Hellbent

Evan felt the habitual pull to withdraw, but there was a power in the joined voices that hit him in the spine, made it thrum like a guitar string. He took a seat in the last row and let the hymn wash over him.

With the harmony came memories. Waking up in the dormer bedroom in Jack’s farmhouse that first sun-drenched morning. Walking behind Jack in the forest, filling those boot prints with his own small shoes. The cadence of Jack’s voice, how it never rose above a measured pitch during their nightly study sessions. Jack had taught him everything from Alexander the Great’s battle tactics to basic phrases in the Indo-Iranian languages to toasting etiquette for Scandinavian countries — nothing was too trivial. The smallest detail could save Evan’s life in the field.

Or kill him.

He thought about an Arab financier peering through raccoon eyes, wearing a half-moon laceration from Evan’s garrote like a necklace. A fat man, bald as a baby and clad only in a towel, staring back at him lifelessly through the steam of a bathhouse, blood drooling from a bullet hole over his left eye. A man slumped over a table in a drab Eastern European kitchen, his face in his soup, the back of his head missing.

He thought about what he was going to do to Van Sciver and every one of his men he came across along the way.

The choir finished. Before they could disperse, the director cleared his throat to good dramatic effect and said, “Now, when you get back out there with your car pools and your grocery shopping and your punching the clock, you take a little time to think about the works you do and the life you lead. When you’re back in this here church one day boxed up in a coffin, that’s gonna be all that’s left to speak for you.” With a crinkled hand, he waved them away. “Go on, now.”

The singers filed out, joking and gossiping. A few glanced Evan’s way, and he nodded pleasantly. People forget anything that’s not a threat, and Evan had no intention of being remembered.

He lifted his eyes to the glow behind the altar and wondered at the beliefs men held and what those beliefs drove them to do. In his brief time on the planet, he’d seen so many dead stares, so many visages touched with the gray pallor of death. But he’d never blinded himself to the humanity shining through the cracks of those broken guises. Jack had made sure of that. He’d lodged that paradox in Evan’s mind and in his heart. It had saved him, in a manner of speaking. But it came with a price.

Evan started to rise when the director turned and caught his eye. The old man limped up the aisle toward him. “Our altos are flat and our tenors are sharp. You’d think it’d even us out some.”

“It sounded perfect to me,” Evan said. “But I’ve got an untrained ear.”

“You must.” The man sat heavily in the pew next to him, let out a sigh like air groaning through a bellows.

“I’ll let you get on with your day, sir,” Evan said.

“Minister.”

“Minister. Thank you for letting me listen.”

“A man doesn’t stumble into a church for no reason.”

Out of deference Evan didn’t take issue with him.

The minister sat back, crossed his arms, and gazed at the vaulted ceiling. Evan felt a familiar tug to leave but realized that for the moment he had nowhere to be. The minister scratched at his elbow, clearly in no rush.

Evan considered the man’s words again. Decided to rise to the challenge.

“Which matters more?” he asked.

“Which what matters more?”

“At the end. Which matters more? The works we’ve done or the life we lead?”

“Say ‘I,’ son. First person. You’d be surprised at how powerful the change is.”

Evan took a pause. “Which matters more? The works I’ve done or the life I lead?”

The minister was right. The words felt different in Evan’s body and behind his face.

“You assume they’re different,” the minister said. “One’s works and one’s life.”

“In some cases.”

“Like yours?”

“That remains to be seen.”

The minister gave a frown and nodded profoundly. It took a good measure of dignity to manage a profound nod, but he managed it just fine. “Do you follow the Commandments, son?”

Evan nearly smiled. “Yes, Minister. Every last one.”

“Then there’s your start.”

Evan held a beat before switching tracks. “I’d imagine that few people are woven into this community as well as you are.”

“I’d say you imagine right.”

“Has there been any word about government folks coming through town, a helicopter, a fire?”

The minister arched an eyebrow. “There has not.”

“Suspicious flurry of activity down by the”—he hesitated slightly before naming his nemesis—“Peachoid?”

“No.”

“How about alien spaceships cutting crop circles?” Evan countenanced the man’s watery glare. “Kidding.”

“What’s all this hokum about?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend at the peach water tower.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“Long-lost friend. We’d arranged a meet online.”

“Hmm.” The minister mused a moment. “You sure you got the right one?”

A jolt of anticipation straightened Evan up slightly in the pew. “The right friend?”

“The right Peachoid. Same folks built a smaller one down in Clanton, Alabama.”