Blood of Angels

by Reed Arvin

  “I’ve humiliated the great Thomas Dennehy. I was smarter than her precious Professor Buchanan. And she’s with you.” Bridges is losing it, talking to himself on the other end of the line. “Every single person in this thing has done exactly what I’ve decided. I’m in control.”

  “Leave her out of it, Bridges. This is about you and me.”

  Bridges pulls the phone up to his mouth, making his voice a breathy rasp. “It’s already over; you just don’t know it. You’re in the wrong place, Dennehy. You’ve been in the wrong place since the beginning. You’ve been chasing ghosts. Now you will pay for the life you stole from me.”

  “Tell me what you’re going to do, you coward.”

  “This is my schedule, do you hear me!” he screams. “You just stay by the phone, Skippy. You’ll find out.” The line goes dead.

  I turn to Fiona. “Are you trying to get killed?”

  “I’m not afraid of him, Thomas.”

  “You don’t get this, do you? You were safe when he was using you. Now you’re on my side.” I start toward the back door. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

  “To where?”

  “I’m taking you someplace safe until this is over. I won’t have your head on my conscience.”

  “No.”

  I whirl around. “Excuse me?”

  “You gave the lecture that Bridges used me. You were right. I didn’t understand how far hate could take him. And maybe you could cart me off now, except for one thing. I don’t walk away from my responsibilities.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You say you won’t have my head on your conscience? Join the club, because I won’t have yours on mine.”

  “You’re not helping, Fiona. You’re in the way.”

  “He loves me, Thomas. He won’t hurt me.”

  I look at her cautiously. “You know how he feels about you?”

  “Of course. Being a preacher doesn’t make me dead, Thomas.”

  I watch her, considering. “What are you saying? That you’ll act as bait?”

  “If it has a chance of bringing him in, yes.”

  “He’s a dangerous man, Fiona. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “You have no other choice.”

  “So you figure I’ll let you put yourself at risk to save my ass. Not hardly.” I exhale. “Look, I appreciate the offer. It’s admirable. Every time I’m around you, you do some damn thing I don’t expect. But on this, you’re dreaming.”

  I TAKE HER TO MY HOME. There’s nothing else I can do, because she’s in this thing now. She shouldn’t do that, Bridges had said, and that can’t be good. He killed his parole officer for suggesting he work as an orderly in a hospital. The penalty for siding with the man he hates above all others, I can’t imagine. We pull into my subdivision about noon. I make Fiona stay in the truck until I go through the house, room by room. The house is clear, and I lock it down once we’re inside.

  I set the .45 on a table in the front hallway, pick up a phone, and call Sarandokos’s number. “Maria, please get me Rebecca.”

  “Si, Señor Dennehy. I get her.”

  A few seconds later, Rebecca answers in an icy tone. “Hello, Thomas.”

  “Is Jazz okay?”

  “Of course she’s okay. What’s this about?”

  “Where is she, right now?”

  “Fifteen feet away from me.”

  “Good. Keep her at home, and turn on the alarm.”

  The silence that follows contains a truckload of recriminations, disappointments, and frustrations. Finally, she says, “How bad is it?”

  “I’m going to send over a uniform tonight.”

  “A uniform.”

  “Yeah. Just for tonight.”

  Her voice is pure metal. “And what do I tell Jazz when she asks me why there’s a man out front with a gun?”

  I close my eyes. “Keep her away from the windows. Play games or something. Is Michael home today?”

  “He’s going to play golf.”

  “Tell him to cancel it.”

  Another pause. “You’re scaring me, Thomas. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Just keep her in sight today, and everything’s going to be fine. It’ll be over soon.” Sarandokos’s alarm is state of the art. A mouse couldn’t get through that thing.

  “It’s never over, Thomas. That’s the problem.” She hangs up.

  Three adults, perimeter security, a gated community, and tonight, an armed guard. One thing I know. I’ll never let him get his hands on Jazz. Let him come after me, and we’ll finish this once and for all. I hand Fiona my cell phone. “I’m taking a shower. Come get me if it rings.”

  I go to the bedroom and strip. The shower water’s as hot as I can stand, but it doesn’t soothe. I’m inside Charles Bridges’s clock now, forced to wait. I don’t call the police, since there’s nothing to tell them. The guy you can’t find is somewhere planning something terrible he won’t reveal. It feels like something inside me wants to explode. I towel off, throw on jeans and pull on a shirt, and walk back out into the living room. Fiona is sitting in one of the living room chairs, her eyes closed. “You getting some rest?”

  She opens her eyes. “I was praying.”

  “Does that help?”

  She smiles softly. “At the moment, it’s all I’ve got. You feel better?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know. Cleaner, anyway.”

  She hands the phone to me. “Did you eat?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything in the kitchen?”

  “Last time I looked, just eggs.”

  “Stay here.” She walks past me, and in a few moments I hear her pulling out a pan from underneath the counter. She’s this big feminist, activist, liberal. And then she goes to make me eggs.

  I don’t have the energy to analyze it. I’m wiped, caught between exhaustion and the nervousness of waiting on Bridges. I wander into the kitchen, set the phone on the breakfast table, and sit. Fiona goes to the refrigerator and pulls out eggs, milk, cheese, a green pepper, and a red onion. “I can do that myself, you know,” I say. “I just did, the other night.”

  “Olive oil?”

  “Under the counter.”

  Within a couple of minutes she has the eggs on the gas range. “Where’s the coffee?”

  I stand. “You’re in luck, Towns. I make the greatest coffee on Earth.” I go through my coffee ritual, grateful for something to do. It feels normal, as though we weren’t a phone call away from having the world turn upside down. When I’ve finished, she’s got the eggs on plates. I hand her a cup, and she takes a sip.

  “Good grief, Dennehy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  We sit across from each other at the table, the phone between us. I don’t say much, but I’m glad she’s there. However bad this is, it would be worse alone. “They’re good,” I say.

  “Thanks. There wasn’t much to work with.” She picks at her food, lost in thought. After a couple of minutes she walks over to the sink and starts cleaning up.

  “Just leave it,” I say, over my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.” She doesn’t answer. I turn and look, and see her staring into the sink, her hands clenched along its rim. “Hey, you OK?” I walk up behind her and put my hand on her shoulder. She turns, and I see she’s crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I should have seen this. I should have done something to prevent it.”

  “It’s OK.”

  She turns and puts her arms around me, pulling me against her. Her face is in my neck. “Your friend is dead.”

  I press my hand behind her neck, and her hair falls down over my fingers. “You drive me nuts, Towns. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You also have more real courage than anybody I’ve met in a long time.”

  She pulls back far enough to look up at me. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

  “It’s weird, but Carl would have liked you. He would ha
ve said you were wrong about everything. But he would have liked you anyway. He was that kind of man.”

  She smiles softly. “I’m sorry I never met him.”

  “You two would have had a hell of a debate.” I kiss her cheek and walk back to the breakfast table. The phone sits silent and dangerous, like an armed explosive. “I can’t stand here and watch it all day.” I fall back against the chair, letting her fingers knead my shoulders. She moves up against me, and my head leans against her stomach. I close my eyes and let myself drift away a little. She moves her fingers down my spine, then presses her palms outward, pushing tension out with the movement.

  “Put your head down.”

  I lean forward, and she moves her hands down to my belt and begins tracing them slowly upward. She presses her hands back down, and I give in to her completely, letting her work the fatigue out of the muscles. She massages me for ten minutes or so, then bends down to kiss my neck. I turn to face her. “When I saw you in court, that first day, I thought we’d be enemies.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Maybe when this is all over.”

  “Maybe.”

  I stand, pull her to me, and breathe her in. The scent I noticed before is on her, and on me, now, as well. I pull her closer and move to kiss her. She opens her lips slightly, and I feel her hips press against me. I kiss her, and she opens her mouth and presses her tongue into mine. I pull her hard against me, and we exchange another long, deep kiss. I step back, exhaling. “I’m sorry. I just…”

  “It’s OK,” she says. “I wanted to.”

  Ten minutes later, my home line rings. Even though it’s not my cell, my heart jumps into my mouth. The caller ID shows it’s Bec. I answer, and she says, Thomas? It’s me.” A pause. “Listen, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  I exhale, letting my heart rate settle. “I’m fine. Is Jazz all right?”

  “She’s in her room, playing.” Another pause. “All this talk about taking care of Jazz. It’s you who’s in danger, isn’t it?”

  “I can take care of myself, Bec.”

  “It’s just that I got another one of my bad feelings. Like something terrible was going to happen.” More silence. “Tell me the truth, Thomas. Is this going to be OK?”

  “Michael’s there, right?”

  “We’re all here. Michael, Maria, and me.”

  “Then don’t worry.”

  “I just had such a chill inside. A feeling of dread.” A final pause. “Don’t take any crazy risks today, OK, Thomas?”

  “Try not to worry, Bec. Give Jazz a kiss for me, and tell her I love her.”

  I hang up, then punch in the numbers for the South station of the police. I ask for the desk sergeant and get a woman named Welch. “Listen, this is Thomas Dennehy, assistant district attorney. I was wondering if I could get a favor from you.”

  “Anything, Mr. Dennehy. Mr. Becker had friends here.”

  “Carl’s killer is still at large, and I’m concerned about my daughter as a possible target.”

  “You want an officer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I can’t pull an officer off a route to do it. But I can cover it from second shift on.”

  “That’s would be great.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Twenty-two Wentworth Place, over in President’s Club.”

  “I’ll make this work, but if you want it to go on past tonight, I’m going to need paperwork.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. I owe you.”

  “We’ll handle it.”

  I click off the phone. “So Jazz is OK.”

  “You’re daughter’s going to be fine, Thomas. It sounds like you somebody was worried about.”

  I nod. “Before? That was my ex-wife. She’s concerned our daughter still has a father when this is over.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  I walk into the living room, and collapse on the couch. “If I could bring Bridges to me, I would. But he’s not playing it that way. He’s checking off a list of things I care about.”

  She sits next to me. “What’s left?”

  I shake my head. “Lots of things. The whole staff at the DA’s office. A good steak. The Atlanta Braves.” I pause. “And you.”

  She smiles. “Yeah, but I’m here with you.”

  “I’m just saying, if it goes down, I’m not letting you do something stupid and heroic.”

  “You know something, Dennehy? I’m not the kind of woman who takes orders very well.”

  “So I noticed.” With that, it’s over; I pull her against me and kiss her as hard as I can. My hands are trembling. Hell, my whole body is trembling. It’s Carl and Indy and the truck and shit-faced, grinding fear over what Bridges is going to do next, wrapped up with eighteen months of untapped lust, and it breaks like a dam over the Reverend Towns. She answers it hungrily, kissing me back so ferociously that I wonder what anguish and frustrations she’s been keeping behind her own dam. Whatever they are, it’s enough to unravel her as completely as I come apart, and we wrap around each other until I can barely breathe. I can feel how strong she is; her strength ignites me, and I push back against her, reveling in her strength. “Jesus,” I say. “Get this—”

  “It’s in the back.”

  “My God.” Her hands unbuckle my belt; she pushes her fingers down into my open fly, and I moan, pressing my hips forward. Somehow, her shirt is pulled over her head, her bra undone. What happens next is a pressing, flexing blur, part release, part aggression. It’s sex and abyss, blended into one. My pants are stuck on my left ankle, hers are draped over the back of the couch. Her teeth are in my shoulder, her fingernails in my back. We move together, naked, until she opens her eyes wide, her breath coming in great gasps. Her hand comes up behind my head, and she pulls my face down into her neck. For a long time, nothing exists but us.

  When it’s over, neither of us moves. I breathe in her scent and feel her skin against me the length of my body. I’m crying a little—I don’t know when it started—but I know it’s over Carl, not what just happened. I haven’t wept for him, and I have to, just a little, or I’ll go nuts. I roll over on my side and kiss her. “You’re staying alive,” I whisper. “No matter what.”

  “People staying alive is what I’m all about, Dennehy.”

  For a moment—a few seconds—I get it; for Fiona, there’s life, and then there’s everything else. As long as we’re alive, there’s the chance for a moment like what just happened, and it’s so healthy and affirming and fucking gorgeous that for a few seconds, I don’t want to deny it to anyone, no matter who they are or what they’ve done. Maybe it even has the power to heal a monster. I kiss Fiona on the mouth, still getting used to how she tastes, still alive to the nuance of the shape of her lips. “The Reverend Fiona Towns,” I whisper, and I kiss her again. There’s something holy about her, even when she’s naked, or maybe especially when she’s naked; I’ve seen how it works for her, how even a damaged life can be sacred. But in the same moment, I know it doesn’t work that way for me. When I think about the photograph of Carl, I lose my mercy. I know that in the right circumstances, I am fully capable of killing Charles Bridges, and that if that moment comes, something in me will feel profoundly grateful for the chance to do it. I pull her against me and whisper in her ear again: “The Reverend Fiona Towns.”

  THE AFTERNOON PASSES with agonizing slowness. Against the euphoria and comfort of each other’s presence is the torture of the silent phone. Every hour is both a relief and an increase in tension; we’ve survived, but we know Bridges’s end game has moved toward us, too. When, at nearly 5:00 p.m., nothing has happened, Fiona makes an announcement. “He could do this to us for days, Thomas. This is exactly what he wants.”

  I drag my eyes off the phone. “I know that. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “I’m going to the store. We have to eat.”

  “You can’t go alone, and I’m not leaving.”

  “It’s a cell phone, Thomas. It trav
els.”

  “We’ll order pizza.”

  She walks to me. She has on one of my T-shirts, tucked into her black jeans. “There’s a sandwich place right up the road. We could order out and bring it home.”

  I nod. “All right. But we go together.”

  It’s only five minutes to the restaurant, and I go in with Fiona while she orders. Fifteen minutes later we’re back in the house, devouring the meal. I haven’t eaten properly for a couple of days, and it’s catching up with me. But there’s still no call. At 7:30, I use my home phone to ring my cell, just to make sure it’s working. The cell phone rings, and I hang it up.

  “Maybe it’s a bluff,” Fiona says. “He just wants you to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but I don’t believe it.

  At 8:45, I force myself to stop pacing; at 9:30, I’m ready to throw the phone out the window. Stress, combined with lack of sleep, are wearing me down; I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize the man looking back isn’t capable of denying himself sleep another night. My body is going to demand its due.

  At 10:45, I can’t fight it anymore. “I’ve got to sleep,” I say.

  Fiona nods. “Me, too.”

  “Look, I can take the couch.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “What I want is you six inches away from me. I just didn’t want to presume.”

  She smiles, and I know we’re past that. I take her hand and lead her into the bedroom. I plug the cell phone into the charger and strip down to my shorts. I flick off the light and climb in bed. Fiona pulls off her jeans and T-shirt, and climbs naked into bed next to me. I lie on my back, Fiona on her side beside me, facing me. “Nobody’s spent the night with me in this bed since my ex-wife.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  I smile. “God, I don’t know. Three years.”

  She takes my hand and lifts it to her lips. “Get some sleep, Dennehy. You need rest.”

  She flicks off the light, and I close my eyes. The last sound I hear before I fall asleep is the sound of Fiona’s voice, whispering into the heavens.

  SOMETIME IN THE NIGHT, I open my eyes. I’m breathing heavily, lying in my bed. I realize I have the sheets in a vise grip, and I let my hands relax. I look over at Fiona and see her watching me in the dim light. She’s up on one elbow, her hair falling down below her head. Her body is in shadow, but I can see the contours of her arm, her flat stomach, the rise of her breasts. She reaches over and lets her fingers stroke my chest. “You were dreaming.”