Chapter Three
ENYA
That’s all Seamus Garraway’s good for, causing trouble and running away. I’m astonished he hasn’t found a way to ditch me somewhere along his journey. I used to wish he would drop me off at some orphanage and forget about me, so I could find some normalcy in this fucked up world.
I don’t feel that way anymore. They say God works in mysterious ways.
Cain said it himself while kneeling in the confessional booth.
What mystery is God planning for me, setting Cain Jameson in my path?
His name is enough to inspire the same warm swelling in my belly.
Only one more week until I can see him again, lead him into temptation, and make him mine.
I make it back home after a forty-five-minute walk from Saint Catherine’s Catholic Church. Three quarters of an hour of smirking, smiling and giggling about my encounter with Father Cain Jameson. That’s why I’m glad Dad forgot to pick me up. How would I explain the smug look on my face?
The sky is plastered in pinks, purples, oranges, and reds when I finally stop at our front door. The colors of romance and lust. A sign from God? I should be so lucky.
I go in and am greeted by an empty entry hall.
We don’t have much furniture; a half-circle table with a metal ashtray for our keys, and plastic chairs and a TV in the living room.
Even our fridge is a hand-me-down from the old man who rented this place to us.
Its stripped paint front fits in well with the falling-apart kitchen cupboards.
“Dad, I’m home,” I call through the house. Mary-Jane’s stink from the living room, no doubt the reason he forgot to pick me up.
“Why are you back so early?” Dad calls, fumbling up off the plastic chair. He adjusts the volume of The Price is Right on TV. Before I step in, he realizes his mistake. “Ah, shit. You’re not home early, I’m an hour late.”
“You are,” I reply. “But, I’m here now, so it doesn’t matter.”
“How was church?” Dad asks, running a hand through the thinning fluff of ginger hair on his crown.
He’s scrawny and thin, with gaunt cheeks and a weak chin.
He’s wearing an ill-fitting tank-top, so old the once white is now a yellowish gray.
He also has on a pair of pink shorts, meant for women, with his two little pigeon legs sticking through the leg holes.
“Good.” That’s an understatement. It was phenomenal. Amazing. The best experience I’ve ever had. “You should come with me next week. I think you’ll like Father Cain.”
“Me? In a church? Baby-girl, I know I’m not the best dad in the world, but do you really want to see me burn up in flames?
” he sticks his tongue out at me. My dad’s what he calls a non-practicing agnostic; a believer in the existence of a higher power, but not one to go to church on a Sunday and ask forgiveness for his sins.
God knows he’s got too many to forgive as it is.
“Dad, stop.” I laugh. I don’t find it funny, but the lost-puppy look in his eyes, asking for approval, forces the chuckle out of me.
He’s doing the best he can with the terrible situation we’re in.
A situation he put us in, sure, taking blood money from bad people, with no intention of paying it back.
But, there’s no point in diving down that rabbit hole again.
Priest River is the perfect hidey-hole in the middle of nowhere.
Big cities are where people tend to run to when they’re on the lam.
It’s like hiding in plain sight and that bozo, Dominic Dresden won’t think to look for us here.
That’s how he justified coming to Priest River, when I was furious about moving away from Los Angeles.
That was before I knew Cain Jameson existed, and all the horrible things I was going to do to him.
“Look at that,” Dad points at my face. “I think that’s the very first smile I’ve seen on your face since we got here.”
“Today’s sermon was something special. Didn’t even mind the walk back home,” I reply. It gave me ample time to think about Cain. About the body beneath his clerical clothing, and the hammer dangling between his legs.
“That’s good. You should keep it up then,” Dad says, stumbling back into the living room. He usually keeps his weed hidden, but my sudden arrival didn’t give him time to put it away. He quickly grabs his stash off the ground, shoving it into any pocket that’ll accept the contents.
“I’m gonna,” I reply. As long as Cain Jameson is heading the sermons, I’ll go every single week. I’ll taunt him at every opportunity. I will bend him to my will, one way or another.
“Any plans for tonight?” Dad asks. “I was thinking maybe we can get takeout from that Mexican place you like.”
“Chiapas was in LA, Dad. I don’t have a place I like here, yet,” I reply.
“Oh, shit, that’s right. You know how it goes, everything blurs into one after a while,” Dad says.
He lets out a laugh that sounds more pained than he intended.
“I know you miss it, Enya. We’ll go back someday; hopefully soon.
Just need the wind to blow all this shit with Dominic over and we’ll get out of here. ”
“No, it’s fine. I know why we’re here. It’s the best way to stay safe.
You’ve explained it enough, Dad. I’m not going to hold it against you.
Anyway, I’ve made a few friends at the church.
” Last week, I would have fought him on it, thrown a tantrum, and pouted at being stuck here.
After today? I never want to leave Priest River again.
“Alright, well that’s good. I’m glad you’re starting to settle in here. It’s not easy uprooting your whole life and jumping ship. I’m proud of you, Enya.”
I walk over to him and give him a hug. He needs it with the sorrowful gaze in his eyes. “I’m gonna go to my room for a bit, listen to music or watch videos or something.”
“Sure, Hun,” Dad replies. “We can still get takeout though? I’m jonesing for some grub.”
Munchies hit my dad pretty hard. It’s a wonder he’s as skinny as he is.
“How about you surprise me,” I say.
“Surprise you, huh? I’m sure I can figure that one out.”
Once Dad is satisfied with my answer, and heading off to figure out dinner, I head to my bedroom. Dad’s room faces the street, while mine overlooks the backyard. The sun’s still bright enough to send a low, natural light throughout my room.
I drop onto my bed, pull out my phone, and scroll through the list of recommended videos.
I jam a pair of earphones in and shuffle through a couple of songs while scrolling through various social media platforms. Most of my time is searching for more about Cain Jameson.
The only thing I find is an article about Cain accepting his position at Saint Catherine’s, eighteen years ago.
An hour drifts by, and then the low light from the evening sun is gone. The night sky is illuminated by a heavily hanging moon and twinkling stars. For all the shit I give Priest River, the lack of working street lamps means there’s barely any light pollution. And honestly? It’s pretty amazing.
I get up to close the curtains, but, I’m drawn to the stars, and stare out through the thin veil that covers the window…
Did I just see something move in the yard?
I squint, focusing on the spot where I thought I saw movement.
Sitting in the darkness while listening to music, my eyes have long since adjusted to the dark.
I can’t make out much in the inky-black of the garden, so I brush it off as nothing.
But then, it happens again. In front of the short wall, breaking the ground between our neighbor and us, I see a figure.
After spotting it, I can’t unsee the shape. The half-moon, though dim, provides enough light outside for me to make out the silhouette of who’s out there. I’d recognize the shape of his incredible physique anywhere.
Cain Jameson is in my backyard.