Catholic Faith, and be nourished by the bounty of her mercy; but you have refused to consent, persisting instead in your obstinacy.”
My knees were weak with terror as I unsteadily gained my feet. His imposing figure was stationed directly between my still idling truck and me, making that avenue of escape unattainable. I seriously doubted that I could outrun him, and as he loomed through the fog, my options were growing slim.
The man was haloed in backlighting from the oddly canted headlamp on my truck reflecting from the damp sheen that coated the bridge. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the odd scheme, and I could just make out his long, haggard face. His eyes were set back in deep shadowy wells and were framed by a shoulder length hood of stringy white hair that blended into his colorless pallor.
His thin frame was clad entirely in black with a priest’s collar encircling his craning neck. With each word he spoke, his throat would undulate as if he were swallowing hard. His freakish appearance served to propel the already soul-chilling fear deeper into my core.
He was directly before me now, and as had happened in my vision, that fear became an all-consuming visceral terror. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I could only stare back in stunned horror.
In a sudden flash, the man brought his hand up and thrust it downward. Out of pure reflex I brought my arm up and twisted quickly away-but unfortunately, not quickly enough. The cold steel spike of an ice pick bit hard into my shoulder, and I could feel it scrape along the bones that formed the joint. I howled in agony as he mercilessly ripped the stiletto back out and plunged it once again into my upper arm.
His voice boomed imperiously against the backdrop of the music and my agonized screams. “Therefore, following in the footsteps of the Blessed Apostle Paul, we declare, judge and sentence you to be a stubborn heretic and as such to be abandoned to secular justice!”
The sharp pain slapped me out of my quadriplegic stupor, and I lashed out, throwing my uninjured arm forward and into his midsection. Twisting my weight into the motion, I connected with a solid punch that took him by surprise and staggered him backward. I didn’t believe for even a brief second that I would get that lucky again, and I bolted for the first opening that presented itself.
I could feel the ice pick still buried to its handle in my upper left arm, and my hand was tucked into a deformed claw that shuddered with pain. Hot tears were streaming down my cheeks, and the wet mist of the fog felt even colder wherever it touched my bare skin. My attempt at escape lasted for a half dozen frenzied steps around the front end of my truck before I felt the bony hand clamp like a vise on my shoulder.
I was jerked violently backward then immediately thrust back forward at an angle where I made an instantaneous stop against the railing on the south side of the bridge. The air leapt from my lungs, and I gasped as I pitched forward. The erupting stigmata on my forearm intensified to compete with, and then overshadow, all of the other pains that racked my body. At some point my glasses had gone the way of the cell phone, and I cast an unfocused gaze at my hand and saw the small streams of blood dripping from my clawed knuckles.
I fought to regain my breath, and I was once again grasped by the neck and pushed sideways. As the killer held me against the chilled metal, I felt something rough and plastic-like dragged across my face. Looking down with bleary eyes, I saw the nylon rope hanging about my neck bound with a coil of thirteen loops in a perfect hangman’s noose.
“Rowan Linden Gant,” the deep voice began once again. “By this our definitive sentence we drive you from the ecclesiastical Court, and abandon you to the power of the secular Court, that having you in its power now moderates its sentence of death against you.”
In a sudden sense of motion, I felt my feet leave the ground and my body being lifted forcibly upward. I tried to grab for the rail, but my hand slipped from its slick surface and I continued to rise.
The killer proceeded with the passing of my fate, “Whereas you, Rowan Linden Gant have duly and properly admitted your crimes, and having before us the Holy Gospels that our judgment may proceed as from the countenance of God, by this sentence we cast you away as an impenitent heretic and sorcerer.”
He had now lifted me over his head, as one would press a set of barbells. As strong as he was, he was struggling against my weight and was unable to fully extend his arms. I could feel him shaking as he held me there and stepped against the rail. I almost froze in panic, fearing that if I fought against him he would drop me over the side. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that just such an action was what he had planned, but I certainly didn’t want to help him accomplish it.
“In accordance with the thirty second question we do hereby deliver you unto the power of our most Holy God…” His voice cracked as he strained to hold me.
My mind raced in search of a way out, and I realized that in his haste to end my existence, he had neglected to bind my hands. If it was, as it appeared, his intention to hang me, the opposite end of the rope had to be secured. I could think of only one thing to do.
Trying my best not to attract his attention, I quickly hooked my injured left arm up against my chest and forced my bloody fist up through the noose encircling my neck. As I pressed upward, I was able to slide the nylon rope over my head, and the loop dropped down along my arm to encircle it just above my elbow.
“As you, Rowan Linden Gant, are damned in body and soul, your sentence on this day is death. The sentence, to be executed immediately and without appeal in the manner of hanging.”
So intent was he on passing sentence, he had yet to notice my movements. I knew there were only seconds left now that the words of judgment had officially been spoken. In an adrenalin edged rush, I rotated my wrist and twisted a pair of loops around my forearm then forced my hand open and grasped tightly to the nylon rope. The fleetingly morbid thought that it was too bad that we Witches couldn’t really fly shot through my mind as he pronounced my end.
“May the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon your soul.”
With his last statement, he pitched forward and grunted as he forced his arms outward. As I began to roll and drop away, I shot my free right hand out and grasped tightly to a handful of his stringy hair and held fast. I heard him yelp in surprise as he was pulled forward and levered over the rail.
Together, we fell into the shadowy mist of nothingness.
CHAPTER 27
The steel trusses that make up the Old Chain of Rocks Bridge form a superstructure that rests upon beams and piers to span the five thousand plus feet to the other side of the Mississippi. In an angular trek they hopscotch across the water like an undulating multi-humped serpent before taking a twenty-four degree turn and continuing on their merry way to the other side. It was at the vertices of two of these truss sections that we went over the side.
In the pit of my stomach, I experienced an instant feeling of weightlessness followed rapidly by the heavy sense of impending death. I held tightly to the nylon rope as it slid quickly through my bare hand like a serrated knife. My palm burned, begging to let go, and I consciously gripped the lifeline even tighter.
There was a loud, clanging thump as our bodies impacted the wide steel support running beneath the joint of the trusses. We hesitated for a moment, and I felt myself continuing to fall as I slid between the decking and the beam. I continued downward for a handful of inches before the rope tightened around my forearm. Less than a foot later, I jerked to a sudden halt as the noose tightened and the line snapped taut.
I felt muscle tear as the inertia of my plummeting body was stopped cold by nothing more than my left shoulder being forcibly dislocated. I had cried out in pain so often in the past few minutes that my voice was completely raw, and all I could manage was a pathetic whimper.
Thus far my idea had worked. I was still alive.
Through the mist I could just make out the lights of the water treatment plant located in the distance, just south of the actual rock chain that gave the bridge its name. The normally lazy river rushed over this stone anomaly to create a dull roar below. My ever-present phobia of drowning sent a wave of fear to pierce my bowels and was rapidly joined by the terrifying realization that I was not all that fond of heights either.
Above, music still blared from my idling truck, and the mournful strains of a violin added sad emotion to a slowly rising bass hum. A heavy groan punctuated the music from somewhere near my head.
I was twisting slowly on the end of the rope and simply hung there trying to deal with the pain as I lazily
