The Angel

Prologue:
There is a sense of calm when one wakes to a smell of smoke. The first five seconds after waking up is of tranquil, the mind visualizing the tenderness of the fireplace and the gentle tickling of the foot from the escaping sparks. The next two seconds is of consciousness, the mind concludes there is a fire but Jane is still in bed. The last second is of panic as Jane realizes that she is tied to her bed and surrounded by petrol tanks.

Life is synchronized to a clock that God winds up, some say. Predestination, an existence that was already planned from when the crop was sowed, to the expiry date in someone’s pantry. Thomas Pritchard turned his back to the shrinking screams and growing sirens, smiling at the perfection in timing.









Chapter 1.
Bruce Eversteen looked outside the Maryland General hospital window, runners following the Druid Lake circuit looking like clumsy ants with their incessant need to converse with fellow runners. “You’ve had a full recovery and ready to be released” the nurse had said, but it did nothing to sway the Chief’s attitude that he should retire from the force and start a new life with a different career path, away from stray bullets. At the age of thirty-two, he had been an officer in the Maryland Police Force for six years and all it took was one bullet in his chest to be offered another career choice. Bruce stared at the man he saw in the reflection and shook his head, “Chief, Tony, I mean no disrespect but this has always been my life” “You just don’t get it, I nearly lost a friend the other day- you nearly died” Anthony Hopkins replied, obviously getting irritated with how this conversation was ending, “look, I understand that ever since the incident you’ve always been…” Bruce stood up, arching his back in the pain that ensued “You don’t know anything about why I chose this life” Anthony threw his hands in surrender, but took one step forward with all seriousness in his face dissipating to one of deep caring- showing the creases he held back when on-duty. “Take six months off. Bruce, I’m sorry but I can’t let you back in after an event like this. You have always been my brother, through out school and college, and I can’t afford to lose you, nor could your sister”
Bruce sat back down at the mentioning of his sister, sighing with pain and a resentful agreement, one a parent does when a child begs for a sleepover. “You better find the bastard that shot me.”


Bruce checked out of Maryland General at eight-thirty, just squeezing into peak hour traffic where the sound of horns and backfiring engines only provided more reasons to leave Baltimore.  The mentioning of Kirsten was a surprise, and Bruce knew that Tony would only ever mention her if he was truly worried about him. Though Kirsten would never notice if he was dead, when or if his sister woke up from her coma-like trance there would be no way for her to survive. Twelve years since the incident left her in such a state, the sight of ones mum being shot in a robbery gone wrong. The psychologist had said that Kirsten’s fragility can only decrease with time, and there is no way to rush Kirsten’s state. How one could choose to shut oneself from the exterior world, Bruce would never know. He could only nod his head at those words, continuing to stare at an abstract painting of vivid colors that can only serve to remind him of happier days by the beach. The yellow corridors, shaped in a oval allowed the patients with dementia to continue to walk around as if it was a new environment, only frustrated Bruce as the bland grey offices would have made him want to shut himself from the world too.
It was all Bruce could do to stifle back his tears, and turned his focus back to the road. The radio could be barely heard over the constant humming of the engine, and only snippets of a tragedy where a survivor of a past house fire was sadly killed in another fire could be heard.
Bruce started to tap his fingers on the leather steering wheel, not of annoyance with the traffic but with the decision to make a slight detour from his drive to Sabina, Ohio to visit his sister. He indicated right, and weaved through the side streets to Route 70.



The media fire was just as Thomas expected. Smiling at the pun, he turned off the television report and headed across the hotel room to his laptop. The curtain was lightly blowing in the wind, giving sight not to the suburbs of where Jane had lived, but to a church. The church was made up of red bricks, as strong as clay after a day of rain. To Thomas, a church was a church, though unlike most people with that belief, it would only be a few days since he last attended.
The laptop started up with the trademark Windows tone, and the default background of the green plains welcomed him. He opened up the document labeled 14th of January, breathing heavily through his nostrils, anger erupting at the slightest notion of this date. He steadies himself, and calmly goes through the list, slowly highlighting Jane O'leary's name and cause of death. The smile on Thomas' face was enough to brighten up the dark room, as a child may after pleasing his mother.