Chapter 4 - The Black Umbrella At St. Jude’s
The harbor bridge was a roaring canyon of wind, steel girders, and black water churned white by the November gale.
Marcus drove like a demon possessed. The armored Escalade clipped the concrete median with a deafening scrape of metal, sparks illuminating the rain like falling stars, but the vehicle’s six-ton weight kept it glued to the road. The pursuing van attempted to cut them off at the lower deck transition, but Marcus slammed the brakes, letting the lighter van overshoot them into an oil slick before ramming its rear bumper, sending the pursuit vehicle spinning out of control into the steel barrier cables.
The sound of twisting metal faded behind them into the storm.
""They're down,"" Marcus breathed heavily, his knuckles bleeding against the steering wheel. ""Radiator's blown on that van. They aren't following us across the bridge.""
""Don't slow down,"" Julian commanded from the rear seat. His voice had grown noticeably rougher. His left hand was clamped tight over Claire’s fingers, while his right hand pressed the blood-soaked handkerchief against his shoulder. His skin had taken on a pale, waxy sheen under the dim dome light.
""Julian, let me see that shoulder,"" Claire pleaded, shifting toward him on the leather bench.
""Not now,"" he murmured, his eyes fixed on her face. ""How are the contractions? How is your stomach?""
""It's tight, but the sharp cramps stopped ten minutes ago,"" she lied, trying to steady her breathing. In truth, a dull, rhythmic ache was radiating through her lower back, a persistent pressure that warned her that their daughter was getting distressed by the chaos. ""You're losing too much blood. Marcus, where are we going? We can't go to General Hospital; they'll have people waiting at the trauma bay.""
""We aren't going to a hospital,"" Julian said. ""St. Jude’s Convent. South harbor.""
Claire stared at him in disbelief. ""A convent?""
""The Sisters of the Holy Rosary ran an underground infirmary during the dock strikes in the eighties,"" Julian explained, leaning his head back against the leather headrest, his breathing shallow. ""My grandfather financed their children's wing. Sister Beatrice was an emergency trauma surgeon before she took her vows. She owes nobody anything, and she doesn't keep digital medical records.""
Twenty minutes later, the Escalade turned off the commercial highway onto a narrow cobblestone lane lined with towering, ancient willow trees. At the end of the lane stood the dark silhouette of St. Jude’s—a massive Gothic structure of black stone, stained glass, and wrought-iron fencing that looked like it belonged in nineteenth-century Europe rather than twenty-first-century America.
As the vehicle came to a stop in the interior courtyard, a figure emerged from the side cloister carrying a massive black umbrella.
The woman was well past sixty, wearing the simple dark gray habit of the order, but her posture was as rigid as a military officer's. Behind her walked two younger women carrying canvas medical kits and clean blankets.
Marcus killed the engine and threw open the rear doors. ""Sister Beatrice! We've got a penetrating laceration and a high-risk pregnancy!""
Sister Beatrice didn't waste time with greetings or prayers. She stepped up to the open door, her sharp gray eyes taking in Julian's soaked, blood-stained clothes and Claire's pale, trembling frame in a single, clinical sweep.
""Julian Hale,"" the nun said, her voice dry and steady as a surgical scalpel. ""You always did have a terrible habit of bleeding on consecrated ground.""
""Good to see you too, Beatrice,"" Julian muttered, attempting to sit up, but a sudden wave of dizziness forced him back against the seat.
""Hush,"" she ordered, reaching in to press two fingers against his carotid artery. ""Tachycardic. Weak pulse. You've lost at least a pint. Marcus, help him inside to the sacristy table. And bring the girl to the library. We need warm water, iodine, and sterile gauze immediately.""
Within minutes, Claire found herself settled into a deep velvet armchair beside a roaring stone fireplace in the convent’s cavernous library. The room smelled of beeswax, old parchment, and burning oak logs. One of the younger novices wrapped a warm, heavy wool blanket around her shoulders and handed her a steaming mug of tea laced with honey and dried chamomile.
Through the heavy oak doors that led to the adjoining vestry, Claire could hear the quiet, metallic clink of surgical instruments and Sister Beatrice's calm, measured voice giving instructions.
Claire couldn't sit still. She set the tea aside, pulled the blanket tightly around her pregnant belly, and stood up on trembling legs. She walked slowly toward the cracked vestry door.
Through the narrow opening, she saw Julian lying shirtless on a heavy wooden examination table. His muscular chest was mapped with old scars—proof of the violent empire his family had commanded for three generations. Sister Beatrice was bent over his right shoulder, methodically stitching a four-inch laceration with curved suture needles, the thread pulling tight against his pale, blood-spattered skin.
Julian wasn't making a sound. His jaws were clamped shut, his eyes focused entirely on the ceiling, beads of cold sweat running down his temple.
""The glass missed the subclavian artery by half an inch, Julian,"" Sister Beatrice said calmly, knotting a stitch. ""The good Lord clearly has more work for you to do on this earth, though heaven only knows why given your family's track record.""
""Save the theology for Sunday, Beatrice,"" Julian ground out through his teeth. ""The girl. Did you check her vitals?""
""Her blood pressure is elevated, but the fetal heartbeat is strong,"" the nun replied. ""One hundred and forty-two beats per minute. A girl, I assume, given how stubborn the pulse is.""
A faint, genuine smile broke across Julian's exhausted face. ""A girl. Yes.""
""She's terrified, Julian,"" Beatrice said softly, dropping a bloody swab into a brass basin. ""And she loves you enough to let herself be destroyed so you wouldn't die. Women like that don't belong in your world. Your grandfather had a woman like that once. He brought her nothing but graves.""
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""I am not my grandfather,"" Julian said, his voice dropping into that dark, frightening register. ""Nobody touches Claire. Nobody.""
""Then you had better find Evelyn Cross before the sun comes up,"" Beatrice said, snipping the final thread. ""Because Evelyn isn't working alone. A woman with that much poison always has an army behind her.""
