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Author's Note: Happy Sunday to everyone out there in PCLand! I'm hoping this chapter finds you all well and in good spirits. It's been a rough kinda week in my world, so I'm asking you guys to drop me a line and tell me about yourweek. I could use the interaction right now.
Nifty Fact for the Day:Connor's prayer is psalm 41:3, The Lord will strengthen him upon the bed of languishing: thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness. The language he is speaking is Latin.
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How could he not have realized that Murphy was so sick?
The thought kept surfacing in his mind, disrupting his already unsteady flow of prayer. The nurses had known immediately. They had taken one look at his brother and promptly shooed Connor out of the room, leaving him alone in the lobby with nothing but his faith and daytime television for company.
It felt like he had been sitting there for hours, hunched over his clasped hands, praying for his twin, but each glance at the clock showed that only minutes had passed.
He direly, desperately, needed a cigarette, but couldn't bring himself to step outside for one. If something happened to Murphy and he wasn't there . . .
He fumbled his rosary, dropping the precious thing through nervous fingers and onto the floor. Swearing softly, he picked it up and slipped it back around his neck.
"Sitivit anima mea ad Deum fortem;" the Latin was as familiar as the crucifix against his palm but the peace that normally accompanied his talking with God was inexplicably absent, leaving only the most stomach-churning sense of helplessness Connor had ever experienced.
"Vivum quando veniam et parebo ante faciem Dei,"
When they were kids, he had hauled Murphy, spluttering and blue-tinged out of the lake near their cousin's after he had fallen through a thin spot of ice into the glacial slush below. He had half carried and half dragged his unconscious twin two miles back to their house after they had stolen their uncle's car and wrecked it when they were fifteen. He had jumped off the roof of a building. Hell, he had even taken a bullet to protect his twin.
Connor had pulled Murphy out of death's grasp more times than he cared to count, but this time he couldn't. His brother's life had been ripped from his own hands and dumped into the hands of strangers.
And there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it
Shuddering, he tried to turn his attention back to praying for his brother, but found his entreaties turning into a disjointed jumble of languages.
How could he not have known?
"Mr. MacManus?"
He was out of the uncomfortable lobby chair and next to the blue-clad nurse in an instant. "How is he?"
"Tests show that your brother's appendix has already ruptured, we're going to be taking him to surgery."
"Surgery?" Connor's chest tightened at the word, "Is he goin' ta be all right?"
The nurse pressed her lips together, "We don't know yet. The main goal right now is to get his appendix out and get him started on antibiotics in case of sepsis. After that, it'll take some time before we know anything definite."
Swallowing against the bile rising in his throat Connor managed to nod, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Can I see him?"
The nurse gave him a sympathetic look; "they're already prepping him for the O.R. He won't be able to have visitors until after we get him into recovery."
"Christ." Half explicative, half-prayer, Connor found his fingers wrapped around his rosary again, clutching at it through the fabric of his shirt.
"I need you to go over to that far desk and fill out some paperwork."
"Paperwork?"
"There are a few forms about his health and medical history, a consent to treat, it's all very routine," she assured.
"I can't believe that my brother might be fuckin' dying and ye want me ta do fuckin' paperwork." He caught the cagey glance the nurse shot over her shoulder, toward where a uniformed security guard stood, and took a deep breath, trying to reign in his emotions.
"I'm sorry," he acquiesced, holding up his hands, "it's not yer fault, I know. I'm just . . ."
Her smile was a little more tentative this time, but it still managed to be compassionate. "I understand, but I still need you to do that paperwork for me."
Through monumental effort, Connor got a thank-you past the blockage in his throat, turning his back on the nurse and making his way over to the desk she had indicated.
How could he not have known?
Leaning over the desk and picking up a pen with wooden fingers, Connor turned his attention to the first form.
"Past Medical History," he read.
Broken leg when we were kids, a fractured collarbone, two gunshots, a shattered wrist and thumb, broken ribs, collapsed lung, a nasty infection after being cut with some drug dealer's butterfly knife, Christ only knows how many blows to the head . . .
"None." He wrote on the form.
"Allergies," Penicillin and shellfish. No, wait, he paused, those were his. Murphy was allergic to that painkiller, what was it called? Donatol.
The form began to blur, the words running together and becoming meaningless, awash in the flood of helplessness as it returned. It wasn't right that he was standing here filling out worthless forms; he needed to be with his brother.
"Connor?" The voice was familiar, making Connor's head snap up from the question he was trying to answer and he sucked in a surprised breath seeing who had spoken.
She was a little slimmer than the last time he had seen her, and her hair was long again, pulled back and secured with a pencil. Reaching out, she laid a warm hand on his arm, her dark eyes wide and concerned.
"Connor?" she repeated, disbelievingly, "what are you doing here?"
Connor shut his eyes tightly, running a shaking hand through his hair, "'Llo, Danae," he whispered hearing his voice break.
o()o
"Mijo," Arturo's voice was smooth and pleasant, holding no trace of the anger Esteban had seen yesterday, as he lightly slapped the teenager's bare foot with a rolled newspaper, "I would like you to come with me today."
Obediently, Esteban closed the book he had been reading and got to his feet, looking around absently for his shoes, "Where are we going?"
"We have a memorial to attend."
Esteban frowned at his tio's words, taking in Arturo's meticulous black suit. "Whose?" he asked, concerned.
In response, Arturo held up the newspaper, tapping his finger against an article there. A quick glance at the blurb told Esteban that it was for a local woman and child who had been missing since their home burned down and now were presumed dead.
The names listed had been unfamiliar and Esteban was certain that if they had been of any importance at all, more of the Sacerdotes would be attending. "What do they matter to us?"
Arturo turned a sharp look his way and Esteban cringed at the dissatisfaction he saw in his tio's eyes. "I mean, it just seems strange to go to the memorial of strangers." He amended hastily, reaching for a dress shirt that was haphazardly tossed over his desk and pulling it on.
"They are not strangers, Esteban." said Arturo, turning to leave the room and motioning for the teen to follow, "they are a woman and a child who died because of our familia, and we must pay our respects to them."
Esteban didn't understand. The Sacerdotes were the end of many people's lives, what made these two so different from the rest?
The question earned a small smile from Arturo, "This is a tradition, mijo, one that I inherited from the first jefe of the Sacerdotes de la Calle. I hope that when you assume the position, you will continue it also. "
It was no secret that he was being groomed to someday take over the Sacerdotes from his adopted father, overthrowing many who were older and more experienced, but hearing the words aloud still surprised Esteban.
Nodding, he shielded his eyes as he followed Arturo out of the foyer and into the bright morning sun. Beyond him, a sleek black Rolls Royce, one of his tio's favorite possessions, waited. Esteban slid into the seat beside his tio, inhaling the smell of the leather interior; he loved the vehicle almost as much as Arturo did.
"Do you do this often?" he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"You will come to learn," Arturo said, smiling slightly as the engine purred to life, "that things such as this are important not only because it is respectful, but because it is necessary to further the name of our familia."
"What do you mean?"
"Their deaths are very tragic, the child especially so, but they will also serve as a warning to others who would interfere with our business."
Surprised, Esteban blinked, gaping, and Arturo shot him a sideways glance, the corners of his mouth turning up.
"Family before all else, you know that," he chided gently. "Ah, here we are."
They kept to the back of the memorial, unspeaking but not unnoticed, listening to the service.
Finally, the preacher ended the last prayer and informed the group of mourners that it was time to approach the grave and pay last respects to the deceased.
From the corner of his eye, Esteban watched as his tio raised his head, the only movement the older man had made since arriving at the cemetery, a smile slowly spreading across his face. The effect was chilling and it took effort for Esteban not to recoil, for the firs time in his life, seeing the man beside him as something other than a businessman and father figure.
Without a word, Arturo cut a path through the swath of people at the gravesite, Esteban at his side. The quiet, grieving, murmurs fell silent as they passed by, mourners backing away from the man and teenager as though they were poisonous.
The grave was littered with pictures and flowers and small toys, dozens of tiny reminders and mementos from dozens of people whose lives the dead mother and child had touched.
From one of the inner pockets of his jacket, Arturo produced a small rosary. The beads sparkled in the bright afternoon sunlight, both a symbol of respect and a threat, as he slipped it around a framed picture of the dead mother and child. Esteban kept his head bowed, murmuring a prayer for woman and infant each.
"Perhaps" Arturo murmured after concluding a prayer of his own, his voice low enough for Esteban's ears only, "you would like to drive on the way back? A little practice for your driver's license."
Esteban fought the urge to grin, is earlier unease melting away, "Si," he whispered, trying not to sound too eager and failing.
"Good, shall we go then?"
Nodding, Esteban raised his eyes to the memorial for the first time, unable to stop the gasp that exploded from him.
Behind the rosary Arturo had hung, two pairs of clear gray eyes sparkled at him, the mother and baby in the picture forever laughing at some private joke.
"This is a mistake," he murmured quietly, earning a frown from his tio.
"What?"
"This is a mistake," Esteban repeated, staring, transfixed at the photograph. He could hear the woman's voice in his thoughts, speaking clearly as she opened her arms for her crying daughter.
"Oh, baby," she had said with a smile, "You're okay."
"What are you talking about?" Arturo inquired, brows furrowing. "If this is a broma, Esteban, now is neither the time nor place."
Esteban shook his head, this was no joke, "Tio, they aren't dead."
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