Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(31)

What a waste.

"I don't think I have an appetite."

Jake grabs my hand. "Bet I can change your mind."

And he's right. Seven minutes later we're sitting cross-legged on his living room floor with two spoons and a gallon of Tin Roof Sundae. A Portland band, Pink Martini, vibrates through the gigantic speakers next to us. It's something Latin, something lively, and it's easy to forget the strain that has me seeing rogue demons on the streets of Stratus.

We talk for hours. He tells me what he's heard from Canaan: That Henry seems to be in better physical condition. That, as suspected, Olivia is overseeing the charity in his absence, and rumor has it she'll continue to do so from here on out.

He tells me Canaan hasn't seen any sign of demonic activity, and I grow more and more certain that the apparition I saw on Main was just that. A phantom of my imagination and nothing more.

The longer we talk, the more relaxed I feel. It's not sleeping, but being with Jake is the next best thing. When all that remains in the ice cream bucket are the two spoons, I stand and take it to the kitchen. I've just dropped the spoons in the sink when the whole house flashes golden yellow. It's fast, so fast, but I swear I see something in the brightness. Something scarring it. Blackening the corner of the image. I stand and stare, praying for another glimpse.

Nothing.

"Shane & Shane?"

"Huh?" I turn my eyes to Jake's.

They're a piercing white. The rest of the house has returned to the Terrestrial, but Jake's eyes . . . Jake's eyes retain their celestial glow. When people's eyes glow white in the Celestial, it means they've decided, either consciously or subconsciously, that they'd give their life for the person they gaze upon. That's the significance of the white eyes staring back at me. Jake would die for me if he had to.

It's such a disturbing visual against the comparatively mundane, ordinary living room that I yank the halo off my wrist and drop it on the counter. It spins like a top-like Marco's bottle top-finally settling.

Jake watches it from across the room.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "I just . . ."

Is it too much to ask for a normal night? A night without crazy, supernatural stuff happening every time I turn around?

"Need a break from the halo is all."

He looks at me. His eyes are hazel once again, and full of questions I really don't want to answer.

"Shane & Shane, you said? ‘May the vision of You be the death of me.' I love that song. Put it in," I say.

I raise my eyebrows, nod my head, and do my best to appear normal.

He narrows his eyes, doubtful, but slides the disc in and cranks it up. The bass rattles the windows some, and I wonder if it'll wake Dad across the way.

Not that I care.

Jake closes his eyes and leans against the entertainment center, soaking up the music. It didn't take me long to understand the excessive stereo and the overlarge speakers. Jake loves music. Especially the kind that glorifies God. He loves everything about it. The instruments, the vocals. He told me once that he has a secret ambition to learn to play guitar but is terrified he'll be awful at it.

I decide then and there what this year's Christmas present will be.

We move to the study and settle in, Jake at his computer and me at Canaan's. Jake's been telling me about the Sabres. He says that whenever a cluster of miracles and healings occur, there's usually a thinning of the Terrestrial veil. Like the other night. And a thinning of the Terrestrial veil always means Sabre activity.

"Elle," Jake says. "Do you know much about the history of Stratus?"

I spin my chair toward him. "I know that Kaylee's great-great-great something was one of the first mayors, and that Dad's mom's dad drew up the plans for Crooked Leg Bridge."

Jake's back is still to me, his fingers moving over the keyboard. "No, I mean the spiritual history?"

I shake my head. "Never thought about it before."

"Look at this," he says, printing out a document. I roll my chair over, parking it next to his as he pulls the paper from the tray.

"Where'd you get this?" I ask, taking it from him.

It's the scan of an old church bulletin. A sixteen-year-old bulletin from Stratus Presbyterian. The little church in town. Our church.

"Off their website. According to the info here, Pastor Noah's been doing what he can to get old sermon transcripts, answered prayer reports, and church bulletins uploaded onto the site." Jake reads off the screen. "He says here, ‘Our history is a part of who we are. A part of Stratus, Oregon. It would do us well to remember where we once were and what God has done for us.'"

"Smart guy," I say, continuing to scan the page.

This document is not unfamiliar to me. I'm handed one every Sunday morning by Sister Pat, a white-haired lady in sparkly heels. A sheet of letter-sized paper, normally folded in half with some sort of flower or cross design on the front. This scan is of the inside, so I can't see the image on the front, but the layout is nearly identical to what I receive each week.

Below the headline is the date. Sunday, July 14, 1996. As always, the right-hand side is a weekly calendar. Monday night Bible study, Wednesday night prayer, Saturday afternoon potluck, Sunday morning church.

I shake my head as I read. It's amazing how little has changed.

Below the calendar is a festive-looking box labeled Answered Prayers. Our bulletins still have this box, though the contents here are different from any kind of prayer report I've ever read. I'm used to seeing things like "Lanie Simpkins got that job we've been praying for!" and "James Childer is expected to make a full recovery after falling from his own apple tree."

Stratus in July of 1996 was an entirely different place.

The awning has been repaired after the building was shaken following Wednesday's prayer meeting. We thank Danny Jones for the repair, and our Heavenly Father for the shaking.

Thomas Grady has been healed. The cancer is gone! His doctor will be here next Sunday to speak about this miraculous event.

High school sophomore Ashley Carroll reports that seven of her girlfriends gave their hearts to the Lord at a birthday sleepover.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" I ask.

"I might be the wrong person to ask," Jake says. "But this kind of activity tells me something was going on back then. Here, read this one."

Jake hands me another bulletin he's printed. Same weekly calendar, two weeks earlier.

The Banderas family sends their love and thanks for prayers. They've had several new converts and yesterday watched as an entire family was healed of Chagas disease.

"I know this name," I say.

"Chagas? It's awful. It's transmitted by insects-"

"No, not the disease. The family. The church still supports these missionaries. I saw their picture in the foyer."

We read through the bulletins for the entire summer of that year. Every single one claiming supernatural activity of some sort.

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I think we need to keep looking. But at the very least, we know that the year your mother went missing there seemed to be some supernatural activity here."

"Sabres?"

"That'd be my guess. But we should talk to Pastor Noah. He'd be able to give us a better idea of what that year was like."

He continues on, researching other area churches. I return to Canaan's desk and my investigation into the Benson Elementary School fire. The details online are pretty sparse, but nothing in my dreams contradicts what I find on the Internet. One person was killed, a Susanne Holt, who was survived by her daughter. She was graciously taken in by her paternal grandfather, Henry Madison, of the Ingenui Foundation.

Graciously. Taken. In.

I've been yawning for hours, but around eleven o'clock Jake follows suit, and we stumble into a vicious cycle we can't seem to stop. A few minutes later Jake disappears. He returns with a mug of coffee the size of Crescent Lake. He sets it in front of me.

"I need sugar," I say, pushing to my feet.

He shoves me lightly back to my seat and places the entire sugar bowl in my hands.

"You really are divine," I say.

"I know."

I set the spoon aside and dump a good quarter cup of the grainy goodness into my mug. He returns to his side of the study, and our fingers pound away at our respective keyboards. As mellow as the night's become, and as horrific my findings, it's a pleasant way to spend an evening. Working together. Quiet. Focused on the same thing.

The idea of spending many, many nights this way is so far beyond pleasant that I get a second wind, typing faster, my brain clearing. Of course, it could be the coffee.

The clock on Canaan's desk has just chimed midnight when our companionable quiet is shaken. The music in the living room masks his approach, so we don't hear Marco until he's standing in the doorway of the study.

"Hey," he says. I look him over. He looks clean, fresh. Well fed. Delia's been taking good care of him. He decided to stay in her spare room for a while. I think being near the halo terrifies him. I stand and pull him into a hug. He accepts the gesture and pats me softly on the back.

"You wanna stay here tonight, Marco? You're welcome to," Jake says. "Canaan's room is just sitting there."

"I appreciate it," Marco says, his eyes lingering on my empty wrist, on the spot where the halo normally rests, "but Olivia's waiting outside. Just came back for my stuff."