Roland inhaled and slowly exhaled. “You saw the scrapes on the doorknob. It looked like someone tried to pick the lock, don’t you think?”
“Nothing else has gone missing, has it?”
“No, but . . . What do you think of the spot on the floor? Selena thinks the thief left it when he took Saint George.”
“Well, it looked like backy juice to me.”
“Backy juice?” Roland pulled the pillows out from under the bedspread and propped them against the headboard. He scooted back, yawning, and sank into the pillows.
“Yeah, from chew. You know, chewing tobacco. If you chew, you gotta spit.”
Roland blinked in slow motion while making a weak effort to kick off his black athletic shoes. “Who would spit in a chapel?”
Jarret grinned and unlaced Roland’s shoes for him. “Same guy who would steal from a chapel. It wasn’t a big stain, though. Maybe he drooled without knowing it.”
Roland laughed lazily. His eyes closed, and he tried again to kick off his shoes. “I’m kind of tired.”
“You’ve been pushing yourself.” Jarret tugged Roland’s shoes off as he spoke. “This is supposed to be vacation. You need to relax a little. Why don’t you take a nap? We’ve got time. I’ll go shower.”
After a long yawn, Roland nodded. “Yeah, I think . . . I . . .” He exhaled long and loud. Every muscle in his body relaxed.
“Atta boy.” Jarret dropped Roland’s shoes. They fell to the floor with a double thunk.
Deth-kye’s face contorted into a vile expression of pleasure. Clasping his hands together, he threw his head back and shot into air. He launched into a somersault, vanished, and reappeared directly before Ellechial. “Act three.” He tilted his head to one side and frowned in mock pity. A black chain appeared in his hands, the Chain of Addiction. “Jarret sinks to a new spiritual low.” He crept to Jarret, scraping the chain along the floor.
Eyes on the chain, Ellechial prayed. If Deth-kye succeeded in binding Jarret, it would make conversion much more difficult. Jarret’s own physical safety would also be in greater jeopardy.
Ellechial whispered to Jarret, “Repent. You know you have sinned. Repent. God is quick to forgive. There is no sin so great—”
“I’m, uh, I’m sorry, little brother.” Jarret gazed at Roland a moment, then he shuffled to his own bed, the one against the wall.
Nadriel and Ellechial exchanged glances.
The chain clanked. Deth-kye crept closer to Jarret, a twisted grin on his face, a lilt in his step.
Ellechial flashed over, wings held high, ready to block the demon. “You cannot have him. He repents of his deed.”
“Does he?” Deth-kye spoke with challenge in his tone.
“I’m sorry, but I had to do it like this.” Jarret pulled the bedspread off his bed. “You’re kinda in my way, you see.” He dragged the bedspread to Roland and draped it over his prone body. “I ain’t got nothing against you.”
Deth-kye crowed, “No, my angelic adversary, he does not repent.”
Ellechial spun to face his charge. “Jarret, hear me! You must repent. He is your brother. You don’t know what harm you do to yourself in this.”
Jarret’s eyes shifted. He continued arranging the bedspread. “Things ain’t been working out for me lately. I’m losing everything. Lost Keefe first.” He glanced at the face of his sleeping brother, his lip curling up on one side. “He crossed over to your side, to the good-boy side. Left me all alone. Then I lost . . .” His voice cracked. “. . . Zoe. And my little baby girl.” He blinked back tears, then his eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth.
“But maybe I’ve found something better. I think Selena could like me. Don’t you?” He reclined beside Roland, all the while staring at his brother’s closed eyes. “She seems to like you. But maybe I got that wrong.” He paused as if waiting for an answer. “I intend to find out. Can’t have you around if I’m gonna find that out. See? It’s nothing personal. I ain’t got nothing against you.”
“Ah, ah, ah. That’s no way to think.” Waving a finger in mock chastisement, Deth-kye approached Jarret again. “My boy, you have plenty to hold against him.” He crouched by the bed and whispered in Jarret’s ear.
Jarret sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Deth-kye jumped out of his way, chortling. “Now that I think about it,” Jarret said, “I guess I do have something against you. You, always sticking to the straight and narrow, you don’t do much for my image. You’re always offering to help Papa with junk. Makes me look bad. He favors you. Always has. I’m the selfish, bad son.” He gave Roland a glance over his shoulder. “Why can’t you be a regular, trouble-making kid . . . like me?”
“Oh, and what’s more . . .” Deth-kye leaned in close and whispered secrets to Jarret, a slithery hissing sound coming to the angels. Then he backed off again and sashayed around the room while Jarret ranted.
“Mama even favored you.” Jarret raised his voice, and his eyes hardened. “My memories of her are all tainted with you, little baby Roland, sitting on her lap, toddling after her, crying for her. Yeah, she liked you best.” His lip curled again. “So you kind of have this coming. It evens things up. Everyone thinks you’re so great . . . but I get the girl.”
“You have it wrong, Jarret.” Ellechial sat beside him. “God has allowed the suffering in your life for a reason. But you are now adding to it. You resist Him. Jarret, know that you are loved.”
Jarret’s heart skipped a beat. His hand shot up to his chest. He opened his mouth and began to form a word but stopped.
Deth-kye darted to his other side. “Don’t listen to him,” he hissed like a snake. “He wants you to feel guilty. Why should you? You haven’t killed anyone. Don’t let feelings of doubt and guilt own you. You have done nothing wrong, not by your rules. Follow your own rules.”
Jarret
Jarret watched Roland sleep. Should he feel guilty? Did he have to follow certain rules to be happy? Why couldn’t he follow his own rules?
The priest at the Monastery in California came to mind. He must’ve been the one to get him thinking in this guilt-ridden way. Papa shouldn’t have forced him to talk to the priest.
Arms crossed and slouching, Jarret sat in the dim confessional, facing a priest in a white robe and a black scapular. “Look, I don’t wanna waste your time. My father told me to come here, but I’m not ready for confession.”
“That’s fine, Jarret. Let’s just talk.” The priest stroked his full white beard.
“Talk about what?”
“What would you like to talk about?”
Jarret snickered, glancing away. “I don’t know.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the temperature in the little confessional rising with each passing second.
“What?” Jarret straightened up. “You want me to talk about the wine? Yeah, I stole it. ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ huh? Well, I wasn’t exactly thinking about it like that, at the time. I wanted something to do. It’s boring around here. I’ll pay for it. It’s no big deal.”
A twitch of whiskers suggested that the priest was smiling under his thick white mustache. He nodded.
“I took two bottles. I only drank the one. The other I stashed in the tunnels.”
The priest stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “Why don’t you give it back?” He sounded merely curious.
Jarret leaned forward, locking his eyes on the blue-eyes of the priest. “Because I don’t want to. Because I’m saving it for another time.” He slouched back again. “Only next time, I think I won’t suck it down so fast. Who’d a thought you could get drunk off one bottle-a wine?” He grinned, remembering the song he had made up.
The priest stared.
“Look, I told you, I’m not ready for confession. I’m not sorry about it at all.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about? With the seal of confession, you know that everything you say remains here. It’s between you and the Lord. No one else will ever know. I
stand in the person of Christ. It is He who hears you, and He who helps you.”
To break from the priest’s unsettling gaze, Jarret scanned the confessional. The wood-paneled walls made the room feel smaller than his bedroom closet. A screen separated the priest from a kneeler. How many of the monks actually used the kneeler? They had to recognize each other’s voices. A crucifix, one that actually showed blood, hung on the wall behind the priest.
Jarret touched the crucifix he wore. What would it hurt to talk to the priest? He couldn’t tell anyone. It might even feel good to let it out. “Okay. I’m mad at my father for bringing me here. He wants to control my life. He wants to change me. He doesn’t like my choices.”
“What doesn’t he like?”
Jarret eyed the priest, considering what to reveal. “He doesn’t like that I smoke. He doesn’t like the way I treat my spoiled younger brother. And he doesn’t like that I . . . I’m close to my girlfriend, to name a few things. He found out she’s pregnant. That’s when he made me come here.”
“Why do you think he doesn’t like those things?”
He sneered and averted his gaze. “Because I’m not playing by the rules.”
“Whose rules?”
“His rules.”
“What about God’s rules?”
“God’s rules? I haven’t killed anyone.” Past offenses flashed through Jarret’s mind too quickly for him to hold onto any one of them, except for the wine. “I guess, I know I stole. That’s one of ‘em, right?”
The priest had given a lengthy response, but the only comment that lingered in Jarret’s mind was, “Jesus waits for you.”
What did he mean by that?
❖
A light rapping sounded on the bedroom door.
Selena. Jarret snatched his hair band and left the bathroom, fixing his hair into a ponytail as he strutted across the room. Would she even go out with him without Roland?
Roland lay in exactly the same position as when he first fell asleep. His breathing came deep and regular. He’d probably sleep until morning.
As Jarret reached for the knob, the rapping sounded on the door again. He swung the door wide open.
Selena smiled as soon as she saw him. She wore sandals and a cocoa sundress with an embroidered top. She clutched a little tan purse.
Her perfume reminded him of desert flowers and enticed him to draw nearer, but he didn’t. “Hey.” He stepped back and motioned for her to come in. She would probably need proof that Roland couldn’t come with them.
“It’s dark in here.” She scanned the room and then looked him over. “Are you guys ready?”
“Looks like it’s just you and me.” Jarret gave a nod to indicate Roland.
She did a double take. “He’s asleep?” She stepped toward the bed. “How can he sleep in the middle of the day?”
Jarret shrugged. “Sleep finally caught up with him, I guess. He’s hardly slept since we’ve been here. He’s been up all night, every night.”
“Really?”
“Hey, I understand if you wanna change your mind. I get the impression that you don’t want to do anything alone with me.” He put on the sulky face that had always worked with Zoe.
Roland’s eyeballs shifted from side to side under closed lids. He mumbled something.
“I wonder what he said.” Selena’s eyebrows lifted, making her resemble a girl fawning over a puppy.
“Probably calling his girlfriend’s name.”
Her little smile faded. “Girlfriend?”
He hadn’t meant to insinuate that Roland had a girlfriend, but that’s how it sounded, and now that the words were out, he decided to stick with it. “Yeah, Caitlyn. He hasn’t said anything to you about her?”
“No.” She continued gazing at Roland. “He said he didn’t have a girlfriend.”
Now, one of them would seem like a liar. He’d better watch it, or it would end up being him. “Well, uh, maybe she’s not his girlfriend. They’re always together. I don’t know. He doesn’t talk to me about that kind of stuff. You going with me or not?”
Selena looked at Roland a moment longer then faced Jarret. She smiled and took his hand. “Come on. I’m starved.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
QUESTIONS
Roland
Roland woke to a massive headache and a dry mouth. Dying for a drink of water, he tumbled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. Jarret’s toiletries covered the sink-top, as if he had spent a considerable amount of time in front of the mirror and then abandoned everything. Roland found nothing he could use for a cup, except—
His gaze landed on the cap of the mouthwash. He reached but then decided against it. Didn’t they have any of those little Dixie cups?
He cranked the cold water on and stuck his face in the sink. After drinking what felt like a gallon of water, he searched through drawers to find something for a headache. Nothing. He staggered back to bed and lay on his side, eyes open.
Sunlight crept around the edges of the curtain. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and sat bolt upright. Nine o’clock? He never slept in that late. Had he really slept in? What about last night? Weren’t they going to—
His eyes popped with the realization. Dinner, shopping, horseback riding. With Selena! How could he have slept through that? The moment she came up with the idea, he had thought of little else. He’d been dying to go out with her, even though it wouldn’t be like a date because Jarret—
Jarret’s bed was empty and unmade. He had probably gone down for breakfast. Did he go out with her last night?
Roland shook his head to rid his mind of the clouds. How could he have slept through it all? He remembered feeling drowsy, and his feet . . .
His black athletic shoes lay on the floor by his bed. His feet had been unbearably hot. He’d wanted the shoes off, wanted to lie down. He was so tired.
What did Selena think when he hadn’t gone with them?
Roland dashed to the bathroom. After a shower, he threw on pale gray shorts and a dark, button-front shirt. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned up. Selena had started teasing him about his dark shirts. Find something else.
Unbuttoning the shirt, he returned to the wardrobe. Black, navy, black, slate, dark olive, black . . . He didn’t have anything lighter. He’d planned on picking up a light-colored shirt at the mall last night.
He slammed the wardrobe shut and turned around. Could he wear a plain white t-shirt? Wait!
He yanked open the door to the other side of the wardrobe and flipped through Jarret’s shirts. Jarret had a nice blue and white plaid t-shirt. He wouldn’t mind loaning it, would he? He had almost seemed nice last night, sharing his juice and pretzels.
Did Jarret go to dinner and shopping with Selena? Why didn’t they wake him?
Roland stripped off the dark shirt, pulled the plaid t-shirt on, and headed for the door. When he stepped from the bedroom, he squinted.
The guest bedrooms came off the end of a second-floor hallway that was open to the first floor. Sunlight poured in through tall windows on either side of the front door, illuminating the foyer and traveling freely to the upper hallway.
However, light also came from across the hallway, from a room with a half-open door. Whose room was it? Not one of the Zamoranos. Their rooms came off the enclosed hallway. And Papa’s room was next to the room with the half-open door.
Roland crept down the hallway. Halfway there, someone in the room moved past the doorway. Roland’s heart skipped a beat. Whoever it was probably assumed that everyone had gone downstairs for the day.
Roland stopped at the door and flattened himself against the wall, listening. Soft sounds came from inside the room, like footfalls on carpet and objects sliding on a shelf.
Whoever it was and whatever his or her purpose, Roland had to know. If it was the thief and something got stolen, he’d feel responsible for having done nothing. With a deep breath, Roland stepped into the doorway and pushed the door wide open.
Judging by the burgundy, white, glass and brass, this was a girl’s room.
Roland stepped back.
Movement came from the corner of the room. Papa stood by a glass shelving unit. “Roland?”
Roland swallowed hard. He shouldn’t have been snooping. “What’re you doing?” He tried to sound casual and stepped into the room. “Whose room is this?”
“It’s a guest room, but I don’t think it gets much use.” Papa scanned their surroundings, smiling, then met Roland’s gaze. “This was your mother’s room.”
“Really?” Roland looked the room over with new interest.
The bed reminded him of a princess bed with tall posts, satiny white spread, lacy pillows, and burgundy canopy. Windows flanked the bed. Open burgundy drapes and sheer white curtains let in too much light. Pictures decorated the walls, black-and-white portraits, an airbrushed picture of a castle, and framed pictures of children’s artwork. Papa stood by a glass shelving unit loaded with various rocks and minerals. Mama had been a passionate rock hound.
“They’ve hardly changed anything,” Papa said. “Even left her rock collection.” He picked up one of the rocks and turned it over in his hand. “I met your mother here at the Zamoranos’. Her family lived in Mexico, still does, but she came here in her teens. I should say, she was sent here. Her mother couldn’t keep her out of trouble.” Papa chuckled, his gaze on the pale turquoise rock he held. “A turquoise mine brought us together.”
Roland drew near, and Papa handed him the lump of turquoise. He remembered the story of their meeting, but mostly from Keefe’s re-telling of it. He’d always wanted to hear it from Papa, but Papa rarely spoke of Mama since her death.
“Juan, Señor Juan, he phoned me one day. I was living in California, working my first job since returning from Florence with a master’s in archaeology. He begged me to come for a few weeks and help him with something, but he wouldn’t give me many details, as is his way.” Papa gazed out the window. “I guess I wouldn’t have come if I’d known what he wanted. It had nothing to do with archaeology.”
Battle for His Soul Page 14
