"Hey!" ZZ Top roared. He and the mullet accelerated down the center aisle. Clare, seeing five hundred pounds of good ol' boy bearing down on her, whirled and dashed for the same doorway Amado had disappeared through. Hide. Where? Everything still unlocked had to be locked by key. She'd never have-
Just short of the door, she lunged sideways, to where the processional cross and torches were cradled in their wooden brackets. She grabbed the processional cross and spun back toward the invaders. "Stop!" she shouted. Amazingly, they did so.
She held the heavy six-foot-long oak staff cross-braced in her hands, barring the way like Little John at the ford. The gleaming cross screwed atop it was a foot high, cast in solid bronze, weighty enough to break bones. "Get out of here," she said, her voice hard.
"What are you, a ninja? Get outta my way," the mullet said. He feinted toward the door she blocked. Clare rammed the butt of the staff into his chest and, as he folded with an explosion of hacking coughs, hit him over the head with a crack that sounded like a branch being snapped in two. He dropped.
"What the hell!" The bearded guy stared at the fallen man. "What did you do to my brother, you bitch?"
He lunged toward her. She tried the ramming trick again, but he dodged left, reaching for the staff. She let it drop out of one hand and swung it low with the other, slamming into his knees and calves, hard enough to hurt, not-dammit all!-hard enough to cripple him.
"You goddamn bitch!" He lurched forward, hands outstretched, deflecting her blows with forearms, left, right, left. She was backed against the wall beside the door, unable to get the leverage to make them count. He got his hands on the processional cross and shook, hard, Clare clinging on, jerking back and forth, knowing if she let go he'd use it to beat her unconscious. Bad breath and spittle and a stream of monotonously vile words spewed into her face. She brought her head back and then forward, fast, her forehead connecting to his nose with a crunch that left her eyes watering.
He howled. Rammed himself into her, oaken staff and all, splattering her with the blood running out his nose and driving the breath from her body. She stomped, stomped again, trying to get his instep, his foot, anything.
She heard a loud click.
"Step away from her or I blow your brains out," Russ said.
The bearded man let her go. Raised his hands. Stepped back. Clare sagged against the wall, clinging to the cross.
"On the floor," Russ said.
The bearded man looked at him sullenly. "She attacked me! I was just-"
Russ holstered his Glock, drew back his arm, and smashed his fist into the side of the man's head. Clare shrieked. The bearded man reeled, and Russ punched him, once, twice, his back and shoulders working, until the attacker fell to his knees. Russ reached for him, twisting his fists in the front of his sweatshirt, ready to haul him up and pound him again. Clare dropped the processional cross and grabbed Russ's arm, trying, without much success, to drag him away from the injured man.
"Stop!" she said, her voice a strangled whisper in her throat. "Stop!"
He looked at her with eyes she didn't recognize. "You're bleeding."
"It's not my blood. He was after Amado, not me. It's not my blood. I'm okay."
He shook himself. Looked at Clare's assailant, who was bleeding copiously into his beard. Released his sweatshirt. "Down on the floor," Russ said. The man slumped forward without protest this time, spread-eagled on the polished wood.
From outside, she heard the rising and falling of a siren. Russ yanked at the handcuffs on his belt. He got down on one knee and clicked them around the bearded man's beefy wrists. "You have the right to remain silent," he said.
She raised the cross off the floor with shaking hands.
"You have the right to an attorney."
The intricate bronze work was spotless.
"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."
She drew her sleeve across her mouth, wiping away the blood and spittle, and kissed it.
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
In thanksgiving. In apology.
The siren broke off, and a moment later the inner doors swung open. Kevin Flynn charged into the nave, his gun out, followed by Amado, who stayed well behind, clutching his cast.
"Call an ambulance, Kevin," Russ said, levering himself off his knee. The younger officer skidded to a stop, his eyes widening at the prone bodies and blood-spattered floor.
"What the-?" He looked at Russ. "What happened?"
Russ glanced at the two on the floor. Then at her. "They were stupid enough to mess with Reverend Fergusson."
XII
Her kitchen light was on. He hadn't known if it would be. It had been at least two hours since he had stalked out of St. Alban's, his arms still spasming with unspent rage, his head pounding blackly behind his eyes. He had walked-across the street, into the park, around the circle-while Paul Urquhart arrived and Kevin took Clare's statement and the EMTs loaded the two Christies into the ambulance. He finally cooled off enough to be sure he wasn't going to break his hand hitting a wall, and went back to question the young sexton, who was both terrified and bewildered by the Christies' interest in him.
They hadn't gotten anything out of the Christies, of course-well, out of Donald, who was the only one able to talk. Neil was still unconscious. Russ hadn't been as neat and efficient as Clare. When she put a man down, he stayed down.
Christ, wasn't that the truth.
The Christies were in the Washington County Hospital, waiting for their lawyer and their medical releases before Urquhart transported them to the county jail. Their would-be victim, despite Russ's glowering and Kevin's offer to take him back to the old farmhouse on Lick Spring Road, was bunking at the rectory tonight, at the insistence of his employer and savior. When Russ had seen the hero worship in the kid's eyes, his warnings about Clare putting Amado up fell flat. After this evening, her latest charity case would cheerfully take a bullet for her.
Another poor sonofabitch down for the count.
Now he was sitting in the cab of his truck, pulled over across the street, looking at the rectory. It was dark, except for a single lamp deep inside the living room and the kitchen light shining out the side door.
He pulled into her drive, butting up snug against the rear of her Subaru. He got out, closing his door with a solid thunk, letting her know he was coming. He saw a shadow at the kitchen door, and as he trudged up the steps, he heard the sound of a bolt turning and a chain rattling as it was drawn away. She opened the door to him.