Out of Hell's Kitchen

OUT OF HELL’S KITCHEN

a novel by

John H. Hanzl

iUniverse Star

New York Bloomington Shanghai

OUT OF HELL’S KITCHEN

Copyright © 2006, 2008 by John H. Hanzl

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-58348-299-5 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-90555-3 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-90497-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

Into the Devil’s Throat

To my wife, Amy,

without whom this story would have been impossible

CHAPTER 1

Three Months Ago

11:45 PM GMT, Thursday, December 23rd

Snap!

Got it?

Eh?

Feel it, it’s coming...

Oh—yeah!

THOUGH HIS NAME WAS Robert Braunough, no one, apart from his mother, called him that.

He went by Dee—just Dee.

Slight of build and medium in height, Dee’s distinctive features of olive-toned skin, almond-shaped eyes, and ragged black hair had been inherited from the Greek origins of his mother.

In contrast, the only thing he’d inherited from his unknown father was an inability to stay in one place for any amount of time.

Dee’s eighteen years in this world had been hard ones. Raised by a mother who’d divided her time between battling alcoholism and succumbing to it, Dee had been left behind as an emotional casualty. As a result, he’d turned to the streets, if not for a home then for a family, and he’d found it in the pulsating light and never-ending rhythms of London’s explosive rave scene.

There was constancy in those rhythms, a brotherhood in the inhabitants of sound, that Dee found intoxicating.

This evening, the twenty-third of December, found Dee at Club Liquid executing a series of rather complicated moves in the middle of the expansive dance floor.

Ahhh...

Though the hot press of sweaty flesh pulsated all around him, Dee’s only focus was on the beat that dictated his fluid motions. As a matter of fact, Dee’s entire world had shrunk to a one-meter square of space, a space where he willed his body to react to the sound that filled every corner of his soul.

Earlier in the evening Dee and his friend Diego had scored a particularly large quantity of the newest thing to hit the scene, a designer drug known simply as Rave-N.

Rave-N...

The mere thought of it sent a tingling along his spine.

That was another thing he’d inherited from his mother: a chemical void he continuously needed to fill.

He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke—well, not often—preferring instead to devote his meager financial resources to what he’d termed performance enhancers. It was a mystery to him how others could indulge in the consumption of vast quantities of alcohol, suffering through the unavoidable aftereffects, while condemning other forms of mild toxins.

It was Rave-N that was currently at the top of his short list of performance enhancers, and for good reason. It produced no undesirable side-effects, didn’t weigh him down. To the contrary, it enhanced his ability to move, clearing his brain of all distractions. To Dee, it was a lifesaver.

Ever since his introduction to Rave-N a month ago, in this very club, he’d depended heavily upon it to help maintain his edge and to help him smooth out the sharper edges of his life. Rave-N allowed him to forget things like the recent call from his mother’s solicitor.

She’d been arrested, yet again. Driving while intoxicated, yet again.

Called him, like he was able to help.

It was Rave-N that was currently reducing the volume of his world to manageable dimensions, filling it with a living rhythm that had shape, texture, consistency. Rhythm that flashed with vibrant colors, colors that blended with the whirling limbs on the periphery of his vision, chromatic trails spinning off into the surrounding darkness.

Somewhere at the fringe of consciousness his brain recorded a sharp pain at the base of his neck and Dee realized his world was still too large for him to properly manage. Reacting to this comprehension, he dislodged his brain and allowed it to slide down his neck, across his right shoulder, and into his arm. From there it guided his hand over to the space Diego presently claimed.

Down into Diego’s back pocket the hand went, locating the object it was searching for. It extracted a small roll of paper with multi-colored dots dimpling its white surface. Swimming back through the thick medium of rhythm to its rightful location, Dee’s brain tore off a ten-centimeter length of the roll and guided it to his mouth, where it begged him to lick the dots off the paper.

Dee obeyed and the effect was almost immediate.

Mmmm ...

The colors on the paper quickly transferred themselves before his dilated retinas, bursting in spectacular patterns, and Dee felt his world shrink once again, fold in upon itself.

And it kept shrinking ...

Now he was looking down the wrong end of a telescope onto a tiny, dirty square of dance floor. A greater stab of pain radiated from the base of his neck and exploded in a series of brilliant flashes someplace deep within his brain.

He was no longer in control of his physical self, and with a wrench his world shrank even further.

The rhythm, for the first time in his life, scared him. It was no longer a comfortable, glowing mass. Instead it had become razor sharp, filled with jagged edges. As if under tremendous pressure, the rhythmic protective shroud shuddered, began to crack, and an intense panic gripped Dee. He tried to scream but nothing escaped his constricting throat.

Through the tiny circle of his reducing world he could just make out the concerned face of Diego peering down at him. But he was so very far away.

Another throbbing explosion of agony spiraled his world down to a single point of red-tinted light, crushing, before the rhythm surrendered to the pressure and imploded upon itself.

The light flickered, dimmed, extinguished.

With a strangled sigh, Dee’s body relaxed its spasmodic struggle. A steady trickle of blood leaking from his nose the only motion left in his contorted frame.

It was the evening of Thursday, the twenty-third of December, and Dee was dead.

Yesterday

2030 HOURS EST, Sunday, March 6th

SEAMAN ALEKSANDR MIKHAILOV WINCED as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and spilled into his eye. He resisted the urge to rub the back of his hand across the stinging eye, unwilling to even blink.

Seated before the navigation console, he was completely consumed with the arduous task of keeping the depth of the aging Lenin constant, although for once too much depth wasn’t the problem.

It was the lack of it.

He felt the pressure, both literally and figuratively, as the Chief of the Boat leaned over the back of his chair, his putrid breath poisoning the already stale air around Aleksandr as he growled, "Obratit’ vnimaniye! Proklinajtye vashu dushu. (Damn your eyes! Pay attention.) I want the bubble exactly at twelve meters."

"Govno (Shit)," thought Aleksandr, this is insane. Settling deeper into his seat, he made a minute correction to the angle of the bow planes and tried not to allow the steady thrumming of the powerful propeller, just meters above his head, invade his thoughts. Tried not to think about what would happen if the oil tanker, or whatever the hell was up there, tore into the relatively delicate skin of the Lenin.

"Kapitan, called Sonar from aft of the control room, the surface vessel is making a course change to starboard."

"Ochyen khorosho (Very well), a calm voice replied from behind Aleksandr. Rukovodityel (Chief), you may settle the boat on the bottom. Aleksandr heard a soft rasping and he knew that Commander Sergei Pochenchko, captain of the Tango class submarine, was rubbing the ever-present white stubble on his chin, something he did when lost in thought. We’ll allow surface traffic to clear before we raise the electronics mast for a final bearing check."

Aleksandr looked at his watch and mentally calculated local time. He concluded that, at this late hour, the only traffic up there would be the big stuff: freighters, tankers, and other commercial ships. He shook his head. This was the third time he’d been to this place and he still thought what they were doing was sumasshyedshiy (insane). And this time was even crazier. The Sea Wolf, their escort, had developed turbine trouble in one engine and had therefore been unable to provide the usual safety cover.

Helm, engines one quarter reverse, snarled the Chief, executing his captain’s request. Nav, I want a one-meter-per-minute descent, and keep it goddamn level.

"One quarter reverse, da," called Helm.

"One-meter-per-minute descent, level boat, da Rukovodityel," followed Aleksandr, working hard to conceal his dislike for the Chief.

The Lenin issued a faint sigh as a series of vents popped open, seawater flooding the main compensation tank amidships, forcing ambient air into the pressure hull. Aleksandr felt a slight pressure increase register in his ears and knew the system was operating properly. As he watched the depth slowly increase and forward speed decrease, an intricate ballet of variables danced in his head. The knot that had been developing in his stomach tightened.

Dropping over three million kilograms of steel blindly onto an unknown bottom was not a particularly pleasant task.

Eleven meters.

Twelve meters.

Almost halfway down.

The forward speed was now reduced to just half a knot.

Eighteen meters.

Aleksandr blinked and reread the depth gauge. Govno!

The descent rate had suddenly doubled. A quick check of the water salinity indicator gave Aleksandr the answer he dreaded.

Kapitan! he shouted. We’ve entered a halocline.

The Lenin had descended into a layer of water containing a lower than normal salt content that was therefore less dense. Obeying rigid laws of physics, the submarine had immediately accelerated out of its carefully controlled descent.

Alarmed, Aleksandr quickly activated the pump for the main compensation tank in an attempt to lighten the sub.

Nav, watch your depth! roared the Chief. He forced past Aleksandr and initiated a transfer from the forward trim tank to the aft one, attempting to give the Lenin a bow up attitude. Then, after a brief glance at the still-rotating needle on the depth gauge, he cried, Skoba (Brace)!

The warning came too late. With a jarring crash the submarine collided, bow-down, with the hard-packed mud-and-shale bottom.

Thirty meters.

Though the Lenin’s forward speed had been less than half a knot, the sub still held enough momentum to deliver a violent shudder. Those of the crew who weren’t seated, along with many who were, were thrown brutally to the deck, Aleksandr included.

The control room descended into chaos.

Through the confused din Aleksandr unsteadily pulled himself to his feet, feeling the beginnings of a lump where his head had slammed into his console, and looked over at the captain. Pochenchko was kneeling beside the chart table, blood dripping from his chin as he assisted a stunned crewman to his feet.

In shocked silence, Aleksandr watched the scene play itself out, watched as the chart table beside the captain slowly rotated through half the arc of a circle. A chair at the fore part of the control room twisted sideways, then suddenly skidded down the deck, knocking Aleksandr back off his feet. Other loose gear clattered past, and he scrambled madly on the now insanely tilted deck.

An ascent alarm blazed to life, adding to the confusion that permeated the small space.

The sub had deflected off the hard bottom and, aided by the Chief’s transfer of the trim to the stern, had transitioned to a bow-up attitude.

Worse still, the main compensation tank’s pump was still operating. Forgotten by Aleksandr, it was dutifully dumping water ballast from the sub, the telltale glow of its indicator lamp flickering unnoticed. The Lenin was now heading unchecked toward the surface.

"Reverse that compensation pump. Tyepyer’ (Now)!" Aleksandr heard the captain bark, jolting him to his senses."Rukovodityel’ bring all fuel inboard. I want her negative and I want her back in trim."

As Aleksandr frantically scrambled into his seat, he caught several angry stares from the crew around him. Paashol v’chorte (Go to hell), he thought. It wasn’t his choice to be here, not really. When the Lenin was decommissioned two years ago, he’d found himself discharged and broke. What choice did he have but to drop his head and mutter da when approached by the stranger offering him an opportunity to rejoin his shipmates on the Lenin .

A metallic twang made Aleksandr jump. The sub was imperceptibly expanding as the water pressure surrounding her rapidly reduced.

All eyes were transfixed on the depth gauge. Its needle was still creeping up.

Fifteen meters.

Full astern, all. Pochenchko’s voice was an icy calm.

Someone had the presence of mind to silence the alarm, and a semblance of order returned to the control room. But in the ensuing quiet a new sound invaded Aleksandr’s ears.

The dull throbbing of the surface ship reverberated through the Lenin as it lumbered by overhead, its huge bronze blades chopping the water with deadly regularity.

Ten meters.

Pochenchko fixed a look at the Chief, who picked up the comms mike and thumbed the transmit button. Burovaya ustanovka dpya stolknovyeniya (Rig for collision), he said through clenched teeth.

It was an order Aleksandr had never dreamt he’d hear.

The command was immediately relayed throughout the Lenin, accompanied by a repeated banging as watertight doors in each bulkhead were slammed shut. Beside Aleksandr two crewmen struggled against the incline of the deck, attempting to swing one of the ponderous hatches closed.

The Lenin began shuddering as her three massive five-bladed propellers cavitated, vaporizing the water around them as they fought to slow the sub’s ascent.

Eight meters.

Thrum ... thrum ... thrum ...

The beating of the surface ship’s propeller rang louder with every rotation.

Nav, the captain’s voice broke through the ominous sound, initiate a ballast blow of tanks three and five. Helmsman, all stop.

Aleksandr’s mouth dropped in disbelief, "Szr—you want me to blow the ballast ...?" he began, then bit his words off.

Da, Kapitan, both he and the helmsman replied in unison.

Mechanically he obeyed his captain’s orders, positive they’d be the last words he’d ever hear, with the possible exception of the screams of the men around him as the hull of the Lenin split open and the cold ocean rushed in to extinguish their disposable lives.

Four meters.

Aleksandr gripped his console and glanced up at the maze of plumbing and conduits surrounding his head, imagining them buckling down toward him, crushing him under twisted steel. He tore his gaze away from the image and looked back at the depth gauge.

Four meters.

A slight intake of breath from the helmsman next to him was proof he hadn’t misread the gauge.

"Kapitan, depth has stabilized at four meters," he cried.

Tak chto yavizhu (So I see), replied Pochenchko, a rare smile creasing his weathered face. "Rukovodityel, please be kind enough to get us back on the bottom and secure the boat from collision quarters. And try to be a little more gentle this time, da?"

The Chief nodded, his bald head glistening with sweat. After issuing a terse series of orders, he turned to Aleksandr and jerked a meaty thumb to the side. Mikhailov, you are relieved of your station, he snarled. "Why don’t you go check the crew heads and make sure they didn’t backflow. We all know you are most proficient at dumping fluids, da?"

Stunned, Aleksandr relinquished his seat to the Chief, muttering, Poshol na khui (Fuck off) to a leering crewman as he squeezed past and swung through the aft bulkhead.

The forward hatch clanged open and Dmitrie Vsevolod, the Lenin’s first officer, entered and hurried over to Pochenchko, executing a crisp salute.

Pochenchko dismissed the salute with a wave of his hand and said, Ah, Dima. So glad you could join us. This he delivered with a smile, their longtime friendship evident by the captain’s use of Dmitrie’s familiar name. I want a full damage check of the boat. And Dima, he grabbed the first officer by the arm as Vsevolod wordlessly spun to leave, addressing him in a lowered voice. "Check the cargo. Make sure none of the shipment has been damaged. Things will go very badly for us if the Komanduyyuschij (General) finds even a single vial broken."

"Understood, Kapitan," replied Vsevolod.

Their eyes met and communicated a shared sense of urgency, and possibly something else—fear.

Vsevolod bent to pass through the aft bulkhead, but hastily retreated as a tall, stern man barreled through. Blond hair cropped close to his head revealed a strong, angular face and deep-set blue eyes. The muscles around his high cheekbones rippled as he clenched his jaw in agitation.

"I trust, Kapitan, you have things well under control, he rumbled in a tone that made it perfectly clear he didn’t believe the captain had anything under control. I know I don’t have to impress upon you the value of the cargo we are carrying. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, nor of the importance of meeting the deadline which is now only hours away."

Pochenchko was not used to being talked to in this fashion, especially not on his boat. Yet he knew his hands were tied. He’d been captain of the Lenin for the past eight of the vintage diesel submarine’s thirty-seven years, though for the last two of those years the crowned double eagle of the Russian Naval insignia was nowhere to be found on his uniform. He had sold his soul to keep his command, and now he had to pay the consequences.

Hiding clenched fists behind his back, he replied in an even manner, "I am sorry for this incident, szr, and I assure you we will make the rendezvous at the appointed time. Once again, I’m ."

As if on cue, Pochenchko was interrupted by an urgent voice from just behind the General.

Kapitan! It was Sonar. I must report we’ve lost the forward active sonar array . Peering around the aft bulkhead, the sonar operator realized he’d interrupted their conversation, muttered an apologetic Zhal’ szr, and ducked back around the corner.

"Perhaps we may, Kapitan," the General continued in a low voice full of menace. "But I suggest you attend your duties with the utmost urgency, da? I would hate to see anything happen to your command."

With that he spun on his heel, but before departing he turned back and said, "Oh, and Kapitan, see to it that the blood is cleaned off the deck. It is most unsightly and unbefitting of a Russian submarine." With a snort of amusement he departed, leaving Pochenchko fuming in his unsightly control room.

THREE HOURS later the Lenin surfaced.

An exhausted Pochenchko turned to face the ten men crowded into the control room and examined them through the red glow of battle lighting. All were wearing black fatigues under Kevlar body armor. Slung behind their backs were AN-94 assault rifles, and crossing their chests hung web belts loaded with extra magazines and concussion grenades. Strapped beneath black wool caps hung Starlight night vision glasses, the lenses reflecting demonic red in the muted lighting.

Pochenchko looked at the former members of Spetsnaz, the Russian special forces, with a grim smile. Gospoda, dobro pozhalovat’ v N’yu York (Gentlemen, welcome to New York)

White teeth grinned fiercely back through black-painted faces.

Now

3:35 AM EST, Monday, March 7th

A BRIGHT LIGHT HAMMERED intently against Luke’s closed eyelids and he wondered why he’d let his friends drag him back to Liquid.

Liquid—the place he’d vowed to never return to, the place where Dee had died.

That damn light. Who the hell had thought a bloody blinding white strobe was a good idea anyway?

And it was getting brighter.

Luke forced his eyes open and the truth came flooding back. He wasn’t at Liquid at all. The bright light was from the headlights of an oncoming van, shining through the still-spinning spokes of his motorcycle’s front wheel.

The motorcycle he’d just dumped.

Shit—the van!

Gagging from the sudden memory of what he’d recently witnessed, Luke jumped to his feet and grabbed his bike, a lime-green Kawasaki KLR650 on-off road monster, a three-week-old present from his uncle for his nineteenth birthday.

The same uncle who, he was fairly certain, was now trying to kill him.

Hopping on the bike, Luke punched the starter button and gave a silent thanks as the engine roared to life. Popping the clutch, he twisted the throttle wide open, the big knobby rear tire spinning wildly, spitting gravel, before gripping the pavement. With a loud squeal the bike shot away from the pursuing van. He was on auto-pilot, his body reacting instinctively to the approaching threat, which was fortunate because his mind was still reeling from the crash—and from what had happened immediately before.

The bike leapt forward over broken pavement and past dockside debris similar to what had launched him moments earlier. He was running blind, his only illumination coming from the headlights behind him, but he didn’t switch on the bike’s light, desperate for any advantage in this one-sided race.

Headlights glinted off his side-view mirror and he knew a bone-crushing impact was not far behind. The rushing sound in his ears was deafening—rushing not from the wind whipping past his exposed head, but from highly pressurized blood delivered to his system by a heart that threatened to leap from his chest.

He could feel the salty, sticky taste of fear in his mouth—or was it blood? Probably both.

Luke’s night vision was beginning to acclimate, allowing him to skirt a wide depression in the pavement only partially covered by a large steel plate without touching his brakes. Minutes earlier he would have blindly ploughed directly into the hole, with obviously bad consequences.

Whipping past the obstacle, Luke quickly brought the bike back onto its original track and allowed himself a slight moment of satisfaction as he caught the sound of a wrenching crash behind him. The pursuing driver had missed Luke’s swerve, hadn’t seen the obstacle immediately before him. Instead he’d propelled the van directly into the depression, the steel plate shearing off one of the front wheels. A shower of sparks erupted around the van as it careened to one side, fishtailing wildly.

Bugger off, you bastards! Luke thought as he sped from the receding lights. Switching on his headlamp, he brought the bike down to a more manageable speed and tried to bring himself under control. Still on auto-pilot, he followed random roads for another ten minutes, vaguely aware he was paralleling the East River.

The throbbing in his ears was still there, had spread throughout his entire body. He felt weak and sick.

Really sick.

Oh crap...

Skidding to the side of the road, he dropped the bike and vomited. The events of the past three months, culminating with this evening, were swimming around his brain, colliding with one another and making his head spin.

The questions surfaced one after another. Now what? What was he going to do? Where was he going to go? Home?

Home—ha, wasn’t that a joke, he thought sarcastically as he sat on the ground, not really knowing where he was, not really caring.

He once again spat out the contents of his mouth, this time mainly blood. Gently probing the wet volume with his tongue, he winced as it encountered a space where a tooth once had lived.

You and I are both orphans, little tooth.

His world had literally burned to the ground just over three months ago, back in England, his real home. Beginning with the senseless overdose of a friend, death had spread across Luke’s world like an eclipse, touching everyone he was close to and shutting out his once-happy life.

It had all started with Dee’s overdose, a death he’d been struggling to come to terms with when, just two days later, the life of his mother had been snuffed out in a violent explosion, an explosion that blew his world apart and changed his life forever.

An explosion that had forever burned a date into Luke’s soul. December 25th—Christmas morning.

The only unwrapping he did that morning was with the sheet that covered the charred remains of his mother. And now, it seemed, death had followed him thousands of miles across the Atlantic and had revealed itself through a small crack on the side of a deserted warehouse on Brooklyn Pier #1.

CHAPTER 2

LUKE HAD A DECISION to make. His life stopped here. It could go no further until the decision was made.

What was he going to do next?

It was the kind of unconscious decision one makes countless times during the course of a normal day. This time, however, the need for a decision brought him to a grinding halt.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

In order to answer that question, he had to understand what had happened previously. He looked down at the luminescent hands of his battered Citizen Aqualand chronograph. 4:00 AM.

Damn.

What had seemed like a lifetime had only been forty-five minutes. He let out a long sigh and tried to relax, hoping the early morning chill would clear his head.

Though the months after the death of his mother had passed in a blur, Luke could remember, as if it were yesterday, the day he first met his uncle.

THE MEMORIAL service for his mother had just ended and he was standing at the entrance of St. Pancras Old Church in London, watching as the hearse departed through the ancient wrought-iron gates, trying to will himself to follow it toward Highgate Cemetery. He started as someone grabbed his arm from behind. Turning, he saw a large, powerfully built man, taller even than his own six-foot frame. The stranger had a thin smile on his face, a smile that didn’t touch his dark, penetrating eyes.

A stranger, perhaps, but familiar nonetheless.

He stared at Luke for what seemed like an eternity, then rumbled in a deep Irish bass, Hello, Luke.

Excuse me, sir, but I don’t believe I know you, Luke replied, taking a step back, disturbed by the familiarity of this man.

My name be Sean O’Connor, lad, an’ I am the brother o’ your mum.

A clap of thunder couldn’t have startled Luke more, and his voice failed him.

Ye be comin’ back wit’ me, lad, the stranger rumbled. You’re kin, an’ never let it be said that Sean O’Connor don’t take care o’ his own.

The deadness that had recently begun to permeate Luke grew heavier as he struggled to cope with this turn of events—or, more truthfully, struggled not to.

Eighteen years old and already past all caring, he’d made no complaints and soon found himself at Heathrow airport with a man he didn’t know, headed for a country he’d only been to once, to live in a city where he knew no one.

Which actually was fine with him. He wanted away from the memories, away from the pitying faces and careful words. He wanted anonymity. He wanted, he’d quickly realized, New York City.

During their flight to the States they’d shared no words beyond the briefest exchange in which his uncle had told Luke limited facts about his life.

Fact: he owned a successful construction company in the city.

Fact: he lived in an area of New York once known as Hell’s Kitchen.

Fact: he offered no more facts.

LUKE LEANED against his sideways bike and looked up into the cold, starless sky, easing a dull ache that was beginning to form at the base of his neck.

Now wasn’t that a joke. My mom dies in a fire and my uncle returns from the dead and takes me to Hell’s Kitchen ... Didn’t I just jump from the fire into the frying pan.

Well, at least that was how he saw it. His uncle, an uncle who was supposed to be dead, had been a bit of an enigma to Luke ever since he’d pieced together the story of his mother’s childhood, such that it was.

LUKE’S MOTHER, Lucy O’Connor, was born to a poor Irish couple in the slums of Belfast. Her mother, a grandmother unknown to Luke, was a frail, thin woman who quietly submitted to the daily verbal and physical abuse delivered by her husband, a man who’d given in to the hardships of their world—had turned to the bottle for comfort, as Luke’s mother had put it. Luke translated that to mean his grandfather was a no-good, wife-abusing bastard of a drunk.

Lucy was the second of three unhappy attempts by her parents to carry on the good O’Connor family name. Her parents’ first attempt at producing a progeny had resulted in a sickly little baby who died of pneumonia when he was less than a year old. The child’s death drove Luke’s grandfather further into depression and deeper into the bottle.

The second attempt resulted in a girl, Lucy Hawthorn—Luke’s mother—and, though she was a healthy and energetic baby, she was not the boy her father was obsessed with and was therefore just another glaring example o’ me wife’s failure to provide for the simple desires o’ her husband. As far as he was concerned, Lucy didn’t exist; she was not his child.

LUKE REMEMBERED a tiny locket his mother used to keep on a chain around her neck. Once, during a rare occasion when Luke was able to get her to talk about her childhood, she had opened it up and shown Luke a photograph of a handsome young couple beaming at the camera. She’d smiled sadly and said, These are two people I’ve never known. Poverty stole my parents and left only their shadows behind.

Luke and his mother had always been very close, which was a good thing, since the entire Hawthorn family consisted of just the two of them. And though she always steered conversation away from her own past, she was an exceptional listener, and that was often enough for Luke.

It wasn’t until the death of his friend Dee that Luke’s mother had finally revealed the details of her parents’ third and final attempt to produce a son. When she’d told Luke about his uncle. The story came out on Christmas Eve.

Christ, it was the night of the fire ...

Dee had died only the night before, and while talking about it with his mother, she’d given Luke one of her rare sad smiles and told him that sometimes bad things—needless, hurtful things—happen to good people, while the wicked seem to slip through life unscathed.

Something flickered deep behind her eyes, like a shutter opening and, with a small sigh, she then told Luke about the last time she had ever seen her parents ...

LUCY HAD just turned eight and her mother, pregnant for the third time, was in a sad state of health. During the early stages of the pregnancy she’d developed bronchitis and often succumbed to horrible, wracking coughing fits that used to scare Lucy terribly. Whenever her mother had one of her spells, Lucy’s father would fly into a blind rage, accusing her of deliberately trying to sabotage the life of his unborn son.

Though he cared nothing for Lucy, he doted upon the unborn child, convinced it would be a boy. He would often force his wife to stand before him for long stretches of time so he could coo and gurgle and tell Sean, for that was the name he’d given the child, what a fine, strong lad he’d be.

Lucy’s mother came to hate the child she carried within her, and Lucy was positive her mother willfully allowed her health to slide in order to see the baby dead.

ALONE IN the cold night, reliving his mother’s story, Luke wiped away a solitary tear with a grimy thumb and uttered a low curse. He remembered watching his mother wiping away her own tear as she unfolded her tragic past. At that time, knowing she was a thousand miles away, the only thing he’d been able to do was to reach across the table and squeeze her hand.

LUCY’S STORY, along with her childhood, came to an end just a week into her eighth year. She recalled being woken very late one night by a series of piercing screams. Sliding off the tattered couch where she slept, she’d crept to the open door of her parents’ bedroom and peered around the corner. What she saw within that room would haunt her for the rest of her life.