Page 120 of A Breath of Life
An old woman. Tallus had only one reliable contact, who was female.
The seemingly innocent Kitty Lavender.Smart, Tallus.That’s using your fucking head.
With Kitty on his side, he might succeed in finding Clarence. It didn’t guarantee my freedom or Nana’s safety, but it was a start.
The gunman left, and the Bishop returned to his monotonous task, ignoring me once again. I wanted to press him with the name Michael, but the initial shock had worn off, and he would be ready for the inquisition.
Michael. St Michael. Could the Bishop be Michael? Why not? He’d elevated himself to one position in the clergy. Why not canonizehimself and become the first living saint? Was this some sort of religious cult? None of it made sense.
“How about another drink?” I asked.
“You’ve had enough. Sit quietly.”
I did for a time, puzzling options and working through scenarios. While the Bishop occupied himself, I feigned scratching my ankle while meticulously tugging my pant leg loose from the rope bindings so I could access my sheathed weapon in a pinch.
If left alone for five minutes, I could cut myself free of the ropes around my legs. The knife wouldn’t help with the stainless steel around my wrists, but I wouldn’t be stuck in the chair. The wire from earlier had been abandoned on the sideboard. It wouldn’t take much to bend it into a useful tool and pick the lock on the cuffs. With luck, I could regain control of my limbs in under five minutes. From there, it was a crapshoot. I didn’t know where I was or who was in the building. Brute strength was no match for guns.
Unfortunately, the Bishop must have been given explicit instructions not to leave the room, so my freedom was dependent on Tallus finding Clarence and Ace being in a good mood. Not betting odds.
Option two was eliminating my watchdog and confiscating his weapons.
That plan was skewed by a moral dilemma. Sure, I could lure the Bishop close enough to make use of the knife—another cigarette, an irritating itch I couldn’t scratch, or maybe a desperate plea to use the bathroom—but injuring him wasn’t enough. It could make my situation worse if I didn’t render him unconscious. I would need to kill him. Preferably silently, so no one came running to his aid.
It meant slitting his throat.
It meant becoming the monster I’d spent years trying not to be.
The consequences would haunt me for the rest of my life. I would never be able to look at myself in a mirror again. Tallus would leave. My fragile mental health would crumble, and there would be no coming back.
Also, killing the Bishop did not guarantee I would get out of this alive. Too many unknowns lived beyond the door.
And Nana. I couldn’t risk Nana.
So, I sat quietly, rolling plan after plan through my head, dismissing them all. Even with a weapon strapped to my calf, I was fucking useless. I was the boy in the corner. Defenseless. Alone.
Melancholy didn’t look good on me, so I shed those thoughts and focused on the insufferable itch that bloomed under my skin. I wanted another drink. Another smoke. I wanted the numbness I’d felt in my fingers to blanket my body and snuff out the world.
An indeterminant amount of time passed before I became aware of something going on upstairs. It started with what seemed to be a few tinkling notes before shifting into the soft impression of music. It drifted as a tinny echo down a nearby vent.
The Bishop must have heard it too. He stopped arranging his toys and briefly glanced at the ceiling before referencing his watch.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Eleven.”
Footsteps sounded on the floor above. The din of muffled voices rose and fell. The faint hint of sweet cigar smoke tainted the air.
The buzz of a gathering. A crowd. How many? I couldn’t say. Were they Ace’s men? Were they converging and preparing for something worse?
For a time, I strained, listening, but I couldn’t pick out words. Every so often, men’s laughter overrode the murmurs of conversation. Someone must have turned up the music. I picked out jazzyinstrumental, a hint of ragtime. Piano. Saxophone. A trumpet. Scratchy, old-time songs from a different era.
Not a gathering for a nefarious purpose. The vibe was off.
The Bishop closed his briefcase and lounged in his seat, feet kicked out, arms crossed. Relaxed, he watched me with an element of boredom that had grown more prevalent over the past few hours. The man was growing restless. He didn’t want to be here any more than me.
I met his gaze and refused to look away. Intimidation was the only weapon I wasn’t afraid to use. In everyday life, especially considering my size, it worked wonders. The Bishop was a worthy opponent and matched my scowl for a time. Eventually, he cut his attention to the bottles of liquor.
“I wouldn’t say no.”
