Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

lying-in-state.
    Dead.
    Simon stood over him for a moment, waiting, hoping to see the rise and fall of his chest, but knowing it would never come. Father Cavanaugh’s lips were already tinged with blue. His head wasn’t settled properly on his shoulders; it was shifted, unnaturally, just off-center. Simon knelt down and saw the tell-tale garish, purple bruise bulging beneath the stark white of his collar. His neck had been broken. It had to be King. He’d killed him and then posed him in this mockery of respect.
    “Father?” Father Fitzpatrick said, fear and uncertainty making his voice quiver.
    “He’s dead.” Uttering the words cut the final thread Simon had clung to. Without Father Cavanaugh, he had nothing to go on. No leads. No way to find Elizabeth.
    The young priest cried out and fell to his knees. Crossing himself, he mumbled a litany that faded with Simon’s hopes.
    Was it just this morning life seemed to be open before him? Elizabeth at his side, the future waiting to take them. And now, he’d seen death. Twice in the last hour, like a ghoulish specter nipping at his heels, lurking behind every corner, suffocating him.
    Hearing the Father Fitzpatrick’s cry, parishioners crowded the doorway. Simon couldn’t breathe. He had to get out of that room. Desperate to escape the sobs and cries of dismay slowly filling the cathedral, he shouldered past the onlookers and stumbled down the aisle.
    He threw his weight against the heavy doors and staggered into the night. A bolt of lightning burst overhead, illuminating the street like a photographer’s flash, capturing a moment, stopping time.
    A single rain drop spattered the sidewalk. Then another and another. Soon, a sheet of despairing rain cascaded down. Umbrellas blossomed like black flowers in a potter’s field.
    Simon made his way down the street, needing to get as far away as he could from the church and the shadow of death. Carried on a tide of anger and desperation, he pushed ruthlessly through the crowd.
    And the heavens above raged.
    * * *
    Elizabeth paced the short length of her quarters, feeling absurdly like a peg-legged pirate. She didn’t want to take off her one remaining shoe. It was silly. Even if she did manage to escape, there was no way she could run away wearing only one shoe. But there was something too vulnerable about being completely barefoot, so she limped back and forth across the Berber carpet. If nothing else, maybe she could wear a hole in the deck.
    She’d already canvassed the room for anything she might use as a weapon. Simon had taught her well, and the diversion kept her mind off things. They’d taken her hidden stake, but there were a few things that might come in handy. She wrapped the silver, handheld mirror in a pillowcase and broke the glass. The jagged pieces would be as good as a knife, if she didn’t manage to slice her own hand in the bargain. She tore the hem off the sheet and bound one of the ends. The remaining blade was painfully small. Better than nothing, she thought, as she slipped it under the pillow.
    The water carafe was heavy enough to be a decent bludgeon, but she doubted she’d get the chance to use it. That left the hurricane lamp, a ready-made Molotov cocktail. The wick cast a deceptively warm glow around the room.
    Quite the cozy little prison.
    She heard men’s voices outside her window and peered through the slats. The two men she recognized as the ones who’d taken her from the diner maneuvered a dolly across the deck. A large barrel with Spanish lettering nearly skidded off its perch. Rain had started to fall, and the wooden planks were slippery.
    “Boss’ll kill us if we lose this rum,” one of them said.
    “Shut up and help me.” They struggled to right the huge cask and trollied it down the deck out of view.
    She pressed her face close to the glass and was startled by a knock at the door. She heard a key slip into the lock and quickly hobbled over to the bed. Sitting and bracing herself near the pillow, she took a deep breath.
    The door opened and King stepped in. He grinned broadly, his handsome face contradicting the truth that lay behind the mask. “Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” he asked, helping himself to one of the chairs by the table. “No worse for the wear, I hope.”
    She balled her hand into a fist to keep from slipping it under the pillow and grabbing her makeshift knife. “I‘ve been better.”
    He took off his rain soaked fedora and shook the