On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  Tiny did as he'd been told, and saw the ruin of Duffy's face a few feet away. Rollo was lying motionless, face up, just beyond Duffy. The head Butcher's bladder cut loose.

  "Jesus!"

  "I doubt He's interested."

  His attention snapped back to the little twerp with the shotgun. The barrel was leveled at his face. The little guy was expressionless.

  "Your friends are dead." The voice was hard-edged, but without emotion or inflection. "Can you guess why you're not?"

  Tiny shook his head. He could feel urine soaking through his jeans.

  "There are more of you, aren't there? About twenty or so?"

  Tiny nodded, eyes still on the muzzle of the shotgun.

  "Your barracks is out in Woodlawn, behind the Crazy Clown, right? I've been there. You usually get what you want, don't you?"

  Tiny nodded again.

  "And you get it because you're a bunch of crazy motherfuckers, right? Because you're tougher than nails, you stand together, and nobody in his right mind would try to stand up to you. And you, being the leader, you're the toughest of them all. Right?"

  Tiny's attention shifted back to the little man's face. It seemed calm, as if this were a normal afternoon in this corner of Onteora County, with no bodies on anyone's front lawn. But whatever his face said, the edge on his words was something else.

  "You think you're tough? You couldn't stand up to me on your best day. You think you're crazy? I could make you scream your guts out with nothing but my fingernails. And if you disappoint me, I might just look you up and demonstrate."

  Tiny locked eyes with the little man, wondering whether to hope that he would live. The guy didn't seem to like it. He brought the business end of the shotgun down to rest on the bridge of Tiny's nose.

  "I'm sending you back to your pack. You're going to tell them all about the crazy man who killed their friends. And you're going to convince them to stay the hell away from here. Know why?"

  Tiny said nothing.

  "Because if you don't convince them, I will look you up, and I will finish you. But not cleanly, the way I did your friends. I'll take my time. I will teach you every way to hurt that the world has ever known. You'll beg me to kill you until your throat turns raw. Do you understand me?"

  Tiny nodded.

  "Are you going to stay the hell away?"

  Tiny nodded again.

  "And what about Christine?"

  Tiny struggled to find his voice. "She's yours now, man. Just let me up."

  "No. Onto your hands and knees."

  Tiny complied. The shotgun never left his face.

  "Crawl over to your hog and get the fuck out of here. You'll never know when I'm watching you, so don't get clever. I've got garbage to dispose of, and I'm in a foul mood. If I see you again, here or anywhere, it's over."

  Tiny did as instructed. When he got to his cycle, he turned back toward the house. The little twerp had gone inside and shut the door. He had not even remained to watch Tiny's departure. Shuddering, running his tongue over his shattered teeth, the Butcher chieftain kicked over the engine and rode away.

  ***

  When Louis reentered the house, he could not find Christine. She was no longer in the office, and nowhere else in the living spaces of the house. After two minutes of rushing about shouting her name, he was hoarse, flushed, and near panic.

  She wouldn't have left the house. She'd be too scared of what might be waiting outside. She's probably still too scared to show herself.

  He realized that he was still carrying the shotgun. He clicked the safety on, restored it to its place of concealment in the coat closet, and sprinted for the basement stairs.

  He found her wedged behind his furnace. She was crouched into as small a huddle as she could manage in the narrow space between the furnace and the wall. Her eyes were wild with fear.

  "Chris, you can come out." He did his best to keep his voice low. "It's all right now. They're gone and they won't be back. You can come out."

  She gaped at him as if he were a total stranger speaking an alien language for perhaps half a minute. Slowly, she straightened up and squirmed forward out of her place of concealment.

  From head to toe she was a mess. Her beautiful white linen suit was smeared with oil and soot. Her pumps were smudged and scuffed. But worst of all was the picture of Hell on her face. Louis's heart clenched in his chest.

  She leaped at him.

  It was not an attack, but no attack could have been more forceful. She wrapped all her limbs around him and clung to him with manic strength. He lost his balance and toppled backward, but she did not let go. The impact against the concrete floor of the basement emptied his lungs in a rush. She remained atop him, still clutching him for dear life.

  The whole length of her body was pressed against him. Each gasp and shiver that ran down her frame shook him as well. He could only clasp her in his arms and wait for her storm to pass.

  Her hands went to the buckle on his belt.

  He tried to stop her, found that he could not. Against his diminishing resistance, she undid his pants and slid them away, then did the same for his briefs.

  She hiked up her skirt with a twist of her hips and impaled herself upon him. The sudden enclosure of his organ by her vaginal passage was like an electric shock. Involuntarily he arched, bucked, and pressed himself into her. In a few moments, she had brought him to that secret place, reached only through a woman's body, where every man is, for a little while, a god.

  Thus it was that, at thirty-six years of age, on the gritty concrete floor of his basement, only minutes after committing two homicides, Louis Redmond lost his virginity.

  ***

  At about midnight, a blue Dodge pickup truck entered an alley off a back street on the seedy end of Onteora's commercial district. It was a place where only winos and junkies ever went: dirty, damp, and dark even at high noon. The two derelicts who were there at the time scuttled down to the far end, hid behind a mound of trash, and waited for the intruder to depart.

  A short figure in coveralls emerged from the cab, visible only as a silhouette against the darkness. It pulled the tonneau cover back from the workbed and unloaded two large, heavy objects onto the alley floor. When the truck had gone, the two derelicts slunk back to see what the intruder had added to their environment.

  The truck's payload had been human bodies. One had a large hole in its chest. The other's head had been all but destroyed.

  After they had turned out the pockets of both corpses and found nothing of value, one of the winos spat on the bodies. "Thanks for nothing, stiff."

  ***

  It was after one o'clock when Louis returned from his errand. He went straight to the shower, fighting the urge to plunge into the water fully clothed. He scrubbed long and hard, under a spray as hot and hard as he could stand.

  Dear God, forgive me for treating two of Your creations like lumps of offal. Forgive me for killing them. And above all, forgive me for enjoying it so much, if You can.

  When he had returned to a state approximating self-possession, he toweled off, made a ball of his soiled clothing, and headed for his bedroom. He found Christine there. She was sitting up in his bed, waiting for him.

  She had scrubbed herself clean. There was no makeup on her face. Her scars were plainly visible in the dim light. She let the blanket slide down her chest, revealing her breasts.

  He stood in the doorway for a moment, meeting her eyes. He was no longer sure of anything in the world. She waited in silence.

  "Is this what you want, Chris?"

  She nodded and held out her arms. Without another word, he joined her.

  He, who had never known a woman's body before that day, learned from her the heights of carnal love. She, who had been violated innumerable times and subjected to vilenesses that beggared description, learned from him the depths of tenderness. It was dawn before they slept.

  ====

  Part Two:

  The Fledging

/>   Chapter 19

  Louis woke slowly, regaining consciousness by gentle degrees. Late morning sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, bright and strong. He hadn't risen so late in the day in years.

  Christine lay at his left, her arm across his chest, her face half obscured by her cloud of hair. She was still asleep.

  It really happened.

  His body felt strange. It was a sensation he could not account for from his illness or his recent surgery. He was permeated with a sense of completion, as if he had been running a race for some incredible length of time and had finally reached the finish line, declared the winner. It was a feeling of warmth and softness, of relaxation and contentment. It was completely outside his experience.

  He wondered if it ought to frighten him.

  I killed two men and threw their bodies into an alley. I came back here and had unhallowed carnal relations with a helpless woman for most of the night. Two of the worst things I could have done, and I don't feel a twinge of guilt or regret. What's happening to me?

  He probed at himself from every direction he could think of. It didn't matter. He couldn't make himself feel anything but happiness and peace.

  I'm about to die. I'm going to have to stare God in the face with all this on my soul, and I can't find it in me to regret it!

  It didn't work. He was stuck with feeling good.

  I wonder how long it'll last.

  He sat up and tried to slide out of bed without waking Christine. That didn't work either.

  "Louis?"

  Her eyes were wide, but there was no fear in them.

  "It really happened?"

  He nodded and reached down to caress her face. His fingertips traced the lines of scar tissue that latticed her cheek.

  "Yes."

  She reached out and pulled him against her before he could say another word. Within seconds, he was inside her again, his whole being aflame with fulfillment. Her embrace was unbreakable. The warmth and softness of her flesh became his whole world.

  This cannot possibly be wrong.

  ***

  "Louis, are you all right?" Christine laid her hand on his. The kitchen was golden with the brilliant spring sunlight, redolent with the aromas of coffee and blossoming flowers.

  He smiled. "Never better."

  She snorted. "Why do men think we can be fooled so easily?"

  He laughed and sat back in his chair. "What men, Chris?"

  "You and the Father."

  That got his attention. "What are you talking about?"

  "While you were away, Helen and I went to see him. Did you know he was worried about you? He said you never missed Mass if you could help it, and he had no idea where you were. He tried to reassure us that everything was all right, that you were excellent at taking care of yourself. All he did was scare the living shit out of us."

  He opened his mouth to reprove her for the vulgarity, but gave up on it before he started. "What did he say that scared you?"

  She made an irritated gesture. "It wasn't what he said, dummy. He said all the right things, if you could ignore what his face and body were practically screaming. He even smelled scared."

  "But here I am, Chris. Maybe his confidence wasn't misplaced after all?"

  She shook her head violently. "He had no confidence. He knew something about you that scared him. He didn't say what it was -- you knew he wouldn't, or you wouldn't have told him, right? -- but that didn't keep Helen and me from catching the fear."

  He interlaced his fingers with hers. "Those callers we had yesterday, Chris. Did you know their names?"

  She frowned. "Yup. Tiny, Rollo, and Duffy. Why?"

  "Were Rollo and Duffy tough guys?"

  "You bet your ass. Rollo was Tiny's second in command, and I once saw Duffy kill a guy with one swing of that pipe of his."

  He nodded. "And there was Tiny alongside them. The three of them against delicate little me. What were they here for, Chris?"

  Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

  "For you, wasn't it?"

  She looked away.

  "But here we sit, warm and cozy in my kitchen, with an English muffin each and a fresh pot of coffee. And where are they?"

  "Louis, why did you let Tiny live?"

  Well, at least it's a change of subject.

  "Would you have preferred to see him die too?"

  "Yes." Her whisper quivered with memories of pain.

  "I understand. Now, imagine that I'd killed all three of them, instead of sending Tiny back with his tail between his legs. Don't you think the others would have eventually come out here to find out what happened to their fearless leader?"

  She turned back to him, comprehension dawning on her face. He rose and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee.

  "The lawn's only so big, Chris. If they all showed up, I wouldn't have space enough for the bodies."

  He came back to the table, sat beside her, and took her hand.

  "I don't like to kill, Chris. But you saw me do it. I know you've seen others do it. Would you say I do it well?"

  She nodded.

  "But that doesn't mean I want to do more of it than I have to. Three big, tough guys found out yesterday what can happen when you judge a book by its cover. Two went down for keeps, and the third took the news back to about twenty others I never want to meet. I expect they'll believe him. I figured that gave us our best chance of being left alone here. I don't want to have to mine the front yard."

  He squeezed her hand and waited for her to absorb it all.

  "Louis, could you have taken the whole pack?"

  He looked off through the kitchen window at the rhododendrons and honeysuckle that grew in profusion along the eastern run of his fence. He thought of things Malcolm had taught him, had insisted that he learn thoroughly, but that he had never had occasion to use. He thought of the cache of heavy weapons Malcolm had helped him acquire and had trained him to wield. He thought of the way his blood had risen to propel his killing rage, once he'd set his intentions and summoned it to his need.

  He said I was better than he was.

  All the skills Malcolm had insisted that he master had risen to his hand smoothly and naturally. There had never been any doubt how it would turn out.

  Such a terrible thing to be good at.

  "They wouldn't have had a chance in a hundred, Chris. My worst problem would have been getting rid of the corpses."

  He rose again and took his cup and dish to the sink. Over the hiss of running water, he said, "You've still got some of my old clothes, don't you?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "Because you're going to need them. You need to know how to do this stuff more than I do. A lot more. And you're going to learn it. Which is not something you can do in a tailored linen suit and high-heeled pumps."

  "Louis, Helen is expecting us this afternoon."

  "Then we'll start tomorrow."

  ***

  The barracks was edging toward panic. No one had been much worried the previous afternoon. As the sun set, the Butchers began to ask themselves what could be taking so long. As the night wore on, they began to ask one another. Morning found them all together, all strung wire-taut. No one dared to leave, even for a few minutes.

  Rusty's emotions were tangled. He didn't much like Tiny. If the Butcher chieftain had decided to abscond with his prize, Rusty wouldn't mind. But if that were the case, why hadn't Rollo returned yet?

  If Tiny had somehow managed to get himself killed, that wouldn't affect Rusty much either. But Rollo was committed to Tiny. Tiny's death would necessarily have been accompanied by Rollo's. Rusty wouldn't want that at all.

  Supposing all to be well, the strike group could only have gone to ground somewhere, to enjoy themselves awhile with Christine before bringing her back to the barracks and letting the rest of the pack have at her. Rusty didn't much like the thought of that. Rollo was his. But the Butcher lieutenant would have to keep up appearances, an idea which Rusty had begun to find distasteful
. He didn't think it likely, but he brooded on it anyway. It was the best of a bad set of possibilities.

  It was a few minutes before noon when the front door of the barracks opened. Every head turned to the sound. Tiny stumbled into the room, battered, bedraggled, and alone.

  Rusty restrained himself as the rest of the Butchers rushed to their leader's side. The others wanted to give aid and comfort. He wanted to beat the man senseless. The others wanted the story of the encounter. He wanted to know what had become of his lover.

  Two Butchers half-carried their chieftain to the old sofa he favored and laid him down upon it. Two others pulled off Tiny's boots for him. The man stank as though he'd bathed in a sewer. The left side of his face was purple and grotesquely swollen. No one said a word until Tiny's voice rose.

  "They're all dead, guys." The damage to Tiny's face made his words indistinct. The pack pressed close around him.

  "Christine and her fancy man were pulling out of his driveway as we approached. Hell of a coincidence. They saw us and took off. We chased them down fifty-four for nearly thirty miles at top speed."

  Tiny paused to shake his head in rueful admiration. "The little shit could drive, I'll give him that. He attacked the road like a pro. In a pickup truck, he kept ahead of us better than most guys could have done on a damn hot bike. Maybe the truck was worked. But just outside Oakleigh he hit some kind of slick, lost control, and went sideways."

  The boss Butcher's voice went hollow. "I managed to pull out. Rollo and Duffy didn't. They plowed straight into him. They might have survived the collision, but the truck had pannier tanks. They went up like the fucking Fourth of July. There's nothing left of the bikes or the bodies."

  Tiny spoke into a stunned silence. "I went down hard, trying to stay out of it. Landed on my face. Got some broken teeth, maybe a broken cheekbone. Laid in the weeds next to the road till about an hour ago. Got to watch the fuzz clean up and everything. They never even looked my way. Guess I was lucky. Hard to believe my bike started when I kicked it."

  No one spoke for a long interval. It was Hans who first found his voice.