Ken Bruen - Sanctuary

‘The late Pope on his visit here liked it a lot.’

‘Might explain why he’s the late Pope.’

As we were leaving, I said, ‘My treat.’

Stewart replied, ‘My cup runneth over, de-caff or otherwise.’

Like I said, he was definitely getting the hang of the humour biz.

I left him outside the café, saying I’d see him around ten or so that evening at the Salthill church. He was turning to leave when I suggested he might consider bringing something to protect himself.

He said, ‘I have my martial arts.’

I thought maybe I should shake his hand or something, but went with ‘You’ll fucking need them.’

I went shopping. I had a list of items I figured I’d need. You’re going to stake out a church, it could be a long wait. Top of the list was a decent torch; the rest of the stuff I managed to get within an hour.

I walked slowly back to my place, all sorts of ideas screaming through my head, mainly the terrible thought that I might not be able to save the child. Oh sweet Jesus, I would not be able to lose another child.

A woman was selling pins for charity on the corner of Dominic Street and, talk about irony, the pins were tiny angels in aid of abused children. Into my head unbidden came the Irish term Angeail an Dorchadas . . Angel of Darkness.

I gave a few euro to the seller, but didn’t wait to receive the pin.

Back at my flat, I rang the cathedral and asked what time confessions were finished. I wanted a place to hide before they locked up for the night, and on hearing five in the afternoon, asked, ‘Any evening devotions?’

The woman, a nun perhaps, said, ‘You mean Benediction?’

I felt a tiny finger of ice creep along my spine.

Jesus.

I said, ‘Yes.’

She had a warm voice, but it didn’t do much for the chill I was feeling. She said, ‘No dear, Benediction is on Tuesday and Thursday.’

I thanked her for her help and she added, ‘You’re welcome. God bless you.’

Christ, someone would need to.

I got to the cathedral early, my holdall containing my essentials. I took a look around and slipped into the confessional.

It was comfortable and warm, but no, I’m not going to call it a place of sanctuary. Not for me anyway.

I settled down to wait.

I must have dozed off and woke with a start. I checked my watch. Jesus, ten-thirty in the evening. The church had been locked up.

As I emerged from the confessional, the only light was from the eternal candles.

I ate a granola bar and two Xanax, washed down with water. I made me way down the aisle, then came to the door leading to the crypt. My heart was in my mouth. I opened the door carefully and descended the stairs. I didn’t need the torch as down below, hundreds of candles were alight.

The crypt was small and claustrophobic, and in the corner lay a tiny bundle. I approached, pulled back the blanket and there was the sleeping child. No sign of harm. . yet.

And then came the voice, from behind me. ‘The antichrist has arrived.’

I turned to face her. She was wearing a nun’s habit and holding a long, lethal blade. Her eyes were lit by pure malignancy.

She asked, ‘How did you know the child would still be alive?’

Her body was poised to strike, candlelight bouncing off the wicked-looking blade.

I positioned myself between her and the child and said, ‘Today is the anniversary of your sister’s suicide.’ I’d checked it out on Stewart’s laptop.

She gave what might have been construed as a slight smile but was more in the zone of rictus.

I added, ‘I’m taking this child out of here and I strongly advise you against trying to stop me.’

She moved closer, the blade coming up, and asked, in a sing-song voice, ‘How are you going to do that?’

I produced the revolver, pulled back the hammer.

She lunged and I pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

Would you fucking believe it? It jammed.

And the blade went into my upper thigh, once, twice, three times, and I crumpled to my knees, the useless revolver skittering across the marble floor like so many unheard prayers.

She stood over me, triumph writ huge, and said, ‘Prepare to burn for all eternity.’

Her head turned for a moment and whatever voice she was hearing, I knew it wasn’t pleading my case.

And I did. I had so many sins to atone for, eternity was not going to be long enough. But as I waited for the final blow, I heard, ‘Back off, you crazy bitch.’

Ridge.

And Stewart.

Benedictus didn’t even turn, just picked up a heavy candlestick and, whirling, caught Ridge with it on the side of the head.

Stewart moved forward. I hoped to Christ he still had those Zen moves.

Benedictus smiled. ‘The third demon.’

She lunged with the blade but Stewart sidestepped, caught her on the back foot and moved in real close to her, as if he was embracing her. She emitted a deep groan, then slowly fell to the ground. I could see one of Stewart’s knives, and remembered the seven he’d shown me. It was lodged deep in her chest. Her eyes were wide in astonishment, and then she let out a small sigh and was still.

I was trying to rise up, the pain like acid on my thighs. I asked, ‘Did you have to do that?

He looked at me, his eyes sad. ‘It was a kindness to her. She is no longer in torment.’

Ridge, her eyes groggy, moved to the sleeping child, gathered him up and said, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. This place gives me the creeps.’

Stewart applied a makeshift tourniquet to my wounds and helped me hobble out.

I asked, ‘What about your knife?’

His expression unreadable, he said, ‘I still have six.’

I noticed he was wearing gloves.

I was drifting in and out of consciousness and next thing I knew, I was sitting in the armchair of my apartment, Stewart holding out my mobile. He said, ‘Don’t you have to make a call?’

Clancy answered on the very first ring.

I said, ‘I have your boy. He’s safe and well.’

His sigh of relief made me almost feel for him again and I swear, he sounded like he had a sob in his voice, as if he was about to break down. But he reined it in, and then with the old tone of command asked where I was and I knew he’d be there immediately.

As Ridge and Stewart prepared to leave, Stewart handed me the useless revolver.

‘You forgot this.’

And they were gone.

Clancy arrived almost on their heels, with his two heavies in tow. Before he could say anything, I handed him the sleeping bundle. ‘The crazy nun had your boy sedated, but I don’t think he’ll suffer any ill effects.’

Clancy’s face as he took his child in his arms was something to see. All the hard-arse pose, the mask of ferocity he wore, just slipped away and I nearly felt for him.

I told him that Ridge had put the puzzle together so we were able to track down the psycho.

He asked, in a very quiet voice, ‘Where is she now, the woman who kidnapped my boy?’

I told him how she’d nearly got the upper hand but Ridge had grappled with her and the nun had been stabbed in the struggle. I said he’d find her in the crypt of the church. I wanted Ridge to get the credit — recovering the Chief’s child, serious kudos there. He knew there were gaping holes in my account but he had his child back and was prepared to let the inconsistencies slide.

He said, ‘I suppose I owe you.’

Blood was seeping through the makeshift tourniquet and he asked, ‘You want me to have one of my men drive you to the hospital?’

I shrugged it off and he was silent again.