Tangled Souls by Jana Oliver Page A

a Corsair, his father’s birthday present. He’d made it as far as the tail section and then decided to give it a rest. He’d go to the pub after all, have lunch with his dad, listen to the other men jest with one another, inhale the rich aroma of beer and whiskey. As he placed the model in an old shoe box, the house shook, rattling crockery in the kitchen. The muffled sound of an explosion reached his ears. His gran looked up from her knitting, her face unnaturally pale. Her hand trembled as she made the sign of the cross.
    In that instant he knew his father was dead, felt it deep in his bones.
    “Gran . . .” Tears wove their way down her face as she hugged the nearly completed sweater to her chest—a present her son would never wear.
    “Sweet Jesus,” she murmured, rocking back and forth. “How could they?”
    He remembered running through the streets of his hometown, oblivious to everything but the need to prove himself wrong. The pub had vanished. Left in its place was a ruin of broken bricks, flaming rafters, and twisted metal. The stench of burned flesh filled his nose along with the acrid smell of thick, choking smoke. Sirens echoed around him.
    He shoved his way through the gathering crowd, shouting his father’s name over and over. A policeman caught him as he tried to rush into the fiery ruins, and he fought, kicking and swearing. Finally, he slumped to his knees in the broken glass and wept.
    When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he jerked his eyes upward, a prayer of thanks on his lips—his father had survived. It was not his dad’s face that looked down at him, but Father Murphy’s. The old priest clutched a rosary to his chest, his eyes damp with tears. Fourteen men had died in the pub that day. One was Douglas O’Fallon’s father.
    Now, as he knelt before Saint Bridget, he couldn’t prevent the tears from cascading down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed harder. How could that woman have known? How could she see his father’s spirit and he could not?
    When he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder, he half expected it to be Father Murphy.
    “Doug?” Avery asked softly, his face covered in concern. “Are you okay?”
    O’Fallon shook his head, scattering tears around him. “God, no, I’m not.” He paused and then blurted, “I need to talk.”
    “I’ll be in the courtyard when you’re ready.” As he turned, he hesitated. “Is this about Benjamin?”
    “It’s about me.”
    His friend’s expression grew solemn. “I’ll wait for you.”
    * * *
     
    O’Fallon could only imagine what he looked like to his old friend, though Avery had seen him through every kind of hell, both on the job and off. Now, as they sat in the courtyard, his friend hadn’t taken his eyes off him for a moment.
    “You’ve been in the church a long time. I felt something was very wrong,” Avery said. O’Fallon still didn’t speak, unable to put the events of the day in any sensible order. “Doug, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. Something’s shaken you to the core. For God’s sake, let me help you,” he said gently, putting his hand on O’Fallon’s shoulder.
    “It’s because of the witch,” he started.
    Avery leaned forward, a puzzled look on his face. “Witch?”
    “I have another case. . . .” He launched into the tale, explaining the trip to Palm Springs and Ms. Gavenia Kingsgrave. Then he revealed what she’d told him. Up to that point he’d kept his emotions in check, and then the dam burst. Words flooded out like a torrent, washing over both of them. Avery held his silence, listening intently.
    When the torrent faded to a trickle, O’Fallon raised his face. “I don’t know what to think,” he whispered. “How could she have known about my father?”
    “I find it rather remarkable. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never told me exactly how he died.” Avery thought for a moment. “Is there any way she could have learned the details through a