Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(83)

Ronan had read the texts. “It wasn’t like it was a big surprise where he was going to end up. He always goes to the falls, to the exact same place at the falls. Overlook One, rinse, repeat. My phone was in the car, man, stand the fuck down.”

“I had work,” Declan said. “I had appointments. This created a situation that put me into a difficult place.”

A prime Declanism.

“Created a situation,” echoed Ronan.

“Where were you really?” Declan asked. When Ronan just raised an eyebrow, Declan said, “Fine, don’t tell me. I assume you’re just blowing off everything I told you about not chasing trouble, because that’s what you do, isn’t it? I keep my head down and you dream up a fucking skywriter that says kill me please.”

“Goes to show,” Ronan said, “you don’t need a priest in the house for a sermon. We still hitting the zoo?”

Declan, to Ronan’s surprise, grabbed both of Ronan’s arms and propelled him to the doorway of the nave via biceps. Ronan could feel his brother’s fingers digging into him. It had been a long time since either of them had landed a fist on each other’s faces, but Ronan remembered it in the pressure of those fingertips.

Declan hissed in his ear, “You see that kid there? Head down? You know him, right, your baby brother? I don’t know where the hell you really were, but while you were there, that kid was putting the pieces together. While you were out doing fuck all with yourself, he figured out you dreamt him. So no, we are not. Still. Hitting. The. Zoo.”

Declan released him with such force that it was as if he were throwing Ronan away from himself. “I’m going to the car to put out some fires. You can go look him in the eye now and be a fucking smartass if you want.”

Ronan was left standing looking into the tiny green nave at his little brother. He could now see that he was seated in a very un-Matthew-like position. Head down. Hands folded over the back of his neck.

He looked over his shoulder, but Declan had already seen himself out.

Pacing quietly down to the front of the church, Ronan made the sign of the cross and slid into the pew beside Matthew.

“Hey, kid,” he said.

Matthew didn’t move.

Ronan put a hand in Matthew’s thick golden curls and tousled them. “Do you want to talk or not?”

Matthew didn’t say anything. Ronan leaned his shoulder against Matthew as he had many times before, trying to imagine what his brother needed from him in this moment. Probably a hug. Matthew nearly always wanted a hug.

Matthew remained motionless. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t doing anything. Matthew was always doing something. Fidgeting. Talking. Laughing. Falling. Getting back up. Singing.

But he wasn’t doing anything right now.

The church was quiet except for the dyspeptic sigh of the old heating system. It varied in tone like a human snoring, a phenomenon that had offered much mirth to the two younger Lynch brothers over the course of their Masses there.

Ronan caught a sudden whiff of incense, of salt water, the smell of a tiny green mermaid Mass coming to a close. Go in peace, but Matthew was far from peace.

“What do you need me to say, little man?” he asked.

Matthew said, “I don’t want …” He didn’t say anything else for a long moment. Then he added, “To hear you say anything—” He seemed to be measuring the words out, tipping them out of a jar and checking to be sure he still had enough to go on. “—because now I know—” He did not remotely sound like himself when he spoke that way. “—you’re as big a liar as Declan.”

Ronan’s face felt hot. Stinging.

“Oh,” he said.

He could feel the heat in his stomach, too, in his knees, his legs, a rush of it, something like adrenaline, familiar—

Shame.

Ronan sat back.

The two of them sat there for a long time as the light slowly changed through the tiny green windows.

They didn’t say anything else.





53

Jordan thought that she might be furious with Hennessy. In her life, she hadn’t been angry about many things, and she’d never been angry with Hennessy.

But she could feel it now.

It was as if hope were oxygen and anger the flame. It couldn’t properly take hold while Hennessy was pitiable and recovering, but by the time she was well enough to go out with Jordan to Senko’s that night, it was burning outrageously. It was burning down the whole place.

Ordinarily Jordan liked Senko’s, even if it was associated with bad times. She’d been in more artist studios than most people would be in their entire life, and yet Senko’s professional garage was one of the more satisfying creative spaces Jordan had ever been in. And in comparison to the space she shared with Hennessy and the other girls, it was positively zenlike. Inside, the space was bright and open, the ceiling high enough to accommodate three auto lifts. The lifts were stark, black, and purposeful, and the three of them always looked like a modern art installation, each holding a candy-colored automotive corpse with hood agape and dark innards dripping from beneath. The concrete floor was swept clean, but it was scarred with oil splatters, paint overspray, tire scrubs, and a blood-red stenciled logo. One wall of shelves held bright knobs and joints, metallic body parts waiting to be fitted into the Frankenstein’s automotive monsters, it lives, it lives. A cheap but chic black vinyl sofa faced the dyno. One of the huge walls was covered with bright, modern automotive paintings, gifts from Hennessy and the girls over the months. There was a single space left on the wall. Waiting for Jordan’s contribution.