The Sinners' Garden

  “So . . . you’re saying I should just throw in the towel? Sin now, pray for forgiveness later?”

  “No,” Welsh said, sharing his grin. “In time, God will make what you’re after known to you. Just be patient and realize that it may not be something you need to do, as much as how you may need to think. It’s about perspective.”

  “Hmm. I’ve got to chew on that one for a bit.” Rip pressed the heel of his palm just beneath his ribs. “Do you mind if we take a walk? Maybe my back will loosen up.”

  “You’ve been grabbing at that back of yours for a few months,” Welsh said, rising. “You should let Doc Strater check you out. Back problems normally don’t just get up and go away on their own. At least not without some rest, anyhow.”

  Rip agreed. “I’ll give him a buzz. Either that, or I’ll go see that new chiropractor over in South Rockwood. I’m hoping a quick adjustment will put me right back in business.”

  “Maybe so,” the minister said. “Our walk is gonna have to be a short one. These old bones don’t quite behave like they used to.”

  They made a quick pass out to the street where Pastor Welsh popped a couple birthday cards in the mailbox. He had done a pretty steady job, as long as Rip could remember, of sending them out to members of the congregation. Rip had even received a couple of them during his three years behind the fence.

  They walked along the side of the church and through the parking lot to head out to the lake. The parking lot was a mess from the festival; city workers were probably pulling double shifts in order to finish sweeping up the piles of rubbish.

  “Milo show up yet?” Welsh asked.

  “Not yet,” Rip said. “Judi and Andy are worried about him, and though I’d never tell them, so am I.”

  “He’s been gone how long, about a week now?”

  “Too long,” Rip said. “Even for him.”

  “Lots of coyotes around here nowadays,” Welsh said. “Judi doesn’t seem to get many out near the farm, though.”

  “A Cadillac will get Milo before a coyote,” Rip said. “If a couple more days pass by and he doesn’t show up, we’ll start putting flyers up for the handful of people around town who don’t already know who Milo is.”

  “I’d be glad to help,” Welsh said.

  Rip’s back was feeling better already and he found himself consciously slowing down so Pastor Welsh could keep up with him. They had walked fifty yards down the bike path that ran along the lake without either of them saying a word. Even though he enjoyed their shared silence, Rip had something on his mind.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said about Andy’s little words of wisdom from the iPod—about how we should pay as much attention to who he says them to as what he says. Judi thinks God is speaking to us through Andy. In fact, I think we all do.”

  “What’s so hard to believe about that?” Welsh asked. “God does stuff like that every day. Most just don’t catch it.”

  Because we aren’t listening, Rip thought. And then he asked Welsh something that had been niggling at him. “Why Andy?”

  “Why not?”

  “Isn’t it a little crazy thinking we’re getting divine guidance through an iPod and a surly teenager?” Rip grinned. “Apple should work up an app. They could make a fortune.”

  “Moses did some pretty interesting things with his staff,” Welsh said, a peculiar grin spreading across his lips. “What’s the difference?”

  Rip laughed, imagining Andy standing at the shore of Lake Erie as God parted it, leaving a dry trail over to Canada. Or Andy standing in front of The Frank and Poet Canal as God made a flower garden appear and partially disappear behind McLouth Steel . . .

  “It’s funny how we know about things that happened in the Bible,” Rip said, “yet it’s so hard to swallow things that are even remotely similar today.”

  “Quite true,” Welsh said.

  “But if Andy’s really hearing these things through the iPod, why can’t we hear anything when we hold the earbuds to our ears?”

  “I’m assuming you’ve tried?”

  “Heck yeah,” Rip said.

  “I have no clue,” Welsh said. “That’s very strange.”

  “Hey, have you come across any specific Bible verse with the words ‘they are able’ in it? Could it be a different translation or something? All the other things Andy’s been saying seem to fit.”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” Welsh said, bringing his hand to his chin in recollection. He squinted against the lake, and the wind moved his white hair over his eyes. He brushed it aside and let out a little laugh. “I even Googled it, thinking of that translation option. There’s no individual verse in the Bible that says ‘they are able.’ ”

  “I didn’t think so,” Rip said. “That’s the thing that Andy said about Heather’s and Kevin’s dads. Does that make anything click for you?”

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  “Positive,” Rip said. “He specifically pointed at a photo of them and said that.”

  “Hmm,” Welsh said. “I’m afraid it may be a little late for Mr. Gerisch and Mr. Hart to benefit from Andy’s new ability.”

  “True,” Rip said and nodded. “But remember what he said to me at the Bible study about loving my enemies and praying for those who persecute me?”

  “I do,” he said.

  Rip pulled to a stop and the little pain in his lower back returned, making it feel like he had just taken a deep breath of broken glass. “Let’s say there was someone in town who everybody thinks is a certain way, but you know they really aren’t. And the town’s perception of him is completely wrong and you know this person is actually a scumbag. Do I owe it to the people to expose him?”

  “No,” Welsh answered quickly.

  “Really?”

  “You need to expose him to himself.”

  That wasn’t exactly the answer Rip had been looking for. He imagined himself sitting in one of the chairs in front of Kevin’s desk, sipping on a cocktail and pointing out all of Kevin’s wrongdoings.

  “Hey, Kev, about those little girlfriends of yours. You know, the two or three I’ve seen you making out with back on the loading dock while I was working in the warehouse after everybody else had gone home? I may be a touch off base here, but I’m thinking both God and your wife may not be a big fan of that.”

  Right. Good-bye job and good-bye home-sweet-mobile-home. That conversation would be a one-way ticket to unemployment and sharing one of Judi’s spare bedrooms with Milo. If Milo ever decided to return.

  “Before you confront this person,” Welsh said, “ask God if your heart is in the right place.”

  “What?” Rip said, teleporting from Kevin Hart’s fantasy office back to the lakeside.

  “If you think someone is your enemy and he is persecuting you, pray for yourself first. Ask God to help you look at your heart, to make sure it’s in the right place. And if that doesn’t work, pray for Kevin and then go talk to him.”

  Rip bit lightly on his lip and then gave a closed-mouth smile. “I never said I was talking about Kevin.”

  “Right,” Welsh said with a smile. “But you should know by now that pastors know things.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  There you go, Brianna,” Heather said, placing the cup of coffee on the desk.

  Despite the young reporter’s good intentions, there was something about her that was getting under Heather’s skin. Besides, they’d already talked for twenty minutes and Heather had said all she had to say. Now the girl wanted coffee? How long was this going to drag on?

  “Thanks for the java,” Brianna said, tapping her finger on the side of the Styrofoam cup, then lifting it for a tiny sip. “You know, there are other things happening regarding the Summer Santa that seem to be sliding under the radar of the Benning Police Department.”

  “Really?” Heather said, glancing past the reporter and out the open door at Chief Reynolds.

  One thing Little Miss Rolex and her Louis Vuitton bag
didn’t know was that in small towns, everybody knew everything everyone else was doing, and even some things they weren’t doing.

  Heather knew a lot of what hadn’t made the paper yet, like the yellow lab puppy that was left in the Millers’ living room to replace Finnegan, whom they had to put down only a few days before. She had also heard about the bag of toys that had been left in the Ansons’ kitchen. Besides that Becky girl out on Old Parker Road, they were the poorest folks in town, and thanks to the man in black, their twin boys had a birthday to remember. And last but not least, word was traveling fast about the Summer Santa’s biggest gift yet—the fifteen thousand in cash that had been left over at Mick Solack’s food bank just outside of town. But still, Heather was curious what Lois Lane thought she knew.

  “Like what?” Heather asked. “What’s sliding under the radar?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Brianna said. “Just little things. I’m not here to report things you don’t know about. Was just curious if you’ve heard anything.”

  Something about the way the reporter was talking almost had Heather feeling that she was supposed to pry.

  “The first time we chatted,” Heather said, “you mentioned that you thought the Summer Santa wanted to get caught. I still don’t completely understand why you would say that.”

  “Just a hunch,” Brianna said.

  “You said that last time. You also suggested that he may be trying to balance some scale in his personal life. Or something like that.”

  Brianna paused and seemed to consider what she was going to say. “I think it’s like he’s easing his conscience about something. He wants to do good, but seems to enjoy an unnecessary risk while doing it.”

  “Why even bother taking that risk?” Heather asked. It was the billion-dollar question that nobody seemed close to having the answer to.

  “I don’t know,” Brianna said. “But regardless, he is making some pretty good news.”

  “True,” Heather said.

  “It’s also kind of interesting that he only seems to work on the nights that you do.”

  “It’s probably a coincidence,” Heather said, thinking, How would she know that? “We are a small department.”

  “Mind if I ask you something?” Brianna asked. “It may be a little personal.”

  “I guess it depends on how personal.”

  “It’s about your dad,” she said. “I was curious if you were comfortable talking about what happened.”

  Heather swallowed a quick retort about sticking to new news, not old news. “It’s interesting that you mention it. I was thinking about talking about my dad at the next Bible study.”

  “I’m planning on going again,” she said. “I’ll be there to hear it.”

  Heather stood. “I told you I didn’t have much time today. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t speculate about anything you’ve heard about the Summer Santa in your articles. Let’s just stick to the reported cases, cool?”

  “Gotcha,” Brianna said. “I’m sorry to bring up your dad. I guess I’m trying a little too hard to get familiar with the town.”

  “It’s okay,” Heather said, walking her to the door of the station.

  “Can I ask one more question?” Brianna asked.

  Heather had to admire her persistence. “Go for it.”

  “Thinking of Jimmy Keeler and his dentures,” she said. “Doesn’t it make sense that a suspect could be somebody at the Bible study? We share our needs there.”

  Or someone named Kevin who collects the prayer cards.

  “Not necessarily,” Heather said. “Keep doing your homework and familiarizing yourself with the town. I’m sure everybody knew how much money Jimmy Keeler needed for his teeth.”

  Brianna laughed. “Come to think of it, he does have kind of a big mouth.”

  “See ya later,” Heather said, looking out at the parking lot at Brianna’s BMW.

  Blond hair, blue eyes, six feet tall, and what looked like more money than she probably knew what to do with. It must be nice, being a new college grad riding on Daddy’s money . . .

  “Thanks for your help, Heather,” Brianna said.

  Heather watched her get into her car and drive off. She went back to her desk and, before she sat down, stopped. She turned around and walked back to the window and watched the BMW disappear out onto West Jefferson.

  Six feet tall and more money than she knows what to do with.

  And Brianna was right, wasn’t she? The Summer Santa was making pretty good news. Which was really convenient for a cub reporter, trying to make a name for herself . . .

  Heather returned to her desk and the second she sat down, she thought about what Brianna had said earlier, about the department missing some of what the Summer Santa was doing.

  And then a sickening thought ran through Heather’s mind.

  Does she know about the $7,500 the Summer Santa left for me? And will she soon report on it?

  Andy jerked forward and sat up quickly. He felt like he’d just pulled a muscle in his neck and his heart was pounding. He’d been dreaming Milo was licking him, but the smell of barbecue-flavor chips seemed like it was everywhere.

  He looked to his side. In the grass, next to a water bottle and a couple of comic books, was a punctured and empty bag of chips.

  And Milo.

  “Milo!” Andy yelled, throwing his arms around the dog and hugging him. “Where you been, boy?”

  He was covered in burs and looked like he’d lost a few pounds. Andy gave him another squeeze and gripped the sleeve of his T-shirt to wipe barbecue slobber off his face.

  “Milo, you idiot. You’re disgusting.”

  Andy yawned and took his earbuds out, wondering how long he’d been asleep on the bank of The Frank and Poet. There hadn’t been any gasoline in the barn or garage for the motorcycle, so Andy had spent a few hours on foot looking for Milo. The second he spotted the flowers, he sat down and popped in his earbuds, and the next thing he knew, he had a face full of Milo-spit.

  Andy yawned again and then rubbed at his eyes before glancing over at the flower garden on the other side. It felt familiar, close. Like he’d been standing in it a few seconds ago.

  He shook off the idea as just a part of his whacked dream and stood up, brushing the grass and dirt off his jeans and shirt.

  “You ready to go home, boy?” Andy said. “Everybody’s gonna be glad to see you.”

  Milo shot quickly back toward the path and stopped, doing a frantic little doggy dance, waiting impatiently for Andy to follow.

  Andy put the iPod in his pocket and started walking toward the path back to the house. When he hit the corn rows, he stopped and turned back around.

  “I was just over there,” he said.

  It had to have been a dream, but it felt so real . . .

  In the dream, a beautiful presence was trying to tell him there were two things he had to do. One of them had to do with his mom. And the other one had to do with a man Andy was standing near. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but the man told him to come back and to let her see. But the man wasn’t talking about Mom. He was talking about Heather.

  “Crazy,” Andy said, shaking his head and making his way back through the corn toward the house. He couldn’t wait to go eat with Chelsea and her family over at Mack’s.

  When he was about halfway through the knee-high corn, he turned around again and studied the three remaining sections that made up the flower garden. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d been standing in the section to the far left.

  Heather’s section.

  Andy sat in a corner booth at Mack’s between Chelsea and little Marjo. Straight across from him were Mr. and Mrs. Cochran, who insisted on being called Teddy and Cierra. Chelsea’s little brother, Patrick, was taking his turn staying at the aunt’s house for the week.

  Mom had said that she graduated from Benning High with the Cochrans and that Teddy and Cierra had been together since eighth grade. Even though they were the same age
as Mom, Andy thought they looked a lot older. Both had a bunch of gray hair for people in their thirties, and they each had puffy blue semicircles under their eyes. Andy guessed they had to be stressed out about Marjo, who looked to be in worse shape than she had been on Sunday. Her face and hands looked swollen, but it still seemed like she was getting smaller every time he saw her. She could easily pass for a kindergartener, with her skinny little arms that were riddled with bruises and needle holes from IV lines. Her sunken eyes were accented by purplish skin and she had a voice that reminded Andy of a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz.

  “What are you gonna get, Andy?” Marjo asked. Andy sounded like “Annie” and when she looked up at him, he noticed that the whites of her eyes were kind of yellowed.

  “I’m getting that,” Andy said, tapping on the picture of the burger and fries in the menu she was holding. The menu looked the size of a newspaper in her doll-size hands.

  “I’m gonna get these,” she said, pointing at a picture of chicken strips.

  “So how’s your mother and uncle doing?” Mr. Cochran asked.

  “Doing good, Mr. Cochran,” Andy said. He had no intention of calling Mr. Cochran “Teddy.” It’d just be too weird.

  “It’s good to see your uncle at church,” Mrs. Cochran said.

  Andy nodded and caught Marjo staring at his scar. He pulled his hair forward and looked away.

  “How did you do that to your face?” she asked.

  “Marjo!” Chelsea said.

  Marjo recoiled and Andy cringed.

  “Where’s your manners?” Mrs. Cochran said.

  Marjo’s shoulders hunched together and she leaned her cheek against her shoulder. “Sorry,” she said in that tiny voice.

  “It’s okay,” Andy said. “I got it when I was little. I got burned.”

  Marjo gave him a sad look.

  “Hey,” she whispered, pulling on the sleeve of his T-shirt, prodding him to lean over to hear her.