Crane, Robert J - Out Of The Box 02 - In the Wind by Crane Robert J

Author:Crane, Robert J [Crane, Robert J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Midian Press
Published: 2015-01-20T16:00:00+00:00

37.

Reed

“Sienna, where the hell are you?”

My sister is still not answering, which is really damned annoying. I’m swallowing my pride, calling for help, admitting she’s bigger and badder than me, and she’s unreachable. Seriously unreachable. Her cell goes to voicemail, and I leave a hurried message. Then I call the agency, and her assistant is a preening little asshat to me. I make a note to get him fired when I get home. What a little prick.

I sweep over the rooftops of the Via Nazionale, trying to remember how to get back to the apartment. I make another call while I go.

Father Emmanuel answers in a quiet voice on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Father,” I say, “it has been my entire life since my last confession, and I think there are a few things I should probably come clean about.” I jump a gap and catch my footing on a lower rooftop, the shock running through my weary body. “First of all, it was me that took the candy off Ms. Hutchen’s desk in first grade—”

“I can’t talk right now,” hisses Father Emmanuel.

“Hey, listen,” I say, “you dragged me into this thing”—sorta true—“you can’t just bail now.” Absolutely a lie. He’s already out of the boat, and I’m trying to pull him back in as he’s telling me he’d rather swim.

“Giuseppe is dead,” Emmanuel says, “and I have no actual proof of any wrongdoing on the behalf of this Fintan O’Niall. Perhaps I was wrong about him. Perhaps he had a messy encounter with a—” He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “I am not his priest, and he is not my responsibility.”

“Evil thrives when good men do nothing,” I say. I wonder if he appreciates the irony of me saying that to a priest.

“I don’t know that he is evil,” Emmanuel says, and I can feel his frustration through the phone. “He could be misguided, he could be misunderstood, he could be afraid—it is not my task to judge the man.”

“Well, he’s not exactly out there doing the Lord’s work,” I say. “Unless—never mind.” I filter myself, keeping from making an unnecessarily nasty Old Testament joke. It’s low-hanging fruit in any case.

“I am sorry about Giuseppe,” Emmanuel says, “and I’m sorry about whatever you’re going through. Truly, my prayers are with you—”

“I don’t need your prayers,” I say, snapping, “I need your help.”

“I cannot help you,” he says, and I catch a hint of sadness. “I am a man of peace. Violence is not … it’s not what I am supposed to do with my gifts.”

“You’re not supposed to protect the flock with your gifts?” I ask.

“I’m supposed to turn the other cheek,” he says.

“Easy to say when it’s only you getting slapped,” I fire back. I don’t even wait for his response. I just hang up.

I continue on my not-so-merry way. I can still hear sirens in the distance, and I wonder if they’re related to the strike gone wrong this morning or just the usual city madness.

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