Chapter 2: Pedigree

Sara found herself very out of place in the old colonial diningroom. She was surrounded by polished oak. She had never been surrounded by polished oak before. And the clothes everyone was wearing, she felt under dressed. And Gabe, he was so, not Gabe. Of course he was Gabe, he still had that way of smiling at her, half cocked, and that aura of absolute honesty and trustworthiness, which, as Sara was surprised to discover, was not a family trait. But he was dressed in a way that could only be described as preppy, a conservatively plaided shirt tucked into kachi pants. Some part of her was frightened.

But he fit in. Everyone at the table was dressed that way, conservative upper middle class. The children were well mannered and the conversation revolved around a number of insignificant matters, such as the weather or the events at the local grade school, or Sara herself.

"So, Miss Pezzini," Mrs. Bowman said sweetly. She reminded Sara of June Clever, only adding about twenty years worth of wrinkles and gray hairs. "How did you two meet?"

"Ah," Sara hesitated, she wasn't quite sure what to say. She didn't want to lie to his family, which seemed so upstanding and prestigious, but she didn't want to tell them 'He was delivering a shrunken head to a horribly mutilated corpse' either.

"She was a client," Gabe explained. "She came into my shop."

"What do you sell again, Gabriel?" his oldest brother, Michael, asked him. Mike reminded Sara very much of Jake. With blond hair, blue eyes (which all his siblings seemed to have) and broad shoulders, he had that 'all American' feel about him. She knew from the varius family photos scattered throughout the house that Mike had played football, and that he had been with his wife, Anna, since high school. Mike had just graduated Law School and was beginning to work in the family practice Bowman and Son's, Anna stayed at home and watched their two angelic children Curtis, six, and Mary, three. In short, they were a perfect family.

"Oh come on Mike, you remember," his mother prompted. "Antiques."

Sara gave Gabe a curious glance, Antiques?

"So what then?" Gracie, the sister closet to Gabe's age who was, inexplicably, in a wheelchair. Again, from the numerous photos displayed throughout the house, Sara knew that Gracie had gotten her disability rather recently, but she would never have dreamed of asking about it. "You two just hit it off?"

"Hit it off?" Sara asked, "Not quite like that."

"We're just friends," Gabe said, answering the question everyone at the table was too polite to ask. "We worked together on some research and we became friends."

"What did you research?" Mrs. Bowman asked, trying very hard not to be disappointed. "Umm," Sara stuttered, "This bracelet," she held her arm above the sold oak table so that everyone could see the Witchblade in all its mystic splendor. "It was my grandmother's," Sara said, trying to make the story as believable as possible. "I just wanted to know more about it."

"Oh, I like that bracelet," said Shauna, she was Gabriel's younger brother, Ralph's wife. She wasn't any older than 19 and yet she had a bustling three year old son, Timmy.

"Yeah, me too," Joy said, she was the youngest Bowman, only 16. She seemed sweet, Sara thought, but she, Shauna, and Ralph had been consumed with their own conversation for most of dinner. "That was your grandmother's?"

"Yes, it was."

"And she gave it to you."

"Not really," Sara said, spinning a delicate web of partial truths. "She died before I was born. It sort of came into my possession by accident."

"Oh," Mrs. Bowman said. "That sounds like an interesting story."

"Really it's not," Sara lied.

"Inheritances can be tricky," Gabriel's father boomed. "We get an awful lot of those, let me tell you, and sometimes it does take years to figure out exactly who gets what assets."

Sara nodded, politely, and the conversation slid past her to a discussion between Mr. Bowman and Mike about the law firm's present inheritance case, and from there to general news about town. It was not until the plates were being cleared and coffee was being served that Sara's interest in the topic matter was drawn again.

"Oh Shauna," Ralph said, a little too sharp and a little too loud, so that the whole table's attention turned on the young couple. "What was it that you were supposed to tell Gabriel?"

"Oh Damn," the young girl started softly, her brows were knit as she tried to remember. "What was that?"

"Shauna!" Gabe's mother gasped.

"Oh, sorry Mrs. Bowman, I didn't mean to curse."

Sara hadn't even noticed the swear, she made a mental note to watch her tongue.

"That's alright dear, now what did you have to tell Gabriel?"

"Oh," she said, as if suddenly she remembered that she was trying to remember something. "Yeah, I was talking to Phil Avalla today."

Gabe's eyes suddenly went wide and the silent, cool, aura that had surrounded him at dinner was shattered. "Phil's back?"

"Um," Shauna said. "Wanted me to tell you something, but I can't remember what."

Gabe laughed, a nervous, edgy laugh, Sara was dying to know who Phil Avalla was. "You can't remember anything?"

"It was in the grocery market," Shauna whined in her defense. "Timmy was crying and I couldn't find the right brand of Tuna."

Gabe nodded, "Understandable." Sara wondered if it was understandable that Shauna forgot his message or understandable that she could not find the right brand of tuna.

"Phil was Gabriel's best friend in high school," Mrs. Bowman informed Sara as the conversation drifted on to other chance meetings at the grocery market in the last week. "They were in all the same clubs, history, art, chess, choir."

"Hey Gabe," Sara said, slapping her still-dazed friend on the shoulder, "You never told me you were in choir."

"Yeah," Gabe said, nodding slightly, obviously preoccupied with thoughts of his old friend. "Phil sorta dragged me into it."

"Right," Sara said nodding.

"Mom, you think I could take Pez for a walking tour of Coppler's Grove? Show her the church, the town square . . . the, ah, witches hut?" This last location was obviously made in an attempt to make his mother react. Unfortunately, she was still stuck on his first question.

"Who's Pez?" his mother asked innocently.

"Me," Sara supplied. "Last name's Pezzini, everyone call's me Pez, it's easier."

"Why don't they call you Sara?"

Pez shrugged, she had never, not once, wondered that. "I work at a police station, we don't do that." Which was, strictly speaking, untrue. She called Jake by his Christian name all the time, and he usually called her Sara, but she really didn't want to go into all of that right now.

"Oh, I understand," Mrs. Bowman said, not really understanding at all.

"So, Mom?" Gabe asked, like a child. "You mind?"

"Yes, I do," his mother said, a little sharply. "Your grandparents are all coming over and they want to meet Sara."

Gabe nodded, his lips pursed, his eyes disappointed. "Right."

"After desert," his mother promised.

* * *

It was a chilly night for mid-April. Ian Nottingham could see his breath as he watched the old colonial home in the middle of the small town of Coppler's Grove. There were precious few places to hide in the hamlet and he was terrified someone would see him. In the streets of New York City, filled with muggers, rapists, gangsters, and murdurers, he felt safe. But here, in a small farm town which considered shop lifting a serious crime, he was terrified. He felt naked. He prayed that Sara Pezzini and Gabriel Bowman would spend the entire weekend in the large house so that he would never have to come out of his safe hiding place on the roof of the church not quite a block away. Unfortunately, his prayers were not answered. Despite the cold, wet wind and the consuming darkness left unshattered in a town without street lights, Gabriel and Sara walked out of the front door of the Bowman homestead and started a leisurely stroll southward. With unparalleled stealth, Ian followed them, listening to their conversation, trying desperately to form some sort of merciful plan for the removal of Gabriel Bowman from the situation.

"Can I ask you a question?" Sara said slowly. "About your family?"

"Shoot."

"This is kinda a personal question, if you rather'd not tell me . . ."

"Sara, I said shoot. Whatever you need to know is fine."

"Really?"

"This is a small town, we don't believe in secrets."

"Don't believe in them?"

"Yeah, I don't believe in Santa Claus because he doesn't exist. Coppler's Grove doesn't believe in secrets because, here, they can't exist. Trust me, my mom would rather you learn from me than from Mrs. Hinkly the next door neighbor."

"Alright, well then, um, why is your sister in a wheelchair?"

"The night before we were supposed to go off to college she went out partying with her friends. They ended up cruising down interstate 35 a little too fast and, ah, to make a long story short, the doctors said it was a miracle that she came out of the coma."

"God. . . . Gabe I'm so sorry."

"Everyone say's it's the best thing that ever happened to her."

"How can they say that?"

"She doesn't party anymore, she doesn't leave the house."

"So she's not the same person?"

"No, no, she's not."

There was a pause, which Ian relished because it allowed him to hear Sara breathe. But Gabriel's voice soon ended that little sliver of paradise.

"Anything else?"

"Gabe, I don't want to drag up . . ."

"Of course you do, your dying to know all this."

"It's really not that important."

"How 'bout Timmy and Shauna, I bet you can't wait to hear their story."

"I have to admit I'm curious."

"Shauna was Ralph's date to homecoming his senior year. I think you can figure out the rest."

"Is she really as stupid as she seems?"

"Incredible, but true."

"Alright, then how about the other girl, the one that looks like you and Raulph, with black hair?"

"That'd be Chastity, eldest sister and workaholic. You should be able to meet her tomorrow night, she'll drive up after work."

"Where does she work?"

"Wall Street Journal. She's a copy editor."

"And how old is she?"

"Ah, I don't know, 27 I think."

"Impressive."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"So she's in the city?"

"Yep."

"You two ever see each other?"

"Every now and then, she's really busy. When I was in college and she'd just graduated we'd hang out a lot."

"When did you leave college?"

"Middle of my sophomore year."

"And you just started selling mystic items."

"Sara Pezzini, are you asking for the foundation of my fortune?"

"Yeah I guess I am."

"Three miles from here there is a county forest. In this forest there is a pit which is, according to legend, all that is left of a house. This house, when it was in use in the late 1600's was inhabited by three witches."

"You looted the witches house."

"Not intentionally. Phil and I found these really neat sticks there one day, sort of buried under this huge pile of brush. I did some research and found out that they were made of Rowan."

"Rowan?"

"It's a kind of wood, only found in Europe. The Druids considered it sacred."

"Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me that your first sales were of witches wands."

"Yep."

"Gabriel, they couldn't possibly have been real. It was over three hundred years."

"I know they didn't grow there and I know it was found in a witches pit."

"You sold it on those points alone."

"What did P.T. Barnum say?"

"There's a sucker born every minute?"

"No, Give the people what they want."

"Did P.T. Barnum really say that?"

"I don't know."

They laughed.

"I do have one more question?"

"I'll see what I can do."

"You have three sisters, Chastity, Grace and Joy."

"Tell her what she won Johnny."

"Your older brother's name is Michael . . ."

"Yeah."

"And your younger brother's name is Raphael."

"Yeah."

"And your name is Gabriel."

"Glad you noticed."

"What is wrong with your family?"

"I wish I could tell you Pez."

* * *

"We're here," Gabe said stopping dead in his tracks.

Sara took a couple of extra steps then, noticing that she was no longer being lead, stopped and stood next of Gabriel. What she saw shocked her. "Projects."

"We prefer to call it government subsidized housing."

"How P.C. of you."

"Polite and correct."

They weren't really projects, in the city sense of the term. They were more like row houses with small ratty yards and overgrown gardens. They would have been paradise compared to the slums the poor of the city lived in, but Sara could see how, here surrounded by classic farm houses and beautiful colonials, they would be considered the worst living accommodations imaginable. Sara felt a tingle on her wrist. She glanced down, the dark red stone was shimmering, flashing. Something was wrong.

"I take it Phil lives here."

"Did."

"So you don't know where he is now?"

Gabe looked at her with a curious expression, but his only answer was, "At the moment no."

She glanced at her bracelet again, it was calm, its stone clear. "I guess it's time for you to find out," she said. Oddly, she felt more nervous at the moment than he did.

Gabe smiled at his friend, took a deep breath, and bounded up the molded cements stairs to the door. Bravely he knocked, anxiously he waited and surprised he was when a person he did not recognize opened the door. "Hey," Gabe said uncertainly as he surveyed the huge male who was, most definitely, not Phil Rodregez.

"Who are you?" the man said gruffly.

"I'm looking for Phil," Gabe said nervously.

"And who are you?"

Sara would have liked to have heard her friend's answer to that question, but unfortunately, almost as soon as it was asked the Witchblade decided it was a good time for her to have a vision.

She saw a girl, very pretty, with long black hair, cinnamon colored skin, and a soft rounded face. She was picking at a guitar and then, suddenly, there was a wave of violence. There was a man, huge, muscular, fit. He broke the guitar, smashing it over the frightened girl's back. He hit her, he raped her and then, most inexplicably, she saw the man and the girl were kissing, affectionately, in public. Sara inhaled sharply as the vision subsided. It didn't make any sense, why would the Witchblade give her visions of an abusive relationship. It was sick, perverse, and evil, but it was hardly unusual.

"Come on," Gabe said, angrily, hitting her on the shoulder a little harder than he meant to. "We gotta go to church."

"Church," Sara said, somewhat stunned. She turned to follow Gabriel, who was stomping away from the run down row houses, obviously upset. "Gabriel, what just happened back there?"

Gabe took a deep breath, tried to channel out his anger and frustration, and failed. "We were fed a load of crap, didn't you notice?"

"Ah," Sara stuttered. "Yeah."

Gabe just sighed in disgust and didn't talk until they reached the church and even then he didn't say anything until they were actually inside the dark, but full, sanctuary.

"Aren't we a little under dressed?"

"That's why were coming late," Gabe whispered. "No one will notice."

"Than why come at all?"

"My grandfather," he nodded towards the pulpit where a man who looked very much like Gabriel plus seventy years, was standing. "He sees everything."

"But he won't see that we're underdressed."

"He won't care."

Sara nodded. She was still trying to figure out the situation she had been unwittingly drawn into. She was dying to know who Phil was, and why he was so important to Gabriel. And then, who opened the door and what did he say? And why did the Witchblade decide to show her that girl being beaten? She felt lost in that small town. Totally out of her element.

"We all know suffering," Gabriel's grandfather said. "We all suffer horribly in this life, we all have our own cross to bear. The question is, how many of us actually bear it?

"There is no shame in fearing our cross. Christ himself prayed that his cross could be taken from him, that his death could be avoided. But such things cannot be avoided. When the Lord gives us a calling how often do we follow our fears instead of following Christ? How often are we Peter, who denies our lord not once, not twice, but three times during this dark, dark night? Christ died so that we could live, but not so that we could live for ourselves, but rather for him.

"I look over this congregation and wonder, how many of you have really risked your life for the pursuit of good? And if not your life, your finances, or your security? I do not hesitate to say that most of this congregation has not realized that, to be good, one must have contact with evil. If we are truly to be Christians, if we are to truly do what is good and right, we must face evil head on, with abandon, and with no fear for our own life. It is only then that we will be able to be saved. Let us pray."

The entire congregation bowed their heads, except for Sara and Gabriel. Gabe's eyes were, and had been throughout the service, focused on a large, masterfully crafted, golden chandelier which hung over the sanctuary like a halo. Ordinarily, Sara would have wondered what thoughts were dancing in the shadows that haunted his brown eyes, but the not-quite-fire-and-brimstone sermon was filling Sara's eyes with shadows of their own.

She had known that Gabriel's maternal grandfather was the preacher before she entered the church, or at least she had been told that. There was, she hoped, a good chance that Gabe had told the man about her, about the Witchblade, about the periculum, even, or, maybe, even about what she had learned during the periculum. But that was impossible, she hadn't told anyone about what exactly she had learned, not even Danny.

As the rest of the congregation prayed for absolution from their sin of cowardice and the gift of courage to confront the darkness that surrounded them, Sara's mind reeled. Two thoughts, however, did emerge out of her bewildered consciousness. First, the Witchblade drew to her (or perhaps drew her to) everything she needs. And second, Elizabeth Bronte telling her that the Witchblade was torn from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. She had considered that a metaphor, or analogy, but what if it were true . . .

"Amen," the entire congregation said, almost shocking Sara out of her contemplations.

"Now, brothers and sisters, go out into the world and, like Peter, remember you have sinned."

"Come on," Gabriel said turning to Sara, "I want you to meet my grandfather." His eyes were red, during the service he had been crying.

"Gabriel, are you alright?"

"Yeah," he said, as if that were a ridiculous question. "Why?"

"No, no reason, I guess." Sara stuttered.

Gabriel nodded, "Maybe we should save Grandpa for another day."

"No, I want to talk to him."

"Alright then," he said, slipping out of the pew and leading her up the aisle across the current of well dressed, small town people. Some of them greeted Gabriel with genuine kindness, some of them seemed ambivalent, and some of them looked at him with violent disdain. Sara wished she was wearing a frilly dress with an obnoxious flower pattern on it, like the majority of the women exiting the small church. She was the only person in the little building wearing jeans. Sara took a nervous breath as she followed Gabriel, who was mounting the alter. They waited, patiently, as some saintly old woman congratulated the good reverend on his inspiring service.

"Hey Gramps," Gabe said once the parishioner finally left.

"Gabriel!" his grandfather said, opening his arms and embracing his grandson with a strong hug. "I'm so glad you came."

"Hey, there's someone you need to meet," Gabriel said as he pulled away from the hug. "This is my friend, Sara Pezzini."

"Hello," Sara said, extending her hand. His handshake was firm and open, she liked him immediately.

"Gabriel's mother told me he was bringing a friend, I never dreamed it would be such an attentive listener."

"Your sermon was very . . . touching."

"Sometime's I'm divinely inspired."

"Only sometimes?"

"Unfortunately."



Two Be Continued . . .