Anderson already looks half out of his mind. His hair is matted and sticking up in places. Blood is congealing on his face, his eyes shot through with red. And then he lunges for Warner.
His swings are wild but strong, unsteady but studied. He reminds me, in a sudden, frightening flash of understanding, of the father Adam so often described to me. A violent drunk fueled by rage.
This is pure, unadulterated anger. Anderson seems to have lost his mind. He wants to beat him to a pulp. He wants physical satisfaction. He wants to break bones and rupture organs with his own hands. Anderson wants the pleasure of knowing that he and he alone was able to destroy his own son. He meets Anderson blow for blow in fluid, precise movements, ducking and sidestepping and twisting and defending. He never misses a beat. I feel a sudden, unbidden surge of respect for him as I watch him block attack after attack.
I keep waiting for him to knock the dude out, but Warner makes no effort to hit Anderson; he only defends. And the more he fails to rattle his son, the more enraged Anderson gets. Blood still trickles, slowly, from the half-healed wound on his neck when he cries out, angrily, and pulls free a gun from inside his jacket pocket. Give me the girl and I will spare the rest of these idiots. I only want the girl. A clean uppercut. A hard kick to the chest. A good old-fashioned strangulation.
I look up, gasping for breath, hoping for good newsβ And do a double take. I thought we were down to three or four.
