Tangled Souls (35 page)

Bart whispered,
What does a Shepherd do?

“Protects the flock,” she shot back reflexively. A thought popped into her head. A Shepherd watched over the flock. But in some ways, the flock protected the Shepherd. It acted as a barrier between the predators and their protector.

Guys
,
she said, addressing the spirits, I can’t do my job if I’m dead. Can you help me here?

The ghosts didn’t move, just looked at her expectantly. She gave a sharp glance at Bart. Like the other ghosts, he seemed to be waiting for her to do something.

“Suggestions?” she asked under her breath.

No reply. She could tell he wanted to say something but held back. He glanced upward as if asking a question and then bit his lip. Apparently, the answer had been a cosmic no.

Panic edged into anger. Turning toward the line of ghosts, she commanded, “Keep them away from me!”

Antwoine gave a quick nod, flashed a toothy smile, and launched toward the car. A headlight disintegrated in a hail of glass, followed shortly by its twin. Her three hunters whirled around, mouths agape as the windshield shattered in a spiderweb pattern first on one side and then the other.

Yes!
Bart crowed, pumping his fists in the air.

Astonished, Gavenia stared, barely following the ghosts’ movements as they surrounded the vehicle, pummeling it with their kinetic energy. A taillight exploded in a volley of red plastic, then a door sheared off its hinges with a grinding sound, skidding across the pavement, trailing brilliant sparks.

Ah, Gavenia
. . . , Bart started.

She ignored him, astounded by the level of destruction. One of the gang hurtled backward onto the sidewalk. He pulled his gun, shouting, searching for something to shoot. Another doubled over in pain, hit in the gut by an unseen hand. Two ghosts pried up the hood, ripping it off and hurtling it over the top of the car. It landed fifteen feet away with a tremendous grating crash.

Time to leave
, Bart urged.

Antwoine’s spirit turned toward her and delivered a thumbs-up. Gavenia sheathed her sword and returned the gesture.

“Thanks.” She pointed toward a glowing patch of light down a pitch-black alley. “You see that?” The spirit nodded. “That’s where home is when you decide you want to rest.” The spirit nodded again. “Take the others with you if they want to go.”

The young man’s face turned from triumph to sadness in a second. Standing next to his bewildered cousin, Antwoine sadly shook his head.
He’ll join me soon.

“No doubt, unless he gets smart,” Gavenia agreed. “But that’s his choice.”

With a solemn nod that made him look twice his age, Antwoine slowly pivoted and set off for the alley. Most of the ghosts followed.

Be at peace
, Gavenia said. A couple waved at her. Only the young girl stayed behind.

The hike to the car was a quick one, for Bernie had moved the vehicle closer in cautious increments. He hefted himself out of the driver’s seat and limped for the other side, the car’s engine still running.

“What the hell was all that?” he asked, pointing toward the wrecked vehicle.

As Gavenia started to answer, shots split the air and the side mirror disintegrated, spraying glass and plastic into her face. She cried out and slung herself into the car. Bernie burrowed into the floorboard, wrenching his door shut.

She gunned the car forward, burning rubber. Three staccato shots impacted the vehicle.

“Not the gas tank,” she prayed, taking the corner at an impossible rate of speed only to find a stumbling drunk in the middle of the street. He stopped, pinned by the headlights like the proverbial deer.

“Hold on,” she cried, veering away from the bum and coming perilously close to a light pole. She wrenched the wheel back toward the right and the center of the street. Prayers poured from Bernie’s mouth as he huddled in a ball, still on the floorboard. Part of her wanted to be down there with him.

The gang didn’t follow them, but considering their car was minus a couple of tires and a few doors, and didn’t have much glass left to speak of, that wasn’t surprising. A few blocks away Gavenia pulled to the curb, locked the doors, and leaned against the steering wheel, her stomach pitching around like an overturned turtle trying to right itself. She swallowed repeatedly, hoping to keep dinner in place.

“You okay?” Bernie asked, climbing up into the seat in an awkward series of arthritic movements.

She took a deep breath, and some of the nausea subsided.

“Yeah, just great.”

A sweep past her condo didn’t reveal a red Miata. He drove down to the homeless shelter—no car. He swung by her other haunts: the New Age café, the Alliford house. Zip.

“Where is she?” he muttered. Now he felt like a stalker. His cell phone rang, and a hope encompassed him. Maybe she’d thought about what he’d said and decided to initiate contact. That would make the whole situation easier. A check of the caller ID revealed a number he didn’t recognize.

“O’Fallon.”

“It’s Adam. We need to talk.” Behind the young cop’s voice he heard traffic noise and then the whine of a power window.

“I pick the bar this time,” O’Fallon replied.

“Where?”

“Flannery’s. You know the place?”

“Too many cops.”

O’Fallon cursed himself for not thinking. The witch was burning up too many of his brain cells at the moment.

“How about McCrea’s then?”

“Over by the kosher deli?”

“That’s the one.”

“Okay.” A pause, and then, “I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

“I’ll be in a back booth,” O’Fallon replied. He flipped his phone shut and dropped it into his jacket pocket. At the light, he made a right. This would be his second trip to a bar in a little over a week; his social schedule was picking up.

* * *

The pub wasn’t that packed—just the regulars, and none of them were cops as far as O’Fallon knew. McCrea’s was favored more by the expat crowd. No Union Jack on these walls, only the Irish tricolor and pictures of immigrant families who’d made good in America. All sons of the sod, to be sure.

“
Dia duit
, Finney.” Good day. “Pint of Beamish, please,” O’Fallon said, leaning against the bar. The publican, a man with hair nearly the color of his own, gave him a knowing nod.

“Ah, O’Fallon. Good evenin’ ta ye. I see the divil’s not got ye yet,” the man said, grinning, his accent far thicker than his patron’s.

“Always one step ahead, Finney.”

“Ye’ll outwit him; ye always do. So how’s that gran of yours?”

“Old and bitchin’ at me about a visit.”

“Well, ye don’t have much choice, now do ye?” the publican replied.

O’Fallon shook his head. “I’m headed home shortly.” The Beamish appeared, and he turned and raised the pint in honor of the flag. “
Éirinn go brách
,” he intoned.
Ireland forever.

He took a deep sip of the brew and headed for a booth. McCrea’s always stirred vivid memories, for in many ways it was his father’s pub come alive again. With the lilting Irish voices, the deep rumble of laughter, and the rich balm of the beer, it felt like home.

Yet something was missing. He took another sip of the rich Beamish, and the loneliness struck him like lightning. Too long he’d been skirting the issues of the heart. He’d prayed for a woman who would understand him, love him. After so many false starts, now he was confronted with another opportunity.
Could God really mean for Gavenia to be the one?

He tried to shake off the thought. She wasn’t Catholic, not even Christian. Surely she was just another temptation on the long road of life. He stared down into the beer, the sounds of the pub fading away. Her eyes had told him the truth: Gavenia Kingsgrave had the power to reach his very soul.

Was he brave enough to let her inside?

“Be careful what you ask for,” he muttered.

To his relief, Adam Elliot appeared at the front door, pulling O’Fallon’s mind back to the present. The young cop bought a pint of Harp and slid into the booth opposite him.

“Interesting ambience,” Adam said, glancing around at the pictures on the wall. The one of the coal miners seemed to captivate him the most.

“They serve good Irish stew, if you’re interested,” O’Fallon said, testing the waters. If the kid had his gut in a knot, the food would be the last thing he’d be thinking of.

“No, can’t eat. Too much on my mind.”

Bingo.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, pointing toward the young cop’s arm. It was in a navy fiberglass cast, suspended in a sling.

“It’s getting better.” Adam looked around nervously. “I’m being followed. I think my phone’s been tapped.”

O’Fallon nodded and took a sip of his stout, savoring its taste. “That surprises you?” he asked.

The young cop blinked and then shook his head. “I guess not.”

“Has IAD talked to you?” Another shake of Adam’s head. “They’re hoping you’ll trip up and give them Glass,” O’Fallon said.

“Yeah, that’s the way it looks.”

“Your job is to make sure they get him but to not get caught in the fallout. He chose to be dirty, and if IAD wants to fry his ass, that’s righteous. You’re clean, and that’s what they need to know.”

“Should I go to them?” the young cop asked.

O’Fallon bought time by taking another sip of the Beamish. That was a tough call.
If any of the others find out Adam helped with the investigation . . .

“If it was me, I’d keep my distance from IAD. You know how it is with cops who help them out.”

Adam pushed his empty pint away, nodding slowly.

“I’ll go get us another round and we’ll work on a strategy,” O’Fallon offered.

The detective’s face filled with gratitude. “Thanks.”

As O’Fallon rose, he asked, “How dirty is Glass?”

“Like an oil slick. But he’s not the only one. I think it goes higher.”

“Well, that’s one place where physics is wrong: shit does flow uphill.”

It was close to ten by the time they’d talked it out. Adam agreed to request a transfer and start chronicling everything he could remember that seemed out of place—names, conversations, anything that could be used against his partner when IAD finally flushed Glass down the toilet.

“Be careful,” O’Fallon warned.

“I will.” The young man turned and then hesitated. “Call my cell number. I’m not at the boat right now.”

O’Fallon frowned at that. “What happened?”

“Carey and I are . . . well, we’re taking some time apart to think things through.”

“Damn,” O’Fallon said. “I hope you can hold it together.”

A wan smile returned. “I hope so, too.”

“Just be honest with each other.”

Adam delivered a quick nod and headed for his car. O’Fallon waited and then climbed into his own vehicle, mindful of anyone who looked out of place. Other than a couple making out against the hood of a car, lustfully oblivious to his presence, everything was kosher.

He headed for Gavenia’s condo by instinct. Until the matter with the witch was settled, he’d have no peace, either in his heart or at home.

* * *

Gavenia’s damaged side mirror proved a handicap as she parked. Once she got the vehicle in place, she pulled herself out and then leaned on the car for a moment, her left hip throbbing. Bart was nowhere in sight, and the condo was dark. Then she remembered—Ari was in Portland for the next couple of days. How had she forgotten that . . . again?

She heard someone clear their throat behind her. Whirling, she found her way blocked by a body. Still on edge from the earlier confrontation, she flung herself backward, unsheathing the cane sword in one swift move. The point ended up even with O’Fallon’s left breast.

He blinked in stark surprise, staring at the line of steel gleaming in the streetlight. “Damn, you’re more pissed than I thought.”

She left the sword in place. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to give you an update,” he replied.

He got points for style, especially with sharp steel aimed at his heart. She sheathed the weapon, too tired to bitch him out for his abandonment earlier in the day.

“Go away, O’Fallon. I’m not in the mood to talk,” she said. “Go home. You blew it this morning.”

His eyes swept the interior of the car as if looking for some hidden clues as to where she’d been tonight. They came to rest on the fairy wand right before she slammed the door.

Maybe he won’t see the—

“Hey, what happened to your mirror?” he called after her.

Damn!