him, Loughlin had caught his wrist and whirled around him. He forced the arm back and upward, knife point aimed at the sky, and squeezed his fingertips into the wrist tendons with all his strength. The thug roared in surprise and pain as the knife came free and clattered against the concrete.
Though both of the others carried bludgeons of some sort, neither approached the action. Loughlin twisted his assailant's arm with savage force. A low ripping sound announced the parting of the thug's shoulder muscles. The mugger's high, shrill scream echoed from the surrounding buildings. Loughlin released his wrist, and he dropped onto his face on the sidewalk.
Loughlin stepped back from the writhing fruit of his labors, wiped his hands theatrically, and addressed the two henchmen who stood witnessing the end of their leader's career.
"Who's next?"
Seconds later Loughlin and the disabled mugger were alone on the street, the pounding of the sideboys' feet fading into the night. Loughlin picked up the switchblade from where it had fallen. Its former owner was too consumed by his agony to notice.
Loughlin squatted beside the crippled thug and turned him over. He appeared no more than twenty years old. His clothing was flashily expensive, and a thick gold chain circled his neck. His face was doughy, brutish. If the pain were erased from it, there would be nothing else there.
"Hear me, scumbag?"
Loughlin held the open switchblade loosely, point down over the gasping felon's face. The thug's eyes were halfway open. He seemed to nod. Good enough.
"What did you think you were going to do with this, hey? Pick your nose with it? You go waving this thing at somebody, he's going to think you mean to use it on him. Most guys take that badly. And if he's like me, he might decide to punch your ticket for you."
The thug continued to gasp for breath, but said nothing. His eyes were tracking the switchblade.
"You met the Angel of Death tonight, boy. Your asshole buddies got a good look at what happens when the Angel folds his wings and lights on someone. You're lucky I'm feeling merciful. If I were to plant this in your eye, no one in this town would feel anything but gratitude."
Loughlin's grip on the knife tightened. He thrust the blade into the concrete of the sidewalk a bare inch from his assailant's left ear. The knife bowed, then broke with a whipcrack sound. A flying shard of steel nicked the boy's cheek, and a thin trickle of blood ran down it. He didn't move.
"Crawl back into your hole. Tell the other rats what happened to you. And be sure to tell them that the Angel can look like anything he wants."
Moments later, the ex-mugger was shambling off, whimpering and clutching his ruined shoulder. Loughlin watched him recede. When he was certain he was alone and unobserved in the darkness, he turned and began walking home.
***
Father Heinrich Schliemann of the Society of St. Dominic, pastor of Onteora parish, sat motionless at his desk, clad in bathrobe and slippers, a room temperature cup of coffee before him. A single lamp repelled the darkness.
All clergymen have occasional white nights. Schliemann was no exception.
Sleep had come hard to him in recent years. He knew that part of that was the deterioration of his body. A seventy-four year old man will be awakened by pain that a younger man's sleeping body would absorb without broaching the threshold of consciousness. Despite the care he took of himself and the best medical care the parish could afford, the arthritis in his knees, hips and shoulders was bursting its bonds. When he turned over in bed, the pain from those joints woke him and forced him to spend many minutes regaining somnolence.
Another part of it was his reluctance to lay down his responsibilities as an older priest supposedly should. Despite advancing age, Schliemann spurned all notions of retirement. He had a flock to tend, and by God, he would tend it.
He had come to this parish after his ordination. He had
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