She didn’t return to the rosary but did return to the cockpit of the P-51, and in her mind moved the controls and touched all the switches. The Virgin would understand.
Cricket and Sister talked briefly after the rosary and then Sister fell asleep in mid-sentence. Cricket followed and was walking alone in a forest, crunching snow, stars in the millions overhead, when a large pounding disrupted her dream.
She lifted herself from the pew and looked about. All the candles remained lit, and shadows flickered across the Stations of the Cross, the alcoves of the Virgin Mary and Saint Andrew. The altar appeared barren, not just bare. The church was quiet and Sister was gone, probably using the restroom off the sacristy. Cricket had just rested her head back on the pillow when the church door was struck with the power of a battering ram. What she saw in her mind was the hoof of an enormous beast striking the wooden door.
“Sister Marie,” she called. But it was only a whisper, shoved deep inside her by the next strike and furious echo. She dared not move or raise her voice, for the thing would know that she was there, alone.
The next knock that followed was half the intensity but more troubling, as if the thing had transformed itself closer to human size and shape. This knock, though quieter, seemed to be backed up by a brain that could scheme.
Hunched over, Cricket moved quietly to her knees and prayed. Sweat answered her and fear climbed her back. The next three knocks came with meaning: another trinity stood outside the door.
The thing on the other side of the door was attempting to make her growl, like she did after Uncle Tommy was murdered. It was instructing her on how to again use her throat or have it torn out if she resisted.
She stood up and the scratching began. A large beast wanted in. Its heavy paws struck and clawed the door.
She left the pew and started to move toward the church door, hidden in darkness. She was freezing, and the growling and the banging and the clawing intensified, not in anticipation that she was offering the beast its freedom, but that she was coming after it.
Showdown.
She clenched her fists, ready to pound the thing back to hell, when Sister Marie called to her. She spun around and Sister stood in the pew, blanket over her shoulders, hair wild from sleep.
“Sister Marie,” Cricket announced with plenty of love.
“Sweetheart, you scared me. What were you going to do? I thought I heard you arguing, getting ready to fight. Such determination. A dream? I never knew you to sleepwalk.”
When she reached Sister, she wrapped her arms around her and sobbed.
“You’re the only thing that’s real, Sister.”
The tears didn’t stop, and Sister Marie stroked her hair and said, “Let’s walk around this lovely church and talk for a while.”
23
Hey, Stranger
The next day Cricket took another flying lesson. It was a hot, humid July morning, two weeks since the death of her father. How he would have loved to have seen her in the seat of the classic World War II fighter.
Without modern devices, basic meteorology had to be determined by the observer. Fritz tested her: “What’s the weather?”
“Ten miles in haze. Light turbulence through five thousand feet. Wind light and variable. We can take off to the east, but I suggest landing west since it’ll favor the west by mid-morning.”
“This afternoon?” Fritz smiled and waited.
“I expect cumulus to build through late afternoon. With the heat, the high humidity, look for scattered thunderstorms. The really heavy stuff needs a frontal system, high-level clouds, and banded cirrus. No evidence of that.”
“Very good. Like every other prop-driven plane, the P-51 doesn’t handle ice well. Though that shouldn’t be a problem for a few months.”
Diesel ran up and Cricket knelt down and talked to and loved him with hugs and kisses.
“I love dogs but refuse to kiss one,” Fritz said.
“Guys usually don’t. Once in a while my dad let Diesel lick his face.”
Diesel stopped the Summer of Love moment and turned toward the woods. He exhaled a deep huff and sat on his haunches, alert, no-nonsense, staring into a heavy section of woods.
“Maybe a deer?” Fritz said.
“No, he’d be chasing it right now.”
A middle-aged woman stepped out from the brush with a backpack and waved. Diesel rose and barked. One of the mechanics stopped working on Frank’s P-51, and Frank himself climbed down from the cockpit, wiped his hands on his blue jeans, and aimed for the woman.
A few words were exchanged, and Frank yelled, “Gun!” and started wrestling with the stranger. By the time Fritz and Cricket reached them, a shot had been fired and the woman lay dying in the tall grass.
“She pulled a gun on me,” Frank said, flushed, staring at Fritz. “Amazing how damn strong she was.”
Fritz and Cricket knelt next to the woman. A few rough breaths and she was gone with a rattle and a sigh.
Frank added, “She reached for it at the back of her pants, giggling that she was going to kill me and blow up my plane. The gun probably stuck. Obvious she never practiced. We both had our hands on it when I fired it.”
The gun lay on the ground, a silver-plated Colt .45. Most likely stolen.
Grimly, Cricket watched the woman bleed out. Oh my God, Jane’s understudy. No drugged-out peace on earth here. Banshee showtime.
A mechanic went to pick up the bag and Fritz stopped him.
“Get a broomstick and take it to the edge of the forest. It could be booby-trapped. Check her pockets.”
Diesel went to sniff the dead woman and Cricket told him to back off. The dog lay down, head on its paws, letting the adults handle the situation.
“Two bricks of plastic explosives, detonators, ready to go,” the mechanic called out, inspecting the bag at the edge of the woods. Hunched over the deadly package, he went to work and removed the detonator wires from the C-4. “We now own a couple of high-powered explosives.”
Fritz said to the other mechanics, “Drag her body into the woods and pack up. We’ve been found again. We’re leaving. I’ll take Cricket on her lesson and land at our next alternate.”
“Agreed,” Frank said.
For Cricket the flying was hard that day. She did her best to concentrate, but after the nightmare last night and the current one, her sweaty hands couldn’t control the stick and throttle with any real confidence. Her steep turns were all over the sky trying to maintain a constant altitude.
After struggling through the maneuvers and flying straight and level at a low altitude over the lush farmland, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“Northeast of here, outside the town, there’s a pasture in a sunken meadow. Three sides wooded, thick with new growth, enough to discourage the ordinary thug from proceeding.
Cricket didn’t respond. Fritz continued to make his case as she banked steeply to the right.
“The open grass area allows east-west operations like here. We’ll make our landing pattern on the north side; departure, too. We’re not safe anywhere for long. Hey, watch that rudder. I’m starting to get sick back here.”
Later, on the ground, Fritz said, “Somebody’s thinking, planning. They wanted these planes blown to smithereens, nothing left to salvage. The amount of C-4—a brick for each plane—that was overkill.”
That night no protests occurred at Saint Andrew’s and no drug-addled young people pounded on the church’s door or screamed for Father Danko to drop dead. Several Falls natives guarded the church. Cricket used her downtime pumping Fritz with questions and rehearsing her checklists, reviewing switch and instrument locations, trying to imagine the feel of the controls even while seated on the porch swing. She expected to solo any day.
24
White Miniskirt
After a morning of flight instruction, Cricket spent the late afternoon downtown with Sister, who carried her guitar over her shoulder like a rifle, the neck pointing down. Fritz kept sug
gesting pop songs she was unfamiliar with. At a picnic table where they sat watching the foot traffic, a group of children gathered around Sister Marie, and it quickly turned into a sing-along with Sister pausing to instruct.
“If it’s a high note, imagine yourself swooping down to the note. Never climb to the note; you’ll strain, never make it, or shoot right past it.”
Before the group started the song, Diesel, who had been playing Frisbee with Fritz in the center of the park, aimed for Sister and the children. Fritz followed the dog and the kids rushed the big Lab.
“Diesel, come here,” Cricket said. “Our singers need to practice.”
Tongue out, full doggie grin, Diesel ran straight to Cricket, who knelt and hugged him.
“This fella here is a pilot,” Sister Marie said, pointing to Fritz. “He knows a lot about swooping in from above.”
A dark-haired boy stared in wonder at the aviator.
“Yeah, he’s a modern-day hero,” Cricket said with pleasure in her voice.
“Do you ever fly a spaceship?” the boy asked.
“No. Maybe one day. Right now I’m going in the other direction. I fly a vintage aircraft from World War II. Seventy years old. And, unlike a jet, it has a propeller. Yet it goes really fast. This young lady here is a pilot also,” Fritz said, smiling at Cricket.
Sister picked up her acoustic guitar from the picnic bench and started a hymn Cricket wasn’t familiar with. She sang the first verse and then repeated it with the kids joining in.
Thunder rocked the summer day. But it was distant. And Sister sang the second verse and the kids ignored the coming storm as well.
Cricket noticed Mayor DiFazio and his wife close by, talking with another couple. The mayor watched Cricket and company intensely. At six feet, five inches and two people thick, he dwarfed nearly everyone who stood close to him. Head down, he started walking toward Cricket and the singers.
When the song ended, Sister asked the children to think about a certain phrase of the song and how that made them feel, and how they could capture that feeling with God’s love and keep that feeling close all day long.
The mayor was shaking his large head.
“You can’t be singing music only appropriate for church. Why aren’t you practicing in the choir loft?” he asked Sister.
“Because it’s very hot in the choir loft, and these children need to enjoy the day.”
Fritz said, “Mayor, my parents voted for you and I think you’re all right. But you’re a fool if you think there’s any time left for such mealy-mouth attitudes.”
The mayor’s wife approached, a brunette, arms crossed, looking hard at Sister.
“Not everyone is a Christian,” she said.
“They should be,” Cricket replied.
“You’re not much of an example,” Lynne, the mayor’s wife, said. “How many people have you killed?”
Cricket moved right in front of the mayor’s diminutive wife so the children wouldn’t hear. “Keep your voice down. If you cared so much about the kids, why did you just mention killing people? Some of them heard that. I kill savages. Those trying to kill my family and friends.”
“Cricket,” Sister Marie sighed. “I’m almost finished anyway.”
Cricket took the cue. “Hey, kids, there’s a storm moving in. It surprised me, too. I’m sure your parents want you back with them. Same time and place tomorrow with Sister Marie.”
The kids dispersed, running to their parents scattered around the park.
Fritz said to the mayor, “I haven’t seen you volunteer for protecting Saint Andrew’s?”
The mayor ignored the question. His eyes were focused on the Brazilian, arriving barefoot in a short white miniskirt and sleeveless white blouse, hair piled atop her head in a beehive. Cricket scrunched her face. Good Lord, this chick’s a walking supernova. Always a big entrance.
A tall, skinny black kid accompanied her. A tatted snake circled his neck; its fanged open mouth covered his cheek.
“Now, Mayor, you haven’t scared off the kiddies,” the Brazilian said.
The mayor’s wife shot daggers at the blonde Amazon.
The mayor said, “This is a public park … we can’t have church hymns being sung—”
“In the open.” The Brazilian laughed. “Maybe they should hide under the picnic table and quietly hum.”
“This isn’t your town!” the mayor’s wife exploded.
“Now, Lynne,” the mayor said, patting her shoulder, attempting to calm her.
“That’s right, Lynne, be a good girl,” the Brazilian said. “I hired an acting troupe from the inner city. They’re looking to give a private performance before they go public. Let’s say 8 p.m. tonight. And make sure that lovely teenage son and daughter are there.”
Lynne smacked her husband. “She’s not getting within a hundred feet of our home. She’s threatening us!”
“With Shakespeare,” the Brazilian shot back. “Don’t get your panties in a knot, Lynne. It’s just a play. You know, the play’s the thing. I’m just trying to help out with no TV and all that. Relax, they’re an elegant group of actors performing the ghetto version of Macbeth. Goodness, I hear it’s incredibly entertaining, great special effects, a five-star bloodbath.”
The mayor sweated profusely.
Sister said, “We’re the adults here. Let’s pay attention to the children’s needs. Those children love singing.”
Lynne’s voice shook. “Then have them sing modern songs—pop—”
“Like rap?” Fritz said. “Spew murder and rape to their heart’s content.”
“Listen, Mayor,” the Brazilian said, “you and the wifey head home. I’ll find a solution for the Christian problem.” She took a quick step toward Lynne and roughly grabbed her head with both hands and kissed her on the mouth. The woman recoiled like she had been bitten by a snake.
“Do something!” she yelled, slapping her husband’s shoulder.
“Hmmm, maybe I’ll just come over tonight myself,” the Brazilian said, eyeing the mayor. “Have the actors perform a dress rehearsal for my troops at the farm instead. Lynne here needs a little attention, and she sure isn’t getting it from you, you big doofus.”
The mayor’s wife turned and stormed off in the direction of the coming storm, leaving her husband to study his shoes. He rolled his large head left and right, working out the kinks, and smacked the sides of his legs a few times, attempting to kick-start his manhood back into action. He stopped being fidgety and let his long arms dangle at his sides, evoking defeat. Finally, he followed his wife.
Fritz faced the Brazilian. “Are you feeding the young people in this town drugs? We had a drugged-out sociopath attack an Air Force major yesterday.”
“I can’t police what people are taking, and neither can you. If you haven’t noticed, the world has left its orbit. I’m just trying to bring a little peace to Little Falls with food and security. I’ve had a farm outside the city for years. Like you, I like it here.”
“I’ll make sure the authorities stay on your butt,” Fritz replied, turning to the mayor, who was deep in conversation with several police officers at the edge of the park. “We still have a jail.”
The Brazilian rolled her eyes.
“Thanks, Fritz.” Cricket watched him head for the cops. “Fritz is onto you. You might cause a real stir doing Downward Dog in jail.”
“Do I detect fruitful signs of a dirty mind? Oh well, your boyfriend’s no Johnny-on-the-spot,” the Brazilian said. “Both of you missed the fact that I was supporting you against Mayor I-Hate-the-Bill-of-Rights DiFazio?”
“Thank you for supporting us,” Sister Marie added, “but you have a salacious side that is highly inappropriate.”
The Brazilian laughed and turned to her bodyguard, seeing if he got the jab. If he knew the meaning of “salacious.” He watched from behind heavy-lidded eyes. He had a serpent’s calm.
“The mayor is afraid of your religion. I’m not. I can snap it in two and throw it
to the four winds anytime. But before I do that I have a request, Sister. Play one of your very best songs. Something that might possibly save my soul, or at least keep me out of jail.”
A family approached. The Brazilian gave the parents a dirty look for waltzing in unannounced and ignored their three young children, who pointed at the guitar. Sister smiled at the family and said she was going to sing a song everyone would like.
“Good,” the Brazilian said, “a song that hopefully points to my salvation instead of my damnation.”
The wife stared at the Brazilian and then said to Sister, “Will you be back tomorrow? Maybe it would be better to bring the kids back when we aren’t so rushed.”
“My schedule changes a lot, like all of ours these days. But I’ll do my best to be here mid-morning.”
“Thanks, Sister,” the husband said, looking hard at the Brazilian before ushering his family toward the playground area.
Watching the couple and their children leave in disappointment, Cricket said to the Brazilian, “You’re a real skunk at a garden party.”
“Oh, please. The parents were a bore, but the children were lovely. I wanted to tell the kids about my dance in the park every morning. Show them new dance moves inspired by our Nun with a Gun’s sacred songbook.”
“I believe your dance moves would be highly inappropriate,” Sister Marie said while tuning.
“Actually, you’re upset that I was talking about sin and damnation—the very cornerstone of Christianity—right in front of the kiddies. They need to hear about all the heavy stuff, the big issues comprising all religions, all philosophies. Dance makes me feel free, allows me to express the big ideas. I wanted them to feel that freedom, that power. I wanted to share. Just the right melody and words might set us all free.”
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 12