Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(29)
The church has two entrances, one in the front and one in the back, but both are locked as well. I consider going back to the truck to sleep, because breaking into God’s house seems really wrong—maybe so bad that my father’s nagging voice might give up on me entirely. Still, it’s so cold and I need to lie down. So I make the sign of the cross as best as I can remember and whisper a pre-crime apology into the sky. I find a heavy rock, wrap it in my hoodie, and smash a window. It was loud. I bet all twenty-seven residents are rushing down here in their pajamas to investigate. I wait for a light to come on or a police siren. After ten minutes, I reach my hand through the sharp edges and unlock the window.
The room I’ve broken into is a dank, stuffy place filled with rows and rows of pews and folding chairs. There are racks on the back of each seat where Bibles, hymnals, and paper fans wait for worshippers. A plaque on the wall explains how much money the church collected last month and how much more they need to meet their goals. There’s a life-size sculpture of Jesus on the cross standing behind the pulpit. It’s not fancy, not like the church Dad used to take me to, with the towering ceiling and the stained-glass windows and the little cushioned benches you could fold down when you knelt to pray. This is church without the special effects.
There are a couple of doors behind the pulpit. There could be a cot in the back. Heck, there could be a California King back there, but exploring feels icky. Instead, I choose one of the hard wooden pews and stretch out as best I can. There’s something lovely about being able to lie all the way down after two weeks in a car, even if my back is going to kill me in the morning. It’s all the pampering I need.
Once I’m settled, I look up and realize the statue of Jesus is hanging directly over me. He stares down as if waiting for me to go to sleep.
“Hey.”
Like I said, he’s not much of a talker. Still, I can’t help but think about what Arcade said to me, how I needed to talk to the person in charge of my universe. I guess it couldn’t hurt.
“So, we haven’t talked in a while,” I continue.
Jesus’s eyes shine like moonbeams. He looks uncomfortable, but that could be the whole crucifixion thing he’s dealing with at the moment.
“Let me bring you up to date. You can probably tell by the state of my clothes and hair that things are kind of bad. I’m not blaming you. I made these mistakes. I know a lot of people think you get involved in our lives—you know, help people win football games and Grammy Awards—but I’ve always believed you are as surprised as anyone when a person gets hit by a bus or wins the lottery. My dad believes that you have some kind of plan for everyone. I don’t know. Maybe you do. So if that’s true, and part of your plan involves me dying in some horrible way, I’d like to offer an alternative. I could be the hero. Hear me out, ’cause this could be really exciting. First, you get me to Tempest. Second, I charge in, blow the place up, free a bunch of people, and then make an amazing escape. Sounds cool, huh? I’d pay to see that movie.”
I turn a little to work out a cramp in my leg.
“But, you know, if the script has already been written, then can I ask that my mom and dad get out and find a little place to be safe and happy, and Bex—let her grow really old and still be super hot and find someone who gets her to drop her guard? And Arcade. Get Arcade into some therapy and, well, if Fathom is really alive, then I guess they should be together, but only if she really loves him and appreciates him, because if she doesn’t, then let him find someone who will, but let that person look a little like me, so I can feel like he will never get over me. Yeah, that’s selfish. Sorry.
“I know it is probably against the rules to pray for a painful death for someone, but that Doyle guy? Can’t he choke to death on a cup of coffee?”
I know it’s just the changing angle of the moon, but Jesus looks slightly confused now.
“Yeah, I know. I sound crazy. I wonder if the Great Abyss hears Arcade’s rambling and thinks she’s lost her mind too. So, anything you can do would be awesome. I guess I should ask for world peace. You know, something selfless? World peace would be cool. Well, thanks for Lucas’s truck and this church and the bench and all.”
I can feel myself slipping into sleep.
“Please take care of everyone,” I beg.
Jesus looks noncommittal. I’m hoping it’s just the light.
I open my eyes to find another man hovering over me. Unlike the Jesus statue, he has deep brown eyes and skin, a shaved head, and a well-trimmed beard. He’s wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a thin black tie. He smells like cocoa butter.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you are having a rough couple of days,” he says.
I sit up, feeling embarrassed and panicked.
“Don’t worry,” he continues. “I’m not going to call the police. We’d have to wait forty minutes for them to arrive from the next town. What do they call you?”
“Lyric,” I say.
“That’s lovely. Lyric, I’ve cooked some eggs. Will you have some breakfast with me?”
This is the second strange man to offer me a meal in as many days, but he has kind eyes and a smile to match. He gestures for me to follow him, and he walks to one of the doors behind the pulpit. Together we move down a long hall to a small cafeteria. There’s not much more than a big steel coffeepot, but there’s a little kitchen off to the side and a few tables made of Formica with matching plastic chairs. On one table are two plates of eggs, toast, and bacon. There are tall glasses of milk and bananas, too. My mouth waters like that of a dog eyeing a pork chop.