What Lies Within (14 page)

“You’re worried?”

She pondered that, then gave a slow shake of her head. “I’m … bothered, but not worried yet.”

Jed pushed away from the car. “Well then, I say we take some time and pray for her.” He held his hand out to Annie, and she let him pull her to her feet and into his arms. “And if you shift into being worried, we’ll know it’s time to do something else.”

She snuggled against him. “Such as?”

“Such as send you and your beast to Portland so you can check up on your
only sister
.” He nudged her. “Like I didn’t know that’s what you were hinting at, brat.”

Annie framed his face with her hands. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No”—he pressed a kiss to the side of her mouth—“you don’t. But you’ve got me.”

Ample proof, Annie thought as she melted against him, of how very, very much God loved her.

ELEVEN   

H
e loved these windows. Too bad he had to trash ’em.

You couldn’t tell now, not with the streetlights shot out to make sure there wasn’t even a sliver of illumination, but when daylight shone through those windows, it was beautiful. Just let the sun come out, and the windows rained color down on the room. He used to sit there, holding out his hand so those colors washed over his skin. Skin the color of ebony, his mama always said. He’d study the pieces of glass, how they fit. Like those puzzles he and Mama used to put together.

One side of his mouth drew up. They never had all the pieces. And his mother’s patience only lasted through a couple drinks. Then she started grabbing pieces and pounding them into place. He’d learned early on not to complain, to point out that the picture wouldn’t be right if she did that.

Better a messed up picture than a broken jaw.

He touched a finger to the cool, stained-glass window before him. No pounding here. Just color and perfect fit; rippled colored glass from ceiling to floor, forming pictures. Beautiful, terrible pictures.

Yeah, these windows were older than he was. Probably twice as old. He didn’t know anything else in the neighborhood as old as this church. Made him sad, what they had to do.

But the old men hadn’t left them any choice.

“King K, we got it all in place. Time to light it up, man.”

He didn’t respond. Just splayed his fingers across the glass, let his gaze rise to where Jesus hung on the cross.
You shoulda made them listen
.

“King—”

One look was all it took to shut his boy up. If it ever took more, he was in trouble. “We light it when
I
say, Chato.”

He almost smiled at the fear that sprang to the kid’s eyes. But this wasn’t the time to smile. Kid needed to fear him. He’d stay alive a lot longer that way.

“Naw, man, I know. I wasn’t sayin’ nothin’. Just, you know, letting you know we ready. Nothin’ more, man.”

This boy talked too much. They’d have to break him of that. “Go wait for me with the others. Tell ’em I be there”—he sharpened his gaze and words—“when I’m ready.”

The boy’s hands came up. “Sure, sure. I’ll tell ’em. Just what you say, man. We wait ’til you’re rea—”

“Chato.”

If the kid been a dog, he’d have wet himself. “Yeah?”

“Go.”

Chato went.

King Killa watched the boy scramble. Kid wasn’t afraid of anyone—except him. King respected that. Kid was jumped in a few weeks ago. Took the beat down better than King expected. Even managed to get back on his feet when it was over. He’d stood there, face split and swollen, clothes soaked in blood, chin up.

This kid … he was gonna be a player.

The door closed behind Chato, and King turned back to the scene before him. He studied the face as he’d done so often as a child. Saw how pain twisted those features. God’s features, if what his mama told him was true.

Why’d You do it?

Son of God, right? God made man. More power in His little finger than all those religious leaders had between them.

Man, You coulda taken ’em all out. Just like that
.

He pressed his palm to the cold glass. Fit his hand to God’s. Let his fingers
cover the rigid fingers that spread out, as though trying to escape the nail holding Jesus’s hand to the cross. The tats traveling King K’s hand blended in, became part of the scene. The dagger cutting across the back of his hand followed the rough line of the cross; the blood dripping down the blade, the drops circling his wrist, flowed from the red stream escaping the center of Jesus’s hand.

What did his mama always say? “God sees all and knows all. He’s in all things, and more powerful than anyone can begin to imagine. All power. That’s what God is. All-powerful.”

So why’d You lay down and die?

King K dropped his hand and turned away.
God made man? So what? You let Your crew down. Let the Man dis them. Hunt them down. Torture them. Kill them
.

He looked down at his hand, at the red drops of blood circling his wrist. The blood of his brothers. His fingers clenched into a fist, and he walked toward the door.

Mama was wrong. God wadn’t no hero. No all-powerful being. He was a coward. Let God die. Let Him give up His blood.

King Killa didn’t work like that.

He didn’t die. And neither did his crew.

He pulled open the door, walked out into the cool night. The Blood Brotherhood were there. As he’d known they’d be. King K lifted his chin to the largest of the crew. “You got the lighter? It’s Sunday, man. Time to have church?”

Dancer’s scarred lips curled into a dark grin as he pulled his hand out of his pocket and tossed the lighter to King K. King caught it, then flipped it open. A flame jumped to life. He eyed his crew standing there, watching him. Waiting.

They knew he wouldn’t let them down. Just as he knew they’d stand for him to the last breath. They were family. A brotherhood tested in blood. They didn’t lie down. They didn’t give ground. Not one inch. Nobody—not a bunch of old men, not God Himself—could change that.

And anyone who thought they could—He flipped the lighter through a broken-out window in the parsonage—was about to see just how wrong they were.

TWELVE   

A
shes. That’s all that was left. Of the parsonage. Of their dream.

Smoldering, ruined ashes.

The contractor quitting wasn’t enough? We have to suffer this baleydikung as well?

Anger grappled with sorrow deep within as Fredrik stepped over the charred remains of what once was the three-story church parsonage. At least the fire didn’t spread beyond that portion of the building. The church sanctuary still stood. As did the classroom section.

But was it enough? Was there enough left for them to fulfill the calling God had given them?

Yeshua, it’s in Your hands. You know what they will say. How this will pain them. Discourage them. How they already feel time is running ou—

Oh! Time. His fingers felt for the gold chain hanging from his vest pocket, then tugged his pocket watch free. He thumbed the spring release so
the cover flipped open to reveal the face of the timepiece. So. Ten minutes. In just ten minutes he’d sit at a table and face them. The church elders.

Followers of God. Friends. Treasured advisors.

Willard and his two sons, Von and Don. Steve, Alden, Sheamus, Wayne, and Hilda. Dear Hilda. Faithful believers whose years on this earth had granted them wisdom. Fredrik could almost guess what they’d say.

No, don’t guess. Wait. Listen. They may surprise you
.

Perhaps. He eased the watch cover shut, then slipped the timepiece back into his pocket. He turned and made his way through the rubble. To the sanctuary, where they were most likely waiting.

I wouldn’t mind it, Yeshua. Being surprised
. He stepped over a charred board.
But would it be such trouble, just this once, to let the surprise be a good one?

He hoped not. He’d had all the bad surprises he could take.

“It’s over.”

So. Fredrik had waited, and he’d heard. Sheamus’s two words, spoken with such conviction, were pretty much as he expected. A clear reflection of years of running his own business.

Sheamus’s pronouncement told the tale.

It was okay to keep up the fight so long as there was a solid payoff in sight. But now? The only thing before them was ruin.

But is Sheamus right? Help me know what’s right
.

Fredrik stilled his troubled thoughts—which had sprung to life with Sheamus’s heavy words—and folded his hands on the tabletop. Then he frowned.
Yeshua, how can these be my hands? My hands are strong. Carpenter’s hands, like Yours
. Or they were last time he looked at them. When had they become so pale and wrinkled?

“How can you say that, Sheamus?” Steve, who’d never turned away from a challenge, entered the discussion. “We still have time.”

Optimism speaks up. Thank you, Steve. I needed to know not everyone is ready to give up
.

“Two months!” Wayne was usually the quiet one, speaking only when he
had something he absolutely needed to say. For him to blurt out such an exclamation swept Fredrik’s relief aside. “Steve, be realistic. What can we do in two months? Especially after the fire. The parsonage is in ruins …” Wayne turned to the man sitting beside Fredrik. “Don, you tell him. Tell him he’s talking crazy.”

Don’s strong hands—hands that had run a dry kiln at the mill with both precision and skill—rested on the table. Fredrik waited as the man pondered his response. Like his brother, Don loved to tease and laugh. But both men were as solid as the concrete foundation of the church and, when the situation called for it, thoughtful and solemn.

And if ever a situation called for it, this one did.

Finally, drawing in a heavy breath, Don met Wayne’s eyes. “I don’t know, Wayne. Seems to me if God has called us to this, He has to be the One to tell us to give it up.”

If. Yes, Yeshua, there is the question. If. Did You call us, as we thought You did? Then why so many obstacles?
Fredrik rubbed his fingers across the back of his hand.
And when did my skin turned to rice paper draped over eighty-year-old blue veins?

Old, Fredrik? Yes, I suppose. But life flows through them. Your life. My life
.

Yes?
He drew in breath, felt his lungs fill.
Yes, Abba. Life, still. And I thank You for every new day. But the dream. What of the dream You gave us? Is that alive?