Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Sean and Bronwyn

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Amber Quill Press, LLC
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Copyright 2002 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

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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

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