by K. H. Pope
“Lana Wells deserves the attention of this department, Deputy Stewart.”
“You’re right. She does, but it won’t happen, not right now.”
“What about you? You’re not doing anything.”
“To be real honest with you, Alice, I wasn’t supposed to put any effort into Lana’s disappearance at all, but I did against the wishes of the corporation. My only job function here is simply to give Livna whatever information she requires from this office. Another deputy will relieve me shortly, and he or she will have the same duties.”
I look over at Livna, who is at the cabinet once more. She’s pulling out another file and reading the contents. I don’t think she realized what has just happened between me and Pearl.
“Please, Deputy Stewart, help me with this case.”
“Sorry,” he says.
I sigh heavily with disappointment. I am very aware that the United States are being attacked by the Fellowship, and I know that a million lives are at stake. But never did I think that these changes would have an indirect or direct effect on finding Lana. She lives in a small town, miles away from big city problems, surrounded by other small towns with distinct law enforcement agencies who can handle her case. But none of them will do it.
“Good luck,” Deputy Stewart says with a shrug, and he goes back into his office.
Obviously, I’m Lana’s only hope, and that’s not good. Perhaps, I can start my search where she began her day. Follow her footsteps that she took on Friday. It can’t hurt, and anything I do is better than doing nothing. Alright, Plain Dealing, here I come…again.
CHAPTER 3
Lana’s house is at the end of a half mile dirt road that shoots directly off of North Louisiana 3, which is the main throughway in Plain Dealing. A wood and wire fence surrounds the five-acre property. Behind it are railroad tracks and Cypress Bayou Number Three. On the property itself, there’s a separate garage that sets close to the right hand side of the house, and there’s plenty of pine, oak, and a couple of weeping willows to hide the home from the main road.
This is where I met Lana Wells for the first time. It was on June 16, 2018. It was a Saturday evening, and there was a fierce thunderstorm. I was just expelled from Heaven by Judgment, an upper angelic being, whose duties were to perform trials and hand down sentences to angels that break the established Laws of Heaven. My entry back into the atmosphere was fiery and painful. Every bit of my clothes, skin, and hair were burned away, leaving me utterly naked and scarred, and what made it even more agonizing, I was struck by lightning several times. Thanks to Ammon, I did not complete my fall. He caught me in midair and brought me to Lana’s home. I recall her accepting me without hesitation, even though I was literally skinless, and for two months, she took care of me. She made my journey to wellness a comfortable one.
My most favorite memory while being in Lana’s home was when we used to sit on the back deck and listen to the frogs and the crickets. We’d watch the fireflies and talk about everything from the bayou’s dinosaur-sized mosquitoes to the young teenage boys that used North Louisiana 3 as a racetrack. Every night, we did this, and then every once and a while, the freight train would come barreling through. It was hidden by the line of brush and pine trees fifty yards behind her house. Still, that thing spoiled the whole moment, and Lana and I would retire to the living room with our spiked orange juice and watch reruns of I Dream of Jeannie. I think Lana secretly wished she was a genie. She told me once how she’d get rid of poverty. I told her there were unintentional consequences to granting wishes, and that man should always be left to their fate without magical or wishful interference. I think I ruined her dreams.
I hold my breath as I take in the silence of her home. Instantly, I feel a void, the very lack of her life force. Lana really is gone. I look towards the kitchen and then the foyer, which is on the other side of the small hallway, and I watch for any kind of movement. I listen for strange sounds, sniff the air for indications of a dead body, but the only thing I sense is power, not power from electricity, but a familiar magical one. I go towards the foyer first, hoping to find what it is, but I sense I’m getting farther away from it.
When I reach the small vestibule, I scan the area for the source of the power and for anything unusual or out of place. The weirdest thing I see is an oil painting on the wall with splashes of color going in all directions. It’s a creation of uncertainty and misguided vision. Bottom line, it’s confusing.
I move on to the study that’s tucked in the rounded portion of her house to my left off the vestibule. A desk is in the center of the room, but it doesn’t have anything on it. If Lana had a computer or a laptop, it’s gone. Only the chords are left behind. I search inside the desk. There isn’t a bill, a letter, or a notepad anywhere to be found. Someone has cleaned it out. The book shelves still have their books on them, and they seem to be in order. And as for that feeling I’ve been getting, it’s not as strong in this room. Whatever it is, it’s not in here.
On my way back down the hallway, I feel the power getting stronger, and I stop when I get to the basement door. It’s coming from that room. The door is unlocked. I open it and turn on the light. Slowly and carefully, I descend the steps. To my surprise, the basement is finished and in good shape. There’s a sofa against the wall. A table against another wall, and there are shelves with statuettes, trophies, and other trinkets that’s only meaningful to Lana. The power is in this room, but I can’t locate the source. I go to one area, and it feels like the power is coming from someplace else. I go to another, it’s the same thing. I give up. I don’t have time to be chasing a feeling. It’s not Lana’s life force, anyway.
After I leave the basement, I venture to the small family room and kitchen. They are just as Lana left them, really clean. I chuckle at the simplicity of life she has kept within these walls. No automatic dishwasher that tells everything from how many dishes are inside to the exact time it’ll take to clean them. The refrigerator dates back to the late 2000’s. There is no icemaker in the door, and the light bulb was blown the last time I was here. I check to see if Lana has changed it. She hasn’t. Now and days, people can tell their refrigerator what they want, and the thing opens a compartment and presents the item. Lana appreciates the not so automated lifestyle, where it’s okay for her to get a drink of water out of the sink instead of a machine presenting it on a silver platter. I appreciate her sentiments, but there was a time when refrigerators weren’t even in existence. Food spoiled very easily or was at times hard to come by. I think if Lana had lived and seen as much as I have, she would have updated her whole house by now, fully automated down to a robot cleaning the floors.
With no luck in the kitchen, I go to the second floor. The bedrooms’ doors are closed, but I check each room, anyway. They’re all clean. The last one I get to is where I stayed while I was here. It’s the place where I healed, where my human skin replaced the angelic shell that was burned off during the fall. This is where I cried, endured nonstop pain for weeks, and was beyond angry over the injustice of not getting my revenge. The last of my wings fell off in this room, as well. They were burned jagged stumps, but some of the feathers were still luminescent. I still have the scars where the stumps use to be in between my shoulder blades. I shut the door, hoping to block off those painful memories.
With my search completed, I’ve come to the conclusion that there isn’t anything in the house that will point me to Lana. I go back down the steps and out the front door.
From the porch, I can see ankle-high grass, thick hanging trees, and evergreens. Two rabbits dash across the yard. The train is coming. I hear the sharp whistle. The foundation to the house shakes. The train is probably going south to Bossier City, where it’ll cross the Red River to Shreveport. Or perhaps, it’s going north to Lewisville, Arkansas, where the tracks fork and heads east and west. I begin to wonder how the trains are still running. Why hasn’t the Fellowship found a way to stop rail services? Not a question I’m really worried a
bout finding the answer to, but I’m just curious.
After I come out of my daze, I decide to take Lana’s car. Her keys are in the bowl next to the front door. I figure using the transfer chamber isn’t going to be a good idea for my next destination. Those people I’m going to see will not take too kindly to a magical and very sudden appearance.
I go back inside, grab the keys from the table beside the door, and I make sure the house is locked up before heading out to the garage. The yellow Volkswagen Bug is polished and waiting to be driven. I hop inside the driver’s seat and get comfortable. It’s cramped but fully charged. It’ll do nicely for my travels.
CHAPTER 4
As I’m approaching North Louisiana 3 from the driveway, I see that it’s empty. But when I get through the open gate and what I guess is a bubble that surrounds the house, cars begin to appear out of nowhere. And I don’t mean cars are going by at breakneck speeds. The cars I’m looking at are at a complete standstill. The line of vehicles has no end or beginning in either direction, and despite the fact it’s a two-lane road, all cars on both sides are going north. I guess no one cares about the rules of American driving anymore.
Needless to say, I won’t be traveling by car like I thought. Bossier City and Shreveport must be in worse shape than I thought. I put the car in reverse, and the first thing I notice through the back window is that the driveway is gone, replaced by what appears to be an impenetrable forest. The trees are too close to walk through. Lana’s house and front yard is nowhere in sight. I decide to step on the gas and hope that I don’t crash her car. The car goes right through the trees, which is actually the bubble wall. I stop the car once I’m fully back in the front yard. The house is there again, normal as can be. I look out the front window. The cars on North Louisiana 3 are gone. That’s a crazy powerful shield someone has created. I wonder who did it. Lana isn’t a witch. She can’t cast spells or make magic potions. Someone is looking out for her, or her property, at least.
I park the car back in the garage and go back into the house, where I replace the keys and lock up once more. Then I pull out my cell and get on the internet. I have to find a public place within walking distance of St. Eligius Catholic Church, my next destination. An online map shows there’s a shopping mall half a mile on Miciotto Lane. I’ve been in there before. I can easily come out of the stock room of the anchor store, enter right into a catwalk in the back, and not be noticed. While grabbing the knob to the coat closet, I call for the transfer chamber. Within seconds, I’m stepping in and out of the room just where I thought I would be. Immediately, I head for the back exit of the shopping mall. The moment I step outside, the sunlight blinds me. I put on my shades and wait for my eyes to adjust before starting on my way.
The area behind the shopping mall is serene. There’s a back lot, a road, and then there’s a large flat green field across the street. Waddling geese have taken over much of the land. Tall trees border the field in the distance. There isn’t a car to be seen or a horn to be heard. But I know, without a single doubt, the mad exodus isn’t too far away, and the only reason why there aren’t any cars on Miciotto Lane is because it’s a dead end.
St. Eligius Catholic Church sets at this dead end. Its front main entrance is lined with dogwoods and open fields on each side. It is the home for a convent of nuns. It’s also a school for grades K through six.
When I finally reach the church, I see Sister Abigail strolling in a small garden. From what I can see, most of it is green grass, but there are beds of white candytufts, spiky pink bee balms, and pincushions. The balloon flowers are in one corner, and the yellow columbines are thriving in the shade next to the bench against the stone wall of the church. The flowers are happy under Sister Abigail’s caring hands, and they’re showing off only for her.
I stop on the opposite side of the waist-high wall and clear my throat to get her attention. Sister Abigail smiles upon realizing who I am. She’s in her late thirties, a very pretty lady with blue eyes and hints of blonde hair trying to escape her coif. She always thinks and cares for everyone else. Even now her flowers have her full attention. She hasn’t changed since I last saw her.
“Well, look who has come back,” she remarks. “How have you been?”
“I’m good, and you?”
“Blessed,” she answers. “Tell me, are you still claiming to be a fallen angel?”
“It’s no claim, Sister Abigail.”
“Well, after everything I’ve witnessed so far, I believe you now.” She comes over to the wall with hands folded in front. “I suppose you’re here looking for Lana.”
“Yes, I am. Have you seen her lately?”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t. She was supposed to come by yesterday, but she didn’t. Actually, I thought she was staying home because of what was going on. It’s too dangerous to be out in public.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Friday morning. She was right here with me and the Sisters making sandwiches.”
“Did all of you take the sandwiches out to Viking that afternoon or was the trip cancelled?”
“Only her and Max went. The Sisters and I stayed behind. Father Paul’s orders.”
“Who was in the kitchen that morning with her?”
She points to each finger as she recounts the names. “Sister Rebecca, Sister Rachel, and Sister Katherine.”
“Did Lana seem preoccupied or worried? Did she open up about any kind of problems she might be having?”
“No, she was in a very good mood.”
“Did she say anything that caught your attention or something that you thought might have been strange?”
“Nothing I can think of,” Sister Abigail says as shakes her head. “Oh wait, she did mention there was a woman she didn’t see the last time she was in Viking. She was worried about her, scared that she might be hurt. Her name was Fannie or Fran or something along those lines. I can’t remember.”
“What about the last time you went out there with her? Did you notice anyone threatening her? Or was someone smitten with her more so than they should?”
“No, there was nothing like that going on, and if there were, she would have set that person straight. You know as well as I do that Lana might be a gentle soul, but she’s tough as they come. She doesn’t tolerate foolishness.”
“I know.” I pause for a moment, trying to think of other questions, anything that might point me in the right direction. “Did she come back to the church after she handed out the sandwiches?”
“No, she didn’t. She didn’t call, either.”
“What about Max?”
“No phone calls from Max. Actually, I haven’t heard from either one of them since Friday.”
I look at her strangely. “You haven’t heard from Max, either?”
“I’m afraid not, and he didn’t come by yesterday. Not that we planned on going anywhere.”
“So, Lana was here Friday morning doing what she normally does. So was Max, and they left together to hand out food at Viking?”
“That’s correct,” she says.
“Did they call and tell you they made it once they got there?”
“No.”
“Sister Abigail!” Father Paul calls from the entrance of the church. “You have a phone call from your brother.”
“Praise God, he’s okay.” Sister Abigail turns to me. “I have to get this. I haven’t spoken to him since the attacks started Saturday.”
“Go on, Sister Abigail. Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you, and it’s good seeing you again.” She gives me a smile before rushing into the church.
Father Paul comes out into the garden. He looks older but happy. His salt and pepper hair crowns a wrinkled face and bright brown eyes. Lana first introduced me to him in late June of 2018, like I was a novelty to be gawked at, or rather, that was my perception at the time. Looking back, I realize she meant no harm and was only trying to be nice. Father Paul questioned me about being a fall
en angel. He made me feel like I was being interrogated. Afterwards, I told Lana not to tell anyone else who I was. Some folks have come to accept that supernatural beings exist on this planet and have been for centuries, but there are others who do not believe in witches, elves, vampires, fallen angels, or others of the type. Some believe, but are very much afraid of us and don’t like us. Father Paul is one of the latter, and right now, I’m feeling real uncomfortable being in his presence.
“Good afternoon,” he speaks with an outreached hand.
“Father Paul,” I answer as I step back from the wall.
“Still don’t want to shake my hand.”
“You know why.”
“I supposed you’ve heard about Lana and Max.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Mm-hmm, and I presume you came by here looking for Lana.”
“Yes, I am looking for her.”
“Why don’t you let the sheriff’s office handle it? You’re not really qualified to be a detective.” And there it is, that show of disdain I get from him. He has never come right out and said it, but I know, without a doubt, that Father Paul does not like me one bit.
“The police aren’t looking for her,” I reply, “and they won’t, as long as Shreveport and Bossier City are under attack.”
“You’re making assumptions.”
“Father-”
“There’s nothing that proves Lana is missing or in some type of trouble. I’m sure she’s somewhere safe, taking it easy. For years, she’s been volunteering here at the church and handing out food to many of the homeless. She deserves a break, and I think you should leave her alone.”
I ignore the fact he interrupted me with his last statement, and I ask in a calm tone of voice, “When was the last time you saw Lana and Max, Father?”
He exhales, takes a pause, and says, “Here at the church Friday morning.”
