Authors: Stina Leicht

And Blue Skies From Pain (48 page)

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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A second siren whooped into life, and a prowl car pulled onto the street in front of him. He was going seventy miles an hour. There wasn’t time to stop. Heart in his throat, he yanked the steering wheel to the left. Clipping a phone box, glass shattered. He cheered as the prowl car pulled in behind them.

In the seat next to him, Ned cursed in a long string of Irish and reloaded his gun.

And then a second prowl car appeared to his left, speeding at them from a cross street. Liam jerked the steering wheel to avoid the full impact. The prowl car caught the rear passenger door. Both men in the back seat were thrown against one another as the RS was flung into a spin. Tires skidded. Steel screeched. Men screamed. Liam fought against the car’s momentum, but the RS hit a patch of ice. It seemed to take forever, but he finally got the RS under control and stopped.

The Peelers in the first prowl car got out, guns aimed at the RS and everyone inside. “Out of the car! Now!”

The second prowl car pulled up in front of them with its crumpled front end, blocking the road.

“Fuck! We’re lifted!” It sounded like Séamus.

Not quite.
Laughing, Liam smashed the accelerator. Séamus screamed. Liam steered for the prowl car and turned at the last instant, whipping around it and once again heading up the walk. To his left was a small churchyard, denuded of trees by last summer’s 12
^thof July bonfire. Liam turned off the road and onto the slush-covered grass, hitting the church’s sign in the process. A shower of splintered wood peppered the ground behind them. Tires ripped through the soggy dirt and up the wee hill. There was room to pass between the Protestant chapel and the graveyard, but not much. On the other side of a short stone wall, grave markers whipped past. They cleared the building, and he slalomed around a stone marker and a statue and was out the other side before the prowl car was able to make the turn.

The car slammed down onto the pavement again with a jarring crunch.

He had to be careful. They were in a Protestant area now. Getting stranded wasn’t an option. He listened to the car. It was making a few noises that didn’t sound good, but in spite of the hit she’d taken, all seemed well enough. However, something was rubbing against the wheels, and there was no telling how long they’d hold up. The back end felt a wee bit unstable. It was clear she wouldn’t last another go. He ejected the tape from the stereo and pocketed it.

“What are you doing?” Séamus roared. “Why are you slowing?”

“Car won’t make it,” Liam said, searching the street. The tingling on his skin hadn’t receded—in fact, it’d grown more intense. He hoped that was a good sign. Then he caught a glimpse of a car parked behind a row of businesses. He stopped the RS, backed up and found exactly what he was looking for.

A Ford Cortina.
Not his type, but she’d do.

“What do you mean the car won’t make it?” Séamus asked.

“Do you not hear the state she’s in?” Liam said, parking the RS next to the Cortina.
It’s a two-door, but we’ll make it work.
“Change of plan.”

Séamus moved up to the front seat. “We don’t change plans unless I say so.”

“Look,” Liam said. “The RS is done. Can go on, but the next time a prowl car makes us I can’t promise she’ll have enough for another go. Even so, that big fucking dent in the side will give us away.” He got out of the RS and opened the trunk using the key. He found the tools he’d left there and selected a rag, screwdriver, hammer and wire-cutters. Leaving the trunk open, he headed over to the Cortina.

The passenger doors thumped.

“Get back in the car, Kelly,” Séamus said. “Do it now.”

Liam turned to face Séamus and found the man was pointing a pistol at him.
I’m doing everything I can to save his fucking arse, and he’s threatening to shoot me?
“This won’t take long.”

“You’re right. It won’t. Get back inside the car, Kelly,” Séamus said. “Or I’ll shoot.”

“You fucking prick! Fuck you! I’m fucking sick of this shite! You going to shoot me? Fine. Shoot! Fucking get it the fuck over with!” Then Liam shoved Séamus.

Frankie and Ned ran over and grabbed his arms, dragging him off Séamus. Liam fought it. “I fucking told you! We can’t go on in the RS. Do you want to fucking kill us all? Is that it?”

Ned asked, “Are you sure?”

Liam jerked his arm free and pointed. “Rear wheel is done for. See for yourself. It’ll blow, we put any more strain on it. I’m for getting us a new car. It’s what I have to do. Now, will you lot let me do my job, or are you going to argue about it until the Peelers lift us?”

Séamus gave the rear of the RS a sideways glance, looked to Ned who nodded. Séamus sighed. “Go on.”

Liam headed for the Ford Cortina and found it locked. Using the hammer, he smashed the driver’s side window. Then he reached inside and unlocked the door. He used the rag to sweep most of the broken glass from the seat and climbed in. He took the screwdriver, rammed it into the ignition slot, and gave it a few taps with the hammer. He was prepared to break into the steering column if he had to, but often this was enough. He thought hard at the car.
Turn over, you bitch.
His hands tingled as he turned the screwdriver.

The car started.

Waving the boys over, he released the breath he was holding. He hated abandoning the RS, but there wasn’t anything for it.

“Bring the tools, aye?” Liam asked.

Frankie nodded and brought them as well.

Ned wiped down the inside of the RS. Then everyone scrambled into the Cortina. Liam shut his door and headed toward the car park’s exit. He glanced into the rearview mirror. That’s when he noticed Frankie was bleeding from a wound to the side of his head.

“You good, Frankie?” Liam asked. “Were you shot?”

“Bleeding bad, but it’s only a graze. I’ll do.”

“Glad to hear it,” Liam said. He got reoriented and then pulled onto the street. By his calculations they were three blocks from the warehouse. He proceeded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be driving down the street with a broken window and three men—one of them bleeding. He slotted his music into the stereo, and focused on pretending they were headed home from a late party.

Séamus cleared his throat. “That was a good bit of thinking.”

“Oh, aye?” Liam said. “Too bad you almost fucking topped me for it.”

Chapter 26

Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
23 December 1977

“ D
idn’t expect to see me here,” Mickey Hughes said. The demon’s voice was deep and distinctive with its lisp. “Did you?”

Father Murray blinked in an attempt to adjust his vision to the light as the blindfold was roughly removed. A jolt of fear exploded in his chest when he saw that he was very much alone with Mickey Hughes. A quick sideways glance through the room’s plate-glass window confirmed it. All the vehicles which had been parked inside the warehouse when he’d arrived were gone. Suddenly, he felt cold. “I can’t say that I did.”

“We’ve been watching you for some time.”

“And who, exactly, might ‘we’ be?”

“Ah, that would be telling.” Mickey smiled, revealing his broken front teeth. “But I’m thinking you could guess.”

“Why would a Catholic priest be of any interest to the Provisionals?”

“Wrong guess.” Mickey sighed as if bored. “There I was, watching you in hospital. And there you were, taking a bitty stroll. Imagine my surprise when Séamus’s wheelman arrived with a Fey captain. And who do they stop to chat with, but you? I knew then I had to find a way of arranging this little meeting. Too good an opportunity to miss, aye?”

He—
No, it
, Father Murray thought—took a deep breath and then slowly released it.

Mickey asked, “Isn’t it interesting that you’re the one wearing cuffs this time?”

When Father Murray had seen Mickey Hughes last, he’d been a lad.
So, long ago.
Now that the blindfold was off, Father Murray noted that the only resemblance remaining to the boy was in the hate-filled blue eyes, the broken teeth, and the voice. All semblance of innocence had long been stripped away, leaving a big, scarred man-shell with shoulder-length, brown, wavy hair and a great deal of rage.

Images from that terrible night in Waterford surfaced in a flash—the open suffering in young faces that hadn’t seen light or human kindness in months, possibly years. The horror of it. The knowledge that one of the Church’s own was responsible.

They were children of the Fallen.

Does that excuse what was done to them?
The answer to that question had haunted Father Murray most of his adult life. He hadn’t admitted it to anyone, of course. That was unthinkable. His superiors would have retired him from active field duty at once. However, deep in his heart he understood that Waterford had been the reason for so many things that he’d done, both good and bad—not the least of which was not executing thirteen-year-old Liam Kelly on sight. One glimpse of that bruised face had changed everything.

Thank God,
Father Murray thought.

There were long nights when he consoled himself with the suspicion that perhaps the reason why God led him to be there that horrifying night—the reason he’d lived through it and kept his sanity when others hadn’t—was to save Liam, and ultimately, the Fey.
Man can’t presume to understand the ways of God.
But sometimes the questions couldn’t be helped, and sometimes, if one searched, God granted answers. “I had nothing to do with your being imprisoned in that place.”

“And yet, you helped kill everyone,” Mickey said.

What was done had to be done. At least it was done with compassion.
So, Father Murray had told himself then and had continued to tell himself every day since.
I made it quick and painless. It was a mercy.
“I think you understand why.”

“I wonder what your new allies would say? Were I to tell them that four of your victims that night were children of the Fey?”

Father Murray stopped breathing, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

“Ah,” Mickey said. “So, such a thing never occurred to you. Did it?”

Closing his eyes, Father Murray swallowed.
It’s a lie. All the children in that cellar were taken from the sanitarium—a sanitarium staffed by the Fallen.
A team of Guardians had been sent to destroy it. He heard. Later, he’d gotten an anonymous call about an orphanage with a secret chamber located underneath, frequented by an elite few—politicians, church officials and the rich. Why he’d gotten the call and not someone else, he’d never understood. He recalled how the foul smoke from the burning orphanage had blotted out the sky, how it had clogged his nose and choked his lungs. The orphanage vanished from the Church’s records the very same night.

Those who could be saved were saved. As for the others—
What was done had to be done.
Unfortunately, the names of the clients died with his informant, a local parish priest, less than a week later. The priest had only been able to give two names before he died.
An important two.
The first had been Father Burren, who had operated the orphanage, and the second had been one Monsignor Clarence Paul, who had protected the entire operation. What price had been paid for that protection, Father Murray didn’t wish to speculate. He’d found Father Burren had been tainted and had reported it. Monsignor Paul had insisted otherwise. Late one night, Father Murray had woken to find Father Burren standing over him with a gun. In the end, Father Burren murdered Father Jackson along with three others before he was finally neutralized.

Mickey is a demon. It thinks compassion a weakness. It’s only doing what demons do. It’s trying to twist you against yourself.

What if it isn’t lying?

You can’t save anyone if you let it control you now. You can’t think about this. Not now. Not here. It isn’t safe.

But the seeds of doubt were sown, and that doubt opened an unbalancing void in his stomach.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, help me.
Father Murray took a long breath and opened his eyes, keeping his gaze from drifting directly to Mickey’s own. It couldn’t see that it’d reached its target. “What do you plan to do?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because it would instill more fear. And your kind dines on fear and misery.”

Mickey laughed. “Are you attempting to manipulate me, priest?”

“Seems fair,” Father Murray said. “Since you were attempting the same.”

“You doubt the truth?”

“I don’t. It’s you I doubt. You’re a demon—”

Mickey held up its hand. “Half demon, thank you.”

“Your sort don’t deal in truths.”

“Ah, but hurtful truths can be effective weapons. Particularly, if the target is taken unaware,” Mickey said. “Your kind taught me that.”

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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