The souls were gone; only a few people were sitting in pews at the front of the church. I walked over to one of the closest pews in the back and knelt for my penance. Father Francis had given me ten Hail Marys and told me to pray for the souls in purgatory. For the first time in my life, it actually made sense to do that.
Someone sat next to me. I felt her more than anything, since I had my head bowed down.
“Please help the lost people. What those people are doing is not right. Nobody deserves to be destroyed.” It was the voice of the lady in green at the confessional.
By the time I looked up, she was gone. Why couldn’t people just tell me what was going on? Maybe God could send me a text or an email. I didn’t take hints very well.
I took another deep breath and went back to praying; at least I could manage that much. My day was pretty packed, but I hadn’t been to Mass in a while. I decided to stay for the daily Mass. Unlike a weekend Mass, the daily Masses took only thirty minutes, but you still received communion. At the rate I was going, I would need all the divine help I could find.
Father Francis left the confessional and walked to the end of the aisle. For weekday Masses, he started his procession inside the sanctuary by the last rows of pews. The Mass had only seven people in attendance, and I was one of them. Father Francis walked slowly up to the front, singing a hymn. He smiled at me as he walked. I was sure by his look that he was praying for my soul.
Chapter 18
Daily Masses were probably my favorite. Maybe it was the small crowd or just the speed of Mass. Either way, I felt better. I didn’t have any clues besides knowing that Saint Edward’s wasn’t the entrance the witches were using, and I could see dead people. The last part I wouldn’t mind forgetting. I still had Bartholomew’s list, so I decided to check out a few more places. Downtown was not very big, but it was closer to start from Saint Edward’s than Reapers. Bartholomew had provided some suggestions. He recommended I start at Randy Sam’s. At this hour most of their clients would be out—typical shelter policy.
Randy Sam’s exterior looked like a metal warehouse. From Bartholomew’s info, I knew they housed about a hundred people. They took men and women but no children. The Salvation Army was the place for families with kids. I had taken for granted the number of homeless people each community truly had. The shelters were always located in some remote part of town. The themes across America appeared to be, We care for the afflicted just as long as they’re not next door to us.
The drive from Saint Edward’s to Randy Sam’s took less than four minutes. The downtown traffic at this hour consisted of people either heading to one of the hospitals or the court system. It was almost like New York City’s financial district at the southern tip of the island. On the weekend the place was a ghost town. Few shops were open at this time. It was a shame because the downtown was so quaint. I’d dreamed of living down there when I’d first arrived. I just couldn’t afford it.
According to Bartholomew’s notes, Randy Sam’s should have been deserted at this hour. He was sadly mistaken. The place was packed. I parked in their visitors’ lot, in front of the building. I had passed the building hundreds of times, but I had never been inside. I wasn’t sure why; when I’d first moved to town, I slept in the Whale. Maybe I was as elitist as those I criticized. But I would need to postpone that reflection for another time. It was Wednesday, and we were running out of time.
I locked Bumblebee and walked to the main entrance. A small reception area was set up outside the sleeping area. According to Bartholomew, a lot of the staff there were mainly unpaid volunteers. That was also the case with the outreach and most of the centers in town. A lot of people donated their time and money. Maybe I was a cynic.
A cute blonde in her late teens sat at the reception desk. She had curly hair, almost like Shirley Temple’s. She’d probably gotten teased a lot growing up. Nobody should be that cute at that age.
“Hi. How can I help out?” The blonde even had a childlike voice. That was a little freaky.
“Hi. I was looking for a friend of mine and was wondering if maybe you’ve seen him. I haven’t seen him in a few days.” That was partly true; I was still looking for Bob. Technically that was not a lie, unless you asked my godmother. Another reason I avoided lying was that my godmother was a walking lie detector. It was a waste of time lying to her.
“What’s your friend’s name?” The blonde pulled out a ledger with at least fifty names.
“Bob. I don’t know his last name.” I sounded so lame. As soon as I found Bob, this name thing was getting corrected.
“Bob? Not Robert? Just Bob? I don’t have any Bob on the records. Maybe if you had a last name.” I was sure she was trying to be helpful, but her tone infuriated me.
“Yeah, sorry, we just met. Would it be possible for me to look around?”
“Sorry, I can’t let you. Not our policy to let strangers walk around. We have to protect our clients’ privacy. Especially now.”
It had been worth a try, but I hadn’t thought she would agree.
“What do you mean?”
“The director has decided to let the clients stay in the
