Between Heaven and Highway

Chapter 1 The rumble hit the stained-glass windows of St. Jude’s long before the motorbikes appeared at the intersection. Sister Eliza didn't pause her brush. She kept applying pale blue tempera to the chipped plaster of the Mary statue in the garden alcove, her hand steady, though the low vibration stirred the turpentine in her glass jar. She knew the sound. Everyone along 4th Street did. It was the heavy, twin-cylinder roar of big V-twin engines; the Iron Anchor Motorcycle Club marking their territory on the south block. Outside the wrought-iron gates, five heavy cruisers pulled up to the curb. At the front was a matte-black Harley Dynas, its high handlebars and stripped-down frame giving it the look of a starved predator. The man riding it cut the ignition. The violent thrum died instantly, replaced by the faint ping-ping-ping of hot exhaust cooling in the crisp autumn air. Edward swung his leg over the saddle, pulling off his worn leather gloves. He was broad-shouldered, clad in a faded denim vest over a black leather jacket, the "Road Captain" patch stitched in silver thread across his left breast. A thin white scar split his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone, a gift from a broken bottle in a bar three states back during his first year out of the military. "Keep the bikes idling, Coop," Edward said to the younger rider behind him. "We're just dropping off the envelope for Mother Superior and moving out before the precinct gets twitchy." "Right, Edward," Coop grunted, keeping his boots planted on the pavement. Edward pushed open the heavy iron gate. The hinges squeaked a sharp, rusted sound that made him grimace. He stepped onto the flagstone path, his heavy steel-toed boots crunching on fallen maple leaves. He expected the usual quiet of the convent courtyard, the smell of old wax, damp earth, and dried incense. He didn't expect the woman standing on a low wooden stepladder under the archway. She wore the simple dark blue habit and white veil of the Sisters of Mercy. Her back was turned to him, her arm raised as she carefully detailed the stone mantle surrounding the statue. But as the iron gate banged shut behind him, she paused and turned. Edward stopped in his tracks. Her eyes were a striking, clear grey like the sky over the open highway right before a downpour. Her face was pale, framed tightly by the stark white linen of her wimple, but there was nothing fragile about her posture. She held a tiny paintbrush like a weapon, looking down at him from her perch with an unblinking, calm scrutiny that instantly made Edward feel six feet tall and entirely out of place in the sacred courtyard. "Can I help you, sir?" Her voice was soft, but it carried cleanly across the quiet garden. Edward cleared his throat, adjusting the heavy leather belt at his waist. He was used to people looking at his vest and stepping aside, averting their eyes on the street. She was looking at him like he was a slightly noisy trespasser tracking mud across her porch. "Looking for Mother Superior Teresa," Edward said, pulling a thick Manila envelope from his jacket inner pocket. "The club does a monthly drop for the soup kitchen pantry. Cash. Off the books." Eliza stepped down from the ladder with practiced grace, her heavy dark skirts rustling around her ankles. She set her brush down on the wooden crate beside her and walked over, stopping just three feet away. Up close, Edward caught the scent of linseed oil, faint lavender soap, and the rain-chilled air. "Mother Superior is inside with the auditors today," Eliza said, her eyes dropping briefly to the silver ring on his thumb before returning to his face. "I am Sister Eliza. I can take the offering." "Offering," Edward repeated, a faint, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That's a polite word for it. Most folks in the precinct call it blood money." "Money doesn't have a soul, Mr...?" "Edward. Just Edward." "Money doesn't have a soul, Edward," Eliza said smoothly, extending a hand. "It only takes on the character of what it buys. Today, this buys two hundred loaves of bread and heat for the winter clinic. That makes it clean enough for our tables." Edward looked down at her open hand. Her fingers were slender, stained faintly with blue paint at the knuckles, but her palm bore the slight calluses of hard physical work. He handed over the heavy envelope. When their fingers brushed for a fraction of a second, Edward felt a strange, sharp spark. Not electrical, but a sudden, grounding weight that hit him right in the center of his chest. Eliza felt it too. Her fingers twitched slightly, her grey eyes widening just a fraction before she locked her expression back into serene composure. "Thank you, Edward," she said, slipping the envelope into the deep pocket of her habit. "The hospice and parish are grateful." "Yeah. Well," Edward swallowed, stepping back toward the gate. He reached up to touch the brim of a cap out of old military habit, realized he wasn't wearing one, and dropped his hand back to his side. "Tell Mother Teresa the Iron Anchors are patrolling the south alleyways starting this week. The local Vanguard crews from downtown are pushing north past the canal. Tell her to keep the back doors locked after six." Eliza watched him carefully, her clear eyes searching his face. "We don't lock our doors to people in need, Edward." "Then lock 'em to protect yourselves," Edward said, his voice dropping an octave, hard and serious. "The street doesn't care about your vows, Sister." Eliza met his gaze without flinching. "And yet, here you are, protecting us." Edward stared at her for a moment, caught entirely off guard by the quiet conviction in her voice. He let out a low breath, turned on his heel, and walked back out through the iron gate. As he kicked his motor back to life, the violent roar filled the street once more. But as he pulled away into the afternoon gloom, looking in his rearview mirror, he saw her still standing by the iron gate, a quiet, motionless point of light against the darkening stone of St. Jude's.