I also created a protective bubble around my head, deflecting the stream of air away from my mouth. With the decrease in pressure, I was able to relax my throat and breathe again.
A hundred feet or so below me, the distance between Stacy and me began to increase. She was completely limp and at the mercy of gravity’s pull.
On television, I had seen skydivers tuck their arms in and increase speed by forming themselves into the shape of a rocket. I knew that would not give me enough time: we had been falling too long. The ground was rushing up fast.
Willing the exact opposite of the air cushion effect, I caused the air and wind to part below me, creating a frictionless tunnel.
I more than doubled my velocity downward, and for a moment, I felt the tight constriction of panic grip me.
I am in control, I told myself.
Reaching Stacy, I threw my arms around her.
Once I had a good hold of her, I willed the air to gather under us as a cushion once more.
For a moment, I thought I was too late. We were only a few hundred feet from crashing into a forest clearing.
Straining with the effort, I focused more and more air to thicken below us, and I could feel the physical pressure on my body as the atmosphere under us became as dense as water.
Despite my efforts, we hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of me. I had tried to protect Stacy with my body, and when we landed, she bounced off me, her head hitting me in the mouth and making me see stars.
But I was alive!
Groaning with the effort, I rolled over and checked Stacy. She was unconscious, but I could feel her breath against my hand. Pulling back her shirt from her shoulder, I winced. Tom’s bullet had hit her in the chest below her collarbone. It was bleeding freely.
Quickly, I tore off my shirt and did my best to wrap it around her torso in a makeshift tourniquet.
“I’ve got to get you to a hospital,” I said to her, though I knew she couldn’t hear me.
I looked around. I had no idea where we were or how far away the nearest hospital was. I had no way of calling for help, and I knew if Stacy didn’t receive medical attention soon, she might succumb to her wounds.
Frustrated, I stood up and looked around, and that’s when I spotted something hanging from a tree on the other side of the clearing.
Tom.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to Stacy, and broke into a run. When I got to the mercenary’s body, which looked as if it had been run over by a truck, I steeled myself to search his pockets.
I found a cell phone in his pocket, and prayed that it still worked.
Flipping it open, I pressed the power button, and felt a wave of anger at the injustice. The phone came on, but there was no connectivity.
Racing back to Stacy, I checked to make sure she was still breathing. I tightened the tourniquet around her wound, and said, “It’ll be all right; I promise. Just hang on a bit longer.”
Trying to be as gentle as I could, I picked her up and held her close.
Part of the reason I had developed a fear of flying and heights was the complete lack of control. I was at the mercy of other forces. Now, when I tapped into the power of the thing that possessed me, I had control over air and wind. I had stopped Stacy and myself from smashing into the ground.
And if I could do that…
Closing my eyes and focusing my mind, I once again gathered the air around me, willing it to lift us off the ground. I trembled from the effort, and when I opened my eyes once more, Stacy and I were several dozen feet in the air.
I continued to push us higher and higher until we were well above the canopy of forest around the clearing. For someone with ordinary vision, all they would be able to see was more trees. When I concentrated, my range of vision multiplied. About forty miles away, I saw the tops of a few high-rise buildings. I recognized the skyline of Tacoma.
With the power of wind at my control, I flew toward the city as quickly as I was able.
All the while, I was aware that even if I got Stacy to a hospital on time, I had left Darcy behind. She was at the mercy of David and Al.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I have no idea if anyone saw me fly over the streets of the city on our way to the Tacoma General Hospital, and I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting Stacy to the emergency room.
Bursting through the doors, I didn’t so much as pause at the reception desk before I spotted an empty bed.
The admitting clerk jumped from her seat. “Sir, you can’t go back there.”
“She’s been shot,” I said. Getting to the stretcher, I placed Stacy on it. “Get a doctor in here right now.”
Getting over her momentary shock at my arrival, the clerk picked up her phone, and I heard her voice echo over through the halls. “Dr. Gregson to emergency one. Dr. Gregson.”
Moments later, a thin, young-looking man in a white coat raced out of an adjoining room. He held one hand over the stethoscope around his neck to keep it from falling off.
Without looking at me, he reached Stacy and quickly checked her pulse. He barked orders to one of the two nurses who arrived moments later.
One of the nurses put her hand on my arm. “You can’t be in here. Come out to the waiting room.”
Numbly, I let her lead me to one of the chairs near the admission desk.
The nurse asked, “Are you all right?”
I looked up and then followed her eyes to the blood on my chest. I shook my head. “It’s not mine. Just help her.”
“We’re doing everything we can. The clerk will get all the information from you in a moment. Just stay here.”
As the nurse hurried back to assist the doctor, I glanced over at the clerk. She had the telephone to her ear again, and gave me a suspicious look. I was very familiar with it. Shirtless and bloodied, and having brought in a gunshot victim, it was no wonder the clerk was looking at me as she would a rabid dog off its leash.
I realized she was either calling for security, or calling the cops. If they arrived, they would detain me for certain. I would never get the chance to help Darcy.
Torn between wanting to wait for Stacy to pull through and running, I chose the latter. She would be safe here.
“Stop him,” the clerk shouted to one of the orderlies as I ran past. The man hesitated, as if uncertain what was happening. He lunged forward, and reached out to grab me.
With a nudge of my power, I sent a gust of wind at his ankles, and tripped him. He fell to the ceramic floor with a cry.
No one else got between the door and me, and I raced out of the hospital as fast as I could, not looking back until I was over a block away and certain no one was following.
* * *
Every muscle in my body hurt. My arms were heavy, and I could barely lift one leg in front of the other. I wasn’t sure whether I was feeling the after-effects of using the elemental power, or if it was because of my recent exertions. All I knew was that I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically.
In no condition to attempt to focus my thoughts to use the power again, I knew I needed to rest, at least for a little while. I had to find somewhere isolated. If I stayed out in public, looking as if I had been through a bar brawl, someone would call the cops eventually.
When it started to rain, I ducked into a back alley behind an office complex. There was a large garbage bin nestled under an overhang, and I wedged myself between it and the wall. Sitting down, I tucked my legs up to my chest and wrapped my arms around myself to try to keep warm. Soon, despite the cold and dampness, my eyelids grew heavy, and I fell asleep.
* * *
I only woke up because someone kicked my foot.
“Hey, asshole,” he said. “You’re sitting in my home. Go find your own place.”
The man standing over me looked to be in his sixties. He wore a torn shirt under a long overcoat. The smell of him was strong enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“Sorry, I just needed to get out of the rain.”
I pulled myself to my feet and held up an open hand. “I’m going, I’m going.”
Offering him a placating smile, I got out of the nook. He eyed me with suspicion as he took my place inside, and didn’t relax his fighting stance until I had moved down the alley.
My first impulse was to go back to the hospital, to see how Stacy was, but reason told me there was no way I could do that without raising alarms. I told myself she was safe. If anyone could help her, it was the medical staff.
I had another problem. I was the only one who knew Darcy was in peril; I was the only one who could save her.
I knew David would not kill her; he would use her as bait to lure me in. I just had to figure out where he had taken her.
I needed to get myself together first. I was shirtless, penniless, and the police were most likely on the lookout for me.
The homeless man’s words echoed in my thoughts. Home. With any luck, the destruction I had wrought on my home hadn’t been total. Some of my clothes might still be intact.
The rain continued to pour, and for the first time, I was thankful. It would provide cover for me; people rarely looked up during a rainstorm.
Focusing the elemental power once again, I willed the air to gather under me and push me off the ground and into the sky. Using a gale-force wind, I propelled myself up into the clouds above Tacoma and headed toward Seattle.
* * *
Home.
Or what was left of it.
Two of the walls still stood, but the front and one side were completely caved in. It was a mess, to say the least.
The police had erected a temporary fence around the property to keep anyone from wandering in. Warning signs and yellow police tape decorated the chain links.
Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I used my power to lift me up and over the barrier, landing gently on the other side. With a deep breath, I steeled myself and set about the task.
As I sifted through the rubble and gingerly climbed over the strewn wood and furniture to make my way to the ruin that used to be my bedroom, I tried as hard as I could not to think about what had happened here, but I could not push the guilt down.
I had killed my mother. It had been an accident; I never meant for it to happen, but that was little consolation now.
I could play the blame game all day. If David hadn’t killed his father, the fallen would not have jumped from him to me. If Chuck had stuck to designing websites, he wouldn’t have come to me with his plan or gotten caught up in this mess and been shot. If my mother had told me who my real father was, maybe I wouldn’t have gone down the path that led me to jail, or to try to steal data from David’s office.
But the truth was, at every turn, I had made the decision. I could have chosen otherwise. And, like my counselor at the prison said, I had to take ownership of those decisions. I couldn’t blame anyone but myself. Once I accepted that responsibility, I could choose to make different decisions in the future.
Before I could get back on the correct path, I had to repair the damage caused by my bad choices.
I had to find Darcy and get her away from David. He would kill her in favor of her distant cousin, who David thought would be more corruptible and controllable.
If I didn’t put a stop to David, he would continue to hunt me down until I was dead. Everyone who came in contact with me would be in danger; I knew David would use every available angle to get to me.
The thought of revenge wasn’t what passed through my mind when I made the decision; my intention was simply to eradicate an evil.
And if I was possessed by a fallen angel—if, somehow, that had in any way influenced my actions—then perhaps I, too, was evil.
I needed to know more. I couldn’t stop David without knowing how to stop myself or how to stop the creature inside me from jumping to another unwitting host.
But I couldn’t do anything without a few resources; namely, clothes and funds.
My dresser was little more than a collection of splinters. I managed to find a shirt that was mostly intact. I threw it on, and continued to dig through the rubble until I found the small wooden box in which I kept some emergency cash. In all, I counted fifty-seven dollars in paper, and a handful of coins.
After one last check to see if there was anything more I could salvage from the remnants of my house, I made my way back to the street.
The nearest bus stop was half a block away, and I remembered there was a pay phone there.
Hoping none of our neighbors had seen me and called the police, I headed to the bus stop as quickly as I could and, while I waited for a bus, placed a few phone calls.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The first call I made was to Worldwind Avionics. It was a long shot, but I had to eliminate the possibility. I recognized Wendy, the front receptionist, when she answered the phone, and I disguised my voice so she wouldn’t know who it was.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a professional tone. “Mr. Matheson is on vacation for the rest of the week. I can take a message if you like.”
I had no reason to believe she was lying about his absence. Besides, David would be foolish to bring a kidnap victim with him to work. He had only used the office as a setting to murder his father because he wanted the police to find him there, with me beside him holding the smoking gun.
“No, that’s all right,” I said. “Have a good day.”
Next, I called David’s house. My mother had had his private number written on a list next to our phone. I got an answering machine with a stock voice telling me to leave a message.
With only enough change left for one more phone call, and still no idea where David had taken Darcy, I tried another long shot.
In the tattered phone book hanging under the phone, I looked up a number and dialed.
A female voice spoke. “Thank you for calling the Archdiocese of Seattle. How may I direct your call?”
“I’m looking for Father Putnam. Is he there?”
“No,” she said, and I felt my spirits fade. “Father Larry Putnam would most likely be at his parish. If not, he has a machine where you can leave your name.”
I brightened. “Could you give me the number? Oh, and the address?”
“Of course,” she said, and did so. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes,” I said, and then I found I couldn’t get the words out.
Her voice changed tone. “Sir, are you still there?”
I could see the bus coming from a few blocks away. I didn’t have a lot of time.
“Do you have any exorcists in Seattle?”
There was a slight pause, and when the receptionist answered my question, she sounded puzzled. “I assume this is why you asked after Father Putnam? He’s the only sanctioned exorcist in our diocese. He has a very high standing in the International Association of Exorcists. I’m sure he can provide you with references, if you need them.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll do that.”
I hung up just as the bus arrived.
* * *
It took me most of the afternoon to reach Father Putnam’s chapel. The church was small, about the size of a house. Built on a lot between an office building and a pawn shop, the only thing that gave it away as a place of worship was the large cross, which was fixed to the roof.
Two cement steps led up to a short landing in front of the wooden double doors, both of which were closed. I climbed up to the landing and reached out to open the door, but hesitated.
I had never been a religious person, but I was conscious of some of the mythology around angels and demons. One of the aspects I had seen in movies countless times is that an evil spirit can’t enter holy ground. I didn
’t know if that was simply mythology, or if I would burst into flame if I set foot inside the church.
Steeling myself, I pulled the door open and entered.
Nothing spectacular happened, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was a small chapel with a dozen pews on either side. At the front of the aisle was a simple dais and an altar. Beside me, just past the entrance, was a stoup containing what I assumed was holy water.
I, a man who was possessed, had dared to enter sacred ground, and nothing spectacular had happened.
Bravely, I extended two fingers toward the holy water. Remembering how the chrism had burned when I drank it, I was ready to pull my hand away at the first sign of pain.
Dipping the tip of my finger in the holy water, I blinked in mild surprise when all I got was wet.
“Richard, my son, you are not evil. You are a victim. The dark spirit inside you is the one who is corrupting your soul.”
I whipped my head around at the sound of the voice. Father Putnam stood in the doorway to a side office. In his hand, he held a rosary similar to the one he had used to bind the fallen angel to me that morning.
“So long as the evil inside you feels no threat, you are safe to touch holy water or to receive the Eucharist,” he said, slowly walking toward me. “If I were to invoke the name of Our Lord and order the evil spirit out of you, it would rise up to fight the threat. Revealed, it becomes vulnerable to all holy sacraments. You are connected to it, and only then would you feel the pain of Our Lord’s divine power through the holy water, or chrism, or any other blessed object.”
All the while, as he spoke, he continued to approach me, as if approaching a frightened child. His eyes were soothing, as was his tone. Only when he was a short distance from me did he stop.
“Don’t try anything,” I warned him, though I had no idea what I could—or would—do to him.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said. “But I can help you, if you’ll let me.”
“Help me?” I spat the question. “Like you helped me this morning?” Staring at him in disbelief, I asked, “How can you, a priest, stand by and watch as someone like David kidnaps and murders people?”
Angel's Breath: The Second Book of Fallen Angels Page 16
