Now unto the King
eternal,
immortal,
invisible,
the only wise God,
be honour and glory
forever and ever.
Amen.
1 Timothy 1:17, King James Version
CONTENTS
Cover
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Extras
“It is well settled law that the First Amendment does not protect speech that incites violence. As we noted in Jennings v. California, the evidence considered by the California State Legislature was sufficient to support the Legislature’s conclusion that the speech of ‘archaic’ bibles (as defined in Jennings) incited violence and thus that the California statute banning possession of archaic bibles was constitutional.
Similarly, we have long separated the social evil of hate speech and fighting words from protected freedom of expression, limitations of which do not ‘creat[e] the danger of driving viewpoints from the marketplace.’
… And so we hold today that Iowa’s Statute, which classifies attacks steeped in the philosophy of or quoting the text of archaic biblical translations as hate speech, not to run contrary to the First Amendment. Affirmed.”
Carmichael v. Iowa [citations omitted]
Supreme Court of the United States of America
1
Booze behind the wheel could turn a sports car into a … well, wreck. No other word for the blue Honda that had rammed halfway through Keith’s garage door before lodging there like a dud missile. Marcus pushed a shoulder to the door. It swayed a little, but the hole’s jagged edges stayed wedged against the car. Trying to back out might take the whole door down. Not that Marcus would trust the driver to try it.
Murmuring party guests lined the garage wall. Nobody was doing anything about this mess, other than gaping at it. If the driver had kept his foot on the gas a second longer, the car doors might have cleared the crater. Then again, he might also have run somebody over.
“Brenner, man, you can fix it, right?” Keith hovered over Marcus’s shoulder, and his beer breath wafted too close. “You can get Jason out of there, right?”
The driver hammered a fist against his door. “Keith, when I get out of this car, I’m going to kick your face in, you hear me? I’m going to—”
Marcus tapped on the car window. “Hey. Don’t. We’ll get you out.”
“You shut up. You get out of my face, you—”
“That’s no way to talk to the linebacker.” Across the hood of the car, a woman wearing less than a tank top blinked at Marcus. She leaned forward and stretched a bottle toward him, spilling cleavage and beer. He tried to stare at her blue eyes.
“You’re new. Best stuff that’s left, right here in this bottle.”
He could taste it. Yes. “No. Thanks.”
The woman pouted and splashed the car hood with the rest of her beer. She sidled closer to Marcus. “You’re so big.”
And you’re so drunk.
“Your eyes are like the sky.”
Well, not unless the sky had turned brown lately. Marcus gently pushed her away.
Keith rocked from one foot to the other, his gaze shifting from Marcus to the trapped, cussing driver and back again. “See why I called you, Brenner? You build stuff and fix stuff. And I thought you could fix this. Or build it. Or yeah.”
The garage door was beyond fixing. Marcus needed something to free the car. He let his eyes roam the four-car garage without resting too long on various available drinks. The half-finished side held a workbench in one corner. Garden tools hung from a dusty pegboard: rake and trowel and yeah, that was a pitchfork. But nothing helpful.
“Keith, got an axe?”
Fortunately, Keith only had one, or he probably would have tried to help. In the next ten minutes, Marcus widened the hole around the car. November rain blew inside, the kind that mocked fall jackets but sabotaged winter coats with cold, heavy saturation. The kind that Michiganders complained about until someone piped in, “Hey, it could be snowing.” Likely would be soon. Still, at the moment, Marcus wasn’t cold. Sweat dripped down his back and chest and dampened his shirt, then his jacket. He worked hard, not only to free the car but also to ignore Tank Top Girl’s offerings of her booze and her body.
Once Marcus had verified the designated drivers, the last of the partiers dispersed. He was left with Keith and Jason for company, the two of them periodically hollering at each other through the windshield. At least neither one of them was drinking anymore.
As long as his hands curled around the axe handle, the other guys couldn’t see his shaking. He angled his next swing, and the blade chomped into the garage door with a thunk. Splinters ricocheted off the arms of his jacket and rained to the garage floor. In another minute, he should be able to back the car out. Then he could get out of here and drive home and make coffee. He breathed through his mouth but could still smell the beer-washed garage. He tried to conjure the aroma of a fresh-ground roast.
A cooler stood open in the corner. Next to the keg.
The axe bit too hard, straight through the wood, and nicked the hood of the car. A silver gash appeared in the blue paint. Marcus winced, then shrugged. One more scratch in this paint job wasn’t a big deal. From the other side of the garage, Keith raised his arms like an athlete on the Olympic medal stand and whooped in approval of the door’s destruction. In the morning, the idiot would be sober. And ticked off. He hadn’t changed one bit since their high-school partying days.
“Good thing the neighbors aren’t home,” Keith said. “They might’ve called the cops.”
About time somebody besides Marcus had a sensible thought. He set down the axe. The car door should open wide enough for him to squeeze into the driver’s seat.
“Jason, move—”
The guy turned the key and hit the gas. Marcus leaped back. The car backed down the driveway several feet, then skidded to a stop.
Jason stepped out into the drizzle with a grin born of braces. His blond hair dripped as he ducked back through the hole his car had left.
“Neighbors wouldn’t call the cops, because I don’t need the cops. Because I am the cops.”
Right. Of course he was.
Keith nodded. “Hey, Brenner, did you know Jason’s the cops?”
“Uh, no.”
“I’m MPC,” Jason said.
He was?
The acronym had never rooted itself into civilian vocabulary, but everyone knew its meaning. Michigan Philosophical Constabulary. Marcus stepped back from the guy. Short, lean—Marcus could knock him to the floor without trying. He breathed. Slowly. Flexed his hands, opened them, flexed them again. Had Jason waited in the shadows last night outside a church meeting, a church like Marcus’s? Had he handcuffed God’s people and driven them away to re-education?
Keith stared from Marcus to Jason and back again. “Whoa, how crazy’s that, for you to save the day for a con-cop? I mean, you don’t like them much. Obviously.”
“Keith, shut up.” If he went to jail today, he’d go because he chose to hit this guy. Hard. Not because Keith had a big mouth.
“Hey, no worries. He never remembers a thing past his third or fourth shot. You could read a Bible to him, an old one, I mean, and he—”
“Shut up. Now.”
“You guys aren’t making sense,” Jason said.
Marcus pointed at the car outside, still running. “I want the keys.”
Jason seemed to gain height as Marcus watched. His chin lifted, and his forehead twitched above the left eyebrow. “They’re my keys.”
“You don’t need them till tomorrow.”
“Three cheers for Brenner, Garage Door Chopper.” Keith hoisted Marcus’s arm over his head, slapping the air with beer breath.
Booze made people say the stupidest things at the stupidest times.
“I’m leaving now,” Marcus said to Keith. “And he’s spending the night.”
Confusion furrowed Keith’s forehead. “You’re not driving him home?”
Not a good idea. Marcus would end up wrapping his hands around Jason’s neck and squeezing until … Could a Constabulary agent arrest you for assault, or would he have to call the regular police? But that was the point—Jason wouldn’t be arresting anybody as long as he wasn’t breathing.
Right, because incapacitating one member of a government police force could make such a difference. Marcus might as well pull one scale off a rattlesnake.
“No,” he said. “He’s staying here.”
Jason threw a splay-fingered gesture at the car still running in the driveway. Its headlights cut through the drizzle, through the crater in the door. “Car’s still drivable. So I’m going to drive it.”
“You’re drunk, moron,” Keith said. “I’ll drive you.”
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. If he left them here, one of them would get behind the wheel. Even if they promised not to.
God, do I have to do this?
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take him home.” And try not to kill him.
Keith gave him directions although Jason insisted he knew the way. He also insisted he could get into Marcus’s truck without help. Marcus let him claw at the door and hoist himself onto the running board, then inside.
As they pulled out of the driveway, Jason reached across the console to punch Marcus’s forearm. “I’ll drive.”
“No.” Now don’t touch me again. Or talk. Or breathe. Marcus rolled down the windows halfway.
“We’re gonna get cold.”
“It’ll help you sober up.”
Jason laughed like a stricken hyena. “What makes you think I want that?”
Marcus turned the heat on high, but it couldn’t compensate for the chill that rushed into the truck. Occasional drizzle hit the left side of his face. He merged onto the highway, and his senses began to settle, thanks to the wind that whisked away the clinging scent. Jason must have spilled beer on himself at some point. Why was the smell always stronger on somebody’s clothes?
“I know that name.” In the dark, Jason’s silhouette had turned to face upward, to catch a green overpass sign.
“What, the road?”
“Somebody lives on that road.”
No kidding. Marcus signaled a lane change and swept past an old silver car.
Jason’s laugh bounced off the windshield into Marcus’s face. “Somebody’s gonna finally get put away.”
An arrest, one that hadn’t happened yet. A block of ice formed in Marcus’s gut.
God, how much longer will You watch Your followers get locked up and spit on?
It had been six years so far. Six years of state Constabularies enforcing philosophical regulations that had been written into law, voted into law, signed by the president, and upheld by the Supreme Court. God hadn’t thwarted the US government. Just one more thing Marcus didn’t understand about Him, but he would serve Him anyway.
“This young newlywed couple.” Jason spoke to the side window. “Neighbor saw them on the back porch, reading an archaic Bible in broad daylight, like it was just another book. Gotta love it when these whack jobs get stupid.”
Marcus forced his hands to relax on the steering wheel.
“You’d think they’d be easier to crack, you know? Whole lives ahead of them and all. But sometimes …”
Deep breath. Ease up. Before his shoulder muscles twisted into knots.
“Sometimes younger ones are the most stubborn subjects you ever laid eyes on.”
Subjects? Like lab rats?
“But we got them, man. Finally got us a warrant. Gonna get them off the street.” The window reflected Jason’s white smile.
Marcus changed to the right lane in preparation for the exit.
“I first saw their files and I thought they were black. Cole. Like Nat King, you know? They’re not, though.”
Jim and Karlyn. Married last year in the fairy-tale wedding she’d dreamed of, Jim’s gift to her despite his weakening health. Now they lived on the first road on that sign. Until the Constabulary came to take them.
No.
Something jabbed at the embers deep inside Marcus, the chunks of himself that he’d thought cold, that now spit sparks and started to glow. When would the search be conducted? Tonight? A week? No, not that long. He had to get there first.
“That’s my street,” Jason said. “Told you I knew the way.”
The house was a modest red-shuttered Cape Cod. Marcus tried to leave him at the curb, but Jason yelled and beckoned until Marcus joined him on the porch.
“Watch this.” Jason pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!”
The porch light beamed down on them. The door opened on a petite brunette woman, closer to Marcus’s thirty-two years than Jason’s forty-something.
“Oh, that’s brilliant, Jase, wake up the neighbors and have them call the police on you.”
“They show their faces around my house, I’ll pull rank on ’em.”
“Come in the—” The woman’s eyes snagged on Marcus. “Keith said Nathan was bringing him home.”
“Change of plan,” Marcus said.
Several rings pressed into his hand as she shook it firmly. “Pamela Mayweather.”
“Marcus Brenner.”
“Thank you for this, Marcus.”
“Sure.”
“If you’ll excuse my abruptness, I should say good night and get my husband into the house.”
“Sure.” His feet already shifted. Move. Leave. If Jason had forgotten about the car by morning, his wife could get the news from Keith. “Good night.”
“Thank you again.” The curve of Pamela’s mouth hinted more at relief than gratitude.
“Next time, I drive.” Jason managed a quick, hard punch to Marcus’s shoulder before shuffling inside.
Marcus returned to his truck while dangerous unknowns raced through his head. The Constabulary already
had a warrant for the Coles. And if they had a warrant, the landline might be tapped. He could text them, but if their phones were no longer in their possession … if he was too late already …
He’d have to go there.
By the time he reached their neighborhood, 3:00 a.m. had come and gone. He drove past the house without slowing. You never knew who was and was not working for the Constabulary. The smoke-colored uniforms everyone recognized were rarely seen. If Marcus had hoped for some sign or sense that they were watching the house, then he’d hoped for too much.
It didn’t matter, anyway. No way did he plan to walk up to the front door and feign innocence. He parked two streets over in front of a gray van. Foot on the brake, he backed his truck until the bumper made gentle contact with the van’s. Then he put the truck in drive for an inch or two and parked. Reading his license plate would now require more than driving by—or stepping between the cars, since that was no longer possible. If the Constabulary wanted to name him as a suspect, they’d have to earn it.
The chill cut through his jacket, but at least the rain had stopped. Marcus crossed the street halfway between streetlights and hurried up somebody’s driveway—the somebody who shared a backyard fence with the Coles. God, don’t let them have a dog.
The little half-brick houses crouched close together. Crossing this stranger’s backyard took seconds. He paused a moment, avoiding moonlight, the trunk of an ancient oak tree rough against his back. Its leaves swished above him, and a car passed in front of the house. Now. Go. He breathed deep. Gripped the dripping chain-link fence. Stuck one foot into a space halfway up and propelled his body over and dropped to the other side.
Clouds drifted over the moon. He darted across the Coles’ yard. The red door was more warning than invitation. Had the Constabulary beat him here? Had they raided the house, dragged the Coles away to re-education?
The weight of that possibility hunched his shoulders. His forehead rested against the door. It’s only been a few months. I’ve only had them a few months. He hadn’t even known about the family of Christ when he joined it. Those first two years of infant faith, he’d kept on belonging to nobody, responsible for nobody, which he’d figured was for the best—look at his track record. Then he’d met Jim and Karlyn and they’d opened their Bible and shown him. He had family again.
Seek and Hide: A Novel (Haven Seekers) Page 1