Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

Waiting in the hospital hallway the night they triedto save her, a strange thing happened. Sydowski heard her call his name. Once.Her voice was young, strong, wondrous. He was amazed. No one else heard her.How could it be? He remembered his daughters beside him, wailing. Then theyoung doctor, the one with an earring in his left lobe, appeared from Basha’sroom and was standing before him.

“I’m very sorry, sir. She’s gone. We did everything wecould.”

Something was indestructible cleaved inside, forcinghim to hold his girls to keep them from coming apart. The young doctor touchedSydowski’s arm and those of his daughter.

The milk for his cocoa had come to a boil.

They would sit in the living room. She would beembroidering something for the babies. He’d be reading. Often he would discussa case with her and she’d make a suggestion about an aspect he overlooked. Herespected her insights. For he had one true partner, it was she.

Since she died, he felt uneasy being home alone. Thegirls’ rooms were empty reminders of happier days. He shuffled around theplace, chasing after her scent. It was still in the house, the fragrance oflilacs. Once he found a strand of her hair in her vacant side of their closet.His immediate reflex was to put it in an evidence bag, as if he could solve thecrime of her death. Instead, held it in his palm and wept.

He pursued death for a living: tracked it, waded intoit, bagged its aftermath, and arrested the guilty. Professionally and mentally,he was prepared for every case, but nothing, not the course work, not thestreet time, not the scenes, prepared him for Basha. Death had turned on himand raked its claw across the web of his existence, leaving it in tatters. Hecould not reconnect. He had fallen into a black hole and feared he would neverfind his way out. Maybe he was dead too? Maybe this was his hell? Deathhaunting him with the memory of his wife in the faces of corpses. The murdershe could not clear. Tanita Donner. The slash across her little neck. The flies.The maggots. Her eyes. Her tiny, lifeless eyes. Open. Staring at him. Pleading.What had she seen in the last moments of her life?

Enough of this.

Get past it. He was alive. Among the living. And hewas hungry. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out some egg bread, sweetbutter, onion, and fresh kielbasa he bought at the Polack deli in the mission.He’d pay dearly with heartburn later, he told himself, biting into his sandwichand sifting through the Chronicle’s sports section. The Giants weredoing well, sitting atop the division with a.651. Outperforming the A’s. He’dtease the old man.

He’d never understand Johnny Sydowski’s Polishstubbornness. Eighty-seven-years old, living alone by the sea in Pacifica. Whydid he refuse to move in with him here? It would be easier to get to the ballgames at the Polish Hall. They could share a beer and enjoy each other’scompany. The old man liked it where he was, so what the hell? Sydowski foldedthe paper, finished his sandwich, and his cocoa, put the empty plate and mug inthe sink before leaving to check on his birds.

His love for breeding and showing canaries blossomedafter a friend gave Basha a singing finch as a gift twenty years ago. He likedits song. It made him tranquil. He bought more birds. His collection thrived.He joined bird fanciers’ societies, entered competitions, and built an aviaryunder the oak tree in his backyard.Basha made curtains for the windows and itlooked like a tiny cottage from a fairytale. Inside, the paneled walls wereadorned with ribbons, trophies, and mementos. Would he make the Seattle shownext month? He pleasantly accepted the drive up the coast. It depended. If theyfound Tanita Marie Donner’s killer. Or Danny Becker’s body.

The velvety cooing of sixty canaries soothed as heinspected their seed and water supply. Tenderly, he picked up a nest of fourfledglings, fife fancies. Seven days old and looking good. No bigger than atoddler’s finger. Delicately Sydowski placed one in his hand, caressing it withhis pinky knuckle while its wee beak yawned for food. He felt its warmth, itsmicroscopic heart quivering and he thought of Tanita Marie Donner and hermurderer.

Did he feel the warmth of her delicate neck, her heartpulsating?

Sydowski was exhausted, could barely keep his eyesopen. He returned the fledglings, locked up the aviary, returned to the house,trudged upstairs, and went to bed, hoping to fall into a sound sleep before hisheartburn started.

A cobra with its hood flared and fangs bared coiled around Virgil Shook’s left forearm,while a broken heart engulfed in flames burned on his right. Terror andtorment.

The twin forces of Shook’s life were manifested in thetattoos conjured up by a killer in exchange for sex years ago in a Canadianprison. The cobra’s head swayed gently, ripe to strike as Shook ladled chickensoup for the destitute shambling along the food line at the shelter of Our LadyQueen of Tearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on upper Market. Whispers andblessings mingled with clinking cutlery and the tap of hot food dispensed ondonated plates.

If these broken, rotten burdens only knew who theywere blessing. If they only knew who he really was. It was sweet. Shook inhaledthe aroma of his power with that of roasted meat as one by one they came beforehim extending their plates, bowing their heads.

Like them, Shook haunted the city’s streets and cameto the kitchen often. Today he was upping the ante in his game with the priest.Today was Shook’s first as a volunteer. Oh, how he loved it. Here he receivedsanctuary, blessings, and absolution.

He was savoring the irony of it, seeking his confessoramong the crowd when he glimpsed a little treasure. A tiny temptress. Shookgauged the object of his attention. Four years fresh from the womb, he figured.She arrived before him, holding her bowl. He swam in her pure blue eyes,plunged his ladle-deep into the urn. His lips stretched into a predatory grinawakening the scars on his cheeks and revealing a jagged row of prong-liketeeth.

“What’s your name, sunshine?”

“Daisy.”

“Daisy? My I love to pick daisies.”

The little flower giggled. Accepting her bowl, herfingers brushed his. A butterfly’s caress that thawed his blood. Best notflirt, short eyes. So tender. He knew what she craved. So tender. Best flyaway.

Shook bit down on his lip. His migraines were hittingagain.

A brain-rattler had knocked him on his ass last week.The need to love again was overwhelming. It had been nearly a year since thelast time. Since Tanita. Now, Danny Becker’s kidnapping made it dangerous to gohunting. How much longer could he take this? He was tiring of his game with thepriest. He needed to hunt, to prove the city belonged to him. Scanning theshelter, he located Daisy among the far flung tables and indulged in a bold,ravenous stare, assessing the possibilities until he was nudged by thevolunteer beside him.

“You’ve got a customer,” Florence Schafer said meekly.

Shook quickly filled the bowl for an old sod beforehim and was thanked with a “God bless you.” Shook ignored him.

He looked down at Florence, she was familiar. Runninghis eyes over her miniature frame, he could smell her fear. He was curious. Whyhad she acted so strangely when they sent her to help him on the serving line?Not once had she turned to him. Pious little cunt. Maybe he would give her alesson in humility. It would be memorable. If only she knew of his power, knewwho he really was.

There was only one who knew.

From time to time a knowing moment would flickerbetween Shook and the cold, hard eyes of those released from Q. it was thelook: con to con. But even their icy perception was never total. Only thepriest knew, and could not break the seal of the confessional. He absolvedShook of his sins, but could tell no one of his crimes. He was bound by theoath he swore to God.