“I THINK I KNOW A PLACE!” I shout.
“WHAT?”
“I THINK I KNOW A PLACE! GO EAST!” I shout.
Without another word, Nate arches us toward the sky higher and higher until we disappear into the low, ominous clouds.
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” he shouts when we are alone in the clouds.
I think of Abraham, who would surely have a witty, or not-so-witty, comeback to Nate’s question, but I’m in no state of mind to think of one let alone guess what Abe would say.
“999 CHILLICOTHE ROAD!” I answer.
Nate lowers us so we can mostly see the buildings and landscape below us. I marvel at the view, half in awe and half in terror, remembering that I nearly interred into it less than a minute ago. I can see the suburban streets, oversized parking lots for strip malls, and mazes of developments with identical roofs. I imagine we look like a bird or a phantom, grayed behind the misty edge of the cloud. The air is bitterly cold in this high elevation, and the water pellets I felt earlier are a developing hail storm here. Finally, I think I see the place, the sanctuary. Nate must know we’re close to the address, because we slope down toward the trees and the newly-paved road. The pellets and hail fall as heavy raindrops here, and the gray sky darkens as we descend. Good thing for the weather, though; I doubt anyone would face toward the sky and see us through the rain and gloom.
Nate pulls up, swinging his legs below him, and we land safely on the ground between too large spruce trees. In front of us is an old-style, white church with a steeple that desperately needs a fresh coat of paint. It is a simple church, small too, with a decent-sized extension on the back that is visibly modern compared to the rectangular church.
Neither Nate nor I say anything, though I’m dying to ask him what he knows and why he’s helping me escape from his own people. Zoë too―it’s all a mystery. Though I’m sure he has a million pressing questions for me too, like why an old church in a small, insignificant suburb of Cleveland is my first choice of a sanctuary.
Surreptitiously, we jog to the front door. The rain pounds down on us, and murky puddles already swallow the path to the door. Once at the door, Nate lifts his arm to knock on the door.
“No!” I whisper, catching his hand. He looks at me inquisitively. I see the old flower pot to the right of the door and start rummaging through the cold, hard soil. It’s in here― I know it― it’s been hidden here as far as I can remember. My hand brushes across a velvet textile; I grab it and pull the black, velvet bag out from the grimy soil. I pull the velvet bag open and flip the bag upside down; the key falls out and into my hand. Nate is speechless, especially after I unlock the door to the church and pull him inside.
The church is smaller on the inside. White walls; dark oak accents and benches that create an aisle down the middle of the church; tall, arched ceiling with a gaudy chandelier; green, rough carpet everywhere― glad to know some things don’t change. The floor creaks as I pull Nate down the aisle and up to the large, oak table with a white tablecloth at the front of the elevated floor looking out at the empty benches.
“We shouldn’t be here. There’s no one here,” Nate whispers.
“Why not? This place is safe,” I say.
My voice echoes off the walls, and the chandelier jingles like a glass wind chime. Nate holds his finger to his mouth and stares at me with angry, warning eyes.
“What?” I say.
I step up to the altar and start looking around. Behind the grand oak table is another oak counter holding a bejeweled, gold and silver box. For such a stately-looking thing, you would there’s a lock, but there’s not. No, there’s just a small, gem-like handle. So I reach for it, but Nate grabs my arm and stops me.
“What are you doing? Don’t touch that!” He says, still at a whisper.
“I know what I’m doing,” I respond. My voice bounces off the walls and ceiling again.
“Then you should know not to touch that,” he whispers. I try to grab the handle again, but he pulls my arm back again.
“Hey! What the hell, Nate?” I say.
I jerk my arm away and open the box. Inside is a gold-painted chalice with small rubies bedazzling the stem and half an inch below the rim. I grab the chalice and place it on top of the extravagant box; then I reach toward the back of the box and feel around the empty, soft edges of the box. No, it should be in here.
“Annika, you―ugh!” he says, rolling his eyes. “Do you know where you are?”
“Yeah, I do!”
“Just, calm down! Someone is going to hear you!”
“It’s okay. No one is here.”
“Basia?” a low voice echoes.
Nate and I turn to the left side of the church where an old, withering man in black pants, a black sweater, and a white collar stands staring at us with an open door at his back. His hair is white and his eyes caramel-brown; his skin is wrinkled and spotted, and his gray eyebrows droop toward his eyes. He is tall and slender, and still walks without a cane, though he leans more on his left leg.
“Haven’t I told you not to tamper with things that don’t belong to you?” he asks. He’s stern at first, then he smiles and opens his arms.
“Warnock,” I sigh.
I smile, and I run toward him. He groans teasingly when I run into him and wrap my arms around him, but he reciprocates with a hug and laughs.
“I missed you!” I say, my head buried in his sweater.
“Of course you did!” he mocks. I peel away from him and smile at his old, wrinkled face. “Alright, I’ve missed you too,” he confesses.
I turn back toward the altar and motion for Nate to come meet my old friend. He grins and treads toward us.
“This is my friend, Nate,” I say.
“Well, aren’t you a handsome young fellow,” the old man says.
Nate extends his arm and shakes the priest’s hand.
“Nathan Reilly,” Nate says.
“Pleasure,” he replies. “I’m Mr. Warnock, Father Jack, whatever you’d prefer to call me.”
“Nice to meet you. Sorry for transgressing on your church and the Holy Chalice,” Nate says. He flickers his eyes at me, and now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“Ha! It’s nothing short of what I would expect from Miss Nancy.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised either.”
“Hey!” I interject. “I’m still here, you know.”
“Yes, that leads me to my first question,” Warnock says. “Why are you here? Oh, wait! Don’t tell me… it doesn’t have anything to do with that mysterious red object I discovered in the place you were just delving through, does it?”
“Partly, yes,” I admit. “You still have it, don’t you?”
“I must say I was rather abashed when I found it in there― so much so that I had to take it out almost immediately and relocate it. Though despite your complete lack of consideration for my practices when you chose your hiding place, you did make it obvious, to me, at least, that it belonged to you,” Warnock says.
“That was my plan all along,” I say.
“Excuse me, but… what did Annika put it there?”
“Annika?!” Warnock exclaims.
“Yes, that’s the name I’ve been using, and I guess it kind-a stuck, even for me.”
Warnock smiles and his eyes water. I think he’s going to cry, but then again, his composure is unfailing.
“Well, I think it’s a lovely name,” Warnock says. “And, it suits you well.”
I smile.
“Um, Warnock,” I say, “could I have what I left, now, please?”
“Ah! Oh, that’s right,” Warnock says. He turns to Nate. “She left me a quarter.”
He digs his hands into his pockets, but he does not pull out my coin. Instead, he keeps his hands there and smiles at us, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“A quarter?” Nate asks.
“Yes, but more importantly is what she stuck to the quarter: a red copy chip,” Warnock say. “Like a flashd
rive but far more efficient and―”
“Warnock, we… we came from Cleveland and… and we―” I start.
“By foot, it looks like,” he cuts in.
“No, Nate flew us here,” I reply. Moton nods at Nate then turns back to me. “We need a place to spend the night.”
“One night or more?”
“Probably more,” Nate says.
Warnock nods to himself and stares at the floor. Could my time I spent keeping him in the dark and at arms distance have severed the support he gives me? I would be shocked, especially when I consider our warm welcome.
“Don’t look so fretful, Basia―I’m sorry, Annika―I’m not going to kick you out. I may try to kick some sense into your head, but you are welcome to stay here for as long as you’d like―both of you,” Warnock says.
“Thank you, Father Jack,” Nate says.
I smile. “Those are some strong fighting words for a priest,” I tease.
“Ha!” he laughs. “The day you become a priest, you tell me what words you’re not allowed to say… Then again, no―no, you really shouldn’t become a priest. You might threaten the entire existence of Christianity.”
The last line is a joke, I’m sure. Warnock thinks it’s funny, anyways, and laughs beside himself. I laugh with him, but Nate just smiles, uneasy and cold. Perhaps the hail and rain got to him.
“Well, you both need a shower, too―no offense―so Annika and I will set up a place for the two of you to sleep while you, Nathan, take the first shower. I’m sure there are some sleeping bags and pillows in the Young Scouts’ storage, or even the Retreat’s storage. Then I’ll boil some pasta for the three of us, and we can have a nice dinner. Sound good?”
Nate and I nod and thank him. Then, Warnock leads us out the back of the church and to the extension, closing the door behind him.
I pull the ponytail out of my hair and let my long, dark strands cascade over my shoulders. I grab the half empty bottle of shampoo Warnock gave me―I think he said the Sunday school teachers used it for a craft or something―and a fresh towel and walk into the designated rooms Warnock lives in. He lives simply, or so his room would imply. A bed rests in one corner under a shaded window; a desk with a comfortable chair sits next to the bed with a stack of running magazines on the chair; and a carved, wooden cross with a carving of Jesus hangs on the wall. I think that would be difficult, to live where you work. Well, I suppose the Metanites live like that, too; of course, their situation is different, different and similar.
I grip the door handle to the small bathroom, and someone pulls the door open from the other side. A bare-chested Nate stands at the other end of the door with a towel wrapped around his waist. Steam races off his hot, damp skin, and a trickle of water falls from his strong shoulders, down his glowing chest, across his chiseled abs, and into the towel at his waist.
“Oh my God!” I say. I immediately stare at the floor. “I’m so sorry―I thought you were out.”
“Hey, no problem. I’m just looking for my shirt,” he says, lifting his tone arm to scratch his wet hair.
How haven’t I noticed how… fit he is? Maybe he’s not as strong as Nickel or Elijah, but I must have known he would be in shape.
“You haven’t seen it, have you?”
“Me? Oh, umm, no. No, sorry. I think Father Jack might have thrown it in the wash, maybe.”
“Hmm,” he says.
“He has some clothes laid out for you in the main room, if you want to just change into those.”
“That sounds nice,” he says.
The air behind him is thick with steam, and the mirror reflects a complete fog. I step aside as he exits the bathroom and walks toward the door.
“Oh, Father Jack is making dinner for us in the kitchen. Go ahead and start without me,” I say, looking back.
That’s when I see them: small circles, no bigger than the width of a pencil, that dot Nate’s back, just to the right of his neck. There’s no more than five, but the scars are unusual and pinkish-pale.
“Okay, sounds good,” he says.
I snap back. “Do you know where the kitchen is?” I ask.
“No, but I think I can find it, thanks.”
“Right. Just follow the blaring of the fire alarm.”
“Ha, okay,” he says. And with that, he leaves.
I sigh and walk into the bathroom-made-sauna. What were those scars?
I quickly pull my clothes off and jump into the shower. I turn the shower head on, and scorching-hot water fires at me. While I’m used to cold water or whatever water I could get in the twenty-two months I was on the run, this water burns, at first, but then the heat relaxes my muscles and sooths my head, and I feel like I could fall asleep or stand here forever. I do stand there for a while― longer than I had intended― while I evaluate all the questions and problems that have recently surfaced:
So now the Metanites know―well, maybe they don’t―that I’m not exactly who they think I am, but who do they think I am? Could they really know who I am―what I am? Does Nate? Why did he and Zoë, Cliff too, help me escape Kenyon? They should have tried to stop me, and… and they knew, they must have… they knew about whatever Moton revealed to me in his office, but the others didn’t. How could they have known? But wait… I’m not the only one who needs answers. I brought Nate here―okay, he technically brought me here―and still have given him no explanation of my connection to this place or to Warnock. He probably doesn’t even know who I am―what I am. He may not know much at all about the situation or why he betrayed his friends to help me. All he may know is that I’m the girl who saved his life that day under the bridge by the Cuyahoga River, and maybe that’s enough for him to help me.
I need to tell him. I owe him that much.
When I finally get out of the shower and dry off, I find a folded pair of soft pants and a black T-shirt waiting for me outside the bathroom door. I quickly pull the clothes on and comb my hair, and then I make my way toward the kitchen.
I walk out of Warnock’s room, through the main room where we set-up two sleeping bags each with a pillow, and toward the kitchen. From the angle I’m coming from, I can see Warnock and Nate sitting at the table with half-finished plates of spaghetti with tomato sauce. There’s a small, brown book next to Warnock’s plate, inches from a spot of tomato sauce on the table. Warnock whispers something to Nate, who sits with his back slumped, his elbows on the table, and his eyes buried in the table in deep concentration. Neither are smiling, and neither are conscious of my approaching presence until I’m at the entrance to the kitchen.
“How’s the pasta?” I ask.
They both jerk their heads toward me with self-conscious expressions written across their foreheads. I would care that they were talking about me, but I’m too tired.
“Great, come take a seat and help yourself,” Warnock is quick to recover. He pulls out a chair for me between him and Nate, which I take gladly.
“It smells good,” I say, serving myself a helping of pasta.
Warnock passes me the tomato sauce, and Nate continues eating. There’s an uneasy atmosphere that I’ve stepped into, so I pretend not to notice both Warnock and Nate glancing at me when they think I can’t notice.
“What did I miss?”
“Oh…” Warnock starts, “not much. I was just interviewing your friend Nathan, here, to make sure he’s not a spy.”
“Oh really?” I ask. “And what’s you conclusion?”
“Oh definitely a spy. Definitely,” Warnock replies. He chuckled. “It’s the Catholic in him that gave it away.”
“I can’t help it. I’m Irish,” Nate answers, smiling his fresh, clean smile. I laugh.
“You’re not one to laugh at him,” Warnock says to me. “Tell me, does your new name come with a new-found faith in any form of supernatural?”
I laugh and take a bite of my spaghetti.
“Well, here you go,” Warnock says, pulling the quarter out of his pocket and setting it on the table. “
Now don’t give it back to me. I don’t want it.”
“Thanks,” I say.
I take the quarter and examine it. On the face side, there’s a round sticker with a red sphere in the center, just as I left it. Inside the red sphere is dirt that will bring Dr. Nancy to his knees. It feels strange to hold so much power in my hand; well, so much good power. I stuff the quarter in my pocket.
“Father Jack was telling me how you two know each other,” Nate says.
“Did he?” I ask, taking another bite of the warm pasta.
“I told him how I knew your mother and you and your sister,” Warnock says.
“Hmm,” I reply.
I take another bit of spaghetti. I know the eyes are on me now, but all I can think of is her. Her, with her curly blonde hair and crystal blue eyes, sad eyes. She smiles at me, her sad eyes trying to convince me she’s happy. She glances toward Cassie, then back at me, and then she turns her back to look at Warnock.
“Yeah,” I sigh, “you were there for us. I see you brought out that old poetry book we used to read.”
“It was your favorite,” Warnock said.
“It was her favorite, so of course it had to be mine,” I say.
“Whose favorite?” Nate asks.
“It was my sister’s favorite book for the longest time. Her name was Annika,” Warnock says.
“My godmother,” I say.
I look up at Warnock and smile. He grins and opens the book. His thumb moves the stiff pages from one end to the other, and some bend at creases on their corners. I can hear the pages crackle as he moves them, and the smell of old paper and glue tease my nose.
“Are you looking for Sanctuary?” I ask him. “That was her favorite.”
“I am looking for a different one, actually. It was the only one that she said she couldn’t figure out, but maybe younger eyes can make sense of it. Ah—here it is: The Phoenix,” Warnock says.
Nate and I glance at each other, smile, and wait for the old man to read to us. Warnock puts his reading glasses on, clears his throat, and begins.
“I am fire on fire.
From the flame sing my song.
The Nancy Experiment Page 25