Scythe & Sparrow: Chapter 6

Fionn

“What are you doing with this information, Dr. Kane?”

I rest an elbow on my desk at the clinic and rub my forehead. Lachlan is not a man to be fucked with. Especially not when you’re his youngest brother. “It’s not that big of a deal. Cranwell is a piece of shit and he’s been up to no good. I want to know how big of a piece of shit he really is.”

“Christ Jesus,” he groans on the other end of the line. “This isn’t about a woman, is it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I sigh.

“Maybe it should be,” he continues, his voice gruff yet teasing. “Get you out of your Hallmark Sad Man Cinderwhatever era.”

“Whether it has anything to do with a woman or not, you wouldn’t be happy either way, you broody asshat. Why bother meddling in the first place?” A dark smile of triumph tugs at my lips when Lachlan grunts on the other end of the line. “How’s your love life going, since you’re so invested in mine? Still fucking your way through Boston with abandon, or have you finally run out of women who will put up with your ornery attitude?”

“Shut up, ya feckin’ gobshite,” he hisses. “I have not been ‘fucking my way through Boston,’ I’ll have you know. Ever since that Halloween party where you spent the night drinking away your feckin’ sorrows only to throw them up again in my feckin’ sink the next morning, I’ve decided to remove myself from the dating scene in the hopes I don’t wind up as much of a dumbass as you.” He tsks, though I can tell he’s enjoying every minute of forcing me to relive my fall from grace that weekend. “Couldn’t even make it the extra two feet to hurl in the toilet like a normal adult man. You had to clog my feckin’ sink.”

He loves reminding me of that night, I think in the hopes that I’ll become so annoyed by his teasing that I’ll move back home just to prove to him I can take it in person. But when the city is home to your almost-fiancée and the shattered remains of the life you thought you wanted, one-upping your overbearing brother simply to stop him from taking the piss out of you just isn’t sufficient motivation.

“You know, Lachlan, every time you tell me that story, you remind me why I think Nebraska might be growing on me.” Lachlan grumbles something in Irish and I grin, a smile that fades as my focus returns to the true purpose of my call. “Now that you’ve gotten that out of your system, I need to know about Matthew Cranwell.”

Lachlan sighs, and I hear typing in the background. My brother might claim to hate his side gig as a contract killer, but he’d still be the first to admit that his access to information and resources does come in handy from time to time. “Fine. I had Conor pull some information together like you asked. There wasn’t much, so don’t get too excited, yeah?”

I nod, though he can’t see me, and grab my pen and paper. Lachlan rattles off Cranwell’s birthdate and location, his social security number, the date of his marriage to Lucy, and the names of his three kids. There are bank details, debts. His suspension from the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office for his role in an aggravated assault six years ago, a bar fight that got out of hand. Since then, he’s had a surprisingly minimal police record for someone as unpleasant as he seems to be, just a drunk-and-disorderly citation from last year. I’ve already gone through his medical history, but Lachlan mentions the high points anyway, including the eye surgery. There’s nothing that unearths the true depths of Matthew Cranwell’s darkness. No grand reveal. No damning mark.

But my instinct tells me the darkness is much deeper than what we can see.

“That’s all I’ve got,” Lachlan says, and I imagine him tapping his silver rings along the edge of the desk in the Leviathan office, a place he’s told me about but never shown me, always wanting to keep me and Rowan at arm’s length from his batshit crazy boss, Leander. “Anything else you want to know?”

Temptation bubbles to the surface. I could ask about Rose.

I know so little about her. How does one become a motorcycle circus performer, anyway? What series of choices would lead her there? Where has she been? What has she seen and done?

Her name is right there on my tongue. But I don’t say it. Not only because I want to unravel her mysteries for myself, but because I can’t bear the thought of putting her at risk. My brother would never knowingly hurt her—he might be an assassin, but at least he has a conscience. But Leander Mayes? Not so much. He would fuck anyone up if it provided him enough gain to justify the effort, whether it’s power, or connections, or money. I can’t stomach the thought of Rose being anywhere on Leviathan’s radar.

“No. Thank you. This has been helpful,” I finally say.

“Not too helpful, I hope.”

“Just helpful enough.”

Lachlan hums a thoughtful note into the phone, and then we say our goodbyes. I stare down at my notes for a long while, reading and rereading the information until I’m confident I’ve memorized it before I take it to the shredder and destroy it.

And then I grab my jacket and leave.

It takes just over fifteen minutes to get to Elmsdale. A few more to get to his farm. I drive past it, just a hint slower than the speed limit, and park by the poplar trees that border the northwest corner of the field that stretches from the front of his house where my truck will be hidden by the dense foliage.

I open my door and take a deep breath of the impending storm.

The first drops of rain pelt my jacket as I walk the shoulder of the deserted highway toward Matt Cranwell’s driveway, my eyes never leaving the house. There’s no light on inside the home to fight the encroaching darkness of the massive thunderstorm that rolls toward us. At first, it seems deserted. And then I hear the whine of a grinder coming from the barn.

I stop and just stand there, watching the place. It looks like any other farm. A simple house. Toys in the yard. Outbuildings and equipment. I’m not sure what I’m even doing here, staring at someone’s house as the sporadic drops of rain gradually become a downpour. Someone could see me, even with the storm covering the land with an early film of darkness. What the fuck am I doing?

There’s a flash of lightning, illuminating something lying at the edge of the driveway. It’s peeking from between the first stalks of corn at the edge of the field.

An aluminum baseball bat.

In another flash of light, I imagine every moment of Rose’s injury. The way Matt Cranwell must have struck her. The force of his blow. The rage and malice painted across his face. Her agonized scream. I hear and see it all. I feel it. Just like I’m standing right there, watching it unfold.

Help.

Before I truly realize what I’m doing, I’m halfway up the drive and there’s no turning back. My gaze slices to that bat, the dented metal beaded with rain. My hands curl into fists. It takes every last thread of my restraint not to pick it up as I pass.

When I’m a few feet from the barn, the grinder stops, leaving only the quiet crackle of an old radio behind. I halt, but the thought of backtracking down the driveway doesn’t cross my mind. I just wait in the rain, listening as something heavy collides with metal. A handful of words passes through the narrow wedge of the open door, the tone gritty, the sentence disjointed. Cranwell is talking to himself, but beyond the occasional swear, I can’t make out much of what he’s saying. A moment later, a ratchet ticks as it tightens a bolt, and I take the opportunity to move closer to the light and peer inside.

Cranwell faces away from me. I haven’t met him many times, but I remember enough to recognize him, particularly with the strap of an eye patch biting into shining flesh at the back of his head. There’s a buzz of an incoming call on the phone lying on the metal frame next to him. I watch as he wipes a hand on his overalls and answers on speaker.

“What do you want,” he bites out, not a question but a demand.

“I need to run to the pharmacy before it closes. Macie’s cough—”

“I thought I told you to make dinner.”

There’s a pause. I hear a child cough in the background of silence. I’d be willing to bet my medical license that she has bronchitis. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

“Then go make it.” Matt presses the screen to end the call and refocuses on the engine. “You will be, you dumb bitch.”

My blood surges, a wildfire in my veins. Heartbeats roar in my ears. I close my eyes, lost in a moment of memory. An image of a man much like Cranwell. Filled with hate and loathing. My father.

His face is so clear in my memory despite the years that have passed. There was rage in it the night he attacked us for the last time. I can vividly recall the split flesh of Rowan’s lip and Lachlan’s scream, the tip of his finger missing, a pulsing spurt of crimson blood left in its place. I can picture every detail of my father’s back as he turned it on me, ready to deliver another blow to whichever one of my brothers was willing to face him next. And I still remember the weight of the knife I had hidden in my hand …

“Sonofabitch,” Matt hisses. I dart back into the shadows. But it’s the banged-up utility terrain vehicle that he’s talking to. It isn’t me. He bends over the engine and cranks the ratchet. “Dumb ol’ piece of shit.”

That’s right. You are a dumb ol’ piece of shit.

I slide back into the light and watch as Cranwell reaches deeper into the network of metal, his arm buried to the shoulder. I pull the sleeve of my jacket over my hand and push the door open to step inside the barn.

There’s a table to my left where the grinder sits discarded on a stainless steel worktop, the surface dull with scratches and spatters of grease. Tools are strewn next to it. A rusty hammer. A set of screwdrivers. A roll of steel wire and a hacksaw.

My fingers wrap around the matte blue handle of a wrench and I lift it from the table.

Lightning flashes beyond the windows, the glass caked with a film of dust. Thunder rattles the walls a heartbeat later, so loud it feels like the world is breaking apart. Cranwell’s back is still to me, his hand buried in the belly of the engine. Thunder and rain. The radio drones a soothing melody. We’re blanketed in sound. Our own cocoon.

One hit is all it would take. No one would hear him scream.

My hand tightens around the wrench as I take a step closer.

I see Rose’s face. Her fear. He did this to her. Just like he hurts his wife. Maybe his kids too. And he’ll keep doing it, just like my own father did. It never gets better. It just gets worse. The only thing that stopped my father was death. The same will be true of Matt Cranwell.

I could do it. I could deliver the blow that ends his miserable life.

Something creaks in the shadows on the other side of the room, and I stop, frozen in time.

“Papa. I fed the chickens.”

I duck behind the end of the table, pressing my body against the wall, the wrench still gripped in my hand. There’s a grunt from Cranwell, a clank of tools. “Good,” he grunts. “Get out of the rain. You can help me with this piece of shit.”

There are some shuffled footsteps, the sound of a raincoat being discarded somewhere. I peer around the corner of my hiding place and watch as Cranwell hands his son a flashlight and tells him to climb up on the frame to hold the light above the engine. The boy does as he’s told, and the two of them peer down into the heart of the vehicle, only a few words passing between them as Cranwell twists the ratchet in the engine.

What the fuck am I doing?

Hands shaking, I turn back into the shadows and press my eyes closed. This question seems inescapable. More multifaceted than I ever realized it could be. I’m a doctor, for fucksakes. I chose my profession specifically so that I could right the wrong I can never take back. I am a good man. Not a dangerous one. So what the fuck am I doing even thinking about killing a man I barely know? What the hell is wrong with me?

With one last glance around the corner, I carefully set the wrench down on the worktop and slink back to the open door. I leave the barn. Jog down the driveway. I don’t glance at the bat as I go and keep my eyes instead on the road ahead.

When I walk through the door of my house a short while later, I shed my damp jacket and soaked boots before heading to the kitchen. My fingers still tremble as I drop an ice cube into a glass and fill it halfway with bourbon. I knock back the amber liquid. The burn slides down my throat. It does nothing to destroy the image of Matt Cranwell in the barn, his back hunched as he worked on the engine, the wrench beckoning me with urges I once thought I’d overcome. My hand still feels empty without it, the rage in my flesh not cooled by the chilled glass in my palm.

I pour myself another and take the bottle with me as I head toward my room.

“You motherfucking baby. Get your shit together,” Rose’s voice says as I pass the bathroom. My steps falter and I pause outside the door. “Not so fucking tough after all, are you? Well, you’d better suck it up if you wanna be a—”

“Rose?” I knock on the door, and the volley of vitriol stops immediately. “Are you all right in there?”

There’s a long pause. “Yeah …?”

“You sure?”

“No …?”

“Can I come in?”

Another pause. I hear water lapping at the edges of the tub and then the rustling of fabric. “Okay …”

When I open the door, Rose is sitting on the edge of the tub in a robe, her crutches discarded on the floor, her brace resting on the counter next to the sink. Water glistens on her chest and her good leg, but her injured one is dry except for the edges of the wound dressing where its pulled back at one corner.

“What’s going on?” I ask as I set my glass and the bottle down next to her brace. Rose’s cheeks flush with a crimson glow and she looks toward the floor. My heart cracks a little when she meets my gaze but only briefly, like she can’t bear to hold it.

“You told me to take the bandage off today,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. Even when she’s exhausted, her words normally have a sharp edge or a teasing warmth. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

“That’s okay. I can help. That’s why you’re here. Remember?” She gives me an encouraging smile, and for a moment, I forget what I nearly did tonight. I crouch in front of her, patting my knee for her to rest her ankle on. She does, gingerly, and I rub my hands together to warm them, an action that causes a flicker of a crease between her brows as she watches. “Does it hurt?”

Rose shrugs and looks away, a hard swallow shifting in the column of her throat. “A bit.”

“It’s okay if this stuff bothers you.”

“It doesn’t,” she says firmly, though it’s not entirely convincing and she knows it. With a resigned sigh, she says, “The bone sticking out was just a bit … much. It’s hard to forget.”

“That’s understandable.” I tug a little at the edge of the adhesive tape and she hisses as it pulls the hairs that have grown beneath it.

“The fur is really adding to the experience for me.”

I snort. “What?”

“Look.” She plunks her other foot on my knee to compare the difference between her freshly shaven skin still glowing from the hot water and the leg she hasn’t touched, the fine dark hairs glinting in the dim light. She points to her swollen leg, the marks of the brace still imprinted on her flesh. “Fur.”

I nearly say something stupid, like I like carpet, or Fur is hot, or probably fifty other dumbass options that suddenly cancel out anything professional or, God forbid, clever. I clear my throat and try to focus on the bandage, lifting one edge enough to check that the stitches haven’t stuck to the surface of the gauze.

“Fur is human.”

“Fur hurts like a bitch when it gets stuck in tape.”

“Just wait until you get the cast.”

“It’ll hurt?”

“No. But once we take it off, you might be able to braid it.”

“Doc,” she says through a giggle as she prods me with her toes. “You’re supposed to be helping.”

“I am helping. I’m distracting you so I can do this,” I declare as I tear off the bandage.

“Motherfucker!” she shrieks. She grips my wrist and laughs, her eyes wide. I know I’m grinning at her like a fucking fool, but I can’t seem to make myself stop. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure you have no credentials at all, and you won your stethoscope at the Duck Pond game.”

Rose lets go of my wrist only to whack me on the arm and then lean back, her smile slowly fading. It takes me a moment to realize mine has evaporated too. The ease of her touch makes it hard to hold on to words I shouldn’t say. It’s a struggle to quell the sudden urge to tell her how beautifully her skin glows in this light, or how funny and unique she is, or how grateful I am for the warmth of her touch, her presence. Just like I try not to think about how she’s naked under this plush robe. The hand she rests on her lap is the only thing keeping it from falling completely open.

“Maybe you’ve got a little vicious streak hidden away in you, Dr. Kane,” Rose says, and my thoughts of her body give way to images of Matthew Cranwell’s barn. I can still feel the weight of the wrench in my hand, the burn of rage in my veins. I don’t know if it’s something about my expression that changes, or if she just senses the shift in the air, but Rose grabs my hand. She opens my palm and lays a damp sponge there. “But you’ve got a kind streak too. And I like them both. Equally.”

Rose’s smile is soft, her eyes warm. I try my best to smile back. To focus on the simple actions of care and healing. I clean her wound with a gentle hand, each press of the sponge against the incision a ritual. I seek comfort in giving it. The man I chose to be when I entered medical school? That’s still the man I am.

But she’s right. Maybe I do have a vicious streak. And I need to remember that. Because it doesn’t seem so disconnected from the rest of me anymore.