Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(30)

He pulls out a chair for me, and I take a seat.

“My name is Henry Tubbs,” he says. “I’m the preacher of this church. I come by a couple of times a week to check on it. We had some breakins a few months back, mostly desperate people from the East Coast who crossed the borders in the night. The window repair budget is in the red this month.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, sincerely.

He waves it off, then sits across from me.

“I’d leave the place unlocked if I could. It’s kind of what God wants, but the congregation is a little more practical. So, dig in.”

I look down at the food, my stomach angrily reminding me of how much I’ve neglected it lately. My mind argues back that we don’t know if we can trust Henry Tubbs. The two of them fight about it. My stomach wins. I snatch the fork, and the first bite tastes like heaven. If it’s poisoned, it’s going to be a great way to go.

“So, I can assume you are one of our neighbors to the east?” he says.

I nod.

“Just passing through?”

I nod, tearing into the toast like I harbor a grudge against it.

He chuckles and slides his breakfast toward me.

“I’ll make more,” he says when I try to push it back. “You can eat all you want, but there’s a price. You have to tell me your story.”

“I’m looking for something,” I say, hoping it will satisfy his curiosity.

“Breaking into a church is a good first step,” he says with a grin. “That’s the kind of thing every preacher dreams of hearing.”

I can’t help but smile. “Sorry, I’m already a believer. I’m looking for a camp.”

He gives me a hard stare, then looks into his plate, nodding gravely.

“I know of it. What makes a young woman like you want to visit a place like that?”

“My parents are locked inside it,” I say, too tired to make up a lie.

Henry peels a banana and cuts it in half with his knife, then spears it and plops it onto my plate.

“Are you like the people they lock inside it?”

I look up at him, dreading that face I have seen whenever anyone finds out what I am, but it’s not there. He’s just curious.

“I’m half Alpha,” I offer.

“That can’t be easy,” he says. “People who are different often walk the most difficult paths. I’m actually a big fan of a man who was different. Everywhere he went, he faced hostility. People threw rocks at him. They drove him out of town.”

“People suck,” I say, then burn with embarrassment. “Sorry, I’ve got a potty mouth these days.”

He shrugs. “Don’t give up on people. Most of us have good hearts. Some are just afraid of things that they don’t understand. I’m sure everyone got freaked out when they saw Jesus walk on water. Actually, it sounds like you two have something in common.”

I laugh.

“And you’re going to this camp to cause some trouble.”

I nod as confidently as I can.

“That’s a dangerous place,” he warns. “Lots of guns up there.”

I put my gloved hand on the table. “I’ve got this.”

He takes a drink of his milk, then points to my plate. “I’ll get you some more. You’re going to need a full belly for that kind of work. After that, I’ll drive you up there.”

“You know where it is?”

He nods. “Very hard to hide a thing like that.”

Two more helpings of everything make a big difference. The final effects of the tear gas have worn off, and the decent sleep from the night before has left me feeling better than I have in weeks. Henry looks through the donation box and finds me a fresh shirt and a warm parka that will come in handy if I have to sleep outside again.

We get into his rusty Ford Escort and putter down the highway. The engine struggles with the rising elevation, but Henry never lets up. He pushes the car onward into the craggy red mountain range.

“How does your gizmo work?”

“I really don’t know for sure. I turn it on just by thinking about it, and then I hear voices that ask me for directions.”

“Voices, huh? You know, lots of folks in the Bible heard voices.”

“So did a lot of folks living on the F train platform near my old house,” I say.

Henry chuckles.

“What do the voices say?” he continues.

“They offer me help. They seem to come from water, like there’s a voice for every drop in the ocean. I’m like their boss, and when I ask them to do something, they do it.”

“That might be a problem for you. The place they built this camp on is in the middle of a rain-shadow desert.”

“Which means?”

“These mountains here,” he says, waving out in front of us, “they block all the moisture from getting through. It’s probably the driest place in the whole country.”

“Predictable.” I sigh. “I don’t know why my luck should change now.”

“I’ll pray for you,” he says, and for the rest of the trip, he is quiet. Maybe he’s silently contemplating what a terrible idea this is, or maybe he really is having a one-on-one with God. Or maybe there isn’t anything left to say.