BlackWind

Amber Quill Press, LLC
www.amberquill.com

Copyright ©2002 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Albany, Georgia, September 1979

He followed the little girl's every movement with hungry eyes.

He had been watching her for three years now.

At his sides, his hands were clenched so tightly the fingernails dug bloody arcs into his palms. His body posture was tense as he watched the child from his hiding place at the corner of the building. Every trill of laughter from her creamy white throat, every shriek of delight as she soared higher and higher on the swing, drove a spike of hurt through his brain. Staring at her pretty smile made him clench his teeth, grind them together so strongly his jaw began to ache.

“Higher, Davy!” she demanded. “Push me higher!”

His fevered gaze shifted momentarily to the little red-haired boy who stood behind her, his freckled face beaming as he pushed the swing seat. Every ounce of hatred in his body became directed at the boy. Every vile epithet he had ever heard was hurled silently at the head of the child. A grimace of a smile began to relax his tight face as he watched the boy suddenly turn pale.

“Davy!” the little girl protested, turning to look back at her friend.

The recess bell blared. The watcher jumped, since he was standing almost directly under the mechanism, but he did not remove his angry stare from the boy. If anything, his look intensified.

The red-haired boy faltered, stumbled back, his hand to his forehead. He went to one knee on the playground sand.

“Davy?” the girl questioned. The concern in her voice brought the eyes of her watcher back to her and away from the target of his rage. She twisted around in the swing seat, her worried eyes locked on her friend.

“Bronnie,” the boy called as he lowered his other knee to the ground. “I don't feel so good.”

“What's the matter?” she asked and tipped forward to drag her sneakers in the dirt, slowing the swing. Her face was turned toward him, her eyes troubled. “Davy, what's wrong?”

He knew what she was going to do a second before she acted. “No,” the watcher hissed, venturing out from his hiding place. With a gasp, he stared in horror as the girl let go of the swing's chains and leapt out of the seat to land on both knees in the gravel. He groaned as he saw the flash of pain cross her pretty features as she stood and limped toward the boy. His gaze dropped to her knees; he winced when he saw the flesh scraped and peppered with welling blood.

"Aye, you caused it,”
the voice inside his head whispered
. “See what you did?"

He stood trembling as she squatted beside her friend and put her hand on the boy's shoulder. The blood rushed so thickly and loudly through his ears, he could not hear what she said. But it didn't matter; he didn't want to know. He when he started to turn away, her words stopped him dead still in his tracks.

“Hey, Sean!”

He turned to gawk at her.

“Could you help us?” she asked, her pretty green eyes fused with his demon-dark orbs.

He shook his head in denial.

“Please?” she beseeched. She cocked her head and repeated the word.

He looked around, realizing they were alone on the playground. There was no one to see what was happening, no one to help.

“Please?” she repeated, and he realized she was close to tears.

Without fully realizing he was doing it, he began moving toward her. He didn't speak as he stopped about two feet away. His heart was beating so quickly, he thought it might burst from his ribcage.

“I can't pick him up,” she said. Her right arm was behind the boy's back, her left hand entwined with his. “Will you?”

Seeing the two holding hands sent a ripple of fury through him. He was experiencing such murderous rage he wondered that the girl did not sense it.

“Sean?”

His name on her tongue brought him out of the dark place into which he wanted to descend. He mentally shook himself. “What?”

“Can you help me get him up?”

He shrugged and stepped forward. With a grimace of distaste, he took hold of the boy's arm.

“What's going on here?” an imperious voice demanded.

The watcher turned to see an overweight man bustling toward them. He let go of the boy's arm and dug his hands into the pockets of his breeches, backed away, lowering his head against the heat of the older man's glower.

“Sean Cullen. I should have known I'd find you causing trouble. What have you done now?”

The girl snapped up her head. “Sean hasn't done anything, Father Goodmayer. Davy...”

“Be quiet, Bronwyn,” the priest ordered. “I was not speaking to you, young lady.”

Fr. Henry Goodmayer's beefy face above the priestly collar was framed in a bushy salt-and-pepper beard. His dark eyes squinted against the glare of the hot sun as he turned his angry glare to Sean Cullen. “Go to Sister's office and wait for me.”

“He was only trying to...” the girl began.

“I said to be quiet, Bronwyn!” Fr. Goodmayer snapped. “Or would you like some of what he will be getting?”

The girl's chin came up. “You whip that boy for something he didn't do and I'll have my father on you like white on rice!”

The priest's mouth flew open. His beady eyes narrowed. “How
dare
you!”

“I dare because my father is the Grand Knight and the president of the parish council and...”

Bronnie McGregor yelped as the priest brutally grabbed her arm and started dragging her toward the school. A second after that, Goodmayer was on the ground, with Sean Cullen, a crazed eleven year-old boy, straddling his back.

“Don't you hurt her!” Sean bellowed as he slammed his fists into the back of the priest's head.

It took two nuns and the gym coach to pull Sean Cullen off Goodmayer. Sean was so filled with rage, Sisters Mary Pat and Agnes Louise were obviously grateful for the strength in Coach Rubin Herndon's brawny arms.

“Be still, Cullen!” the coach hissed, his thick forearms locked around Sean.

Goodmayer struggled to his feet, his florid face even more infused with anger. He pointed a stubby finger at Sean. “Take that little hellion to my office and keep him there!” He swung his gaze to Sister Mary Pat. “And you take that rude little chit to
your
office and give her the paddling she deserves for her disrespect!”

“No!” Sean shouted, violently twisting to get free.

Sister Mary Pat sighed heavily. “Come along, Bronwyn,” she insisted, taking the girl's arm. “I've no choice but to do as Father demands.”

As if sensing another outburst from his ward, Coach Herndon tightened his grip on Sean and leaned down to snarl in his ear. “She won't lay a hand on Bronnie. Now, be still!”

Sean stared into the coach's periwinkle blue eyes and knew the man was being truthful. He stopped struggling, allowing his shoulders to droop.

“But you, young man,” the coach grumbled, “won't be able to sit down for a week when Father is through with you!”

Sean didn't care about himself. His concern was entirely on Bronwyn as she walked dejectedly beside Sister Mary Pat. When she turned and gave him a hopeless, apologetic smile for getting him into such a fix, he shrugged nonchalantly.

A shrug Fr. Goodmayer did not miss.

“Pete and Mike Thomas said they heard the pops from that paddle all the way to the sacristy!” Bronwyn complained to her father. She swiped angrily at the tears streaking down her cheeks. “They know all about that paddle, Daddy. They've seen it. They say when Father came here he had holes drilled in it so it would hurt worse when he used it on one of the boys! Daddy, you've got to
do
something!”

Dermot McGregor stroked his daughter's trembling back. “Bronnie, it isn't up to me to speak to Fr. Goodmayer about this. It's up to the boy's father.”

“Fr. Goodmayer should not have manhandled our daughter, Derm,” Bronwyn's mother Deirdre put in. “I think you should find out all you can about what happened, then take this latest outrageous behavior before the Council.”

“Oh, I fully intend to have a talk with Goodmayer,” Bronwyn's father snapped.

Bronwyn buried her face in her father's neck. “I'm worried about Sean, Daddy. Will you call and see how he is? Pete said Sean was limping when he left the rectory and got in his daddy's truck.”

Her father looked at his wife. “What do you think?”

“I think the young man should be commended for trying to protect our daughter,” his wife replied. “Don't you?”

Dermot sighed. “I guess you're right. What's his name, Bronnie?”

“Sean Cullen,” she said with a hiccup. When her father stiffened, she lifted her head and looked up at him, surprised to see his face tight with disapproval. “What's the matter, Daddy?”

“Cullen. Are we talking about Tymothy Cullen's son?”

She ran the sleeve of her blouse under her nose. “I don't know. I guess so. Do you know his father?”

A muscle worked in Dermot's lean cheek. “I know
of
him.”

“Is that the man who runs the butcher shop over on East Broad?” Deirdre asked her husband.

“I believe so.”

“I've heard he beats his—”

“I'll handle this, DeeDee,” her husband interrupted with a stern look. He dipped his chin toward his daughter, then away in a silent message to his wife.

Deirdre nodded. “Bronnie, will you help me with supper?”

“But I want to know how Sean is, Mama!”

“Your father will tell us after he's spoken to the boy's father.” Deirdre stood and held out her hand. “How about you making some of your great tasting deviled eggs tonight? I've got four boiled eggs just waiting for you to work your magic on them!”

Bronwyn tucked her lower lip between her teeth. She was torn between staying to hear the conversation between her father and Sean's and her showing off the only thing she knew how to make. She shrugged. “Okay.”

“And put some minced celery in for me,” her father said.

Bronwyn smiled. “And dillweed?”

“Well, of course!” He chuckled. “What good are deviled eggs without dillweed?”

When his daughter was out of earshot, Dermot McGregor ran a weary hand over his face and sighed deeply. The last thing he wanted to do was have a conversation with Tym Cullen, a man the entire town despised. With effort, he pushed out of his easy chair and went to the phone. His frown deepened as he looked up the number for the Cullen residence. By the time he ended the telephone call, his frown had become a grimace.

Deirdre looked up as her husband came into the kitchen. The look on his face concerned her.

“Is he all right, Daddy?” Bronwyn asked. She was too young to understand the tight white line around her father's lips and the steely glint in his gray eyes.

“His father assures me he is, Bronnie.” He came to stand beside his daughter, who was mixing pickle relish, finely minced onion and celery into the cooked egg yolks. He folded his arms as she ladled a dollop of mayonnaise into the mix. “Not too much.”

Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “I
know
, Daddy!” she said with exasperation, reaching for the shaker of dillweed.

Deirdre dried her hands on a kitchen towel as she studied her husband of fifteen years. His forbidding looks made her feel the heartbeat in her throat.

“You finish up here, Bronnie,” Dermot said. “I need to speak with your mother.”

Bronwyn looked up. “About what you're going to say to Father tomorrow?” she inquired with a grin.

He nodded, then gently cupped her cheek. “Do you know how much I love you, Bronwyn Fiona McGregor?”