This was bad, very bad. Mark straightened and scanned the area. Boarded-up stores, all dark. A few automobiles, all empty. Paradise Christian, also dark.
He snatched up the cell phone and pressed the power button. The display came to life, the greenish glow the most welcoming he had ever known. Until it displayed the no service message.
With a sound of frustration, he tossed it onto the seat. The rain began again, with a vengeance. Thunder rumbled. Lord, help me. I can’t do this on my own. What now?
And then, he had his answer. Mark turned and stared at the church’s darkened facade.
This was where the Lord wanted him to be.
Grabbing both Liz’s keys and car phone, he slammed the door and battled his way to the church’s front doors.
He found them unlocked and slipped inside. Obviously the power had been out some time; the interior of the church was humid and warm. Other than the sound of the rain, the church was silent.
“Liz?” he called. “It’s Mark. Are you here?”
He made his way to the sanctuary. The flame from the eternal candle cast a soft circle of light. He called out for Liz again, then Pastor Tim. His words echoed back at him, bouncing off the wooden pews, the crucifix of Christ. The large stained-glass window behind the altar alternately brightened and darkened with the flashes of lightning outside. He lifted his face. The choir loft was located above him to the right. And, like the rest of the church, was dark. Empty.
Liz wasn’t here.
He didn’t know why he was so certain of that but he was. He took a candle from the altar, lit it and continued his search, first through the rest of the sanctuary, then of the other rooms. The nursery and fellowship hall. The Sunday-school classrooms. The office.
He found all empty. He reached the pastor’s study. The door was open. He stepped inside. And found Pastor Tim sprawled on the floor in front of his desk, the front of his light-colored shirt marred by an ominous, dark stain.
Mark gasped and rushed to his friend’s side.
CHAPTER 60
Wednesday, November 21
10:00 p.m.
Heart in her throat, Liz pounded on the locked sacristy door. “Let us out of here!” she cried. “My sister needs help! Please, someone hear me!”
Val had locked them in the sacristy, a room located in proximity to the pulpit and used by priests to physically and spiritually prepare themselves for mass.
Liz looked over her shoulder at her sister, lying motionless on the floor. Her breath came in shallow pulls. Her alarmingly pale skin stretched tightly over her bones, giving her the appearance of something out of a house of horrors. Her lips and the inside of her mouth were covered with fever blisters. During the ride to the church, she had opened her eyes once. The color had been dull; she had looked at Liz without recognition.
Rachel was dying.
Panic rose up in her. She pounded on the door again.
“Someone, please! Help us!”
Only the howling wind answered her, and Liz hurried back to Rachel’s side. She would have to do what she could to help her. She searched her memory, trying to figure out how by assessing what was wrong with her.
Dehydration, most certainly. She had been locked in that stifling hot box for some time, deprived of water. Malnourished, obviously. She had fever. That meant she had an infection. Or…heatstroke. A friend from college had suffered a heatstroke running in sweats in August. When they’d found her, she’d been barely conscious. Burning up with fever. At the hospital they’d iced her down and administered fluids.
Heatstroke, she had learned, could lead to kidney failure, which led to death.
She needed to bring her temperature down and hydrate her.
Liz tore off her soaked shirt and went to Rachel’s side. She knelt beside her, positioning herself by her head. Carefully, Liz twisted a small area of the fabric, wringing out several drops of water. They fell into Rachel’s mouth. Her lips moved.
Encouraged, Liz repeated the process until she had wrung out the entire shirt. Then she folded the garment into a neat rectangle and laid the damp, cool cloth against her sister’s fevered forehead.
It hurt to look at her. When she did, she imagined the hell Rachel had endured over the past months. Hell delivered at the hands of Heather Ferguson.
Liz squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears. Why had she done it? How could one human being exact such cruelty on another? She shuddered with the force of holding back her tears. Of restraining her impotent fury. She lifted her face toward heaven, as if by doing so she would suddenly understand the why. As if somehow she would find a way to let go of her anger before it ate her alive.
“Don’t cry.”
Liz caught her breath and looked at her sister. Her eyes were open. And she was looking at Liz with that funny, perplexed expression Liz knew so well.
“Hi, sweetie.” Liz caught her hands, a broken laugh passing her lips. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Her sister’s mouth curved up. “I…prayed…you’d come.”
Liz’s lips trembled and she pressed them together, working to steady herself. “Of course I came. I love you, sis.”
“Lov’ you…too.”
“Save your strength,” Liz said quickly, seeing her sister’s fragile grip on consciousness slipping.
“No…sorry I…you into this.”
“You didn’t. Rachel, I…the last time we spoke I acted like such a jerk. I’m so sorry. If I could take back the things I said-”
“I should…told you what was happen…afraid. For you. I…” Her words trailed off; a shudder rippled over her wasted body.
“You’re ill.” Liz heard the fear in her own voice and worked to hide it. “Save your strength, please.”
Her sister curled her fingers around hers, her grip as weak as a newborn’s. “Don’t you…understa…this body…just a shell. This world only a…moment in…eternity.”
She closed her eyes and for one panicked moment Liz thought she had lost her. Then she stirred once more. “My faith kept me…alive. She…didn’t understa…the more she tried to turn me away, the closer we beca-”
Another shudder seized Rachel, and Liz held her. She moved slightly so Rachel’s head rested in her lap. She trailed her fingers through her sister’s hair, gently massaging her scalp, the way she used to when they were kids.
“I’m not going to let you die.” This, Liz whispered fiercely, as if by wanting desperately enough she could will it. “I lost you once and I’m not going to lose you again.”
Rachel’s mouth moved. Liz bent closer. Her breath stirred against her cheek, but no sound emerged.
So she continued to stroke her hair and speak softly. “Remember the Christmas we spent in Vermont with Grandma and Grandpa? We’d never seen so much snow. We both stayed out so long that first day our cheeks were still pink the next morning.”
Liz smiled at the memory. “Grandpa took us for a sleigh ride. I remember the jingle of the bells, the taste of Grandma’s hot chocolate and the clouds of condensation that formed in the air as we laughed.”
She lowered her gaze to her sister. Her eyes were closed but Liz could tell she was listening. And that her words were soothing to her. So she continued, recalling other stories they shared, other sweet remembrances.
From the sanctuary came the sound of voices. Liz bent close to Rachel’s ear. “I’ll be right back.”
She eased Rachel’s head off her lap, got to her feet and tiptoed to the door. She pressed her ear against it. Heather was speaking.
“-told me he was dead!”
“He should be. He took a bullet in the chest.”
Pastor Tim? Were they talking about-
“Then where the hell is he?”
“When I left, he was sprawled across his office floor, bleeding like a stuck pig.”