Free BlackWind by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Page B

bike, gasping with agony as the right pedal jabbed into his groin.
    * * * *
    Bobby Thompson watched from the protection of a huge live oak as his buddies went to work on Sean Cullen. He grinned as they jerked Sean up from the ground and hustled him behind the storage shed so no passers-by would see what was happening.
    “Don't hit him in the face!” Bobby hissed.
    Two burly linebackers held Cullen's arms while two other members of Bobby's team took turns using the helpless prisoner as a punching bag. The sound of fists landing brutal blows, then sneaker-clad feet slamming into unprotected flesh as Cullen dropped heavily to the ground, could not be heard over the homeward-bound traffic that passed out front on Broad Street. Cullen's grunts were drowned out by the soft, vehement curses of his assailants as he lay curled on the ground in a vain attempt to protect himself from the savage beating.
    With one last vicious kick, his attackers ran, leaving him in the dirt behind the storage shed. Bobby joined his teammates as they ran past, laughing with them at the carnage they had left behind.
    * * * *
    Sean moaned as he tried to push up from the ground. Though they had landed no blows to his face, he hurt in a dozen places and was sure a rib or two was cracked, if not broken. He wretched, his body shuddering with the effort, as pain flowed through him. His groin was on fire; his kidneys throbbed with terrible agony; his back hurt so badly he could barely move. He tried once more to get up, but the pain proved too much to bear.
    He pitched over into the darkness that reached up to embrace him.
    * * * *
    Bronwyn pushed open the door to the church, then walked to one of the middle pews, genuflected, and took a seat. She sat for a moment, staring at the huge crucifix behind the altar, then lowered the kneeler. Slipping to her knees, she made the sign of the cross and clasped her hands together. With elbows braced on the bench in front of her, she lowered her head to her hands.
    “Hail Mary, full of Grace...”
    * * * *
    From his place beside the statue of Joseph, Father Felix Connelly watched the young woman. Her family had been among the first to welcome him as the new priest of St. Teresa's a few months earlier. The kindly priest had sensed the girl's turmoil and had been trying for a week to have a private talk with her. A meeting of the C.Y.O. board of officers that evening had given Fr. Felix the opportunity; but Bronwyn had left the meeting as soon as it was over. He had not expected to find her in the church when he came from the rectory to lock up for the night.
    * * * *
    Bronwyn looked up as she felt a presence beside her. She smiled. “Hi, Father.”
    “May I sit with you, dear?”
    “Yes, sir.” Bronwyn slid over on the pew.
    Fr. Felix took a seat beside her. “Is everything all right at home?”
    “More or less.”
    “Typical home with a teenager in it, eh?”
    She grinned. “Yes, sir.”
    He sat in silence for a moment. “How do you like your junior year in high school?”
    Bronwyn shrugged. “It's okay,” she said, looking down at her hands clutched in her lap.
    “Grades good?”
    “Straight A's.”
    “I heard you're president of the junior class. I'm sure you have a lot of friends who voted for you.”
    “I do.”
    “Your teachers like you, I'll bet.”
    “I hope so.”
    “Not having a problem with one of them, are you?”
    Bronwyn shifted in the seat so she could look at his gentle face. “I'm having boy trouble, Father.”
    Fr. Felix sighed. “Nothing serious, I hope.” His pale blue eyes searched hers.
    Her face turned hot when she understood his silent question. She looked away from that probing stare. “We're waiting until we're married, Father Felix,” she said, instinctively knowing his thoughts would be running along those lines. “He isn't pressuring me or anything like that. He believes in waiting.”
    “That is always encouraging to hear in this day and age, Bronwyn,” he said