The Forbidden Trilogy(7)

"No one held me responsible for what happened. No one could know. Besides, am I supposed to stay in the shadows on the off chance someone connects my surfing to a sealed file from fourteen years ago?"

Brad washed both of their dishes and spread out on their beige couch, his long limbs draping over the edge. "Maybe you're right. I don't know, dude. I guess it's possible it was just a fluke, that it was just a sponsor checking you out."

"Maybe." But probably not. The presence Drake had felt didn't strike him as friendly or curious. Someone was after him, but who? And why? Could someone have found out about his powers?

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."