Bex smiled. “Yes, you can.”
Jared palmed my arm and lowered it slowly. “It’s called instinct. It’s in your blood, Nina. You just need to give in to it.”
I looked at the log. “Give in to it,” I repeated, raising my weapon.
Bex shoved the log again.
I shut out everything: the breeze; the birds; the strands of hair that kept sticking to my lip gloss. Everything was frozen, even my inner thoughts. My mind focused on the target, and I was in tune with everything. I could feel the movement of the log, the resistance of the rope as it rubbed against the tree branch, and even the wind speed and how it would affect the path of the bullet. I took in a deep breath and pulled the trigger. Bex grabbed the log and it instantly stopped.
“Nice!” Bex said.
The bullet had landed just a couple of inches above Bex’s. I smiled, and Jared pulled me to his side, kissing my hair.
After that, Bex took the spare tire from under the rear of the Escalade and fastened a target to the center. He walked to the top of a small hill, and I stood halfway down. He let the tire go, and I took several shots as it rolled down the grass to the bottom, falling on its side.
Bex sprinted to the tire and rolled it over, offering a thumbs-up and a smile.
“You did really well today,” Jared said.
I nodded. “I know.”
Jared leaned down and touched each side of my stomach with his hands. “Mommy did good today, didn’t she Bean?” He waited a moment, and then stood. “Everything seems to be okay. Your pulse, Bean’s pulse, blood pressure and breathing are all normal. I don’t think Bean noticed.”
“So we can keep going?”
Jared nodded.
I gestured to the book under his arm. “Did you find anything?”
Jared’s small smile faded. “Feel like a trip to Woonsocket?”
Bex helped us load the Escalade with our belongings, and then waved goodbye, peeling out on his motorcycle to head home to Lillian.
Jared was quiet during the twenty-minute drive north. His eyes were locked forward, missing the incredible summer foliage on each side of the highway. I allowed it to distract me while Jared silently prepared questions for Father Francis. Poring over the same words over and over, not knowing what to look for, had to be frustrating. I reached my hand across the console, and almost instinctually, Jared covered my hand with his.
Still beautiful, he wore the stress and worry of the years since we’d met only in his eyes. He seemed tired, and desperate, but determined.
He squeezed my hand, brought it to his lips, then reached over to rest his hand on my stomach. He seemed to relax, then.
“Maybe…maybe you’re going about this all wrong,” I said.
“I’m all ears.”
“What if you’re reading the wrong book? It’s too late to stop the prophecy. What you’re looking for is a way to get Heaven on our side, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“You aren’t going to find answers about Heaven in a book about Hell.”
Jared eyes flitted about for a moment, considering my idea. He didn’t answer, but he acknowledged my words with a nod. I covered his hand with mine, and let him return to his thoughts.
We passed the rocky wall that welcomed us to Woonsocket, and then made our way to St. Ann’s. Yellow tape surrounded the church. The glass from the once exquisitely stained windows had been removed, and the holes that remained were covered with boards and plastic tarp.
Jared parked, and we climbed the steps. He tugged on one set of doors, but they were locked. He tried two others, but they were locked as well. The tarp blew in the summer breeze, flapping against the building. The town seemed otherwise quiet.
Jared turned and noticed a passerby. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is the church closed?”
The man shrugged. “Father Francis has kept it locked. He hadn’t been actin’ right since the explosion.” He walked away.
An explosion. Shax and his minions all but tore the church to shreds during our most recent showdown, and it left St. Ann’s looking like a war zone. Some construction had taken place, but Woonsocket was no longer the booming industrial hub it used to be. The community that had once pulled together to fund the extravagant adornments of their social center with paintings and stained glass was now preoccupied with a recession and modern priorities.
We walked to a side door, and Jared gave it a light tug. It caught again. “I don’t want to leave without speaking to him, and I don’t want to break in,” he said.
“Call him.”
Just as we stepped away, we heard a familiar voice.
“Wait!” Father Francis called, walking briskly from the back of the church. “I’m here, lad!” He slowed to a stop, trying to control his labored breath. “I’m sorry. I was in the back building, praying. It used to be the school, you know.” His face dropped. “I’m ashamed to say I feel safer there, now.”
Jared cupped the priest’s shoulder. “I understand, Father. Some things you can’t un-see.”
Father Francis nodded, and then gestured for us to follow him inside. We walked behind him, waiting patiently for him to climb the steps into the side door of St. Ann’s.
It was cold and drafty. The wooden pews and marble statues were covered with linens. An eerie feeling dwelled within the walls, and I could see why the priest didn’t want to be alone there.
The faces of the angels and saints in the paintings looked down on us. I couldn’t help but think they seemed sad, waiting for someone to restore their home to its former glory. “Father,” I began, pulling my pocketbook from my purse. “I brought this hardship on you. Let me help.” I scribbled six figures onto a check.
Father Francis’ eyes softened as he took the paper into his hands. “Thank you, my child. We need this more than you know.”
“Father,” Jared said, pulling Shax’s book from under his arm.
The priest’s eyes widened and he immediately looked away, shaking his head. “Oh, no! No, no, no. You mustn’t bring that here!”
A soft ringing in my ears grew infinitesimally louder, sounding more like panicked whispers. I looked around the room, but we were alone. Just us and the hundreds of people in the paintings on the walls and ceilings.
I looked up. In a scene in which God had cast out the rebellious angels, the artist had drawn them in such a way that the angels seemed to be falling out of the painting — out of the ceiling. I looked at another mural at the back of the church, featuring Navy sailors drifting helplessly in a stormy sea, reaching out to St. Mary. In a moment of what had to be confusion, I could hear their panicked cries. I could hear them all, shrieking and wailing at the sight of the book that brought their home down around them.
I squeezed my eyes tight, and gripped my ears. Their cries became so loud I couldn’t hear individual voices, only their frenzied, collective panic.
Jared’s fingers touched my arm. “Nina?”
At once, it all stopped. I opened my eyes and looked around. Insanity was the first thing that popped into my mind.
Father Francis nodded in understanding, however. “It gets too loud for me sometimes, too.”
I peered around to the different faces in the paintings, unsettled.
The priest looked to the book, and then to Jared. “You can’t have that, here.”
“I still need your help, Father.”
“I’ve given all I can give.”
Jared shook his head. “I can’t accept that, I’m sorry.”
Father Francis left for the back of the church. Jared pulled me to follow. We kept a quick pace all the way to his quarters, where he immediately made himself a drink. He threw it back, and then made himself another. His hands were shaking, causing the mouth of the decanter to clink against the rim of his glass.
