Out of the Shadows (36 page)

Micah watched Trevor’s delicate hands as he talked, wondering what it must be like to be able to live a full and rewarding life.

“There’s so much more I want these hands to accomplish,” Trevor admitted, his voice breaking from regret. He finally realized that his actions last night had been stupid and foolish, and they had led him to this unfortunate moment. He looked up at Micah, eyes puffy and wet, face smeared with streaks of redness. He cried softly and said, “I’m not ready to die yet.”

Micah placed a consoling arm around him, holding him tightly. “When the time comes, those are the hands that He will take to lead you home.”

Many minutes passed in peaceful silence as Trevor allowed himself to be comforted by the stranger that had quickly become his friend. He thought about his past, his future, and his present. He felt overwhelmed, like the purpose for his entire existence was about to present itself.

“I don’t know what to do next,” he admitted to his guide.

“Yes, you do.”

“What?”

“Just think,” Micah encouraged.

Trevor took a breath and allowed his mind to wander. He thought about his parents and his childhood, his job at the diner, his Sundays at the cathedral. He thought about Patti and Mr. Miyoto, his quaint apartment, his suicide letter. He thought about last night on the bridge and the abstract paintings he didn’t remember creating…

The paintings.

The first one of Patti’s gruesome death had ended up coming to fruition. The second one of the burning cable car, too. The third painting was a severe abstraction of the Golden Gate Bridge, looking as if made of stone, spitting fire from its two spires…

He leapt to his feet and looked at Micah with wide eyes. “The bridge!” he gasped, and he hopped on the bike, racing toward the subject of his third painting.

*     *     *

Trevor leaned against the railing on the Golden Gate Bridge, not far away from where he almost had jumped the night before. The setting sun warmed his face as he looked down at the undulating water below. Pedestrians passed and cars whizzed by. He looked up toward the top of the nearby spire, looking for anything out of the ordinary that may be some abstraction of fire, like in his premonitory painting.

The day was beginning to wane, and the air grew chilly and damp. Micah had appeared by his side, observing his thought process. Trevor watched every person that passed, waiting for one of them to act strangely, lunging for him or even jumping off the bridge. No one did. Everything seemed normal, and yet he couldn’t shake the unease he felt, knowing that something would happen at any moment.

In the distance, he could faintly hear the familiar chiming of the English bells tolling the new hour in the tower at Grace Cathedral on top of the hill. As they quietly rang in the distance, he observed the cars and the tourists and the bicyclists. He observed the gulls flying low on the bay. The bells’ song was finished now, moving on to ringing the hour’s number. He closed his eyes to think once more, hearing each gong shift his mind to a new memory. His mother, his father, Patti, suicide, painting…
Gong
,
gong
,
gong
,
gong…
He imagined the bells swaying up in their stone tower as the cathedral’s twin spires reached majestically into the…

Trevor’s eyes snapped open upon his horrific realization. His third painting… It wasn’t an abstraction of the Golden Gate Bridge. Two stone spires towering over the city, spewing an inferno from hell!

It was Grace Cathedral!

“Bishop Andrews!” Trevor gasped. He turned to Micah, panic fueling his passion. “Luke is at the church!” He felt stupid and ashamed; he had been exactly where he needed to be all along, but he had fled after the cable car exploded.

Micah’s eyes grew wide, the realization dawning on him too late, like he should have seen it coming.

“I have to go, Micah!”

“That’s four and a half miles away!”

“Then I’ll have to ride fast!” And before Micah could open his mouth to object, Trevor was on the bike, speeding haphazardly through the congested pedestrian walkway, hollering for them to move.

He pedaled fiercely, his lungs searing from the exertion. He weaved in and out of traffic, horns blaring at the offense. Most of the trip was uphill, and it was quite steep in spots, but he never allowed himself to rest. He pushed, chilly sweat dripping down his face, his calves burning from the abuse. He began to grow light-headed, not sure if he would be able to sustain his pace, but he felt that he had no choice. As soon as the image of the church had appeared in his head, he had known in his gut that that was where he needed to be.

Once he made it to the base of the steepest hill, his strength waned and his endurance crumbled. Irritated with his bodily limitations, he leapt off the bike and proceeded to run up the sidewalk steps to the top of the hill. He turned onto California Street, seeing the emergency crews still dealing with the cable car wreckage, white sheets draped over the exposed corpses. He flew passed the law enforcement and halted on the steps leading to the cathedral entrance.

He looked up at the looming concrete towers, and when he saw no inferno spilling forth, he allowed himself to collapse to the ground, desperately gasping for the air he had been denying his lungs. Content that he wasn’t yet too late, he focused on lowering his racing heart rate.

“Trevor Kincaid?!” he heard someone shout from the street.

He looked up and saw a female police officer quickly remove her gun from its holster and train it on him.

“Kincaid!” she hollered again, alerting the rest of the force that had been dealing with the wreckage. They all spun on their heels, their weapons aimed at the helpless Trevor on the steps of the cathedral. “Put your hands in the air!” she ordered.

Trevor was deeply conflicted. His mind raced through his options, thinking far too quickly for rational thought to prevail. If he were to run into the church, he would be riddled with bullet holes before his foot touched the second step. If he complied and went with them, Luke would likely kill everyone and win.

White clouds rolled through the blue sky, blocking the sun and creating ominous shadows that flowed across the front of the gothic cathedral, sending an eerie tingle down the length of Trevor’s spine. He shivered.

Grace Cathedral no longer made him feel safe.

The waning sun ducked in and out of rolling cloud coverage, and the warmth from the day quickly faded. Trevor Kincaid stared down the barrels of the police force’s weapons, trained on his weak, mortal body, their fingers taut on the triggers. In this moment, he felt more vulnerable than he had the night before when he had stood over the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge, seconds away from leaping to his death.

His body trembled, and he closed his eyes. He thought back to barely a day ago. Everything had felt so hopeless for him, like his purpose in life had ended. He imagined the majestic red-orange bridge that filled him with an odd sense of comfort, as if its two peaks wrapped themselves around his tortured soul. And just when his mind had silently pleaded for a reason to avoid jumping into the black, freezing water, Micah had spoken up behind him.

He thought about his uplifting conversation with Bishop Andrews and about Micah’s wise words. He thought about his own shame at turning his back on the religion that had carried his hope so far through his life. He wished Micah would appear now and tell him what to do, but he knew that that wasn’t how it worked. For now, he was on his own.

“Trevor Kincaid!” the female officer shouted. “Put your hands in the air, or we will open fire!”

His heart thundered within, but just when he thought it might explode from his chest, its raging contractions began to subside. It felt as though the cathedral itself had laid its comforting hands across his shoulders, standing with him in his time of need. He knew he needed to get inside to see the bishop, and nothing would stop him from doing so.

“Mr. Kincaid, this is your last—.”

“Sanctuary!” Trevor yelled into the sky, feeling an overflow of emotion surge through his veins.

The female officer’s brow furrowed slightly, and she said, “Excuse me?”

“I claim sanctuary!” Trevor yelled once more, so all of the officers could hear him.

The woman lowered her gun slightly, flabbergasted by the turn of events.

The man next to her leaned in and asked, “Can he
do
that?”

The officer stared at Trevor, trying to figure out how to proceed. “Mr. Kincaid, will you repeat yourself one more time?”

“I claim sanctuary, and I need to talk to the bishop!” he confirmed.

The cops all began to falter, lowering their weapons, dumbfounded by the unusual situation.

“I’m unarmed!” Trevor added loudly, slowly raising his clothing so the officers could see his waistband.

“I’m not sure he can do that in this country,” the male cop said to the woman.

She turned to him and shrugged. “Are
you
going to be the cop that shoots a man who just wanted to pray with the bishop?” She turned to the rest of the police force. “Set up a perimeter around the church,” she ordered. “We don’t enter with any kind of force. We do nothing disrespectful. When he comes out, we take him into custody.”

The cops nodded and fanned out around the cathedral grounds, moving into position to guard all potential exits.

Trevor locked gazes with the officer in charge as he slowly stood from his prone position on the steps. He was careful not to make any sudden movements, and though he was loathe to turn his back on them, he headed for the door.

As he reached for the handle, he heard the clatter of dozens of metal guns dropping to the pavement. He glanced over his shoulder, and everyone on the street was hauntingly still, staring directly at him with expressionless faces. He waited, the feeling of bile rising to his throat. After a moment, everyone turned and began walking north, down the hill.

Every last person.

The doors of nearby apartments and businesses opened, and more citizens marched out, joining the conglomeration headed down the street. Mothers, fathers, children, babysitters, businessmen, baristas… A chill swept through the street, invading Trevor’s body, and the pit of his stomach gurgled with unease. He knew that Luke had taken control of them.
All of them
.

The people were headed to their dark deaths, and he could think of only one place to where they might be marching.

The Golden Gate Bridge.

Time had run out. There was nothing more for Trevor to do but enter the church and try to survive. If he failed, one million people would die. His shaky hand grasped the handle, and he entered the cathedral.

*     *     *

The air inside the sanctuary felt thick, and a strange unidentifiable odor permeated his senses. No matter how quietly he treaded, he felt that his feet were leaden, crashing onto the tiled floor, alerting the world of his presence. His heart thumped deeply in his chest, and a feeling of nausea swept over him. He stepped around the ornate labyrinth through which he earlier had walked with the bishop. His throat clenched from dryness, and his palms grew clammy. He had felt like this only one other time in his life, and that was the previous night when he had been contemplating his own mortality while staring down into the black waters at the Golden Gate.

He entered the center aisle, passing rows of pews, glancing at the stained glass eyes watching him. Judging him.
Everyone must face judgment when the time comes
, Micah had said at the pier. He felt those words hang in the air, an oppressive shroud of doom that smothered him. He struggled to breathe, and he felt his eyes begin to sting with the salt of tears. Just before panic overtook him, he felt the familiar strong hand clutch his shoulder, sending waves of comfort through his body.

It was Micah. His guide. His guardian. Come to join him in this final leg of his journey. Micah said nothing, nor did Trevor need him to.

He looked at the end of the aisle and noticed that the first few rows of pews had been shattered, nothing but crumbled splinters of wood remaining. In the center, a pyre rose ten feet into the air, built from the fragmented pieces from the prayer benches. Two large chunks of debris from the broken pews were tied together with rope, jutting up from the middle of the woodpile. A horrific crucifix.

Bound to the demon cross at his wrists and ankles, arms outstretched in a morbid biblical tableau, was Bishop Andrews.

He looked pale and weak, his bottom lip split open and covered in blood. Trevor moved more quickly now, not quite running, keeping his gaze vigilant. As he got closer to the reverend, he spoke softly but urgently.

“Bishop!”

The middle-aged man moaned and turned his head, his eyes fluttering open slowly. A small smile creased the corners of his feeble mouth, and he replied in a raspy voice, “Trevor, it’s so good to see you.”

“I’m going to get you down from there,” he informed, making his way closer to the pile. As he neared it, the odd aroma grew stronger, singeing his nostrils. Suddenly, the scent became clear.

Gasoline.

He stood back and took in the sight of the bishop, splayed out on a makeshift crucifix, a twisted funeral pyre. Visions of his third grotesque painting floated to the forefront of his mind. The façade of Grace Cathedral bursting with flame.

“We have to get him down, now!” Trevor tried to dash forward, but Micah’s hand grabbed his arm forcefully.

“I’ll do it.”

“Why?”

“The gasoline. If I die, I can just take another body. If you die…”

Trevor nodded and stepped back, making room for his guardian to climb the broken pews to get within reach of the bishop. As Micah scaled the construct, pieces broke loose and threatened to send him tumbling back to the ground. The scent of the fuel began to overwhelm him, making him feel dizzy, but he finally made it to the top and began unloosing one of the bishop’s wrists.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” came Luke’s deep voice. It echoed ominously throughout the cavernous sanctuary, bouncing eerily off of the stained glass windows and concrete pillars. Luke emerged from the passageway that led to the offices at the back, his blue polo shirt wrinkled from struggle, his thick brown hair disheveled.

Trevor’s back straightened and his senses heightened, waiting to see what would happen next.

Luke smiled devilishly. “Your good bishop put up quite the struggle when I came in here. If only you had arrived sooner…” He allowed the thought to dangle in the air long enough for Trevor’s guilt to trickle into his mind.

Trevor remained speechless, not wanting to engage the demon but knowing that he must.

Luke pointed up at Micah, who worked feverishly to free the bishop’s other wrist from the bonds. “I see you’re letting the angel do your dirty work.”

The bishop’s wrist fell free, and his body slumped forward over Micah’s shoulder. He then quickly went to work on freeing the bishop’s bound ankles.

“I must say, Micah,” the vile entity began, pointing in Trevor’s direction. “This one has been especially weak.”

Micah didn’t turn to face him, but he spat back, “He’s stronger than you think, Demon!”

“Really? Then why did he make this so easy for me?”

The horrid meaning behind Luke’s words suddenly became clear, and Micah peered over his shoulder, panicked, as he saw the zippo lighter twirl through the air and land at the base of the pyre, instantly igniting the bottom in searing flame.

“Micah!” Trevor hollered, wanting to run forward to help but unable to get passed the circle of fire.

The guardian quickly went back to work on the bonds around the bishop’s ankles, fighting desperately to loosen the knots.

Luke’s laugh echoed through the church as the crackle of flaming wood popped through the air, the flames ever-rising up the wooden pile, licking the air at Micah’s feet, begging to taste his flesh. “Within the hour, all of the city’s inhabitants will be in the bottom of the bay, and their souls will belong to me!”

Trevor scampered quickly over the damaged rows of pews and swiftly snatched up the golden candelabra that held the prayer candles. He swung it viciously through the air, forcing Luke to duck back out of the way. The candles that had been lit within the holder flew through the air, and one of them landed at Luke’s feet, nipping the edge of his pants.

As the flame caught, he began stamping his foot, extinguishing it, but while he had been distracted, Trevor sped in and swung the candleholder, making contact with his head. He fell backward, stumbling to regain his balance. He wiped a spot of blood from the side of his face before spinning back toward his assailant, the pyre’s flames reflecting ferociously within his eyes.

With a
sssshink
, Luke revealed his hidden knife from the back of his pants. The cool metal of the foot-long blade shimmered from the nearby fire, which gained height at a frightening pace. The vaulted ceiling of the church began to fill with black smoke, and the stench of blazing gasoline invaded the air.

Luke charged after Trevor, his eyes flickering with an absolute fury. The knife was raised, his teeth clenched. He growled in anger as he brought it down.

Trevor swung the candelabra in front of him, clashing against the dangerous blade. The two men pressed into one another, the knife putting immense pressure on the savior’s makeshift weapon. Their faces were inches apart, and Trevor saw the damnation of worlds come alive in Luke’s eyes. His arm muscles grew tired, and the heat from the fire drew sweat from his brow.

“Trevor!” Micah called out from the top of the pyre, coughing from smoke inhalation.

He glanced up and saw his guardian angel, clutching the freed bishop in his arms. Trevor decided to make his move; he feinted to the side, releasing his intense grip, and as Luke fell forward, he tripped over Trevor’s outstretched foot, collapsing to the ground. Trevor flung his weapon to the ground and held his arms out to accept the body of the bishop. Without wasting a beat, Micah carefully tossed the old man over the flames, landing painfully into Trevor’s arms.

As he carefully placed the coughing man on the ground against the pulpit, Micah closed his eyes, readied his legs, and leapt as far as he could over the fire. He collided with the tile floor with a harsh smack, and he rolled, unable to stop his momentum. Fire swept its way up the legs of his jeans, and Trevor ran over, removing his hoodie to dampen the flames.

Micah nodded his thanks, and then his eyes went wide. “Trevor, behind you!”

He spun around just in time to see the lumbering hulk of Luke, the knife high in the air, held in both of his hands. He bellowed a scream from the pits of hell as he brought the blade down. Trevor grasped Luke’s wrists, holding the lethal weapon at bay, inches from his face. Luke forced him farther toward the ground with surprising strength, his blood rage consuming his twisted features.

Micah grabbed a chunk of broken pew that would have been far too heavy for a mortal man, and he swung it viciously into Luke’s side, sending him rolling off of Trevor, the knife sliding across the floor.

The demon stumbled to rise, clutching his wounded side with his shaking hand. He spoke, his voice much deeper and more threatening now, as if something inhuman rose to the surface. “You are trying my patience, Angel! I’m done playing games!” He thrust his arms into the air, and a ball of fire leapt from within the blazing pyre, soaring quickly to the vaulted planks high above, assaulting the wooden surface with the flames of destruction.