someone had tacked a section of plywood and plastic across the broken picture window to keep the cold out.
Father Frank stood off to one side putting his undershirt back on. His ribs were taped up, half-obscuring an old military tattoo that stretched between his shoulder blades. The faded blue lines were going soft at the edges, but it was still possible to read the words
Semper Fidelis
emblazoned on a scroll above the head of an eagle rampant. The eagle seemed to rise from the topmost layer of medical tape, the tip of one outstretched wing nearly obliterated by a pale, puckered scar—almost certainly from an old bullet wound.
Curiouser and curiouser…
Belatedly, I rapped my knuckles on the wooden door frame to announce my presence.
“I heard ya about a minute ago,” Father Frank said without turning around. “You’re not exactly subtle with those clunky boots you wear.”
“Sorry,” I muttered—though whether I was apologizing for the intrusion or the “clunky” boots even I wasn’t sure. I started to withdraw from the room, but Father Frank continued talking with the ease of someone used to dressing around other people—which made me wonder how long he’d been a priest and not a Marine. No one got a tattoo like that just for show. I lingered on the threshold to listen, my back half-turned to give the man his privacy. He might not have cared, but I did.
“Halley’s in one of those ambulances, headed to University Hospital. They insisted on taking her in for observation,” he said. “I’ve got to go and be with her—there’s no doctor who will know what to do if this thing gets its claws in her again.”
He settled his plain black cleric’s shirt upon his shoulders and began buttoning it from the bottom up. He focused on the simple task, his long fingers working with a dexterity that defied his years.
“I barely avoided an ambulance ride myself,” he mused. “They wanted me in for X-rays, but I know the difference between bruised ribs and broken ribs—I’ve broken enough bones over the years.”
I chuckled at this. “Anyone tell you you’re a stubborn old coot?”
He grinned, the expression unearthing the remains of a much younger man. “All the time, but I learned from the best—and look who’s callin’ me old.” His smile faltered. “Look, Sanjeet will be down with the car keys any minute now to drive me to the hospital, so we don’t have long. You planning to tell me what’s wrong with you?”
I hesitated, wondering where I could even start. Amnesia was the official story—memory loss due to oxygen privation. It was plausible, considering I’d all but drowned in Lake Erie’s chill waters—not once, but twice.
The truth was uglier than that. My memory hadn’t failed me—it had been assaulted in a willful excision of information. That made it sound surgical, but my attacker had used something more akin to a chainsaw than a scalpel to cut the pieces of me out. Dorimiel’s assault had left me with a head so full of holes it made a sieve look seaworthy.
I sighed through my nose, then stepped more fully into the room, pulling closed what was left of the door. I leaned my shoulders against the wall, ignoring the way my wings ghosted through the physical structures of the house. Father Frank watched me the whole while, his keen, expressive eyes fixed upon my face.
“Come on, Zack,” he urged. “I haven’t seen you look this rough since they burned Xuan’s village on the Mekong.”
Memories—tenuous as shadows—stirred at his words. They carried echoes of emotions. Fury. Loss. A wrenching sense of guilt. And that name—Xuan. I knew it belonged to a woman. Probably not a lover, but someone I’d sworn to protect.
That was where the recollections stopped. If I tried to grasp any of it head-on, the whole thing would be lost. I could remember
around
the holes—usually stuff that wasn’t essential, like the sound of fish leaping in the water. The way the air hung hot
Father Frank stood off to one side putting his undershirt back on. His ribs were taped up, half-obscuring an old military tattoo that stretched between his shoulder blades. The faded blue lines were going soft at the edges, but it was still possible to read the words
Semper Fidelis
emblazoned on a scroll above the head of an eagle rampant. The eagle seemed to rise from the topmost layer of medical tape, the tip of one outstretched wing nearly obliterated by a pale, puckered scar—almost certainly from an old bullet wound.
Curiouser and curiouser…
Belatedly, I rapped my knuckles on the wooden door frame to announce my presence.
“I heard ya about a minute ago,” Father Frank said without turning around. “You’re not exactly subtle with those clunky boots you wear.”
“Sorry,” I muttered—though whether I was apologizing for the intrusion or the “clunky” boots even I wasn’t sure. I started to withdraw from the room, but Father Frank continued talking with the ease of someone used to dressing around other people—which made me wonder how long he’d been a priest and not a Marine. No one got a tattoo like that just for show. I lingered on the threshold to listen, my back half-turned to give the man his privacy. He might not have cared, but I did.
“Halley’s in one of those ambulances, headed to University Hospital. They insisted on taking her in for observation,” he said. “I’ve got to go and be with her—there’s no doctor who will know what to do if this thing gets its claws in her again.”
He settled his plain black cleric’s shirt upon his shoulders and began buttoning it from the bottom up. He focused on the simple task, his long fingers working with a dexterity that defied his years.
“I barely avoided an ambulance ride myself,” he mused. “They wanted me in for X-rays, but I know the difference between bruised ribs and broken ribs—I’ve broken enough bones over the years.”
I chuckled at this. “Anyone tell you you’re a stubborn old coot?”
He grinned, the expression unearthing the remains of a much younger man. “All the time, but I learned from the best—and look who’s callin’ me old.” His smile faltered. “Look, Sanjeet will be down with the car keys any minute now to drive me to the hospital, so we don’t have long. You planning to tell me what’s wrong with you?”
I hesitated, wondering where I could even start. Amnesia was the official story—memory loss due to oxygen privation. It was plausible, considering I’d all but drowned in Lake Erie’s chill waters—not once, but twice.
The truth was uglier than that. My memory hadn’t failed me—it had been assaulted in a willful excision of information. That made it sound surgical, but my attacker had used something more akin to a chainsaw than a scalpel to cut the pieces of me out. Dorimiel’s assault had left me with a head so full of holes it made a sieve look seaworthy.
I sighed through my nose, then stepped more fully into the room, pulling closed what was left of the door. I leaned my shoulders against the wall, ignoring the way my wings ghosted through the physical structures of the house. Father Frank watched me the whole while, his keen, expressive eyes fixed upon my face.
“Come on, Zack,” he urged. “I haven’t seen you look this rough since they burned Xuan’s village on the Mekong.”
Memories—tenuous as shadows—stirred at his words. They carried echoes of emotions. Fury. Loss. A wrenching sense of guilt. And that name—Xuan. I knew it belonged to a woman. Probably not a lover, but someone I’d sworn to protect.
That was where the recollections stopped. If I tried to grasp any of it head-on, the whole thing would be lost. I could remember
around
the holes—usually stuff that wasn’t essential, like the sound of fish leaping in the water. The way the air hung hot
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