Silent Night

24

“Kyrie Eleison,” the choir sang.

Lord have mercy, Barbara Cavanaugh prayed.

Save my lamb, Catherine begged.

Run, Dork, run, get away from him, Michael shouted in his mind.

Jimmy Siddons was crazy. Brian had never been in a car before that was going so fast. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but there must be someone following them.

Brian looked away from the road for a moment and glanced at Jimmy. He had his gun out. He felt Jimmy tugging at his seat belt, releasing it. Then he reached across Brian and opened the door beside him. He could feel the cold air rushing in.

For a moment he was paralyzed with fear. Then he sat up very straight. He realized what was about to happen. That Jimmy was going to shoot him and push him out of the car.

He had to get away. He was still clutching the medal in his right hand. He felt Jimmy poke him in the side with the gun, pushing him toward the open door and the roadway rushing beneath them. Holding on to the seat-belt buckle with his left hand, he swung out blindly with his right. The medal arced and slammed into Jimmy’s face, catching him in his left eye.

Jimmy yelled and took his hand off the wheel, instinctively slamming his foot on the brake. As he grabbed his eye, the gun went off. The bullet whistled past Brian’s ear as the out-of-control car began to spin around. It jumped the curb, went up into a corner lawn, and caught on a bush. Still spinning, it slowed as it dragged the bush back across the lawn and out onto the edge of the road.

Jimmy was swearing now, one hand again on the wheel, the other aiming the gun. Blood dripped into his eye from a gash across his forehead and cheek.

Get out. Get out. Brian heard the command in his head as though someone were shouting it at him. Brian dove for the door and rolled out onto the snow-covered lawn just as a second bullet passed over his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, the kid’s out of the car,” Chris yelled. He jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop behind the Toyota. “He’s getting up. Oh my God.”

Bud Folney shouted, “Is he hurt?” but Chris didn’t hear him. He was already out of his car and running toward the boy. Siddons was in control of the Toyota again and had turned it, clearly planning to run over Brian. In what seemed like an eternity but was actually only seconds, Chris had crossed the space between him and Brian and gathered the boy in his arms.

The car was racing toward them, its passenger door still open and its interior still illuminated so that the maniacal anger in Jimmy Siddons’s face was clearly visible. Clutching Brian tightly against him, Chris dove to the side and rolled down a snowy incline just as the wheels of the Toyota passed inches from their heads. An instant later, with a sickening sound of metal crashing and glass breaking, the vehicle careened off the porch of the house and flipped over.

For a moment there was silence, and then the quiet was shattered as sirens screamed and wailed. Lights from a dozen squad cars brightened the night as swarms of troopers raced to surround the overturned vehicle. Chris lay in the snow for a few seconds, hugging Brian to him, listening to the convergence of sounds. Then he heard a small relieved voice ask, “Are you St. Christopher?”

“No, but right now I feel like him, Brian,” Chris said heartily. “Merry Christmas, son.”