Cross - Ken Bruen [13]
No more.
Let the shadows rule. Bring on the spectre of retribution and ferocious revenge.
It was then she'd noticed, out of her peripheral vision, flames beginning to build in the corner of the room, though when she looked directly there was nothing there. She'd let out a squeal of pure delight.
The sound had woken her father. He'd sat up suddenly, alarm on his face and then relief as he realized she was back.
If he'd only known.
He'd taken her slight hand in his own huge fists and squeezed it, saying, 'Tell me, baby, tell me what I can do to help.'
She'd sat up, a strength she'd never had before infusing her, and told him exactly what she wanted. With a delicious sense of power, she'd seen the horror on his face at what she proposed. The clarity of her thinking, shrouded in this new darkness, had been exhilarating.
He'd agreed with all her plans, though she could plainly see he was repulsed at the biblical scope of her vision. But he'd been so relieved to have her back, he'd have agreed to anything.
After he'd left, she'd curled up in a warm posture of total renewal, smiling at how happy he'd been that she hadn't died. Her smile had grown in malevolence as she wondered how he'd feel if he knew precisely who it was that had returned. A soothing weariness began to claim her, and before sleep took her she recalled her mother's description of the Church that was such a vital part of her life.
She'd said, 'Alannah, our Church is all we have. Our Lord Jesus Christ will not be mocked. He will smite those who damage his flock.'
Her mother had been among the finest members of the flock and the girl muttered, almost asleep, a smell of smoke in her nostrils, 'Behold a pale rider, trailing death and vengeance in his wake.'
The words were like black communion in her mouth.
7
In Ireland, among the older generation,
it is believed that a prayer said at the foot
of the cross is always answered.
I had to go to the hospital the next morning for my daily check on Cody, to see that the wounds were healing and he wasn't getting bedsores. Involved a two-hour wait. The news was on. The siege at the Russian school had ended in horror, disaster. Three hundred feared dead, most of them children, scenes of them fleeing in their underwear as the terrorists fired at them. I had to move away, heard the gasps of shock from the people in the waiting room. Then a report on Iraq: since the 'peace', one thousand American soldiers had died. When the nurse called me I was relieved to get away from the television.
The doctor, cheery, asked, 'How are you feeling?'
Multiple-choice answers:
Horrified
Depressed
Hungover
Like a bastard.
Said, 'Could be worse.'
We moved to Cody's bed, he looked . . . dead, tubes everywhere, only a slight lifting of his chest indicating any life.
Whatever the hell that meant.
He did a full examination, going Mmm and tut-tutting, all guaranteed to put the heart crossways in you. Finally he was done and made some notes on a chart, then, 'He's healing well.'
A but hung in the air and I waited. I wasn't volunteering anything. Whatever he thought, he'd get to it, they always do, no point in adding to the sheet.
He sighed. 'His body has been subjected to an inordinate amount of . . .'
He was searching for a description so to cut to the chase I prompted, 'Punishment?'
I'd been beaten more times than I could count – with a hurley, an iron bar, fists, boots, and always with intent, so you could say I knew about that item. The shooting was like my Oscar, my highest pinnacle, all the others just building to the main event. The only slight deviation being, I wasn't the one who'd been shot.
Throw in the hammering from alcohol and you had the obituary card near complete. I'd picked the right word.
'Precisely.'
I figured we were done and got ready to leave.
He said, 'Alcohol is not conducive to the healing process.'
I tried, 'I don't think the kid is going to be hopping out for a pint any time soon, do you?'
He scowled – good word, that, a testament to my self-learning,