“Maybe...maybe you’re going about this all wrong,” I said.
“I’m all ears.”
“What if you’re reading the wrong book? It’s too late to stop the prophecy. What you’re looking for is a way to get Heaven on our side, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“You aren’t going to find answers about Heaven in a book about Hel .”
Jared eyes flitted about for a moment, considering my idea. He didn’t answer, but he acknowledged my words with a nod. I covered his hand with mine, and let him return to his thoughts.
We passed the rocky wal that welcomed us to Woonsocket, and then made our way to St. Ann’s. Yel ow tape surrounded the church. The glass from the once exquisitely stained windows had been removed, and the holes that remained were covered with boards and plastic tarp.
Jared parked, and we climbed the steps. He tugged on one set of doors, but they were locked. He tried two others, but they were locked as wel .
The tarp blew in the summer breeze, flapping against the building. The town seemed otherwise quiet.
Jared turned and noticed a passerby. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is the church closed?”
The man shrugged. “Father Francis has kept it locked. He hadn’t been actin’ right since the explosion.” He walked away.
An explosion. Shax and his minions all but tore the church to shreds during our most recent showdown, and it left St. Ann’s looking like a war zone. Some construction had taken place, but Woonsocket was no longer the booming industrial hub it used to be. The community that had once pul ed together to fund the extravagant adornments of their social center with paintings and stained glass was now preoccupied with a recession and modern priorities.
We walked to a side door, and Jared gave it a light tug. It caught again. “I don’t want to leave without speaking to him, and I don’t want to break in,” he said.
“Cal him.”
Just as we stepped away, we heard a familiar voice.
“Wait!” Father Francis cal ed, walking briskly from the back of the church. “I’m here, lad!” He slowed to a stop, trying to control his labored breath.
“I’m sorry. I was in the back building, praying. It used to be the school, you know.” His face dropped. “I’m ashamed to say I feel safer there, now.”
Jared cupped the priest’s shoulder. “I understand, Father. Some things you can’t un-see.”
Father Francis nodded, and then gestured for us to fol ow him inside. We walked behind him, waiting patiently for him to climb the steps into the side door of St. Ann’s.
It was cold and drafty. The wooden pews and marble statues were covered with linens. An eerie feeling dwel ed within the wal s, and I could see why the priest didn’t want to be alone there.
The faces of the angels and saints in the paintings looked down on us. I couldn’t help but think they seemed sad, waiting for someone to restore their home to its former glory. “Father,” I began, pulling my pocketbook from my purse. “I brought this hardship on you. Let me help.” I scribbled six figures onto a check.
Father Francis’ eyes softened as he took the paper into his hands. “Thank you, my child. We need this more than you know.”
“Father,” Jared said, pulling Shax’s book from under his arm.
The priest’s eyes widened and he immediately looked away, shaking his head. “Oh, no! No, no, no. You mustn’t bring that here!”
A soft ringing in my ears grew infinitesimal y louder, sounding more like panicked whispers. I looked around the room, but we were alone. Just us and the hundreds of people in the paintings on the wal s and ceilings.
I looked up. In a scene in which God had cast out the rebel ious angels, the artist had drawn them in such a way that the angels seemed to be fal ing out of the painting—out of the ceiling. I looked at another mural at the back of the church, featuring Navy sailors drifting helplessly in a stormy sea, reaching out to St. Mary. In a moment of what had to be confusion, I could hear their panicked cries. I could hear them all , shrieking and wailing at the sight of the book that brought their home down around them.
I squeezed my eyes tight, and gripped my ears. Their cries became so loud I couldn’t hear individual voices, only their frenzied, col ective panic.
Jared’s fingers touched my arm. “Nina?”
At once, it all stopped. I opened my eyes and looked around. Insanity was the first thing that popped into my mind.
Father Francis nodded in understanding, however. “It gets too loud for me sometimes, too.”
I peered around to the different faces in the paintings, unsettled.
The priest looked to the book, and then to Jared. “You can’t have that, here.”
“I stil need your help, Father.”
“I’ve given all I can give.”
Jared shook his head. “I can’t accept that, I’m sorry.”
Father Francis left for the back of the church. Jared pul ed me to fol ow. We kept a quick pace all the way to his quarters, where he immediately made himself a drink. He threw it back, and then made himself another. His hands were shaking, causing the mouth of the decanter to clink against the rim of his glass.
The priest closed his eyes and lifted his chin, taking in another gulp of the amber liquid with one movement. The glass dropped from his hands, crashing into the floor. Some of the bigger shards made their way to my feet, and I stared at them for a moment.