“Completely,” Remy answered. “That’s how I make the big bucks.”
They both laughed, ate most of the cookies, and finished off the pot of coffee before moving on to more serious things.
“You had a loss recently, didn’t you?” Coughlin asked, making reference to Madeline’s death.
Remy nodded, staring into his cup. The old priest knew about the relationship, but didn’t understand the complexity. Most believed that Madeline was Remy’s mother, not his wife and the love of his life.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, brother,” Coughlin said, and reached out to grab Remy’s arm, squeezing it in a powerful grip. “May the Lord God have mercy on her soul.”
“Thank you,” Remy said, looking into the priest’s wise and caring eyes. “It’s been hard.”
“It always is. No matter how old we are, it’s never easy to lose someone we love.”
Remy remained silent, and then Father Coughlin was out of his seat again. “How about another pot?” he asked, breaking the tension as he headed for the stove.
“I’m good, Father,” Remy said. “I don’t want to be floating out of here.”
“Well, I might as well make a fresh pot anyway.” The old man rummaged around in a cabinet and pulled out a can of coffee. “What else do I have to do these days?” he asked as he prepared another pot. “Most of the time I’m just sitting around, waiting for somebody to visit me.” He turned his head slightly, looking at Remy from the corner of his eye.
“You got me,” he said. “I should come by more often.”
“Damn right you should,” the priest scolded. “The only time I see you is when you need something.”
The old priest loved to complain, and Remy doubted the old-timer had had a boring day since supposedly retiring. From what he understood, the Vatican kept him quite busy with the research and cataloguing of ancient religious beliefs and practices.
“Which brings me to why I’m here today,” Remy said.
“See?” Coughlin turned the pot on to percolate and slowly returned to the table.
Remy removed the folded flyer from his back pocket, straightening it out as he spoke. “What do you know about the Church of His Holy Abundance?”
“The Church of His Holy Abundance,” Coughlin repeated, taking the pamphlet from him. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t remember why. . probably something I read in passing.” He studied the flyer. “Somerville, huh?”
“Yeah, I was thinking of checking it out, but thought I’d talk to you first. See what you knew.”
“Sorry I can’t help you,” the old priest said, taking his seat, and another cookie. “This for a case you’re working?”
“Yeah, missing person. . a little girl.”
Father Coughlin picked up the pamphlet and studied the cover again. “Hmm, this is pretty odd,” he commented after a moment.
“The symbols?” Remy asked. “Thought you’d have something to say about them.”
“Yeah, really old stuff. . ancient Sumerian, I think.”
“That old?” Remy responded. He was a bit rusty on his ancient writings.
“It’s a little strange seeing them on something like this,” Coughlin said. “Can I keep this?” he asked, holding up the flyer.
“Sure,” Remy told him. “Just give me the heads-up on anything you find out.”
“No problem,” the priest said, his attention already back on the symbols. Remy could practically smell the plastic burning as the old priest started to lose himself in the new distraction.
He stood and slid his chair back under the table. “I should probably get rolling.”
Coughlin grunted a response before looking up. “Did you say something?”
“I’m leaving,” Remy said with a laugh.
“Sure you don’t want to stay for another cup?” the priest asked him. “I’ve got a few Italian cookies left that some stranger dropped off.”
“I get the hint,” Remy said as he headed down the hall to the front door. “I’ll visit more often.”
“You’re going to have to,” Coughlin said, following him with a twinkle in his eye. “How else are you going to know what I’ve found out?” He held up the pamphlet.
“Got me there,” Remy said. “Give me a call as soon as you’ve got something, no matter how small. We’ll settle what I owe you next time I come.”
“Two boxes from Mike’s ought to cover it,” the priest said.
“With prices like that,” Remy complained, “no wonder I only visit once a year.”
He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, turning back for a final wave to the priest, but the old man was already heading back to the kitchen, the ancient markings on a church pamphlet providing him with the kind of mystery that piqued his voracious curiosity.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Katie Allen had been chosen.
At least that was what her sponsor had told her.
She sat nervously on the sofa in the sparse living room of Pastor Zachariah’s home and waited to be called.
Elijah, her sponsor to the Church of His Holy Abundance, had said that the pastor was very sick, and that only very special novices were granted an audience with the holy man.
Her stomach gurgled noisily from a combination of nerves and hunger. Placing a hand on her belly and feeling the vibrations, she tried to remember the last time she’d eaten. She’d had a bag of chips and a Coke at the bus station before meeting Elijah.
He’d approached her as she was waiting for her bus. He’d said she had the look of somebody very important and promised her that would be true if she agreed to go with him to the compound.
There was something about Elijah and the way he spoke. Katie could smell a creep from a mile away, but Elijah wasn’t that at all. He hadn’t even tried to touch her the entire ride, and when she’d asked him why, he’d just smiled that very special smile of his and said it wasn’t his place.
If only her stepfather had been so polite, she thought with a chill. Maybe she wouldn’t have been at the bus station, looking for a place where she wouldn’t be afraid.
And Elijah had promised her that; all she had to do was become a member of the church.
The Church of His Holy Abundance.
She looked around the room. It reminded her of a furniture store display—nothing out of place, unlived in.
But Elijah did say the pastor had been sick.
She’d arrived at the church compound with five others Elijah had found along the way—all lost souls that were now found; at least that was what he’d called them.
Katie smiled. She found it kind of special to be called a lost soul, and even more so to think she had been chosen. Of the six who had arrived together, only she had been picked to meet the pastor. Her travel companions had been paired up and led away with other members of the church.
There was a mirror over a fireplace that looked as though it had never entertained a fire, and she got up from the couch to stand in the middle of the room, staring at her reflection.
Was she special? She couldn’t really see it.
The kids at school had always called her fat, and as she looked at herself in the mirror now, she had to agree that she was a little overweight. But it didn’t matter anymore.
Because she was chosen.
She ran her fingers through her short blond hair and wished she’d had a chance to wash up before meeting the pastor. She had that travel funk about her, and she hoped the church leader wouldn’t be offended.
Katie scrutinized herself again in the living room mirror and almost began to cry. The T-shirt she wore was stained from her time on the road, and her denim shorts were perhaps a little too revealing.
The sight of herself was enough to send her running from the pastor’s home, but just as she was about to do so, she heard a door opening somewhere nearby and the sound of footsteps coming toward the living room.
“Elijah,” she said, suddenly very self-conscious.
He smiled at her from the doorway. “Are you ready?” he asked, holding out his hand for her.
“Look at me,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t meet a holy man looking like this.”
Elijah chuckled softly and shook his head. “You’re fine,” he reassured her. “In fact, you’re better than fine; you’re perfect. And he wants to meet you.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I smell kinda funky, and my clothes. .”
“None of that matters to him,” Elijah said.
He stepped farther into the room and gently took her hand in his. His touch was warm and calming, and she trusted him.
“C’mon,” he said, pulling her from the living room. “We don’t want to keep Pastor Zachariah waiting.”
They walked hand in hand down the dark corridor of the ranch-style house, heading to the back where the bedrooms were. Elijah stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and placed his hand on the knob.
“Are you ready?” he asked as he smiled that wonderful smile and opened the door into a room filled with darkness.
“I’ve told him all about you.”
The thing wearing the skin of Pastor Zachariah lay upon the bed, feeling itself slipping away.
Its flesh was rotting, each cell exploding with decay, deep, bloody sores blossoming on the surface of its thin epidermis.
Shifting upon the hospital bed, it felt the rub and tug of the sheet, tearing the delicate skin like paper. It moaned in the darkness, the pain almost too much for the godly being to bear.
It hated this fragile form it had been caged in, but the alternative was even more distasteful. The deity recalled the void and how it had come so very close to no longer existing. No, it would endure this torment a thousandfold rather than experience the guarantee of oblivion.
To no longer be was something even a god feared.
The body that housed its omnipotence was a fragile thing, not anything like it had been promised when it was cajoled from the other side. Its followers had guaranteed undiluted devotion and a body of worship that would grow by leaps and bounds.
