Rushing through getting dressed—to get out of an apartment she’d enjoyed for the last few years, she didn’t put on church clothes. They’d be badly out of place at the mission. Only now, several days too late, did she realize that she should have been hanging around the mission from the first, trying to sense that demonic presence. It irritated her a little that Higgins and Dyson had helped her realize that. She wanted to believe their presence was a waste of taxpayer dollars.
So, though she’d already decided she wanted to listen to Paul preach, now she was going for another, less honorable reason—a cop reason. She hoped Paul didn’t realize it. Or if he did, he didn’t blow a gasket.
She wore khaki slacks, a polo shirt, and her best shoes. Nikes. One of the rules she lived by was that she never put anything on her feet that wouldn’t allow her to chase a fleeing criminal or run for her life.
She got to the Lighthouse Mission in time for breakfast. Paul was on the business side of a counter covered with steaming stainless steel pans.
“Hi, come to help?” He saluted her with a spatula.
“I’m counting on it.” Keren ferreted out a huge apron and asked Rosita if she could use a break from dishing up eggs. Rosita gladly gave up her spot in the serving line.
Standing next to Paul, Keren checked to see if he was as exhausted as she was.
He had red veins running through his eyes and dark circles under them, but he smiled, and for one split second he focused on her lips. She thought he might just kiss her again right here in front of everyone.
“Get to work.” He jabbed his spatula at her pan of eggs and grinned.
Keren ignored a stab of regret that he hadn’t followed through and kissed her. “Right away, sir.”
A line filed past and she scooped eggs onto the trays of shuffling homeless men and women. She ignored the smell of unwashed bodies and mass-produced food and watched the men as they came through, mindful of the way people treated the homeless. She said hello to each of them. This was her precinct, and she knew a few by name because they were regulars in the neighborhood. Some of them recognized her as a cop and gave her doubtful looks, but they must have been hungry, because they took their food and moved on.
Paul was in his element. He talked to each man and woman. He asked about personal matters and apologized for being gone so much that week. LaToya’s name came up several times, as did Juanita’s. It was an insular community in many ways. They knew what was going on around them, even if they chose not to get involved with it.
When the line finally dwindled, Paul said, “I really appreciate your help this morning, Keren. Some of my most regular helpers are missing today. Murray didn’t even show up to preach. This is about half the crowd we usually have. I think they blame the mission for the trouble in the neighborhood.”
“What else can I do?”
“Fill those white thermal pitchers with coffee from the big pots and pour.” Paul smiled and arched his brows in a conspiratorial way then whispered, “If they take a second cup, they usually settle in and stay for services.”
Glad for a chance to move through the crowd, Keren filled a pot and circulated through the room. She laid her hand on many shoulders and occasionally stopped to talk.
She was surprised how much she enjoyed this act of service. Paul came up behind her to trade her nearly empty coffeepot for a full one.
“Jesus reached out over and over to people who were outcasts,” he murmured in her ear. “He calls us to do the same. The act of serving is one of the purest forms of Christianity, and it invariably returns more to us than we ever give.”
“But if we’re doing it for the blessings we receive, then is it a true act of service?” Keren asked.
“Ah, philosophy,” Paul said with a grin. “I suppose that depends on what’s in your heart. Is this a pure act of service, Keren, or are you here trying to earn God’s blessings?”
Before Keren could respond, Paul leaned closer. “Or maybe you’re trying to catch the interest of a certain preacher.”
She pulled away and gave him her best squinty gunslinger look.
“That cranky look’s not scaring me off. I’m definitely interested.” He left to refill his pot, and it was only with the greatest effort that Keren managed to close her mouth.
She turned back to the men she was serving. I’m not here for that, Lord.
No reassuring answer.
Am I?
She got to a man who had gone through the line before she’d arrived, and, as simply as that, she sensed the demon. Not Pravus—the impression was nowhere near that powerful—but there was no denying her discernment.
The man looked and smelled like the rest. His clothing was hanging in tatters. He was probably mid- to late-forties, but the street added years to a face. He could be younger. He had on a ragged sweatshirt that might have at one time been red. One of the shirt’s wrists was ripped away, the other hung by a thread. His pants were army fatigues, and his hair and beard looked like they hadn’t been washed or combed for years, or cut for a decade.
There was an empty place beside him; in fact, there were only two others sitting at the utilitarian table with him, and they were seated as far from him as possible. Keren wondered if the other transients could sense that he was different, more awash in evil than the rest of them. She eased herself into the chair beside him. She glanced up and saw Paul shake his head at her. So even Paul was careful of this man. She nodded once to let him know she got the message but she didn’t move. She was praying silently, asking for Jesus’ intervention, asking for leading. She laid a hand on the man’s arm and he turned to her with a sudden jerk. He snarled under his breath like a cornered wild animal.
Keren didn’t flinch. She looked at the man, trying to see past the surface, trying to see if there was someone here who would be open to her. Their eyes locked. She saw the struggle in him, the bitter unhappiness, the total defeat.
At last she said, “I know a way out of the darkness.”
“There is no way.” He moved as if he would get up and leave, but something kept him in his seat.
She gripped his shoulder and spoke softly. “Accept my prayers. I can help you get free from what’s inside of you.”
The man’s eyes cleared and Keren saw his longing. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“R–Roger.” Keren wondered how long it had been since he’d spoken his name out loud. His eyes lost focus, and she saw the effort he made to hang on to himself. “My name used to be Roger Prewitt.”
“Your name is still Roger Prewitt.” She leaned close. “I’m going to pray for you, Roger. The demon inside of you can be cast out. He’ll stay out if you turn your life over to Jesus. You can get out of the misery that controls your life.”
“There’s no way out.” Roger shook his head. Lice crawled along his hairline. His voice was guttural, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. “This has been with me since I was in a car accident. I made a deal and I thought it was worth it to survive. But it’s not worth it. I’d rather have died that night than live like this. But at the time, burning alive was too much to face.”
Keren saw twisted, damaged skin on the back of his hand. She reached for the sleeve with the wrist cuff torn away and carefully pushed the shirt up. She uncovered deep, ugly scars.
“You must have been in terrible pain and you were weak.”
“How can you know that?” Roger’s voice grew loud and agitated.
“There’s no great miracle in my knowing fire is terribly painful. There’s only what’s obvious when I feel the demon in you and know a moment of weakness let it in. God sent me to help you.”