Sinless

by Sarah Tarkoff

  “I heard about Macy. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want anyone to know.”

  “We just had the most terrifying experience . . .” She then proceeded to tell me what had happened, how Mr. Cannon was upstairs keeping watch.

  When she finished, I asked, “Can I go see Macy?”

  Mrs. Cannon shook her head. “Not right now. I don’t think she should see anyone till she gets better.”

  Zack cut in, “Mom, it might help . . .”

  “I don’t want to have this conversation right now. I thought we told you, go home, wait there.” Mrs. Cannon turned back to me. “What are you doing out here this late at night?”

  “I heard about Macy and came right away.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  She was accusing me of misleading him, but I knew I could get around the question by pretending to misunderstand her. “He could come if you want him to. He can pray with her, we both can.”

  Mrs. Cannon paused. I’d never known the Cannons to be particularly religious, but in moments like this . . . “Would he? Do you think it would help?”

  “It might be the thing that makes the difference.”

  She hesitated. “Tomorrow?”

  “He’d be glad to, I’m sure,” I said. I glanced at Zack—this was our last hope.

  Mrs. Cannon headed back upstairs, and Zack and I retreated to the car. “You did good,” he said as he started the engine.

  “Not yet,” I worried.

  “Your dad . . . is he going to complicate things?”

  “No. He’ll distract your parents. This is good.”

  “Thank you for coming with me tonight.” I could see the fear in his eyes.

  “She’ll be okay,” I said, comforting.

  “If she’s not it’s my fault,” he said solemnly.

  I didn’t disagree, but I said honestly, “It’d be as much mine. Wouldn’t it?”

  He knew what I meant—if I hadn’t stolen his pills, he never would have had reason to suspect Macy. But he said, “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “No,” I said.

  He touched my shoulder—I think to comfort me, but it wasn’t much comfort. I didn’t want this murderer any closer than necessary. I looked away, out the window. He let go. When I looked back, his eyes were on the road.

  “I’ll talk to my dad tonight. He comes to pray over people all the time . . . I’m sure for Macy, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing.”

  “Your father’s a good man.”

  “Yeah.” The normalcy of our conversation lulled me. Like this was just a car ride with a friend. I’d always had trouble talking with Zack, mostly because I was too nervous to think of words around him, much less entire sentences. Funny how easy it was now that I hated his guts.

  But now, I could see, he was having trouble talking to me. Nervously, he began, “I’m sorry about Ciaran. This might sound stupid, but . . . I understand, I do.”

  I summoned all my willpower to say, “Thanks.”

  “And I know you think I’m a bad guy. I’m not.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I just nodded. After a moment of silence, I worked up the courage to ask him, “What are you going to do when this is all over? About me?”

  I saw the conflict on his face. “I don’t know. Is that okay?”

  “I don’t really have a choice.”

  He looked at me intently. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep you from getting hurt.”

  Like you promised Macy? I wanted to ask. I had to get out of this car.

  We were approaching my house, finally, so I said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I barely waited for the car to stop before I jumped out of it. I couldn’t listen to the glib words of a killer. Once we saved Macy, I was going to make sure I never talked to Zack again.

  I headed into my dark house, trying to make as little noise as possible. But as I headed up the stairs . . . “Grace?”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “What are you doing up?” He was always going to be suspicious of me now, wasn’t he?

  “Macy’s in the hospital,” I said.

  His expression changed. “Oh no.”

  “Tomorrow, do you think we can go and pray with her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Visiting hours start at ten.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  I hesitated, but he’d find out tomorrow anyway. “She’s in the Outcast Ward.”

  My father paused. “At least it’s a straightforward cure. Don’t worry. Macy will be just fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “If she’s still alive, we can save her.”

  I headed to bed. “We” couldn’t, but I could.

  Chapter 6

  When I awoke the next morning, I was shocked to find an elaborate breakfast spread on the counter and Mrs. Cannon sitting on our couch. She jumped up to hug me. “Grace, you have no idea what this means to us.”

  Mr. Cannon appeared, gave me a pat on the back. “We’re so proud of you.”

  “What did I do?” I asked.

  Mrs. Cannon was breathless. “You haven’t heard? Macy’s going to get the help she needs. All thanks to you.”

  My father entered with Zack, who looked uncomfortable in his best suit. “Did they tell you the good news?” I watched Zack for some kind of hint, but his expression was stoic.

  “Macy’s better?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” my father said.

  Mrs. Cannon took my hands, gushing, “Your father told us how you met the prophet yesterday, how you really impressed him. So Paul called and spoke directly to him . . .”

  “Well, I spoke to Samuel,” my father corrected her humbly.

  “He said Macy was your best friend, and the prophet . . .”

  At this point, she choked up, and her husband stepped in to finish for her. “The prophet said that any friend of yours must be pretty special. And he was going to do everything in his power to help.”

  My adrenaline began to rush. “What does that mean?”

  “He’s going to heal her himself.”

  “Heal her?” I asked weakly.

  “And he’s coming here to do it.”

  “To our house?”

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” Mrs. Cannon said, wiping away tears.

  Zack added, “Thank you so much for your help.” I was sure I caught a hint of a sarcastic tone in there somewhere.

  “Wonderful,” I choked out. My mind swam with thoughts of the Ramseys’ brutal deaths. It had felt like a warning. Like Joshua telling me what he could do if I stepped out of line. And if he had any idea that I’d been talking to Dawn or even Zack . . . I was terrified to think what Prophet Joshua’s “healing” might look like. My father might believe Joshua’s power was magic, but I knew it was poison. I couldn’t let that happen to Macy. I didn’t know why the prophet was doing this, why he’d spend his valuable time coming all the way to Tutelo. He must suspect me. I couldn’t think of another explanation. I had to get Macy somewhere safe.

  I thought of all the people I could call. Jude would be the best, but who knew if my little bear trick would work a second time. Or if he was even willing to talk to me after the way our last encounter had ended. Dawn might know what to do, but even if I found a way to reach her, I didn’t trust her, and I didn’t think she’d take kindly to me risking exposing myself, especially not to save the sister of . . . whatever Zack was.

  But Zack? As much as he terrified me, he was my best shot. I just had to get him alone. If he knew what the prophet was capable of, maybe he could help me keep Macy away from him. But as I tried to corner him in the kitchen, the doorbell rang. I heard my dad opening the door, and a familiar voice. Prophet Joshua. “Now, where’s Grace?”

  Chapter 7

  Joshua entered, followed by Samuel. I could see his security detail outside.

  My father shook Joshua�
��s hand, nearly bowing. “Prophet. Thank you.”

  “Paul, there is no need. Great Spirit called me to this place. There is important work to be done here.”

  “Yes,” my father said, glancing at me.

  The prophet turned his attention to me. “Grace. So good to see you again.”

  “You, too, Prophet.”

  His voice was so kind, so warm. “I’m sorry we’re here under such unfortunate circumstances. Where is your friend?”

  “She’s on her way,” Mrs. Cannon said, standing at a nervous distance. “The hospital is transporting her here now.”

  “Then, Grace, while we’re waiting, why don’t you give me the tour?”

  I looked at my father, who nodded encouragingly. With a glance at the still stoic Zack, I said, “Sure.”

  I led the prophet through each room, trying to think of interesting things to say about the objects in each one. My father and the Cannons trailed behind, lapping up Joshua’s every word. Mrs. Cannon kept trying to propose philosophical and religious dilemmas, things she’d always struggled with that she hoped the prophet would answer. Mr. Cannon would politely apologize on her behalf—I noticed their bickering was not entirely unlike Macy and Zack’s.

  Finally, we arrived at my room. I panicked at the thought of what might be lying out. Any hints that I might know the truth? The red pills, I remembered, were safely hidden in a box of tampons . . . hopefully Joshua wasn’t planning to root through my bathroom cabinet?

  I opened my door, stood back as the prophet stepped inside. I blushed as he surveyed the room—my unmade bed, the dirty clothes on the floor, the mess on my dresser. “I’m sorry, no one told me you were coming,” I mumbled.

  “No apologies necessary.”

  He idly opened a drawer, glancing at me with an amused smile. I was frozen, couldn’t say anything, as he picked up items from it.

  “I’m so glad you didn’t come to our house, Prophet. I’d be so embarrassed,” Mrs. Cannon was saying.

  “It would be an honor to have the prophet to our home,” Mr. Cannon said through gritted teeth.

  “I didn’t say it wouldn’t be!”

  Joshua was rifling through the books on my dressers. A notebook with my school assignments. He went to the window and picked up the teddy bear lying on the floor. He tossed it around a bit. Was he going to set off the voice box, with my message to Jude on it? He squeezed it, but only static came out. A rush of relief—Jude had erased the bear after listening to the message. He was a genius.

  Samuel, who’d disappeared early in the tour, came back. “The girl’s downstairs.”

  Joshua set down the bear. As he exited into the hallway, he stared me straight in the eye. That look again, carrying a warning. A challenge. This time I was sure there was only one thing that look could mean. He knew.

  Chapter 8

  My mind raced. Was it because of the Ramseys? The way my face had changed watching them die? Or was this all in my head? Was I reading too much into one look he’d given me?

  I walked downstairs, and for once I stopped dwelling on my own misfortune. There was Macy, on a stretcher, more shriveled and sickly than I’d ever seen her, kept alive only by a motley crew of medical machinery.

  Joshua approached Macy. Her mother reached out and touched his hand. “Thank you so much, Prophet. We can’t even begin to say how much this means to our family.” As Mrs. Cannon spoke, I saw her face begin to glow—Joshua was healing her. His magical healing touch seemed to be involuntary. Perhaps just touching Joshua was enough to prompt the same feeling as prayer in people’s brains. Perhaps simply being in Joshua’s presence could be enough to heal Macy.

  I began to hope. Maybe he was really going to save my friend. Maybe this was truly the prophet trying to help me. My father had been his faithful soldier all these years . . . why had I jumped to the conclusion that this was about me? Maybe this was my father’s reward for loyalty.

  Joshua leaned over Macy. “Do you understand what you did wrong?” I saw a slight, barely perceptible nod. I knew it took all her strength. “Are you ready to open yourself back up to Great Spirit?” Even as he spoke the words, I saw her begin to recover. He was easing her guilt just by being next to her. He took her hands, and the transformation began. It was rapid, breathtaking. In mere moments, she went from horrifying, near-death disfigurement to a shred of normalcy. The color returned to her cheeks, the breath to her lungs, a smile to her face. And there it was again, that look from Joshua.

  Was he waiting for me to confess? I looked at my father, who was beaming with joy. At Zack, who was anxiously watching his sister. Then back at Joshua.

  It was on the tip of my tongue. It was the solution. It was the end of living in fear. Whatever repercussions would result would be over and done with, and I wouldn’t have to worry any more. And the prophet’s aura was intoxicating. Even knowing everything I knew about him, I wanted to spill all of my secrets. Looking into his eyes, I felt like he was trying to pull it out of me.

  But I remembered Jude. I remembered everything he’d risked to keep me safe. Even if he didn’t love me, I still loved him. And so I kept my mouth shut. And after a moment, still staring at me, Joshua let go of Macy.

  It had an instantaneous effect. Macy took a deep breath in, shocked, and her appearance stopped improving. She wasn’t an Outcast, for sure, but she wasn’t . . . pretty. She didn’t look anything like the friend I remembered. She looked up at the prophet helplessly. “How do you feel?” he asked her.

  “Better.”

  “Are you ready to follow the path Great Spirit has set out for you?”

  “I am.”

  “Good.”

  As I pondered what had just happened between Joshua and myself, Macy’s mom interjected, sobbing, “Thank you, Prophet, thank you so much.”

  “I help where I can. I only wish I could help more.” He signaled to Samuel, walking to the exit. “Good luck, Macy.”

  So that was it. Macy was alive. Not totally healed, but alive. As the Cannons gathered around her, the prophet turned to me. “Grace, could you come with me for just a moment?” My heart skidded to a stop.

  “Of course.”

  Chapter 9

  I followed Prophet Joshua outside with a look of faux confusion and adoration. We were alone. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me for healing your friend?”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you. You have no idea how scared I was.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “She’s my best friend. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost her.” All honest.

  “There’s nothing I enjoy more than using my powers for good.” I already knew what it looked like when he used them for evil. “What would you think about doing some work for me?”

  “Work?” I had no idea what that could possibly mean.

  “From time to time I enlist allies to help me with some important projects. Good works in the community.”

  “Like volunteer work?” I asked.

  “And some more sensitive issues, some that may require discretion. I’ll confess to having one of my men do a little research on you. But you probably already knew that.”

  The guard with the ice-blue eyes. “He followed me,” I said.

  “I’m grateful he was able to rescue you from that horrible situation.”

  “Me, too.”

  “He also spoke to some of your friends and family, and from what they say, you’re the most pious and trustworthy young woman I could recruit. So tell me—are you interested?”

  No! Not in the slightest. I wanted to be as far away from Prophet Joshua as possible. But I definitely couldn’t say that, so I simply said, “I don’t know.”

  He seemed surprised by my reluctance. “What don’t you know?”

  “I’d love to help, I just don’t know if I’m the right person.”

  “You’re exactly the right person.”

  “If you think so.”

  He put
a hand on my shoulder. There was something about his touch that felt unnatural, and against my will, I felt better, healthier—healed.

  “I have a mission in mind for you. If you’re interested.”

  “What kind of mission?”

  “You’re starting to see the truth now, aren’t you? I can tell. The world is not as simple as we want to believe it is.” I tried not to panic as he continued, “There are evil forces lurking in unexpected places.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grace, I began my career as a student of religion. It was a time when studying religion was much more . . . shall we say, interesting. There was nothing you could prove, and the world was filled with infinite theories about what the universe meant. You had your animists, who believed that things like flowers and trees had feelings. You know that term, Great Spirit, was inspired by the beliefs of the Sioux—many of the religions born right here in America had an animist bent. You also had your polytheists, who believed in all kinds of warring gods. With all the chaos we used to have, it made sense, I think, to have these supernatural clashes that mirrored our own. But what about monotheism? Do you know what monotheism is?”

  “One god.”

  “Exactly. Are you a monotheist?”

  It felt like a trick question. “I think so?”

  “It would make sense, wouldn’t it? We’ve lost all the trappings of Christianity and Islam and Daoism, and we worship this one, complicated entity. Sure, it manifests as a whole pantheon of gods, Vishnu and Yahweh and all those flowers and trees, rolled into one. But Great Spirit—that’s our god, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe He’s a good guy, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you know there’s evil left in this world. Your friend Macy and her family might not know it, but you do. You’ve seen it. How do you explain that?”

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “Do you believe that Great Spirit created that evil? If He’s good?”

  “He must have. To challenge us.”

  “To give you free will?”