Flee From Evil Read online

  He turned to the kid. Bounce, bounce, bounce. “I think I do.”

  They sat in silence, and watched the vehicles hurtle around the track. Lew didn’t even know which car was leading. He’d kept his eyes on Tibo throughout the race, his heart swelling with the kid’s joy. He might just have to do this again.

  Cars crashed. They rolled. Some sped out of the track and into trees that lined the raceway. Round and round they went. Long moments later, the checkered flag waved, and Tibo clapped.

  Lew shook his head and grinned. Something warm settled over him and into his chest—weird.

  Cassandra grabbed his hand and jumped from the seat. “That’s Jeremy’s car! Jeremy won!” She turned to Lew. “Your protege.”

  ~*~

  When Lew yanked his fingers from Cassandra’s, she knew she’d said something that bothered him. She didn’t mean to, but sometimes people took her the wrong way. Maybe because she was the kind of girl who wore expensive, white shorts to a dirt track race. Little did they know she didn’t have the money to buy cheap shorts right now, especially with her children’s growing clothing needs. So she had to settle for the things her husband had purchased when he was alive, with the allowance his parents had given him for the family’s “proper attire.”

  Cassandra tried to communicate an apology with her eyes, since she didn’t have words for an offense she didn’t understand.

  “It was the drinking.”

  She read his lips more than heard him. Was he even speaking to her?

  Tibo squealed as more cars drove onto the track.

  Cassandra didn’t watch this time. She lowered herself to the bench next to Lew and waited, expecting him to elaborate, but as the silence stretched, unsure he would.

  Lew turned toward her. He shrugged. “Couldn’t stop.”

  Cassandra placed a hand over his.

  “Same reason you wouldn’t let the boy drive with me here.”

  She pulled her hand away, and shook her head. What could she say?

  “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t trust me with him either.”

  She shifted her body to face him on the bench. “Lew, it’s not just you. I don’t trust him alone with anybody. Especially since he can’t tell me things.”

  Lew seemed to consider the grains of wood in the stands before swiveling to meet her gaze. “I bet you’d trust the church folk.” There was a challenge in those dark eyes.

  Oh, if he only knew … “Not unless I know them really really really well.”

  “Really well?” Was he mocking her?

  “Yes, really well.”

  “Not your religious friends?”

  “Not alone with my son—no.” She hesitated wondering if she should disclose the reason for her fears.

  “Why not? Do you suspect they aren’t as good as they pretend to be?” There was that challenge again.

  She’d meet it. “Only the ones pretending to be good.” Cassandra drew in a breath as the roaring of another race began in earnest. “Lew, just because a person goes to church, doesn’t mean they are a Christian. And even if they are, they’re still sinners.”

  His brows crunched.

  “People go to church for lots of reasons—some to follow Jesus, and some to look like they do.”

  “Why would a person waste an hour on Sunday only to look like they follow Jesus?”

  Cassandra couldn’t keep the darkness from her laugh. “Satan loves to use the church for his purposes whenever there is an opening. And unfortunately there are too many in the pews who are open.”

  “Satan?” Lew’s eyelids lowered. “ You mean the guy with the pointy tail and pitchfork?”

  “No. He’s more clever than to appear a cartoon of evil.”

  “I thought you were educated.” His sardonic tone told her what he thought of her education.

  Cassandra hated when people treated her beliefs like a silly myth. “The more I live, and the more I see people explaining away bad things as if they weren’t really bad, and the more I see authority figures abusing power for their own gain, the more I believe there is evil in the world. It’s not a great stretch to imagine some being is behind it. Someone tempting us to do what we know is wrong, and someone setting out to destroy us, while making us believe we are doing something good.”

  She waited for Lew to laugh. But he didn’t.

  A yellow flag waved over the track, and the cars slowed. Tibo’s bouncing settled.

  “Satan loves to use the church. He accomplishes more than one goal in doing so. First, he tempts the abuser. Next, he traumatizes the victim. And lastly, he covers the church with deceit, leaving non-believers to think we are all hypocrites.”

  “Abuser?”

  She had to use that word, didn’t she? “Yes.”

  He just looked at her—waiting for her to elaborate.

  “I had a friend when I was a teenager who had been sexually assaulted by one of the youth leaders.”

  Lew pointed at her. “I knew it. Dirty secrets.”

  “It was only a secret until the girl finally told her parents. As soon as the elders were informed, the leader was dismissed from ministry, and charges were filed.”

  “See? Church folk are a bunch of hypocrites.”

  Cassandra tensed. “That’s not fair, Lew. You’re letting Satan win.”

  “Pfffft.”

  Heat fumed into her cheeks. “Just because a person claims to be a Christian and doesn’t act on that faith, doesn’t mean the rest of us are hypocrites.”

  He opened his mouth …

  She raised her voice. “And just because some of us have a bad day, and give in to weakness on occasion, doesn’t mean we’re hypocrites.” Her hands became tense fists.

  “But—”

  “And just because we have sin in our pasts, and want to live a better life now that we know better, doesn’t mean we’re hypocrites.”

  Lew held up his finger, and glanced around at the spectators who’d quieted and turned their way.

  She sucked in a breath. “And …”

  He arched a brow.

  “I’m … I’m done.”

  He grimaced. “Is bitterness your particular weakness?

  She smirked and Lew joined her in a laugh. “Maybe a little.”

  Cassandra loved the way his chuckle seemed to reach inside him right now. She’d never heard that from him before.

  “Anyway … that’s why I’m super-protective of my son.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cassandra had flipped through an innumerable amount of catalogs displaying the supplies needed for a special needs classroom to teach children about Jesus as their Savior: videos, books, music. She’d have to ask Vince—Pastor Vince, she needed to call him—if they had anything in the budget to purchase things that could help calm a restless child with sensory issues, like weighted vests, balance balls, or textured mats.

  She’d considered faxing or emailing the list, but knew it was time to face the man as her boss, be professional, and leave the dwindling animosity at the door.

  Was it dwindling?

  Her heart pounded as she crossed the threshold to the church offices, Yolanda sitting sentry at the front desk. “Cassandra, right?” Was that a question, confirmation, or accusation? Of course it was only the second time they’d met in the weeks since she’d interviewed for the position.

  “Yes. I’ve come to drop off a list of supplies the special needs classroom will need.” She glanced around. “Is Vin—Pastor Vince, here?”

  Yolanda’s eyebrows jumped at Cassandra’s slip. “He stepped out.”

  Cassandra held up the pages in her hand. “Can I drop this on his desk?”

  “Be my guest.” Yolanda jabbed a thumb to the open door.

  Cassandra hesitated, peering around at the burgundy walls and shelves filled with books: theology, apologetics, Bible studies, devotions, a concordance, a couple of Dickens novels, and … George MacDonald? She’d told him long ago how much she’d loved the author’s writi
ngs. Had he remembered, or were they the recommendation of a divinity professor?

  The scent of him saturated the space like a warning not to enter. She wanted to drink it in, fill her mind with the strength of the young man who’d held her in his arms, and the smiles that seemed to single her out from every other woman in the world. But she knew that drink was poison and shook her mind from the lies.

  Wanting him to see the list immediately, she dropped it on the blotter in front of his computer keyboard. She needed to write a note to ask about the sensory items. Finding a message pad, she ripped off a pink page, and searched for a pen. His desk held piles of documents here and there, a docking station for electronics, file holders, and a paper clip tray seemingly made by a Sunday school student, but no pens. She peered around the shelves—nothing.

  Cassandra opened the flat drawer of his desk and smiled at the fun-sized Heath bars littered throughout. She’d forgotten about his obsession for chocolate-covered toffee. Some things never changed. In fact, that’s what she feared the most. Or did she fear they had. With her mind playing through all of what she’d learned about him over the past several weeks, she no longer knew what she felt regarding Vince at all.

  Resisting the urge to snatch a chocolate bar, she dug into the pencil tray instead, only to find the shape of something so familiar she knew it the moment her skin made contact—the cross her father had made for her. The one she’d given to Vince the night he’d—

  “I see you’ve found Pastor Vince’s talisman.” Yolanda’s voice startled her.

  Cassandra sank into the leather chair and caressed the divots and jagged spots her father had left to resemble the rough-hewn character of the true cross. “Talisman?”

  “Yeah, every now and then I catch him touchin’ that thing.” Yolanda’s expression was curious. “Kinda like you’re doin’ now.”

  Cassandra dropped it on the desk.

  “Usually, after a tough day or when he’s worried about someone.” She chuckled. “It must be pretty powerful if people keep feeling the need to rub it all the time.”

  After wrapping the leather cord around her first two fingers, Cassandra fisted the trinket.

  “Seems to give him peace too.” Yolanda’s voice began to fade as the past took the forefront of Cassandra’s mind. “I’m guessing it has some memories attached to it. Maybe something he got in prison.”

  Cassandra bolted up, crossed the room and rammed past the secretary in the doorway.

  “Hey!”

  Trudging down the corridor, Cassandra barely processed the woman’s words.

  “You can’t take that. It’s not yours.”

  Out the door, down the cement front steps, Cassandra moved as if on autopilot toward her car. She cranked the engine, cross still clutched in her fist. She knew where she needed to take it.

  ~*~

  “Pastor Vince.”

  He strode to his office, the smell of a flame-broiled burger wafting from the bag in his hand. After the long morning, crunching numbers to find the funds for the special needs classroom, he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into the doughy bread encasing the salty beef. He dropped into his chair and dug into the bag. A list sat on the blotter next to it.

  “She took the cross.” Yolanda stood at the door.

  He stopped the bag excavation. “She, who? And what cross?” He knew the answers but hoped he was wrong.

  Yolanda’s eyes bugged. “That Whitaker woman and YOUR cross.”

  The drawer squealed opened, his fingers feeling the crevices even before he took note of his actions. He dug through every inch. Took out every pen, pencil, rubber band, stamp, Heath bar. She couldn’t have it. Yolanda was mistaken. “How did she find it?”

  Yolanda’s dark brows bunched. “Were you hiding it?”

  “Where’d she go?”

  Her eyes moved restlessly in their sockets. “High-tailed it right out that door and haven’t seen her since.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Just before you got here.”

  Vince pushed back the chair. Burger forgotten.

  “Look Pastor, I didn’t know she’d leave with it. Can’t you get another one? It couldn’t be that expensive. Although, it’s kind of creepy she’d up and take something that wasn’t hers.”

  The words trailed him as he headed toward his car. He had to try to find her, and he had a suspicion he knew where she’d go.

  ~*~

  The wheels crunched as Cassandra pulled her SUV next to the vacant lot. Time to face this place.

  Oh God, help me.

  She finally opened the palm that gripped the small cross her father had formed out of driftwood when she was a little girl. A gift she’d cherished, but had given away—she’d thought—for a good cause.

  Why had Vince kept it all these years? Yolanda said it brought him peace.

  No. Cassandra could not believe in this man again. She needed to remember what he’d done to her. The lies he told for his own gain. Drew, Vince’s old best friend, said he owed Vince one hundred dollars because she’d been taken in by his upturned lips and searching, blue eyes. Drew didn’t mind throwing that in her face when …

  She couldn’t breathe. The wind whipped through the tall grass and reeds that surrounded the shoreline Vince used to motor to in his little boat. All that air moving around her, making her dizzy, but none seemed to want to enter her lungs.

  Dropping to the edge of the property where the water lapped the land, face to the ground, she prayed for guidance. Her throat clogged and nose burned, but her breathing slowed.

  “I hate him, God,” she whispered into the grass. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do. He opened the door and stole from me …” The crack of her voice tore through her throat, “and he never secured the lock.” Tears dripped into the mud as thunder rolled in the background. “Why did I let him? I knew better. Why?”

  The rumbles of thunder felt more like murmurs of comfort than rebuke.

  “I can’t forgive him. I won’t lie to you, Lord. It’s too hard.”

  My yoke is easy …

  She swallowed hard at the thought, but steeled herself from surrender. The thunder rolled across the sky as though a warrior angel prepared to battle for her.

  She lifted the cross from the grass, and pulled back to chuck it in the water.

  A hand stopped her wrist.

  ~*~

  Vince couldn’t let her do it. He didn’t know why. Was it because her father had made the cross, and she’d regret the loss of it at her own hand? Or was it that Vince needed it more than she did?

  “Don’t.” He said when her eyes met his as she stood and turned, his hand still gripping her wrist.

  Cassandra’s expression went from surprise to entreaty as she gestured with her head for him to let go.

  He did.

  She lowered her hand.

  “Please don’t throw that away.” He broke eye contact for fear she’d read more than he thought appropriate to say right now.

  “Why did you keep it?” Her gaze remained on him.

  He only shrugged.

  Cassandra’s fingers unfolded to reveal the trinket—or talisman as Yolanda called it. “Tell me.” Her voice a whisper, evidencing emotion he’d remembered from long ago.

  “It was yours.” Seeing she still held it out to him, he took it from her opened hand. “You gave it to me, I know, with the hope I’d one day turn to God.”

  Her expression hardened as if she’d figured out the real reason he’d asked her to remove it.

  “I couldn’t look at it on your neck every time I attempted to seduce you, knowing—or believing—my actions were a lie.”

  She closed her eyes at what must be confirmation of what she already knew.

  “After you left my bedroom in such a rage, it felt as if all the oxygen had gone with you.”

  She bit her lip and stared at the grass. Vince wanted to touch her but sensed any connection would cause her pain.

  “I knew, though I’d pu
rsued you as part of a bet, the more time I spent with you, the more I fell in love with you.”

  Her green eyes flashed to his with a sense of anger and hurt.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but I vowed to win you back somehow. Prove I cared.”

  “How?” The word pierced like a knife in his gut.

  “I hadn’t gotten that far.” He closed his fingers around the cross, and reveled in the peace it always gave him. “I tied it around my neck before I slept. The next morning, as I watched all my possessions die in flames, I felt it there and realized it was the only thing I cared to keep.”

  Cassandra’s hardened glare chilled him as a mist fell from the air. “I don’t believe you?”

  Vince shook his head. “I didn’t think you would.” He turned from her. “Through the years I realized it wasn’t meant to be a reminder of you, but of God. I’d forgotten that until I’d found it in the boxes I brought to Billy’s house. Suddenly, the whole story—God’s story for me—came together.” He rubbed the wood between thumb and forefinger. “I kept it as a reminder of how long God has been pursuing me, and how He has a purpose in that pursuit.”

  Her lips parted at that. Did she think this a lie too? For some reason he figured not. She looked more surprised than wary.

  He stretched it out to her.

  She rubbed furiously at her upper arms. “You keep it.”

  “Your father made it for you.”

  She shook her head.

  “I almost sent it to you when he died that fall.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “The same way I knew you’d already married.”

  The green of her eyes speared him.

  “Your old manager from the country club kept me up to date those first few months, before I fell out of favor with that crowd.”

  The light rain pattered in the water beside them.

  “Why’d you get married so soon?” Were his suspicions correct?

  Her quick intake of air whistled through her teeth. “I’d known Tim for two years at college. He was always a good friend.”

  “You weren’t in love with him.”