The farther away I get, the more taut this string grows. It aches so badly, but finally, it snaps.
The strangest thing about all this is that I physically feel it happen, sense the very moment my heart breaks. It’s a quick jolt to the chest, shocking me briefly then fading away.
I take one last look at my mother, offering a slight wave and receiving nothing in return.
As traumatic as all that was, my body somehow keeps me from accepting the full weight of what just happened. I’m strangely calm, despite my skin tingling and my head throbbing.
Everything else is operating on autopilot.
My hand mindlessly reaches up to pull the blinker as I turn onto a long, desolate backroad, and at the stoplight I have no problem pressing the brakes, then starting again when the light turns green. My body is a shell, the space within me hollow and empty, a blank void.
* * *
The only sound is the hum of my tires on the road, and this lonesome song stretches on forever as I cruise deeper into the woods. The trees fill in thicker and thicker on either side as Neverton disappears behind me.
I can sense fleeting emotions as they creep back into my brain, filtering through my mental safeguards one by one. Every time I accept a new portion of this awful reality, it stings and aches and hurts so bad that I want to scream, until eventually that’s exactly what I do.
I open my mouth and let out an unbridled shriek, the fury spilling forth like I’m vomiting it from the depths of my soul. I pound the steering wheel with my fist, only stopping long enough to catch my breath and then erupting in another horrible, strangled bellow.
The car swerves a bit, not equipped for this kind of volcanic emotional display, and with the last bits of common sense I have I manage to pull off the drag in a plume of crunching gravel, rumbling down a side road and throwing my vehicle into park.
I scream again and hold it, my throat now burning from the abuse. I scream so hard I think I might throw up, and moments later that’s exactly what I do, opening the driver’s side door and ejecting my lunch and, somewhere in there, a single Americano sip across the ground.
When I finish, I wipe my mouth and fall back against my seat.
It’s hard to remember the last time my body was this exhausted, but my mind keeps spinning away. While I’d love to take a break from any rational thought, I don’t have that kind of time.
Technically speaking, this vehicle doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to Luke Darling.
I’ve been driving his car since mine was totaled, but I’m guessing the police will soon be put on notice to get it back.
I take a deep breath, my eyes shut tight as I hold air within my aching lungs. I slowly let it out.
I realize now that I’ve been doing my finger patterns across the steering wheel. There’s something deeply soothing about this orderly procession, every tap in its right place while the rest of my world falls apart.
A few verses about perseverance pop into my head—Matthew 24:13, Romans 2:7, and of course, Galatians 6:9—but I immediately push them away. Now is not the time for obtuse, two-thousand-year-old advice from dead men.
Instead, I look inward, crafting a proper verse of my own.
Rose 1:1–2. She raised a flaming sword, not to rend her heart, but to seal the wound where a heart had been. For those who cast her out did not know this steadfast flame, alight with righteous anger, would never cease until the heavenly kingdom fell.
As dire as this moment is, I can’t help the smile that creeps its way across my weary face. That was pretty good.
I reach into my center console and pull out the list of campers, opening it up and taking a look. I’ve made notes along the margins for each potential target, ranking them by level of church involvement and marking the ones I’m comfortable approaching.
It’s not much to go on, just small hunches based on whatever comes up when I run the names through an online search. A few have addresses scribbled beside them, and it’s here I center my attention.
I select the address farthest out of town, making a mental note for tomorrow.
Rose 2:6. And when the morning came she pushed onward, because the wicked and the vile bore down from every side, and onward was the only direction she had left.
8
HOUSE OF SAUL
There’s a beauty to the long golden grass, an Old West cowboy ambiance to the way it stretches on and on around me, but as I roll through this sweeping landscape of farmland, I can’t help feeling like I’m on the way to the gallows.
This is the place.
I stop my car, then pop the cap off my pen. I place my page against the steering wheel, drawing a line through the next name on my list: Saul Green. Attachment: Mephasser.
While previous investigations had brought me to pristine suburban locales, this address is a far cry from the rest. I’m parked in the middle of nowhere, arriving at the end of a long dirt road and flanked by unkempt fields. A few scattered trees frame this vast landscape—sporadic forests popping in and out while glorious Montana mountains rise far beyond—but for the most part the plains are nothing but yellow waves.
I climb out of my car and glance around, taking in this unfamiliar scene as the afternoon sun beats down from above. This particular acreage features a rare cluster of trees, tucking me away from the outside world.
Before me is a large farmhouse, the looming structure surrounded by vehicles in various states of disarray. Most of them are tireless and covered in rust, weeds grown up through their bodies over time and protruding from their engines in frozen eruptions of yellow and green. The farmhouse looks equally unused, the windows dark and a screen door barely hanging from its hinges. At one point, this home was likely a sight to behold, but the wear of age has really done a number on it.
Beyond the house is an enormous metal barn, this structure much fresher than the rest. It’s large enough to evoke a full-sized airplane hangar, towering behind everything like a shimmering silver ghost.
Suddenly, a cacophonous sound erupts through the air at such a deafening volume it makes me jump in alarm. A flock of resting birds takes this as their cue to leave, leaping from their perch on a gnarled tree and escaping into the blue sky above.
My heart is pounding even harder as I struggle to understand the bizarre racket echoing across the landscape. It sounds like a sickening combination of sped-up secular rock and slaughterhouse animal squeals, a pig recorded midtorture and now someone’s messing with the tape.
I glance back at my car and consider making an early exit, but the moment doesn’t last. It’s an instinctual reaction, not a thoughtful one.
I know what I have to do.
Focusing on the task at hand, I make my way out into the mess of mangled automobiles. The earsplitting noises are coming from the giant hangar, so I head directly for it.
The closer I get, the more my surroundings reveal themselves. While the aural cacophony is difficult to understand, it gradually dawns on me that this is music—barely—a screeching, grinding clutter of thrashing guitars and guttural vocal howls. It’s just about the most unpleasant sound I could imagine, but I’m relieved to know I’m not privy to the actual death squeals of terrified swine.
I also understand the landscape much better, a clearer perspective as I approach the colossal hangar. There are even more cars parked directly in front of the building, but these vehicles are distinct from the rest. Here, sit beautiful automobiles in pristine condition, protected from the sun by a large sheet-metal overhang.