And all the while, Brooke was trapped inside, looking out.
Marci raised Brooke’s hand to a sudden breeze, feeling the cushion of air as it swept past our faces. It would be hot today, I could tell by the sky, but the morning was still comfortable. “I like Brooke’s memories,” said Marci, walking forward again. I kept pace with her, watching the town carefully for signs of trouble—the last thing we needed was for Corey or Paul or Derek to see us. Marci mused out loud: “She had a good life, with a good family. And I mean, so did I, but … now I have more, you know? Now I can remember my happiness and hers, without letting go of either one. It’s like … watching a really happy movie.”
“Brooke’s life hasn’t been a very happy movie,” I said.
“Not all of it,” Marci agreed. “But more of it than you think. We’re eighteen years old and she’s only been chased by demons for three of those years. And there’s gaps in the middle when things were calm, and she … got to be with you.”
“I didn’t mean to drag her into this—”
“I like it,” said Marci, reaching for my hand. “I only knew you—only really knew you—for a few months. She’s known you for years and spent every day with you for the last two of them.”
I had never been a physical person, I was leery of personal contact, but when I’d finally held Marci’s hand all those years ago, it had been one of the simplest, most comforting things I’d ever felt. I looked down now at her hand in mine and tried to conjure up those same emotions, but it was still wrong, just like last night. I pulled my hand away. She looked sad, or I thought she did. I wondered how I looked.
“We need to find a bus station,” I said, trying to bring my mind back to more pressing issues. “I seriously doubt they have one in a town this small, but you never know. Normally I’d ask in a bank, because there are fewer repercussions that way, but nothing’s going to be open on a Sunday.”
“So let’s ask back there,” said Marci, turning and pointing at the church.
“We can’t just ask anybody,” I said, realizing I would have to explain my system. “People in small towns—”
“Are nice,” said Marci.
“Not to outsiders.”
“The ones in a church will be.”
“Why?” I asked. “Because they’re in a church?”
“Have you ever been to church?”
“I lived upstairs from a chapel,” I said. “I can quote the Bible all day. But people don’t go to—”
“Only the verses about death,” said Marci.
I stopped, staring at her. “What?”
“You can only quote the verses about death,” Marci repeated. “And, I assume, resurrection, which is really the same category.”
I wanted to argue with her, but for every counter I thought of, I was able to prove myself wrong before I even said it out loud. Could I quote a verse that wasn’t about death? No. Weren’t those the only verses in the Bible? Of course not; there had to be other verses about other topics, I’d just only ever heard the ones they use in funerals. For a time is coming when all who are in their graves will hear his voice and come out. Death. “I’ve never thought about religion enough to take it seriously,” I said. “But I don’t remember you being religious, either.”
“Christmas and Easter,” said Marci. “That’s enough to know that the people in a church are good people.”
“But they don’t go to church because they believe it,” I said. “They go because someone died, or because it’s a holiday, or because they’re a pastor and it’s their job.”
“Is it really that hard for you to accept that some people actually believe in something?” asked Marci. “You believe in things—big, build-your-life-around-them things, just like they do. You believe in the Withered. And death.”
“Death’s not a religion.”
“It is for you.”
I scowled and changed the subject. “You haven’t been driven out of a dozen little towns just like this,” I said. “Brooke and I have. Look at us: we’re filthy, we smell horrible, and even those idiots last night could tell we were homeless—what is an adult going to do the instant he sees us like this?”
“Ask if we need help,” Marci insisted.
“And then call the nearest social worker,” I said. “Which means police, which means official reports, which means the FBI finds us.”
“You just don’t know the right people to talk to,” said Marci, and she pulled me back down the street. “Come on, John, this is a church. Have faith.”