On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  "Enlighten me, please."

  The priest's lips thinned. "Such pride, Louis."

  "Father, I'm asking you to perform your most fundamental function: to explain the mind of God to man. Or have you decided to renounce the cloth as soon as you can acquire a new wardrobe?"

  Schliemann sighed. "Theologians have regretted the use of the word 'omnipotence' since the founding of the Church. A much better term would be 'control over natural law.' That's reasonable, since natural law is only a thought in the mind of God, as is all the rest of the natural world it governs. But it has no relevance to supernatural law, which binds both God and man."

  Louis raised an eyebrow. "Supernatural law?"

  "Yes, Louis, the supreme law, the law that transcends law. The law that says that a statement cannot be both true and false. The law that says that each thing is what it is, and nothing else. Man is free, because God made him so. It is Man's nature to be free. The Almighty Himself could not impose faith upon you, not with all His force. Not without making you something less than a man."

  The priest went to the window and surveyed the street beyond. The rectory was in a poor part of Onteora, where land was cheap but few cared to own it. One walked the streets carefully here, and only in daylight. Yet, in the afternoon sun, with spring slowly returning vitality to the land, even that seedy semi-commercial street had an air of promise.

  "You've been dealt a serious blow, no doubt of it. But you still have a great deal: wealth, intelligence, ability, integrity. Use them. Do what you can. Do what you've always done: act with love toward those whom God puts in your path. But don't expect the return of your faith by way of recompense. It simply doesn't work that way."

  Louis bowed his head. "Knowing what you know, having heard what you've heard, are you still willing to see me?"

  The corners of Schliemann's mouth lifted in an involuntary grin.

  "Louis, I wouldn't turn you away if the Devil himself rode on your shoulders."

  ***

  Tiny was still sprawled on his couch, fuming, when Hans returned that evening. As Hans slipped through Tiny's door, Tiny looked up, glowered briefly, and looked away.

  Hans, a big curly blond of Swedish descent, was one of Tiny's seconds-in-command. He also fancied himself to be Tiny's friend. He wasn't far wrong, though friendship of the conventional sort wasn't part of Tiny's range of emotions.

  Hans felt the responsibilities of his position more keenly than one might suppose. He felt an obligation to his mates, to guide and protect them as best he could. He felt a greater obligation toward his leader, to see his wishes carried out while protecting him from the excesses of his temper, when that was possible. Hans owed a great debt to Tiny. Riding with the Butchers was Hans's preferred mode of life, as it was Tiny's, and Hans credited Tiny with its continued existence.

  Like Tiny's, Hans's intellect was untrained but considerable. He tried to use it, when circumstances warranted. This seemed to be one of them. "Boss, I've been thinking."

  Tiny's gaze flickered back toward his underling. His expression was still one of impatient rage, as if to say this had better be good.

  "The way Tex got himself smeared, she mighta been hurt, too. She probably was, right? Maybe even bad. What if some local fuzz picked her up and took her to a hospital or something?"

  Tiny's eyes widened and his attention became unconditional. A wolfish grin spread over the coarse features of the head Butcher. He hoisted himself upright and rubbed the stubble on his face.

  "Now I remember why I keep you around. Where are the others?"

  Hans shrugged. "Maybe half a dozen at the Crazy Clown. The rest are scattered all over hell and gone."

  Tiny scowled, then shrugged. "Well, it's my doing. They'll be back by dawn, most of 'em. Tomorrow should be time enough. Go over to the Clown and bring me back a Yellow Pages."

  As Hans turned and made to comply, Tiny spoke again. "Hans?"

  The lieutenant turned back toward his leader. "Yeah, Boss?"

  "Ever stormed a hospital?"

  ====

  Chapter 3

  Christine slept away the next three days. Her body had its own imperatives, and her anxieties were reduced to spectators until it said otherwise. But there came a morning when she was ready to try the world beyond the door of her room. The day nurse agreed, although she advised Christine not to tire herself out. They disputed over a wheelchair, but Christine cut the nurse off after two salvoes and strode out. Her legs weren't that sore.

  The third-floor patients' lounge was moderately populated. Her powers of locomotion were high for that crowd. Until she arrived, everyone not on crutches was in a wheelchair. A surprising number of patients had facial bandages like her own, and many of the others bore livid facial scars.

  She found a small unoccupied sofa bathed in the morning sun, and eased herself onto it. Sitting felt strange after three days spent exclusively on her back. She closed her eyes and slumped, letting the sunlight warm her face through the bandages.

  As she relaxed, the sounds of the lounge began to sort themselves out. Snatches of conversation, murmured prayers, the occasional groan or whimper. Now and then there was a creak from a wheelchair in transit, or the peculiar rhythm of crutches thudding across the linoleum. At irregular intervals, the public-address system would call the name of a doctor or nurse. Underneath it all was a low, whooshing rumble of air passing back and forth through the room, propelled by the hospital ventilating system.

  After a while, she straightened and tried to pay attention to what was going on around her, if only for practice. The high percentage of the patients there who were facially disfigured, or who appeared to be headed that way, had not changed. There were no hospital personnel evident, nor did any appear during the subsequent hour. Movement around her was slow and labored. She remained the only occupant of the lounge who needed neither crutches nor wheelchair until just before noon.

  She had sat alone for more than two hours when a new patient walked in normally, breaking her monopoly on ambulatory status. He was an ordinary-looking young man, perhaps a little shorter than she, with the dark eyes, thick dark hair, and pallid complexion of the long-time northern families. He was dressed in street clothes and bore no mark of calamity, save the tight discomfort evident in his face and the hunch of his shoulders.

  He hesitated when he noticed her attention upon him, then headed toward her. "Is this seat taken?" His voice was soft and pleasant.

  "No, help yourself." She watched him make himself comfortable.

  "Thank you. It seems a pity to waste the sun...are you sure it's all right? You look very nervous."

  "No, it's okay, I'm just new here."

  He smiled, but he was at least as nervous as she, and couldn't hide it. "Most of us are. What happened to you?"

  His directness was so disarming that she found herself answering before her inner censor could stop her. "Motorcycle accident."

  He nodded.

  "What about you?"

  He shrugged. "They're following up on some tests." Something in his expression persuaded her not to press the matter. He turned his face to the sun, closed his eyes, and assumed a relaxed slump like her own. Several minutes passed in silence.

  "What's your name?"

  He opened his eyes and turned toward her, apparently surprised by the sally. "Louis. What's yours?"

  "Christine. It's nice to meet you, Louis."

  The sound of a crash came from the corridor beyond. Her heart leaped and her head whipped toward the door to scan for approaching danger.

  No one entered the lounge. From the sounds of shuffling and metallic scraping outside, an orderly had probably dropped a pile of bedpans.

  She turned back to Louis and found his eyes riveted to her. He was examining her with an intensity that made her anxiety strain against its bonds. What he was learning she could not guess. Yet his friendly expression had not changed.

  Stay calm, Christine.

  "Christine, are you all ri
ght?"

  The weight of his gaze and the totality of his concentration upon her made his question more than rhetorical. He really wanted to know, perhaps in detail. The realization caused her fears to spike upwards. The Nag yammered in a distant corner of her skull, heard but unheeded.

  "No...no."

  "Are you afraid of something? Did someone do this to you?"

  "No, I was in an accident."

  "But you're afraid."

  "Yes."

  "But not because of your wounds." It was not a question.

  "No."

  "Can you tell me about it?"

  Her fear had risen to a suffocating intensity. It took all her strength to draw a breath.

  "I don't know, I'm sorry, it's not your problem, I shouldn't have said anything, forgive me." She started to turn away.

  "Christine." The command in his voice pulled her eyes back to his. His intensity was undiminished.

  "Do you need some time to be alone?"

  "I don't know...maybe, yes."

  "I can meet you here later if you like."

  "NO!" Several nearby heads turned toward them, gazes lingering before they turned away. "I mean, I'm okay."

  "I don't think so, but you're the judge. Is there anything at all you can think of right now that I could help with?"

  "No, thank you, it's okay. Please, I mean it, really, just stop looking at me that way!"

  His mouth fell halfway open. "I'm sorry." He rose and turned to go.

  "Louis." She could manage no more than a whisper.

  At once his laser-like focus was upon her again. "Yes?"

  "Thank you. Maybe I'll see you later." It had to be forced past the steel bands around her chest.

  Another gentle smile. "Perhaps. Take care." He left.

  Two minutes later she was back in her room, wondering when the courage to leave it would return.

  ***

  "Which one's next?" Hans sprawled across Tiny's dirty sofa at his ease.

  Rollo stood at Tiny's desk. He ran a callused finger down the page of hospital and clinic names. Every general health care institution in the county was listed there. There were fifteen in all. "Onteora General."

  Tiny grunted and continued to stare out his window, most of his thoughts elsewhere. They had been to twelve hospitals over the past three days. None had had special facilities for accident victims. None had admitted to having a patient who'd been in a cycle smackup. None had admitted to having a patient without identification or cash. Tiny was confident of his findings. He had not relied on charm.

  "Where is it?"

  Rollo peered at the fine Yellow Pages print. "Overton Drive." He transferred his attention to a tattered atlas of Onteora County. "Hey, boss, that's just off two-thirty-one!"

  Tiny took notice at that. "Where we lost Tex."

  Hans sat up straight. "Yup! Do we ride?"

  The Butcher chieftain turned from his window and strode to the rusty coat tree by the outside door. "You're Goddamned right we ride." He pulled his jacket around him and zipped it with a quick jerk, heedless of obstructions and broken zipper teeth. "Roust the others."

  Hans jerked himself upright and charged into the main barracks area.

  As the door to Tiny's quarters swung closed, Rollo cleared his throat. "What about the rookie? You gonna leave him here?"

  Tiny turned and saw concern on Rollo's face. "He hasn't been initiated yet."

  His second-in-command scowled. "But you're gonna, right?"

  "No shortcuts, Rollo. We've got a procedure. He isn't a Butcher yet."

  "Boss -- !"

  The biker lord stared hard into his lieutenant's eyes. Rollo didn't flinch. "Get him in here."

  Rollo headed out the back door. He returned seconds later with his new prize.

  Tiny appraised the young biker from head to toe. He looked good: young, maybe twenty-five. Almost as tall as Tiny himself, lean but well-muscled and tough looking, with an easy confidence in his eyes and bearing that was unaffected by the surprise interview with his commander-to-be. The way he cradled his helmet in the crook of his arm suggested a military background. The only discordant note was the luxuriant head of shoulder length red-brown hair.

  "What do you call yourself, rookie?"

  "Rusty."

  "You serious about us, boy?"

  The young biker nodded. "Yes, sir."

  Tiny waved at Rollo, who'd remained by the door.

  "We're about to go on a hit. Rollo thinks we ought to bring you along, show you what the work is like before we initiate you. You like the sound of that?"

  Rusty nodded again. "Yes, sir."

  Tiny strode forward, putting his face within inches of the young man's. "Well, remember this, Rusty: this is my outfit. Butchers do as I say, when I say it. And you'll be the same. If I haul you out of bed at three in the morning and tell you to paint the ceiling, you'll up and do it then and there, even if you're in the middle of a fuck. Make me wait one second or give me one word of backtalk and you'll be the sorriest little turd that's ever been shit. Think you can remember all that, rookie?"

  Rusty's expression stayed neutral, but Tiny could see a current of decision pass behind his eyes. "Yes, sir."

  Tiny studied the young man's face a moment more, then nodded. "Good. Stick with Rollo. He'll keep you in line when I'm busy. Now saddle up."

  Hans returned, saw the little tableau, and turned a hostile glare on Rollo. Rollo mustered his nastiest grin.

  "What's he doing here, Rollo?"

  Rollo shrugged. "We're gonna bring him."

  Hans's head whipped toward Tiny. "Boss -- !"

  "Shut up, Hans. We ride."

  The other Butchers had assembled outside the barracks and had mounted up. The thrumming engine sounds sank near to silence when Tiny raised his voice to address them.

  "This could be it, guys. It's just off two-thirty-one, real close to where Tex bought it. You remember the drill. Nobody say a word, I'll take care of that. Just make max noise pulling in and try to look your best."

  He raised an arm, then swept it down. The engines roared in unison. Gravel sprayed in all directions as the twenty-four cycles and their riders set out on their quest once again.

  ***

  Louis had seated himself in his truck and started the engine before he froze in place. He fought down his vertigo and nausea to make room for thought.

  She was scared as hell of something. Every indication said she was a fugitive. Young, generally healthy, facial bandages, no problem walking. Abusive boyfriend, maybe?

  His reverie was penetrated by the distant sound of motorcycle engines. They seemed to be approaching.

  A motorcycle accident that tore up her face?

  Why are you just sitting here, idiot? Move!

  He killed the engine, leaped out, and sprinted for the main entrance. The receptionist looked up in surprise as he burst through the tall glass doors.

  "What's the matter, sir, do you have -- "

  He cut her off. "Check your records. Young white female patient, heavy facial wounds, recent treatment, came here with the police. What name and room number?"

  His tone of command was so powerful that she complied without objection. "Room 305, Christine D'Alessandro. But sir, visiting hours are -- "

  "I know." She fell silent at once as he sprinted for the stairs. From the parking lot, the sound of unmuffled motorcycle engines was rising.

  ***

  Christine could hear the cycle engines too. Tiny was no fool. He had figured out what had happened and where to look for her, and now the jig was up. Her muscles knotted in fear and frustration.

  The door to her room swung open. She had not expected it so soon, but it hardly mattered. Her attempt at escape had failed. The only refuge left to seek was death, and she doubted that she would be allowed the means or opportunity.

  She turned toward the door and gaped in surprise at the young man from the lounge.

  "What! Who --"

  "Never mind that. How
close is he?"

  She stammered, "Who?"

  He waved in exasperation. "The guy you're afraid of."

  She drew a quick breath and gasped it out. "Very close. Parking lot."

  He yanked open the closet, extracted a terry robe and made her don it. "Any personal possessions you can't bear to lose? I mean, as important as your life?"

  She shook her head, and he smiled in a way that blended anxiety and satisfaction.

  "Good. Let's go." He reached toward her, and without thinking she shied back. He seized her hand, turned and pulled her out of her room and down the corridor. She was unable to resist him despite her own considerable strength, and was hard pressed to match his pace in her hospital slippers.

  They descended the two flights of stairs to the lobby, encountering no one. The nurse-receptionist wore an expression of disorientation. They stopped.

  "Miss D'Alessandro has to go. Give her thanks and regrets to the medical staff. I'll be back tomorrow to settle up for her. Tell no one."

  The receptionist nodded, eyes glazed. Louis tugged on Christine's hand. The two of them exited and began to trot around the building toward the parking lot.

  A screen of poplars shielded the walkway toward the main entrance from a direct view of the parking lot. When they came to the end of the trees, Christine stopped and planted herself rigidly. Louis noticed and ceased to tug at her arm.

  The Butchers were massed at the far end. They had arrived in full battle strength. Most were still astride their cycles. A few had dismounted and were swaggering toward the entranceway. Tiny was recognizable at their head. Christine began to shake.

  "Christine, is it one of them?"

  "It's all of them."

  "Is there any possibility that they won't recognize you?"

  "I don't know."

  He pulled the collar of her robe up high. "Crouch down. Try to walk like an old woman with a stoop. Look down at the pavement and try to stay shorter than I am. Can you do that? Look at me, Christine. Can you do that?"

  Breath coming ever more quickly, she nodded again.

  "Good. Start now. Let me lead you. And not a word, no matter what happens."