Nothing Sacred

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  She tries again. Out of her mind with fatigue now, she tries only because she’s there, standing on the step, and can’t figure out anything else to do. She fails again and lifts her foot a third time.

  An indrawn breath gives her the momentum she needs and, miraculously, her foot lands on the step. She has to stop to cry for a moment. To let the relief pass through her so she can find the strength to begin again. One more step to go and then she’ll be safe. Free.

  Dripping with sweat, with tears, her skin sandy, she leans her face against the cold rock. Visions start floating through her head. A dog barking. The hot desert. A cactus needle poking her ankle. A doll she had when she was little. Her favorite belt—black with a coral buckle. Strawberry ice cream. A big dark car. Expensive. The smell of leather seats…

  Then somehow, confusingly, she finds herself in a tiny enclosed room with no windows. No doors. No way out…

  And that was when she woke up every time. Sweating. Gasping for breath. Crying.

  “Ellen?” Mom’s voice broke through the fog.

  “Yeah?”

  She tried to sound normal. To breathe evenly. She didn’t want anyone to know. Especially her mother, whom she loved more than anyone on earth.

  “I’m right here, baby.”

  The mattress shifted beneath the weight of another body. Familiar arms slid around her.

  “I’m right here.”

  Ellen shivered, pressed her face against the soft cotton of her mother’s pajama top.

  “You cried out, sweetie. Was it a dream?”

  She tried to nod.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t bear to take her mother to that place with her. It would change them forever. She wasn’t sure how. She just knew, deep in her heart, that it would.

  “I love you, sweetheart.” There were tears in her mother’s voice. “I love you.”

  Ellen loved her mother, too. So much.

  “I want you to believe in angels, sweetie. I want you to believe that they’ll be here with you, that they’ll help you anytime you ask. I want you to know that you’re safe, and protected.”

  Her mother was talking about hope and believing in things unseen. She was describing faith.

  And that was when Ellen opened her eyes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “YOU WANTED TO SEE ME?” the girl asked.

  Finishing the notes he’d been jotting down at his desk in the church office the following Sunday, David nodded, indicating a chair. He rarely played the authority figure—particularly with the kids—but today he was making an exception. He’d known that if he sought her out, Shelley Moore would have a hard time avoiding him.

  He’d also hoped that a little dose of Pastor Edwards’s austere office might help his cause.

  Personally, David hated the room. But he couldn’t justify spending the money to change it when everything was in perfect condition.

  When he’d let her sit there for several minutes, holding her denim skirt pulled as far down her thighs as the fabric would allow, he dropped his pen and looked up. He’d promised himself a week ago that he’d talk to her.

  She was chewing gum. Her eyes, under half-closed lids, moved randomly around the room.

  David adjusted his tie, sat back in his chair and watched her.

  “How’s it going?” he asked when she finally glanced his way.

  She shrugged, which lifted the cropped T-shirt she was wearing, exposing a thin strip of bare skin. “Fine.”

  “Any problems at school?”

  “Nope.” Her attention seemed to be caught by something outside the window.

  “How about at home?”

  “Nope.”

  “I know things have been kind of tough for you all lately, and I want you to know I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

  “I’m fine.” Her glance that time was very pointed when it settled on him. For a sixteen-year-old girl, she was very good at putting someone in his place.

  Fortunately, David wasn’t easily put in his “place.” He had the added incentive of needing to help this girl’s mother. And facing doubts about his suspicions where Ellen’s attack was concerned. Not getting any information in Phoenix had been disappointing enough. But he’d been watching that corner out by the highway for more “hitchhikers” as well, and had scored a great big zero there, too.

  He should never have told Martha he had some ideas. Should never have raised her hopes.

  “Anything you tell me will go no further than this office,” he said. Shelley was entitled to confidentiality.

  But she didn’t say anything.

  Until she finally muttered, “Can I go now?”

  He’d hoped for more. Hadn’t really expected it, but he had hoped.

  “No.”

  “Why?” Her jaws worked her gum a little harder.

  “Because we need to talk about that day I saw you coming out of the desert.”

  Her mistake was the brief glance down. It told him far more than she probably realized.

  “What day?”

  Confident now that he had a problem on his hands, David stood to his six-foot height, towering over her seated frame. Hands in the pockets of his slacks, he rounded the desk, stopping just in front of her chair.

  “You know what day, Shelley,” he said, all vestiges of gentleness gone. “You heard me. Both times I called out. The second time you pretended to pick something up from the ground and looked at me under your arm.”

  He could have moved. It would’ve been kinder had he sat. He didn’t. He didn’t give her a chance to respond, either.

  “The real question is not whether or not you knew I was there or even why you didn’t respond. The question is, what you were doing there in the first place?”

  “I don’t have to tell you.”

  “What?”

  Tough girl that she was, she peered up at him when he spoke, his voice harsh. Which was exactly the reaction he’d wanted.

  “I don’t have to tell you that,” she repeated.

  He’d heard her the first time.

  “No, you’re right, you don’t.” When he looked hard, he could see the sweet girl she’d obviously once been. In spite of the pitch-black, purple-spiked hair. “But I think you should.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to tell your mother if you don’t.”

  “So?”

  She was one tough cookie. A young girl who’d been hurt beyond her ability to cope successfully.

  She’d been this way before Ellen’s attack. What had so badly betrayed her? Or who? Were the defensive walls first constructed because of her father’s defection? Or was it something else?

  David really wanted to help her. And thought he had a good chance of doing so if he only knew exactly what he was dealing with. Hurt feelings could be healed. Hurt people could be healed. If they wanted to be….

  Frustrated, David wished he could figure out a way to persuade her to talk to him.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Her rude tone didn’t really surprise him. It did disappoint him.

  “Get what?”

  “My mother doesn’t give a shit what you think,” she said, her words sharp, clear. “She thinks you—and all preachers—are frauds. She doesn’t respect you or believe anything you say. Go tell her whatever you want. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Do you think we’re all frauds?”

  “Yeah.” She let go of her skirt. Bounced her fingertips against each other.

  “Really?” David couldn’t let that tiny crack in her demeanor go unnoticed. It was the long run that mattered.

  “Yeah,” she said, looking up with angry eyes that gave away far more than she probably wanted to. “All that faith stuff you talk about—the angels and the love that comes back to you, the way we can shape our own reality—is all a bunch of crap. Just pretty words that desperate people cling to, and when you say them, folks give you money.”

  David fe
lt a stab of pain. Not so much for himself, but for Martha Moore. If she had any idea how much her anger with Pastor Edwards was affecting at least one of her children, she’d be devastated.

  “I can take care of myself, Pastor Marks. You’re correct about one thing. I have the right to my own choices. I am in control of my own destiny. And I think you’d better stay out of it.”

  She stood. Turned.

  “Whoa.” David was tempted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. He settled for a sharp enough tone to stop her in her tracks.

  “Before you make blanket pronouncements, you might want to listen to them well enough to understand them properly,” he told her, emulating her tone. “The choices I’m talking about are largely spiritual in nature. People don’t get to live life exactly as they decree, young lady, and that’s something you’re going to find out whether you choose to or not. We have laws in this earthly existence that every one of us must follow. We have laws in this country, this state, this town, that govern our behavior, as well. You are required to follow not only those laws, but also the directives of your parents. If you don’t, you’ll have to pay the consequences.”

  She blinked. Lowered her eyes.

  “In spite of what you think, I do care about the people in my church. I care about your mother and firmly believe that she’s suffered enough. So I’m going to be watching you, Shelley.”

  She glanced up, her lips twisted, her eyes filled with belligerence. “Whatever,” was all she said.

  “I just want you to know that whatever you were doing out there, if you want to stop, if you ever need help of any kind, at any time, my door is open to you. Anytime, Shelley, day or night, you can call or come by, and we’ll deal with things, and I’ll keep it quiet.” That was what he was sworn to do. He was protected by Priest-Penitent privilege when something was revealed to him in his capacity as a minister.

  She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t look away, either.

  “However, eventually I’ll find out what’s going on. Whether you believe it or not, I believe in divine guidance and I trust that it will lead me to the truth. And,” he said, taking a step forward when she started to move, “if I find out on my own that you’re doing anything morally or criminally wrong, I’m not bound by my position to remain quiet. As a matter of fact, because I’m your mother’s minister and therefore her spiritual adviser, I’m bound to disclose to her whatever I discover.”

  With a disrespectful shrug of one shoulder, Shelley made a dramatic exit. But not before David had seen the fear in her eyes.

  The child, Martha’s little girl, was still in there.

  He only hoped she got help before that child disappeared for good.

  THE OLD MOTEL DIDN’T look as if it had ever been all that much, even in its heyday. It was a long, unimaginative, stucco-sided building with a tiled roof and identical doors stationed at equal distances along its length. There were no sills or shutters to relieve the stark look of the windows, no overhang to give the concrete stoop even a hint of being a porch. Now that long building was faded and cracked, the stucco chipped in places. The roof was pockmarked with patches of raw wood where tiles had fallen and never been replaced. Those identical wooden doors were cracked and peeling, and a couple of the windows had towels hanging instead of curtains.

  By the middle of March, Martha knew every inch of the exterior of that building by heart. The week before, Becca had organized an unofficial round-the-clock surveillance of the building in an attempt to give the town a chance to take action against this terrible thing that had happened. Of course, the idea was to give much-needed assistance to Greg and his limited staff. He’d finally agreed, and it had taken only a few hours of phone calls to fill every time slot with two-person teams. Martha knew her stakeout partner far better than she would have liked.

  Pastor David Marks was, if nothing else, an interesting man.

  “So, you were friends with this guy, fished with him, golfed with him, trusted him with your personal investments—”

  “Which he managed well enough to make a profit for me,” David interjected from his relaxed position behind the wheel of his Explorer. Unlike him, Martha had opted not to use the recline feature on her seat.

  There was something more intimate about that than she wanted to experience.

  “You were friends with his wife, ate with them often, mourned with them when she miscarried their child, hired her to work at the church….”

  “Is there some reason you’re repeating the whole thing back to me?” His voice was bored.

  “And then,” she continued, ignoring him, “without even coming to you, a preacher, about his troubles, he pulls out a gun and shoots his wife. You testify against him and spend the next seven years—until the day he dies—visiting him in jail.”

  She’d been asking David questions to pass the time while they watched the building for any sign of another visitor to unit 14, where Ellen’s horrific experience had taken place.

  David and Martha had been natural partners for this job, since they were both single. And since they were already conducting a somewhat secret investigation of their own, Martha had readily agreed when Becca had called, asking her to do twice-weekly shifts with the preacher. This was the third time they’d been up here, and she’d been grasping for a way to spend those two hours that didn’t involve constant battles with the thoughts in her head.

  She’d asked him if he’d made any personal friends since joining the ministry. He’d mentioned Ron Everson. When she asked if they were still friends and he’d said no, it just seemed natural to ask why. Eventually, with far more questions than it should have required, she got the whole story out of him.

  “Yeah, I visited him in jail.”

  Turning almost completely in her seat so she could see him clearly as he lounged behind her, Martha drew out the word. “Why?”

  It made no sense to her.

  “Because he was there. Alone. Suffering.”

  “He deserved to suffer.”

  “He was my friend. I cared about him.”

  “He killed his wife!” Hell, Todd had ceased being her friend for much less than murder. “Who was also your friend, by the way.”

  David nodded.

  “I don’t get it.” Martha propped her arms on the seat and leaned her head against them, peering at him in the near darkness of that mid-March Wednesday evening. “How could you respect him, stand to be with him, after that?” She hadn’t even been able to look at a picture of Todd without wanting to spit at it.

  David turned his head. He didn’t resemble a stereotyped preacher at all. He was relaxed, wearing a corduroy, button-down shirt, and his long legs, in the Dockers he wore most often, were stretched out beneath the dash.

  “I could stand to be with him because no matter what, he was still a child of God,” he said. “I abhorred what he did. But then, so did he.” He paused, staring at the ceiling, as though remembering another place, another time. And then he turned that stare on her again.

  “He was a sick man. He had a jealous streak a mile wide. But the other parts of him, the parts that were loyal and loving, the parts that were sensitive and honest and hardworking, were still there, too. Killing his wife was a heinous crime and demanded the most severe punishment, but it didn’t eradicate his soul. I believe that every human being, no matter who he or she might be, is a loving spirit. I connected with Ron’s many years before he committed that crime. And it was still there afterward.”

  Sitting back in her seat, Martha was glad for the darkness around them as she digested his words. There was something about them that wouldn’t let her go. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge. Probably because she was going to disagree with it, then he’d get pompous and arrogant in his certainty, and she’d have to get mad at him again.

  She hadn’t been mad at him in over a week. Of course, she’d come to more or less accept that he lived in heavenly clouds instead of mundane reality. That fact didn’t bother her as
much since their trip to Phoenix. Now that she knew he did occasionally come down to earth.

  Everyone needed a fluffy cloud to hide in once in a while, and it was his business to provide them.

  She wondered if Todd ever needed fluffy clouds. If he’d needed them while he was married to her. That led to images of Todd when he’d still been a member of their family. Was he still good about helping around the house? Did he—

  She caught herself just before she exclaimed out loud as she realized she’d just had her first thought of him that hadn’t been accompanied by debilitating anger and a helpless sense of betrayal.

  Her first positive reaction to her ex-husband in four years.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  The man’s powers of observation were uncanny.

  “A student commercial we’re taping tomorrow. Just running through the script to make sure I covered everything.”

  “Liar.”

  Maybe. But he couldn’t prove it.

  MOWING THE GRASS in the dark wasn’t the most sensible thing he’d ever done. He didn’t actually have to mow it at all. The church provided landscapers to keep up both the churchyard and his own. Mostly they trimmed bushes, pulled weeds, raked pebbles. The only patch of grass in the predominately desert landscaping was just outside the sliding glass door in the back of his house. And the only mower he’d been able to scrape up from the large tool shed behind the church had been an old-fashioned push machine, not a gas or electric version like the ones he’d used as a boy.

  Something to thank the angels for. This kind made little noise to disturb any neighbors who might take exception to his mowing the lawn at eleven o’clock at night. When he was a young man being shuffled from foster home to foster home, mowing lawns had saved his life. He could be alone out there, unable to hear over the noise of the motor, isolated from all the people around him. The smell of the grass was always so strong, reminding him that there was life outside the walls trapping him in a world where he didn’t want to be. The money he’d made had given him his first taste of freedom. And in the end, his way out.