Dennis Lehane - Darkness, Take My Hand (Patrick Kenzie Angela Gennaro Novels)

DENNIS LEHANE

DARKNESS, TAKE MY HAND

We should be thankful we cannot see the horrors and degradations lying around our childhood, in cupboards and bookshelves, everywhere.

Graham Greene The Power and the Glory

When I was a kid, my father took me up on the roof of a freshly burned building .

Hed been giving me a tour of the firehouse when the call came in, and I got to ride beside him in the front seat of the fire engine, thrill to the feel of it turning corners as its back half buckled and the sirens rang and the smoke poured blue and black and thick ahead of us .

An hour after theyd doused the flames, once my hair had been ruffled by his fellow firemen a dozen times, and Id been fed my limit of street vendor hot dogs as I sat on the curb and watched them work, my father came and took my hand and led me up the fire escape .

Oily wisps of smoke curled into our hair and caressed the brick as we climbed, and through broken windows I could see charred, gutted floors. Gaps in the ceilings rained dirty water .

I was terrified of that building, and my father had to pick me up when he stepped out on the roof .

Patrick, he whispered as we walked across the tar paper, its okay. Dont you see ?

I looked out and saw the city rising steel blue and yellow beyond the stretch of neighborhood. I could smell the heat and damage below me .

Dont you see? my father repeated. Its safe here. We stopped the fire in the low floors. It cant reach us up here. If you stop it at its base, it cant rise .

He smoothed my hair and kissed my cheek .

And I trembled .

Prologue

Christmas Eve 6:15 p.m.

Three days ago, on the first official night of winter, a guy I grew up with, Eddie Brewer, was one of four people shot in a convenience store. Robbery was not a motive. The shooter, James Fahey, had recently broken up with his girlfriend, Laura Stiles, who was a cashier on the four-to-twelve shift. At eleven fifteen, as Eddie Brewer filled a styrofoam cup with ice and Sprite, James Fahey walked through the door and shot Laura Stiles once in the face and twice in the heart.

Then he shot Eddie Brewer once in the head and walked down the frozen food aisle and found an elderly Vietnamese couple huddling in the dairy section. Two bullets each for them, and James Fahey decided his work was complete.

He walked out to his car, sat behind the wheel, and taped the restraining order Laura Stiles and her family had successfully filed against him to the rearview mirror. Then he tied one of Lauras bras around his head, took a pull from a bottle of Jack Daniels, and fired a bullet into his mouth.

James Fahey and Laura Stiles were pronounced dead at the scene. The elderly Vietnamese man died en route to Carney Hospital, his wife a few hours later. Eddie Brewer, however, lies in a coma, and while doctors say his prognosis isnt good, they also admit his continued existence is all but miraculous.

The press have been giving that description a lot of play lately, because Eddie Brewer, never anything close to a saint when we were growing up, is a priest. Hed been out jogging the night he was shot, dressed in thermals and sweats, so Fahey didnt know his vocation, though I doubt it would have mattered much. But the press, sensing both a nostalgia for religion so close to the holidays, and a fresh spin on an old story, played his priesthood for all it was worth.

TV commentators and print editorialists have likened Eddie Brewers random shooting to a sign of the apocalypse, and around-the-clock vigils have been held at his parish in Lower Mills and outside the Carney. Eddie Brewer, an obscure cleric and a completely unassuming man, is heading for martyrdom, whether he lives or not.

None of this has anything to do with the nightmare that descended on my life and that of several others in this city two months ago, a nightmare that left me with wounds the doctors say have healed as well as can be expected, even though my right hand has yet to regain most of its feeling, and the scars on my face sometimes burn under the beard Ive grown. No, a priest getting shot and the serial killer who entered my life and the latest ethnic cleansing being wrought in a former Soviet republic or the man who shot up an abortion clinic not far from here or another serial killer whos killed ten in Utah and has yet to be caughtnone of it is connected.

But sometimes it feels like it is, as if somewhere theres a thread to all these events, all these random, arbitrary violences, and that if we can just figure out where that thread begins, we can pull on it, unravel everything, make sense of it.

Since Thanksgiving, Ive grown the beard, the first one of my life, and while I keep it trimmed, it continues to surprise me in the mirror every morning, as if I spend my nights dreaming of a face that is smooth and unruptured by scars, flesh that is clean the way only a babys is, skin untouched by anything but sweet air and a mothers tender caresses.

The officeKenzie/Gennaro Investigationsis closed, gathering dust I assume, maybe the first stray cobweb in a corner behind my desk, maybe one behind Angies too. Angies been gone since the end of November, and I try not to think about her. Or Grace Cole. Or Graces daughter, Mae. Or anything at all.

Mass has just ended across the street, and with the unseasonably warm weatherstill in the low forties, though the suns been down for ninety minutesmost of the parishioners mill about outside, and their voices are sharp in the night air as they wish each other good cheer and happy holidays. They remark on the strangeness of the weather, how erratic its been all year, how summer was cold and autumn warm and then just as suddenly bitter and icy, how no one should be surprised if Christmas morning were to bring a Santa Ana and a mercury reading in the seventies.

Someone mentions Eddie Brewer, and they speak about it for a moment, but a brief one, and I sense they dont want it to spoil their festive mood. But, oh, they say, what a sick, crazy world. Crazy is the word, they say, crazy, crazy, crazy.

I spend most of my time sitting out here lately. From the porch, I can see people, and even though its often cool out here, their voices keep me here as my bad hand stiffens with cold and my teeth begin to chatter.

In the mornings, I carry my coffee out, sit in the brisk air and look across the avenue to the schoolyard and watch the small boys in their blue ties and matching blue pants and the small girls with their plaid skirts and glinting barrettes run around the yard. Their sudden shrieks and darting movements, their seemingly bottomless supply of frenetic energy, can be wearying or invigorating depending on my mood. When its a bad day, those shrieks ride my spinal column like chips of broken glass. On good days, though, I get a flush of something that may be a memory of what it was like to feel whole, when the simple act of breathing didnt ache.

The issue, he wrote, is pain. How much I feel, how much I parcel out.

He came during the warmest, most erratic autumn on record, when the weather seemed to have flipped completely off its usual course, when everything seemed upside down, as if youd look at a hole in the ground and see stars and constellations floating at the bottom, turn your head to the sky and see dirt and trees hanging suspended. As if he had his fingers on the globe, and he slapped it, and the worldor at least my portion of itspun.

Sometimes Bubba or Richie or Devin and Oscar drop by, sit out here with me and we talk about the NFL playoffs or the college bowls or the latest movies in town. We dont talk about this past autumn or Grace and Mae. We dont talk about Angie. And we never talk about him. Hes done his damage, and theres nothing left to say.

The issue, he wrote, is pain.

Those wordswritten on a piece of white, 8X11 copy paperhaunt me. Those words, so simple, sometimes seem as if they were written in stone.