Page 2 of When Sinners Fear

“I should go,” he says as we get to the main doors. “Abel’s waiting for me.” I nod and look along the avenue for my car. “You alright?”

“What?”

“You seem tense.”

My eyes narrow. “The fuck would you know about my tense?”

“Cool down, Knox. I’m not the enemy.”

“Semi-debatable until you prove some usefulness.”

“Yeah? Fuck you then.”

I turn to face him fully, taking in the blonde hair and the weathered face. “You know, I like you more when you show some fucking spite instead of that wall of stone shit.” He doesn't respond; just uses that frown of his to convey whatever the hell he’s trying for. “Use your language skills, Kai. I don't read intimidation.”

“They don’t need my spite until I’m instructed, but if you wanna try our next round out for size, I’m ready to send you the half of me you haven’t seen yet.”

My lips tip up, and I shrug the collar straight on my coat as I walk away. “Maybe another time. I’ve got prettier pussy to go play with today.”

The journey across town and out onto the freeway goes by in a blur of numbers and figures that need calculating in my head. Not sure I even clock the road as it goes by around me. I’ve got three hours’ worth of work to do in this half-hour drive because when I get there, I’ll be focused on one thing and one thing alone. Fuck the semi-interesting conversations I’ve had to have to get to my goal, or the philosophical debate that found me my goal in the first place.

My phone rings about fifteen minutes into the journey – Abel.We talk about the next round of women coming in from Mexico for a while as I hear the jet firing in the background. Nothing new. Just the same round of probably diseased pussy. Still, this round should be as profitable as the rest as long as Carmen sorts the decent from the trash. And then it’s more numbers until Charles Grasby makes a call about some fucking cop who thinks he can get up in our ass about some dead cunts in an alley. Seems like Shaw’s licence plate was reported nearby.

“And?” I say.

“Just get Shaw to come see me. I’ll deal with it,” he mutters.

“Fine.” I text Shaw, telling him to get himself over there at some point, and then get back to my numbers again before making some calls to other businesses that I need to pick up from.

Appointments arranged and I head off the freeway towards Boerne. The small suburban roads go by quietly, and the low roar of this engine idles gently as I weave cherry tree-lined avenues to get through town. White picket fences guard sizable houses and mansions with a sweetness I’m not used to, and pretty gardens full of flowers, with wives and kids playing out front, seem like an endless stream of insanity. It’s a world away from who I am and what I do, and, to be frank, it’s only curiosity that brought me here originally. Something new perhaps.

Not that it is entirely new. These are the kind of people I went to college with. It’s all button-down tops and skirts at the right length. Demure makeup and ponytails bobbing. I stare at a group of girls hanging around in a park as I pass by, watching as they practise some cheerleading moves under skirts that are more my idea of interesting. Sweet, coy glances look at this car as I drive past them as if they’re part invested in toying with me and part scared for their life. They’re right to be concentrating on the latter because I can't even remember a nice side of me anymore.

I smirk at the quaintness and keep driving, straightening my tie the moment I pull in through the gates I’ve been aiming for. More white picket fences line either side of the small, gravel driveway until it opens into a parking lot filled with high-end, luxury vehicles beside the church.

Getting out, I lean on the car so I can watch the mill of people talking and chattering about fuck knows what. It’s amusing to me. These people come here once a week and profess their love to an unproved God. They revel in some show of sombre graciousness, all the while bending their Christian values in whichever way they see fit to counter their actuality. They bow and scrape to the priest I’m here to meet – Reverend Michael Wells – handing over small amounts of wealth to help the poor as if that’s the answer to their own retribution. There is no retribution as far as I'm concerned. We’re born, we die, and we do whatever the hell we want in the middle of those two certainties.

However, healthy debate about differing philosophies is always thought-provoking.

And I wouldn’t have found my angel without that.

“You came back.” I look sideways, away from my musings, and find Reverend Wells walking towards me in his robes. “I’m surprised. I thought you seemed bored last time.”

I stand and offer my hand to shake his. “Who could be bored in a church, Michael? Especially when you’re in charge of it.”

“I would have thought once was enough for you, Knox.”

“Call it inquisitive relaxation. I’m palate cleansing.”

He smiles lightly and leads us towards the door, following the other people as they file their way in. “We’re discussing Revelations today.”

“Thrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap; for the harvest of the earth is ripe.”

He looks at me and frowns, knowing damn well my version of that scripture is far from his. “Knox, this isn’t a joke to these people.”

“I’m not laughing. Deadly serious.”

He blocks me from going any further and looks back at the mill taking their pews before turning back to me. “Look,” he says quietly. “Healthy debate is one thing, and I have no problem helping you if you’re serious about finding redemption of some kind, but don’t think our time in college gives you a right to play with me or anyone in my congregation. I know you, Knox. A photographic memory does not mean you understand what these people do, nor do you have the right to ridicule their beliefs. You’re welcome here, but behave.”

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