Page 7 of Sinister Savior

5

ALICE

Ihave my bag of things, but Father Clemmons told me not to unpack them. I’m afraid now, of what it means, of what we may have to do to be safe. On the drive, he explained to me how that man had no clue he was a priest, how my letting his name slip gave away an identity he’d used to keep himself hidden. I don’t know why he’s hidden, but I’m starting to figure out that Father Clemmons isn’t his real name, and his past is revisiting him somehow.

That makes me even more sad because now I know for a fact that my presence has changed things. Tom’s drug use was a butterfly taking flight, the ripples of which will have such long lasting effects that I can’t stop now. I can’t keep the events that I’ve set into motion from escalating. All I can do is ride the waves and hope I’m in a safe place when the tsunami hits.

For now, while I wait for him to do whatever it is he’s doing, the only thing I can do is try to stay calm. At the house, I picked up my phone and charger. Two things I managed to salvage from the destruction that was formerly my home. I’m not sad to say goodbye to it, but I am unnerved by how easily someone came in and gutted the place. It makes me feel vulnerable.

So I call my friend Cherie and leave a voicemail. I don’t have many contacts left to reach out to, and Lord knows, I don’t want to drag anyone else into this, but I need a friend. Her lack of immediate response is normal, so I curl up on the bed and close my eyes to wait. Thirty minutes later, she responds with a text, and I tell her where I am and that I want her to come. I need to talk.

I leave my bag on my bed and head to the sanctuary, dodging the raindrops on the few short steps from the rectory to the back entrance of the church. I guess the weatherman was correct, after all. Our dry streak is broken, and other than a few breaks now and then, it’s been raining for the past eighteen hours. It matches my mood.

Cherie is waiting for me when I get to the sanctuary. Her bright-colored sweater is cheerful, a stark contrast to the mood I’m in. Her smile is even more painful to look at. She knows about Tom’s horrible past and the way he died, though not many of our friends know. I creep up beside her and lower myself onto the pew, and she places her hand on mine.

“What’s going on, Alice? What’s wrong? Why are we meeting here?”

I look up into her eyes and realize she hasn't been to my house in weeks. She won’t go there unless she’s invited, which means she hasn’t seen the mess. And I still don’t know why my name isn’t plastered over all the headlines for being wanted in connection with a murder, so she doesn’t know anything that’s happened. To her, this is a normal day, a normal life. But all of the things I’ve feared most are now coming true.

“I killed a man.” My blunt confession makes her squirm. She pulls her hand away, and I look down at my skin, briefly warmed by her touch and now chilled again.

“You what?”

“He came after me, the way I told you I feared. He broke into the house, and I hid in the bathroom. He tried breaking the door down,and I just unloaded the gun through the door. He’s dead, but he’s not at the house, and I stayed in the church overnight. I just…” Tears well up, but I blink them back. You’d think I’d have cried enough to get it out of my system, but I can’t stop crying yet.

“It’s so far out of town, babe. Why here? Why Barstow?” She angles her body to face mine, and I see compassion in her eyes. She’s heard me complain about my fears, the bumps in the night that terrify me.

“I was going to run, but the priest told me to stay here to be safe. He’s giving me sanctuary. I just needed a friend to talk to.” I’m anything but calm, shaking like a leaf the way I have been for days or weeks.

Cherie is quiet for a while as if mulling over my words. “It happened at your house? The news has said nothing about it.” Cherie lives less than a mile from me, in the same small neighborhood, but I imagine even the neighborhood Facebook group hasn’t had a hint of the news. Those men have probably covered it up.

“I don’t know. All I know is I can’t go to work. I don’t know where to go. The priest says they’ll come here now. I said his name in front of one of them. It won’t take much for them to figure out what church he is a priest at, and they’ll come looking.” I fold my fingers together, then unfold them and clench them into fists. I’m too nervous, flighty. I want to run.

“Come stay with me. No one will ever track you to me. You’ll be safe, and you can try to figure out what to do next.” She takes my hand again, smoothing my crimped fingers to a straight position.

“Cherie, I can’t do that. They’ll find me and then they’ll come after you. It’s not safe.” I pat her hand and grimace. “I just really needed someone to talk to about this. Okay? I’m sorry to worry you. I will find a way out of this. The priest seems to be confident he can help me. If the cops haven’t filed an APB for me, there’s a chance they will assume I was abducted or something.” I can hope, right?

She gives me a disapproving look, but she stays to talk with me. For the next hour, the conversation takes my mind off things, and I promise to keep in touch with her when this is all over. Wherever I am, whatever I’m doing, I know I’ll have a friend in her. And before she leaves, she reaffirms her offer that there is a bed at her house with my name on it. But I have to refuse. It’s bad enough I got the priest involved. I can’t ruin her life too.

Sitting alone in the sanctuary, everything is quiet. I think of how life used to be quiet at home. I’d get home before Tom would, put dinner on, and wait for him. Boots would nuzzle my leg and I’d feed him. At times, it was too quiet. I used to crave adventure or intrigue—anything to break the monotonous routine. I even wanted a baby, practically begged Tom to let me get pregnant. I was lonely, working all the time and spending my evenings wishing Tom would be done working so we could spend time together. I’d do anything to have those boring days back.

Before I’m quite ready to return to the rectory and face whatever consequences are coming because of my slip-up, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. I hear the door to the sanctuary open behind me and male voices. They’re speaking in hushed tones—harsh whispers that carry to where I’m sitting. I cower instinctively. I’ve been living in PTSD-riddled terror for long enough. I know when something isn’t right.

These voices are gruff and unintelligible. They’re speaking a different language. It sounds like Italian. I lie down across the pew, then slip to the floor and look beneath the rows of seating. Two sets of boots are there near the back, standing near the door. It makes my blood run cold. I’m stuck, trapped in this room with two could-be assassins sent to take me out and hunt down the man responsible for protecting me.

My heart goes out to him. I hate that I’ve brought this on him, though at my house, he seemed very well-equipped and able to handle himself, like he was a cage fighter in a previous life or something. He took that armed man out in only a few blows with ease. But thatdoesn’t mean he deserves this. I want to run and get out of here, but I’m stuck now. The only thing I can do is hide.

Crawling to the end of the row, I look around for some place I can get away, a place they won’t find me. The only place I see is the confessional, but that’d be a trap. If they open the door when I’m in there, I’ll have no place to go. But as the sound of footsteps grows louder, approaching me from the rear, I realize I have no choice. It’s flee to the confessional and hide, or stay here like a sitting duck.

So I crawl as quickly as I can behind the curtain toward the small pine-wood-framed box that may very well be my coffin before this ends. With a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure they haven’t seen me, I get to my feet and dash to the door, slipping into the confessional before they’re any the wiser.

My heart hammers against my ribs, my pulse so loud my ears are ringing. My hands are sweaty, my breath coming in short, rasping gasps. I have to get myself to calm down or they’ll hear me in here, and that will be the end.

“Mario!” one of the men shouts, and I freeze. He told me his name was Mario, told me to call him that too, but I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re not here for me. They’re here for him?

“Yeah, you little punk ass bitch. Get out here.” Two voices, one very angry, one stern. I’m terrified.

What do they want with the priest? And how do they know him by name? I’m not connecting these points in my head at all. Were they parishioners who confessed to him at one point?

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