“Now, folks, we don’t need to be rocket scientists to figure this one out.” Pastor Ted clutched the microphone and leapt into a feral crouch at the edge of the stage. “Fire. Fear. A dark shadow emanating evil. There’s only one thing this can mean, this vision from a prophet of God. We all know who and what that shadow is, don’t we?”
Heads were already starting to nod.
“It’s Satan himself!” Flecks of spittle flew from Pastor Ted’s mouth and glinted in the light. “Lurking right here in Carbon County, trying to claw his way up from Hell to steal our souls. Do you believe?”
“I believe!” The crowd’s fury was a dull roar in Daphne’s ears.
“We know what this means.” Pastor Ted resumed his pacing, passion painting his cheeks scarlet. “That the End Times are almost upon us, and Satan is waiting in the wings, ready to destroy. Will we let him?”
“No!” the crowd cried. Daphne gripped the sides of the pulpit, dying to sit down. It was hot at the front of the church, with all of the lights beating down on her, and her dress clung to the small of her back with sweat.
“Folks,” the pastor continued, “each and every one of us has a choice, and that choice is clear. We can choose God, or we can choose Satan. If we choose Satan, come Judgment Day we’ll burn alongside him in the eternal flames of Hell. If we choose God, we’ll experience a Rapture unlike any other, knowing perfect peace and perfect light forever. Sounds like an easy choice, right?”
Daphne watched the sea of heads bob up and down. “Let me tell you: It is not an easy choice.” Pastor Ted’s piercing stare swept over the congregation. “To choose God, we have to rid our lives of sin. Living a righteous life isn’t easy. It means sacrifice, and patience, and virtue. It means saying no to that cold beer after a long day’s work, turning off the radio when the devil’s music comes on, taking those hard-earned funds you saved up for that nice Caribbean vacation and donating to the church instead.” He spun suddenly, facing Daphne head-on. “It means resisting the temptations of the flesh.”
His laser-blue eyes bored into hers until she had to look away. She felt color creep into her cheeks as she stared down at her shoes and took a deep breath, trying to slow her pounding heart.
Could Pastor Ted know somehow? Could he know about her love for Owen, about the relationship she tried so hard to hide from her disapproving community? Did he suspect her of hiding part of her vision as well? Or was she just being paranoid?
She wished, once again, that everyone could just forget about Owen’s role in Trey’s and baby Jeremiah’s deaths. He’d been there for both, yes, but that was coincidence, and neither was his fault. Pastor Ted spoke so often of forgiveness and redemption, but for some reason he refused to apply those values to Owen. All of them did.
Pastor Ted finished his sermon to a round of wild applause, but Daphne could barely focus on his words. Owen dominated her thoughts, crowding everything else from her mind. Her life in Carbon County would be so much easier without him—but without him, she may as well not bother living at all.
• • •
Hilary found her at the potluck after the service, sitting at one of the packed picnic tables outside. Across the street the skeleton of the new mega-church towered above them, its expansive parking lot littered with lengths of lumber and fat, pink rolls of insulation. It was Floyd Peyton’s gift to the Carbon County First Church of God, and Daphne knew from his blueprints that it would be large enough to finally accommodate Pastor Ted’s hundreds of new devotees. Even though construction was moving along rapidly, with winter on the horizon and more people joining the congregation every week it felt like the new church couldn’t go up fast enough.
“Great job on the pulpit.” Hilary gave her a hug that was all bouncing curls and smiles. “I’d seriously throw up if I had to get up and speak in front of everyone like that.”
Daphne couldn’t help laughing. “I almost did.”
Hilary giggled, but her expression turned serious as she finished her lemonade. “Hey, have you seen Janie at all today?”
“No.” Daphne frowned. “She hasn’t been to church in ages.”
“Damn it—I mean, sorry, darn it.” Hilary shook her head. “I went up to see her this week, and she promised me she’d come.”
Guilt soured in Daphne’s stomach as she recalled the last time she’d seen Janie, and her cousin’s accusatory words. She hadn’t been up to the Varley house to see Janie. She’d been too busy with work and too preoccupied with Owen and the disturbing contents of her vision to make the time.
“How did she seem to you?” Daphne asked cautiously.
“Honestly?” Hilary lowered her voice and looked around, making sure the Peytons were out of earshot. “Not good. She was drinking vodka straight out of the bottle, and she looked like hell—I mean, she looked like heck. Is that even an expression? Anyway, I’m worried about her.”
“Me too.” Daphne pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.
“Poor Janie.” Hilary shook her head sadly. “Next week I’ll just go pick her up and make her go to church. I kind of feel like if she comes back, she’ll find her faith again. Want to come with?”
“Uh . . .” Daphne shifted, the wood of the picnic bench suddenly too hard beneath her. “I don’t know if I should. I’m not exactly her favorite person right now.”
“Really?” Hilary cocked her head. “But she’s always been crazy about you. You’d think now, with you being a prophet and all . . .”
She trailed off, leaving Daphne to shrug into the gaping silence. “I don’t think she believes I’m a prophet,” she said finally. “She said she thinks I’m faking it.”
“Oh, well, that’s just stupid.” Hilary tucked a curl behind her ear. “She’s going through a hard time, so she’s probably lashing out. You just need to turn the other cheek, like Jesus says. You didn’t take it personally, did you?”
Daphne sighed. “Maybe a little,” she confessed.
“You shouldn’t,” Hilary insisted. “There’s a whole mess of people who believe in you, people who came here from a long way off just to be near you.”
Daphne shook her head. She knew that the church was growing, that people were coming to Carbon County from all over the country just to join, but that was because of Pastor Ted’s new TV show, his charismatic personality, and his predictions that Carbon County would be the epicenter of the Rapture. Not because of her.
“It’s true.” Hilary nodded emphatically, her curls shivering. “Actually, I don’t know if you know this but I started a youth group in the church. We’re helping out with the new building, and we’re starting a community outreach program and teen center and all sorts of stuff. Anyway, the kids in it are crazy about you, and they’re dying to meet you. If, you know, you have a minute.”
“You mean, now?” Daphne asked. “Are they here?”
“No, the Christian youth group decided to skip church this Sunday.” A sly smile started to spread across Hilary’s face, but she stopped it with a quick smack to the forehead. “Crap, I’m trying to stop being sarcastic, too. Pastor Ted says sarcasm is like a veil that hides your soul from God. But anyway, yeah, they’re here, and they would love to meet you. They talk about you all the time. You’re like a celebrity to them.”
Daphne swallowed the urge to turn and run. She’d been enough of a celebrity in Detroit, when her unsmiling mug shot appeared in the paper with headlines like Teen Killer Says, ‘Not My Fault,’ to know that life in the spotlight definitely wasn’t for her. She reminded herself that she had a responsibility to her church and her community, whether she’d asked for it or not. “Okay,” she finally said.
“Great!” Hilary bounced to her feet and led Daphne through the crowd of picnickers to a group of teens occupying a series of overlapping blankets on the edge of the lawn.
“Guys, I want you to meet someone really special.” They st
opped talking at the sound of Hilary’s voice. “This is Daphne Peyton, aka Carbon County’s hometown prophet.”
A collective gasp spread through the group. In moments they were on their feet, plates of food forgotten as they fixed her with wide smiles.
“Hi, everyone.” Daphne forced a grin, raising her hand in a limp wave.
“Wow, Daphne Peyton!” The guy closest to her extended a flannel-clad arm, offering a firm handshake. His face was square and friendly, with twin dimples framing a sculpted chin. “It sure is a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mark, from Cincinnati. I can’t tell you—I mean, wow, this is such an honor.” Thick blond hair gleamed in the sun as he shook his head, the broad smile never leaving his face.
“You’ve inspired all of us.” The girl next to him beamed. She wore a vintage ’50s housedress printed with cherries and had braided her hair into a complicated crown that circled her head. “The relationship you have with God—it’s just amazing. It makes us all want to lead better lives.”
One by one, they approached her with hearty handshakes and words of praise, words that sounded like they ought to be about someone else, someone who wasn’t anything like the person she felt like inside. Their Daphne was strong and brave, devout and righteous and special. She was a guiding light who brought out the goodness in others, inspiring them to follow their beliefs across the country and start organizations to help those in need. She was anything but the real Daphne, who lived on a diet of guilt and fear and looked over her shoulder with every step. Honestly, she liked their Daphne a lot better. She wished there was a way for her to actually be that person instead of just coming across that way.
The youth group invited her to sit, ran to fetch her lemonade, and passed her a plate of chocolate butterscotch blondies. “They’re my grandma’s secret recipe,” giggled Monica, the girl in the vintage dress. “I put most of them out for the potluck, but they always go quick, so I kept a secret stash just in case . . .” She smiled and glanced at her knees, then back at Daphne.
“They’re delicious,” Daphne said honestly. She let the sugar and the youth group’s chatter lull her into a comfortable haze, watched their faces animate as they volleyed around ideas for the teen center.
“We should raise money for a ping-pong table,” said a Hispanic guy with sparkling brown eyes. “And have tournaments!”
“We can host dances every month, with cool themes like the Roaring Twenties and Ski Lodge Chic,” Monica suggested.
“And we can do an antidrug series, but not like one of those cheesy after-school-special ones that just make everyone want to try them more,” Mark added.
Monica took out an iPad and started jotting down everyone’s ideas, “so we don’t miss any of the awesome,” she said, beaming at Daphne.
“This is what all our meetings are like,” Hilary whispered in Daphne’s ear. “Don’t tell me you don’t want in.”
Daphne nodded. She could feel the positive energy in the group, and she longed to let it sweep her away. But the more they talked, the more she felt herself retreating into the emptiness inside of her, succumbing to the doubt that thrummed like a plucked guitar string through her days. She would have given anything to be like the youth group: strong and solid in their convictions, always sure that what they were doing was right.
But how could she be sure of anything? God told her one thing, but her heart said another—and the more at odds they were, the less she knew what to believe.
8
HIS DAD’S BUICK STILL SMELLED like dead cow and old people’s breath, but Doug didn’t care as long as it was driving him away from the mansion on the hill and Janie’s impenetrable sadness. He pushed the passenger seat back as far as it would go and stretched out his legs, grunting with satisfaction as his toes cracked inside his Nikes.
His dad gave him the side-eye but kept his mouth shut. They’d never really seen eye to eye, but the old fart had actually started being decent to him since the wedding. All of a sudden it was like they had something in common: both tethered to Carbon County by an unwanted ball and chain, both itching to get to the world beyond those mountains but not even sure where they’d go if they did.
It didn’t really surprise him when Vince Varley knocked on the door to the den earlier that evening, interrupting the game Doug was half-watching.
“Son, let’s take a ride,” Vince said. His frame blocked out the light filtering in from the hall, a dark silhouette in jeans and a cowboy hat.
Doug didn’t argue. He just stood and left, the TV casting flickering lights across Janie’s face as she snoozed on the far end of the couch, an open-mouthed lump inside her grimy sleeping bag.
Getting away from her felt good. She wasn’t the Janie he’d married, the girl whose Victoria’s Secret Pink panties he’d been obsessed with getting into in high school. That Janie was blond and pretty. She had big boobs, wore sexy clothes, and knew how to laugh and have a good time. This Janie was a zombie, gray skinned and foul breathed. She never laughed. She never did anything except give Doug a royal sense of the creeps.
If there was something he could say or do to bring the old Janie back, he would. He’d take being tethered to that chubby-cheeked Jesus freak over ghost-town Janie any day. But everything he said or did slid right down those placid cheeks like rain on a windowpane. And so he’d stopped trying, started spending more time away from the house, in bars like the Vein, where there was music and excitement, cold beer and loud laughter and the thrum of life.
“Son, open up that glove box and pull out the map.” Vince’s gruff command snapped him back to the Buick’s leathery interior and the swirling fog outside the window.
“Dude, we’re not lost.” Doug made no move to follow his dad’s instructions. “You’ve driven this road a million times.”
“Not for directions.” Vince’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I want to show you something.”
“Fine.” Doug fumbled with the fancy fake-gold latch. A bulb went on inside the glove box, illuminating a single, folded county map. He took it out and spread it across his knees. “It’s Carbon County. So what?”
Vince cut his eyes from the road. “Take a look right there.” He tapped the map, making the paper crackle on Doug’s knees. “See that spot?”
Doug squinted. Dusk was closing in outside, the sunset obscured by a heavy blanket of fog. “It’s the Peyton land. I know, Dad—you want it back. That’s why you started that lawsuit.”
“Screw the lawsuit!” Vince slammed his fist hard on the wheel. “That damn lawyer’s taking too long—and charging by the hour at that. That’s not how the Varleys do things. We’re men, Wyoming men. We take action.”
“Okay, Dad.” Doug rolled his eyes, but he secretly liked the way his dad said Varley men, his voice swollen with pride. It made Doug feel like they still meant something, he and his dad, even if the rest of the town didn’t realize it. “So what’s the plan this time?”
“That spot.” Vince jabbed a thick finger into the map. “See where the western border falls?”
“Uh.” Doug scratched at his perpetual stubble. “That’s in the scrubland, like, at the base of the mountains. Right?”
“Mm-hmmm.” Vince nodded. “And guess who owns the land just over that border?”
“I dunno.” Doug squinted at the thin red line. “The Forest Service?”
“No, son.” Vince hit the turn signal, maneuvering the Buick onto a narrow dirt road. “We do.”
“Huh.” Doug looked from the map to his father and then back again. “So?”
“So, that land is right next to where those damn Peytons struck oil. It was all ours, until my great-granddad turned around and sold that parcel to the Peytons for a dollar, like a fool.”
“So you think there might be oil on our land after all?” Doug asked hopefully. Striking oil would solve all their problems. They could finish the house, and his mom would
stop hounding him about getting a job, and he could finally send Janie to a shrink or something, get her the help she obviously needed.
“No, son.” Vince sighed heavily. “You know the only oil in town is below Floyd’s land—and don’t think half this town isn’t looking. But the reserves on the Peyton land: Now those are deep. Way deeper than they’ve drilled for.”
“Huh.” Doug squinted out the windshield. He didn’t know what his dad was getting at, but he bet Vince would give it up soon.
“So you see,” Vince continued, “if we open up our own rig on this land here, on our land”—he jabbed at the map again, his finger poking into Doug’s thigh—“if we do that, we can run a pipeline down to below Floyd’s well. We’ll pump it out of a rig on our land, call it Varley oil, and make a mint.” He laughed gruffly. “Oh, it’ll be beautiful, all right. We’ll drink from Floyd Peyton’s milkshake, and justice will be restored.”
“Hey.” Doug sat back against the leather seat. “That’s not a bad plan, Dad. That’s actually pretty fucking genius.”
“Language!” Vince snapped automatically. But he was grinning, the thrill of a newly hatched plan glowing in his eyes.
He brought the Buick to a slow stop below the old motocross track parking lot, cutting the motor and letting the car tick into silence.
“So, uh, what’re we doing here?” Doug asked. The motocross track still gave him the creeps. Sure, it sucked to see his brand-new dirt bike, the one he’d only ridden once, gathering dust in the garage. But it was worth it to never have to go back to the track. There were too many bad memories there: his best buddy, Trey, dying in the race against Owen that Doug should have run himself, his wife thrashing and writhing in the firelight, about to give birth to a hideous dead thing that should have been his son. Thinking about that night made something small and hard clench inside of him. He’d run away from her that night, powerless in the face of birth, absent in the moment of death. And even though he’d never admit it, he wasn’t proud of the way he’d acted. Being at the track brought it all rushing back in bright, painful flashes.
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