Chapter Eight
CAIN
Arusty, white Plymouth Neon barrels into Saint Catherine’s driveway at ridiculous speed, narrowly missing the Weeping Angel water feature in front of the church. I’m standing out in the pasture, digging a hole to fill in with concrete, to set up new grazing ground for my cattle.
I recognize the vehicle from seeing it sitting outside Enya’s house.
The way it drives in so furiously, I have to assume it’s her father pissed off about our interaction in the confessional yesterday.
But, how could he know? I drop the shovel and start running towards the car.
Before I’m anywhere near, I see Enya getting out and dashing towards me.
Fuck, something bad has happened; probably those guys in that white van.
As soon as she gets close enough to me, Enya smashes into my frame and we tumble to the grass. She’s weeping against my chest.
“Enya, what’s happened?”
“Two guys came to my house. They threatened my dad,” she says.
Definitely the two I caught outside her door yesterday.
“Did they hurt him?”
Enya nods against my chest.
“Did they hurt you?” My blood’s boiling. I can feel my heartbeat speeding up. If anyone laid a finger on my Enya, I’ll tear their fucking head off.
She doesn’t respond to the second question. She just continues weeping against my chest, sniffling away.
“Enya,” my voice is stern. “Did they hurt you?”
Without another word, she looks up at me. Her lip is swollen, with a cut on the corner of her mouth. How did I miss it while she was running up? My head feels as if it’s about to explode. Feverish aggression takes a hold of me.
“I’m going to take care of this, okay?” I press a gentle kiss against her forehead. “I’m going to take care of you. I’ll never let this happen again. I promise. Can you tell me what happened?”
Enya retells the events that occurred in her dad’s home. She tells me about his dubious dealings with Dominic Dresden and about Jimmy and Timmy’s vile actions. About how she fears for her future, here or anywhere.
The longer she speaks the more something cold settles inside me. They threatened Enya’s life, and I’ll make them suffer for that. No pulling punches or holding back; this means war.
I comfort Enya a while longer, stroking her fiery hair. She doesn’t want to look at me because of the cut on her face. She’s scared and embarrassed. How dare anyone make her feel this way? Especially around me.
“Look over there.” I point towards a cloud in the sky. It’s shaped like a bunny’s head, long floppy ears with one crooked to the side. A warm smile grows on Enya’s face at the sight of it.
It’s the first time I’ve spoken in over an hour, managing to settle my anger briefly. I don’t want her to see me like this. It would only serve to scare her away. Understanding the possessiveness consuming me is an impossible task.
Two days ago, I feared the worst with Enya Garraway. Her very existence shredded my insides to pieces. Wanting to be with her and to take her, but knowing I couldn’t, twisted and mangled my psyche. Today? I’d kill for her.
I’ve done God’s work, and I’ve killed in his honor. Now, I hope he’ll understand my predicament and offer me forgiveness for the crimes I’m about to commit. As well as those I have committed.
“What are you going to do?” Enya asks when the fuzziness of the floating bunny wears off.
“I can’t tell you, Enya.”
Honesty would scare Enya away. Not that she has any idea. I haven’t and won’t tell her about the white van—it will stay a secret between God and me.
“Why not?” she pushes her elbows into my chest, her blue pools staring deeply into my eyes.
“Because you won’t be able to come back from it. I’m keeping you safe.”
She nods her head, simply accepting my word.
“I am going to need something from you,” I say, taking her hands and helping her to her feet.
“What’s that?” she asks, patting down her pink shirt and booty shorts.
“I want you to go home now, Enya. Go home, straight to your room, and pray,” I say.
She’s dumbfounded by the request. She looks at me with narrowed eyes, trying to pick my thoughts apart.
“Can you do it for me, Enya?” I ask, getting to my feet. I wrap an arm around Enya’s shoulders, holding her tight against my side as we walk.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” she says.
“Come back in the morning,” I say. “If I’m not here, I will be soon. You have to trust me, okay?”
“Cain, are you going to do something dangerous?” she asks, nervously.
“Dangerous? Me? Never.” I bump her with my hip.
Enya doesn’t speak again, until we’re back in the parking lot.
She drove over the water feature’s flower bed as her Plymouth Neon swerved into the church grounds.
She wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me into a tight hug.
I keep her close against me. She doesn’t release her hold for a long while.
“Thank you, Cain,” she whispers into my chest.
“Don’t say thank you.” I kiss the crown of her head. “I told you; you’re mine. I’ll protect what belongs to me.”
Enya cups my cheeks in her hand, getting onto her tippy-toes, and presses her lips against mine.
I grab her behind the neck, my free hand resting on the small of her back.
Enya’s stolen a part of me. The part of me I never thought would feel life or love.
She’s taken my heart, and she’s squeezed it in a passionate vice-like grip.
I can’t imagine a life without her in it.
Enya breaks our kiss and runs a single finger down my chest and abdomen. “You stay safe, okay?”
“I’m never anything but,” I reply with a wink. It feels unnatural on my face. “Back home and straight to prayer, do you understand?”
“Yes,” she says.
“And you’ll come back in the morning?”
“Yes,” she pauses. Her face turns a rosy pink. “Daddy.”
“Good girl,” I peck Enya’s lips again. “Now, go. I’ve got some preparing to do.”
Her nose wiggles in curiosity, but she doesn’t ask. She gets into her dad’s car, gives me one last wave, and drives off.
Alone again, it’s time to prepare.
***
A storm rolls in during the late afternoon. Spikes of lightning dance across black clouds and thunder rumbles through the sky. It’s a perfect reflection of my mood. For the first time in nearly a decade, I lock up the parish gates before the sun’s set.
I collect my old and rusty sledgehammer from the cattle barn. It’s been with me since I moved into Priest River.
The first rain breaks from the heavens as I get back to the Weeping Angel water feature.
Her hands clutch her face, and her wings point low toward the ground.
I crafted her myself from marble and built the feature in which she stands.
Like the fragility of my dream of escaping my history, she will shatter in the same way.
“I’m sorry old girl,” I whisper, gently stroking the back of her head. “It’s time to get back to business.” I know she can’t speak. I’m glad about that. If she could speak, she’d beg me not to do this.
I lift the sledgehammer over my shoulder. My heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces, as I give the angel a vicious swing that knocks her head clean off of her shoulders. By my fourth hit, her body has completely collapsed.
Once the statue is gone, I start working on the ground. I make one swing after another, until the concrete foundation is in chunks. Beneath this layer, a metal container waits. It glimmers with every bolt of lightning that flashes above my head.
I grab the container by both handles and hoist it out of the earth. It’s heavy, and strains even my strong physique. It’s been too long since I’ve held this case.
I carry it around the church, to my one-bedroom lodging behind. Like the Weeping Angel, I constructed my wooden bungalow by hand. The kitchen and living room share a single space. The bedroom is behind a closed door with an en-suite bathroom.
I take the box into my bedroom and rest it on the bed. It creaks under the weight of the container. Unclasping the latches, I swing it open. Awaiting me are my pistols, one black, and one silver, both with golden cross inlays running down the handle. Five magazines line both sides of the pistols.
“It’s been too long, old friends.” I take the pistols out of the container. The foam padding that held them in place has kept them safe and clean over the years. I load them, and then rest them on the bed.
A lever pulls the top outward to reveal a second layer underneath the padding. A sawn-off, double-barreled shotgun greets me, along with three flash grenades, two frag grenades, and four cans of pepper spray circling it.
Pistols, shotgun, and a single frag will serve me.
In, do the deed, out and come home.