On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  Lawrence feigned modesty. "No, Smalley's the genius. I'm just good with details. Like counting money."

  All three laughed in unison. Ashford asked, "What about lawyers?"

  Lawrence started to answer, but Magruder intervened. "No lawyers, Johnny. What do lawyers specialize in?"

  Ashford shrugged. "Getting their scumbag clients off?"

  "Nope. Law school teaches 'em one thing above all others: Find where the money is coming from, where it's going to, get square between 'em, and catch as much as you can."

  Lawrence nodded, still grinning. "And they can count, too."

  Magruder settled back again. "Sounds like you've got yourself a racket, Boss. Who else are we going to have to bring in?"

  "Give me a week to think about it. It's nine PM, boys. Go home to your wives."

  "To who?" Ashford said, and they all laughed again.

  ====

  Chapter 28

  Phyllis Ostrov had been a nurse for twenty-five years, and the even-day nurse-receptionist at Onteora General Hospital for the past four. It was an assignment she didn't enjoy.

  She had to admit that she was suited to it. She was attractive, cheerful by nature, dealt well with all varieties of people, and had a remarkable gift for spreading calm where chaos reigned. It was work that needed to be done, and she took what satisfaction she could from doing it well. But she had gone into medicine to tend the sick, not to deal with healthy people while others tended their sick relatives, and there were days when she missed it greatly.

  September was done. The temperatures were losing the harsh edge of the summer now past. Leaves were turning. A few trees had even begun to shed. She and Paul had promised themselves an autumn vacation, perhaps a tour of the great Finger Lakes wineries, and the time for it had arrived. God knew she could use it, after the events of the months past.

  That Thursday morning of the second of October, she bade the night receptionist a good day and settled in at the front desk as usual, coffee and leisure reading at the ready. For the moment, it was quiet. It always seemed quiet at this time of year, just after the rowdinesses of summer had ended and the teenagers had gone back to school.

  At about nine AM, a short, slight young man whose face was vaguely familiar to her came through the doors, smiling.

  "Would you page Dr. Miles Jefferson, please?"

  That was the end of her sense of inner calm, that day.

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Jefferson isn't available."

  The young man was puzzled. "Has he changed shifts?"

  "No, sir, he's no longer in residence here." She tried to smile.

  Puzzlement was displaced by alarm. "When did he leave?"

  "Perhaps one of our other residents could help you, sir, if you'd be kind enough to -- "

  "Nurse." His tone of command stopped her cold. "When did Miles leave this hospital?"

  "Early in June, just after the assault." Her voice shook under the force of his compulsion.

  "What assault?"

  Her heart began to accelerate, but she was still compelled to answer. "A man came here, looking for a former patient, a young woman who'd been in a motorcycle accident. It was June first. I tried to explain to him that we had no record of the lady's whereabouts. He was starting to become difficult when Dr. Jefferson tried to intervene. The man turned on Dr. Jefferson, threw him through the doors and began to batter him. Security got here just in time to save his life."

  The young man's eyes had turned to pools of agony. "And Dr. Jefferson left the hospital staff after that?"

  "Yes, sir. His right shoulder was completely ruined, shattered beyond reconstruction, and he'd sustained a concussion that had permanent effects on his vision and hearing. He left medicine completely."

  It was not something she'd ever wanted to relive. She'd tried her best to forget it.

  The young man stood there, palms flat against the desk.

  "I see." He looked down as a spasm passed through him. "Thank you, Nurse. Forgive me for asking. Have a pleasant day."

  He turned and departed through the wide glass doors, shoulders hunched in pain.

  ***

  "You can't possibly blame yourself."

  Louis snorted. "Of course I don't, Malcolm. It happened the day before the attack on my house." He fought down another abdominal spasm. "I just wish I'd killed the bastard, that's all."

  Loughlin shook his head. "Your reasoning was good then, and it's still good now. For none of them to return would have brought the whole gang down on you."

  "I could have handled them."

  "At what price, Louis?" Loughlin's tone was gentle. "I know you could have taken them all. I taught you how to do it. But you would have had to flee for your life immediately after. You'd have lost your home, most of your money and whatever possessions you couldn't stuff into your truck. You and your ward would have been fugitives from the State for the remainder of your lives. What kind of life would you have been able to give her then?"

  God, I hate it when he's right.

  The sun was at its zenith, and the trailer had grown overly warm. Louis was desperate for his leavetakings to be over. Yet they had only begun, and this was likely to be the easiest of them.

  "I expect Christine will be here some time on Sunday. She'll be very upset. Are you still willing to have her?"

  "I will have her, Louis. I did give you my word."

  "Thank you, Malcolm."

  Loughlin waved it aside. "I hope she doesn't need too much looking after. Did you even begin the search for a successor before you took her on your shoulders?"

  Louis started to demur, stopped himself.

  "What's the matter, Louis?" Loughlin leaned forward in his chair.

  "Oh, didn't I mention? My replacement will be arriving with her."

  It was Loughlin's turn to be without words. Louis strained to keep his expression neutral.

  You're in for the surprise of your life, old friend.

  "You son of a bitch," Loughlin breathed. "You never said a word. Where did you find the time?"

  Louis shrugged. "I made the time. It seemed important to you, and I felt bad about it."

  "Well, where did you find him?" Suddenly, the old warrior was all eager anticipation.

  Louis grinned and shook his head. "Not a word more, Malcolm. You'll know all you care to soon enough. Suffice it to say, you won't be disappointed."

  "Is he anywhere near as good as you?"

  "Better."

  "Better than you?"

  "By quite a margin. You've lucked out, Malcolm."

  Louis rose and stretched. His mentor watched him amble the length of the trailer and back. Loughlin's expression flickered back and forth between hope and disbelief.

  "I seem to recall that there was a quid pro quo. Are you ready to deliver?"

  Loughlin swallowed. "I would have told you anyway, you know."

  Louis slipped back into his chair. "I prefer it this way."

  Loughlin nodded, steepled his hands on the table before him, and stared at them for a long moment. He began to speak.

  ***

  It was an ordinary July evening in Onteora: hot, damp, the air too still, the black gnats too numerous. Most of the city's residents had retreated behind closed doors and powered up their air conditioners, then turned their television sets up high to mask the compressor noise. On an unlit street in the abandoned part of the city, Joseph Follett and Lafayette Buskey were enjoying a special pleasure, raping a teenage girl who had wandered onto their turf.

  They had cut away her jeans and panties, stuffed the scraps of the panties into her mouth, and bound them there with a double winding of packing tape. Buskey knelt on her arms and held a knife to her throat while Follett violated her at his leisure. They had changed places once already. Perhaps they would do so again before the fun was over. Neither had bothered to conceal or disguise his face.

  They had been at it perhaps ten minutes when a quiet patter of footsteps from the far end of the street alerted th
e merrymakers that they were not alone. Both looked up to see the onrush of a short, slight figure, bearing down upon them.

  Buskey had turned toward the sound but had not yet risen when the runner braked and planted. His right foot lashed out in a powerful placekicker's arc, catching Buskey squarely beneath the jaw. The snap of Buskey's spine resounded the length of the street. He flipped backwards and lay on the sidewalk, twitching spasmodically.

  Follett had pulled away from the girl, drawing his own knife. The runner turned to face him.

  "Keep back, motherfucker."

  The runner made no reply. He advanced.

  Follett dropped into a knife-fighter's crouch. He kept both hands well out in front of him, daring the man to come within slashing distance. The runner halted and watched him, apparently relaxed.

  "So this is your idea of a high old time, eh, asshole?" The runner's voice was soft. The darkness concealed his face. "Wait till some defenseless girl wanders by, take her down, rape her a few times, then gut her like a deer? Not much to take home from it, though. Not like a Grand Avenue mugging or a good B and E."

  The young tough snarled. "What do you know about B and E?"

  The runner's eyebrows rose. "Isn't that how you make your living?" He gestured at Follett's crotch. "I mean, that thing dangling from your fly isn't big enough for you to make it as a gigolo."

  Upon being reminded that his dick was still hanging out of his jeans, Follett looked down at his crotch.

  The runner whirled and kicked again. His toe caught the elbow of Follett's knife arm. The elbow cracked and bent the wrong way, and the knife flew from the hand that held it. The young thug spun and dropped to the pavement with a piercing shriek, clawing at the rough asphalt.

  The runner stepped forward to stand over his victim. Stray rays from the headlights of a car passing on a connecting street revealed the runner's expression. It was that perfection of rage that resembles perfect calm.

  "Well, so much for the muggings and B and Es. Think you can make a living as a rapist? I mean, you're going to need a new helper and all. Maybe two or three. Big nut to carry."

  The runner straddled Follett's body and lowered himself to a squat, all but sitting on the thug's belly.

  "Who the fuck are you, man? You got no business here!" Follett's voice was an agonized hiss.

  The runner pursed his lips. "Business? No. I was just out for a walk, and it went on a little longer and farther than I intended. I don't get into the city much. It's not my favorite place. But here I am, and here you are, and thereby hangs a tale."

  He paused and sighed. "I knew you were going to kill that girl when you were done with her. If I hadn't been sure of that, maybe I would have handled it another way. Or maybe not. Not that it matters now. May God have mercy on your worthless soul."

  Follett's pain had not displaced all his fear and hatred. He surged in a last attempt to throw his assailant off him as he scrabbled for his knife.

  The runner's right hand arrowed at Follett's face. The heel of that hand crashed into the bridge of Follett's nose, driving the bone into his forebrain with the impact of a well-thrown spear. The rapist's body spasmed once and was still.

  The runner waited for perhaps a minute, peering into the slack face for any indication that the body might still house life. When he was satisfied, he pulled the jeans off Follett's corpse and brought them to the girl, who had remained where she'd been held. She seemed about sixteen, not especially pretty, and frightened beyond all ability to respond. Carefully, he pulled the makeshift gag from her mouth.

  "Where do you live?"

  "Eighty-two Devlin Boulevard," the girl whispered.

  He bent to help her stand, then offered her the jeans. "I'll take you home. Sorry I have nothing else to cover you with."

  She clung to him and began to keen. He coaxed her to step into the jeans, closed the fly and buttoned them at her waist, rolled up the legs so that she could walk, and escorted her down the street, one arm around her shoulders.

  The body of Joe Follett lay still in the middle of the street. On the sidewalk, the body of Lafe Buskey twitched at lengthening intervals as the life finished seeping out of it.

  ***

  Louis was beyond astonishment.

  "You were watching."

  Loughlin nodded. "And for a few days after, until I was certain you were the genuine article. Even then you knew to kick, not punch."

  "I never saw you."

  "You weren't supposed to. I've practiced invisibility until I can almost make you forget my presence while you're staring at me. It's a useful talent for moving through cities and such."

  "But why, Malcolm? Why do you do it at all?"

  "You're not going to like the answer."

  Louis stared hard into his friend's eyes.

  "I need to know."

  Loughlin told him.

  ***

  Louis sat very still. Afternoon had given way to evening, and the trailer had grown dark. Loughlin watched him steadily.

  "Unless this is how you show hysteria, you're taking it a lot more calmly than I expected."

  "I'm all right." Louis tried to shake off his gathering fatigue. He'd had enough shocks that day to stop an army in its tracks, and rest was far away. "I know better than to doubt you. I should probably get home pretty soon, though, or Christine will panic. So that's the why of it?"

  Loughlin nodded. "Moral courage is the key. Physical courage is fairly commonplace, at least in moderation. Bravery in the face of real danger is rarer, but still common enough that you'll find a few dozen cases of it on any battlefield. But moral courage is rarer than any other human trait."

  "Moral courage?"

  "Courage enough to stand by your convictions and trust in your own judgement. That's what you showed that night. You took it upon yourself to save that girl and to execute the bastards who were abusing her. You didn't wait for some committee of designated bystanders to ratify your decision. You have no idea how rare that is." The old warrior paused. "Does your successor measure up to you, that way?"

  Louis looked away. "I'll have to leave it to you to decide."

  Loughlin didn't look happy with the answer, but he didn't press the matter.

  "When will you be pulling stakes?"

  "Tomorrow night, I think. I'm afraid to wait longer than that. I'm losing control too fast."

  "Have you closed all your accounts?"

  "I think so." Louis closed his eyes. "If I still owe anyone, I haven't the strength left to do anything about it."

  Please, God, don't let me think about Miles. Or Helen.

  "I'd like to help, if there's anything left undone."

  Louis sighed. "No, Malcolm, you've already accepted a large enough responsibility. Any trivia I haven't sorted out can be forgotten. Just look after Christine."

  "I will, Louis, I promise." Loughlin rose from his chair. He went to Louis, pulled the younger man to his feet, and wrapped him in a tight embrace.

  "Go to God with a quiet heart, son. Say hello from me, and tell him I miss him."

  "I will, Malcolm. Thank you for everything."

  "Don't mention it."

  ***

  Christine dropped her book and leaped from the sofa as Louis's truck pulled into the drive, just a few minutes after nine PM. She was at the door and waiting before he'd killed the engine. He entered the house with a sheepish grin, and they embraced. Boomer tried to slip his muzzle between them, with little success.

  "Sorry I'm so late. I expected to be home before you."

  "Is everything okay?" She looked into his guileless brown eyes.

  "It can't get any better, now that I'm with you." He squeezed her gently and laid his head against her shoulder. "Had any dinner?"

  "No, I was waiting to have it with you."

  "Well, let's be about it, then." He released her, rubbed Boomer's head, strode to the kitchen and began to pull ingredients from the refrigerator. "How does a three-bean salad, some broiled chicken and rice sou
nd?"

  "Fine." She seated herself at the table as he arranged his ingredients and tools on the counter. Boomer settled against the table leg. "What kept you out so late?"

  "Nothing much." His voice was steady and casual. "I had an obligation to polish off from a long while ago. The time just came for it, that's all. Tell me about what they've been doing with you at OA."

  He hadn't asked about the project before. She started to describe it, waxed enthusiastic, and talked for thirty minutes, her stream of words punctuated by his occasional "I see" or "uh-huh" as he worked. She'd just run down when he set two filled plates before them and sat beside her.

  She picked up her fork and was about to dig in when she noticed his gaze fixed upon her face. His eyes were liquid and luminous.

  "What's the matter, Louis?"

  Again he produced the grin, accompanied by a tiny shrug. "Nothing. I was just enjoying the sight of you."

  She smirked. "I'm just a carved-up former cycle slut who's learned a lot about clothes and makeup."

  His expression shattered like a mirror struck by a thrown rock. He reached for her hand and clutched it.

  "Don't ever say that, Chris. There has never been a more beautiful creature on this earth than you, with or without the clothes and makeup. It's a privilege just to be in the same room with you."

  Something's happening here.

  She tried to make light of it.

  "Come on, Louis. What I am is what you and Helen have made me, that's all. All you see is your own achievements." She made a show of looking herself over. "Not bad, I guess, but you could have done a lot better if you hadn't insisted on starting from scrap."

  He shot out of his chair and yanked her from her own. In an instant he had pressed her against the wall of the kitchen, his grip rough upon her shoulders, shaking her and shouting into her face.

  "How dare you say such a thing? The one thing you absolutely can't do without is self-respect. What good will any of what we've taught you be if you don't see yourself as worthy of it, damn you? Have we wasted our time after all?"

  The surprise of it obliterated her ability to respond. Pain and frustration flowed from him in palpable waves. Boomer stood whining, clearly upset but not sure what to do.