Page 56 of Bad Bishop

“The revolver can hold six bullets. Put in three.”

Alex did as he was told. He was good with guns. A great aim. A small comfort for Igor.

Lyosha aimed at Tierney first. Her chin wobbled; her eyes begged. He pulled the trigger.

Click.

It was empty. She fell down to her knees, heaving, sobbing, wetting herself. The hot liquid of her urine momentarily stole the numbness from her cold legs.

Alex turned the gun to Tiernan. Flinched.

He loved him, that was the truth of it. More than he loved his father, and his brothers, and maybe even himself.

Because Tiernan taught him how to be brave. No matter his circumstances, he refused to be a victim.

Tiernan didn’t shake. His eyes didn’t beg. He stared at him head-on.

“Shoot!” Igor roared.

Alex pulled the trigger, howling in pain.

Click.

Empty.

Tiernan didn’t flinch. Didn’t even sigh in relief. Just stood there, cold and resilient and more alive than all of them combined.

Alex dropped to one knee, vomiting onto his own lap.

“Koshchei,” Igor spat out dejectedly. It was the eleventh time in eight years the little worm escaped death. So many illnesses. Accidents. Stray bullets. Rat poison his body seemed to resignedly accept. Igor was always on the verge of killing the Callaghans with his bare hands. The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that his late wife wouldn’t have wanted that. Kids, no matter how sullied and evil, were precious in her eyes.

“That boy is utterly deathless. He is going to kill all of us one day.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

TIERNAN

I flipped through Lila’s sketchbook again while she was taking a shower.

My wife drew what she remembered, and if she by chance remembered her attacker’s face, that mattered.

I didn’t find any new portraits, but I did find music sheets. Dozens and dozens of them. Since Alex had taught me solfège when we were kids, I recognized some as Mozart and Beethoven. That, in itself, did not impress me. Any monkey could copy and paste music sheets from the internet. What piqued my interest were the ones I was not familiar with. And were not, in fact, classics at all.

I downloaded a piano app on my phone and played them out. They were completely original pieces. Fucking fantastic, too. Expressive, dramatic, elegant, and Gothic.

They could be someone else’s. Just because Lila wrote them didn’t mean she composed them.

They could.

But somehow, I knew, with stark clarity, that it was my wife who came up with them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LILA

Mama was back from Chicago, but the relief I expected to feel never arrived.

I was clocking in eight hours of phone time a day. Researching gadgets for the impaired of hearing. There was a list sitting in the bottom of my nightstand drawer of things I wanted to purchase and try out. I needed to figure out how to order them from the internet without asking for Tiernan’s help. It didn’t look like the vendors accepted cash.