Jones 3624 stepped to the side and pointed toward the ambulance where Rebel was being cleaned up and examined.
“O-kay,” she said. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have guessed Rebel was a better option. But yes, that’s who I mean.”
“Now, Ms. McCloud, I don’t doubt your story—”
“You should.”
Jones 3624 jerked his head back. “I should?”
“I mean, it’s unbelievable. Here I am telling you the guy sitting right over there, probably thinking about banging that EMT, was shot multiple times in the chest and head. No offense, Officer Jones, but if you didn’t doubt my story with that sort of visual evidence saying the contrary, I’d worry about your ability to do your job.”
He didn’t respond, just leaned back slightly and narrowed his eyes at her.
“It was a miracle,” she said. “I performed a miracle on him. He was dead as a doornail, and I sent God powers into him and then his body healed and he is now the Rebel we all know and wish we didn’t. I know you’re not supposed to lie to the cops, so I’m telling you the truth and hoping you believe me.”
“I do believe you.”
“You do?”
“Yes, ma’am. I know who you are, Ms. McCloud. I know what you do. The problem is that it’s not up to me how these things play out after I write the report.”
“Oh.”
“But I do happen to know that the owner of the store suspected one of his employees was stealing coffee, so he set up a security camera pointing behind the counter. Assuming you’re telling the truth, that’ll show it.”
The female officer who had been first on scene with Jones 3624 walked up and introduced herself and Officer McBride. “Wanted to let you know the paramedics are hopeful for his recovery … mainly because there was no clear sign of injury, outside of the blood consistent with gunshot wounds.” She arched an eyebrow at Jessica and cocked her head to the side slightly.
“That’s good,” Jessica said.
McBride turned to Jones. “You know, you see this kind of thing again and again, week in and week out, and you think you’ll reach a point where there’re no more surprises. Then something like this comes along.”
Jessica jumped in. “You see this kind of thing often?”
“Oh yeah,” McBride said, resting her hands on her belt. “This one will make the news, but most of them don’t.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
McBride shrugged, a single corner of her mouth turning downward. “The victims are poor or it’s your garden variety domestic violence or the perps are people the news doesn’t want to vilify.”
“So Austin truly isn’t a safe—”
McBride chuckled. “Oh no, no, no.”
A strange question occurred to her, one that probably had no precedent in the United States legal system. “What’ll happen to the shooter when you catch him? Will he be charged with murder?”
McBride looked at Jessica like she was crazy before looking over her shoulder at Rebel then back toward Jones.
He held up a hand to let his coworker—“I’ll explain later,”—then returned his attention to Jessica. “I doubt it. But we’ll have to see what’s on that footage. It’ll be one hell of a court case, either way. We’ll charge him with it, but it might be that we have to stick with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, or attempted murder.”
“You can add a cherry on top of that,” McBride said, pointing toward a Gun-Free Zone sign by the front door.
“Oh man,” Jones said, sarcasm dripping, “how did that sign not stop it? Color me surprised.”
“Huh,” said Jessica. “I guess that explains why no one else was armed.”
McBride aimed a finger gun at her. “Bingo.”
Jessica continued to stare at the gun-free zone sign that looked about as official as the vanity plate she’d had on her tricycle as a child. “So how do you stop this type of thing from happening?” she asked. It was her second gun encounter since she’d moved to Austin, and that seemed like two too many. There was at least one firearm in every home in Mooretown, as far as she knew, and nothing like this ever happened.
Well, outside of Jameson Fractal’s brutal assassination, but she’d always assumed the shooter was some city asshole anyway.
“What, people bringing guns places?” McBride asked. “In Texas?”
“Yes.”
“Oh honey. You can’t stop it.”
Jessica cringed. “That’s comforting.”
Officer McBride reached over and rubbed Jessica’s back in a gentle, motherly way. “Don’t worry, though, Ms. McCloud. Guns don’t kill people …”
“McBride,” Jones 3624 said in a low, warning tone.
She ignored him. “Men do.”
Jones rolled his eyes, mumbling, “Always spreading her damn feminist hate speech …” and the two officers walked back to their cars, leaving Jessica alone in a crowd of unarmed witnesses.
Unsure what else to do, she pulled out her phone and texted Cash: I apologize in advance.
The reply was immediate: What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?
No point in explaining. They’d find out soon enough.
Chapter Twenty
Jessica finished scribbling a thick set of eyebrows on the watermelon and set it up on the last empty cinderblock before stepping back to admire her work.
Four crudely drawn faces stared back at her, two she hardly knew, two she knew more than she wanted to.
It was the first time she’d made the drive out here without Miranda, and suddenly the issue of whose land it was seemed much less important when compared to her burning and unfulfilled need to smite the hell out of something.
The day had been long, her mind a maelstrom of gore and fear and anger and confusion when she’d arrived back at her condo. Officer Jones had been kind enough to give her a ride over, and just before she entered her front door, she had an idea, turned around, and headed to the parking garage instead.
After a quick trip to the store, she found herself hiking down into the small, dry valley with a canvas shopping bag full of melons.
She glared at the cartoonish version of the gunman’s face staring back at her from the surface of the watermelon. She had by no means captured the essence of him, but it was enough of a framework for her imagination and fresh trauma to fill in the rest.
She did what her body wished she’d done back at the coffee shop and hurled a wad of smite his way. The watermelon popped, sending red juice in all directions. Much like watermelon itself, smiting was a delightful indulgence but only made her crave more of it.
She turned her attention to the next target down the line. This face was even less detailed than the previous one, the memory of the armed man outside the Grease Trough having faded over the months since the encounter.
She blasted him away too, and it was just as gratifying as the last. But a moment later her lust for it resurfaced.
The Sharpie wasn’t even dry on Eugene Thornton’s thick eyebrows as she tallied up all the wrongs from him, holding back the rage temporarily to allow it to build before she unleashed it.
Not only did the watermelon of his face explode, so too did the cinderblocks holding it up. She whirled away quickly, shielding her face from the bits of concrete shrapnel, and when she turned back, there was a small hole in the earth where the cinderblocks and watermelon had once been.
“Holy shit.”
INDEED.
She turned to the last watermelon. The defining characteristics of this face were the lines she’d drawn for the jaw, the small dimple marks that had taunted her so many times, and the big eyes that seemed friendly but never turned out to be. She’d dangled her jumper cables around the melon so that they hung down the front of the stand, and while the vise grips were no hog’s hooves, they worked well enough.
The hungry wrath simmered inside her as she looked at the watermelon and tallied up all the wrongs Jimmy Dean had done to her over the years. So many. Countless. Time and again. An
d it would never stop. He would continue sabotaging her life and convincing everyone else he wasn’t. Even if she smote the man herself, she suspected he would find ways to ruin her life from beyond the grave.
She whirled around and, pop, pop! Two empty target stands turned into small craters before she sat down on a smooth rock jutting out of the ground and stared at the open land.
This doesn’t make me feel better anymore. It only makes me want to smite more.
TRULY? IT MAKES THE LORD FEEL AMAZING.
When was the last time you smote a human, though?
MONDAY.
But today is Monday.
GOOD POINT. IT WAS IN A VASTLY DIFFERENT TIMEZONE, SO IT FEELS LIKE IT WAS A DIFFERENT DAY. BUT INDEED, BY YOUR TIME STANDARDS, IT WAS TODAY.
In Asia?
I SEE YOU’VE BEEN PAYING ATTENTION.
And it makes you feel better to smite?
MORE LIKE IT IS ONE MORE STEP TOWARD RECTIFYING ORIGINAL MISTAKE.
Shit’s really gotten out of hand, hasn’t it?
YOU HAVE NO IDEA. THE EARTH IS NOT A SAFE PLACE.
You know, part of me has always thought that if I could just let myself smite things, everything would become easier. As if not smiting people was just some dumb rule that was holding me back and prolonging my troubles. But now that I’ve been able to come out here and smite as much as I want, I don’t know if it’s quite the ace in the hole I thought it was. All smiting makes me want to do is smite more, not less.
So maybe I shouldn’t do it at all. Because I don’t want to spend my life smiting. I want to spend it doing … well, anything else. Something meaningful, maybe.
She pressed her palms into her tired eyes before looking around at the brown December landscape.
What am I even doing out here? I have a check I need to cash. I need to find a location and order my ovens and tables and display cases. I need to start hiring staff and decorating the interior. I have so much I need to be doing, and all of it will be better than smiting.
She stood up from the rock, feeling more energized than she had in a long time.
Thanks for listening, Dad.
She waited for a snide comment but none came.
Oh damn. When did he split?
Didn’t matter. God skedaddling from her brain was just another thing working in her favor.
I can do it now. I can create something. What the hell am I waiting for?
She inhaled the crisp winter air and looked up at the sky where dark clouds were forming.
Fuck you, omen! I won’t hear it!
She grabbed the remaining watermelon and jumper cables and headed back to her car. She needed to get home as soon as possible.
She had a bakery to open. But first: an entire watermelon to eat.
Chapter Twenty-One
Three months had blown by, and without meaning to, Jessica had lost herself so deeply in her preparation for the new bakery that she’d once again neglected all of her friendships. Tonight was a step in the right direction, though. Granted, it’d been Chris’s idea, and she suspected it was born from his need to gush about his recent success rather than any concern for Jessica’s dwindling social life. But everyone benefitted from the plans, so she wouldn’t split hairs.
“You still don’t know whose condo this is?” Quentin asked, following Miranda inside, and carrying a stack of pizza boxes.
“No,” Jessica said, taking the food from him and setting it on the kitchen island. “I’ve scoured this place for clues and can’t find anything new. I think the trail is cold. So let’s just call it my condo.”
Chris jumped up from the couch, where he’d been playing on his phone, and ran over to wrap his arms around his former teammate. While the two of them moaned and inhaled each other’s scent, Jessica and Miranda stepped into the kitchen and set out plates and napkins.
“I want to hear all about it,” Quentin said as the long embrace concluded.
Chris grinned like an idiot. “And you will. Dude, Quentin. Duuuuude! Combine was so sweet! I tore it up!”
“That’s what I heard!” They high-fived. “I’ve been reading about it all week. ESPN won’t shut up about you. And you know who they have you going to, right?”
Chris and Quentin shouted it together. “Cowboys!”
As they cackled and slapped at each other, Miranda cleared her throat and Jessica was more than happy to divert her attention from the lovefest. “How you holding up?” Miranda asked.
Jessica shrugged. “I’m tired. Like, all the time. But the good news is that I was officially been cleared in the Bat-Ass Brew shooting a couple days ago, and it looks like I’m on schedule for the soft opening the weekend after next. You?”
Miranda peeked over Jessica’s shoulder to check on the men, who were still gushing incoherently and thrashing around. She leaned forward. “Quentin and I went ring shopping this afternoon.”
“Oh cool.” Jessica almost never wore rings herself, but it was something she considered from time to time. A few solid ring choices could really make a woman’s hands look— “Wait. What kind of ring? Like engagement ring?”
Miranda nodded excitedly, her eyes darting over to Quentin and back.
“So, you’re engaged?” Jessica whispered, hoping her mixture of emotions was coming off as excitement rather than mind-numbing panic.
“No, not yet. He still has to propose. But I have a general idea what my ring will look like.” She nibbled her bottom lip.
“How do you think he’ll do it?”
Miranda smiled coyly. “Well, he did sort of arrange a trip to Paris for us over spring break.”
“Paris?” Jessica said, struggling to sound excited. “Like, Paris, Texas?”
Miranda took a half step back. “Uh, no? Paris, France. You know, as in the place I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Wine.” Jess nodded firmly. “We need wine to celebrate.” She turned her back on the others and ran into the pantry, flipping on the light and shutting the door halfway behind her.
Do I even have wine?
Yet again, she considered how much easier her half-brother had it. He never would’ve found himself hiding in a pantry from his best friend for no good reason and not have any wine to serve.
YOU SEEM UPSET.
I’m fine.
YOU FORGET I CREATED WOMEN, SO I KNOW THIS TO BE UNTRUE.
Okay. I’m not fine. But I’d rather pretend I am than talk to you about what’s bothering me and have you downplay it or, more likely, rub salt in the wound.
YE OF LITTLE FAITH.
Ye of little sympathy.
THE LORD WILL TAKE A GUESS. YOU ARE IN THIS PANTRY BECAUSE YOU DO NOT WISH TO FACE REALITY.
I don’t think someone has to be a god to figure that out.
(THERE IS NO GOD BUT ME.) YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN GIFTED AT RELATIONSHIPS, DAUGHTER.
How is this not salt in my wound?
JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE CHOOSING TO IGNORE YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH CHRISTOPHER DOES NOT MEAN EVERYONE ELSE HAS FORSAKEN PROGRESS. TIME MARCHES FORWARD.
I know that! And I’m not ignoring anything!
THE TRUTH UPSETS YOU.
No. Your face upsets me.
OH VERY MATURE. BUT I HAVE NO FACE.
Well isn’t that just a goddamn nightmare. Thanks.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” Miranda’s voice said behind her, causing her to jump and turn around.
Miranda dusted off a bottle of red wine.
“Yep. Where’d you find that?”
“On the wine rack?” she pointed vaguely above the fridge.
Oh right. The wine rack she always forgot she had. Well, at least she knew for sure she wasn’t an alcoholic …
“Are you okay, Jessica?” Miranda asked.
Sucking air deep into her lungs, Jessica said on an exhale. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Please. I know that’s bullshit.”
“I’m just tired.”
Miranda was gracious eno
ugh to drop it and they popped open the bottle of wine (“Ooo! Good idea! This’ll knock us out hard,” Chris said, crossing the room to paw at her), and dug into the pizza. Thankful for the excuse to not speak for a little while, Jessica stacked three pieces on her plate and grabbed a seat in the living room to chow down and hope the grease numbed her brain.
“Jess. Jess.”
She looked over at her boyfriend, who stood by the island, mouth overflowing with pizza as he slung an arm around Quentin. “Get a picture of this and send it to Cash. They’ll love it.”
“I don’t know that they will, but okay.” She pulled out her phone, snapped a pic, and sent it to Cash with the message, Chris spending an evening with his closest friend.
As she awaited Cash’s response, she figured this was actually the kind of thing she was supposed to be doing, so she rounded up everyone for a selfie.
Before she could type up her message and send the real photo, Cash responded: As much as I support interracial relationships, just no. I’m not portraying you as a beard.
A beard? Must be an autocorrect thing. She sent him the group selfie and started on another slice.
Chris was ten minutes deep into a play-by-play of the NFL combine’s passing drills when a knock on the door gave Jessica a perfectly good excuse to escape the excruciating conversation. So relieved by the break, she didn’t think to look through the peephole before opening the door.
Jeremy’s frantic eyes darted around, only sometimes landing on her face as he scrubbed his hands together. “Are you watching the news?” He peeked around her. “Oh sorry, am I interrupting?”
“Nope. Come on in.”
Jeremy waved awkwardly on his way into the living room. He spun in a tight circle a few times until he found the remote and turned on the TV.
“What’s up, Jeremy?” Chris said cautiously.
Her neighbor ignored it. He turned to Channel Six, but when it was commercial, he griped, “Of course!” and then surfed up stations until he landed on one Jessica didn’t know existed. “The regular news won’t cover this anyway,” he said, “but it’s important.”
He stepped back and Jessica noticed a beet-faced man sitting at a news desk, red, white and blue flashing on the screens behind him and the words FactWars in the bottom left corner of the screen.
It is Risen Page 24
