Iron and Salt

by Calinda B

  Ryan grabbed her arm. “What are you doing? Stop. You’re messing with evidence.”

  “Get your hand off of me,” she said, jerking free from his grasp. “I’m saving my brother by removing incriminating information.” She rolled the articles into a bundle and gripped them tightly, waving the tight cluster like a weapon.

  Ryan’s jaw grew slack. He blinked stupidly at her as if she’d nailed him in the nuts with a two-by-four.

  “Are you coming, or not?” she snapped, marching toward the door, aware he’d said similar words to her when they arrived.

  He shuffled along behind her.

  She threw open the battered front door, startling the guard.

  He jerked away from the wall as if electrocuted.

  “We’re taking this down to the station,” Ryan said to the other cop, pointing at the rolled up articles in Marie’s grip.

  “Like hell we are,” Marie said, scurrying toward the stairs. “I’m burning everything.”

  “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. That’s going straight into evidence,” Ryan said, from behind her back.

  Marie raced down the stairs. Once inside the bar, she barreled toward the exit, oblivious to her surroundings.

  Ryan’s footsteps thundered behind her.

  “Marie,” he called.

  She let the pub door slam in his face. Night had fallen, and the parking lot stood illuminated with the weak yellow glow of overhead lights. She beelined for the white Garda SUV with the neon green stripe along the side. She waited for Ryan to approach so the passenger door would slide open. When it did, she dropped into the seat. Still clutching the papers, she watched him stalk to his side of the vehicle.

  His door opened. He glared at her as he settled in the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Once he’d ignited the engine, the SUV screeched out of the lot, propelled by his lead foot.

  “Christ, woman, you’re going to get me fired.”

  “It’s payback,” she snarled. “You destroyed my heart. At least you could help me save my brother.”

  His mouth snapped shut in a grim line.

  She stared at the articles in her lap. In the darkness, she had to squint. She lifted her gaze and reached for the overhead light.

  “Stop it,” he said, shoving her hand away.

  “I need light to read,” she said, skewering him with her gaze.

  “You don’t need this light. It’s not safe to drive with the overhead on,” Ryan said, giving Marie a glower before training his eyes on the road.

  “It drives by itself,” she said hotly.

  “I don’t care. I said no,” he said.

  “Fine,” she snapped. She fished her phone from her coat pocket and turned on the little flashlight. Then, she trained the light on the articles. Should I sort them by date, or…? She fingered the corners, scanning the headline on each page. Her brow furrowed.

  “This is weird, Ryan,” she said, forgetting the elephant wall between them.

  “What?” he said, glancing in her direction.

  “Well, William’s gathered articles on Bluebeard, sure. But he’s also got clippings on St. Christopher’s, Father Gillespie at some charity ball, more St. Christopher’s…” Her voice trailed off as she scanned. Her phone buzzed and rang, startling her. Noting the caller ID, she answered. “Hey, Uncle Breslin. What terrible news do you have to deliver?”

  “Why would you think I have terrible news?” he said, a tone of amusement in his voice.

  “Isn’t all the news these days awful? I can’t think of a thing that’s going right,” she said, side-eying Ryan.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Well, this one should be of interest,” Uncle Breslin said. “Sarah’s awake. And, she identified the killer.”

  “What?” Marie’s spine straightened. Her heart hammered so hard she wondered if her ribs might shatter. Please don’t be my brother, please don’t be my brother. She slid the icon to Speaker. “Sarah’s identified the killer,” she whispered to Ryan. To Breslin, she said, “I’m with Ryan. We’re returning from one of the crime scenes, also known as my brother’s apartment.”

  “Good. Ryan, you’ll want to hear this,” Uncle Breslin said.

  Ryan pulled to the side of the road, coming to a skidding stop in the gravel. “We’re ready.”

  “Who the fuck is it?” Marie said.

  “It’s Father Gillespie,” Uncle Breslin said.

  Marie gasped. She stared at the clippings in her hand. “William knew. He suspected it.” And I thought he might be the killer.

  “Why would you say that?” Uncle Breslin said.

  “I’m holding a bunch of articles he collected. They’re all about the church and Bluebeard.” She flung the pile of papers to the floor, not wanting them in her lap.

  “This is fucked,” Ryan said. He slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel. “How could we all have been so blind?”

  Ryan’s police radio crackled.

  “Dispatch to all units. This is a fugitive alert.”

  Marie’s heart jammed into her throat.

  Ryan seized the radio, lifting it to his ear.

  “All units be on the lookout for William Ward, who escaped from Dungarvan jail. The suspect is unstable, violent, and dangerous. Gunshots fired in apprehension attempt. The suspect may be wounded. The suspect has been sighted at the waterfront, jumping into the ocean in a suicide attempt. Rescue teams have been dispatched.”

  Ryan took the car out of “auto-drive” and floored the SUV, fishtailing back onto the road.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said, bashing his hand into the steering wheel again. He flipped the turn signal to turn toward the main waterfront.

  “Stop,” Marie said, gripping his forearm.

  He looked down at her hand. “Why should I stop? The lad’s going to freeze to death if he hasn’t already.”

  “No,” Marie said, shaking her head. “He’s not out there. I’ll bet my running shoes.”

  “Then, where is he?” Ryan pulled off the road again.

  In the distance, near the dock, stood several official vehicles, lights flashing. A couple of men in full scuba gear duck-walked toward the edge of the dock.

  She firmly squeezed his arm. “He’s my twin. He may have started in the harbor, but I know where he went.”

  “Spill it, so I can go somewhere and make myself useful,” Ryan said, his face ashen.

  Her fingernails dug into his arm. “Head for the Dearg-Due gravesite. He’s transformed into a Leviathan, I’m certain of it. And, he may be hurt, bleeding, who knows? He could be dying in the sea for all we know.”

  “On it,” Ryan said, grim determination replacing his annoyance with her. He flipped on his siren and raced to the other side of town, the headlights illuminating their way. After turning left into the road leading to Marie’s Great Great-Grandma’s cottage, he came to a gravel-flinging stop near the path to the seaside grave.

  Marie hopped out of the vehicle and began to sprint down the rocky path. Barely able to see the ground, she stayed alert to her surroundings, sensing the way, guided by the tune of crashing ocean waves.

  “Marie! Wait!” Ryan called.

  Behind her, the SUV door slammed, followed by the crunch of Ryan’s boot steps heading in her direction.

  The grave still looked disturbed. Whether it was more disturbed then when she saw it last, Marie couldn’t tell—the gloaming had descended, shrouding everything in darkness.

  She began stripping her clothes off.

  Ryan caught up to her, the beam of his flashlight bobbing.

  “What are you doing?” His breath labored in his chest.

  “I’m going in. I’m going to attempt the transformation. I’ve got to save William.”

  Ryan’s free hand flew to his head. He squeezed the back of his skull. “Good God, woman, think this through. This is mad. You couldn’t transform the other day. You’ve never been able to transform. What makes you think you can do it now?”


  She stood, shivering in her underwear. “Thanks for the show of support.” Stooping, she scooped up her clothes and handed them to Ryan. “Hold on to these.”

  His gaze skittered to her body along with the flashlight beam, then beat a hasty retreat to the pile of clothes in her hands. “No, Marie, I won’t let you do this.”

  “You can’t stop me. This is my brother, we’re talking about. Your godson,” she added, knowing it was a cheap shot to remind him of that fact. She shoved the clothes at him.

  “You won’t last ten minutes in that water. You’ll go into hypothermia,” he said.

  “Not if I’m a Leviathan,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

  He threw back his head. “Come on. Think this through.”

  She placed both hands on his broad shoulders. In an oddly calm, flat voice, she said, “My brother’s life is on the line. I’m going in. I’m the only one who can help him. He’s my twin, and we share a bond like no other.” Guilt stabbed at her insides. And I’m the one who thought him capable of murder. Maybe I’m doing this to absolve myself of my horrible suspicions of him.

  For a second, she stood transfixed by his gaze. His icy resentment of her had been replaced by something far hotter. Lust, it seemed, had broken through the wall. His lips parted. His eyes burned with scorching heat, radiating to her core.

  She longed to lean close and give him another kiss. It could be her last. In the next few minutes, she and her brother might be tragic happenings in her parent’s hearts.

  Ryan broke the spell, glancing away from her. “Go on, then. I’ll be right here.”

  He stepped back.

  Another flash of heartbreak shattered her resolve. For a second, she thought about running away, heading for the hills, away from all this madness. But, then, the strange calm she’d experienced a moment ago drifted its way into her heart. Her mind shut down all emotion. Whatever would happen, would happen. She turned and strode resolutely toward the surf.

  A wave crashed against her legs, causing her to stumble. She put her hands over her head, leaned forward, and dived through the next wave. God’s balls, the water’s freezing. She pushed onward, her arms slicing through the surging water.

  The Atlantic wasn’t normally this frigid. It usually averaged around 14 degrees centigrade at this time of year. Not today. Her head pounded from the cold. Her bones ached.

  The notion of being held by liquid darkness, of snaking through a stream of fluidity began a seductive dance in her mind. “So, beautiful,” she murmured, captivated by the image. Her limbs began to grow languid. Her vision began to blur to black. She lay back in the water letting herself be gently rocked by the surging sea. The stars shone overhead with a kind of brilliance she’d never experienced.

  Then, her mind snapped back to fearful musings of her brother, dead, sinking to the bottom of the sea. She righted herself and her legs pedaled beneath the water while her arms flailed. “I’ve got to do something,” she whispered in a ragged breath.

  Her thoughts began to skitter about in fragments like she might be losing her grip on reality. But the throbbing water surrounding her seemed to beckon to her to let go into its caress.

  Freaked by her chaotic brain, she blinked, looking around frantically, trying to focus. Why am I here? Think, Marie, think. You’re here to do something important. She slapped the surface of the water, feeling like she’d failed at some great task that only she could accomplish. Come on. Remember. You’re here to do… Suddenly, her whole body went slack. She felt paralyzed and couldn’t breathe. She began to gasp, but even her lungs failed her. In the distance, someone called her name. And then, she sank, like a stone, into the dark, into the cold, completely surrendered to her death.

  Chapter 20

  Tuesday night – Paul

  Paul stood in his dimly lit bedroom, his shoulders slumped, his heart in a puddle around his ankles. He stared at the cardboard box of meager belongings on his bed. Quietly, he listed the items in the box, as if that might pierce the coldness in his chest.

  “Coffee mug. Water bottle. A picture of Ma and Bres.” His legs gave way, and he crumpled to the floor, on his knees as if in supplication. He let his head fall onto the bed. “I’ve lost everything. Anne, gone. My job, history. My sense of purpose obliterated.”

  Thank God Ma and Bres are asleep. They’d have seen my light and come over to check on me. And I don’t want to talk to anyone.

  He longed to pull a blanket over his head and huddle in the corner, just like he used to do at age five when the nightmares of the vampire and the banshee still whistled through his head. Fuck my life. It’s become the stuff of horror movies.

  He rolled his head to the right until his cheek rested against the smooth blue and gray bed cover. When his phone rang, he stared at the dresser where he’d placed it, wondering if he should answer it or not. Finally, he heaved himself to his feet and dragged himself across the room.

  He slid the icon to Talk, but before he could say a word, Anne whispered, “Help! Mute yourself and listen.”

  Her tone of voice sent shivers of ice tumbling along his spine. It shattered his need to mope. He slid the phone to mute and then headed toward the front door. Once outside, in the crisp air, he sprinted to his car, listening hard to his muted phone.

  “We’re going to purge Paul Riordan from your soul,” a voice said through the phone, but not at him.

  Prickles of fear stiffened the hair at the back of Paul’s neck. It’s Father Gillespie.

  “Yes, Father,” Anne said, her voice meek and shaky.

  “You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” Father Gillespie said.

  “No, Father, I have not laid with Paul, ever,” she said in that same meek voice.

  “Good. And you’re pure, dear Anne?”

  “I’m working on it,” she said. “The church has rescued me from my life of debauchery in the streets of Dublin.”

  “Kneel before me, child.”

  Some sort of scraping sound met Paul’s ears. A chair? He couldn’t tell.

  Father Gillespie assumed the tone he’d used in church last week when he gave his hellfire and brimstone sermon. “Bow your head.”

  “But, Father,” Anne said.

  Paul fired up his Renault and placed the phone in his lap. He strained to hear over the noise of the tires slapping the wet road in furious revolutions.

  “I said, bow your head,” Father Gillespie intoned in his “you’re going to hell” voice. “There,” he said. “Let me place my hand upon your fair hair,” he said, sliding into the voice of the deranged. “Ah, my sweet child, Anne. Your hair has been kissed by God himself.”

  Paul pictured Anne’s head bowed as she knelt before the priest, her face inches from Father Gillespie’s fucking wanger. His blood began to boil in his veins. Is he going to molest her? The church’s track record isn’t so clean, what with all the scandals of sexual abuse of late. His foot pressed down on the gas, and he zipped along the windy road, heading for St. Christopher’s.

  “Hell is a place of truth, where the true nature of the human condition shall be made clear,” the Father intoned. “If God in Heaven is holy, there must be a hell. Whereas heaven consists of ‘whosoever will,’ hell is a place of ‘whosoever won’t.’ Be ye of will, or of won’t, good Anne?”

  “I hope I am of will, Father,” she said.

  “Your purity,” Father Gillespie said, in a voice that sent bile into Paul’s throat. “It’s all I think about. That a sweet, sweet virgin such as yourself would come into my ministry…” His voice shook with emotion. “Oh, Anne, let us rejoice in your virginity. Let us sing praises to God that he should deliver you to me. We shall lay together and be one in Christ.”

  A strangled cry sounded, followed by a loud male grunt.

  “Get away from me, Father. You’re creeping me out. I’m not going to lay as one or whatever the fuck with you. You’re an idiot if you think I’m a virgin. I haven’t been a virgin since I was a fifteen-year-old strung-out j
unkie. What do you think kids on the street do for entertainment, huh? We get high, and then we fuck.”

  Her coarse words slammed into Paul’s chest. So, there’s a real woman in there. But now she’s a real woman in danger.

  Father Gillespie’s voice became loud and vicious. “You know not what you speak. Kneel before me, or I’ll…”

  Anne shrieked. “Get that thing away from me. You’re sick. You’re fucking sick.”

  “Kneel before me and await thy justice,” Father Gillespie bellowed.

  A muffled cry met his ears. “What are you doing? Are you going to kill me?”

  The heat in Paul’s veins turned to steam. He veered into the parking lot of the school, slammed on the brake, and leaped from the car. His phone tumbled from his lap to the ground. Fuck it. Anne’s life means more than a communication device. He sprinted toward the dorm, fishing his keys from his pocket.

  Sirens blared. He looked up to see Garda vehicles streaking down the lane.

  His fingers fumbled as he tried to fit the key in the lock. Slow down, man. Fit the key in the hole, and… The tumbler snicked open, and he pushed open the door.

  Down the dark hallway, Anne burst from her room, the light from her room spilling across the opposite wall. Dressed in her flimsy nightgown, her feet bare, she turned in the opposite direction from Paul and ran down the hall.

  “Anne! Wait!” he called, darting after her. His footsteps clattered along the polished wood.

  She hastened toward the back door, shoved it open and disappeared.

  Father Gillespie lumbered from the room, his robes a disheveled mess. His crucifix hung along his back. A sharp blade glinted in his hand. He limped down the corridor, chasing Anne. When he reached the back door, he gave it a mighty shove. The door thwacked against the wall.

  Paul’s skin iced over. Shit, he’s going to slice her open. His speed increased.

  A couple of dorm doors cracked open, and frightened eyes peeked through slits.

  Paul sped past them, unable to offer comfort or reassurance. He barreled through the exit, heading into the backfield. In the distance, he made out the white gown Anne wore, followed by the dark robes of the priest. He pried his last ounce of strength from his unwilling legs and powered toward the priest. When he’d closed the gap, he leaped, grabbing onto Father Gillespie’s robes.