by J. S. Bailey
Bobby blanched. “Test?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not the bar exam.” Randy reached backward into his memory to draw forth what he’d learned from his predecessors long ago when he was as green as Bobby was now. “If Thane really is a demon, he’ll find certain things repulsive. Crucifixes. Bibles. Basically any reminder that he’s one of the fallen. You can even say a prayer to see what happens. If he’s an angel, he’ll probably want to pray with you.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Then he might become violent. You’ll need to invoke the power of the Spirit in order to drive him away. Carly, you can do this too.”
Carly bit her lip and nodded. She said, “In the name of the Father, and Jesus Christ his son, and the Holy Spirit, depart from this place and torment God’s people no more.”
“Looks like your dad got a head start on me.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “When I became part of the fold, he warned me I might be in for a bit of trouble for helping you.” She swallowed. “I guess I was pretty lucky until now.”
Boy, was she. As far as he knew, Carly had never previously been tormented with disembodied noises, apparitions, or objects thrown by invisible beings as others of their circle had in the past.
He’d always tried not to envy her for that.
Randy returned his attention to Bobby, who’d taken great interest in the floor. “Hey there, Roberto. Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?”
Bobby bowed his head. A serious look entered his eyes. Randy smiled. The kid was finally learning.
PHIL MASON jerked awake early that morning from a dream that rendered him incapable of returning to sleep.
Based on what he could remember, the dream had begun in a normal enough manner. He’d been sitting outside on a wide lawn lush with real grass—not the mishmash of weeds that occupied his yard in the real world. A pond sat a short distance away at the bottom of a hill, and beside it grew a stand of weeping willows whose branches swayed back and forth in a breeze he couldn’t feel.
A distant voice called to him from the woods on the other side of the pond. “Phil!”
Unnerved, Phil cupped a hand around his ear to hear better.
The voice came again. “Come on, Phil! I want to talk to you.”
Phil took one step in the direction of the tree line and halted. “Then come out where I can see you.”
“Nope. You’re coming to me, buddy. If you can’t do that, we don’t get to chat.”
Well, if that’s how things were going to be…
Phil straightened his shoulders and set off around the curve of the pond, and soon he was in the woods, the trunks and limbs of the trees pressing close on either side of him.
“I’m here now,” he said. “What is it you’d like to talk about?”
“You’ll have to come in a little farther.”
Sensing that he was stepping into a trap, Phil proceeded at a slow pace, keeping his eyes wide for signs of trouble.
“A little to the left, Phil.” Then, “Now veer a bit to the right. Uh-huh. You’re almost there.”
Phil found himself in a place utterly devoid of light. He held his hand in front of his face and wriggled his fingers, seeing nothing other than the black void that now engulfed him.
His heart began to race and sweat trickled down his forehead and back.
“Open your eyes, Phil.”
“They are open.”
“No, they’re not. If they were, you’d be able to see.”
Phil tried blinking, yet he could still see nothing. Then he could hear something breathing behind him. “What’s the matter, buddy? Afraid of the dark? Nothing here is going to hurt you. All you’ve got to do is open your eyes, and all the lights will come on.”
But try as he might, he couldn’t figure out a way to see.
“Here. Maybe I can help.”
Something seized his arm then, and Phil was so startled that he flailed out of its grip and fled. His feet raced over uneven ground, and he was grateful he didn’t careen into any trees in the darkness.
Feet crunched on the forest floor behind him, and he had the sense that his pursuer was gaining ground. No. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to get out of this dark place before—
A hand closed around Phil’s wrist again and whipped him around, and a sudden light blossomed so bright that at first Phil couldn’t make out who had grabbed hold of him.
“Don’t you see?” said the voice. “It’s me.”
Phil blinked some more, and the figure of a man came into view. He had sandy hair mussed up by wind, freckled cheeks, wore cutoff blue jeans, and had a bullet hole in his bare chest right over top his heart.
It was Martin Hampstead, Phil’s predecessor who had been murdered in 2002 while helping a single mother in need.
“Martin,” he choked, hardly able to draw his gaze away from the wound that had ended the young man’s life—Martin had been taken from the world at twenty-seven. “What is it I need to see?”
“I need you to see me.” Martin beamed. “I’m okay, Phil. I think you’d forgotten that. So get rid of the long face.”
Tears rolled down Phil’s cheeks. Memories of their friendship rushed back to him: talking about girls they liked, discussing which local craft brew was superior to the others, wondering how God would help them use their gifts, and a dozen more. “I lost my ability.”
“That’s not such a big deal, is it? Look at you. You have a family now. Think of them, not what you’ve lost.”
“But why did I lose it? I can’t figure out what I’ve done wrong.”
Martin’s boyish face grew solemn. “If you think that our Father would punish you like that, then you’ve lost all understanding of how things are.”
“Do you know why I lost it?”
“Of course. Someone needs to come home, and it isn’t you.”
“Then who is it?”
“You’ll see.”
That’s when Phil awoke in the early morning darkness, soaked in sweat. “Martin,” he whispered as his friend’s face vanished into the smoke of dissipated dreams. “Come back.”
Allison stirred beside him and pushed her hair out of her face. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Phil said, staring up at the ceiling. “Just a dream.”
UNLIKE MOST Phil had, this dream didn’t fade into obscurity once he rose for the day. He showered, shaved, and dressed, then helped his daughter with her letters as they sat at the breakfast table while Allison prepared sausage and biscuits for them, but all the while Martin’s face hung heavy in his mind like a storm cloud.
“Daddy?” Ashley piped up once the breakfast dishes had been cleared away. “Why are you sad?”
Phil forced a smile as he regarded his daughter, whose hair was tied into blonde pigtails. Her blue eyes were wide and bright with curiosity. “What makes you say that?”
Ashley tilted her head to the side and studied him. “You just are.”
Sometimes Phil found his daughter far too perceptive for a five-year-old. “Daddy’s just missing an old friend right now,” he said, and decided to leave it at that.
Allison turned away from the sink with a plate and dishcloth in her hands, raising her eyebrows in a silent question.
“Do you mean Randy?” Ashley asked. “Because he’ll get better soon. I know it.”
“No, I don’t mean Randy.” Phil sighed. “This was a different friend. One who went away a long time ago, way before you were even born.”
“Did he die?”
Phil’s throat constricted. “Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
“Ashley,” Allison said in a tone of warning. “Don’t you think you should get back to your schoolwork?”
Technically it wasn’t “schoolwork” since it was July and Ashley hadn’t yet started kindergarten, but the child was adamant that that’s what it was. “No,” Phil said, “it’s okay.” He cleared his throat. “Martin—my friend—was helping someone, an
d a very bad man didn’t like it so he hurt him.”
He could actually see the sorrow well up in his daughter’s eyes. “Why would somebody do that?”
“That’s just how some people are.”
Ashley frowned, and her forehead creased. “Well, I won’t ever be that way.”
“That’s a very good thing to hear.”
“I’ll be nice to people even if they’re mean to me. That’s what Father Preston said to do.”
“You’re right. And do you know who else said it?”
Ashley’s mouth widened into a grin that was missing two of its teeth. “Jesus did.”
“That’s right.” Phil leaned back in his chair and sighed, thinking back to his dream. He knew it had been symbolic—he doubted that Martin would return from paradise with a bullet in his chest just to haunt Phil’s dreams—yet what did it mean? God wanted Phil to open his eyes and see something, but it seemed Ashley had outpaced him by far in the perception department.
Before Phil could say more, Ashley grabbed up her lined pad of paper and resumed copying the alphabet, her focus intense.
Father, help me, Phil prayed. What was it he needed to do?
AROUND LUNCHTIME, the slamming of car doors startled Phil from his continued reverie about the dream. He switched off the television, which he hadn’t even really been watching, and went to the door.
“Frankie,” he breathed when he saw who had pulled into the driveway. “Thank the Lord.”
He pulled the door open to admit the former Servant and his taciturn wife, but then he noticed that an unfamiliar pickup truck with Idaho plates had parked beside it. A dog stuck its head out the passenger window and started barking at the same time a pudgy, washed-out man with straw-like hair unfolded himself from the vehicle.
Frankie was doing the same, but Janet remained inside their car, looking anxious.
Nothing new about that.
Phil strode outside and halted beside Frankie, who towered over him. “What’s going on?” he asked, not wanting to mention that he’d been worried almost to the point of illness about the man’s absence. “Where have you been?”
“Idaho,” Frankie said, as if that explained everything. His black hair riffled in the wind, and his cheeks were rosy with excitement. “I hate to barge in like this, but could we tie Kevin’s dog out in the back so Janet feels safe to get out of the car?”
Yeah, right, you hate it. Frankie never felt bad about any of his actions. “Kevin who?” he asked, glancing over at the man who’d gotten out of the truck and remained lurking by its door, wearing an expression of utmost uncertainty.
The man took one step forward. “I’m Kevin Lyle,” he said in a thin voice. “You must be Phil.”
It took several moments for the name to register in Phil’s mind. “Wait a minute. You’re Frankie’s successor?”
Kevin bobbed his head in a nod. “And God knows what I’m doing here now. I must be crazy. Yeah, that’s it. Crazy. So, is it okay if I tie Chet out back?”
“Sure,” Phil said as he narrowed his eyes at Frankie. “Go right ahead.”
Once a stake had been driven into the ground in the backyard and Chet, the dog, had been affixed to it with a long chain and provided with a bowl of water, the unlikely group gathered in Phil’s living room.
“All right,” Phil said as he stood at the front of the room with his hands on his hips. Everyone else had taken seats in various armchairs and the sofa. “Would anyone care to enlighten me about what’s going on?”
Frankie cleared his throat and rose. “We’re in need of a healer.”
Phil gave an inward wince. “Why?”
“I didn’t think you would’ve needed to ask me that.”
“Spare me the insults, Frankie, and I’ll rephrase. What makes you think we need a healer now?”
“It’s simple: an angel visited me and said we would need one.”
Phil could already feel a headache coming on, which wasn’t uncommon whenever Frankie was around. “You’re sure?”
“I would never lie to you, or to anyone else.” Frankie’s face became grim. “Something will be going down soon, but I don’t know when. I just knew I had to find Kevin and bring him back here before it’s too late.”
“You’re serious about this.”
Frankie bowed his head. “So if you could, would you please summon our new Servant? I feel it’s time to have another long chat with him.” He paused. “And call Randy and Roger, too. Might as well get everyone involved.”
“What about your grandfather?”
Frankie hesitated. Then, withdrawing his car keys from his pocket, he said, “I’ll go get him myself. Come on, Janet. Let’s go.”
BOBBY AND Carly had still been hanging out at Randy’s house when he got a call from Phil instructing him and Randy to come over as soon as they could.
Holding his phone to his ear, Bobby said, “Don’t you think he should stay here?”
Phil sounded unfathomably tired. “I’m afraid that’s not an option. Frankie’s adamant that everyone be here, and it’s just not worth arguing with him. Trust me on that.”
Randy, still sitting in the chair by the window, looked exhausted. The simple acts of sitting up and talking for the couple of hours Bobby and Carly were there had evidently worn away what little energy he possessed. “What is it now?” Randy asked.
“Phil says Frankie wants everyone to meet up at Phil’s house. Even you.”
“Is Frankie aware that I have about seven hundred stitches in my chest?”
Bobby knew the number was an exaggeration, but he repeated Randy’s words to Phil anyway.
He could hear Phil let out a sigh. “Tell Randy that if he comes, he won’t regret it.”
PHIL’S DRIVEWAY was so packed when Bobby arrived with a heavily-sedated Randy that he had to parallel-park along the edge of the road with the two right-side tires in the grass. Carly and Lupe stayed behind at Randy’s.
“Maybe I should have waited until after I got here to take more pills,” Randy said with his eyes closed. “I don’t know if I can get up.”
“Do you want me to help you walk?”
Randy’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his bloodshot eyes fluttered open. “Just give me a minute. I’ll manage somehow or another.”
Bobby hopped out and came around the side of the car, opening the door for Randy while the man fumbled clumsily at his seatbelt. Once freed from the restraint, Randy grabbed onto the doorframe, started to his feet, and sank back to the edge of the seat, shaking his head. “Sorry. This is more moving than I’ve done in a while.”
“Here.” Face flushing, Bobby held out his hand for Randy to take. “You’ve only got about thirty more feet to go.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Randy latched a callused hand around Bobby’s thin one, took a deep breath that made his face go white, and staggered to his feet, swaying a bit once he was out of the vehicle. “God forgive me for saying this, but if Frankie just wanted me to be here so he could say hi, I’ll kill him.”
It was slow going from the car up to the one-story brick house because Randy had to keep stopping and leaning against whichever vehicle was closest to him so he wouldn’t keel over. Just as Bobby opened his mouth to suggest that Randy wait there while he went inside to get some help, Phil appeared on the porch and rushed out to meet them.
“Sorry.” Phil came around to Randy’s other side. “I didn’t see you pull up.”
Randy gave a silent nod and put his arms around Phil’s and Bobby’s shoulders as they completed their journey to the door, which flew open the moment they made it to the porch.
“Randy!” Frankie Jovingo strode out to meet them. “My apologies. I didn’t realize your condition was still so poor.”
Randy gave him a withering smile, but Bobby sensed amusement hiding behind it. “It’s good to see you, too, Frankie. Now can you help me inside?”
Bobby stepped aside and allowed Carly’s father to lead Randy into the house.
A wave of dislike washed through him at the sight of Frankie, who resembled a human Easter Island head with hair. Didn’t he care that Randy had been shot and cut open and was currently doped up on pills?
He followed them inside. Allison Mason waved at Bobby from in the kitchen, and he sheepishly waved back.
“Bobby!” a voice called from the back of the living room. “I see you haven’t run off yet.”
Eyeing heavyset Roger Stilgoe playing a game of solitaire with shriveled Frank the First, who had recently reached his one hundred and first birthday, Bobby squeezed past Randy and the others and went to join them.
Roger had salt-and-pepper hair that was thinning on top and was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and tan Bermuda shorts in sharp contrast to the formal office attire he had worn to the meeting during which Bobby had met him.
No one could ever claim the former Servants weren’t a motley group. Randy, for instance, was wearing another black t-shirt covered in skulls.
“No,” Bobby said to Roger. “Not yet.”
“That’s good to hear. So how are you?”
“I’m good.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at Randy, who was lowering himself onto the couch with the aid of Frankie and Phil. “But Randy isn’t.”
Roger’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “He will be soon enough. Just you watch.”
Not having the faintest idea of what Roger meant, Bobby noticed a pale man in blue overalls for the first time. He was seated in the chair beside the couch where Randy planted himself, wringing his hands together and wearing an expression of such torment that Bobby would have thought he was possessed.
Frankie moved to the front of the room and cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming today. I know this was short notice—”
“You can say that again!” Frank the First barked, looking away from his card game. “I swear I don’t know what the world’s coming to when your own grandson drags you out of your apartment kicking and screaming to go to a meeting.” He winked.
