The Atheist's Daughter Read online

  “There’s still a few hours until the final exam. To get everybody in the right spirit, we’re going to play a game.”

  “A game? Sure, yeah. I’m up for it. Whatever.”

  “It’s my own invention.” Dr. Silva smiled. “Calculus Pictionary.”

  Liz laughed. When his expression fell, she said, “You’re serious?”

  Past him, the other students were squeezed together on the large sofa. In front of the coffee table, a makeshift easel was positioned. A large sketch pad sat on the lip of the easel, a circle drawn at its center. Inside the circle was an inscribed hexagon.

  “What do you think?” Dr. Silva asked.

  I am so going to flunk this class, Liz thought. “Great,” she said.

  * * *

  Hawkins guided the car into the parking space labeled Pastor Parking Only!

  Lost in thought, his father remained in the seat beside him. An hour out of the city, he’d woken abruptly. Other than to ask when they’d arrive in Winterhaven, he hadn’t offered any conversation.

  Probably another bad dream, Hawkins thought.

  His mother had died years ago but his father still awoke with a cry at least twice a month. He was unusually quiet more often than that. Whatever he’d seen while asleep, he kept it to himself. The Reverend wasn’t one to share his miseries.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for his father to find a new love. It might open him up a little.

  Walking together under the darkening clouds, they went through the building’s side entrance and into its main classroom. True to their respective natures, Jolene and Jewell had everything ready for the study session.

  Seated side by side were five elderly women, one ancient man, and Brenda Parkes, the divorcee who had caught his father’s interest. As one, they rose to their feet when Hawkins and the Reverend entered the room. Sloppily but enthusiastically, they applauded.

  “Well?” the tiny, gray-haired Jolene asked.

  “Did you get into Oklahoma Trinity?” the tiny, white-haired Jewell questioned.

  Hawkins blushed. They applauded again.

  “Congratulations,” Brenda said with a smile. When the others broke into conversation, she moved toward his father.

  Reverend Hawkins ignored her. She stopped abruptly before awkwardly returning to her plastic chair.

  Going to the window, the Reverend opened the checkerboard curtains. “It’s started to rain,” he said. “Kristin is here.”

  Streaks of dirt ran down the glass in rivulets. “Fantastic.”

  “She’s out at the curb. Sitting in a car.”

  “She didn’t come all the way here to wait in the car,” Hawkins said. “I’ll bet I can get her to come in. Maybe she’ll stay for the class.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not going to freeze up, Dad. Not that anyone would care if I did, anyway. Kristin certainly won’t care.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” His face drawn, he let the curtain fall. “Tell her to go. I want her to leave.”

  “Howard?” Brenda asked, concerned.

  Around them, the soft murmur of conversation stopped. Jolene adjusted her hearing aid, wanting to catch every word.

  “She doesn’t belong here,” Reverend Hawkins said. “Something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but something.”

  “Dad –”

  ”Don’t let her into the church!”

  * * *

  Kristin tried Hawkins’ cell phone number but, as before, a mechanical voice immediately directed her to a message box. She dropped the phone into her purse.

  Overhead, rain drummed against the car’s metal roof.

  Great, no umbrella, she thought. And here I am in shorts, a tee and an old sweatshirt.

  When I go up the walk, I’ll get soaking wet. Talk about inappropriate attire for your first official visit to church.

  She flicked her finger at the dashboard Mickey Mouse. It bobbled to and fro. “It’s only a damned building,” she told the plastic figure.

  Oops, not allowed to say those kinds of things.

  That was part of the problem; there were so many rules to be followed. There were things you shouldn’t say, things you should say, things you weren’t allowed to do, and things you should never, ever, even think of doing. If you weren’t raised on the Word, you practically needed to consult a play book before even entering the premises.

  Not a play book, a Bible. Not that she had one of those lying around, either.

  It wasn’t like Hawkins hadn’t left a dozen of the things at her house. Every few months, she was dropping another one into the donation bin outside the local Salvation Army. She’d actually tried to read one of them, a St. James version of the Old Testament. She hadn’t lasted an hour before getting lost in the arcane wording. She felt overwhelmed by all of the begatting and forbading, the “thou this” and the “sayeth that”.

  If the writing of the Bible had been guided by the hand of God, why was it harder to understand than a Stephen King novel? The whole thing was silly. Church, the Bible, religion itself. All of it.

  No, be honest with yourself, she thought. You don’t think this is silly. If it were silly, it wouldn’t matter.

  The fact is, you’re scared.

  This wasn’t the first time, either. Far from it. Every time she walked past a place of worship, her heart beat like crazy. When Aunt Lois sent her a gold crucifix necklace, it left a welt at the center of her chest. The one time she’d tried to attend Galilee Church, as a birthday surprise for Hawkins, she’d gotten dizzy when she stepped onto its walkway. Feeling sick, she ran back home.

  Hawkins still didn’t know. What would she have said? “I meant to drop by but I was too busy hurling into the bushes”?

  “Not my fault, Hawk,” she said. “I tried. Believe it or not, I have a phobia about the whole thing. As if I wasn’t damaged enough already.”

  The condition was called ecclesiophobia, a fear of churches, and she didn’t believe there was any such thing, either, until it swept over her. Her favorite on-line encyclopedia said thousands of people suffered from it. She knew Hawkins might doubt her but could he doubt Wikipedia?

  “Bet there aren’t too many celebrity telethons for this kind of disease,” she told Mickey. “Maybe I can form a support group. I’ll bet most of us would be free on Sundays.”

  Mickey’s happy expression suggested he liked the idea.

  Muffled music played inside her purse. Removing her cell phone, Kristin brought it to her ear.

  Before she could say anything, her mother snapped at her. “Where’s my car?”

  “I have it.”

  “You asked to borrow it – when?”

  Kristin sat in silence. Rain pounded on the roof overhead.

  “You’re busted, Ms. Grand Theft Auto,” Becky continued. “As of this second, the car is off-limits. You want to use it, you’ll need written permission.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes! No. No, not seriously. Where are you?”

  “Galilee Church.”

  “Pull the other one.”

  “Hawkins is inside, teaching some kind of study class,” Kristin said. “I’m supposed to meet him here.”

  “You really meant it? Wow.” Her mother was quiet for a moment. “How long will you be there?”

  “It might be awhile.” True enough. She’d spent the last ten minutes trying to find the courage to open the car door.

  “Make it a short while,” Becky said. “We have visitors coming over. I need you to pick up donuts or cinnamon rolls on the way home. Or do you think we should go healthy?”

  “Who’s visiting?”

  “Mrs. Norton. Martin is tagging along, I think.”

  Kristin’s mind spun, her thoughts a jumble.

  From somewhere in cyberspace, a crackle rolled over the line. “That was thunder, wasn’t it? We’ll have lightning soon.”

  She said, “Mom, I don’t feel good about Mrs. Norton.”

  “She’s not very wa
rm and fuzzy, that’s for certain. Hang up the line. It’s dangerous to be on a phone during a thunderstorm.”

  “Mrs. Norton –”

  “– will need something to eat once she gets here. Martin will, anyway. He’s skin and bones since Chandra left him. Pick up something before you get home. A veggie platter!”

  The phone line went dead.

  Overhead, the rain fell more heavily. Unconcerned, Mickey swayed on his coiled spring leg.

  I’ve got to do this, she told herself. I have to do it right now.

  Pellets of cold water spat at her legs as she climbed from her seat. Before she could close the car door, a gust of wind yanked the handle from her hand and slammed the driver’s side shut.

  Lightning streaked overhead, followed by a crash of thunder. She ran for the church walk, feeling as if buckets of water were falling upon her.

  Drowning is not an option.

  She’d never seen the weather turn nasty so quickly. With the wind howling around her, she bent into it, marveling at the struggle it presented.

  At the end of the path, the church’s oak door swung open. Hawkins appeared in the vestibule. “Kristin!”

  Her hair pressed wetly against her cheeks. Nausea hit her, suddenly, and she gagged dryly.

  Nice try, ecclesiophobia, but I’m ready for you this time. I skipped supper, didn’t eat breakfast. You might make me as sick as hell but I’m not visiting the bushes this time.

  Reverend Hawkins stepped behind his son. He pulled on Hawkins’ shirt and the younger man stumbled backward.

  The Reverend stared out at her, his eyes wide. Hawkins cried out as his father pushed the big door closed.

  The door boomed shut as a black shadow passed over the walkway. The shadow was so large and dark that Kristin wondered if an eclipse had occurred. Shielding her eyes from the rain, she looked up at the sky.

  Thick, black clouds floated above her. As she watched, the large, thick drops of rain weakened, transforming into a fine mist. The wind continued to blow but its ferocity was gone. It caressed her, tugging at her clothing.

  Wiping the hair from her eyes, she realized she was standing at the doorway of the Galilee Church. She’d been so distracted by the events around her, she’d almost forgotten her fear of the structure itself.

  Hawkins shouted something loud and angry from inside the building, only to be answered by his father’s deeper, more commanding, voice. Silence followed whatever had been said.

  Kristin reached for the door’s curved handle. As she touched it, there was a sizzling noise and a searing pain licked across her palm. Crying out, she yanked her fingers away.

  A bright red stripe marked where the skin had met the metal handle. Blood bubbled up from the burn line, dripping from the wound and running down her wrist.

  “Hawkins!” With her uninjured hand, she banged her fist against the closed door. She pounded her fist again, hearing the sound echo inside the church. “Help me!”

  The door remained closed.

  Chapter Thirty

  Paying for her cup of coffee, Liz wondered, Why is so much of a life a good news/bad news kind of proposition?

  The good news was, she wasn’t going to waste the morning taking a calculus test. The bad news was, she wouldn’t graduate from high school, get into the university, or ever qualify for a decent job. In time, she’d end up homeless and begging at street corners for change.

  Plus, and this weighed on her heavily, Nana Beggio was going to kill her.

  The good news was, she was about to enjoy a fresh cup of half-caff. The bad news was, she was officially broke.

  Good news: It had stopped raining. Bad news: If it hadn’t stopped raining, she might not have snuck out of Dr. Silva’s rear kitchen door and run for freedom. She might even have taken his stupid test.

  She wouldn’t have passed the test, she wasn’t kidding herself, but she’d have been present and accounted for. However, important side note, she wasn’t entirely to blame for her escape. It was Dr. Silva who uttered the words, “Calculus Pictionary”.

  My God, she thought, what kind of warped mind considered joining those two concepts? Calculus Pictionary is worse than it sounds and it sounds like Zombie Death. It’s Chinese water torture with math symbols. Drip, quadrant, drip, intercept, drip, Cartesian coordinates.

  It’s inhuman, that’s what it is. Taken in that light, I should actually be admired for taking a stand and running for daylight.

  She sipped at the coffee. Nana Beggio had warned her, if she didn’t pass the test and get into Ashfork U., she’d have to find some kind of employment, no matter how menial.

  “Completely right and fair, Nana.” She raised the coffee cup to the corner stop sign.

  Bad news: She lacked any kind of job skills. Good news: Nobody was hiring, anyway.

  Opening her cell phone, she saw a blank screen. Bad news: The battery was dead. Worse news: She’d spent the last of her money on hot water and coffee beans.

  Worser news: It was a helluva long way home.

  She wondered if any of the nearby business owners would let her make a phone call. If so, it wouldn’t be those cheap bastards at the coffee shop. They wouldn’t even stock toilet paper in their unisex bathroom.

  Her eyes searching the stores around her, she spotted a brown tabby walking along the sidewalk ahead of her. “Mouser?”

  Mouser ignored her call, his tail twitching as he strolled down the boulevard. Liz grabbed him, spilling splashes of coffee as she picked him up.

  “You are in such trouble, mister,” she told the cat, not caring about the coffee stains decorating her Elena Garcia blouse.

  In her arms, she held the meowing return of her allowance. It was as good as in the bank. Her escape from the Silva Combine wouldn’t be forgotten but much would be forgiven.

  Because, as incredible as it sounded, Nana Beggio loved this useless cat. She let him sleep on her bed. She wouldn’t care –

  – how rancid he smelled. Crinkling her nose, Liz lowered the animal from her chest. “What did you get into?”

  Behind her, a horn blurted loudly. Held loosely, the cat leapt from her hold, jarring the coffee cup from her hand. Liz jumped as steaming liquid sprayed the sidewalk at her feet.

  Mouser ran across the street before disappearing over a chain link fence. Liz spun around angrily.

  Behind her, a dusty white Chevrolet idled in the center of the street. The car’s driver was obscured behind streaks of dirt crisscrossing the windshield.

  Walking to the driver’s open side window, Liz said, “Were you born a dick?”

  “Watch your mouth, girl,” the driver told her. “I wasn’t born.”

  He was in his twenties and handsome in an arrogant, full-of-himself kind of way. Normally, Liz liked a little attitude in a guy. With this one, she wasn’t so sure. “What’s your name?”

  “Mr. Locke.”

  “Oh, like I’m going to call you ‘mister’.” There were reddish-brown splotches on his shirt and pants.

  Probably some kind of wood stain, she thought, which is vaguely sexy if you’re into handymen. Which, on reflection, I absolutely am.

  He seemed familiar to her but, then, so did the car. “Isn’t this Barry Collison’s car?”

  “Was. I put him in the trunk.”

  “Not funny.” She noticed a hand-lettered FOR SALE sign taped to the car’s rear window. She wondered if Barry had bothered to tell this guy that his car had leaked oil on every driveway in town.

  “You know the brown-haired girl, right?” Mr. Locke asked. “The snoop, the one who hangs out at the café.”

  “That’s where I’ve seen you. You work there.”

  “You know her. The brown-haired girl.”

  “If you mean, Kristin Faraday,” Liz said, “then maybe.”

  Grimacing, Mr. Locke sagged against the driver’s door. Sweat beading his forehead, he thrust an envelope through the open window. “Give her this.”

  He jerked with pain and the pack
et fell from his fingers. Striking the ground with a slap, it rested on the street.

  Across the front of it, in block letters, he’d written the word, CONFIDENTIAL. A brown fingerprint was imprinted where a stamp would normally be.

  Liz pirouetted away from the car. “See ya.”

  “Wait!” Then, as if the word was foreign to him, he added, “Please.”

  She stopped at the curb.

  “You want money?” He held a pair of bills out to her. When she didn’t move, he let the money drop to the asphalt. “That’s for you. Just give the brown-haired girl the envelope.”

  A crumpled fifty dollar bill stared up at her. Folded in beside it was a twenty, a pink smear discoloring Andrew Jackson’s image.

  “That’s a fairly serious bribe for such a small favor.”

  He put both of his hands on the steering wheel. “The envelope’s for your friend, not you. You’re not to open it.”

  Liz shrugged. Behind the car, a pick-up truck blew its horn.

  “Give me your promise,” Mr. Locke said. “I want to see you swear it.”

  “It says ‘confidential’. I get it, it’s none of my business.”

  The pick-up truck’s driver blared his horn a second time. Mr. Locke gunned the car’s motor, sending hot air from the engine and sucking the paper bills beneath the Chevy. He drove off, tires squealing, as Liz went into the street for the money.

  The truck’s driver glared at her as she collected the cash and the stranger’s oh-so-important secret message. The truck swerved around her, its horn beeping.

  She flipped her middle finger into the air then looked for the handyman. Barry Collison’s car had vanished.

  Ripping open the tip of the envelope, Liz found two sheets of paper. Unfolding the top sheet, she started to read it.

  Halfway through the first page, she began to laugh.

  * * *

  Miss Sweet entered the bedroom. Unmoving, Alice Poe lay atop her bed’s bare mattress, her eyes pointed at the ceiling above her.

  A star burst of cracks was visible on her upper left shoulder. Through the cloud of her body, Miss Sweet could see similar markings on her torso and upper legs.