The female security guard greeted him with her customary warm smile when she buzzed them into the old age home. Her eyes then fixed on Misha with a dark pinpoint look. Her name was Bica and she was a hard-faced black woman, and was regarding Misha with open animosity.

He did his best to break the ice. “High, Bica, this is Misha.”

Bica just stared, giving Misha that same look that Marie always gave him when she was horny and mad at him about it, but too proud to ask.

Misha stuck close to him, conscious of the bad vibes as they cut across the lobby and through the game room. The game room was curiously empty of old ladies, with just a few old men hanging out. The men, three of them, seemed edgy and irritated, eyeing Misha with a harsh intensity. She clung to him now, her arm around his waist.

“Sam, these people are mean. Are they mad at me?”

He put his arm protectively over her shoulders. “No, they’re just jealous that you are with me. These are just bitter old people.”

They made their way back to Mrs. Marsden’s room. The heavyset old lady was dressed up in her pioneer woman dress, laying in her medical bed, with the remote watching The Searchers. Mrs. Marsden always watched John Wayne movies when he visited, always dressed up like a pioneer woman or saloon girl, and always called him Sammy. Everyone in the facility called him Sammy. They’re dates were just movie-times, Sam standing or sitting next to her holding her hand while she discussed the movie, and how much he looked like John Wayne. She only watched John Wayne movies and seemed to think that Sam looked like the young version of the old time actor, specifically as he appeared in the movie Stagecoach.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Marsden. Things have been crazy this week. I did not get dressed up.”

Mrs. Marsden did not seem the least bit flustered, almost as if she was no longer senile. She looked at Sam and then to Misha, smiling. “My you are beautiful, child. Sammy, close the door—now. Lock it.”

Sam went to the door and locked it, noticing an old bent man lurking in the hall, peeking in at Misha.

He returned to Mrs. Marsden’s side and she was already holding Misha’s hand and whispering to her. Misha was crying silently, with subdued sobs. Mrs. Marsden then pulled her bonnet a little tighter under the chin and fixed Sam with a look he never recalled getting from the old lady, a look of bright clarity and strength.

“Sammy, look at the foot of my bed, around to the right.”

Sam walked around the front of the bed and looked down with a start. An elderly man, a man he had often seen playing solitaire in the game room, was laid out on the floor. Mrs. Marsden’s bowie knife was sticking out of his neck. The pool of blood he lay in had begun to congeal. Sam was no crime geek. But to him that did not seem to be fresh blood.

He looked back to Misha who seemed panicky but quiet, and then looked up into Mrs. Marsden’s face; old, wrinkled, pale, but still heavy with some weight and as determined as only a stubborn old person could be. Her eyes bored into his.

“Sammy, that thing in the sky was the devil’s own wing. Thank God you are a good boy. Now yank Annie out and give her to Mrs. Marsden.”

He stepped over and bent, grasping the heavy wooden handle of the century-old blade and drawing it forth with a sharp sucking sound. He wiped the blade clean on the man’s pajama bottoms and then handed it to his client. Mrs. Marsden then kissed Misha’s hand and handed it to Sam as she hefted the blade in her right hand.

“I always knew there was a reason you looked like The Duke, Sammy. Now lock me in, and get this girl to safety. Give me a kiss first, on the cheek, sweet boy.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Marsden. I’ll get the police.”

“Do what you think best, Sammy. Just protect her. God has put her in your hands.”

Misha squeaked, “Bye-bye, Mrs. Marsden, bye!” as he hustled her out the door. He checked it to make sure it was locked.

“Misha, call nine-one-one.”