BlackWind Read online

  “No, thank you, sir,” Sean replied as he left the shed.

  Andy followed Sean outside and turned to padlock the shed. “I live only a couple of blocks from your house. It ain't no bother.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I kinda like the solitude.”

  Andy looked at him. “Seems to me you have more solitude than you need, son.” He smiled sadly. “Or that's good for you.”

  Sean ducked his head. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged.

  “Well, any time you wanna talk or such, you just let me know,” Andy said gruffly. “Okay?”

  Sean nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Andy patted him on the back. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Andy backed out of the car lot, the sweep of his headlights played over the tree where Sean had padlocked his bike, then left it in darkness. Sean wished there were security lights illuminating that section of the lot. As it was, he had to strain to see the barrel lock. Just as the last pin disengaged, he heard a rattling in the bushes that bordered Griffin's property and the empty lot behind it.

  Straightening up from his crouched position, Sean looked into the shadows. He stood still, listening, but there was no further sound. Still, the hair on the back of his neck stirred, and there was a tight sensation in the pit of his stomach, the taste of lead filling his mouth.

  All his life Sean had felt and heard things he could not explain. Able to “read” other people's minds had at first frightened, then confused, then later irritated him. Most of the time he pushed aside the thoughts and ignored them. With Bronwyn, he often gave in to listening to her inner thoughts, but always hated himself for doing it. On rare occasions, the ability had served Sean well when his father had made up his mind to take his frustrations out on him. At times like that, Sean was quick to put distance between himself and Tymothy Cullen. Rarer still were the times when Sean sensed danger heading his way from an unknown source.

  Just as he sensed it now.

  Never taking his eyes off the bushes at the edge of Griffin's property, Sean backed his bike away from the tree. He never saw the person behind him, but he heard the swoosh of air a second before something hard connected painfully with his spine. He fell sideways, over his bike, gasping with agony as the right pedal jabbed into his groin.

  * * * *

  Bobby Thompson watched from the protection of a huge live oak as his buddies went to work on Sean Cullen. He grinned as they jerked Sean up from the ground and hustled him behind the storage shed so no passers-by would see what was happening.

  “Don't hit him in the face!” Bobby hissed.

  Two burly linebackers held Cullen's arms while two other members of Bobby's team took turns using the helpless prisoner as a punching bag. The sound of fists landing brutal blows, then sneaker-clad feet slamming into unprotected flesh as Cullen dropped heavily to the ground, could not be heard over the homeward-bound traffic that passed out front on Broad Street. Cullen's grunts were drowned out by the soft, vehement curses of his assailants as he lay curled on the ground in a vain attempt to protect himself from the savage beating.

  With one last vicious kick, his attackers ran, leaving him in the dirt behind the storage shed. Bobby joined his teammates as they ran past, laughing with them at the carnage they had left behind.

  * * * *

  Sean moaned as he tried to push up from the ground. Though they had landed no blows to his face, he hurt in a dozen places and was sure a rib or two was cracked, if not broken. He wretched, his body shuddering with the effort, as pain flowed through him. His groin was on fire; his kidneys throbbed with terrible agony; his back hurt so badly he could barely move. He tried once more to get up, but the pain proved too much to bear.

  He pitched over into the darkness that reached up to embrace him.

  * * * *

  Bronwyn pushed open the door to the church, then walked to one of the middle pews, genuflected, and took a seat. She sat for a moment, staring at the huge crucifix behind the altar, then lowered the kneeler. Slipping to her knees, she made the sign of the cross and clasped her hands together. With elbows braced on the bench in front of her, she lowered her head to her hands.

  “Hail Mary, full of Grace...”

  * * * *

  From his place beside the statue of Joseph, Father Felix Connelly watched the young woman. Her family had been among the first to welcome him as the new priest of St. Teresa's a few months earlier. The kindly priest had sensed the girl's turmoil and had been trying for a week to have a private talk with her. A meeting of the C.Y.O. board of officers that evening had given Fr. Felix the opportunity; but Bronwyn had left the meeting as soon as it was over. He had not expected to find her in the church when he came from the rectory to lock up for the night.

  * * * *

  Bronwyn looked up as she felt a presence beside her. She smiled. “Hi, Father.”

  “May I sit with you, dear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bronwyn slid over on the pew.

  Fr. Felix took a seat beside her. “Is everything all right at home?”

  “More or less.”

  “Typical home with a teenager in it, eh?”

  She grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  He sat in silence for a moment. “How do you like your junior year in high school?”

  Bronwyn shrugged. “It's okay,” she said, looking down at her hands clutched in her lap.

  “Grades good?”

  “Straight A's.”

  “I heard you're president of the junior class. I'm sure you have a lot of friends who voted for you.”

  “I do.”

  “Your teachers like you, I'll bet.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Not having a problem with one of them, are you?”

  Bronwyn shifted in the seat so she could look at his gentle face. “I'm having boy trouble, Father.”

  Fr. Felix sighed. “Nothing serious, I hope.” His pale blue eyes searched hers.

  Her face turned hot when she understood his silent question. She looked away from that probing stare. “We're waiting until we're married, Father Felix,” she said, instinctively knowing his thoughts would be running along those lines. “He isn't pressuring me or anything like that. He believes in waiting.”

  “That is always encouraging to hear in this day and age, Bronwyn,” he said gently.

  “It's my parents.”

  “So they don't approve of your young man? Do I know him?”

  “It's Sean Cullen, Father.”

  “A courteous young man and a devout Catholic. He comes to early Mass with his mother on Sunday.” He cocked his chin toward the front pews. “Sits up there and sings every song as loud as can be.” He laughed. “Well, Dorrie sings. Seannie tries, but he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it.”

  Bronwyn smiled. “He is awful, isn't he?”

  “Yes, but a terrific kid.” The priest frowned. “What do your parents have against him?”

  “Who his father is and what he does for a living.”

  “Ah, I see. It's the old story of the lace curtain Irish looking down their noses at their poorer countrymen, eh?”

  “Exactly. Daddy calls them ‘shanty Irish.’ They don't know Sean and they don't want to get to know him.”

  “They've forbidden you to date him?”

  “Yes, sir, and they've threatened to have him arrested if I do.”

  The priest shook his head as though lamenting the news. “Well, I imagine they believe they are protecting you, dear.”

  “I don't need protection from Sean!”

  Father Felix took Bronwyn's hand. “My instinct tells me you're right. Do you love him?”

  She met the kind priest's gaze. “With all my heart.”

  “And does he love you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You're sure?”

  “As sure as I am of anything in this life, Father.”

  “Then God will provide a way for you two to be
together, Bronwyn. You must trust His judgment and rely on His ability to set things to rights. It might take a while, but if your love is pure and destined to be, He will see that it endures.”

  “Even if my parents are so against Seannie?” she sobbed, swiping at the tears falling down her cheeks.

  “We have to trust that our Lord knows what's best for us, dear.”

  “I don't want anything to happen to Sean. My parents aren't going to change their minds.”

  “Your parents are good people. They want what they feel is best for you.”

  “Sean is best for me.”

  “Then perhaps one day they'll see your way of thinking. You just have to hope and pray they do.”

  “Will you say a prayer for us, Father?” Bronwyn asked. “For Sean and me?”

  “Tell you what—let's pray together,” he replied, sliding to the padded kneeler.

  Bronwyn knelt beside him and added her heartfelt prayers to his.

  * * * *

  It was well after midnight when Dorrie Cullen heard the back door open. She lay as tense as a coiled spring beside her snoring husband, holding her breath until she was sure it was Sean coming home at this late hour and not a prowler. Long after Sean's bedroom door closed, she lay staring at the ceiling. Finally, she carefully eased back the covers, swung her feet to the floor, then crouched beside the bed, her hands clasped in prayer.

  “Hail Mary, Full of Grace,” she began, tears sliding down her wrinkled cheeks.

  * * * *

  In his room, Sean gingerly stretched out on the bed, not bothering to remove his clothing. He hurt so badly he had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. Slowly, he pulled his knees up to his chest and lay in a fetal position, his torso a mass of throbbing and his spine on fire with an agony all its own.

  He had recognized the boys who had beaten him. He had also gotten a glimpse of Bobby Thompson standing off to one side, watching. His last thought before he allowed welcoming sleep to claim him was one of unadulterated vengeance. If it were the last thing he ever did, Sean would make all five of his attackers wish they'd never been born.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dorrie looked around as Sean entered the kitchen the next morning. She frowned. “Where were you last night?”

  “I fell asleep at the car lot,” Sean answered. He glanced at the oatmeal she had prepared for him and looked away. “I ain't hungry.”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Dorrie stepped away from the sink. “You're working too hard.”

  Sean shrugged and wished he hadn't. He knew his pain flashed across his face. He grabbed the back of a kitchen chair to keep his knees from buckling.

  “Sean?” she questioned, reaching out.

  “I'm okay,” he managed to say through clenched teeth. “Just stiff.”

  Her eyes full of concern, Dorrie lowered her hand. “You sure, boy?”

  “I'm sure.” He barely glanced at her before he turned to go. “I'll be really late coming home, Ma. Just leave me something in the oven.”

  With his jaw set, he pushed open the screen door. He stood on the step for a moment, looking for his bike, then realized it was still at the car lot. He had walked home.

  Sighing deeply, he didn't relish the thought of having to walk to school. If he hurried, he might be able to catch the bus at the middle school two blocks away. His body aching, his temples pulsing with a vicious headache, he stepped onto the carport slab and headed down the driveway.

  * * * *

  Dorrie watched her son from the kitchen door. “May the road rise up to meet you, Seanie,” she whispered. “May the Wind be always at your back.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Tym snarled from behind her.

  She jumped, turning to face her husband's glower. “Just saying a prayer for our son,” she admitted, lowering her eyes.

  Cullen snorted. “Our son,” he sneered as he took his place at the table. “Your son, you mean. He ain't mine!”

  Dorrie flinched, but made no comment. Instead, she hurried to the stove to ladle up his breakfast of grits, scrambled eggs, and patty sausage.

  “Where's my toast and apple jelly?” he demanded.

  “I ain't had time to make the—”

  Tym leapt to his feet. With a backhanded blow, he sent her reeling across the kitchen. Dorrie banged into the counter, cried out with pain, then landed on the floor in a crumpled heap.

  “You got time to stand there spouting mumbo-jumbo to that bastard son of yours, but you ain't got time to take care of my needs?” Cullen kicked her in the hip. “Get your lazy ass up and make the damned toast, bitch!”

  Dorrie screamed with pain as the pointed toe of her husband's boot again connected with her hipbone.

  “Get up!” he demanded. When she didn't move fast enough, he grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her to her feet. Ignoring her whimpers, he forced her toward the toaster and shouted in her ear. “Fix my toast!” He let go of her hair with a cruel push that cracked her head against the upper cabinet door.

  “Aye, Tymothy,” Dorrie moaned, shuddering violently. Her hands were trembling as she untwisted the tie on the loaf of bread. She dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, then hurried to the refrigerator for the butter and jelly.

  “Useless slut,” he pronounced as he sat at the table. “Just as useless as her good-for-nothing son. Maybe I ought to tell him what kind of bitch he has for a ma.”

  Tears sliding heedlessly down her cheeks, Dorrie stood at the counter and stared at the block of knives. Her gaze fell on the thick handle of the butcher knife, then to her husband. She stared at him until the twang of the toaster shook her from her revelry. Methodically, she opened the container of butter and began spreading it on the toast. All the while, her gaze kept straying to the knife block.

  “What's taking you so long, woman?”

  “I'm ready,” she whispered. She carried the buttered toast and jar of apple jelly to the table. “You want anything else?”

  He opened the jar, slathered a huge dollop of jelly on one of the toast slices, and bit into it.

  Dorrie walked back to the counter and placed two more slices of bread into the toaster. Once more, her gaze slithered to the knife block. “You said you would never tell him.”

  He grunted. “Time he knew the truth. He'll find out sooner or later, anyways.”

  The toast popped up. Dorrie laid her toast on another plate and began buttering it. “You promised never to tell him.”

  “Shut the hell up. I may, or I may not. Depends on my mood.”

  She reached for the butcher knife. After drawing the wicked blade from the block, she lowered it to her side, hiding it in the folds of her skirt. She turned, watching her husband cramming food into his mouth. “He thinks you are his father.”

  Not bothering to look at her, he continued to eat. His chin was greasy with butter; specks of grits clung to his red mustache. He answered around a mouthful of sausage. “Ask me if I care what the little bastard thinks. I'm tired of folks thinking that piece of crap is any kin to me!”

  The knife handle was hot in Dorrie's hand, the thickness of it reassuring. She started toward the table. She felt the wicked point jabbing into her leg, but she welcomed the slight nick of pain.

  “He's a good boy,” she whispered as she came to stand beside her husband.

  “He's a coward.” Cullen glanced up at her. “I don't need nothin’ else. Get the hell away from me.” He looked down at his plate, dismissing her. “I think I'll have a talk with him when he comes home this evening.”

  Dorrie raised the knife and struck. Years of battering gave her unerring aim and enough power behind the force of her movement to nearly decapitate her husband of seventeen years.

  The bright red arterial blood that gushed from the brutal wound in Tymothy's neck washed over the pale blue tablecloth, mixed with the white grits and gray sausage and creamy yellow scrambled eggs on the green dinner plate, and sprayed into the cup of black coffee. The colors ran and blend
ed and changed hues as Cullen slumped in his chair, clutching his wound between fingers that were soon scarlet.

  Dorrie leaned against the wall, the coppery smell of blood making her nauseous. She could not take her eyes from her husband until he gurgled his last bubbling breath and his powerful hands fell palm up in his blood-soaked lap, the fingers twitching occasionally until all movement ceased. The last spurt of blood squirted onto the table, landing in the jar of apple jelly.

  “You promised you'd never tell him.” Dorrie dropped the butcher knife, yet did not flinch when it hit the linoleum with a clatter. “And you'll keep that promise, Tymothy Cullen.”

  The only sounds were the soft patter of blood dripping down the tablecloth to splatter on the floor, the tick of the clock, and the hum of the refrigerator as it kicked on.

  For several moments, she stared at her husband, hating him with every fiber of her being. She turned, shut and locked the kitchen door, lowered the blind over its window, then padded carefully through a widening pool of blood to pull down the blind above the sink.

  She unbuttoned her blouse and dropped the spattered white linen into the trashcan. Her skirt followed. After removing her blood-saturated slippers, she added them to the trash. Clad only in her slip, bra, and panties, she went to her bedroom, threw on a freshly-ironed house dress, stepped into a pair of canvas sneakers, then walked through the living room, out the front door, and around the house to the shed in back.

  When she returned, she was carrying a long black case that held her husband's chain saw.

  * * * *

  He found them in the lunchroom that day.

  Unconcerned that he knew who they were and not afraid he'd tell, Bobby Thompson and his four teammates sat together at the table where all the jocks convened, laughing at their night's work. Now and again they would turn and stare openly at him, grinning hatefully, then burst into uncontrolled laughter.

  Sean, sitting two tables over from them, his pimento cheese sandwich, barbeque chips, and chocolate milk untouched, watched the football players with an intensity that undoubtedly unnerved those who noticed it. His unwavering stare locked primarily on Thompson, but shifted now and again to the two who had beaten him so viciously: Brad Forrester and Garret Dawes.