Tangled Souls (11 page)

More silence.

The anger welled up in her, seething from deep inside, fed by her insecurities and fanned by Bart’s secretive manner. She wrenched the car toward the curb, angling into a parking place. As she slammed the brakes right before rear-ending the Blazer in front of them, another driver signaled his displeasure through a long blast of a horn and a raised finger.

She turned her full wrath on her Guardian.

“Bart, stop hiding things from me. Tell me what I need to do to help this kid.”

His mouth formed a thin line, but he did not respond.

“Talk to me!”

He has to cross over because he’s vulnerable on this side.

“What do you mean, vulnerable? He’s dead. It doesn’t get any safer than that.”

You’re not called a Shepherd just because it’s quaint
, he snapped.

“Meaning?”

What do shepherds do?

“You mean real ones?”

Yes.

She stammered. “They . . . herd sheep.”

And?

“They keep them safe.”

Safe from what?
he pressed.

“Predators . . . like dogs and wolves.”

His voice fell to a near whisper.
Your job isn’t any different.

Her breath hissed out in understanding. “You mean the souls are in danger on this side?”

He nodded.
The young ones, especially. They don’t have any fear.

“What happens to them?”

What does a pack of dogs do to a lamb?

“Goddess.” She swallowed, but the knot in her throat didn’t vanish. She’d seen what a rogue pack of hounds could do to a flock of sheep. Bits of wool, tangled sinews, and gnawed bits of bone. “You’re saying something might try to harm Bradley? But what would happen to him?”

The soul is mostly light, a kind of energy. Bradley’s light is pure because he’s a child. It’s like a beacon to some of the darker things out there. The longer he stays on this side, the more likely something will find him.

“A lamb among the wolves.”

Exactly. He has to cross—soon.

She closed her eyes as her hand fluttered in her lap like a wounded bird, and she didn’t try to control it. Weight pressed down on her chest, the burden of being a Shepherd.

“Why didn’t They just have you tell me all of it, right up front?”

Not all Shepherds can handle who they are. Most end up like that bum, waltzing to the voices in their head.

“I’m not going to do that,” she insisted.

I pray that’s the case
, he whispered. His eyes spoke of deep concern, almost love. It was touching. He wasn’t the enemy; he was just stuck in the foxhole with her, trying to figure out how to keep from being sprayed with shrapnel.

Gavenia stared out the driver’s side window. The scene faded from her view and she closed her eyes, thinking of that day she’d hiked into the Welsh countryside alone. After going over a stile, she’d found herself in the middle of a field of sheep, perhaps a hundred or so of the woolies. A pair of Border Collies barked their warning and she’d hesitated, unsure if she should proceed. A voice called to her, and she found an old shepherd taking his tea under a broad-leafed tree. She’d sat with him for some time, talking about the sheep, the dogs, and life. He’d offered some of his tea, but she’d declined, sipping from her water bottle instead. The day had been fine and warm, the hike strenuous. Long before the car accident ended such simple pleasures.

“What is it you do, lass?” he’d asked.

“I translate documents from one language to another,” she’d said. “It’s not much fun. Not outside like this.”

She watched as his old eyes swept the horizon, checking the locations of the dogs and the movements of the flock. He seemed at ease, but she knew he was looking for the nuances, the subtle shifts that meant something was amiss.

“What’s it like to guard sheep all day?” she’d asked.

“Pretty quiet, most of the time.”

“Do you ever think of doing something else?”

He shook his head. “I know there are other things I could put my hands to, but this is an old profession, an honorable one. God sent his angels to tell the shepherds of His newborn son. I like to think that means we’re blessed, at least in the eyes of the Almighty.”

“I have no doubt of it.” She watched the mass of moving animals. The low-pitched baas of the ewes were matched by the higher pitch of their offspring. The lambs bounced across the ground as if equipped with springs. Nearby, a small one butted his mother’s distended udder, sucking hard.

“It must be so peaceful to be a shepherd.”

The old man’s voice took on a serious tone. “A shepherd’s duty is to the sheep. They come first. A shepherd protects the flock at all cost. It’s what we do.”

Now, as she felt the rumble of passing cars and the sounds of the city return, the old man’s words burned into her heart.

A Shepherd protects the flock at all cost.

Bart observed her with solemn eyes, waiting, perhaps knowing what she intended to ask. She could not summon the courage to speak the words.

You will prevail
, he said.
You’re stronger than most.

Gavenia leaned against the steering wheel, feeling the hard surface press into her forehead. After a few moments, she pulled the car out into traffic, feeling as alone as that night she’d awoken inside a nightmare.

* * *

Within the silence of the church, memories seized him. Gazing upward at Saint Bridget’s loving face, O’Fallon traveled back to the day his dad died, reliving it. The morning had been quiet, no harbinger of the horror to follow. His father hiked to his pub, the Dragon’s Forge. Doug decided to stay with his gran that day and work on a model airplane, a Corsair, his father’s birthday present. He’d made it as far as the tail section and then decided to give it a rest. He’d go to the pub after all, have lunch with his dad, listen to the other men jest with one another, inhale the rich aroma of beer and whiskey. As he placed the model in an old shoe box, the house shook, rattling crockery in the kitchen. The muffled sound of an explosion reached his ears. His gran looked up from her knitting, her face unnaturally pale. Her hand trembled as she made the sign of the cross.

In that instant he knew his father was dead, felt it deep in his bones.

“Gran . . .” Tears wove their way down her face as she hugged the nearly completed sweater to her chest—a present her son would never wear.

“Sweet Jesus,” she murmured, rocking back and forth. “How could they?”

He remembered running through the streets of his hometown, oblivious to everything but the need to prove himself wrong. The pub had vanished. Left in its place was a ruin of broken bricks, flaming rafters, and twisted metal. The stench of burned flesh filled his nose along with the acrid smell of thick, choking smoke. Sirens echoed around him.

He shoved his way through the gathering crowd, shouting his father’s name over and over. A policeman caught him as he tried to rush into the fiery ruins, and he fought, kicking and swearing. Finally, he slumped to his knees in the broken glass and wept.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he jerked his eyes upward, a prayer of thanks on his lips—his father had survived. It was not his dad’s face that looked down at him, but Father Murphy’s. The old priest clutched a rosary to his chest, his eyes damp with tears. Fourteen men had died in the pub that day. One was Douglas O’Fallon’s father.

Now, as he knelt before Saint Bridget, he couldn’t prevent the tears from cascading down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed harder.
How could that woman have known? How could she see his father’s spirit and he could not?

When he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder, he half expected it to be Father Murphy.

“Doug?” Avery asked softly, his face covered in concern. “Are you okay?”

O’Fallon shook his head, scattering tears around him. “God, no, I’m not.” He paused and then blurted, “I need to talk.”

“I’ll be in the courtyard when you’re ready.” As he turned, he hesitated. “Is this about Benjamin?”

“It’s about me.”

His friend’s expression grew solemn. “I’ll wait for you.”

* * *

O’Fallon could only imagine what he looked like to his old friend, though Avery had seen him through every kind of hell, both on the job and off. Now, as they sat in the courtyard, his friend hadn’t taken his eyes off him for a moment.

“You’ve been in the church a long time. I felt something was very wrong,” Avery said. O’Fallon still didn’t speak, unable to put the events of the day in any sensible order. “Doug, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. Something’s shaken you to the core. For God’s sake, let me help you,” he said gently, putting his hand on O’Fallon’s shoulder.

“It’s because of the witch,” he started.

Avery leaned forward, a puzzled look on his face. “Witch?”

“I have another case. . . .” He launched into the tale, explaining the trip to Palm Springs and Ms. Gavenia Kingsgrave. Then he revealed what she’d told him. Up to that point he’d kept his emotions in check, and then the dam burst. Words flooded out like a torrent, washing over both of them. Avery held his silence, listening intently.

When the torrent faded to a trickle, O’Fallon raised his face. “I don’t know what to think,” he whispered. “How could she have known about my father?”

“I find it rather remarkable. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never told me exactly how he died.” Avery thought for a moment. “Is there any way she could have learned the details through a background check?”

O’Fallon frowned.

“You think she checked me out?”
God, let that be it.
The light bulb went on.
Of course, she’s playing me. How could I be so stupid not to see it?

“Is it possible?” Avery asked.

O’Fallon rose from the bench. The afternoon sun felt warm on his face, but it did little to mitigate the chill inside his breast. Above him, high in the trees, squirrels skittered, leaping from branch to branch.

Doubt returned. “This case doesn’t seem that important. Why would she bother?” O’Fallon asked.

“Some folks are very adept at finding a weak spot. Your father’s death is your Achilles’ heel.”

O’Fallon shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. She didn’t know my name until that moment.”

“Perhaps someone in the Alliford household found out about you and passed the information to her.”

Is that what happened?

“The question stands—are the details available somewhere she could find them?” Avery pressed.

O’Fallon thought for a moment and then shook his head again, his mind in turmoil. “No. I put the plane in his coffin right before the funeral mass. Nobody but Gran knew I did it. Actually, she put it in there for me. She never let me look inside.” He took a deep inhalation followed by a shuddering breath. “I never saw my dad after he died.”

“That’s a blessing, Doug. You remember him from that morning, going out the door.”

Tears threatened again and he struggled to push them down. “He gave me a big hug. He wasn’t afraid to show his emotions.”

“And, thank God, neither are you.”

“All I feel is anger, even now. Our village priest said I should forgive the bastards who killed him. I never will.” O’Fallon stared at the rosary in his hands and then held it up. Suspended from his fingertips, the heavy silver crucifix slowly turned in midair. “This was my father’s. They found it in the rubble. They said it was a miracle it survived.” He offered it to his friend.

Avery accepted the rosary as if it were a priceless relic. He studied it; the crucifix was discolored and bore signs of heat. Some of the beads were scorched.

O’Fallon explained, “My dad said beer didn’t choose sides when it came to religion, and neither would he. Anyone was welcome at the pub as long as they parked their intolerance at the door.”

“He sounds like a good man.”

“He was. Some of the locals didn’t like his attitude, so they vandalized the pub to warn him off. He ignored it. Then a couple came to work him over. They got the worst end of the deal.” He sighed at the memory of his dad’s arm in a cast and stitches across his forehead. Patrick O’Fallon had laughed it off in his usual style.