Sue thought of Pastor Wheeler and she felt cold. "Who was it?" she asked.
""Ids from my P.E. class. Butch, J.D." Rick, and Maria."
He started to cry. "And Russ and Kim and Mr. Peters." ""Your teacher?"
He nodded, wiping his eyes, wincing from the pain as his fingers pressed against his bruises.
The shouts of the football crowd no longer seemed so normal, no longer so benign.
"Do your arms feel broken?" her father, asked in Cantonese. "Are your" legs okay? Can you walk?" uodded. Thirsty," he said. "I'm thirsty."
We'll take you home."
Maybe we should take him to the hospital," Sue suggested.
"Your grandmother can take care of him. I do not trust the hospital now."
Sue nodded. Her father's paranoid certainty frightened her. Despite all she'd said to her grandmother about wanting the family to open up, communicate, talk more, she found that she longed for the days when her father was an unflappable rock. It reassured her when her parents were calm islands in an otherwise stormy sea. It might not be honest for her parents to keep their knowledge, doubts, and fears from her, but it made her feel more confident when she knew she had solid support at home. i Now they were all adrift. And it scared her.
Her father gave her the keys, told her to drive, and she hurried over to the car, backing it up next to the Dumpsters. Her father helped John into the backseat, sat down next to him, and Sue pulled out of the parking lot.
"Are we going home or to the restaurant?" Sue asked.
"The restaurant," her father said. "We'll pick up your grandmother and then go home."
"I'm cold." John's voice was low, and she had to listen carefully to hear it.
"Roll up the windows," her father ordered.
Sue did so, pressing down on the armrest console that controlled the entire car. She slowed, signaled, pulled onto the highway. "Why did they beat you up?" she asked her brother. "Was there a reason?"
"I told you," he whispered. "They said God didn't like Chinese people."
"That's it? You didn't get into an argument or anything first?"
"Mr. Peters told me to stop wearing jade."
Sue looked at her brother in the rearview mirror. "You didn' tn
"They stole my ring."
Sue's mouth went dry. "We'll find more jade," her father said quickly, as if to reassure himself. "He'll be okay."
They drove the rest of the way in silence, the only sound in the car John's loud, ragged breathing.
There were no customers at the restaurant when they arrived, and both her mother and grandmother were waiting outside, in front of the building. Sue hopped out of the car and opened the door for her father who gently helped John out. "He was beaten up," he said. "They took his jade."
"Leave him there!" her grandmother ordered. "We must get him home.
Now. The influence is strong. We must find him jade and cover his window with willow branches for protection."
"He can have my jade," Sue said.
"I'm not wearing a necklace," John croaked.
"I have a piece of jade in my dresser," her grandmother said.
"I'll take an earring."
Sue found herself smiling in spite of the circumstances. ""No matter what happened to you, you're still a jerk."
"I'll close the restaurant and put up a sign," her father said.
Sue stared at him. The restaurant had never before closed on a day other than Monday. Not even illness had been able to alter its hours.
Her grandmother nodded. "Let's get him home." i Complaints against the church had reached a fever pitch in the past two days, ever since the three truckloads of new materials had arrived from Globe, and though he'd been dreading it, putting it off, Robert knew that he had to go out to the church this morning and have an other talk with Wheeler.
He stopped by the Donut Hut for breakfast, grabbing a glazed and a coffee before heading over to the station.
He pulled into the parking lot the same time as Father
Martinez. "Chief Carter! I need to speak to you!"
Robert slammed the door of the cruiser and swallowed his last bite of doughnut, washing it down with the dregs of the coffee as the Catholic priest hurried toward him across the dirt. He nodded at the clergyman.
"What can I do for you, Father?"
The priest was obviously agitated, his face red and sweating, and he had a difficult time catching his breath as he stood before Robert. He put one hand over his chest, held the other up in a wait-a-minute gesture, then bent over to breathe. He stood like that for a moment, then straightened.
"What is it, Father?"
The priest breathed deeply. "The black church."
Robert nodded noncommittally, carefully keeping his expression blank, neutral. He'd been wondering when this would come up. He'd expected the leaders of the traditional denominations to come forth sooner. He'd known that they would have problems with Wheeler's church--religious problems, not noise or nuisance problems---and when he'd seen that black paint being slopped on, he'd expected an outcry.
He was surprised that it was Father Martinez, though, who was standing before him. The Catholic priest was one of the more liberal and tolerant clergymen in town, and he would have thought that the Baptist or Pentecostal preachers would be the ones to object most strongly and be first with their vocal opposition.
Father Martinez looked into his eyes. "This is the work of the devil."
Robert shifted uncomfortably. "Come on, Father. I know this isn't your cup of tea. It's not mine either, for that matter. But Wheeler's got a right to his own beliefs."
"It's not just his beliefs," the priest said. His gaze was unwavering.
"I saw him talking to one of the minions of Satan."
"Now, Father .. ."
"I'm not just speaking figuratively or metaphorically. I saw him addressing a demon. Literally. Standing there speaking to one of Satan's brethren." His voice dropped. "And calling it the name of the Lord."
The hair on Robert's arms and the back of his neck bristled, propelled by a rash of goose bumps that were not caused by the chill morning air.
"That black church is a blasphemy," the priest said. "I won't deny it.
But I recognize its right to exist. I also understand that Mr. Wheeler has been claiming to have spoken with Jesus Christ; some members of my congregation have even gone over to his church because of this claim.
It offends me and angers me, but, again, that is his right. I will not be the one to pass judgment on his deeds.
"But a tolerance of the beliefs of others, no matter how warped or obscene they may be, does not mean that I can sit passively by while the will of Satan is carried out in front of me. It is my duty as a priest, as a Catholic, and as a human being to combat evil."
"What do you think you saw?"
"It is not what I think I saw, it is what I know I saw. I was walking to St. Mary's this morning, before dawn, as I always do, and when I passed by the black church I heard voices. Two of them; Mr. Wheeler's and a strange, whiny voice. The whiny voice said something I couldn't make out, then Mr. Wheeler said, "You are the way and the light."
"I couldn't ignore that. I was near the point where the new part of the church comes close to the sidewalk, and I saw a crack of green light escaping from between two sections of wall. I walked over and peeked in.
"The demon was the source of the light. It was bathed in a greenish glow, and Wheeler was kneeling before it, praying to it. He was addressing the demon as "Jesus," and there was rapture on his face, but the demon was not even looking at him. It was staring at me, through the crack in the wall, from across the room." Father Martinez shuddered. "And it smiled at me." "What did it look like?"
"It was greasy. It was short, dwarfish, and horribly deformed. It looked .. . It reminded me of something I used to dream about as a child, a monster from a movie." He shook his head. "I ran all the way to the churchmmy church, St. Mary's---and locked myself in. I prayed for strength and guidance. I prayed for three straight hours. Then I came here to see you."