by Bruce Blake
I unrolled the document, opening it far enough to reveal the looping letters written on the first line. The name they spelled out didn’t surprise me but brought tears to my eyes nonetheless.
Trevor.
The rest of the scroll opened much more hastily, so fast I fumbled it but held on. In a little more than an hour, at a familiar address, my son would die. Rae’s place was on the other side of town--easily a two hour walk or a complicated bus ride of waiting and transfers. The priest had accomplished his objective: ensuring I’d have little chance of arriving in time to save my boy. Rules and what is be damned, I would find a way to save this soul instead of harvesting it.
I found the nearest pay phone and dialed 911.
***
I struggled to keep my voice calm as I gave the 911 operator Rae’s address. When she wanted more information, I hung up, then worried she might not send anyone.
She’ll take me seriously. They take all calls seriously.
The engine of the ‘98 Intrepid I boosted roared as I weaved through traffic and roared through stop lights. Horns blared, but I ignored them, fighting to remain focused on reaching Rae’s. I tried to ignore the fact I had just called the cops on myself.
With five blocks remaining, I raced past a side street and a car lunged out and struck the driver’s side rear quarter panel of my stolen vehicle. I gasped a surprised breath as the impact spun the ass end of my car around one-hundred and eighty degrees. I hammered the brakes and the car squealed to a stop, the engine stalled. Frantically, I groped for the ignition out of habit, desperation making me forget I didn’t have the keys. My eyes flickered to my watch: fifteen minutes left.
I consciously slowed my breath to quell the panic rising in my chest and restore concentration to resurrect the engine. I wasted no time looking to see who or what hit me; it didn’t occur to me my ‘accident’ was actually an ‘on purpose’ until a hand came through the window.
Glass rained in, bouncing off my cheeks, and I threw up my left arm for protection. Steely fingers clamped around my forearm, wrenched me toward the window so hard I thought my arm might come off my body. Knees and shins hammered the steering wheel as my attacker dragged me through the window. I grabbed at the window frame, tried to hook my feet on the shifter, scratched at my assailant, all to no avail as my mind whirled, a mental clock ticking off seconds in my head. An arm looped around my neck and I thumped to the ground, tail bone hammering the pavement, the impact jarring up my spine. Through pain and desperate panic, through exhaust fumes and the smell of spilt gas clogging the air, I caught the aroma of moist earth and burnt toast.
Father Dominic.
Rage exploded in my chest. I planted my feet against the car door and pushed away with all my strength, sending us tumbling across the ground. He relinquished his chokehold. I let inertia carry me and rolled to my feet, crouched to pounce as the priest did the same. He squatted in front of me wearing the same clerical regalia and bloody smile he’d worn visiting me in jail, though his teeth looked to have been filed to points since then. Inside me, a spark of hope lit: with him here, maybe Trevor would be safe. If I kept him occupied, my boy might live.
Or, better yet, if I killed the bastard.
“It’s over, priest,” I spat channeling Arnold Schwarzenegger. “It’s time for your last rites.”
He laughed, a grating sound like rocks rubbed together in his throat.
“No, Icarus, it’s just begun.”
I launched myself at him; he dodged, catching me with an elbow to the back of the head. Stars twinkled in my vision, but I kept the rubber on the road and twisted myself to face him before he caused more damage. He leered at me the way a cat looks at a mouse before pouncing.
We came together, arms swinging. He caught me in the gut with a heavy shot but I countered with a staggering uppercut, allowing me time to gasp for breath. The roundhouse kick I pulled off next probably surprised me more than it surprised him. My heel caught the priest square in the mouth, sending a spray of blood and broken teeth from his mouth. When his head came up, the leer remained on his lips. He spat a gout of bloody saliva onto the ground at my feet then signaled me to bring more like Morpheus in The Matrix.
He launched a surprise attack, coming at me in a flurry of fists and feet. I dodged and blocked, absorbing punches and kicks on my elbows and knees, brushing aside his blows. My breath shortened, grew ragged accepting his attack and returning the same. We grappled for minutes, my mind silently counting down to the time of Trevor’s death, hoping Father Dominic’s presence here would keep him alive. I didn’t care if the priest killed me; I’d give up this existence if it meant Trevor survived
As if in answer to my thoughts, the priest broke off the attack and stepped back, the same bloody, shit-eating grin plastered to his face.
“You are right, Icarus. The time has passed.” He backed away a step, wiped his hands on his robe. “But you’ve still lost. The boy is mine now.”
I growled, actually growled: like a tiger, or a lion, or a father terrified for his son’s life. I leapt, intending to pin him against the side of the wrecked Intrepid and pound the crap out of him, but my arms closed on empty air. My head slammed into the car’s front fender. I crumpled to the ground--hurt, scared and exhausted--but retained the wits to roll over, ready to accept whatever the psycho threw at me.
Gone.
I wish he’d stop doing that.
I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet, wiped a trickle of blood from my forehead and looked around again, just to be sure. When I didn’t see him, I vaulted the hood of the Intrepid and lit out for Rae’s as fast as my rubbery legs would carry me, cutting across traffic and stumbling through yards to save time. A block from the house I saw red and white lights reflecting in windows, each pulse of light throbbing in my head.
I’m too late.
My stomach roiled at the thought. What did I have if Trevor was gone? What reason would I have to harvest souls if it meant living a life that didn’t include him? He was the best part of me.
Even if he’s not part of me.
I slowed, creeping up to the crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Fifteen yards away, a uniformed cop stood with Rae asking her questions, but she gave no answers. Tears streaked her face, her body spasmed and shook with sobs, the occasional shake of her head the only reply she managed. Ashton stood beside her, his arm around her shoulders setting my teeth on edge. Her anxiety spilled into me, dropping into my chest like a boulder. My phone call brought the cops, but did it save Trevor?
Shielding my face, I pushed through the crowd, heading for the ambulance parked at the end of the driveway with its lights pulsing and doors closed. The lack of activity around it made me hopeful, but if Trevor was all right, Rae wouldn’t be in her state of near-catatonia. I reached the rear of the ambulance without garnering unwanted attention. The paramedics were tending Rae’s episode while cops crawled through the house and yard. I took the opportunity to peek in the back of the emergency vehicle. Of course, if Trevor was inside, someone would be looking after him and Rae would be with him, but I had to be sure.
I stepped up on the back bumper and peered through the rear window. The interior of the ambulance looked untouched, the gurney sitting in place, its pristine white sheets unrumpled. The sigh of relief filling my lungs caught halfway as Father Dominic’s final words swam to the surface of the maelstrom of my thoughts.
‘You’ve still lost. The boy is mine now.’
He’s not dead.
I was certain of it. Relief drained some of the tension from my limbs leaving me feeling tired to the bone. The priest never intended to kill me, he meant to distract me while his flunkies kidnapped Trevor. The sense of relief proved short-lived as realization dawned: Father Dominic abducted my son and there was no way of knowing where he’d taken him.
But I had some ideas.
I stepped away from the ambulance and melted back into the knot of people, eyes darting from vehicle to vehicle, figuring out how I�
��d get where I needed to go. The answer presented itself in the form of a lonely police car parked farther away than the other cruisers, doors left unlocked while its driver was otherwise engaged. Its cherries still flashed, playing across my face in the brief instant it took me to make up my mind. I pulled open the door of the Crown Victoria and slid behind the wheel.
“Yo, dude,” said a kid who looked a year or two older than Trevor. I held my finger to my lips, and he flashed me a thumbs-up.
I killed the lights then closed my eyes, concentrating on the engine, thinking of spark plugs and wires and gas and what little I knew about the workings of an internal combustion engine--sweet bugger all, in other words. The car roared to life anyway. Without waiting to see if anyone besides the kid noticed, I slipped the automatic transmission into reverse and backed away, cranking the wheel to end up in the neighbors’ driveway. Pulling away down the street, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the teenager watching me go, dancing from foot to foot with excitement at seeing someone steal a police car. I wish I felt the same. Eventually, they’d notice the car gone and come looking for me.
At least I hoped they would.
They’d find me at the church, the one spot I thought the priest might take Trevor expecting me to find them in time to see him die.
Not if I could help it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I parked the cruiser down the street from the church and hunted for the trunk release button. My exposure to police cars had been limited to riding in the uncomfortable molded plastic back seat of a couple, so any understanding of what would be found in one, or where, came solely by watching movies and TV. Feeling bad about that particular shortcoming would have to wait for a more opportune time, right now I hoped the hacks knew what they were talking about when they wrote a shotgun into the trunk.
They were.
I snapped it up and held it in my hands for a few seconds, staring at it. I hadn’t gotten to find out if it would have any effect on a Carrion, or someone like Father Dominic. I doubted it would kill them--they were dead already, after all--but maybe it would slow them down, hurt them the way Ashton’s knife had done to me.
I grabbed the box of shells stored nearby, loaded as many into the pump-action rifle as it would take, and abandoned the rest; there wouldn’t be opportunity to reload once I got into the thick of things. Nothing else of any use in the trunk. Too bad, it would have been nice to find out if a taser could hurt the prick who took my son. The sadistic side of me--which seemed to be increasing its territory minute by minute--would have loved to see the expression on the priest’s face as all those volts coursed through him. And not just because he’d been killing people I know, either. He earned his punishment decades ago.
The shotgun was bigger than the one I’d fashioned for myself; apparently cops didn’t go for sawing off the barrel and stock. I hefted it, getting used to the weight as I cut down the alley at the rear of the church hall. I glided past, the hall careful of my step. If any of the homeless housed within woke and found me, they’d raise an alarm, wake everyone. Then how many deaths would weigh on my conscience? The church’s main entrance was the way to go and would be locked, but if I’d guessed right and the priest brought Trevor here, finding a way in shouldn’t be an issue.
A light flickered in the church window: a candle, maybe several. The stained glass made it impossible to glimpse the interior. I crept along close to the wall, breathing in short bursts that left my lungs unsatisfied. Before continuing to the end of the building, I stopped and drew a deep breath to calm my nerves. Any doubt this was the right place left as I rounded the corner to the churchyard and found out what happens when the calligraphy on a scroll gets circumvented: the shit gets flung directly into the fan.
Two figures stood precisely on the spot where I’d been knifed more than six months earlier. The flesh on my forehead and arms went clammy. I raised the rifle and took a step toward them despite the quake in my knees.
“I don’t want any trouble. You got everything I had last time.”
“You don’t have any choice.”
I recognized the timbre of his voice, but didn’t connect it immediately to a person. The night hid their faces this time instead of hoods pulled up over their heads. Thank God: if they wore hoods, it would have been too freaky.
Another step toward them.
“Be on your way and you won’t get hurt.” The butt of the shotgun pressed against my shoulder, rubbing uncomfortably against the bone, the faint scent of oil wafting from the steel.
“Oh, someone’s going to get hurt,” the second man said and this time I placed the voice. Not the men who murdered me: Marty and Todd.
They walked toward me, their steps unhurried. They were close enough I saw they were solid--real bodies like me, not simply spirits. My finger tensed on the trigger, but I didn’t pull it. Already dead or not, how could I shoot my friends?
“Stop right there.”
They didn’t. I thought about running into the church, but that would likely put adversaries both ahead of me and behind. Didn’t like those odds.
“Stop. I’ll shoot.”
Their approach didn’t falter. Thirty feet still separated us when I finally gave up and pulled the trigger.
“Sorry, Todd.”
The rifle bucked against my shoulder, roared in my ears. Todd dropped like he’d been shot, strangely enough. I turned the gun on Marty, expecting my willingness to use the gun to persuade him to stop, but he didn’t pause. The rifle bucked again and down he went. The smell of gunpowder swirled around my head, gagging me. The shotgun sagged in my grip as a wave of guilt and nausea rose in me; I hadn’t really expected it to be an effective weapon. Twice I’d been responsible for the deaths of my friends.
Or so I thought until Todd teetered back to his feet.
“Shit.”
The pump sent an empty casing flying as I realized the futility of shooting a dead man, so I flipped the rifle around, ignoring the pain as the barrel burned the palms of my hands, and rushed to meet Todd, swinging the weapon at him. He caught the blow across his forearm and grabbed the butt of the rifle, wrenching it from my grip before tossing it aside. Either dead guys weren’t too smart or they preferred tearing their victims limb from limb instead of shooting them and ending it quick. Better for me. Maybe.
We grappled, each of us scrabbling for leverage, struggling to free-up a fist. Marty regained his feet and threw himself into the fray, breaking the stalemate. He slammed into us, throwing the whole mess to the ground; this time I rolled with it, ending up on top for a change, throwing punches at any body part close enough to reach.
I aimed a haymaker at Todd’s unprotected face, but Marty squirmed out of the pile, got behind me and caught my arm, throwing me into a textbook half-nelson. He used his bulk to drag me off his mate then caught my free arm, lacing his underneath and up to the back of my neck, turning the half-nelson into a full. He leaned forward, exerting all his weight and strength on my neck, forcing my head forward and arms up in the air, pressuring my spine.
“Why are you doing this? My son is--”
Todd hit me hard in the gut. Breath exited my lungs with a woosh. I coughed and he hit me again, cracking a rib and shooting pain through the side of my chest. Marty head-butted me on the back of the head hard enough to make my ears ring. I stumbled but he held me upright for Todd to deliver another blow, this time square to the jaw so I’d know what they meant by having your bell rung.
“I tried to save you,” I wheezed. “I’m sorry for what happened.”
“Shut up,” Marty grunted into my ear.
“He’s got my son.” I paused while Todd landed another punch to my solar-plexus. “Help me get him back. You’re my friends--help me.”
This time, Marty cackled, the sound making my already-ringing ears hurt more.
“Friends? We were your friends as long as you were buying rounds.”
His words stung like the blood running into my eye.
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“Help me and I can---”
Todd’s next blow stole my breath before I could finish my sentence: “...help you get to Heaven.”
The thrashing continued for a few minutes, or maybe six months--my sense of time fled not long after my breath, going somewhere to hide from the beating. My consciousness seemed about to do the same when an indistinct glowing figure appeared behind Todd, dragging him away as his fist looped toward me but this time struck only open air. If a sigh of relief had been a possibility, it would have been breathed.
Still holding me immobile, Marty shook me like a terrier shaking a sock. I went limp, brain rattling in my head. Everything hurt. If Todd missed caressing any spot on my body with his knuckles, I didn’t know where it was.
“Icarus.”
The sound of my name pulled me back to reality. At first I thought Marty spoke it, but the voice belonged to a female. I blinked, attempting to clear the unnatural fog clouding my vision.
“Icarus, get Trevor.”
Hearing his name forced strength back into my limbs. Marty and Todd had beaten thoughts of my son’s safety out of my mind, leaving physical pain in its place, but the words returned purpose to me full force. I jammed my head back hard and caught Marty by surprise, nailing him in the chin, then managed to get my hands on the top of his head. He growled and struggled, but I held tight, then let my feet go out from under me. I plummeted to the ground, spine compressing as my ass struck the concrete path and his lower jaw slammed into my cranium. Pain rocketed up my back, transferring the impact through the top of my head into Marty’s chin. He let go. I scrambled to my feet as Marty stumbled back a step, hands over his mouth. After the beating they’d provided, I didn’t bother feeling guilty. A few feet away, a familiar figure grappled with Todd.
“Poe...How?”
“I’m an angel.” She punched Todd in the gut. “Angels aren’t so easy to kill.”