by hands that should have turned to dust centuries ago.

It looked like bone.

Not carved to resemble bone.

Carved from it.

A human forearm made into a key for some room drowned beneath the river of time.

“Lost River,” I whispered.

Gene looked at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Rachel held out her hand.

Willard hesitated.

Then surrendered the key.

It disappeared beneath her fingers.

Not into a pocket.

Not up a sleeve.

One moment it rested in her hand.

The next it was gone.

“Sleight of hand?” I asked.

“Party trick.”

I looked toward the manager.

“Henry repaired two things.”

“Yes,” Rachel said.

“One man got hurt.”

She said nothing.

“Who paid for the second?”

“No one else went down,” Willard said.

“Not yet.”

The words left my mouth before I understood them.

Rachel studied me.

The sirens grew louder.

A bank employee ran outside and pointed at Willard.

“You! Don’t move!”

Willard tipped his hat.

Then Wade spoke behind me.

“Hey, Dan.”

His voice hit like cold water.

I turned.

Wade stood near the edge of the crowd.

No pirate coat.

No foam sword.

No smile.

He held a real handgun.

People nearest him hadn’t noticed yet. They were still looking toward the bank and its screaming alarm.

Then a woman saw the weapon.

She gasped.

The sound spread outward.

Conversations stopped.

Festival music kept playing.

That made it worse.

“Wade.”

He raised the gun.

Pointed it at me.

My mind calculated distance before fear had time to arrive.

Too far.

Too many people.

No clear angle.

I would never reach him before he fired.

“Wade, put it down.”

“You ever think about it?”

Not again.

Not now.

“What if the knee holds?”

His hand trembled.

“One play, Dan.”

People backed away.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

“What if I get one play?”

“Put the gun down.”

“One scout.”

“I hear you.”

“Do you?”

His laugh came out broken.

“You left, man.”

“We all left.”

“You went somewhere.”

The words hurt more than the gun.

“I stayed right here.”

Finch’s stood behind him.

His bar.

His festival.

The life he built around the place football abandoned him.

“I should’ve called,” I said.

Wade’s expression shifted.

Only slightly.

“Yes.”

“I should’ve checked on you.”

“You were busy.”

“I was selfish.”

“You were a star.”

“I was your friend.”

“Were you?”

The gun wavered.

For one moment, I thought I had reached him.

Then someone nearby shouted.

Wade flinched.

Sasha moved.

She launched from beside me the instant his finger tightened.

Black fur.

Teeth.

Forty pounds of love and instinct throwing itself toward danger.

The gun fired.

The sound cracked across Liberty Crossing.

Sasha yelped.

“No.”

She struck the pavement and rolled.

Gene hit Wade a heartbeat later.

The two men crashed into a vendor table. The handgun skidded beneath a hay bale.

A uniformed festival officer rushed forward and kicked it farther away. Gene pinned Wade while the officer secured his wrists.

Wade didn’t fight.

He stared at Sasha.

Horror replaced everything else.

“I didn’t—”

“No.”

I dropped beside her.

“No, no, no.”

Blood spread through the fur high on her shoulder.

Not much.

Too much.

Any was too much.

“Sasha.”

Her eyes found mine.

Trusting.

Always trusting.

The goodest dog in the world.

The absolute worst time to realize it.

Kristy Lee dropped beside me and opened the compact trauma pouch attached to her bag.

“Let me see.”

I moved my hands.

She found the entry wound.

Then the exit.

“Through-and-through,” she said. “High in the shoulder.”

“Is that good?”

“It missed her chest.”

“Is she going to live?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer nearly broke me.

Kristy Lee pressed gauze against both wounds.

“She’s breathing. Her gums still have color. We need a veterinarian now.”

People screamed and ran around us.

The bank alarm continued.

Festival volunteers shouted instructions no one followed.

Somewhere, someone finally cut the music.

None of it mattered.

Only Sasha.

“Rachel.”

My voice cracked.

I looked up.

She stood over us.

Good.

Good.

She had restored Kristy Lee.

Changed milk.

Painted the sky.

She could fix this.

That was what Rachel did.

“Rachel.”

She knelt.

Looked at Sasha.

The color drained from her face.

“Fix her.”

Rachel didn’t move.

“Please.”

One hand hovered above Sasha’s wound.

Nothing happened.

“Sasha,” Bodhi whispered.

He dropped to his knees on the other side of her.

The dog’s tail struck the pavement once.

Weakly.

Because Bodhi was there.

“Rachel,” I said again. “Do something.”

“I can’t.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

“I can’t.”

“No.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t.”

Because she could.

We had seen her.

Kristy Lee dying on my couch.

Blue lips.

No breath.

Then Rachel placed a hand against her forehead and gave her back.

Except—

The thought moved through me.

Kristy Lee hadn’t been healed.

She had been released.

Released from something Rachel—

Rachel swayed.

“Bodhi.”

He looked up just as she collapsed toward him.

He caught her instinctively.

“Rachel!”

The thought shattered.

Concern filled his face.

Kristy Lee continued wrapping Sasha’s shoulder.

I looked between the dog bleeding on the pavement and the woman lying weakly in Bodhi’s arms.

Something was wrong.

Rachel had walked out of the bank stronger.

Fed by the manager’s pain.

Restored by the festival’s panic.

Now, when we asked her to prove what she was—

She became helpless.

Bodhi lowered her carefully against the fountain.

Then turned back toward Sasha.

“My girl,” he whispered.

Sasha tried to lift her head.

“Don’t move,” Kristy Lee said.

Bodhi placed both hands around Sasha’s face.

“I’m here.”

Behind us, the festival officer pulled Wade upright.

Wade looked at me.

“I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t answer.

Maybe I would someday.

Not then.

Gene appeared beside us.

No powdered sugar.

No joke.

No Gene.

“Dan.”

I looked up.

He wasn’t watching Wade.

Or Rachel.

Or Sasha.

He stared toward the far end of the street.

Kristy Lee followed his gaze.

Her face went pale.

Black-robed figures stood among the costumes.

One beside the pirate float.

Two near Finch’s.

Another beneath the courthouse clock.

More beyond them.

They hadn’t just arrived.

They had been there all morning.

Waiting.

People ran around them.

Past them.

Away from them.

The figures never moved.

Never reacted.

They watched.

The Order.

“Oh,” Kristy Lee whispered.

Then—

“Oh, shit.”

Willard stepped forward.

Calm as ever.

Like he was ordering breakfast.

“Follow me.”

“We need a vet,” I said.

“I know.”

He adjusted his hat.

Then grinned.

“I know a place.”

I looked down at Sasha.

At the black robes.

At Rachel resting against the fountain with her eyes closed and color already returning to her cheeks.

Something was wrong.

Not with the bank.

Not with Wade.

Not with Liberty Crossing.

Something larger.

Something I had almost seen.

Something that did not want to be seen.

Kristy Lee secured the bandage.

Bodhi slid his arms beneath Sasha’s body.

The Order began moving toward us.

And Willard ran.