He grabbed his keys from the hook hanging by the front door.
"I'm going to talk to Father Patrick. Maybe he has some ideas about all
this. Plus, I promised Mrs. Maypol I'd help her move some of the garden statues
around."
Brad got up and pulled his laptop from the computer bag he
kept by the couch. "Be careful, man. And tell Father Patrick I said
hi."
Drake closed the door behind him and left Brad to his
writing.
***
St. Michael's Catholic Church in Venice had become a second
home to Drake, ever since his fifth foster family had taken him there once for
an Easter sermon. The stained glass windows and colorful gardens guarded by angels
had stirred a longing in him—not like the ocean, which even at ten years old
had stolen his heart—with its own power.
The real draw, however, turned out to be the old priest,
Father Patrick.
Drake parked on Naples, and walked around the corner toward
the large carved oak door, which had never been locked for as long as Drake
could remember.
A young Mexican woman pushed a cart full of fresh tamales
down Coeur D'Alene Avenue and, on impulse, Drake stopped her and bought three:
one for himself, and one each for Father Patrick and Mrs. Maypol. He smiled at
the thought of them enjoying an unexpected treat.
The girl, thinking he'd meant his smile for her, smiled back
and lowered her eyes. "Gracias."
"De nada y gracias." He took a bite of the first
tamale. "Muy bueno."
Her smile brightened, and she honked the bike horn on her
cart and walked on.
Drake ate his tamale in a few large bites, happy that he'd
brightened her day a bit too, and walked into the church with the other two
tamales palmed in his hand.
He expected to see Father Patrick shuffle down the aisle to
greet him, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. A feeling of serenity
settled on Drake as he breathed in the stillness of the room. The sea had a
constant pulsing energy that soothed, but here the quiet and calm had its own
effect on his racing mind.
He made the sign of the cross and kneeled out of habit.
While not religious, it didn't hurt to honor the ways of his friend while in
his church.
The stained glass windows depicting biblical scenes shone
down on him rays of rainbow light. He imagined the halo effect that anyone
looking at him just then would see—not that he'd ever be mistaken for someone
holy. Still, he liked to imagine his soul could be redeemed, someday, by
someone who saw in him what Father Patrick always had.
He left the church through a side door and entered his
favorite place, second only to the beach. Hidden from the public by tall green
hedges, the garden reminded him of the book, The Secret Garden, which he'd read
in school once. He'd pretended to scoff at the girly book, but secretly loved
the description of that private world and its hidden mysteries.
Red, yellow and pink rose buds in various stages of opening
lined the cobbled path, their sweet scent creating a natural perfume for the
earth. The heat of the sun seemed to draw out even the most delicate of
fragrances, which created a heady experience. He remembered playing in here as
a child.
It had become his private sanctuary, just like the girl in
the book. When he couldn't go to the beach, he'd come here. Father Patrick had
fed and clothed him and kept him safe, even if that meant calling DSHS when a
foster parent gave him a new broken bone or black eye. He would walk with Drake
through the paths and tell him stories of Italy and the Pope and of his life
before the Church.
When Father Patrick had to take confession, Drake would play
hide and seek among the giant angel statues that stood watch over the roses. He
would tell them his secrets and talk to them about the ocean. He knew Father
Patrick had heard him sometimes, but the priest never interrupted or discussed
what he'd heard. This garden had been his confessional, the angels his priests
and guardians.
A scream broke Drake's reverie.
He rushed toward the sound, his heart pounding in his chest.
One of the large stone angels lay on its side, a young man
pinned underneath. His screams filled the small courtyard.
Mrs. Maypol sat on the cobbled floor and held the boy's
hand. She cried so hard her plump face matched the orange-red of her hair.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
Father Patrick stood a few feet away with a cell phone in
his hand and a deep frown on his weathered face. Despite the fear that Drake
knew the priest must have felt, Father Patrick stayed calm and commanding as he
spoke to the 9-1-1 operator.
Drake assessed the situation. The young man's leg had been
crushed by the angel. Blood spurted from what was likely a severed artery,
spreading a crimson stain over the garden's path and into the soil. The roses
would grow on the blood of this boy.
The ambulance wouldn't get there in time. The boy already
looked a breath from death with his pale skin and glazed eyes.
Drake tore off his shirt and twisted it into a tourniquet,
then handed it to Mrs. Maypol. "Keep him still! As soon as I lift the
statue, immediately tie this around his leg above the injury. Make it
tight."
She nodded, sweat pouring down her face from fear.
He looked into the terrified eyes of the trapped worker. The
statue that pinned his leg probably weighed two thousand pounds. "Just
hold on. I have to get this off you. When I do, the pain will be unbearable. Be
ready."
The young man didn't look ready for that at all, but Drake
couldn't wait. He gripped the angel around the shoulder and pushed. Power
flooded his veins and muscles. Superhuman strength flowed into him. His muscles
bulged, his thighs stretched his jeans to near tearing, and his arms and torso
turned rock hard. He pushed, willing the angel to fly.
And it did.
In a heartbeat, the statue stood on its base and the
now-freed man screamed again and passed out. Mrs. Maypol did her job, tying the
shirt around the top of the boy's thigh. He'd likely lose his leg, but at least
he would live.
The surge of power spent, Drake slumped against a bench and
hung his head. He wasn't tired, exactly, just depleted.
The offending angel looked down on him, red dripping from
her chest; a fallen angel stained with her victim's blood. Drake wanted to
offer her a chance to confess, just as she had done for him so many times, but
Father Patrick's voice interrupted his thoughts.
The priest looked between Drake and the boy and spoke
rapidly into the cell phone. Sirens blared in the distance.
It took him a moment, but as the reality of his situation
settled in, Drake realized he'd made a mistake. He'd just exposed himself to
two people who didn't know about his powers, and at a time when he needed to be
more careful than ever. No one could know about his strength.
He sought answers in the eyes of his priest who covered the
phone with his hand and spoke quietly to Drake. "Go to my office and stay
there until I get you. We'll figure out something to tell them."
Again, Drake couldn't help but admire the calm assurance
Father Patrick radiated. It would have been easy to believe that everything
could work out okay, but he'd long since stopped believing in happy endings.
Still, he obeyed the priest in a way he never obeyed anyone else, and slipped
back into the church moments before the medics crashed through the garden.
***
Drake paced the small office for so long he could have sworn
there would be ruts in the hardwood floor.
He read every title on the bookshelves that lined the
wall—mostly religious books, but, surprisingly, some fiction, and a few books
on psychic powers and occult studies.
The small golden cross on the wall behind the desk looked
recently polished and gleamed in the light. He felt no power from it, and had
no attachment to a symbol that just represented death to him. Still, the cross
had hung there longer than Drake had been coming to the church, and its
familiarity offered a small comfort, albeit fleeting.
Despite every attempt to distract himself, his mind returned
to what had just happened.
He worried about the man he'd saved. He worried about Father
Patrick and Mrs. Maypol and what they'd say. And he worried about himself.
Would Father Patrick be able to protect him, or would he finally be exposed to
the world?
He rarely felt vulnerable. With the powers he controlled, he
didn't know anyone who could pose a risk to him. So why didn't that reassure
him this time?
A creak sounded from the hall.
The doorknob twisted.
Drake froze and waited, ready to attack if anyone but Father
Patrick walked through that door.
The door opened.
"Relax, boy, it's just me. You're safe."
In that moment, Drake had to fight the urge to cry.
What
the hell?
He never cried. Ever. He scowled instead, and then smoothed his
face when he caught the old priest looking at him.
Father Patrick sat behind the desk and pointed Drake to the
guest chair. "You saved that boy's life. The medics said if he'd been
trapped any longer he would have been dead before they got here."
"What did you tell them?"
"That God saved the boy. It was a miracle. Mrs. Maypol
backed me up. An angel came from the sky and moved the statue. They think we're
crazy, and likely have no idea what to write in their report, but they're gone
and no one knows you were involved."
Drake smirked. Leave it to Father Patrick to get away with
that kind of story.
A weight lifted from Drake's shoulders—another possible
exposure averted. "Where's Mrs. Maypol? What does she think about all of
this?"
"She went to the hospital with Ralph. That's the young
man you saved. He was helping us move some things around in the garden. I think
she's suspected there's more to you for a long time, but she loves you and
would never betray you. Don't worry about that."
"That's not what worries me. While surfing this
morning, I had a sense that someone was watching me. Then I saw a man in black
before he got in his car and drove away. I know it sounds paranoid, but you
always said I should trust my instincts."
He also told the priest about his fight with Brad, and his
best friend's concern about exposure with this contest.
Father Patrick stayed silent until the end. "What do
you think you should do?"
Drake sighed. "I hate when you do that."
"When I make you think for yourself? Yes, I'm wretched
that way."
"I want to stay in the competition. I can't live my
life in hiding forever."
Father Patrick's kind eyes held Drake's for several long
moments. "You're on a path none of us can understand. You have to do
what's right for your heart. I can only tell you that I do see dark spirits
around you, so whatever course you choose, be careful."
His words sent chills through Drake. Father Patrick's sixth
sense was unparalleled. If he said Drake was in danger, Drake believed him, but
that didn't mean dropping out of the competition would keep him safe.
Drake said goodbye to Father Patrick, and an unexpected
melancholy swelled in his heart. He hugged the old man, who stood a good foot
shorter than him.
"I'll come by tomorrow to help with the rest of the
garden."
The priest pierced Drake with his eyes. "Be well, Son.
Whatever happens, know that you have a destiny to fulfill in this world."
Strange parting words, but not unusual for someone who
enjoyed the cryptic. Still, they unsettled Drake.
The feeling intensified as he walked out.
A horn beeped, and the shy girl who'd sold him tamales not
so long ago hurried up to him with her cart, only her smile had turned to fear.
"Señor, alguien que ha destrozado su coche."
"What? Who vandalized my car? What did you see?"
The force of his words frightened the timid girl. He calmed
his voice. "I'm sorry to scare you. Please, tell me what happened."
He followed her around the corner to his car, which sat
lower to the ground than it should, and... something had been painted on his
window.
"Shit!" He ran to the car, fearing what he'd find.
All four tires had been cut and the word
"FREEK!"—misspelling and all—had been spray-painted across his
window.
"Who did this? Did you see?"
Her eyes widened. "I sorry. I no stop him. I scared of
big man in black."
"It's okay. You did the right thing. It's not worth
getting hurt over. Thank you for telling me."
The damage looked like some kids pulling a prank, but a big
man in black sounded more like a hit posed to look like a prank. Why? To scare
him?
Drake pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the
girl. "Thank you for telling me."
She nodded, slipped the money into her pocket, and dashed
off.
Drake pulled his phone out and called Brad. "Dude,
someone knows."
Music blared from Luke and Lucy's suite, next door to my own
room. I let myself in and plopped down on their overstuffed purple couch.
Lucy saw me and turned down the radio. "What
happened?"
I tossed her the file.
Luke walked through the wall from his bedroom into the
living room and stood behind his sister to read. He frowned when he noticed the
dates. "What about your interview, and the contest?"
"Higgins said he'd try to get me in, but I've got to
take this assignment." I sighed and flopped back on the couch. "This
totally sucks."
Lucy sat next to me with her arm draped over my shoulders.
"At least you got your painting done. Come on, no more moping. It's
Saturday. Let's eat junk food and watch movies."
So we did. All weekend long.
When Monday arrived, so bright and early, I had a major
sugar hangover, but my mood had improved from sustained and prolonged contact
with my cheer squad. I survived Calculus, barely, and Computer Programming,
with Lucy's expert help—the hacker genius that she was— and a few other classes
not worth mentioning, and finally made it to my favorite class. All of us had
an advisor with whom we met once a week to practice our para-power skills. I
had Mr. K.