Priestly Sins

by Hadley Finn

  She steps around and gets between us, squatting down to look him in the face.

  “You didn’t kill my dad?”

  Staunchley must be out of it or in too much pain, because his words flow like a confession.

  “Your dad was being investigated by the New Orleans police for his involvement with Enzo. Apparently, his debt mounted regardless of how much he ‘paid.’ Patrick had NOLA PD in his pocket with bribery and pay-to-play schemes they helped facilitate on his behalf. He had the bad apples under his thumb the whole time. They looked the other way when he ordered the hit on your dad and one even helped line up the hitman. None of them were paying attention and didn’t know Enzo beat him to the punch. Bad intel meant the hitman wasn’t able to find your dad and found your mom to send him a message.”

  Sirona looked at him, mouth agape.

  “And why would Patrick want my dad dead?”

  “Your dad tipped off an investigator who was working to out those bad apples. Wrong time. Wrong place.”

  With that, she turns to me, before walking away.

  “You disgust me, Staunchley. The blackmail? My house? Bobby? Sirona’s mom? All of that pain for what? For money? To feel powerful? To think you were somebody?”

  His eyes swiveled from me to Sirona who, returning from the kitchen, face steely, brandishes a butcher’s knife. Without preamble or second thought, she slices it across his throat with both hands.

  Forty-Three

  When I got the call this morning that I needed to go to Athlone for some paperwork related to Clara, I was surprised, but not wary. So much of what we’ve done legally could be done and has been done via email. An in-person visit, while unusual, didn’t set off any red flags. That is, until I got to the address given, which was actually a pharmacy. The second was when I got the call from Killian that Clara had showed at his house holding pink daisies. My Clara holding the sign of death, and I was forty minutes away. I left them vulnerable… open to be attacked.

  I was driving well over the speed limit. All I could think of was my girls and if they were safe and alive. Killian put my second fear to rest, only as far as Clara was concerned.

  Now the question is Sirona. Her silence is controlled, calculated, as if her speaking will allow a torrent of emotion to burst forth that she’ll no longer be able to control.

  Sirona goes to Killian and with bloody hands, too bloody, she pulls back the corner of his shirt and sees the gash that needs to be staunched and treated. Her blood mixes with his, but she won’t be deterred.

  “Killian?”

  He stirs and reaches for the shoulder.

  “Need you to lie back and let me look at this.”

  “Love you, darling, but you don’t know a thing about this,” he starts laughing but that turns into a groan as he does what she asks.

  “It’s shallow. Surprising since he caught you at that angle.”

  “Surprising, she says,” he scoffs as he makes eye contact. “Clean up, lad, and go check on Clara. She was searching for Winkles when I left.”

  “I’m not leaving, old man.”

  “You hafta. You’re the least bloody.”

  I take in the scene and realize how right he is, but I’m not leaving Sirona—who has just learned her mother’s death was needless and only to send a message to a dead man—with Staunchley’s still-bleeding corpse.

  “Sorry, Killian, we’ll get you patched up and get you clean clothes. I need to handle things here.”

  His protests fall quiet as I wander down the hall and into my master closet to grab him a shirt and jeans. Both will be too big. I just hope Clara doesn’t notice his change of wardrobe.

  I grab alcohol and antibiotic ointment from the medicine cabinet and a few towels and washcloths as I make my way back to the kitchen, where I drop them on the table. Leaving again, I grab the sleeping bag out of the hall closet.

  When I return, he’s sitting, but his jaw is clenched. The pungent smell of alcohol permeates the room. Sirona coos something while Killian looks away.

  The whole sight would be comical if I didn’t know the backstory.

  “He swears when I use the alcohol.”

  “At least, whiskey can be drunk too.”

  She pours again and this time he hisses and she lets out one with him.

  “We’ll need to have that checked out.”

  “Had worse,” Killian sighs.

  “Clothes.” I thrust them to Killian as I unroll then unzip the sleeping bag. I lay it in the living room, no blood there except for footprints that have already dried, and return for Staunchley.

  Untying the electrical cord, I flip him over my shoulder and feel the wet ooze down my back as he hangs lifeless. He definitely needed more hours on the treadmill and fewer cheesesteaks. Would have made this much easier.

  I bark a laugh and drop him onto the open bag, hearing the hard crack of his skull against the floor for the second time today. I check his pockets, on the spur of the moment, and take his wallet, cell and keys.

  The zipper teeth coming together hums a beautiful melody as Hal’s face disappears, this time for good.

  “Killian?” I call over my shoulder.

  “Yes, lad.”

  “Need you to go check on Clara. Need some time here before she comes back. Can you give me that?”

  “Of course.”

  But I swear I hear something grumbled about “cupcakes for life” as he wanders away.

  “Sirona?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Sirona, baby? Need you to look at me.”

  She was busying herself around the kitchen, mostly wandering in circles, and holding her left hand around her middle, relying on her right.

  “Baby.”

  She turns and her mottled face meets mine. Her eyes are swollen from crying. Her body shakes as her adrenaline bottoms out, surely leaving her overwhelmed and exhausted.

  Fresh blood hits the floor as she trembles.

  “What the fuck?”

  “My hand…” She looks down as if she hasn’t noticed before. “My fingers…”

  Her palm is sliced in multiple places. Her fingers almost severed.

  “I… I grabbed the knife with both hands. That was stupid.” Her eyes go wide and the laugh that escapes her has no humor. “I didn’t know.”

  “Baby, we need to get you to the hospital. But I need to clean this mess up. I would never normally ask you to wait, but this” —I sweep my hand to the horror scene in our home— “isn’t normal. Can you stand it for a little while? I know I’m an ass for asking.”

  “I want to lie down.”

  “Sorry, but can’t allow that, sweetheart. Potential concussion.” My eyes slide to her temple and I lean in and as gently as possible brush my lips over the forming bruise. “Going to get you some ice. Will do what I can here and then we’ll get you fixed up.”

  I sit her at the kitchen table, ziptop bag of ice pressed to her face, her left hand in another. She hisses as both touch her skin.

  “Will be as fast as I can, love.”

  On autopilot, I drag the zipped sleeping bag out of the living room, down the hall and into the garage. I move to the stone firepit in the center of our courtyard. This is not what I had in mind when I built it, but options are limited and leaving evidence isn’t one of them. I fold the bag as best I can, add lighter fluid, and step back when I flip the burner on.

  The smell of the bag rises and falls with the wind outside and singes my nostrils. It will get worse before it gets better and the cleanup will be a job, but right now I don’t care. I toss his cell into the fire along with his wallet. Watching the flames lick up the pyre provides my first exhale of the day.

  I return to the house, noting the rental car I saw upon my return. That needs to be dumped too.

  I drag Sirona into the shower. I wish I had time to show her my admiration, but her hand looks bad and we’ve waited long enough. She’s got blood crusted in her hair and her skin is coated with it. I wash her gently but qui
ckly and wrap her in a towel before finishing on my own body. When the water runs clear, I step out.

  “Hagrid, come,” I call and wait for our dog to lope into our room. His typical enthusiasm is tamped down and his gate seems off. He jumps onto our bed and rests his head on Sirona’s lap. She looks down and strokes him.

  “You’re a good boy, Hagrid. Thank you for protecting me today.”

  Her petting uncovers a new scab that causes him to whimper.

  My list gets longer and longer.

  After dressing both of us, I call Killian.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Was going to ask the same.”

  “Clara and I are watching Moana. Again.”

  His tone tells me he’ll be okay and that my daughter is in no danger.

  “Taking Sirona to the hospital. Her hand is wrecked. House isn’t clean. Hagrid is injured, and Staunchley is currently roasting in the courtyard. I’ll keep you posted, but please keep Clara from this war zone until I get back to you. That work?”

  “Sure thing, lad.”

  Forty-Four

  We drive in silence to Galway, Sirona and me, in Staunchley’s rental car. Weird choice for most, but we can’t leave it at our house—the last place he drove it—and I can’t disable the GPS without tipping off the leasing company. They’ll ping it eventually. Metropolitan hospital is as good a place as any for a man to go missing.

  It’s an eerily peaceful silence, but there’s something under the surface that is simmering. It could be my guilt at her mother’s death. Might definitely be that I brought a threat to our doorstep. It may also be that she killed a man and she may not want to be that person or be in a relationship with someone who could—and has—done that. When the simmering ends, I’m afraid of the boiling explosion.

  I screech to a halt at the emergency room and I throw the car in park and bolt out, almost getting tangled in the seat belt as I go. Sirona checks in and I follow closely behind only to be stonewalled by a solid woman, whose take-no-shit attitude might as well be a sign on her forehead.

  She tells me nothing.

  For two hours, she doesn’t let me ask questions and says not to come back and ask again. Her annoyed eyes follow as I pace. The squeak of my shoes annoys even me. The silence in its absence, though, is unbearable so I continue wearing out the linoleum floors.

  My thoughts are not good.

  My prayers are merely bargaining pleas.

  The dread bubbling inside threatens to drown me.

  No matter how many times I go to the nurses’ station or welcome desk or whatever this thing is, the answer is always, “We’ll inform you when we know something.”

  “Bullshit!” is my response when Bertha or whatever her name is spouts this again.

  If she’d just give me information, I’d… Well, nothing would change. I’d still be at her desk and in her face regularly. But since I’m getting nothing, I pace and I pray.

  She cuts her eyes at me, probably more than I notice, presumably annoyed with my pacing and general inability to calm myself. How is anyone ever calm in here? It’s life or death—literally. And it’s my Sirona in there. And no one can or will tell me a goddamned thing.

  Once I go to the bathroom, just to kill time. Another time, I venture to the parking lot, double-checking the rental car for any paperwork, hairs, bags, anything that links the vehicle to me or to Staunchley before throwing the keys in the trunk and locking it. I walk away without a second glance.

  I go back to my waiting room, still pacing. Until I hear her.

  “Poppa!”

  My girl bounds into my arms and throws her arms around my neck, burrowing in. She pauses to kiss my cheek and go back to her position. She may think she’s receiving strength and comfort, but truly she is offering it at a time when I have none and I need it—need it so desperately from her.

  “Clara Bell. I sure do love you. You know that?”

  She pulls back and frames my face with her little palms. “I love you, too, Poppa!”

  And this is all I need to get through this moment.

  When she slides her little face into my neck, I lift my eyes to meet Killian’s serious gaze.

  And we wait like this, me holding my girl, pacing, listening to the squeak of my shoes on the floor for what feels like an eternity.

  When Clara goes limp in my arms and her weight deepens into my hip and shoulder, I turn her face to Killian, silently asking if she’s asleep.

  “Aye.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Clara showed up with flowers. Said her ma told her to come show me. She listened and ran all the way to the cottage. Told me a man with red hair showed up and said they were for her. He gave them to her and when Sirona told her to come to me, he was none too happy. From the looks of it, and I don’t know exactly, Sirona saved Clara and allowed her to get away while putting herself in the path of that fecker. She bought her enough time to get to my house but beyond that? There’s a gap that Sirona will have to fill in. I ran to your house and found the ginger bloke holding a knife above her and snapped. You came in not long after.”

  Thank God my beautiful girl is asleep on my lap. It’ll save me from owing the ER for punching holes in their walls to release this rage. Months! This fucker has been terrorizing me for months. Me, my friends, my family. No, even before that with his refusal to do my wishes regarding my father’s will.

  I might’ve had to come out of retirement if Sirona hadn’t vindicated our family.

  In pure Killian fashion, he nods and settles into his chair, waiting with all the patience in the world to hear how Sirona is.

  Before my fortieth birthday—okay, slight exaggeration—before six that evening, someone in scrubs with a mask dropped around her throat walks out into the waiting room and says, “Sirona O’Shaughnessy?”

  “Yes,” we reply in unison.

  “I’m Dr. Brennan. Sirona made it through surgery and is in recovery. She lost a lot of blood prior to arriving. We’ve supplemented with donor blood and managed to get her vitals stable. Her hand is another story. We stabilized it: protected the arteries and veins, repositioned the muscles and tendons as best we were able. We recommend going to Dublin to see an orthopedic surgeon. There are more locally, but the technology in the surgical suites there may be worth the travel and cost. The hope is that we can keep as much function as possible, but we cannot account for nerve damage and reduced blood circulation to the fingers. Expect extensive physical therapy will be necessary to avoid loss of her fingers. While I cannot speak directly, I’d assume you’re looking at multiple surgeries over the course of months or until we can determine the full extent of the nerve and tissue damage.”

  Killian and I just stare. I had no idea. He obviously didn’t either.

  She continues, “Trauma to the brain is trickier. CAT scans show no pressure on the frontal lobe or no fracture to the skull. We’re concerned about the contusion and will keep her a day or two to watch it and for standard concussion protocol. As of now, her pupils are reactive, which we’re taking as a good sigh. She’s not out of the woods, yet. Head injuries can change rapidly. It’s usually a wait-and-see kind of situation.”

  “Thank you, Doctor… I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “Brennan, Sabrina Brennan.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Brennan. When can we see her?

  “I’ll let you know when she’s awake and moved into a room. We’ve admitted her and she will be here overnight, at a minimum, for observation. Do you want me to make some calls to surgeons in Dublin or do you have another plan?”

  “Yes, please, and thank you again.”

  “Of course,” she says as she turns and walks back to the mechanical double doors.

  Killian clears his throat and tilts his head to the entry doors and the parking lot.

  “If you hadn’t been there—” I start but look away.

  “I wouldn’t be your favorite uncle, now, would I, lad?” He grabs my shoulder with his fir
m grip and looks me in the eye.

  “Take care of our girls.”

  He turns on a heel and walks right out the sliding glass doors into the night.

  Forty-Five

  “Where am I? And, oh, ow!”

  “We’re here, Sirona”

  “Mommy! Does your face hurt? Can I touch it?”

  Sirona’s confusion is masked in a flash to one of calm and control. She is soothing Clara by not displaying her fear. You can see relief wash over Clara’s features.

  “Hey, my darling! It does a little. How was PawPaw’s?” She looks intent on the answer, but her quick glance and lip bite tells me she’s curious.

  “PawPaw loved my flowers and then asked me to play with Winkles and take care of him because he wanted to meet the Leprechaun. Did he?”

  “How are you feeling?” I ask before she has to answer Clara blindly.

  “I’m so glad,” she says to Clara, who takes that time to lie along her mom’s right side, and turns to face me. “I’m fine.” Her accompanying wince tells another story.

  My serious tone grabs her attention. “Seems you cut your hand while you were baking.”

  “Oh no, Mommy! Does it hurt?”

  “A little, baby.”

  We both look to the door when we hear it open and see the nurse walk in.

  “Mrs. O’Shaughnessy?”

  With that, her eyebrows disappear into her hairline. There’s a small wince with the movement.

  “Yes?” She draws out the answer but it sounds like a question, but when she looks to me there’s a look I can’t quite decipher.

  “I’m here to take your vitals and then Dr. Brennan will be in to discuss your wounds, the surgery, and next steps.”

  Sirona nods and looks at me plaintively. She’s trying to communicate, but I can’t understand what she needs. I unlock my phone and place it in her right hand, hoping she can text her concerns. Before she gets very far, Dr. Brennan walks in, flipping through screens on an iPad and reading as she walks.