Broken Souls (Broken Realms, #2)

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 16The green-tinged oxidized copper roof of the cupola struck Mara as almost dainty atop the hulking block of dark gray that comprised Pioneer Courthouse in downtown Portland. Copper made her think of the Chronicle, and she rubbed her palm across the right pocket of her jeans where she carried it, when she carried it. The pocket was empty. She, Ping and Detective Bohannon stood at the corner of Southwest Morrison Street and Sixth Avenue, waiting for a mass of people who had disembarked from the MAX train to clear out of their path.

Diagonally from where they stood, the sea of brick that made up Pioneer Courthouse Square lay before them. Directly ahead, on the west side of the plaza, the bricks swept up in a wave of wide curving steps that wrapped around, turning the square into a man-made block canyon, an amphitheater of masonry topped with off-white columns and a bank of businesses anchored by a Starbucks coffee shop. A brick Nordstrom store loomed in the background beyond, centered over the square as if it were the retailer’s patio. Off to the left stood Jackson Tower, a rectangular wedding cake of a building, topped with a clock instead of a loving couple.

Once the commuter crowd cleared, Bohannon pointed in the direction of the clock tower toward the left end of the sweeping steps where a small group of people had coalesced, in stark contrast to the dozens of pedestrians crisscrossing the bricks oblivious to each other.

“I think that might be them over there,” the detective said, lowering his hand to the grip on his crutch.

Ping and Mara followed him across the street and entered the square, dodging a couple tourists who were staring down at the bricks beneath their feet. Mara followed their gaze to the ground and saw names etched on many of the bricks.

“I always do that,” Mara said.

“What?” Bohannon asked.

“Look down at the bricks to see what people find so fascinating. I forget that a lot of the bricks are engraved with the names of the people who contributed to the plaza. I don’t come down here very often.”

“Perhaps it’s a touch of psychological avoidance, considering your aversion to bridges and having to cross one to get here,” Ping said.

“Water, not bridges,” Mara said.

Bohannon nodded toward the opposite side of the plaza while continuing to alternately plant his crutches and swing his body forward. “I used to have a partner who would come down here and play chess all the time. He consistently wanted to play on the brass boards over there, but usually he’d have to use one of his own since those were almost always occupied. Wonder if they still play down here.”

“They do, mostly during the spring and summer, I believe,” Ping said. “Although I’m sure there are some die-hard enthusiasts who love the idea of sitting in the rain for a game.”

As they approached the edge of the crowd at the base of the stairs, Mara leaned toward Ping and whispered, “I didn’t think to bring the Chronicle with me. You think that is going to be a problem?”

“The detective said he was here largely to observe and to see if he could learn anything. I think we’ll be fine if we do the same. I can’t imagine we would need it.”

The crowd tightened around a man with wavy shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and a full unkempt beard to match. He wore jeans, a linen shirt buttoned up the front to the collar and a tweedy-looking vest that hung open about his torso. Behind him stood a woman of the same age, about fifty or so, with long gray hair that reached down to her waist, held behind her head with a loose band of crocheted yarn. She dressed in that burlapy natural-fibers look that Mara associated with her mother and her flower-power hippie friends from the ’60s. However, this woman didn’t have the mellow peacenik demeanor that usually came with the package; she looked fearful.

Standing next to Bohannon, Mara sensed him tensing up. She stretched up on her toes to get a better view. She could see the man and his wife, but she couldn’t make out the people in front of the couple.

Ping, a good inch shorter than her, said, “What’s going on? I can’t see.”

Mara tapped Bohannon’s shoulder. “Bo, what’s happening?”

He tilted his head but didn’t turn his eyes away from the front of the crowd. “I’m not sure. It looks like he’s having an argument with someone.”

From the front of the crowd came a high-pitched scream, “He’s got a knife!”

Bohannon lifted a crutch and used it to push the people in front of him out of the way, and then hopping on one crutch to move forward. “Step aside, Portland Police. Let me through.”

Ping said, “Detective, maybe it would be better to call for help.”

“No time for that,” Mara said. “Come on.” She grabbed Ping’s elbow, stepped into the parted crowd behind Bohannon and quickly moved forward. The detective stopped without warning, and Mara slammed into his back.

“Sir, you need to drop the knife,” Bohannon said.

A wild-eyed bald man, wearing camouflage pants and a brown sweater, stepped away from the front of the crowd and turned around. In one hand he carried a book, a Bible, and in the other he brandished a small knife. He raised the book in front of him like a shield and pointed the knife at Bohannon, more like an accusation than a threat.

“I cannot allow this heresy to continue!” the man yelled, spit foaming at the corner of his mouth. “This false prophet is trying to lead the people into Babylon, into a land of confusion and apostasy! He only heals your bodies to lull you into a sense of complacency so that w***e can steal your soul for Satan!”

Denton Proctor held up his hands and said, “Man, I told you. We are only here to help make people better. We are not here to preach or discuss religion at all. We only want to help.”

“Apostate! You lie. I will not allow you to take these souls.” He waved the knife in an arc at the crowd, jumped up on one of the curving brick steps and moved toward Proctor. Looming over the would-be healer, the man yelled, “Leave this place, or I will smite you in the name of our Lord Almighty!”

Bohannon handed a crutch to Mara and said, “Hold this and stand back.”

“What?”

The detective held out his plastered leg and hopped toward the man on the stairs. Now three feet away, standing between the man and Proctor, Bohannon rested his crutch on his shoulder like a baseball bat, holding it by the narrow end while the armrest hung over his back. “Sir, please drop that knife and come down from there,” Bohannon said.

“Not until this man is cast from here!” He held the book to his chest and waved the knife toward them.

Bohannon lifted the crutch, reared back and pivoted with his hips, swinging it upward, striking the man’s wrist with a loud crack and sending the knife flying eastward across the plaza. The man fell to his knees, dropping the Bible and grasping his wrist with a keening howl that momentarily stopped traffic in the square.

Bohannon’s swing continued to follow through with enough momentum to twist him around, pivoting on his one good leg and sending the crutch careening up the sweeping staircase. Upon completing his wobbling pirouette, the detective lost his balance and toppled over, the side of his head striking the brick ledge in front of him.

The crazed man continued to whimper as Mara and Ping ran to help Bohannon. When they got to his side, he was not moving and a pool of blood was expanding around his head. Ping knelt over him and did a cursory examination.

Mara looked panicked and pulled out her phone. “I’ll call 9-1-1 and get an ambulance.”

“I think you need to stop the bleeding first,” Ping said, locking eyes with her.

“I can’t stop—”

“Time, Mara. Stop Time. Long enough to get help,” Ping said.

Mara blinked absently for a second, trying to understand what he was trying to tell her. Then it came to her, and she focused on Bohannon’s white face. The halo of blood around the detective’s head stopped expanding. Mara’s hand holding her cell phone hung limply to her side as she concentrated. Without taking her eyes from him, she slowly, almost slurringly, said, “Take the phone. Call for help.

Ping reached up for the phone from where he was crouched next to Bohannon. His hand passed through it. At that instant, Mara flickered momentarily, disappearing for less than a blink of an eye. Ping tried again and grasped the phone. He looked up and said, “Are you okay?”

“Get help. I can’t do this for very long,” she said, flickering once again.

Ping tapped the phone twice, but before he could hit the final number, Denton Proctor put a hand on Ping’s arm and said, “Let me help him.”

Ping stepped out of the way, and Denton Proctor leaned over and placed his hands on either side of Bohannon’s head. Proctor’s torso blocked their view of Bohannon’s face, but after a moment they saw his leg, the one in the cast, move. The other leg raised up, bending and placing his foot flat on the ground. Then they heard him speak.

“What are you doing?” Bohannon said from behind Proctor’s torso.

“Shush, relax for a minute,” Proctor said.

Mara let go, stopped concentrating and walked around to the other side of the detective’s prone body. She noticed a crack running along the side of his cast. Bohannon stared up at her wide-eyed, flushed. Proctor’s eyes were closed, and his hands emitted a faint yellow glow on the sides of Bohannon’s head.

“Are you okay?” Mara asked Bo.

“I think so. This feels a little strange, but I don’t think he’s hurting me,” Bohannon said.

“Be quiet. Almost . . .” Proctor said and tiredly opened his eyes. “There.”

“There what?” Bohannon asked.

“There, you should be better. But sit still for a few minutes. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’re probably going to be light-headed for a bit.”

Proctor walked over to his wife, and she pointed to the crazed man in camouflage pants clutching his wrist and whimpering, squatting on the wide brick step above Bohannon, next to an open Bible fluttering in the wind. Nodding, Proctor walked over to the guy and wrapped his hands around the man’s fractured wrist. After a moment, the man snatched up his Bible and pulled away. Pointing with his newly mended wrist, he yelled, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” and ran up the wide sweeping stairs, between two columns that adorned the edge of the square and disappeared into the foot traffic on Yamhill Street.

Below, Bohannon sat up. The crowd had gathered to watch the events in silent horror, then broke out in applause. The detective had enough wits about him to blush and to hope there were no television cameras around.