Free Airs & Graces by Jeffrey Cook, A.J. Downey

power struggle of theirs. So you know what? Fuck it. It didn’t really matter anymore did it? No matter what I did at this point I was a dead woman walking. Piorre trusted me with this, of that much I was certain, but maybe he shouldn’t have. Not saying that I was untrustworthy, just saying that right then, at that point, I just didn’t think I could do it. I just wasn’t strong enough. I pretty much figured that the best I could do at this point was try to figure out this Grace shit, get the location of these keys, and go from there on who I would hand them to.
    I kept driving, past the exit I was supposed to take to meet Tab. It was probably suicide, but honestly, who cared? No one else cared if I lived or died. I had no life, no one to go back to. I was alone. Maybe that was for the better; maybe it wasn’t. I turned on my windshield wipers and was confused when the water didn’t clear. I was so upset I didn’t even realize that the tears were pouring down my face. I pulled off the freeway at Airport Way and into a lot and had my freak out. I cried and cried until I didn’t have anything left in me to cry out. Man if I ever lived to have grandkids this would be a hell of a story. ‘So there I was, in my car in an industrial area having my epic meltdown, alone in the world with no one to trust and nowhere to go…’ Son of a bitch.
    When the emotional shit storm was relatively blown over and I could get a grip, I realized that a good couple of hours had passed. Which meant that even if I did go back to the church, Tab would be long gone. I was still no closer to figuring out what to do about him or the situation. I just knew I couldn’t handle this alone. In fact I was completely aware of this fact by now, but at the same time what was done, was done. I’d completely fucked myself. The best I could do was move forward and figure out my next step. I got out of my car and went to the trunk. I found my army-issue olive drab messenger bag and took off my jacket, extracting Piorre’s journal from my sleeve.
    I took off the emerald green Chinese dress and rolled it up into the bottom of the bag for safe keeping, tucking the journal on top. There were some other odds and ends I left in the bag, like my iPod, what money I had, etc., and when I was satisfied at the distribution of weight, miniscule as it was, I pulled on a spare, fitted white tee-shirt from my gym bag, and slung the bag across my chest, putting the leather jacket back on over it all.
    My life was reduced to a vintage Chinese silk dress, a book written by an old man, his rosary and my car. What was I doing? I got back in the driver’s seat, pulled out of the lot, and did a lot of praying as I got back onto the freeway. Who knew if God was actually listening? I turned on some music and headed south, going through a mental checklist of what I knew so far. What did I know? Well, for starters Piorre bestowed upon me the Grace of an Angel that knew something about a set of keys that both Heaven and Hell really, really wanted. I also knew that to survive I would need to get to whatever it was first, and that to ensure the survival of all of humanity I needed to keep whatever it was away from both the Archangels, who wanted to kill me for it, and the Demons that wanted to kill me for it too.
    Not only was this not fair, it was totally, unbelievably fucked up beyond all recognition. I would need to get over that thinking-trap quickly though. Back on track I moved on to what I knew. In order to understand the Grace, I needed to read Piorre’s journal and understand his process. In order to figure out how to do that, I needed to find a place to lay low and read the damned journal for any clues.
    I had an idea. What if I went someplace that had always calmed my soul to read the journal? It was by no means perfect, but for now it would have to do. I found myself hoping I could get something accomplished before I had to run again. Sadly, I found myself hoping that