3

The next day I used every bit of my charm to get Heather and Ashley to join me for the Sunday morning service at Port-of-Peace Church. The small congregation operated out of a little weather-beaten clapboard chapel on the island, not far from an ancient cemetery where the inscriptions on the gravestones had been rubbed into indecipherability by time, tide, and hurricanes. The chapel had seats for about sixty people, which was good, because the regular attendees had numbered forty before I started showing up and made it forty-one. It had a part-time minister by the name of Banks Trumbly, who preached on Sundays and in his spare time would make visitation to the sick or the infirm. His day job was running a commercial fishing boat.

Banks Trumbly was a good man and had a no-nonsense approach to the Bible. What he lacked in theological finesse, Banks made up for with enthusiasm.

During the service, Banks preached on a touchy subject: Satan and his worldly dominion. It was touchy only because I had not spoken to Heather about my special “gifting.” I had talked openly about God, the Bible, and my faith encounter with Christ. But Satan and his army of demons? No, I had left that one alone for the time being.

As I drove the three of us back to my cabin after the church service, Heather let loose. “Your pastor sounds like a Neanderthal,” she blurted out. “He seriously believes there is a hierarchy of demons working under an actual devil! Like some kind of government bureau from hell.”

I responded. “Yes. Not a bad description.” Then I added, “Ask yourself this: Do you believe in demons or not? Seems like a perfectly legitimate question for someone studying anthropology.”

She shrugged.

I pressed it. “You’ve said a few positive things about Jesus since you came to the island. So consider the many times in the Gospels where Jesus encountered demons that had possessed people. And each time, Jesus vanquished them. Every one. And in the process, he never hedged on the reality of the supernatural realm.”

She pushed back. “Okay, Trevor, let’s correct something. What I like about Jesus is what Deepak Chopra and the other mystics call ‘Christ consciousness.’ But you and that pastor of yours, and anyone else who goes on a Bible rampage like your pastor did, you’re all victims of the anthropomorphic fallacy.”

“You have to either take all of Jesus or none of him,” I said. “You can’t pick and choose. And you and Deepak Chopra and his mystical compatriots who want to cram Jesus into a nice, tidy box, you need to understand something: Jesus won’t be crammed.”

Ashley kept stone silent in the back of my Land Rover. I could guess what was going through her mind.

That night we had a quiet dinner at the cottage. Afterward Heather said she was tired and announced that she would be going to bed early. I gave her half a hug, still being cautious, and quietly whispered that I loved her. No response. Just a quick smile.

Ashley followed her to the bedroom, but not before I told Ashley that I would like some time together the next morning, just the two of us, to talk.

“I’d like to talk to you too,” she said, “about things.” She reached out, patted me on the cheek, and then slipped into the bedroom.

Left to myself, I swung the screen door open, cringing at the sound of the rusty groan and vowing to oil it in the morning. I strolled barefoot onto the stretch of sand and sea grass that was my front yard and kept going until I was just a few feet from the rolling tide that was edging up the beach line. The moon was full, and the ocean was calm. I was thinking back to the phone call from Detective Dick Valentine and the reasons he gave me for why I should check into the Forester death —and why I was the right man to do it.

But down deep, I was losing an appetite for the Forester case, even though I suspected that something darkly supernatural was afoot.

I wanted to focus on Heather, trying to kindle something out of the ashes of our being apart for more than two decades. I wanted to see some kind of peace sign, any kind, from her. None yet, but I was hopeful. So far she had settled into calling me just “Trevor.” I suppose “Dad” was still a long way off. Maybe never.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of churning salt water and the faint fish smell from seashells and tiny ocean life that would wash up with the night tide. But nothing else. Nothing foreboding in the air.

Then, as I turned to go back inside, something caught my eye. Something on the surface of the ocean, about a hundred yards from the beach. I looked closer and recognized the figure of a man, and he was definitely standing, not sinking. And something more. He was not illuminated by the moonlight. It was as if he were a black hole in space, swallowing up the light. Defying the laws of physics by standing on the sea, as if supported by solid steel. The sight of it gave me a sudden shiver, like insects scampering over me. I squinted and looked closer, trying to make out his features.

I blinked, and the figure vanished.

At another time in my life, I would have worked hard to dismiss it. But that was then. Now, in this life to which I have been called, I tucked that image away for safekeeping. My heart racing, I wiped sweaty palms on my shorts. It was time to remind myself that God still governed the affairs of the universe. Including those of men and of angels. And even demons.

I had the distinct impression that the figure out there on the ocean was issuing me a warning. Maybe a threat. About what, I didn’t know.

But there was something else. Something that was missing. Unlike all the times in the past, I hadn’t received my usual sensate alert, hit with the repulsive scent of burning refuse and death that had always signaled when one of the underworld monsters was near. That night it didn’t happen. The absence of a sensory warning was a shocker. My head was flooded with questions. About my special “gift” —detecting the supernatural realm —and my previous early warning system. I had relied on it. Maybe too much. Was I losing control?