Бри Деспейн: The Lost Saint

I turned away from Daniel and reached far into the murky water and pulled the drain. I’d wanted the water to be hot on my skin, but it had cooled considerably during our conversation. I felt warmth on my shoulder and realized that Daniel had placed his hand on my arm, right over where my crescent-shaped scar hid under my sleeve. I hadn’t realized that it had been stinging with pain until I felt his soothing touch. He kept his hand there for a moment and then pulled it away and started drying dishes again.

Daniel stayed until after we finished cleaning the kitchen and Mom had drained the DVR of all the other stations’ news programs she’d recorded.

I said good-bye to Daniel at the door, and the second he left, the house felt empty, just like I knew it would. I locked all the doors and windows and then turned off the TV and told Mom to go to bed. When I was alone in my room, I tried calling Dad again. It went straight to voice mail.

“Jude was here, Dad,” I finally told the machine. “Right here in Rose Crest. Come home. Please.” I listened to the emptiness on the other line until the voice-mail recorder beeped and cut off the call.

With my phone still in my hand, I checked the lock on my own window and noticed a faint light inside the Corolla. I’d left it parked beside the curb in front of the house. I peered through the blinds and saw Daniel curled up in the backseat of the car. From what I could tell, it looked like he’d nodded off while reading a book.

This evening hadn’t gone so smoothly with Daniel—not at all like I’d pictured it when Daniel suggested we watch the meteor shower together. But seeing Daniel outside my house, knowing he was there, made me feel safe and warm, like nothing could possibly ever tear us apart.

I flipped open my phone and sent Daniel a text: I love you.

As I crawled into bed, my phone beeped with a message back from him: Always.

And then, thirty seconds later, another, which said: Be patient. We’ll figure it out. Maybe when your dad gets back, he’ll know what to do. Then another text: I believe in you.

Then, almost a full two minutes later, like the idea had suddenly crossed his mind for the first time: Please don’t go looking for Jude on your own, ok?

Ok, I texted back.

It wasn’t like I’d even know where to start looking.

MORNING

I wasn’t surprised when Daniel was gone the next morning. He always worked an early-morning shift at Day’s Market before school on Fridays. But I figured he’d be a wreck from sleeping in the backseat of the Corolla all night.

Debbie Lambson, the part-time housekeeper Dad had hired to keep an eye on James—and my mom—while Charity and I were at school, was already at the house making breakfast when I came downstairs. I grabbed a couple of her muffins off the kitchen counter and headed out to the drive-through at the Java Pot. I picked up two coffees to go and then made a beeline for Day’s Market in hopes of catching Daniel before he took off for school.

I knew something was wrong even before I saw the police tape barring the entrance to the parking lot behind the market—the sheriff’s patrol car was parked out front, the OPEN sign whose neon usually blazed above the glass doors was dark, and a small group of would-be customers stood gesturing a few yards off from the store.

Tension pricked under my skin as I pulled up behind the patrol car. I couldn’t help thinking about that night a little less than ten months ago when there had been a very similar scene here. On that same terrible night when I’d almost lost Daniel.

The scar on my arm flared, and the pain of my powers tingled into my muscles. I clutched my moonstone and shook off those terrible memories.

A more immediate problem stood in front of me now.

I left the tray of coffee cups in the car and headed up to the storefront. The thing that struck me the most was how strangely clean the glass of the front door seemed. That is, until I realized the door was actually missing. Shards of shattered glass littered the ground just inside the doorway. I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I was allowed to enter, but no one tried to stop me, so I stepped through the gap. I heard voices near the cash registers—or where the cash registers should have been. One lay smashed on the ground, and the other two appeared to be missing altogether.

Mr. Day slumped on a stool while talking to Chris Tripton, another early-morning employee, and Daniel stood nearby with a broom.

It looked like Day’s Market had been the epicenter of an earthquake that somehow hadn’t touched the rest of town. Most of the shelving had been knocked over like a giant set of dominos, it’s demolished contents scattered everywhere. Spots on the floor were slick with soup oozing out of crushed cans. Basketball-sized holes pocked the walls, and the Halloween display in the center of the store looked like someone had taken a bulldozer to it.

“What happened?” I asked Daniel when I caught his attention. “It looks like a hurricane swept through here.”

“Might as well.” Daniel leaned his weight into his broom. “Somebody ransacked the place last night. They emptied out the registers, tore the safe out of the wall in the back office, and trashed just about everything else.”

“Holy hell,” I said.

Stacey Canova came up to us with an empty box in her arms. “The strange thing is,” she said, “they destroyed everything else, but took every last bag of chips and can of beer in the place.”

“What? Does the sheriff think it was teenagers?” I asked her.

“Only if they make teenagers with superpowers these days,” a voice said from behind me.

I reeled around to Mr. Day. “What was that?” I blushed and crossed my arms behind my back, as if I had something to hide.

“Whoever did this had to be superfast, and strong as a bull. It would take a forklift to knock over one of those aisles. And they got in and out of here in a matter of minutes. I locked up and headed home last night, but I was barely a few blocks away when I realized that I’d left my garage key in the back office. I turned around and came back to the store and found all this. I was gone five minutes tops. And there’s nothing on the security cameras.” Mr. Day indicated the cameras in each corner of the store. “Looked them over with the sheriff last night. They just go black. And these are battery powered, so it’s not like cutting the power to the whole building would do anything. None of you scrawny Holy Trinity kids could have pulled this off.”

He turned to Chris Tripton. “I’m telling you, it had to be those invisible bandits from the city. Either that, or the Markham Street Monster has turned to a life of larceny.” Mr. Day sounded just like the news reporter from last night, only he wasn’t joking.

Stacey rolled her eyes but then shook her head when she saw Mr. Day glaring at her.

Daniel looked down and swept up some broken glass into a pile with his broom.

According to the “official” story, wild dogs had attacked Mr. Day’s granddaughter Jessica and were responsible for the other attacks in town last winter—Maryanne’s mutilation, James’s going missing, and then what happened to Daniel, Jude, and me at the parish—but Mr. Day had been a die-hard believer in the Markham Street Monster ever since.

“Either way, this town is in trouble. I bet I’m just the first of many. Someone—or something—with that much power isn’t going to stop at one store.

Mark my words: Rose Crest is going to hell in a handbasket unless somebody can do something.”

The phone rang from the back office. It had a strange, tinny echo. It must have been damaged. “Local paper got ahold of the story.” Mr. Day grumbled. “They keep on calling. Won’t be surprised if we end up with reporters from the city picking through the place like vultures later today. I could be ruined, and they think it makes a great headline. Thought I’d never have to deal with those buzzards again since they got tired of the story about Jessica’s death. Now they’ll want to pick at her dead bones some more with all of this.” He was trying to sound gruff and annoyed, but his voice had a high-pitched catch to it, and I noticed a puffy redness to his eyes.