13
Chap5 Lights
"I had a way then losing it all on my own. I had a heart then, but the queen has been overthrown. Touch my own skin and hope that I'm still breathing. And I think back to when my brother and my sister slept in an unknown place the only time I felt safe. You show the lights that stop me turn to stone. And so I'll tell myself that I'll be strong. Cuz they're calling me home…" Lights by Ellie Goulding
It was time to go. The sunlight poured in from the window, reminding Elise morning had dawned.
Already? Her body groaned.
It felt like she had just fallen into a fitful sleep moments ago. The late night swim and garlicky pizza had done nothing to offer her a good night's sleep. It made her limbs sore, her ears clogged, and her chest stinging with heartburn.
The thought of getting in to the car was both displeasing and agreeable all tied into one complicated knot. She felt there was some peace made last night between her and Connor. Plus, she knew she was just miles from her sister's reach. But being cooped up and on the run just dampened any real happiness she could hold on to.
She barely stirred beneath the covers, but the cold seeped in anyway. It nipped at her bare toes. She pulled her legs up, moving into the fetal position.
Ugh. Just like the convent. Up at dawn. No air relief in the summer and no heat in the winter, she griped to herself.
Wait. Elise sat upright. She yanked the sheets from over her head.
The door to her room was wide open. It let in another blast of chilly November air, rocking it on its old hinges.
What the frack? I don't remember leaving the door unlocked last night. But the wind had blown it open somehow.
"Connor? Murphy?" She asked just to be sure.
Only the muffled sounds of them arguing from the next room answered back.
Impatient, Elise threw back the bedcovers. "What could they possibly have to argue about this early in the morning? They should be hung over and dead asleep," she grumbled.
She sighed out her irritation with the annoying start to her day as she crawled across the bed and all the things still cluttering it. She reached for the door, but something stopped her.
Beneath the door, she noticed it. A small, shadowy movement. Something bumping the door other than the breeze.
Someone's behind this door. Her throat closed.
They've found me. The soldiers used their ever-reaching resources to pinpoint my exact location. They've sent in one silent, but deadly assassin.
She gulped. Darn. We were so close.
She looked down at her bare feet; the painted toes peeking from beneath the pearly white nightgown flowing down her legs. The nightie was her favorite. Something Katherine Hepburn may have worn in The Philadelphia Story. It gave her length and made her fluid. But it would not be easy to run in, and that might make her dead.
Her mind raced. It could be the tv next door. This could be Connor having more fun with me. Or Murphy; yes, happy Murphy, so adorable and… and… finally ready to play.
But she knew it was neither. She heard blubbering and felt the tears of a frightened woman drip off her jaw.
Funny; I don't feel scared.
She wondered why her grandfather's goon didn't just shoot through the flimsy wood of the door. It was practically just a piece of cardboard mounted to the frame.
The gun! I could find it. She glanced at the bed, mussed with all her nonsense. The wreckage made her feel powerless again.
Screw it. I'm doing this. She hiked up the gown, prepared to make a run for it.
But the door swung shut.
Elise gasped, realizing it was neither a horrible McManus joke nor her inevitable Yakavetta fate. There, blocking her escape like a dead end, stood the giant hick from last night's bar fight.
He looked terrible. Blood from the bottle she'd cracked over his head had dried and matted his strawish-blond hair to one side of his smeared, battered face. His mouth, snarling at her, was twice the size it had been last night, swollen from the beating he must have taken from Murphy's merciless elbow.
His shirt was torn, the sleeve just hanging like limp flesh. The tear revealed a bicep almost thicker than her thigh. Almost…
She stepped back, her lips quivering into a shaky smile. "Good morning, friend."
"'Mornin', babe," he growled. "Remember me?"
Artie. Martin. Arnold. Something along those lines, her mind raced.
She held up her fingers, pinching them together to indicate the slightest inch. "Just a little. I think."
"I got somethin' to help ya remember a lot more," he assured her.
Unfreakingbelievable. This whole time I was panicking about mobsters, and it was this jackass.
She whirled. Her mouth opened for a bloodcurdling scream, but all sound was cut off by his meaty grip. He had her by the back of the neck, clamped firm, rendering her voiceless. All she could do was wince deeply and try to pry his hand from her.
No use. Like a doll with stiff, immovable legs, he walked her to the bed. He lifted her and tossed her haphazardly onto it. She landed, palms-down, on a set of clothes hangers that pricked her skin.
This guy's strong, I will give him that. But he was using his strength in all the wrong ways.
Despite the small, annoying pain in her hands, she felt the bed for her purse.
The gun; where's the F'in gun? Was her only thought. If she couldn't aim for him at least she could get a bullet off into the ceiling. Then the guys would come busting in like…
Suddenly, she was on her back. He flipped her with the agility of an ape, ripping her gown as he straddled her.
It only took one huge hand clasped around her neck to pin her to the bed. His choke hold made it impossible to scream.
Whatever it is…whatever those two are fighting about cannot be as important as this, she surmised madly behind a contorted mask of fear.
Come to bang on the door. Tell me to get my butt moving because it's time to go. Anything! But please, come now! Save me! Her mind screeched.
Big Redneck spat a wad of soggy chew from a pocket in his sore mouth onto the floor. "Your little boyfriend had his hands all over my woman. Now I'm gonna get some payback," he explained to her between clenched, yellowed teeth.
His breath reeked of fresh beer that told her he'd been up all night drinking, watching, and waiting for his one chance to punish Murphy.
Elise shook her head wildly. "N, n, no," She squeaked. Every attempt to remove his hands from her throat made him squeeze a bit harder.
He laughed, hearty and bold. His head bobbed slowly up and down, taking his sweet time nodding his twisted pleasure at her. "Oh yeah. I'm gonna beat the shit outta you just like I did my ole lady. She won't be goin' out to any bars real soon." His smile widened. "Neither will you."
The hammer of his fist was cocked and aimed at her belly.
It's like The Cyclone at Coney Island, she heard her brother's deepening fourteen year old voice say from some corner of her memory. He had gotten into a fist fight with two boys after school. They'd really pummeled him good. When someone goes to punch ya in the gut you play like you're on a roller coaster. Hold tight, close your eyes, and don't breathe. You'll see someday, sissy.
I'm seeing now, Frankie, she thought dismally before following his instruction. She clenched her eyes and held her breath, but nothing could prepare her for the blow to the gut Big Redneck delivered.
She felt herself going over the first big drop off. She was stunned by the lightheaded, nauseating sensation it caused.
By golly, my big brother was right! It is just like riding The Cyclone…The air rushed out of her. It couldn't get out fast enough before the next hit came, deep and brutal.
She jolted, feeling herself climbing. Up, up, and over the coaster's fast, rickety rails she drifted into unconsciousness until the sting of his slap woke her from the drowsiness.
"Wake up, bitch," he muttered.
He kept hitting, but the side of her face had gone numb. Something warm trickled into her eye, sticking to her fluttering lashes.
Instinctively, her arms flew above her head. One hand slammed onto the nightstand table. She groped for something, anything to gauge out his eye or hit him over the head with, but only the alarm clock was handy. And it was rooted firmly to the table by an even handier motel maintenance man.
He may not mean to, but this guy is going to kill me if he keeps this up, she grimly decided. Please, Jesus. I need you. Please hear me. Or make them hear me…
Flustered, Elise swiped the nightstand. Everything spilled onto the floor in a cacophonous heap.
Except a can. Her fingers clutched the cool steel of what could only have been the hairspray she'd forgotten to take in the bathroom with her yesterday morning.
Divine intervention in the form of aerosol! Thank you, Jesus!
She held it. The can felt light, but she pulled the trigger, easily releasing a toxic blast of strong chemicals directly into his eyes.
"Arrgggh," he roared; gorilla-like, mean.
The next blow he threw blind. It landed over her ear, making everything sound like she was eternally stuck in a motel television set-all poppy and buzzing with static.
It was time to go.
Connor pulled a fresh, dark tshirt over his head. After adjusting the precious cross around his neck, he clasped his belt on the tightest notch.
His brother stood nearby, adding the last of his few belongings to their shared duffel bag. His face was closed up tighter than a frigid woman's legs. He'd been brooding over something since last night, filling their space with a crackling tension only a serious outburst would finally relieve.
Might as well get it started so we can get the broad and get on the road, he sighed. But first, a smoke.
Connor lit up, ignoring the motel's no smoking rule.
"So what the fuck? What am I getting the silent treatment for this time?" He asked. The cigarette bobbed madly between his fast-paced lips. "You've been pouting all morning like a little girl. I gave you the keys to the car and said you could drive first. Anything to keep that dame out from behind the wheel."
The way he said that dame infuriated Murphy. As if last night in the pool had never happened, and that fucker was back to loathing her again. He glared at his brother, but the look went unnoticed. Connor was stuffing his dirty clothes in the bag; in one big fucking hurry.
"You stupid dick!" Murphy exploded, shoving him. "What's your problem?"
The dangling cigarette fell, landing on the bed. Connor recovered it quickly, brushing any loose ash that may have singed the cheap fabric.
"Why you fucking…my problem?" Connor yelled. He retaliated with a good shove of his own. "What's your problem?"
"My problem is you! You fucking know." Murphy pushed again, harder. But his brother was expecting it and held the burning cigarette tighter between his rigid lips.
"Her!" Murphy continued to holler. "Can't you just leave her alone? Why do ya gotta have whatever I want?"
"What are you talking about, man? And stop shoving," Connor warned. He put two fingers to Murphy's chest as if his fingers could stop his brother at his maddest.
"How 'bout that chick back home? Lorelei. She was in to me until you turned on the fucking Connor charm," Murphy blamed.
"Lorelei?" Connor snorted. "You mean the goat girl?"
He reveled in the angry-red rash that spread over his twin's face.
"Goat girl my cock!" Murphy rumbled. "She didn't look anything like a goat!"
"Nah, but she was a goat farmer's daughter. She was into some weird shit, too. Smelled of sour milk. Tasted like it too once you plucked all the fine hairs from your mouth," he snickered.
"You shithead," Murphy responded, landing his hot knuckles upside his brother's unsuspecting head.
Connor aimed his chin upward, wishing to just finish this one cigarette in peace. He reached for his brother, easily wrestling his arm behind him. But subduing Murph was never a casual affair, and the two tussled with each other until Connor finally came out on top.
"Now quit," he told him, quite seriously. "Fuck that broad. I saved you a bunch of trouble with that one. Goat Girl only wanted one thing. I gave it to her then she went about her way. Lickety split. And what she wanted wasn't natural, just so's ya know."
Murphy was back to brooding like a kicked dog, silent and sullen. He was moving, reloading his gun and restrapping his holster. It was the only way to keep from kicking his brother's ass once and for all. His slit eyes flicked across the wall; the wall that separated them from the sleeping woman next door.
Then, it came to Connor. "Ah. This is about Elise."
"Ah yourself," Murphy spat, but his indignation confirmed it.
"Ah you with the blond floozie on your lap!" Connor burst. "You weren't too worried about 'er with that snatch rubbing up against ya last night."
"Ah, fuck you. I was havin' a good time. Just messing around. She was nothing."
Murphy tossed his brother the box of ammo. Connor didn't like how light it felt.
"Your trouble is you are too fucking sensitive," he told Murphy. "I don't want the Yakavetta dame. You can have her. What would the Aul Man say to that though? Screwing that half-Dego?"
Murph shrugged. "I'm not concerned about that."
Connor eyed him, hard like granite. "Ya should be. Besides, we were just talkin'. Havin' some fun. You should try it."
"I was having a blast until that blond's boyfriend showed up," he grunted.
They were almost packed up. It would be time to rouse her, give her plenty of primping time while they visited the donut shop again. Connor was in the mood for a fresh cruller dripping with that sugary stuff and a cup of that hot sludge they called coffee.
"Truth is, she's not so bad," Connor finally admitted.
"Why? She got that wounded animal inside you like so well?" Murphy sneered.
He sniggered at his brother's remark. "Nah. Quite the opposite. More like a caged animal, really. A little scared of her freedom, though. I think she'd be a bit wild,"
"Shut your hole," Murphy warned.
"Eh, she's got her panties in a bunch for you anyway."
Murphy winced. "Do you think I'm stupid and blind? She had her lips on ya last night, you fucking bowsie."
"Just a friendly peck. Nothing like what she's got in store for you, sweet brother." His brow wiggled at the fine suggestion.
Murphy stopped shuffling about the room. He glared at his brother, trying for menace, but curiosity killed it. "Yer only coddin' me."
Connor shook his head. He needed another cigarette. "Nah. A fella knows. If you opened your eyes and stopped being such a sensitive pussy you'd notice yourself."
Crashing chaos and a man's blaring roar from the next room interrupted them.
"What the fuck was that?" Murphy belted.
"Sounded like a gorilla shrieking," his brother suggested. "Got your piece?"
Murphy flashed his gun, but Connor was more impressed with the black-handled bowie knife tucked quietly, patiently into its sheath around his waist. Right where his belt should have been.
"Nice," he said.
The new blast of cool air didn't come from the next blow to her gut. The door had opened again, possibly forced open by the wind picking up outside. She heard its desperate howl mimicking her guttural groans.
Things were still blurry, but she made out the flash of black and steel entering the room. Two shadows moving so slow like thieves in the night, stealing a moment to position themselves behind the raging hick.
She knew. The beating was finally ending. And Big Redneck's suffering was about to begin.
Elise erupted into a gale of girlish giggles.
Her tormentor laughed too, slamming her by the throat tighter to the mattress. "Tickles, does it?"
"Nope," she eeked out, laughing maniacally.
She felt her head shake, painfully side to side. She managed to lift a weak arm and pointed to the men behind him.
Thankfully, the beast turned, puzzled, following her trembling finger.
The butt of a gun struck his head, dazing him. He toppled from Elise's crushed body.
There; at the end of the bed, she made out the blurred visage of her chaperones.
"You forgot to lock the door, imbecile," she heard someone mock the hick.
Connor spoke up, addressing her. "We let ourselves in, doll. Hope you don't mind."
She gasped for breath. "Connor."
Murphy flashed his brother a quick, wary glance. Connor felt his brother's tension, and his jaw clenched. But he obeyed when Murphy motioned for him to go to her.
In his newfound anger, Murphy kicked at the groaning ape tumbling from the bed. "Get up, motherfucker."
"Connor," Elise wheezed. She was rocking, writhing in pain, reaching heavy arms to him. She wanted to be raised up from the agony busting apart her skull.
"I got your back, lass," he said into her good ear.
Bedside, Murphy clutched a handful of Big Redneck's nappy hair. He hauled him on to his knees, avoiding the mindless swings of his meaty arm.
"Aye, you like beating women." He tapped him roughly with the tip of his steel-toed boot, giving him just a small preview of what was to come. "Well, I like beating dirtbags. And I'm going to enjoy every second you rotten. Motherless." With every word, Murphy delivered a heftier kick to his ribs. "Stinking. Shiteating. Douchebag."
Connor held her by the shoulders, lifting her. By sheer will, Elise sat up. Frightened by the stream of blood pouring from her mouth, she mouthed to Connor inaudible cries of fear.
His face screwed up. He shook his head at her, wiping at the crimson drops raining from her chin with the rumpled bed sheet.
"We gotta go," he told her. His eyes indicated the violent scene unfolding at the end of the bed. "Can you move? Stand?"
She nodded, delirious. Somehow, her legs found their gumption. She stooped, wobbling, moaning and sobbing tears of red. Everything on her hurt like Hell, and she imagined that's exactly what Hell felt like. Racked with pain and void of any Godly mercy.
"Grab what you can," Connor instructed her. "Move your ass as best you can."
He's being hopeful, she noted. It helped. It motivated her to turn back to the bed. They took turns hurling her belongings into open suitcases strewn along the floor.
When she fell over, Connor stepped over her . His heart empty, he stomped Big Redneck's cocked leg with the solid sole of his boot. It snapped, bloody bone busting through skin and pants.
He ignored the man's howl of pain-soaked rage. His fury had unplugged, draining all over the guy like an unclogged pipe. He'd beat him like he beat her.
"Fuckin' pussy," he seethed. "Couldn't come after us. It had to be her?"
Murphy moved away, going to Elise's thrashing body. She was struggling to her feet. He fumbled with her, but she pushed away. She continued hauling her things; the money bag, her purse. Then, she whirled on them.
He watched in stunned silence as she wobbled around them, putting little distance between the barrel of the gun she'd ripped from a dead man's hand and Big Redneck's crown.
"Elise," he managed steadily.
"Teach it to me," she sputtered.
"What?"
"The prayer, that's what. This slime doesn't deserve to live." She aimed her hurt at Connor. He'd stopped stomping the guy to watch her every move. "He beat up his girlfriend. Probably put her in the hospital."
"How do you know?" Connor asked, flinching.
"I just know!" She raged. And she did. She'd felt it during the beating. Like God had told her without speaking. "He's on the run. Cops are looking for him. She was a disgusting skank, but she didn't deserve what he did to her."
"Now, teach me the freaking prayer!" She commanded loudly.
Murphy nodded. He took her, moving her gently and squarely between them.
"Beg for forgiveness, and maybe; just maybe the Good Lord will hear you and bestow His mercy upon you," he told Big Redneck.
The loser on the floor wept. He begged. He called out his apologies to Mary Ellen and to her, but she refused to listen. Instead, Elise focused on the words echoing from the fluid mouths of her chaperones.
She repeated every word. "And shepherds we shall be for thee, my Lord, for thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand. Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands. So we shall flow a river forth to thee. And teeming with souls shall it ever be. In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti."
A beautiful boom filled the room. It was the soundtrack to the bright light blaring from every nook and crevice in the walls and ceiling of the dingy room. For a moment, Elise felt no pain. Just a vehement ripple of vindication coursing over her body.
They felt it, too. She heard them inhale it, slow to let it go, but quick to replace their guns. She watched, justified, as they placed the coins and gave the man one final prayer before sending him on his way.
"Where in the hell are we?" Murphy blasted from the back seat. "We gotta be in the next state by now."
Connor had the map smoothed over the vacant passenger seat. He peered through the setting sun's dim light, gauging their position somewhere closer to their final destination.
"Uh, yeah, I think the last sign I passed said Welcome to Iowa." He glanced over his shoulder. "How is she?"
"She needs a fucking doctor," Murphy grumbled.
"No. We take care of our own. You know that."
He blinked back the memory of the fiery confrontation years ago that left Rocco with a blown off finger and bullet holes littering their own flesh. They'd satisfied any need for a doctor with a steaming hot iron and a leather strap.
"This looks bad, man. Something might be wrong inside her, ya know. Cracked ribs or hemorrhaging and shit," he croaked. He almost sounded desperate.
Looking at Elise, Connor knew why. She'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours, unable to eat or drink or talk. All three things she was typically very good at.
Connor slammed his palm into the steering wheel. The car weaved just over the road's solid line. "Well, what do you suppose I do? We can't just check her into any hospital. And there's Johnny Yakavetta to think of,"
"Fuck Johnny!" Murphy burst. "He wants her there alive, doesn't he? This is some serious shit. We've got to deal with it. Now."
Connor sighed, resigned. "Okay, so what? What's your plan?"
Murphy slid upright against the sticky seat. He'd been a perch for her limp body for so long he felt melded stiff into the vinyl.
He blinked. Broken stalks of harvested corn whizzed by, each row pushing past them faster and faster as the car picked up speed. The more agitated his brother became, the heavier his foot hit the gas pedal.
"This is the American heartland. With lots of farm animals and shit," Murphy reasoned. "Somewhere there's bound to be a vet. Some po-dink doctor around. Just like home."
Connor nodded, jiving with the half-cocked suggestion. "Yeah, yeah. Keep your eyes open for that. I don't know if we'll find a Doc Brogan around, but hopefully someone close."
"Stop at the next gas station. I'll ask where to go."
Night came even earlier in the Midwest. Murphy passed the time squinting out the window for a side road leading to a doctor and holding her up beside him. Their stomachs rumbled in unison, reminding him he was due for another meal soon. Something to keep up his strength. He could switch places with his brother, maybe drive a few miles while Connor kept watch.
But the thought of leaving her side. It dulled him. He thought of Romeo. Doc. Aul Man. Smecker. Rocco. All the people he missed that mattered.
Call me a sensitive pussy if you'd like, he thought. But I'm not letting this one go.
"Come on. Wake up and help me lug 'er in there," Connor's voice broke through his thin veil of sleep.
"Shit," he yawned, stretching his long legs as far as the front seat would allow. "Sorry."
Connor had the passenger door open. An out Elise was practically slung across his lean body. "Eh, I found a place. I've already got the doc up. She's getting a room ready for her."
Murphy felt for his gun. "You mean calling the fuzz? Why the fuck'd you leave her alone?"
"Calm down, will ya. And help me," Connor seethed. "We're in the middle of nowhere. It would take Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane an hour to get here. By then, we'll be long gone."
County Physician Peggy Aaronson peered over the rim of her tea cup at the two men fidgeting across from her. She'd been woken up in the night before for other emergencies-births, heart attacks, children raging with fever. But nothing quite so peculiar had ever landed on her doorstep as a beaten woman and her two brothers, as they told it.
They looked more like comic book vigilantes cloaked in black, clutching oversized crosses in their hands. One uttered a prayer in Latin, adding another layer of quirkiness to his character.
"Well, she was beaten something awful," she started. "But she's fine."
Both men deflated.
She continued. "It's amazing she has no broken bones or internal bleeding. But her left eardrum is badly damaged. Possibly by a solid blow to the head." She indicated where the hit may have landed on her own head. "And she's got some real deep bruises from here up." Again, she directed their eyes to her saggy midsection, moving up to her forehead. "I can't do anything for the ear here in my office, but you get her to the county hospital and,"
They were shaking their heads.
She sighed. "I'm not even going to ask."
The older woman stood. She removed the dangling stethoscope from around her neck, letting it land anywhere on her desk. Squeezing the achy place where her glasses usually settled between her eyes, she wished for a cigarette. Menthol. And a shot of whiskey.
"Let my daughter finish cleaning her up, and she's all yours. She's moving around good despite the dehydration starting to set in. Keep pumping her with water and that will take care of itself," Peggy mentioned.
Murphy handed the woman a wad of cash from his front pants pocket. He had no idea the amount, but it was well worth her troubles.
"Thanks again, ma'am," he said.
The doctor took the money easily. She flipped through the stack and grimaced. "Well, I was going to ask for an insurance card, but this will do."
In the next room, Elise leaned against the compact square of sink, gazing wearily at the unknown reflection in the mirror.
The doctor's daughter had done an impeccable job stitching the gaping wound above her eye and removing all traces of caked blood from her face. But the damage done internally was more than Elise could stand. She gripped the porcelain, wondering why The Lord was making her his modern day Job.
"Cute dress," the young nurse spoke behind her.
Elise looked down at the cornflower blue sheath dotted with tiny white spots. It was the first thing she'd grabbed back at the motel. "Thanks," she said behind a cracked, sore smile. "Got a hairbrush?"
The girl rummaged in a drawer and pulled out just what she needed. Elise took her time running the plastic bristles through her tangled mess. She had no clips, no ribbons, no powder, or lip stain to apply. Everything she'd stored in the bathroom of the motel had been left behind. It was like convent grooming all over again. Simple, redundant, and plain.
Nothing about the past four days had been simple, redundant, or plain though. She'd been attacked more times than she'd ever imagined. She'd killed again. But the killing had changed her. Carved another piece of her back, revealing the true Woman of God He had sculpted from the start. She just never knew who she was until now. Until the McManus Boys had stormed into her life, saved her on several occasions, and were charged with also chipping away at unearthing the Real Elise.
In her maddening darkness, a flicker of light glinted off the mirror. The beam bounced and flashed until it formed the shape of a cross, so glowing and splendid, covering the entire pane of glass. She stared into it, letting its power soak through her teary orbs.
Her heart throbbed and beat with thoughts of Frankie and Emilia. The children. Uncle Cillian and Aunt Nora. Connor and Murphy. An overwhelming urge to be with them again; all of them, overcame her. She nearly buckled from the want.
It was his voice outside the door that carried her back to her senses. He spoke so softly she wondered if she had imagined his voice. It was time to go.
(End of chapter 5)