by Brenna Lyons
“So, those who don’t convert are lost?”
“No, you learn what you can. You make mistakes and correct some of them, hopefully learn from them.”
“And if you die? If you die before you reach peace?”
“Death is a human concept. In truth, there is no death.”
“Reincarnation? You can’t mean reincarnation.”
“Your understanding of the process is so limited.” The bird bowed his head and shook it sadly. “It is so difficult to explain to Humans. You cannot reach peace until you reach that perfect understanding, but the body is frail and is often killed in the attempt to reach that understanding or simply lost to Human frailty.
“Lessons can be learned by helping others in another form, even discorporeally. How sad it would be if a person who gave in to a moment of sadness and took his own life really was lost forever.”
“I suppose. But these pagans— They don’t believe in God.”
“You believe in the Trinity, three persons in one God, correct?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then, a pantheon of gods who are all faces of a deity is not more than a difference in your choice of words.” Cole was silent in thought, so the dove continued. “He created them, male and female, in His own image. Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” Cole said uncertainly.
“Then, even from your point of view, if certain faces of God were female, nurturing, and life-giving, it would be understandable?”
“I guess it would.”
“So many of these differences are a matter of semantics. No more,” the dove announced with an air of finality.
“But—”
* * *
Kyla felt her strength ebbing away. She redoubled her efforts, but she knew she didn’t have enough left to finish what she started. Suddenly, she felt a surge. It wasn’t from her, rather was flowing through her and feeding her projections.
A voice whispered in the back of her mind. “Hurry. Time is short.”
Kyla concentrated on the matter at hand. She interrupted the question Cole was asking. “Not now. Our time is running short.”
“What must you tell me?” Cole asked.
“Find peace. Live in love. You must go now.”
“One more question, please.”
“Yes?”
“Is it too late?”
Kyla hesitated. Could she promise that? Did she know?
The Other answered for her. “Never. It is never too late.”
The foreign energy around her melted away, and the connection died with it. She felt Cole’s pang of loss.
Kyla relaxed into the carpet again. Her body ached and her entire being screamed for sleep, but a small section of her consciousness nagged at her. Time is short? Why? How short?
* * *
Cory made his way down the stairs. That had gone as well as he could have hoped for. Now he had to pray they didn’t have any more men he didn’t know about.
The convent was truly fantastic. As Cory walked its halls, he had to remind himself constantly that he had a job to do. It was decadent that such a showplace existed, and he understood why the Catholic Church maintained this building and kept it open, even though they only used it for special occasions. He supposed that, over the years, they had abandoned many buildings just as opulent.
The murals and tapestries were fantastic. Cory wished he had the time to fully explore this edge of Wonderland, which had inexplicably slid into the natural world with its austere personal chambers and decadent common rooms.
Room after room was another beautiful showplace, each of them as empty as the room before. Cory found a small chapel. The dead man in the hall was Blake. Rev. Cole had shown each of them a picture of the hired man. After all, they didn’t want to take out an ally, even one who was only on the right side for the paycheck. But from the looks of it, someone else took him out quite efficiently.
Cory flattened himself to the wall beside the door and burst in. They had been here. The two bodies on the floor attested to it, but where were they now?
Cory retreated into the hallway and started moving again. Up ahead, he could hear voices. This was it.
* * *
Eric heard the voice calling out in his head. It wasn’t Joe or Kyla. It sounded like Gram, but Gram had never connected with anyone but Kyla, and Gram was dead.
The voice laughed a rich laugh that could only be Gram. “Come now, Eric. Does anything surprise you anymore?”
“The answer is becoming no very quickly.”
“Good. I’m only here because my job isn’t done yet. I have one more thing to do. You have something to do, too.”
“What is it?”
“You need to protect Kyla.”
“I am.”
“No. Go to her, now.”
Eric bolted across the room and slid through the door. Something told him to close it behind him. Kyla lay on the floor, surrounded by a pale blue light. Eric vaguely heard Harris asking what the problem was.
“Nothing,” he replied weakly. “I’ll be right there.”
The blue light faded away, and her eyes opened.
Joe moved over next to him. “What’s up?”
“You tell me. I don’t know. Gram told me to come in here.”
“But Gram’s—”
“Look, I didn’t say it made sense, but there she was, telling me to come in here and guard Kyla.”
* * *
Harris swore under his breath. First, Kyla and Joe disappeared into the library. Then, Eric took off in there like his ass was on fire. Harris had no idea what kind of game these guys were playing, but the whole thing was disconcerting.
“What’s going on in there? Do you need help?” he yelled.
He barely heard Eric’s answer. “Nothing. I’ll be right there.”
Harris supposed Joe might have radioed Eric, but it was unlikely. For one thing, Eric hadn’t pressed his fingertips to the earpiece as Harris found he typically did. And there was no need for Joe to radio him to tell Eric to come into that room. Even with the door closed, it would be as easy to speak loudly and make himself heard.
Harris barely had time to consider what the source of the soft blue light sifting through the crack in the door was when the door beside him burst open.
He aimed a shot designed to hit whoever was coming in as the door swung past him. Unfortunately, the man behind the door was prepared for such a move. He was on his knees. The shot sailed harmlessly over his head and struck Simmons instead. From Harris’s point of view, it wasn’t a wasted shot overall, but it did lay him open for the shot he knew would come in return.
The other man was in motion, so his shot was not well placed, but it hit Harris in the midsection and took the big man down. The intruder moved quickly. He scurried over to Simmons, using the dead man and the heavy furniture as a shield wall.
His head was spinning as he searched for the young man who had burst in. Harris remembered that night twenty-two years ago. Was this what it was like for them? The world swam before his eyes, and everything moved in slow motion. His arms felt heavy, and a searing pain ripped through his abdomen.
“I’m sorry.” Harris apologized to them, not out of some mistaken idea that he was actually being forgiven. He did it out of the sudden realization of what he had inflicted on them. This might have been a punishment, but it was certainly not atonement. Harris had been wounded before, but he knew this time was different. This time, there would be no recovery.
He swung his gun up and aimed at the chair Simmons had tumbled from. The least he could do was protect the girl with his dying breath. He saw a movement and fired. Too late, Harris realized his eyes were playing tricks on him.
He never heard the shot that killed him.
* * *
Shots rang out in the next room. Joe moved back to Kyla’s side, and Eric took a stance halfway between them and the door. Joe tried to scoop Kyla up, but she pushed weakly at his chest.
“No, w
e make our stand here,” she informed him.
More shots.
Joe held her to his chest. “We have to go.”
“Not yet. We can’t run this time.”
Stacie moved up next to Eric. She seemed dazed, but she sounded coherent. “It’s my turn,” she informed the man beside her.
Eric glanced at her, then back to Kyla and Joe. Kyla nodded, and Eric patted Stacie on the shoulder and started to back closer to the couple on the floor.
“Good luck,” he told her, as Stacie stepped around the settee and toward the door.
* * *
Cole considered his situation. Had God sent him on this journey only to show him how wrong he had been? Why not appear to him back at the Church? Or at home?
But of course, it made perfect sense. Cole had been led here so he could see what blood was on his hands. How many had been hurt or killed on the strength of his convictions alone? How many had he sent down the wrong path, inciting them to violence? Was there enough water in the world to wash away the blood? Enough forgiveness? God’s forgiveness was supposed to be infinite, but even He had to have his limits, didn’t He? Was this what happened when God reached His limit?
He was pondering how to go about his penitence when a hand touched his shoulder. Cole searched the face of the man in front of him for a long time before he recognized him. “Mr. Osborn, how very nice to see you,” Cole greeted him with a smile.
Osborn was a mess. He had some sort of red paint splashed all over his clothing, and Cole found himself wondering if Osborn had been helping out with the spring carnival banners.
“Reverend Cole, are you all right?”
“Fine, my boy. I was just considering a philosophical question.” Cole stood to stretch his legs. He must have been sitting for longer than he’d realized. “It was mildly troubling.”
“Are you ready?” the other man asked him.
Ready? Ready for what? he wondered. There was something he should remember, but Cole had been lost in his own thoughts. Something should have made sense that didn’t.
He nodded. “Of course. Lead the way.” Cole furrowed his brow. Lead the way to what?
* * *
Cory could tell there was something seriously wrong. Rev. Cole hadn’t even flinched when the handguns were going off around him. But Cole had greeted him with a light-hearted style that told Cory the pastor knew who he was talking to and belied any cause for concern.
Cole fell in beside him as if he had been waiting for his arrival. Cole took the handgun Cory offered him readily enough though with an odd look and grip that concerned Cory.
Cory spared barely a glance for the two Catholic priests who seemed content to stand by merely as observers in the unfolding drama. They were unarmed, so they posed little threat to the two Christian soldiers. They were waiting too, but waiting for what?
Cory pushed the door open and caught sight of Stacie. The young woman was one of Rev. Cole’s handpicked soldiers, and he had met her on a few occasions.
The scene seemed straightforward enough. The three pagans were behind her. Two were on the floor, and one was standing guard in front. Stacie’s body blocked much of his view of them. He assumed Stacie had been their prisoner but that she had gotten the upper hand on them somehow and captured a gun. The rope marks on her wrists bore up his belief.
Cory smiled. “Good job,” he told her.
He raised his gun toward the pair on the floor. Rev. Cole had been very clear on their mission. The false prophet had to be banished back to her dark lord. He started to pray for her soul under his breath. Suddenly, Cory realized that Stacie’s gun had come up too.
In the wrong direction. “What?” It was all he could manage.
Stacie stared at him coldly. “Drop your gun.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“You’re right. You don’t understand. I didn’t understand either, but I’ve seen the light.” She laughed a strange, maniacal laugh. “The light. I have seen the light.”
“What have they done to you?” Cory asked.
She smiled at him serenely.
“Stacie, they’ve brainwashed you. Don’t you see that? She’s evil, and I have to send her away.”
“No,” Stacie insisted. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Cory fired, but something unexpected happened. Stacie moved into the bullet’s path and fired back at him. The man on the floor saw the movement and rolled right to cover the girl with his own body.
The combination was enough. The bullet passed through the soft tissue of Stacie’s side and ended up in the man’s thigh.
Stacie’s round caught Cory in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet. Cory braced himself on the doorframe and aimed at Stacie. She was sitting stiffly on the settee with a hand over the front of her wound. Cory heard the click of a pistol only a moment before it touched his temple.
Rev. Cole’s voice came from beside him. “No more killing today. No more killing ever,” he whispered.
Cory stared at him in shock. “But you said—”
* * *
“I was wrong.” Cole felt sick at the admission. How very wrong could a person be?
Osborn’s face turned an angry red. “No. They’ve done something to you.” He aimed his gun to fire again.
Cole hesitated. No more killing. That had to include him, didn’t it? No more blood on his hands. There had to be another way. Cole couldn’t do it. He couldn’t cause any more deaths.
Eric could. His shot landed squarely in the center of Osborn’s forehead, and the gun clattered away as Osborn sank bonelessly to the floor. Eric moved his gun to Cole, unsure of what the armed man would do next, but Cole was beaten. He sat with the gun between his knees and stared at the dead man beside him.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The afternoon
Cole acted too late. He should have stopped Osborn in the other room, but he’d been incapable of piecing together Osborn’s plan.
Poor soul. Osborn was doomed to start over. Hopefully, he’ll have a better mentor the next time around.
The scene across the room was harried. Eric was trying to stop the flow of blood from Joe’s leg while Stacie was trying to stop her own.
Blood. So much blood, and it was his fault. Cole raised his gun and looked at it with tears in his eyes. Maybe God would be kind enough to give him another chance as well. The Spirit said He would.
Cole glanced back at the unfolding scene. Even if God turned His back on him in judgment and returned him to try again, it would be easier than this. He raised the gun to under his chin.
A voice rang out. “Stacie, stop him. He can’t do it.”
Cole startled. His gaze met the girl’s, the prophet’s eyes. Why would she want to save him? It made no sense.
Whatever her reason, Stacie didn’t question the order. She launched herself painfully at Cole, but his heart wasn’t in it. The wounded woman had no problem removing his gun from his hand and tossing it aside.
Cole watched as she sank down beside him. Was this his punishment? Was he doomed to watch as all of his devoted followers died at his hands?
“No,” the prophet told him. “You had to understand. You do now, don’t you?”
Cole nodded.
“It’s not too late, you know.”
“Too late for what?” he asked.
“To make things right.”
“How?”
“What do you think?” She wasn’t taunting him. She was grim.
Cole looked around at the carnage. All my fault. He turned to her. “I have to take responsibility, don’t I?”
She nodded.
“I have to pay my debt in the legal sense, and testify to how I was wrong. I have to lead by example.”
“Search for peace,” she said quietly.
* * *
Eric bound Joe’s wound, but it was still seeping too much blood, he was sure. He glanced at Kyla in concern. “I’ve slowed it down. It’s the best I can do. He need
s help.”
Kyla nodded. “It will be enough. You have to go. Do you have those zip strips?”
He wasn’t sure what she had in mind. “Yes, I do. Why?”
“Clean two of them and bind our hands,” Kyla told him.
“Why wipe them? My prints are all over. We don’t have time to wipe the whole place.” He glanced at Joe meaningfully.
“They won’t know. I’ll fix that.” Kyla looked at Cole. “The only ones here were the ones who are here when the police arrive,” she told him.
Cole nodded without taking his gaze off Stacie. He had given up trying to stop the flow of blood from her body and started rocking her and touching her hair.
“But the prints—” Eric argued.
“Faith, Eric. We don’t have time to argue this. Take Father O’Shea and go. Drop him at the hospital and move fast. Wipe the house and the safe houses, just in case. Get Liz to help. Stay low. Don’t come to the hospital until the news announces we’re there.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And I don’t have time to explain. Joe doesn’t have that much time. Please, Eric. Get the strips ready so you can go.”
Eric nodded. He wiped the strips and put them on. Kyla used her mouth to tighten one over her abraded wrists so tightly that she grimaced when she did it. Eric grimaced with her, but it had to be believable. He knew that. He watched as she rubbed her wrists over the strips, making new abrasions.
“What about Joe?” he asked.
“Father O’Shea will take care of that. Take Joe’s gun and knife with you when you leave. Bag them. His prints only. Leave them at Gram’s in the library. Go, Eric. Quickly, please.”
Eric complied with what she asked. He was starting to understand the implications. If she could pull this off, they could walk away with no reprisals. But those prints will fry us for sure. He touched her face. “Joe chose well.”