Sinner

by Ted Dekker

  The judge had then given Kat a choice—forty hours of anger-management classes, or a hundred hours of community service at one of the shelters. She’d taken anger classes twice before. At least the shelter would give her an opportunity to hang out downtown. The consensus between her friends Jay and Carla was that choosing a hundred hours over forty hours was stupid, but then they didn’t really know Kat. They dressed the same, talked the same, dated the same types now and then, but deep down, Kat wasn’t like any of them. Not the Christians, not the Muslims, not the Jews, not even the other witches.

  The bus rocked down Adams Boulevard and slowed to a stop in front of the shelter. Kat walked to the rear door, watched an older man with pale blue eyes look her over. And what did he see? A dark-skinned teenager with long straight hair who looked part Indian, part Anglo, part black, all attitude. Jeans. Black flip-flops. If he looked closer he might see the scars on her arm from the period she and her friends had taken to cutting themselves before deciding it was a pointless expression of angst.

  An object, not a person, that’s what he saw.

  His gaze shifted from hers when he saw that she was staring back at him. Same thing every time in this town. They looked because they disapproved, but they didn’t have the guts to hold a stare. No one in this world did.How could they expect anyone to follow a certain path if they weren’t willing to hold eyes while giving directions? The world had lost its willpower, she thought.

  She swung onto the steps and exited the bus. Boulder City had grown from the small-town tourist-trap at the entrance to Lake Mead. The homeless and less fortunate had spread south from Las Vegas. Now it was nothing more than a gray city without the bright lights that Vegas offered at night.

  Kat walked into Our Lady of the Desert Community Shelter and looked around. No religious icons suggested it was run by the Catholics, naturally; not if they accepted any government funding. Five or six brown couches faced the walls. A television hung in one corner, playing a twenty-four-hour news feed. Small groups of ragged-looking poor—or scammers, as her friends called them—loitered.

  Signs hung over several doors: Dining Room,Recreation Hall, Boarding, Office.

  Kat entered the office, signed in after speaking to a Miss Barbara Collins (the Manager on Duty according to her badge), a large woman with red hair who processed her court orders and handed her a blue volunteer badge.

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “You can start by mopping the bathroom floor. You think you can handle that?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You always got a choice. Next time you might want to wear sneakers.

  Them flip-flops is liable to get wet working around here.”

  “I thought I was going to work in the kitchen.”

  “Cleaning up in the kitchen goes two hours past chowtime and commences an hour prior. When that time comes, if you’re here, you can do all the work you want in the kitchen. We feed fifty hungry mouths every night. Right now, you need to clean the bathroom. Mop’s in the closet next to the women’s stalls.”

  The whole notion of completing a hundred hours of service in this building weighed like a mountain on her shoulders. But then she’d known it would be like this even as she took the swing that cracked Leila’s jaw. This is gonna hurt me more than it is you, and I already hate you for it.

  “We good?”

  “Not really, no,” Kat said. She turned without another word and left the office.

  “I’m leaving, so check in with the kitchen when you have the floor clean,” the MOD called after her. “And don’t forget to put up them wet-floor cones.”

  It took her less than half an hour to do the floors, because from the moment water splashed on her flip-flops she began slipping like a fish. There was no way she could do a decent job, so she slapped the mop around enough to wet the floor and then put the bucket away.

  When she poked her head into the office, she saw that Miss Barbara was gone, as promised. In fact, this whole end of the shelter looked vacant. The scammers had probably gone off for some handout or other. She decided to give the premises a quick once-over before reporting to the kitchen.

  Kat walked through bunkrooms, wondering what it would be like to spend a night under one of the army-green blankets next to some stranger. She headed for the recreation hall.

  Her father had long ago split, leaving her mother with an only child. Amazing they hadn’t ended up in one of these places. Her mother, Helena, seemed to do well dealing nights at the casino tables at the new casino in Henderson. They shared a two-bedroom apartment on the north side of Boulder City and saw each other several times a week. It wasn’t the lifestyle of the rich or famous, but at least they weren’t forced to beg on the streets.

  Kat entered the recreation hall—a gym actually, with a basketball court and a stage. These didn’t concern her. The seven meatheads who stood in a line facing her, however, did.

  They were from her school. Several from her grade, a few juniors and seniors, standing there like they were lined up for a game, staring her down.

  “Hello, witch.”

  She turned around, surprised by the voice. The student standing in the doorway she’d entered through was an older student she’d seen around school—a Muslim who wore a black bandana over slicked hair, signifying his loyalty to his faith. Any such religious symbol was prohibited on school grounds, naturally, but it was still a free country off school property.

  He grinned. “You know who I am?”

  “A Muslim who knows I’m a witch,” she said. “Why, are you lost?”

  “Very funny, lady.” The boy stepped a few steps closer. “Are all witches so funny?”

  She’d walked into an ambush. These were friends of Leila, whose jaw she’d broken. They’d come to teach her a lesson.

  One of the boys who stood abreast spoke in Arabic, thinking she didn’t understand. But she’d learned enough around school to make out that he was saying they should do it quickly, whatever it was.

  Kat backed onto the wood floor and scanned the walls for exits. Only two: one beyond the boys, and the door she’d entered.

  “Asad,” the boy said. “Asad bin Fadil. So that you will remember who has done this to you.”

  “Katrina Kivi,”Kat said. “So that when you wake up blind, you’ll know who took your eyes.”

  He wasn’t sure what to do with her response; she knew by the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Easy, Kat, remember the judge’s terms. She should be running already.

  But running felt like suicide to her, not because it was dangerous but because it was cowardly. There were some things she couldn’t bring her-self to do. Running from a person she hated was one of them.

  And Katrina hated Asad. She knew this having only just made his acquaintance.

  “You struck a Muslim,” the older boy said.

  “No, actually, I struck an idiot. The fact that she was also a Muslim was coincidental.”

  “She was also a very close friend of mine.”

  “I thought Muslim men kept their women in order. So why did you allow her to insult me?”

  Asad let his grin fade. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that all Muslims are as tolerant as the millions of pretenders who call themselves Muslims. I would as soon insult any Muslim who mocks God by refusing to follow the Koran as insult an infidel who worships Satan.”

  “Then we have more in common than you think,” she said. “I hate pretenders as well.”

  He stopped. “We have nothing in common but the ground we walk on, and I promise you that it will soon be covered with your blood.”

  “Or the fluid from your eyes.”

  One of the others chuckled, coaxing a smile from Asad. “A feisty one. You’d make a good wife for the cold nights.”

  “I think I’d probably throw up all over you,” she said. The familiar calm before the storm settled over her.

  Asad dipped his head. “And for that I would kill you.”


  “Didn’t Muhammad preach peace?”

  “Peace for the peaceful. Death to those who refuse to convert. How can you worship Satan? It’s an abomination!”

  “I’m not a Satanist. I’m a witch, for the fun of it. My way of protesting all world religions. Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and for that matter, Satanism. I find them all absurd. So I converted to my own religion. Witchery.”

  “Then you worship only yourself. Disgusting.” Asad cast a glance at the others, who closed in slowly. He spit to one side. “Don’t be fooled by the weak. God is great.”

  “Really? He’s no longer willing to defend the helpless in this god-forsaken place. I assumed it was because he is dead.”

  Asad’s hands balled into fists.

  She continued to goad him, seeking an advantage. “Your God, this so-called God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jesus that you Muslims live and kill for, is no more real than the God Christians have been killing for since the dawn of time. Muhammad was no more a prophet than Jesus was.”

  Asad’s eyes flashed in the face of all of the terrible insults to his sacred faith.

  “Muslims are as deluded as Christians. You’re all a bunch of—”

  “Stop!” he screamed. And Kat threw herself at him then, while his eyes were momentarily shut, midscream.

  She reached his face before he could knock her away, cutting his jaw with two of her black nails.

  Asad flailed with both arms, but the abruptness of her attack had taken him off guard. He swiped thin air as she ducked under and away.

  She brought her knee up into his gut and shoved him toward his friends, who were diving in for the kill.

  Run, Katrina!

  Running from seven boys who had blood in their faces was no act of cowardice. But this realization came too late. She should have tried to outrun them instead of trying to infuriate their leader—a strategy that offered no advantage over the others.

  She clawed at Asad’s back, ripping his shirt and the skin beneath. And then she sprinted for the rear door.

  A hand slammed into her back, shoving her forward. The flip-flops had dried, but they weren’t made for running. She tripped over her own feet as she tried to catch herself, slammed to the floor, and rolled to avoid a vicious kick.

  One of the boys fell on her—his mistake, because he could have just as easily kept her down with his boots. But Kat was best close in, where her claws and teeth became effective weapons.

  Screaming, she grabbed the boy by his hair and jerked his head closer. She got her teeth on his chin and bit hard.

  He howled and rolled off, leaving a chunk of his skin behind. Kat spat it out and rolled to her feet, energized by her small victory.

  “Is that all the power your God gave you?” she cried. “You can’t lick one stinking witch!”

  Five of them descended on her at once, and she knew that she was in real trouble now. A fist smashed into her back. Another struck the side of her head.

  She kicked hard, felt her heel connect with a bone. Heard it snap.

  “Enough!”

  The voice rang through the rafters from behind her attackers. As one, the Muslims spun to face it. In the doorway stood a white-collared priest dressed in jeans, black boots, and jacket. Tall, blond, and at first glance Kat could see that he was well built under his loose-fitting clothes. He wore dark sunglasses despite the dim light.

  “Get away from the girl.”

  Asad clearly wasn’t ready to release the woman who’d bloodied him, bitten off one friend’s chin, and broken the bone of another, who was cradling his left arm.

  “Trust me, son, you don’t want me to tell you again. Get your hands off the girl and leave this building before I lose my patience.”

  Asad released her shoulder.

  “Leave,” the man said.

  The boy nodded at his friends, then looked at Kat. “Hide behind his collar today. Tomorrow is a new day, witch.”

  They left reluctantly out the back door, wearing scowls.

  Kat walked toward him, mind swelling with the judge’s words. “I’m sorry, Father, I swear I didn’t start that. We can keep this to ourselves. Right?”

  The man pulled off his white collar, turned, and left the room. What kind of priest would do such thing? She’d just been assaulted, for heaven’s sake! Kat walked after him.

  “Hey! Did you see what happened in there? You saw it, right?”

  He walked down the hall.

  “Listen to me!” she shouted.

  The man reached for the door that led into the main atrium and turned back. “The whole world is listening, Katrina Kivi.”

  Only then did she see the camera mounted in the corner above him. Of course, for legal reasons, every move in this publicly funded facility was captured on film. Including the violence she’d leveled at the Muslims, regardless of how justified.

  “Then help me,” she said. “You’re a priest, please help me.”

  “I’m not a priest. But I do know your case, and I know that help is the last thing you want. A few months in prison might adjust your attitude.”

  Kat stood trembling with rage. She had the right to defend herself from extremists like Asad. For that matter she’d had the right to break Leila’s jaw. She would be completely within her rights to slap this fellow for his arrogance.

  Her anger was pointless, she realized, and as soon as she did, it was replaced by thoughts of prison.

  “Then why did you save me?”

  “Because you need saving. But the judge will see the video feed and she will stay true to her word.”

  “I had no choice!”

  “You could have run.”

  “I don’t run.”

  “No. You fight.” The man stared at her through his dark glasses, hand still on the door handle. “It’s a pity.”

  “You pity me standing up to them?”

  “I pity you for standing up for your pitiful self.” He opened the door and started to step through.

  “Wait. What’s your name?”

  The man in dark glasses turned his head back to her and hesitated like a man trying to decide if he should answer.

  “Johnny,” he said.

  “Then listen to me, Johnny, whoever you are. I’m begging you, I’ll do anything. Please don’t tell the judge.”

  “I don’t think you understand. This institution is managed by the church, but it’s state owned. We have protocol. I’ve read the file. The court has ordered your service monitored.”

  “Then you’re saying that there’s nothing you can do. Absolutely nothing, so help you God?”

  He stared at her for a long moment.

  “Please, Johnny. It’s not like me to beg, surely you’ve gathered that much. But I’m begging you. Just give me one more chance. I’ll do anything. Legal, that is.”

  He hadn’t moved for over a minute now. Finally he pulled a pen and slip of paper from his shirt pocket, scribbled something on it, and offered it to her. She hurried forward and plucked it from his hand.

  “Be at this address at six o’clock tonight. We’ll talk to you.”

  She glanced at the address. “We?”

  “Kelly and I.”

  “Talk to me about what?”

  “About if there’s any hope for you.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C. Darcy rode in the back of the black Lexus sport utility vehicle, trying to adjust herself after five hours of dead sleep. Billy sat to her right, still sacked out. Prior to leaving, Brian Kinnard had given her fifteen minutes to pull together what belongings she needed and promised that his people would secure the house until she returned. Someone would come for the body he’d laid out on a tarp in the garage.

  How long until she returned, Kinnard refused to speculate. But he insisted there was no need to take any personal belongings that could be replaced. Money would not be an issue.

  She’d gathered the clothes she felt most comfortable wearing—mo
stly jeans and cotton dresses often pegging her as a hippie—her vampire novels, journal, more novels, iPod containing her entire collection of audio-books and over a thousand albums. Her stuffed bunny, which she’d hugged every night for the last ten years, affectionately named . . . Bunny.

  The rest of her life fit on one twenty-terabyte jump drive—large enough to fit a backup of her main drive and her entire HD3D movie collection.

  When all was said and done, Darcy felt humbled by the fact that her whole world fit so easily inside two rolling duffel bags.

  Kinnard had made Billy park the Porsche next to the electric Chevy in Darcy’s garage. She watched him quickly transfer his possessions into the back of the Lexus, taking some comfort in the realization that his whole world fit into one duffel bag.

  He shrugged. “I’m not big on things.”

  “Yeah,” she said.“Me either.”

  They’d left Lewistown and headed south through Maryland toward Washington, the District of Columbia.

  Kinnard spent the trip on the phone, setting up a meeting of what he was calling the council. It was clear that none of this so-called council was eager to drop whatever they had going tonight to meet about “something they couldn’t afford to miss,” as Kinnard was putting it. Not even “something that could change the landscape of American politics.”

  Darcy didn’t share his conviction. She had no intention of changing anything but the current situation, which was dragging her away from a good life, thank you very much.

  “Welcome to the Beltway,” Kinnard said as they neared their destination. “The home of politics. Abandon all hope, ye who enter.”

  They drove along I-495, eighteen lanes of expressway that formed a loop around D.C., twenty miles across.“Falls Church is that way.”Kinnard jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Bethesda is down south, and once we hit the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, you’ll be over the Potomac and inside the Beltway proper. Make sure your soul is attached at all times—this town will steal it in a second, given the chance.”

  “God help us all,” Billy said. Darcy turned to see that he was awake and staring at her. She had her glasses on, something she would be more careful about now.