“Yeah. They will,” I answer, guilt flaring beneath my skin.
“Are you sure we can’t go home?” she asks, looking up from her plate of food, her eyes suddenly hopeful. “I mean if there’s a watcher on my house already, maybe I’d be safe there.”
“I’m sorry, Harper,” I say and shake my head. “Black Angels’ orders are to keep going. To not stay in one spot longer than a day. There’s no way there’s not at least one of Fernando’s guys in New Albany right now. And as much as I want you to be with your family for Christmas, I’d also like to keep you alive.”
“I know,” Harper says, noisily dropping her fork against her ceramic plate before placing her forehead in both hands. She takes in a heavy breath. “I just really miss them. I haven’t seen them since they dropped me off at school. They kept asking to visit but I told them I was too busy. Kind of wish I would have let them come now.”
“You’ll see them again soon,” Luke answers, reaching across the table and touching Harper’s forearm.
“Will I?” Harper asks, eyeing us both, suspicious.
“I hope so,” I say, not wanting to depress her any further. “We will get this sorted out. I promise.”
“It just feels like this won’t end until there’s a body count,” Harper says, rubbing her face into her palms until her cheeks blaze crimson. And she’s right. Death feels like the only way out of this.
The all-consuming fear I’ve pushed down into the deepest parts of my body begins to rise, spreading like poison, crippling my veins. I pull in a breath, trying to control it, and return my body to a state of numbness so Harper can’t see the panic swelling behind my eyes.
“I just hope the bodies aren’t ours,” Harper says, practically stealing the words right out of my mouth. Words I’d never dare say out loud.
Me too, Harper. Me too.
TWELVE
“Oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining … It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth…”
Luke has been scanning the radio on the drive to our nearby motel, but the only stations we can find are playing Christmas music. He finally just gives up, and we drive through the city in silence, listening to the sounds of the season.
We pull up to a stoplight in downtown Waterloo and Luke puts on his signal to turn left. Across the street is a beautiful stone church on a small hill. I’ve always loved church architecture, and this one is particularly magnificent with its enormous circular stained-glass window, arched doorways, and titanic towers that flank each side. A manger scene is lit up in front, complete with the Three Wise Men and angels and a baby Jesus, swaddled in the Virgin Mother’s arms.
“This is going to sound like an odd request,” Harper says, leaning forward and poking her head in between the two front seats. “But do you mind if we go inside the church for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Luke answers, turning around in his seat to look at Harper. “I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I was baptized Catholic but my family and I are total Chreasters,” Harper answers.
“What’s that mean?” I ask as the light turns green. Luke turns left and pulls the Jeep into an empty spot in front of the church.
“Christmas and Easter Catholics,” she says, taking off her seat belt. “The bad Catholics who take up room on holidays. We used to go to Midnight Mass every Christmas Eve. I never wanted to go. But it’s weird … I think I’m going to miss it. I’m sort of yearning all of a sudden for the smell of the pews and old hymnals. I just want to go inside for a few minutes. Light a candle. Say a prayer.”
“Of course,” I answer, unclicking my seat belt. “We’ll go with you.”
“Yeah, a little God couldn’t hurt us right now,” Luke says, putting the car in park and turning off the ignition.
“Hang on a second,” I say, placing a hand on Luke’s, stopping him from opening the driver’s side door. “Let’s just make sure no one is tailing us.”
The car feels like a vacuum as we each hold our collected breaths. I turn around, studying the road, the parking spaces, the church itself. Downtown Waterloo is deserted. Everyone is at home, setting out cookies for Santa or reading ’Twas the Night Before Christmas.
“Looks like we’re clear,” I say but drop my Glock 22 into my purse. Just in case. I button the top of my peacoat and pull my knit cap down until the fraying fabric is covering my ears. I pop open the Jeep’s door and my face is immediately struck by a gust of freezing wind that makes my teeth chatter.
“Jesus,” Luke says as we race up the church steps. “Did it get colder since we left the diner?”
I hug my arms to my chest as we climb the final steps and Luke pulls open one of the heavy wood doors. When we enter the church’s foyer, a priest, dressed in a colorful Christmas robe, is heading in from the main part of the church, his eyes widening at the sight of the three of us.
“Can I help you?” the priest asks, stopping in his tracks.
“I’m sorry, is it okay if we come in?” Harper asks as we step farther inside, already comforted by the foyer’s blast of heat.
“Of course,” the priest says. His eyes are kind and his voice is monotone (which I bet makes for some very sleepy homilies). “All are welcome here. Especially on Christmas Eve. Will you be joining us later for Midnight Mass?”
“Probably not,” Harper answers sheepishly. “We just wanted to light a candle and say a prayer.”
“Well, please come in,” the priest replies. “As long as you don’t mind the choir practicing while you pray, stay as long as you’d like.”
“Thank you, Father,” Harper says, removing her hat and shaking out her hair. “Merry Christmas.”
“And Merry Christmas to you,” the priest answers, clutching the tattered Bible to his chest. “May God bless you all.”
“Thank you,” I answer, my hands immediately drawn together in a clumsy state of prayer. I have to resist the sudden and weird urge to bow, which I know is completely wrong. My body flinches awkwardly anyway as the priest gives me a small smile before disappearing down the dark hallway.
“Reagan, what’s wrong with you?” Harper whispers but her voice still carries, echoing off the foyer’s vaulted ceilings. “What is this, like your first time in a church?”
“I didn’t grow up religious,” I answer as we make our way into the church’s main space. (Chapel? Sanctuary? Whatever it’s called.) “I’ve only been to church for a couple weddings and a funeral. What do you want from me?”
“You’re supposed to know how to blend in, right?” Harper answers, rolling her eyes. “Isn’t that what your parents trained you to do?”
“They skipped the exercise about coming into churches I don’t belong to in random cities on Christmas Eve,” I whisper back.
“Guys,” Luke says quietly and points toward the cross on the altar. “Jesus can hear you.”
“Oh, stop it,” Harper says, slapping his arm. “Okay, I’m going to go light some candles. I’ll come find you guys in a bit.”
Harper’s boots echo on the stone floors as she walks toward a row of candles, a statue of the Blessed Mother perched benevolently behind the tower of flickering light.
“Shall we,” Luke says, placing his hand on the small of my back and motioning up the main aisle toward row after row of uniformed wood pews. It’s only the second time he’s touched me voluntarily since before the warehouse in Indonesia.
“Sure,” I answer and we slowly make our way up the aisle, taking a seat at a pew in the middle.
The pew’s wood is dark and smooth and cold. An organ begins to play somewhere behind us and I immediately recognize the melody: “Angels We Have Heard on High.” I stare straight ahead, studying the altar. A large stone cross hangs in the center, flanked by two evergreen trees, simply decorated in twinkling white lights and gold ribbons, while red poinsettias line the altar’s steps.
“What’s that smell?” I ask, taking in a breath and trying to put my finger on the perfume that seems to be
everywhere in this church.
“It’s incense,” Luke answers.
“But I don’t see it burning anywhere,” I say, my eyes scanning the altar, the aisle, and the back of the church.
“Catholic churches always smell like this,” he answers. “Decades of incense just soak into every part of this place. The pews, the hymnals, the drapery on the altar. It never leaves. Just gets deeper every time they use it.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, looking over at Luke.
“I was raised Catholic,” he replies, leaning forward in the pew, staring straight ahead at the altar as he rests his forearms on his muscular thighs.
“But … I lived next door to you for over a year,” I answer, narrowing my eyes, confused. “We used to go on runs on Sunday morning. You used to say that was ‘our religion.’ I don’t ever remember you mentioning going to church.”
“Well, we had stopped going by then,” he answers, looking down at the ground. He clears his throat as his brain sorts through what he wants to say. “My dad. He was raised Catholic. My mom wasn’t, but she’d still go to church with us and stuff. We used to go a lot actually. Not every Sunday, but a couple times a month at least. But after he lost over half of his unit on one of his last tours … he just … he came home a very different person. Said he didn’t want to go to church anymore. So we stopped.”
“Not even on holidays?” I ask.
Luke shakes his head. “No. I never really asked why.” He looks down, lacing his fingers together then pulling them apart. Together. Apart. Together. Apart. “I think maybe he was angry with God. Being a colonel, you’re prepared to watch people die. He knew it could happen. He’d been really lucky in his career up to that point. Hadn’t lost a lot of people. He was really close to that unit. So after he lost almost everyone to that roadside bomb, he just … was never really the same.”
“Is that when he left active duty?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah,” he answers, nodding his head, still avoiding my eyes. “It messed him up pretty good. I think he has a lot of survivor’s guilt. He still consults and spends a lot of time in DC. He just … never wants to be over there again. I can’t really blame him. Just like I should probably find a way to stop blaming you for everything that has happened.”
Luke finally turns his head, his eyes locking with mine, his face peaceful and still. He’s looked at me since Indonesia. But I don’t think he’s really seen me. I was just a body, a figure in his line of sight. But right now, he’s looking at me like he used to. Like I’m still Reagan. And I look back like he’s still Luke.
“You can blame me,” I answer, the words thick on my tongue, struggling to get out of my mouth. I clear my throat and look away. I pick up a hymnal and flip through it, not really looking at a single gospel or song. The pages might as well be blank.
“But I shouldn’t,” Luke responds softly.
“I deserve to be blamed,” I whisper and Luke leans his body into mine, my voice barely audible over the sounds of the organ. “I didn’t listen to you. I was selfish. I didn’t care what you thought or what could happen. All I could think about was killing him. And I shouldn’t have. I regret it. I regret it so much and I’m so sorry for what it’s done to you. To Harper. To all of us. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
Tears sting my eyes and the tiny printed gospels and songs begin to blur together until all I see is a swirl of white and gray. As the first tear falls, Luke touches my forearm and moves his body toward mine.
“You didn’t ask to be a Black Angel. You were born into it,” he says, his lips near my ear so I can hear him over the music. His warm breath on my skin sends my body buzzing. “And you certainly didn’t ask for your mother to get murdered.”
“Yeah, but I chose to go to Colombia,” I reply, the tears falling as I mindlessly flip through the book. “I chose to track down Santino for a year. To go rogue and kill him. You didn’t.”
“I know. And I can’t lie and say I wish you had chosen differently, Reagan,” he answers, reaching out and stopping my hands from flipping through the hymnal. He slowly closes the book on my lap and slides his hand into mine. “But I chose this because I chose you.”
“O come all ye faithful / joyful and triumphant / O come ye o come ye to Bethlehem.”
The sound of a little girl singing fills the church. Luke and I turn around to see a small children’s choir standing in the church’s balcony, dressed in their Christmas Eve best; fluffy dresses and tiny suits and colorful hair ribbons and bright bow ties. The choir director raises her hands and the rest of their tiny mouths begin to sing.
As we turn in our pew and watch the children sing, Luke squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. For a few moments, I forget about Fernando and his team of assassins and the sad motel room where I’ll lay my head for a handful of hours tonight. For just a few seconds, I feel those butterflies flapping against my stomach. And I can’t tell if it’s the warmth that comes on Christmas Eve or the feeling of Luke’s hand in mine. Maybe it’s both.
I close my eyes, holding on to it. Because I know it won’t last. Because I know there are still men searching for us, anxious for our blood on their hands.
THIRTEEN
The TV light flickers, causing a strange glare against the dark window, hindering my view. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. The red digital numbers read 2:47. I’m supposed to wake Luke up in thirteen minutes to stand watch. But his face looks so peaceful as he sleeps. It’s the most serene I’ve seen him in weeks. I hate to wake him.
I study the curve of his closed eyelids and wonder what he’s dreaming about, just as he turns and rolls his body toward the wall. The bed frame lets out a squeaky sigh beneath the changing weight.
The room smells like mold and cigarettes despite our asking for a nonsmoking room. I guess the no-smoking sign—printed with ink that was nearing the end of its life and clumsily taped up over the safety instructions on the door—is a mere suggestion. I stand up from my chair near the window and walk in between the two double beds, turning off the late-night infomercial for some miracle nonstick pan. Harper and Luke fell asleep watching the end of It’s a Wonderful Life.
“It’s not Christmas Eve without George Bailey,” Harper said, flipping on NBC as soon as we got back to our motel room, two miles away from the church. Harper and Luke zonked out before Clarence could earn his wings. I stared outside at the falling snow, listening to the city of Bedford Falls come together and save the Bailey family from ruin before spontaneously erupting into the chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.”
I had my back turned toward the TV, but I’ve watched the movie so many times, I could see the entire black-and-white scene play out in my mind. I knew the looks of joy and love sketched on every character’s face. I always cry at the end of that movie. That last scene used to remind me that there were wonderful people in the world. That good does triumph over evil. But tonight, I cried alone in the dark, knowing that former sentiment, that wide-eyed belief in the goodness of people, was far from true.
There are only a few cars in the parking lot of this roadside motel. A blue minivan. A black Honda civic. A champagne-colored (and falling apart) Lexus. And a granite Volkswagen Golf. Each car has at least two inches of newly fallen snow on its hood and windshield. My eyes scan the dark rooms on the other side of the motel, stopping at one window, aglow behind the closed beige curtains. I wonder what those guests are doing in there at three a.m. on Christmas Eve. What they’re all doing here really. On the road, trying to reach loved ones for Christmas Day? Or running away from a stressful Christmas Eve family blowup?
“Reagan,” I hear Luke whisper, sending my eyes away from the window. He rubs his face with the palm of his hand before turning the digital clock toward him. “Is it my turn yet?”
“No, I’m okay,” I whisper, trying not to stir Harper sleeping just a few feet away, her body spread out on the bed like a starfish. “Go back to sleep.”
“You’ve slept like five hours total in
the last few days,” Luke answers with a long yawn. He throws on his sweatshirt and socks before climbing out of the bed and making his way toward my side of the room. He picks the Glock 22 pistol out of my lap. “You need to go to sleep.”
“Honestly, I don’t mind staying up a little longer,” I say, although my body is desperate for rest.
“No, go to sleep,” Luke says, rubbing me on the shoulder with his free hand.
“Okay,” I say, still staring out the window, slow to get up and put on my pajamas. The snow continues to fall in thick, fat flakes, their weight making the descent down to earth somehow seem slower.
“Hmm,” Luke’s mouth makes a sound behind me.
“What is it?” I ask as I watch what looks like tiny white parachutes.
“It looks like a snow globe out there,” he answers, taking a seat in the chair next to me. “I feel like we never got lucky with snow on Christmas Eve like this in Ohio. You’d think we would. It’s cold enough there. But I can’t remember the last time we got snow on Christmas. I think our last Christmas there it was like fifty-eight degrees or something.”
“I remember,” I answer with a small laugh. “Your dad drove around with the top down on his convertible.”
“That’s right,” he replies and smiles, and the memory of his father wearing a Santa hat and waving while driving down the street comes back to me. After a few seconds, Luke’s smile is replaced with a sigh.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just … I can deal with being away from them most of the time. Like the other three hundred sixty-three days of the year, I guess I’ve accepted that I can’t really see my family or have a ton of contact with them. I just wish I could hit the fast-forward button over Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Magically wake up on December 26.”
“Yeah,” I answer, nodding and resting my chin in my hand. “These days suck. Makes me feel like an asshole for ever complaining about being too old to build a gingerbread house or wishing I could hide under the table while my uncle fights with my dad over who gets to carve the turkey.”
You Won't See Me Coming Page 9
